Acceptance Questioned

He had grown up during a dying time.

He had been only thirteen when first called upon to be a pall bearer. It had been his grandmother's funeral. He had been spared having to attend the viewing the night before but spent the entire funeral service wondering what the body within the casket looked like. Snippets of horror movies ran through his head as he studied the metal latches that held the casket lid shut. When it came time to lift the casket he made sure to take a position on the side opposite those latches.

Nearly every six months for the next six years he had been called upon. Had there been such a job as professional pall bearer he would have been eminently qualified. He carried grandparents, uncles, aunts, great-grandparents, friends, and parents to their final rest. For a short time he had taken to attending the preceding viewings, then stopped. He did not care to have memories stolen by reality. He accepted that each casket contained the body it was supposed to.

But now he found himself questioning the wisdom of that acceptance... found himself questioning many things. The grandfather he had carried across the cemetery just four months ago now sat at the opposite side of his kitchen table...offering to refill his cup with hot tea.

Cry of a Swing

He left her sitting on the porch swing and descended the springy wooden steps into the evening's swirling mist. Behind him, the metronome motion of the swing caused the chain to squeal on the eye-bolts screwed into the ceiling beams. He turned up his coat collar against the sound. If he hadn't just left the porch he would have sworn a wounded animal was stalking him.

The mist separated him from the house long before he reached the end of the winding walk. Ordinarily the house would still be visible from where he stood; even at night, for with all of the lamp posts placed around the manicured lawn there was no such thing as darkness here.

This night was no different. Darkness was held at bay but the mist had clamped a damp hand over those two-dozen lights so that he saw only a wall of steel gray illuminated from within.

The cycle of the metallic squeal slowed until stopped as a single last cry. The following silence lasted only seconds before it was broken by the thud of booted feet on nearly rotted steps. The very same steps he had descended moments earlier. He quickened his pace. His follower would know the woman's death had been by his hand.

Baby Strategy

With enough babies, we could win any war. The enemy would never have the opportunity to get organized. They would be too busy chasing diaper clad infants in order to rescue shoes, ammunition, and keys.

In command centers, maps would lie on the floor in jumbled heaps. Cell phones and radios would have disappeared down toilets and into trashcans. Desk chairs would clip generals in the backs of their knees as the chairs rolled around the bunker like bumper cars in an amusement park.

The doors to storage cabinets would stand open, the contents of those cabinets strewn across the floor. Without shoes, which the babies would have already made off with, soldiers would be forced to navigated the cluttered floors on hands and knees. Grown men, trained soldiers, would raise their hands in surrender and plead to be rescued from the perpetual tide of stubby legged toddlers surging around them.

Heebie Creepies

She had been looking forward to spending the weekend at her grandparent's house; but now, lying in bed with the covers pulled over her head she only wanted to be back home.

Everything had been fine during the day. In the morning she had helped Mama pick ripe, juicy fruit from the strawberry patch in the back yard. Later in the day she had sat on a wooden crate in the corner of Papa's basement workshop while her grandfather applied a coat of lacquer to the rocking chair that would soon sit on the front porch.

Even bath time had been fun with bubbles rising past the top of her head.

But when it had come time to climb into bed in the room that served as a library, she had gotten the heebie creepies.  It felt like she was being watched. The walls and bookcases were covered with pictures of family members who had died long before she had been born.

She told herself it was her imagination... until Great Uncle Alfred turned his head within the dark brown frame and glared down at her.

Year in a Leaf

The dried and withered tree leaf was coaxed across the back deck by a wind that dropped the temperature by an additional seven degrees.

And in that leaf I saw an entire year of seasons. I saw the oak tree with a web of fresh, spindly branches tipped by green buds. The vision morphed into a towering tree laden with hundreds of leaves casting shifting shadows on the ground below.  Those leaves changed from deep green to a blend of yellow, orange, and red. Then I saw the tree shaken bare by November winds - stripped of colored splendor the tree was little more than a skeleton with bony arms reaching upward.

Turning my back to the howling wind and studying the single leaf that had come to rest at my foot, I took comfort in the knowledge that the growing season moved closer with every passing day.

Who's Watching?

Toys, toys, everywhere and yet... nothing is so much fun as the wine glass grandma left on the end table while she went for a snack or the camera grandpa rested momentarily on the arm of the recliner.

So the question I can't help asking is... why purchase toys when the house comes ready made with all kinds of entertainment?

Entertainment that goes far beyond dabbling with plastic toys.  The simple picking up of a wine glass brings adults from all directions - racing through doorways, leaping over coffee tables, and sliding across the floor like a baseball player heading for home plate.

And in the middle of the converging adults, Miss Grabby-Fingers stands with a look of innocent amazement...which has me wondering just who is watching who?

Hopscotch Relearned

Christmas has come and gone and though the holidaydecorations are put away, our house is definitely not back to normal. A fully mobile baby has seen to that.

While Christmas decorations have been returned to boxes, the normal table-top doo-dad's have not been returned to their rightful places. To put anything within reach of Miss Grabby-Fingers would be to invite disaster.

Yet our house does not seem barren and empty - quite the opposite. The inventory of Santa's Workshop seems to have found  its way to our family room.

There are things that squeak, things that rattle, things that roll, and things that bounce - and some that squeak rattle and roll all at the same time. Any one of these items is capable of holding Miss Grabby-Fingers' attention for about...ohhh...fifteen seconds.

Which means that by the end of any given day getting from one side of the family room to the other requires feats of dexterity first learned in my own childhood games of hopscotch.