“’It wasn’t that long ago when Ethan was rarely bothered by mosquitos, but this year he’s being eaten alive by them’.”
I wrote that in my diary just a few weeks ago.
Thank you all for joining us today as we say ‘farewell’ to my beloved husband, Ethan …. another innocent victim struck down in the prime of life by the dastardly mosquito. Ethan was attacked last week while bringing out the trash for pick-up in the morning; it was just a quick run to the curb but he didn’t have his EpiPen on him. Who knew just a few moments later he’d be in cardiac arrest from anaphylactic shock?
Ethan was never bothered by mosquitos before and at first it was just an annoying surprise when he started developing a reaction a few months ago. The change in him was sudden and drastic and, as much as I will miss him, I’m so thankful his time of suffering was short.
Doctors can’t say whether this is a genetic trait, if our children Evan, Ella and Emily will develop this horrible allergy. To help our children realize the seriousness of this situation and to protect them, Ethan has left them his award-winning collection of swatters, his supply of EpiPens, his boxes of citronella candles, his stash of DEET and, of course, his journal.
When the allergic reactions started, Ethan began writing down his thoughts; as a poet, he wrote some of his best work over the recent months.He was most evocativein his agony.
In closing I would like to read one of his most poignant poems. It’s called ‘Ode To The Mosquito’. And please .… next time you see a mosquito, ask yourselves ‘What would Ethan do?’“
Ode To The Mosquito
How can such a little thing Be so damn annoying? Flying round my arms and legs It’s bothersome and cloying.
Go away, you vile thing I’ll swat you with a stick. You’re not welcome in my home You nasty little prick!
Who would think that tiny guy Could be such a bloody sucker? When he sticks his fangs in me I scream “You Motherf*#+er!”
You get me every time I’m out; My blood is extra sweet. Come and get me, little twit! Tonight I’m packing DEET!
Written for Friday Fictioneers where we are encouraged to get creative by writing a story of no more than 100 words using this photo as our inspiration. Here is my 100 word story.
It was the summer of ’59 and I was going to spend July and August with my cousins at the shore. I’d been packing since my last day of school, finishing two days before taking off.
The following morning I awoke with fever, sore throat, bumpy tongue and a facial rash. Scarlet fever, the doctor said. The disease was highly contagious. I was prescribed antibiotics and my parents were warned to keep me home.
My summer plans were abruptly cancelled; I was dejected. All I could do was watch my friends playing, my nose pressed up against the window screen.
We visited the Poe Cottage this week, former home of the poet Edgar Allan Poe. It’s about a 30 minute drive from my house and I thought my two teenage grandchildren would enjoy the walk-around since they’re both reading the works of Poe in school.
It’s a quaint old place with small bedrooms, a common kitchen-parlor-dining room downstairs and an upstairs loft. My 6’ tall grandson questioned how a grown man could sleep in the tiny bed.
At one point I realized my grandson had gone missing. Imagine my embarrassment when he was found napping in Poe’s bed!
When I was a very small child, one of my older cousins was suffering from a case of consumption, also know as tuberculosis. She was 16 years old and literally wasting away from this disease once called the “Great White Plague” due to the extremely pale complexion of those afflicted.
My cousin was always cold, requiring multiple blankets to keep warm, and time outside in the sun and fresh air, especially during the spring and summer. She was either in bed or reclining on a chaise lounge near the window in the parlor.
She looked like death. To the school age children in the house, this was a frightening time and they glanced at her with pity and wariness. They also avoided her, which was not very kind; some of them stayed away by spending extra time practicing their penmanship lessons and math sums.
At least twice each week my great-aunt Chesaria would stop by to administer her special “tonic”, light a candle and leave her mark on my cousin. The ritual never changed: first a dose of the safe-for-human-consumption red berry juice from the sumac plant. Next, Aunt Chesaria would draw a birdcage in blue ink on both of my cousin’s earlobes. The door to the birdcage was always drawn in the open position which allowed the evil spirits in my cousin’s body to find their way out. Finally, my great-aunt would light a tea candle and place it on my cousin’s chest to draw out the congestion. She would close the curtains and leave my cousin in the darkened room to allow her potions to do their magic.
Who knows if any of this strange “medicine” worked; our parents clung to the phrase “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts”. My cousin eventually recovered, because of or in spite of Aunt Chesaria’s administrations. She was never a robust woman after her ailment but she married and was healthy enough to give birth to nine children in just 12 years. She welcomed more than 40 grandchildren and a batch of great-grandchildren before passing away at the age of 86 just two years ago.
As a rule, Aunt Chesaria was summoned whenever anyone in the family or immediate vicinity became ill. She drew birdcages on my own earlobes during every childhood malady. But the question that remains unanswered is “Who took care of Aunt Chesaria when she became ill?” No one is around to fill in the blanks so I can only assume there was a witch doctor of sorts living in my neighborhood …. perhaps a black magic woman from Sumatra residing in the unassuming borough of The Bronx!
Presumptuous? Possibly. But fascinating, nonetheless.
The idea of Father’s Day was first conceived by Sonora Smart Dodd, a loving daughter from Spokane, Washington. It was also inspired by Mother’s Day as Dodd wanted a day to honor her father as well. William Jackson Smart was a Civil War veteran and single-handedly raised Sonora and her siblings after the death of their mother.
My dad was a Sicilian immigrant who came to the US by boat in 1930 at the age of 15. He arrived with his father and two brothers … one older and the other younger. His mother and sister remained in Sicily for another few years; according to my grandfather, “America is no place for a woman”.
None of them spoke a word of English.
My father was an apprentice shoemaker in Sicily who took up barbering after getting settled in Brooklyn, NY. His good looks and charm endeared him to many people and he was liked by everyone.
It was my dad’s boss at the barbershop who gave him a brilliant piece of advice. As was his habit, my father bought the Italian newspaper every day to read during his down time at work. One day the boss said to him in Italian “Hey, Vito! If you ever hope to speak English, do yourself a favor and start buying the New York Times every day and read it from front to back.” My father realized the importance of that advice and started buying the NY Times the very next day. With the added help of his English-speaking customers, he became fluent in English and lost his accent with no formal schooling. One of the proudest moments in his life was completing the NY Times crossword puzzle … in ink!
Dad became a US citizen and eventually landed a job with the post office. He was a US Army veteran who drove a jeep throughout Europe during WWII without ever having earned a driver’s license. He never did get his license and never drove again after his stint in the army.
My father loved music, especially opera, and I was exposed to classical music and opera at a very early age. The basics in life were Dad’s tenets … family, God, country, his job, providing a roof over our heads, food on the table and a good education. He was also the fun-loving one, with Mom always busy “cleaning up his messes”.
Dad loved people and entertaining in our home. He would often invite people for dinner without clearing it with Mom first. No wonder she was always pissed off! Dad was often in trouble for that and I found that devilish quality one of his most endearing traits. He truly meant no harm. He was a good and decent man who loved and was loved in return. And in the end can any of us want more than that?
Happy Father’s Day to all my guys on WordPress. I hope your day is as special as you are.
Written for Jim Adams’ Thursday Inspiration #232 where the theme is “Too Late”. Jim has given us free rein so I have written about a song featuring the ‘too late’ theme.
The first single from the album Valotte, and Julian Lennon’s most successful, was “Too Late For Goodbyes”, released in 1984. While Julian has gone on record to affirm that this song was not about his estranged relationship with his father but rather a failing romance with a woman, one cannot help but wonder. Considering a figure resembling John looms largely in the video, the song could carry more meaning despite Julian’s objections.
John and Cynthia Lennon divorced when Julian was just five years old, and for the next nine years Julian rarely saw his dad. When he was 14, Julian reconnected with John and made occasional visits to his home in New York City.
Julian inherited many of his father’s musical gifts, including a knack for songwriting. He wrote “Too Late For Goodbyes” on his own and released the song when he was just 21. It was a Top 10 hit in both the UK and US and helped him earn a Grammy nomination for Best New Artist, which he lost to Sade.
The album was produced by Phil Ramone who had managed albums by Paul Simon and Billy Joel. Ramone kept the production tasteful and mature considering he was working with a 21-year-old British kid in 1984. This is one of the more synth-heavy tracks on the album, with prominent guitar and bass.
If there’s one thing that bothers me about this video it’s the fact that we see Julian “playing” harmonica (it’s really just his cupped hands) but the legendary harmonica virtuoso Toots Thielemans was the one who actually played the harmonica part. Picky, maybe, but it just doesn’t sit right with me. It would have been nice to see Toots in the corner playing his harmonica; gotta be a reason that didn’t happen. The video, which was directed by movie director Sam Peckinpah, did very well on MTV; Peckinpah also directed Julian’s next video which was for his song “Valotte”.
“Too Late For Goodbyes” was a top-10 hit, reaching #6 in the UK Singles Chart in November 1984, and #5 on the Billboard Hot 100 singles chart in late March 1985. The song peaked at #1 on March 16, 1985 on the US Adult Contemporary chart, spending two weeks in the top slot.
One final note that is so obvious it cannot be ignored: the Beatles’ DNA is incredibly dominant as we can see here in Julian’s video, in performances by Dhani Harrison, Sean Lennon, James McCartney and drummers Zak and Jason Starkey, two of Ringo’s sons. All the Beatle Boys bear a striking resemblance to their famous fathers and have been blessed with their very identifiable voices, artistic songwriting abilities and performing talents …. quite a legacy for a little group from Liverpool.
But …. let’s get real! Where did the time go and how did she get so big?
Our youngest grandchild, 4-year-old Colette, is not a wee one any longer. Of course, we’ve noticed some of the clothes we keep for her at our house have gotten snug but now she can help herself to anything in the refrigerator, open the latch on the gate leading to the front yard without any assistance and we’ve had to make some adjustments to her car seat. However, nothing brings home how much she’s grown in nine months like these two side-by-side photos.
Back in September on the first day of nursery school, she was a giddy little tyke bubbling with enthusiasm and now she’s a beautiful little girl looking so very mature and confident, pictured on the last day of school on June 5.
Colette’s on a steady course to independence …. dressing and showering by herself (with some careful supervision), using a “grown up” drinking glass instead of one with a lid and straw, calling her parents “Mom & Dad” instead of “Mommy & Daddy”, and a bunch of little changes we see on a regular basis.
Our son drops her off for us to babysit each week on Tuesdays, Thursdays and the occasional Saturday; now that she’s able to do so much on her own, it’s a lot easier for us but sometimes we sure do miss that giggly, squirmy toddler! Time is going far too fast.
She’ll always be our little Kukla, no matter how old she gets; that’s something no amount of time will ever change!
It’s 8AM at the humane society and all the residents are enjoying their freshly cleaned digs, and that means nice crisp newspapers lining the floor, just in case. Accidents happen, you know!
Today they’re in for a special treat; the papers are opened to the birth announcements page!
All the pups are besotted by the photo of a beautiful baby with big blue eyes. Sure looks like a playful and happy little tyke! They stare longingly at the baby’s photo, wistfully talking among themselves about the greatest thing that could happen to them, the one thing that would change their lonely doggie lives …. to be adopted and to find themselves in a new forever home with a special friend to play with and grow up with …. just like this little guy.
“It sure would be swell, wouldn’t it?” they ask each other, visions of blankets, chew toys and bouncy rubber balls swirling in their heads. “Maybe today will be our lucky day!”
At 9AM the humane society opens its doors to the public and a few families start streaming in. Most of the parents are being tugged by eager kids hoping to find a best friend to share their home and their lives. Everyone is optimistic and excited.
Today is a big day …. maybe it will be their lucky day!
My husband is as easy going as can be, so when he makes a request, I try my best to oblige. Last night he asked for Sunday pasta with meatballs. How could I refuse?
Homemade pasta with all the trimmings is something I can do with my eyes closed but when I first started out in the kitchen as a new bride, I had no idea what I was doing. Sure, I had watched my mother cook for years but it’s a whole different ballgame when you’re on your own.
I’ll never forget the first time I tried to make Sunday pasta. Reading my mother’s recipe was no help. This is exactly what she wrote:
For your pasta dough mix flour and eggs, water when you need, pinch salt, oil maybe.
That’s it. No measurements, no amounts, nothing definitive. Her meatball recipe was no better:
Chopped meat, eggs, some salt & pepper, handful parmigiano, another handful breadcrumbs, dice onion, parsley, oregano, glass of water.
A GLASS OF WATER! Which glass? What size? At this point my eyes were frantically scanning the kitchen for a glass! I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. I’m sure my mother never referred to a recipe in her life so she had no idea how to write one!
Just then it hit me and I had a vision of my mother in her kitchen. She always used a Flintstone’s Jelly Jar as her water glass when cooking; she said it was the perfect size. All I had to do was find an equivalent measure and I’d be good.
I eventually mastered the art of Sunday pasta with meatballs but I sure do wish I had my mom’s jelly jar .… for old times’ sake, you know?
Written for Friday Fictioneers where we are encouraged to write something creative in 100 words or less using the photo below as inspiration. This is my 100-word story.
Uncle Bobby had this irrational fear of spiders. Well, it was irrational to his family; for him it was very real.
So when the new amusement park ride Spiders From Mars opened, Uncle Bobby wouldn’t go near it.
Everyone tried convincing him the ride wasn’t jinxed or dangerous but he wasn’t buying it. All their urging and encouragement fell on deaf ears. Uncle Bobby watched from the shadows as his nieces and nephews went for a spin.
That night the ride malfunctioned; several family members were killed, unceremoniously hurled out of the park.
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are given a word, in this case ‘lift’, and asked to incorporate it into a story of no more than six sentences. This is my true story of family.
“Mangia il cibo sul tuo piatto, Concetta, o lo mangerai dal pavimento” – (“Eat the food on your plate, Concetta, or you will eat it off the floor.”)
Without changing her expression or taking her huge brown eyes off her father Domenico’s face, three year old Concetta picked up a meatball, extended her arm over the side of her highchair and very calmly let it drop to the floor.
Silence.
Everyone sat in suspended animation as Domenico deliberately put down his knife and fork and removed the napkin which was tucked into the neck of his shirt; slowly he stood up, walked behind Concetta’s chair, grabbed the back of her dress and lifted her up.
Holding her feet with his other hand, Domenico lowered Concetta’s face to the floor until her mouth touched the meatball; she tried to turn away, but Domenico pushed her face into the food, forcing her to take the meatball into her mouth, then, satisfied, he sat her back in her highchair, returned to his seat and resumed eating while Concetta languidly chewed what was in her mouth.
Hesitantly, self-consciously, everyone resumed eating and talking except Concetta’s mother Rosa who sat watching her daughter closely; at the end of the meal as the women cleared the table, Rosa placed a napkin over her defiant daughter’s mouth so she could spit out the uneaten meatball and whispered in her ear “Mai più, Concetta; obbedisci a tuo padre!” – (“Never again, Concetta; obey your father!”)
Written for Glyn’s Mixed Music Bag week #22 where we are asked to write about a song by a group or solo singer beginning with the letter I or J.
There is only one band in the history of American music that had a proven influence on both The Beatles and the rapper Ice Cube and had a hit in six straight decades, from the ‘50s to the ‘00s. That band is the mighty Isley Brothers, one the most influential bands in American musical history.
Formed in the mid-’50s as a teenage gospel quartet by the four eldest Isley Brothers (O’Kelly, Rudolph, Ronald and Vernon), the original group quit performing when Vernon was tragically killed at age 13 while riding his bike. In 1957, at the urging of their parents, the remaining three brothers moved to New York City to make it as a R&R band. The first song they wrote together was something called “Shout!”— a massive smash that had multiple lives thanks to its inclusion on the Animal House soundtrack – and is probably playing at an event near you, right now.
From that first single and album in 1959, the Isley Brothers repeatedly redefined what their music was and what it was called; they dominated the black music charts like no band before or since. The Isley Brothers can count both Jimi Hendrix (who toured with them in the early ‘60s) and Elton John (whose band backed the Isleys up in the UK) as backing musicians. They have arguably the most legendary run of albums in R&B history. After early R&R success (and an incredible detour with Motown), the band released all of their albums independently on their own T-Neck Records, reinventing R&B over and over again in the process.
In 1973, the younger brothers Ernie and Marvin joined the band alongside their brother in law, Chris Jasper. Ernie Isley is one of the most well-known and respected guitarists and song writers in the history of the business and together the brothers wrote and produced many of the hits that we know and love today.
The Isley Brothers were inducted into theRock & Roll Hall of Fame in 1992, in a class with their old backing guitarist, Jimi Hendrix. The band received a lifetime achievement Grammy in 2014 and have sold millions of records the world over; 16 of their albums hit the Top 40 and all of them are powerhouses on the R&B charts. They have bridged cultural differences by blending Soul and R&B with Funk, bringing a new style of music to the mainstream and having a lasting impact on countless artists to follow. Their music has transcended through generations and their reach has extended to the modern day where their music is frequently sampled all throughout hip hop and modern pop. They are, in many respects, the most important and influential band in the history of American music, the only band who could be sampled by Notorious B.I.G. and covered by The Yardbirds! What a career!
Released in 1959, “Shout!” is an electrifying anthem that broke the mold of R&R and R&B, becoming an enduring symbol of musical joy and freedom. The song’s inception, inspired by a live improvisation on Jackie Wilson’s “Lonely Teardrops,” captured a spontaneous burst of energy and emotion. The studio recording, characterized by its gospel-infused harmonies and a simple yet profound chorus urged listeners to release their inhibitions and “shout a little bit louder now”.
Though “Shout” didn’t immediately climb the charts, its influence and popularity grew over time, becoming a live performance staple for the Isley Brothers. Covered by numerous artists across a variety of genres, “Shout” has demonstrated its versatile appeal and enduring legacy. It’s more than just a song …. it’s an anthem of liberation and celebration.
Here now are the Isley Brothers with their iconic recording of “Shout!”
It’s true that Miley Cyrus has become a huge musical star, but did you know she has quite the talented family? We’re all familiar with her famous father, Billy Ray Cyrus, her legendary godmother, Dolly Parton – but what of her four talented siblings?
The youngest child in the Cyrus clan is 24-year-old Noah who has carved out quite an impressive career of her own. In terms of fame, Noah is probably second only to Miley. Her breakout hit, “Make Me (Cry)” earned her a spot on the Billboard Hot 100 right out of the gate at the age of 16. Since that time, her career has only grown. Her unique brand of thoughtful pop has made her one of the most enticing young acts in the game today.
In an interview with American fashion magazine V, Noah Cyrus said this about “Make Me (Cry)” and her video co-performer, Labrinth: “It was really conversational. Labrinthhad a chorus, and we started just going back and forth writing lyrics together. It turned into being about a toxic love.” Teen Vogue described the song as “a gut-wrenching power-ballad that will resonate with anyone who has suffered a broken heart, reinforcing the idea that it’s possible to be lonely even when in a relationship and that being with someone can create more pain than being alone.”
The video depicts the two singers waking up in their respective beds with their partners who are seemingly disinterested in their affection. In alternating shots, we see Noah’s sadness, and then Labrinth’s, and back again as they sing about their significant others. As the song reaches its climax, we can see the duo at the same time in split screen; their raging words give off major “wrecking ball” vibes …. deep thoughts from the mind (and pen) of such a young artist.
This is “Make Me (Cry)” by Noah Cyrus featuring Labrinth
Thanks for stopping by and playing a tune with me.
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are asked to be creative in no more than six sentences using the word “light”. This is my story.
Colette, typically looking away the second I snap a photo! Eyeroll!
We got a late start with spring cleaning in our yard, especially along the side of the house where our attached garage is located; even though the gardeners had cleared a lot of old shrubbery away for some new plants and bushes, it was just not meant to be after we were derailed by the sudden death of my husband’s twin brother on April 2 and me being sidelined since the first week of May by a major sinus infection (the heavy-duty antibiotics have left me “out of commission” and able to eat only extremely light meals or, at times, nothing at all).
In mid-May, we put in a couple of small white azaleas, relocated a baby rhododendron which wasn’t doing well in the far back corner of the yard and planted a bit of Blue Bugle and Lilies of the Valley for lightground cover (along the side of the house, not visible in this pic), but that’s as far as our broken spirits and depleted bodies would allow us go.
When Colette is here with us (Tuesdays, Thursdays and the occasional Saturday or Sunday) and the weather is good, she wants to be outside; hell, even if the weather isn’t good, she wants to be outside – a phenomenon about most children that escapes me as they (well, she definitely) seem to be impervious to heat or cold or rain or snow or wind – all the elements, times when Bill and I would prefer being inside nestled in our recliners with a lightweight blanket.
Speaking of nestled, we discovered that sparrows had made their nest in an old watering can in the corner of Colette’s playhouse; the mama and papa birds are very resourceful, building the new home in a location almost invisible to us, one which I discovered quite by accident when I heard a faint chirping noise coming from the playhouse and …. with my trusty flashlight in hand …. I went to take a peek but was immediately dive-bombed by a wildly protective kamikaze sparrow which, when it sped just inches by my head, had me believing it was a small bat …. terrifying!
Tuesday the temps soared to a scorching 86ºF – a leap from the mild low-70s of just the day before – so it was, according to Colette, the “perfect day for planting!” …. a concept I did not agree with thinking it was too hot and we would be in direct blazing sunlightfor the entire time …. but I did not object (mainly because the child could not be dissuaded and it was far less taxing than yet another round of the Disney edition of Monopoly); armed with our faithful spades, Bill with his macho shovel and pitchfork, we planted another azalea along the side of the house, then Colette and I pulled all the weeds and detritus from the two ancient cement planters on either side of the bench you see in the above photo, replacing all of what was growing in them as haphazardly as Albert Einstein’s hair with two bright pink kalanchoe plants, then stood back to proudly bask in the glory of our gardening prowess.
Of course, manual labor such as that demands a reward and certainly not a monetary one which would be looked upon with disdain and confusion by a 4-year-old whose idea of recompense consists solely of instant gratification in the form of ice cream – the I-don’t-give-a-hoot-how-messy-I-get kind – and after getting Colette situated in her pink fairy chair, pinning up her waist-length hair and snapping on the 15-year-old bib we originally used for our first grandchild, Mckenna, I disappeared into the kitchen and returned with fudge-covered vanilla ice cream pops for Colette and Bill and a lemon ice for me; judging by the look on her face and the twinkling, totally satisfied lightin her eyes (photo below), Colette was over the moon with her sweet, sloppy treat and …. you know …. she was right after all about it being the “perfect day for planting!”
Growing up, it was just me and my sister – two girls doing girl things. And while we weren’t always best of friends, it was just the two of us. It wasn’t my fault that my mother went into labor smack in the middle of my sister’s 4th birthday party; after making a hasty departure for the hospital, my mother arrived just in time for me to be born …. on my sister’s birthday …. and she’s never really forgiven me. I mean, she says she has but deep down there’s resentment. But I digress.
Bitterness for being born on her birthday aside, we managed to get along ok. And we both had a bunch of little girlfriends who’d come over the house to play and swim in our pool. There’s a definite advantage to having the only pool on the block – even if it was inflatable and barely three feet deep. We always had lots of friends over but there were never any boys around and, if an interloper did show up, he was quickly shown the way out before he had a chance to dip his you-know-what in our pool!
For the first six years of my life, I had very little contact with boys .… except for my cousins and they didn’t count. In elementary school boys were just tolerated; they were looked upon as excess baggage. Of course, that all changed when I hit my teen years and realized boys had potential. I had a couple of crushes early on but nothing earth-shattering. Then, at the ripe old age of 17, I went on a blind date with a guy named Bill and together we learned all about boys and girls, how they were so wondrously different and incredibly well-made for each other. I was stunned by how much I didn’t know about boys.
So, wouldn’t you just know it! God, in his infinite humorous nature, decided to bless me with only boy babies. All those years of playing with my baby girl dolls, changing their diapers fashioned from paper napkins, powdering their petite girlie bottoms, all that didn’t come close to what these boys were packing! It didn’t matter how well I knew Bill’s anatomy; he didn’t wear a diaper and I had never changed one …. at least not a boy’s. Talk about a rude awakening!
Let me just explain something very quickly here. When infant girls are getting their diapers changed, sometimes they pee but it’s a dainty little trickle that gently disappears into the absorbent pad under them. When infant boys are getting their diapers changed, parents put on a hazmat suit because that nozzle has a mind of its own and it is gonna spray wherever it wants.
Oh sure, parents can buy little wee-wee teepees to hold over the wee-wee while their baby boy giggles at them, but most times that thing is flying around like an errant garden hose and the pee goes everywhere. And, of course, that’s where men first learn to pee with no hands – yawning and stretching and placing their hands behind their heads in a very satisfied “look-what-I-can-do” sort of way. Usually in those situations, there will be spillage. I have found, for the most part, the male species is not very discriminating and is quite happy to just “hitsomething“.
Which brings me to the heart of this story.
I love my boys and, in all humility, Bill and I did a good job raising them. BUT, nature will take its course no matter what we do. And let me tell you, there is nothing …. and I mean NOTHING …. like the overwhelming musky, barn-like odor that punches you in the face when you open the door to a boy’s bedroom. For the love of all things holy, what is going on in there? How is it possible for boys …. little or big …. to ravage so many briefs, boxers or tighty-whities in one day, not to mention the now-fossilized face cloths (and sometimes my good hand towels)?
We’re all adults here and you know exactly what I’m talking about.
Well, I finally reached the end of my rope. It became unbearable for me to do my teen sons’ laundry, let alone keep up with it, so I threw down the gauntlet. I led the boys to the laundry room where I proceeded to write on my washing machine with a Sharpie. In all the corresponding receptacles were the words “DETERGENT GOES HERE.” “BLEACH GOES HERE.” “SOFTENER GOES HERE.” I’m sure they didn’t believe me when I said I was done doing their wash. After two weeks of their laundry piling up and them running out of clean clothes and their sheets desperate enough to literally walk off the bed and leap into the washing machine, they finally got the message!
As the old saying goes, boys will be boys, and I never had a problem with what was going on in my sons’ bedrooms …. within reason; if I thought something dangerous was happening, I’d be in there in a flash. I’d just had enough of cleaning up their messes. Now they’re grown men, good men, married with children, and they get to deal with their own kids’ smells, sprays, spills and secretions.
And when I see them lugging a basketful of laundry to their washing machines, I chuckle and know I did them a huge favor.
Daughters-in-law are our grandchildren’s mothers. As such, they carry our fortunes downstream. Under their guidance, our hopes become others’, Giving their force to a much larger dream. How lucky we are to have you for the carer That nurtures the hearts of our hearts, that they may Each be a lover, a giver and sharer, Remaking the world in their image each day. So do we all, like streams from the mountains, In time become joined in the souls we have made, Now mingled forever, eternal companions, Linked by our love in a bond that won’t fade. As you in your noontime your work of love do, We watch from the hillside, grateful for you.
Many rock fans will undoubtedly remember the only child of George Harrison when the then 24 year old Dhani Harrison appeared at the Concert For George in 2002. Two years later he was at his father’s 2nd induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame (once as a Beatle and then for his solo work) where Dhani performed “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” alongside Tom Petty, Steve Winwood, Jeff Lynne and Prince.
Dhani Harrison has since released a great deal of work as a solo artist, as part of the bands thenewno2 and Fistful of Mercy. Thenewno2 have been credited with the album design for George Harrison’s “Brainwashed” and “Dark Horse Years” box set, the Concert for George and the menu design for the 2005 Concert for Bangladesh DVD. Dhani Harrison has also scored many movies and television shows.
Of course the physical resemblance to his father is incredible but the similarity in voice and stage presence is undeniably strong. During an interview, George once commented that he said to Dhani “You look more like me than I do”; that was George’s humor to a T. I chose to feature one of the Beatles’ songs on which George sang lead so you can experience just how strong the Harrison family genes really are.
This is Dhani Harrison with “Savoy Truffle” from 2014’s “Georgefest” at the Fonda Theater in Hollywood.
Thanks for joining me today. See you on the flip side. 😎
“Where you been, girl? You got anythin’ goin’ on in that head of yours besides them nonsense rhymes? Your Ma’s been cookin’ all day and she sure coulda used your help with them black-eyed peas but you was nowhere to be found. You best not-a been hangin’ ‘round that good-for-nuthin’ boy again, girl. If I told you once, I told you a thousand times … keep away from him! There’s somethin’ not right with that boy! He’ll bring nuthin’ but misery. You start messin’ around with him and you’re gonna live to regret it. Then try and find yourself a decent husband! No man I know wants used goods! Now stop makin’ excuses, girl! I’m your Pa and I know when you’re lyin’ … just like you was lyin’ about not bein’ out by the river. You know how I know that? ‘Cause somebody done seen ya. I see by the look in your eyes that it’s true. Yeah, you was seen by that new preacher man. And that ain’t all, girl. He said you was with that troublemaker and you had your heads together like you was plottin’ somethin’ real private-like. I swear, girl, you ain’t got a lick a sense between ya. Stop this dang foolishness ‘cause it’s gonna lead to no good! C’mon now, girl … dinner’s waitin‘. Anna, your cookin’ is fit for a king! What you goin’ on about, woman?Jesus! I seen that boy just yesterday. Now, why’d he go do a fool thing like that!”
NB: Bobbie Gentry remarked that the message in Ode To Billie Joe revolved around the “nonchalant way” the family discussed Billie Joe’s suicide. She also said she included the verse about something being thrown off the bridge because it established a relationship between Billie Joe and the daughter, providing “a possible motivation for his suicide after meeting with her“. Gentry told The New York Times in 1969: “I had my own idea what was thrown off the bridge while I was writing it, but it’s not that important. Actually it was something symbolic. But I’ve never told anyone what it was.” The last time Bobbie Gentry appeared in public was at the Academy of Country Music Awards on April 30, 1982, almost 42 years ago to the day. Since that time, she has not recorded, performed or been interviewed. A 2016 news report stated that Gentry lives a secluded lifestyle in Los Angeles; she has refused to speak to reporters about Ode To Billie Joe or to give interviews.
It doesn’t happen very often but last Sunday was a rare babysitting day for us; our usual days to watch our 4-year-old granddaughter Colette are Tuesday and Thursday but both our son and daughter-in-law (Colette’s mom & dad) had to work over the weekend. That was a rarity for them as well, but one is a librarian and the other a doctor and with both the library and the hospital open every day of the week, they sometimes pull a weekend shift but seldom do their rotations coincide as they did last Sunday.
My husband Bill has been having good and bad days this month, thinking about and missing his twin brother who died suddenly on April 2, so our son has been extra considerate, asking if watching Colette at this time is too much of an imposition; we answer without hesitation “Not at all …. in fact, just the opposite!”
Colette is always fun to be with but recently she has been a true blessing and a much-needed distraction …. a tonic, a balm for our sad and broken hearts, a healing magical concoction of love, joy, sunshine and humor blended with a combination of innocent wisdom and an intuitive nature that defies her tender age.
We were looking through some old photo albums with Colette …. snapshots of Bill and his brother as babies, as kids growing up on City Island, our wedding photos …. and even though Colette knew Bill’s brother and saw them together many times, seeing those photos left an impression on her, especially the ones of Bill and Jim when they were babies; it’s true, you know, that when our kids and grandkids are little and they look at us, they only see us as we are and have no idea we were ever any younger than we are right now.
One particularly sweet photo of Bill and Jim brought tears to my husband’s eyes and though he tried to hide his tears, they spilled through his fingers causing Colette to ask why he was so sad and we explained that Uncle Jim was gone, that he had left us to be with God in heaven; she thought for a second, put her little hand on Bill’s and said “Well, that’s ok, Grampy; don’t worry because God will take good care of him and it’s all going to be ok.”
When little Summer was just a few days old, her mother Laura started the tradition of sitting with her in the nursery to read stories before bed; in the corner of the nursery was an old floor lamp that used to belong to Laura’s grandparents, Momma and Poppy, and it filled the nursery with a soft, soothing glow.
As a little girl, Laura spent a lot of time with Momma and Poppy and the three of them developed a deep and loving bond so when Momma and Poppy passed away, the one thing Laura asked for was the floor lamp which was in the bedroom of their house where little Laura napped; now, each night Laura would tell baby Summer all about her beloved Momma and Poppy.
This one particular night as Laura and Summer were sitting in the nursery, the glow from the floor lamp caught the baby’s attention and she was captivated by it, something Laura thought was a sweet connection, especially since the lamp originally belonged to Momma and Poppy, Summer’s great-grandparents, but then Laura noticed a pattern developing, a pattern that would repeat two or three times most nights at Summer’s bedtime where the baby would gaze calmly and quietly at the lamp, then slowly begin to coo, gurgle and giggle for a few minutes before becoming animated – smiling, eyes glowing, arms waving, laughing and babbling loudly – then back again to quietness but still very much attracted to and aware of the lamp …. even when the floor lamp was off, Summer was attracted to it.
One afternoon when Summer was around 3 years old, Laura heard her talking and laughing, just like she did when playing with her stuffed animals, and when Laura peeked into Summer’s room expecting to find her little girl on the bed, she was surprised to see her in the big over-stuffed chair where Laura read bedtime stories; the floor lamp was lit and Summer appeared to be having a happy and lively conversation – not with her stuffed animals but with the lamp.
When Laura asked Summer who she was so happily talking to, the little girl was quick to reply “Momma and Poppy, of course; can’t you see them, Mommy?”
Laura caught her breath for a moment but she was not completely shocked for she knew Momma and Poppy’s lamp was special – the very reason Laura wanted it in her own home, but she didn’t realize how special it was; Laura never tried to stop Summer from talking to the lamp for she truly believed the spirits of Momma and Poppy were presentand Summer’s conversations with them were real …. and who are we to say they weren’t. 🪽
Written for The Unicorn Challenge, where we are asked to write something creative in 250 words or less byusing the photo below for inspiration. This is my story.
The moment we stepped out of our car, the temperature felt like it dropped twenty degrees and a cold wind whipped my black-stockinged legs. We cringed at the frigid slap in the face and huddled deeper into our jackets as we climbed the steps to the church.
We found the seats reserved for us …. second pew directly off the center aisle. I clutched my husband’s hand and felt his body quiver as he raggedly exhaled, desperately trying not to cry. The tears would come, but on his terms.
The pews on both sides of the church were filled with people celebrating a life and mourning a loss. Everything leading to this moment had been a maelstrom of emotions; there are very few things that shake us to our core like a sudden death.
A man appeared at our pew; I recognized him as the manager of the funeral home. He spoke softly to my husband and together they started to walk to the back of the church. I looked up at my husband’s face and he gave me a sad smile.
There was a heavy silence in the church, mourners sitting side-by-side lost in a fog of grief. Had someone played us the cruelest joke?
As one, the pallbearers heaved the casket onto their shoulders and the organ began to play. That’s when I saw my husband walking behind his brother’s coffin, our widowed sister-in-law on his arm, and there were tears.
After the wake, a few of us went back to our sister-in-law’s house. A question tap-danced in my brain: now that my husband’s brother was dead, was his widow still our sister-in-law or will she eventually be erased from the familial slate, ties severed, connections lost?
The room which they call ‘the office’ was a confusion of books, photo albums and memorabilia piled high like Babel.
Flipping through yellowed snapshots, we spotted her, the widow, in every image …. halcyon days when we all spoke the language of youth and happiness …. and my question was answered.
Written for Weekend Writing Prompt #358 ~ Superscript
Just like something out of the evening news.
Did the attractive young woman, a former nurse and mother of one toddler, actually feed her little boy bleach or was it just a dreadful accident?
How could any jury not believe the clean-faced white woman in the proper skirt and blouse as she tearfully recounted the events of that horrific morning?
But they did believe her and only the most perceptible viewer in the courtroom or the living room caught the slightest cold-blooded superscript curl of her top left lip.
Bill stood at his open closet mumbling and cursing under his breath as he pulled out one pair of pants after the other. He was in a mood that has no definition or perhaps many definitions, none of them good. He was searching for something to wear for the funeral of his twin brother, Jim, who died suddenly on April 2. Had it been anyone else’s funeral, Bill would have just pulled out a suitable pair of pants and a dress shirt, but this was his brother and he said he needed his black suit. He couldn’t find it in the closet and he was getting angry but, of course, the errant suit was not the cause for his consternation. I walked to the closet and spotted the suit immediately. Handing it to Bill, I hugged him and kissed his cheek. As I ironed his shirt I could hear him crying softly. “Why’d you have to go and die, Jim?”
Written forFriday Fictioneers. Greetings, friends. Some of you know, others do not. We had a death in the family last week … my husband’s twin brother passed away on Tuesday. I’ve taken some time off from writing but now I’m ready to return. You may read about our loss here if you are so inclined. Thank you for your thoughts. This is my story today.
It wasn’t in the evening when a calm tide rolls out, nor in the early morning as the glorious sun rises but rather in the middle of the day, just after noon when he crossed the bridge and left us stunned and lost. One minute he was with us …. happy, strong and alive. The next he was gone, in an instant, in the blink of an eye, he crossed the bridge and slipped away. We had no time to prepare, no time to say “Goodbye and fare thee well, brother”. He was just gone, peacefully and silently across the bridge.
Sincere thanks to all my dear WordPress friends for stopping by to read my April 2 post about the death of my brother-in-law, Jim …. my husband Bill’s twin brother. Thank you especially to those who took a moment to leave words of comfort; that simple act on your part has truly touched me and helped both Bill and me to cope with this tremendous loss. I see how many of you care and my heart is full of gratitude and love. I’m sure you realize why I have been absent from WordPress until now and I know you understand why I have not commented on any of your sites in recent days. It all feels so strangely surreal to us. Things here at home are beginning to settle down and we are now trying to adjust to the new normal in our lives …. a world without Jim. Bill is also grateful to you all for taking the time to share our grief. I will return to posting tomorrow. Thank you, my friends. 🩶 🕊️
~ Nancy
This is “The Art Of Dying” by George Harrison
“For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.” – Kahlil Gibran
Bill & Jim at their childhood home, City Island, The Bronx, NY circa 1950
My husband encouraged me to write today; I didn’t want to …. I felt like I should sit by his side, hold his hand, cry with him but his tears and his grief have not hit home yet.
One minute he’s walking around the house in a daze, the next he’s playing LEGOs with our 4 year old granddaughter. It’s good for her to be here; she’s keeping him distracted.
You see, my darling husband Bill’s twin brother Jim died today around 12:30pm. His wife Lynne went upstairs to their bedroom and found him on the floor. She tried desperately to breathe life into him but he was gone. Just like that, alive one minute and dead the next.
Losing a sibling is so hard; losing an identical twin is unfathomable. I am Bill’s wife but his twin brother was his other half and I say that with nothing but love in my heart. They shared their mother’s womb, their crib, their playpen, their bedroom, their car. They went to school together, worked in the same marina together for many summers. Bill graduated Iona College first in his class; Jim was second. They even failed the army physical together!
They were on polar opposites of the political page and their taste in women couldn’t have been more different but in every other way, they were as one. Of course they looked the same and talked the same, they had the same laugh, the same sense of humor. They loved watching hockey and going fishing together. Now that will never happen again.
If you look at the last photo on the bottom of the page you’ll see them, two little suntanned towheads sitting side by side fishing with their older brother, dad and grandfather. Now everyone in that boat is gone except for my husband, Bill.
All I’m thinking about right now is what a great time Jim and Lynne had last week. They spent the whole week in North Carolina with their son, his wife and two teenage grandchildren. They texted photos of everyone on the boardwalk, arms around each other, looking incredibly happy.
Bill and Jim. The Twins. The Richy Twins. When people saw one, they saw the other. Now there’s only one and nothing from this moment on will ever be the same.
The Elephant's Trunk 