How Lucky Am I?!

I am staying with friends who have another house in a town about an hour's drive from here and they've been gone since Thursday, leaving me alone, which I am loving. I've had time to write, listen to "new" music for scene inspiration, walk, and do whatever it is I want to do. My mind is dancing from one scene to another, listening to characters and trying new avenues, new adventures for them. Last year, when I didn't have time to write, I kept myself busy in my down time by thinking of scenes that needed help or outright changes. I thought about them so much that when it's come time to write them down, I keep thinking I've already done so but can't find them anywhere! I've gotten a lot of good laughs at myself out of this experience.

View from my window

 So, Thursday evening I want scrambled eggs and toast for dinner. I put the pan on the burner and turned the knob to light it. Nothing happens. I try another burner. Nothing again. The stove is out of gas. Oh well, there is always the microwave and something else to eat.

Leftovers from this!

Had leftovers, washed up and got ready for bed. The next day, Friday, I keep the fire going in the wood stove used for heating, write, binge watch a bit of Grandchester, write some more, and enjoy my day. I eat salad and cheese and bread for dinner. Wash up and head upstairs to my room. Later, I go into the bathroom for a shower. Brushing my teeth, I turn the shower on and nothing happens. No water. I try the sink, no luck. Mouth full of toothpaste I go down to the kitchen where an hour ago I'd done the washing up, and, no water. Luckily I had a glass of it already poured so was able to rinse my mouth.

View the other way...

Saturday morning I use the last of the butter. What good is bread without butter? I do have a car and can go get some if I really want, but decide not to. My host calls and I tell him about the gas and water, which is still not on. He thinks the water is an outside problem, and turns out he was right, because shortly thereafter I see vans in the street with "Eau" written on them. I spent Saturday afternoon writing and cleaning up the wooden stove area, brought in a bunch of wood from the stack outside while still keeping the fire going at a steady pace. Thought of a bicycle ride, but it started to rain. I wrote some more, watched more Grandchester as I had my lunch, and then decided to take the recycling to the recycling center just outside of the village. For the first time in all the many times I've been to France, I drove, alone, in France. Here I don't mind because it's so calm, full of countryside, and no traffic to speak of. Not too many crazies. By Saturday evening we had water again. A bit brown from all the messing with it they had to do, but still water. Had a lovely shower and could flush toilets again! So glad I was the only one home.

Flocks of sheep in fields that surround this village...

Lone flower in the garden

How lucky am I? In a small village in the middle of nowhere, or everywhere, I'm taking care of a house. I am writing. With and without water and gas I'm having adventures. I have electricity and heat. Did I mention I am writing? I am in heaven. 

Lawrence and the Dead Horse

http://www.dlhammons.com/2014_10_01_archive.html

Participating in the Deja Vu Blogfest today and wanted to share a story I posted before, right after my father's passing. Hope you enjoy it... Click on the link above if you'd like to visit the other blogs participating!

In the still of a summer night, the sweat drained off Ida’s body soaking her dress and barely cooling her skin. She reached for her glass of lemonade which felt slippery with condensation as she took another drink from it. It tasted sweet and sour on her tongue. The mix perfectly sated her thirst but her body still melted in the heat. The mosquitoes seemed to hate the heat, too, otherwise they'd be chasin' her off the porch. And where was her husband? Lawrence had gone off to help a man with a dead horse but that had been hours ago and he should have been back by now. Exceptin’ of course, if the farmer offered him a drink to cool his thirst, too. Then Lawrence would have felt obligated to sit and jaw a spell on the front porch where it was always cooler even on a midsummer day.

Farmer Clements had called at their house the day before with Sheriff Thomas, and told a story of a missing horse. The missing horse had turned up dead on another man’s land and so Mr. Clements wanted Lawrence to take the case. Mr. Clements wanted compensation, and knowing her husband the way she did, Ida was pretty sure Mr. Clements would get his compensation.

It was going on eight. Supper was already cold. Only a fool would eat a hot meal on a summer’s day as blistering as this one had been. Even now, with the sun dropping behind the clouds and trees, the heat sweltered, stuck in her throat every time she took a breath. Where was that man? Didn’t he realize they had work in the mornin’ and being late to bed would make it that much more difficult to get up?

She heard the purring, popping sound of the motor car and sat up. Sure enough, around the bend in the drive came their little car with Lawrence at the wheel. He’d had to have one of the new contraptions and she had to admit it did make these kinds of business visits not take so long, more or less anyway. She stood and greeted him as he climbed the steps to the porch. “Took your time,” she said by way of greeting.

“It was mine to take.”

“Dinner’s on the table.”

“Good, cause I’m hungry. You?” Lawrence looked at her and smiled his slow southern smile.

“As good as. I could eat.”

“Got somethin’ else in mind?”

“Not till after Robert’s cleaned up and gone home.”

“Let’s get to it.” He held the screen door open for her. The main door was already open with the idea of giving any wayward breeze a chance to wander the house and perhaps cool it a bit. They sat at the table and ate in relative silence, knives clinking against plates as they cut their cold ham. 

“So,” Lawrence started, “Mr. Clements seems to like my idea of compensation.”

“And what is your idea of compensation this time?” she asked, tilting her head to smile at him, knowing he loved to talk about a satisfied customer.

“That Mr. Jones pays him the worth of his horse, or buy him a new one, or even two, maybe.”

“And how did you come about that decision?”

“Well, Mr. Clements told me he was mighty concerned about the loss of his animals because he happens to be in the dead heat of farmin’ and needs the critters. The circumstances of his horses gettin’ loose were, it seems, that they got out a gate left open by mistake and they must have wandered onto Mr. Jones property because they’re fence neighbors. Now he told Mr. Jones that his horses had gone missin’ and to keep an eye out for them and he’d come get them if Mr. Jones saw them. Mr. Jones didn’t tell him, he just shot the one and left the other. Sheriff Thomas took it upon himself, after talking to Mr. Clements, to have one of his men take a look on Mr. Jones land. The deputy found the dead horse. I told Mr. Clements, while we drank a glass on his porch, that you can’t go and electrocute a man for shootin’ a horse, but you sure can make him pay.”

Ida laughed. Lawrence’s humor was so dry sometimes and she loved it when he shared it with her.

“So, tomorrow I go over to visit Mr. Jones and get this settled. I think I’ll get two horses out of him by the time we’re done. What he did had little to do with advancing neighborly relations.”

“He’s not a very friendly man at the best of times.”

Lawrence nodded. “You finished?” He glanced at her empty plate.

“Yes sir, I am. But I need some air before we head to the bedroom. I swear today has been the hottest so far this summer.” She waved her hand in front of her face and stood. “Comin’ with me?”

Lawrence nodded and followed her out to the porch. They sat together in the rockers and gently moved back and forth in rhythm with each other. The night was still. Even the animals were quiet, too hot to hunt or chase anything down. “Only the snakes will be happy tonight,” Lawrence said.

My grandparents

“Guess that’s about right, till we get to bed, that is.” Ida took his hand and they rocked in unison on the porch until Robert pushed the screen door open and bade them a good night. 

“See you in the mornin’ Robert,” Ida said.

“Good lord willin’,” Robert replied. He took the steps down and into the night and the darkness swallowed him up.

Ida and Lawrence rocked until their eyes started to droop. Lawrence stood, pulled Ida to her feet and kissed her lightly. “Time for bed. Can’t let the snakes have all the fun.”

“Guess that’s about right,” she said. He opened the screen door for her again and they went inside. The lights went off, the bedroom’s last, and the darkness of the still summer night became complete.

Inspired by a story told to be by Mr. Will Clements, who knew my grandfather (I didn't). My grandfather was "Lawrence."

Image from:

http://www.front-porch-ideas-and-more.com/porch-rocking-chairs.html

Queen of a Heart

1974

Near midday I was sure the bright northern California sun would melt everything in my backpack, right along with my shoulders and legs. My head was hot. My feet hurt and the oven-baked wind that blew against us each time a car didn’t stop blistered our legs and back-lashed our faces. In Florida it’s hot, but it’s a humid heat. The highway pavement bounced the sun’s rays off the tarmac right into our down turned eyes so our hats were practically useless as we trudged along till we heard the next car approaching.

I was a virgin hitchhiker. I, at fifteen, of course knew what hitching was, but hadn’t ever been allowed to do it before. I could do so now because my parents were hitching with me and my sister, who was twelve. I walked along next to my dad. In the morning when it had been cooler and the rides had come often we’d chatted along in a happy state.We didn’t talk much now. We walked in silence, letting the whipping car-wind beat us into silence. The sound of our footsteps, a bird here and there and the sporadic sounds of my mum and sister’s voices behind us were our only accompaniment.

Miserable though I was, I was also happy. I’d been away from my family, on the other side of the world for four months. Being with them again, just the four of us soothed my soul in a way I hadn’t known possible. One tends, at such a tender age, to take things like family for granted. Being separated from them for so long had shown me the true wonders of being loved and cared for unconditionally. I now respected this part of my life on the same terms. My parents both loved me and cared for me even if I hadn’t been too close to them for the last couple of years. We, my entire family, lived at a boarding school where my parents are teachers and my sister and I are students. Needless to say my sister and I stay in dorms and don’t actually live, in the traditional sense, with our parents.

So here I am, hot, tired, aching and dying for a ride. My father and I shuffle from one foot to another as we continue on toward our goal of Crescent City, California. Not the Crescent City in Florida where we live and where, amazingly, I really don‘t want to be right now. I don’t often get my family, much less my dad, to myself so I am happy in my misery. I’m getting something I’ve missed for four months, the presence of my family in my breathing space.

Another car passes and my parents stop to discuss whether or not we should split up. People just don’t seem interested in picking up four strangers, even if two of them are children. Maybe if we split up into pairs we could make better time. For once they both agree on something. We go on together. It isn’t as safe for mum and just one of us girls as it is with us all together. We bow our heads and continue on until another car approaches. We turn, stick out our thumbs and… it goes right on by. Now we bow our entire bodies to the inevitable and once again trudge on. Another mile, another dry windy slap against the backs of our legs, our faces, but my dad is right beside me and I can hear my mother and sister talking behind us. I am comforted.

We pass a small tree. My dad, head lowered against the glare of midday sun, stops, stoops down and picks up an old and battered playing card. The card is a cobalt blue underneath the weathering, with a drawing of a young boy and girl in black and white.  I watch him turn it over. It's a queen of diamonds. My dad looks at me, hands me the card and says, “You’re the queen of my heart, faceted and beautiful.” I took the card from him. I wiped off the road dust and smiled. I tucked that card into my pocket and took his hand till we heard the slow-building roar of another car’s motor coming toward us. This time when we stuck out our thumbs the car stopped. That night we were safely ensconced in my older (half) brother’s house laughing and recounting our adventures on the road. At the dinner table I slipped my hand into my pocket. My fingers touched the smooth surface of my queen of diamonds and I grinned. I was queen of my father’s heart.

2012

This year I’ll be fifty-three. My dad is eighty-five. I still have the card he gave me on the side of that road in California. And, along with my royal sister, I’m still queen of my dad’s heart.

Photo of Highway 101:
aaroads.com