Because it’s my room and I’ll keep it whatever way I wish.
But Auntie Helga will be staying in your room while she visits.
And, your point?
Well, Auntie needs space to do her scrapbooking. You know how much she enjoys her hobby. She needs space.
If I tidy up, I’ll never find my stuff again. I’m a writer; we need our itty bits of paper, post-its, and books to complete our stories. Besides, Aunt Helga will only be here a week.
The funeral was exactly the way my grandmother wanted.
She pre-paid and planned it all before she died.
Always the forward-thinking woman, no one would be able to leave any details out.
The rose garden was to be her final resting place.
She’d say, “Where else would I want to be? These roses have helped me create beautiful paintings that will live on in the homes of many long after I’m gone.”
Her garden was magical. She could grow colorful varieties.
I’m sure she’s looking down at us and saying, “Pick up a paintbrush and make magic happen.”
When the ship docked, we disembarked and signaled the cab that would be taking us to the pyramids.
It was a two-hour ride to Chichen Itza, the Temple of the Kukulcan, the archeological site.
Our friends had advised us to skip the costly ships tour and opt for a cab instead. We would be there with the same people we had been sailing with but for less money. Herbert was frugal about spending money, he thought it was a good idea.
The driver, who spoke little English, took us down unexpected bumpy unpaved roads. We barely spoke more than a few sentences in Spanish.
He said he had driven to Chichen Itza many times. We had our doubts. It was 2 1/2 hours since we departed the pier. Oh my, would the headlines read:
“Lost tourists, eaten by wild animals at dusk.”
Eventually, our driver seemed less confident about where he was going. He thought he had made a wrong turn. I guess that’s why the road was unpaved.
Frustrated, he found a road that led to his home. It was an old wooden shack in dire need of repair, and you might say dilapidated.
Although fearful, we exited the car and met his mother, sister, and brother-in-law. They welcomed us with huge smiles. Their children played on dirt floors while a baby slept in a hammock. They insisted we sit and eat something.
It was a pleasant visit. We learned a lot about their Mayan customs and cultural traditions.
We never made it to the pyramids. But, we arrived back at our ship with more knowledge about the Mayan people than we would have on a pricier tour.
Sometimes, a mishap can turn into a beautiful experience.
Summer is freedom for a child. Your school vacation begins.
No more homework, no more tests, and no more uniforms. I attended
Catholic school, wearing shorts and t-shirts was a respite from formality.
My family lived in an area of three-story brownstones in Brooklyn, N.Y. Pools weren’t anywhere in my neighborhood. There was a pool within a twenty-five minute bus ride. We never went there.
Sunday was our beach day in the summer. My father loved the beach.
Despite our no school discipline, he had a routine we had to follow.
We still attended mass on Saturday.
Sunday, we’d awake at 6:00 a.m., get dressed, grab our towels, pails, and shovels and be in the car at 7:00 a.m. It was an hour’s drive to Staten Island on a ferry. It was such fun to get out of the car and lean on the railing, feeling the ocean’s mist on my face.
Once we arrived at the beach, we all had items to carry to the water’s edge. My father cooked potato salad and fried chicken the night before.He was a cook in the army. He enjoyed cooking on the weekends. I was learning how to cook from him at age 5.
My task at the beach was to take care of my younger disabled brother. He was five years old, and I was ten. I’d collect shells with him and build things in the sand.
One Sunday, my father decided to teach all of us to swim. We watched him from the shore. He looked like a dolphin. I was apprehensive even though it looked like fun. It was my turn. He picked me up and took me way, way out. Eventually, he dropped me in the water.
Gurgle, Gurgle, Gurgle,
I swallowed water, flailed my arms, and thought I would drown.
After an eternity, my father picked me back up and walked me to shore. I cried and cried and cried. I was inconsolable. I never went in the water again. The sandy seashore was my safe place from that day forward.
I never did learn to swim, but I do doggie paddle in my pool. Many have tried to teach me, but my fear still lingers from that day. When my children could walk, I took them for swimming lessons. They’re all great swimmers, and one is Red Cross certified. I knew how much they would enjoy the beach, pool, and boating if they learned how to swim.
*****A similar photo by Ted Strutz was posted on Friday Fictioneers back in 2017. I wrote this poem for that image. I didn’t get many views or comments. I thought I’d edit it a bit and add it to this photograph by Dale Rogerson. Sorry about the two extra words.
Readiness to help the weak is no more. Let me unveil the tale.
Several weeks ago, while waiting for a table on the patio of one of my favorite Italian restaurants, hubby and I sat chatting and feeling free that the mask mandates were lifting. It was a pleasant evening to be outdoors. You can order drinks, but there is no outdoor service. Mama’s is a popular restaurant with delicious food. There’s a crowd. Everyone is chatting, laughing, and enjoying the wonderful feeling of being able to be out and about.
The wait is short, our names are called, and off we go to meet the hostess.
Due to my compromised immune system, I wasn’t confident to go mask-less. So, I put my mask on as I approached the young lady at the entrance. When I got to the doorway, my toe from my sneaker caught the edge of their entrance doormat.
Down … Down … Down … I went. I was flat on my side with an outstretched arm, bent leg, and my head right on the indoor mat.
Plop … Plop … Plop
I lay there on the ground for what seemed like a month, but it was only a few seconds. Hubby grabbed my arm to help me up, but I was like jello. My body wouldn’t respond to what I wanted it to do.
Eventually, I begin to focus and grasp that I’ve fallen when a man with a pizza box in hand steps over me on his way out of the restaurant.
The man did not bother to ask if he could help, nor did the other patrons out on the patio. Actually, he said, “Welcome!” as he continued on his way.
WHAT???
Hubby picked me up, and we walked to our table. The owners of the restaurant came over to ask if I was okay. I felt shaky and embarrassed. I was mad at myself for putting the mask on while walking. I think it impeded my visual concept of space. I haven’t worn a mask since. I much prefer COVID to a fall.
Now, let’s not get angry about my mask rebellion. I’ve been wearing a mask from the very beginning of the pandemic. I continue to support wearing maks. I’ve had COVID twice. I know it’s no walk in the park. It’s a horrific illness, and I am not ready for a third Covid event.
But, falling at my age is a big problem. I have osteoporosis which means my bones are thin, thin, thin. I have bad knees too. I did fall on the side of my body. My injuries are bruising, some headaches, swelling, and overall body aches.
Despite these symptoms, the most painful thing is knowing that we are no longer willing to help someone who can’t help themselves.
*****the photograph above is of my daughter. She works in Hospice care. This is what they wear in their office. The mask they wear with patients involves a lot more covering.
Inside the Mind of Isadora 