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.
Traveling through the jungle had been brutal. The heat had overcome many.
Walking along, we see many homes that the opposing tribes had destroyed. Remnants of brick walls were the only signs.
The tour guide told us we would learn many things about the Watusi culture, including their healthy lifestyle.
I was excited about learning all of these new things.
Soon, the Watusi shaman was telling us about their exercises and dances. I was in awe when they began to dance.
The exercise works wonders on circulation. Watusi tribe members originated it. It also slims you down without medication.
I have been doing the exercises and workout moves since I arrived home from my vacation. I’m feeling much better already. I recommend you start right away.
This video shows what you should do daily to help with leg and knee pain and stiffness.
Once a day is sufficient for assured success! Enjoy …
Inside the Mind of Isadora 