Inside the Mind of Isadora

Tag Archives: #memories


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CCC – His Time Ran Out

CCC#194 2022©Crspina Kemp

We docked 8:30 a.m.

I was tired from dancing the night before we arrived at Aruba.

 After a quick shower, we went for breakfast and the nectar of the gods; coffee.

The ship would dock for 6 hours. We didn’t know how long it would take to get around the island. We needed to find the National History Museum of Aruba. 

It was a small island but very busy. Cars darted by as we walked the four city streets to the museum.

It was hot and windy. The balmy breezes cooled the heat tremendously. Willie had talked about the trade wind currents of the island.

At last, we arrived. It was a small museum dedicated to the people’s history and the slaves who were imprisoned on the island.

Willie arrived in Aruba when he was commissioned to do a mural for the summer home of one of his art collectors. In the six months it took him to complete the outdoor patio wall, he grew to love the island. He purchased a home, and so began his Aruban lifestyle. 

Being from New York, he wasn’t sure if he’d feel a part of the island. Slowly he began to feel comfortable with the islanders and island life. He felt part of his community. 

A gallery owner had an exhibition for him within a few months of residing on the island. 

Restaurant owners noticed his artwork at the exhibit. A few asked if he would barter for meals. Banks, libraries, and town buildings donned his artwork on their walls. He received a commission to do the illustrations for the Aruban History book. Life was good.

After a few years, when his health began to falter, he flew to the states to get checked at the veteran’s hospital. He had been an illustrator during the Vietnam war. He drew battle images while in the fields. He told stories of the frightening danger around him and how his lungs burned from the chemicals of agent orange spraying. 

He never returned to his beloved Aruba. He died barely six months after returning to the states. His time had run out. 

2022©Isadora De La Vega

  • Historis Di Aruba
  • Artist Dedication
  • Book Illustration
  • Aruban Museum
  • Colorful Buses
  • Original Artwork
  • Shackled Slave
  • Aruba

Genre: Memoir

Word Count: 357

Photo Prompt: Crispina Kemp

Crimson Creative Challenge – #194

to join in click here

*****William De La Vega was my husbands 1st cousin. His entire childhood was spent drawing, painting and sketching a variety of artwork. He traveled the United States and Europe, painting his way through life. He never married or had children. He never settled down until he arrived in Aruba. Art was his life … sadly, he ran out of time at age 38 in 1977.


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CCC – Luscious Verdant Flower

Lushious Verdant Flower 2022©Isadora DeLaVega

Memories of our childhood
are like images on a canvas,
they merge until they lose their shape,
often remaining only as feelings.
2022©Isadora Delavega

Crimson Creative Challenge – #192

to join in click here


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Friday Fictioneers – I Loved Her First

He’d known her since she was very young. She was beautiful. He loved her the second he laid eyes upon her. His love ran deep.

At one time, he had been her hero. She looked to him for advice and guidance. She said she loved him too. But now, he was losing her to another man. 

Thoughts of stepping away from her were impossible to imagine. The heartfelt pain might be too much to endure.

He kissed her forehead and cheek, a desperate hug with tear-filled eyes.

Looking into her eyes, he smiled and gave her to the groom.

2022©Isadora DeLaVega

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WARNING: tissues needed when viewing video

 

I Loved Her First – Heartland (Lyrics)

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Genre: Flash Fiction

Word Count: 100 words

Photo Prompt:©JohnNixon

To join Rochelle in her photo writing challenges

and her fellow Friday Fictioneers – click here


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Friday Fictioneers -Shack in the Woods

A small wooden shack stands deep in the woods. 

It’s weathered, empty, and distant among the trees.

It calls me to its window, where the sun glints off pieces of broken glass.

Some are hanging loosely to the window pane, but most are strewn across the floor, mixed with rocks and leaves.

On the side of the house towards the back, a rickety unsteady crumbling shack stands, a testament to the days when homegrown fruits and vegetables were sold seasonally.

I feel nostalgic, as I walk the grounds taking in each detail of this skeleton of a home.

Memories unfold.

2022©Isadora DeLaVega

 

Genre: Flash Fiction

Word Count: 100

photo prompt©BrendaFox

 

To join Rochelle and her Friday Fictioneers Photo challenge

click here


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Learning to Swim

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. 

Learning to Swim never happened for me.

2022©Isadora DeLaVega

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Throw Back Thursday  April 14, 2022 # 34 – Learning to Swim

for info on how to join in this challenge 

click here


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Friday Fictioneers – Memories

Standing in the middle of the family room, I close my eyes.

Breathing deeply, I can almost smell the warmth of bread baking while pies cool on the window sill.

I can imagine being awakened by the aromatic brew of fresh coffee.

I can’t help but wonder about the many evenings after dinner when my grandmother would gather the children and impart her wisdom with stories of her native homeland and traditions.

It’s damp inside now.

Rain begins to fall, the sound against the tin roof echos a melody.

With all of my senses aroused, I embrace the warm sentiments.

2022©Isadora DeLaVega

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Genre: Flash Fiction

Word Count: 100

Photo Prompt:©LisaFox

To join Rochelle and her Friday Fictioneers challenge

click here

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Carnival Horror

Adults held children while running and screaming in all directions. 

 Horror on their faces signaled an unmistakable accident.

Uniformed fair staff and guards gathered everyone to safe zones.

A day of carnival treats and rides; now, the scene of a devastating tragedy.

Shock and terror paralyzed me. 

I declined Monica’s request that morning to escort her son, my daughter’s friend, to the fair. With six kids to monitor, I couldn’t manage any more.

A round-a-bout chair ride suddenly stopped causing the chain to sever her sons’ leg. My heart broke when I discovered it was Ryan who was injured. Despite many, many surgeries, he never was the same again.

Amusement parks were off our activities list from that day forward.

2021©Isadora De La Vega

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Every Wednesday Crispina will post a photo like this one above.

You are to respond with something CREATIVE

Crimson’s Creative Challenge

to join in click here

***** I wrote this story in 2015 for another challenge. It’s been edited and made a bit clearer. Enjoy … Isadora 😎


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Père’s Unfulfilled Wish

Brigitte exhaled as she came upon the Cathédrale Saint-Bénigne. 

Pensively she said, “Père would have been tearful. He carried painful memories of the war in his heart.” 

“Henri, why did you die before you could find peace?”

Mère had never spoken about those times, nor did Père 

After the funeral, I promised Mère I’d bring her here. Now, she’d find peace for both of them.

As I looked at the inside of this beautiful cathedral, it was difficult to imagine the terror they felt during the revolution. They survived because of this church.

Mère sat with closed eyes and prayed.

She never awoke. 

2021©Isadora DeLaVega

Every Wednesday Crispina will post a photo like this one above.

You are to respond with something CREATIVE

Crimson’s Creative Challenge

to join in click here

***** Research led me to the information that Cathédrale Saint-Bénigne de Dijon was a cathedral built in 13th and 14th century France.          


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Wilted Dreams

Wilted Flower 2021©Isadora DeLaVega

Your waking dreams
I hear your screams
of the hour
My wilted flower

All alone
can’t go home
You must cower
My wilted flower

So much pain
standing in the rain
You are not of power
My wilted flower

You run away
and, there you stay
In the cold rain shower
My wilted flower

Memories of all the hate
your horrible fate
They no longer tower
My wilted flower

In peace you die
I mustn’t cry
Your last hour
My wilted flower
©written by Jennifer Cramer