Wednesday, July 1, 2015

What I thought was prose was only a poem that doesn't rhyme. Here is the parallel of The Chair.
The Sink Window

The old woman leans against the sink.

She stands at the window

looking and thinking,

hoping someone to see.

Her eyes stare down long lonely lane

each day a struggle,

knees crying in pain,

she walks with faltering steps.

The old woman opens the curtains, leaning on the sink.

Only the sun comes in.

She waits, withered and bent,

no one is seen in the lane.

Each day, hope drags her from bed.

As each day drags on,

her puckered lips

sag into toothless frown.

Youth has flown. Gnarled hands rest on sink’s edge.

Her clock’s wound down.

Curtains are closed, windows are dark,

and the sink remains dry.

Monday, June 29, 2015

Just a quick story that was loosely based on a single fact. All else that might implicate anyone, living or dead, is purely fiction and a creation from my head.
It Didn’t Take Much

            It didn’t take much to amuse him, but any diversion was more amusing than to be in a house with the loud and obnoxious woman that he called his wife. How he found her or how he found her attractive enough for him to marry her was a question that he asked himself over and over. He never came to a satisfactory answer.
            He had never been a speedy person by nature and his reluctance to return to his home and his magpie wife, caused him to dawdle more and more. Even the most mundane tasks that were considered boring by others were exciting enough to hold his attention.
            He began to create things, to invent things, and to liven up whatever he was doing, Walter Mitty-like. His persona as a jungle explorer emerged as he cut the grass or trimmed the hedges. He became a research scientist when he shoveled the snow from his walks and driveway. Indiana Jones-like, he dug for buried treasure as he spaded the garden. He became kin of the hill as he raked the leaves that fell from the huge Sycamore tree in their back yard. Watering the flowers, he morphed into a fireman battling and inferno as he held the hose in his hands or became part of the pit crew at the Daytona 500 as he washed their white Ford, Crown Victoria.
            Even if he rested from the rigors of his daily adventures on the front porch swing, he became a trapeze artist for the Barnum and Bailey circus; beautiful women relied on his strength and his ability to catch them.
            His trips to run errands caused his imagination to work overtime. With so much free time away for the house and his haranguing spouse, he looked for things to slow his return, not just to draw his attention from the things that waited for him at home. At first, he would find a place to park the car in the shade and relax, but his imagination wouldn’t allow him so much free time without some kind of stimulation. His alter ego felt starved and took over. He took the hair dryer from the bathroom and carried it in the car as he went on his excursions.
            Near the crest of a hill, he parked the Crown Vic at a wide spot on the highway and waited. As he heard another vehicle approach he would stick the hairdryer out of the side window in the direction of the almost always speeding automobile. It never failed to amuse him when he would see the frightened driver immediately hit the brakes to slow down. It was downright funny to him when the big eighteen wheeler, tractor trailer fought to control the big rigs as they slowed. The Walter Mitty inside him made him a state trooper just doing his job.

            The last I heard, he was pretending not to be a jailbird for impersonating an officer, but he looked on the bright side, he only had to put up with other convicts and not his wife.

Friday, June 26, 2015


I was wondering what to write about this morning as I was making my breakfast. I was making a hard cooked egg sandwich. As I sliced the two eggs, I noticed that the center of the egg was slightly undercooked. It was firm, but not the pale yellow instead it was a rich, golden color. My mom, Sybil Miner Beck as a child would have complained. She told us a story of her mom, Rebecca. One day her mom served her some under boiled eggs that were a bit runny. When my mom complained, Becky said that the eggs were overcooked and because of the naiveté of my mom, she believed it. Many years passed before she knew the truth.
Other stories that my mom told my brother, sister, and I about her childhood was about farm animals. As a girl raised on a farm, she was less than knowledgeable of the birds and bees. She thought that the cows were the mommies and horses were the daddies. She thought that cats were the mommies and that dogs were the daddies. Mom said, “Men and women looked different, so I thought that it was the same for animals.”
My mom was very astute with numbers and did taxes for more years than I could count. She started doing taxes with my dad’s dad, Edson Thomas Beck. She helped him with the payrolls and taxes of several multi-million dollar companies. When my granddad became too old to keep books for them, my mom took over.
Gradually, as Alzheimer’s disease robbed her of that ability, it also stole her memories. My mom loved to tell stories from the past of her family and her work experiences. Those memories slowly fled and died. When we gathered as a family, and we started to retell tales that she told us, we would say, “Isn’t that right, Mom?” It would hurt when there was no spark of recognition and she would say, “If you say so.”
She forgot how to read, she forgot how to bathe and to dress, and finally forgot how to eat. She was finally placed in a nursing home after she threatened to stab my dad with a meat fork. That wasn’t like my mom normally. She was feisty, but never mean like that. Dad couldn’t deal with her alone, safely.
It still hurts when I think of her and how her mental health and memory declined.

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Whatever Happened

I can remember when automobile manufacturers built vehicles that were quality basic, affordable transportation. Instead, the companies are Hell-bent on inserting everything they can and pushing the prices above the amount many people can afford. Things like heated seats, Wi-Fi, GPS, television screens, cell phones, self-park, all may be nice if they would be considered items that a customer can add, but not already included and sent to the dealer.
I think an automobile manufacturer could clean up, if they built a pickup truck, van, or automobile that was created with high quality, low maintenance, basic transportation. Volkswagen cleaned up doing that very thing, but since then, companies have been including niceties, but unnecessary “luxuries.”
Vehicles that are created to take a person back and forth to work and vehicles that are fuel efficient and reliable could be so much in demand that the flagging automobile industry could again regain the market. Cars would be affordable again. People would be glad to drive a new car again. Young Americans could afford a car, again.

I don’t need to hear about the untruth of “Global Warming” idiocy and the stupidity of “Carbon Footprints.” They are ways the government has concocted to limit our freedoms and intrude into our lives. Many of the people who live outside the urban areas don’t have access to public transportation of buses or trolleys and the distance is too great to walk or ride bicycles. The steep and hilly terrain of southwestern Pennsylvania also limits the types, modes, and ways of transportation that the rural population can reasonably rely on and use.

I remember a time when having a working heater and a radio were considered extras. Manual transmissions were the norm. Paint colors were about the only choices that didn’t cost extra when buying a car or truck. (The original assembly line cars came in only one color, black.)
 I think it time again for auto manufacturers to reevaluate the need and demand for good basic vehicles. I feel the consumer would be ready for them, as long as the vehicles looked stylish and decent looking.

Monday, June 22, 2015

I was told that I should try to write some of my poems in prose. I have tried prose before and find that my mind wanders too much. I am trying to write my prose from an established poem.
The Chair (Prose)

The old man sits in a chair by the door

waiting to hear the scrape of a shoe,

the roar of a engine,

or the ring of a phone.

The body weakens, skin becomes rice paper thin.

The face sags,

wrinkled, drooping,

spotted with age.

The light leaves and the lawn fills with dew.

No headlights appear,

he wearies, shuffles off to bed.

Sun rises, so does the man reclaiming the chair.

his brow furrows

face lined with care’

Muscles twitch.

Awake, reality returns, seen through rheumy eyes.

Youth‘s disappeared,

loneliness aging him.

Amazed how time’s flown.

The chair is now empty, layered in dust.

The door remains closed,

tightly sealed

hinges welded with rust.

Friday, June 19, 2015

Writer’s Treat

            Every first and third Thursday, I join several other writers, want-to-be writers, and those who write for themselves at the Mt. Pleasant library. It isn’t a large group, but it does have some impact on the community. Several times a year, the members are challenged to write a short piece for some of the holidays and put them on display. We have done writing to celebrate Christmas and one to create a story over a photo of our choice. The photographs were donated to the library and were unnamed, unmarked, and the people and places unknown. My choice was a pile of collected objects for a scrap metal collection drive in WW II. The reason this picture caught my eye was the small flag that someone placed there for the photo.

            Our next project will be to write a Halloween story and after that, our annual Christmas story. The outreach into the community has been noticed by the library staff. They told us that they see an increase of traffic when we put out our display.

            In our small group there have been at least five people who were able to get their works published, from historical, bizarre, and science fiction to poetry, cozy mysteries, and children stories. Our group has wide interests. Dr. Fred Adams is our facilitator and gives a short “lesson” at the beginning of each meeting. He will bring something to help our writing, something to introduce us to another genre, or something to sharpen our skills.

            The “dessert” of the writers meeting treat is that we offer those present to go out for a bite to eat afterwards. Last night we ate at McCali Tavern. A chance to eat out and not have to cook is a treat at anytime. I ordered a spring salad and a steak. The steak was grilled and flavored wonderfully. And it wasn’t damaging to my blood sugar which was 112 today.
            Other nights we have eaten at Applebee’s. The food is good there, but since they remodeled, the atmosphere has changed, and they keep it much too cold. If I am cold, it is too cold and several of the people are older than I am. It seems that they have tried to remake it into a sports bar, instead of a family restaurant. That is discouraging. There are enough bars in Mt. Pleasant, without their change.

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

This post is the result of the posts I shared of the old man and the old woman. It is a post about children who find themselves in the same position at a later time in life.

The Problem

Children caught up in personal affairs

no time for one who sits alone in chairs,

no time to give them, and no time to think

of someone who waits and stands at the sink.

Busy with family everyday

not recognizing how time slips away.

Someday you will be waiting for a call,

wanting affection, no matter how small.


Quickly the children grow and leave the nest,

lifetime spouses die and are laid to rest.

Embers of hope weaken and barely glows

when no one calls and no one shows.

Traveling salesmen are greeted with glee.

The “Witnesses” invited in for tea.

It will happen much sooner than you think,

and be you in the chair or at the sink.