Winter Field

Withered trees,
shriveled ice,
winter sets in.
Cows with crows
fill the fields,
their future stilled
in ice and stalled growth.
Chewing,
thoughts wheeling,
seeking food.

Spring; earth stirs.

A Short, Short.

Hunting a new spot, my husband and I broke into a clearing after losing the trail we’d been tracking for hours. He stomped off, muttering something about women not mixing with hunting, or some such drivel.

I stopped at the edge of an old fire pit, littered with faded wrapper covered cans of beans, an old fork, and part of a cast iron pan sticking out of the dirt. I love old stuff, and always wanted to stumble on an abandoned site to explore.

What were the people doing here? What were they doing now, were they still alive? I pondered and made up stories while my husband paced, anxious to get back to the hunt.

The edge of the clearing held an old shed half covered with ivy. Young trees grew into and out of the open window. The door lay on its side, having fallen off its rusted hinges long ago. I worked my way through tall grasses and bits of broken wood into the shed, hoping to find even more goodies like those that surrounded the old fire pit.

It must have been an old tool shed, part of a hardened hose still hung on the wall, a bent up rake, and an old rusted axe head sat on a shelf, and a few traps, rusted from disuse, hung from the rafters. A partially broken toilet huddled in and among the weeds growing in the corner. Snugged against the non-window wall sat an oddly out of context old chest freezer.

Certainly no power ever reached this remote clearing, so what exactly was it for? Was it…

My husband, impatient and ready to leave, yelled at me to get going, or he’d leave without me. That rat!

With a renewed interest in hunting, I left the shed, and promptly filled that old freezer. 

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Authors Questions - Does this short, short satisfy? How would you rather this end?

Comments, both pro and con welcome.

How to be a Better Writer, and have Confidence

Get them to read your blog. Have hundreds read your writing! Tips to tantalizing titles.

Lots of great information out in the world - book stores, libraries, the world wide web. Just need a few million hours to read and utilize it all!

If I take time to read everything to make me a better writer/blogger/whatever, I will not have time to actually write. So I pick and choose, read snippets, cut out magazine articles for later, bookmark web sites for future findings.

Does any of this really make me a better writer? Or, do I just use research as an excuse to not write?

Maybe a little bit of both. However, I figure as a writer of poetry, I will just write my poems, publish them, and hope someone picks up one of my books. I will continue to read how-to articles and books, and continue to hopefully improve my craft.

Calling myself a writer is hard for me. When asked "What do you do?" I say I have a publishing company, or grow and sell Christmas trees; rarely do I say I am a writer. That is something else I need to work on. It's not that I'm ashamed to say I write, in some part I think I'm trying to defuse the awkward moment -
            "What do you do?"
           "I'm a writer."
            "What do you write?"
            "Mostly poetry."
           "Oh, how nice....."
That awkward moment.

No one is really sure what to say to that. A response of children's books, or science fiction is easy; What is your story about? Where does it take place? etc. But poetry? "What do you write about?" "Life." How boring. Not much of a conversation there. I will put that hang-up away in the I really shouldn't care file, and try to loudly and proudly say "I am a writer."

After I finish the article I started yesterday.

Brace Face

I admit I haven’t grown up; adult status reached, but not acted upon. I do not want to grow up. I enjoy laughing at silly things such as farts, burps, and bad jokes. That keeps me young.

As teenagers, when a friend or someone in our circle got braces, “brace face” and “metal mouth” became their new nick-name. I endured this form of metal torture, wires, headgear, and all.

Braces forty years ago were much different than they are now. Metal bands were put around each tooth, and each band had two tabs that protruded from the front. These tabs had wire wrapped around them, tying each tooth to the next. Wire ends were sharp, and tucked into the space between the tabs, however sometimes they would work their way out, and poke my cheek, drilling what felt like a mammoth sized hole. Wax, a staple tucked neatly away in my purse or pocket, and never far away, was put over the offending wire until a visit to the orthodontist could be arranged. If the wire wasn’t too far back in my mouth, a flat pencil end could be used to shove it back into place.

Wires and bands were not the only solution to my messy teeth. Small but strong rubber bands were looped over a tooth in the back on the top, skipped several teeth, then looped over a tooth on the bottom, pulling teeth in the direction required. (These tiny rubber bands also made great missiles to shoot at a cute boy across the room!) This made speaking rather difficult, and often lent an accent, previously not in residence, to my speech.

Evidently my teeth were not moving at an acceptable pace, and my beloved orthodontist Dr. Woodford, fit me with the oh so stylish headgear. Soft pliable bands crisscrossed your head and neck, with metal arms reaching out to hook loops in my mouth, pulling my already sore teeth in the opposite direction from the rubber bands! Usually I had to wear the headgear at night, but, if I was not diligent, since it really wasn’t comfortable for sleeping; I had to wear it during the day. Of course the orthodontist had me wear the headgear contraption during the day when I was in school; he couldn’t wait until summer break when I wouldn't be around all the cute boys!

  

Finally, after all the bands, rubber bands, and metal wires were removed, I got to wear a retainer for a year or more. This kept my teeth in place, so they didn’t move back to their old hangout. The retainer was a fitted piece of plastic with, of course, a wire running across my teeth. I was supposed to wear this all the time except when I ate. This became a problem when out with friends for a bite of fast food. I took my retainer out, wrapped it in a napkin and put it on my tray. Meal done, I threw the trash on my tray away, and rode my bike toward a friends house. Half way there, I realized I threw my retainer away. Quick turn-around, head back to dig through the trash cans. If I was lucky, I found it right away, other times, two or three bags of trash later; I'd find the treasure I was seeking, take it home and boil it.

Today, braces are much more user friendly. Tabs are glued onto the front of your teeth, rubber wires join teeth, and can even be color coded for your favorite sports team, high school colors, or to match your prom dress/tux.

I still see rubber bands, however, I have not seen headgear, and I am pretty sure retainers are still in play.

Braces are a young person’s gig. Pain is endured knowing your smile will soon be straight, calling to those of the opposite sex, luring them with a new brilliant smile. There are years, and years ahead of  young brace face teens, years to flash that costly smile.

Now, I am confused by what I am seeing as an odd braces trend. On not so rare occasions, I see older adults with braces. I’m not talking about thirty-something’s, or forty-year-olds, I am seeing mostly women who are sixty-five years old plus, wearing braces. At a time when most of their peers are Efferdent-ing their dentures, these ladies are getting their not so pearly whites straightened.  

I just don’t get it! What purpose does this painful procedure serve? Are these women newly widowed and on the market? The shapes of their mouths change, they make funny faces trying to get their lips over the braces. Their speech patterns have changed, and they often have difficulty eating; “Nothing with seeds please, they get stuck in my braces.” “Nothing too tough to eat, maybe just some soup.”

I want to enjoy my meals when I’m older, I want to enjoy life, not be worried about how I look. Maybe these gals need straight teeth to happily live out the rest of their lives.

Whenever I see an older person with braces, I have to quell my inner teen and not yell out Hey, brace face! I can't call them metal mouth, or steely smile, or any other name that rhymes. It is just not dignified. Perhaps someday, I’ll get enough nerve up to ask  why someone chooses to get braces at seventy.

Do My Eyes Deceive Me?

The story begins well, it has me hooked. Murder, mayhem, and madams. Everything a reader could want. I’m engrossed in the first paragraph, words flow seamlessly, evoke visions both good and bad. I am reading as fast as I can, and still understand what it is I am devouring. Then it happens, the quirk. Is it really there? Do my aging eyes deceive me? I go back and begin again. The difference is subtle, almost imperceptible. The question hanging out in my mind, pestering to be answered, is why? What purpose does this change serve? Space saver, ink saver, format?

I return once more to the break, the change that has taken me away from the story, and put me in editor mode; something I’d rather not do when I am reading for pleasure. I have picked up this book because I wanted a journey, an escape, not work!

There. Right in the middle of the page. The font changes size from 12 to 11.5.

Oh, The Places I’ll Go

Dr.Seuss has a birthday coming up, this is in his honor. Titles to almost all of his books are included in this poem. Happy Birthday Dr. Seuss, you have given the world a tremendous gift.


Dear Dr. Seuss, You are such a goose, and I love how you make things rhyme.

I pull out a book, and take a quick look, and hope I have enough time.

Time for:

Colorful fish, and green eggs and ham, which all can be seen at the zoo.

A quick trip to the circus will only endear us to Horton, the Grinch and Bartholomew.

McElligot has a fox, and a King with old socks, that the Sneetches and Yertles deplore.

There’s Thidwick and Daisy, who’ve gone quite crazy for Oobleck, and Wockets, and more.

Marvin K. Mooney and the Lorax too have scrambled eggs for supper.

They ponder and think, and make duck feet wishes for Hooper Humperdinck.

People in houses and Lady Godivas  ride Zebras to hop on pop.

 They each have ten apples to place on their heads, a fine thing to put on one’s top.

On wacky Wednesday, the eye and the tooth are found in a booth, with the mice and a bullfrog or two. They sit with the Zax and Too Many Daves and celebrate Diffendoofer – who?

The butter battle raged on for days till the vet had had enough. He sat in his jet and refused to let the little bug go ka-choo!

Then Gerald, on his great big stilts found the lost Mr. Brown. He tried  to remember that it was Octember, and time to come to my house down town.

Oh, Dr. Seuss, my mind is loose, with everything spinning around.

The Cat in the Hat, might just return with more books!

For there are never enough to be found.