• About

The Flowering Side

~ Writing Into the Wind

The Flowering Side

Monthly Archives: June 2014

Writing 101, Day 8: Bike Camp

18 Wednesday Jun 2014

Posted by CK Wallis in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

biking, children, mountains, summer

Bike Camp was last week. Everyday from 9am to 5pm my eight-year-old grandson Grant,* in the company of fifteen or so other children, was riding his 7-speed bicycle up and down man-made hills and over several miles of mountain trails. As usual we always arrived early, because in Grant’s world if we’re not early, we’re late. In this respect, my two grandsons couldn’t be more different. Five-year-old Victor, who I’ve no doubt will be going by “Vic” before he reaches high school, is as unconcerned about punctuality as ducks are about rain. Since we had at least fifteen minutes to wait each morning after checking-in and stashing Grant’s well-stocked backpack (lunch, snacks, extra socks, and rain gear), and since there is nothing quite as inviting as a sunny morning in the high Rockies, we waited outside.

One spectacular morning, we decided to try out the plastic Adirondack-style chairs on the deck facing the bike hills. (I know we have very short summers and very long winters, but a plastic Adirondack chair–no matter how practical–just seems wrong, doesn’t it?) The sky was a brilliant blue, smooth as a piece of satin stretched from horizon to horizon, and completely clear except for a long, thin snag from the white contrail of a jet passing miles over our heads. I’ve lived in the mountains most of my life, and I’ve never tired of the vast blue dome of sky that covers this world on a sunny day. In early summer, against this backdrop of sky, the evergreen covered mountains are greener than ever. With irregular streaks and patches of the almost neon green of newly leafed aspen groves tucked in the dark purple shadows, the mountainsides seem to be showing off their spring colors, daring every camera and paintbrush around to replicate this moment.

Between the deck and the bike hills, there is an enormous expanse of lawn. Just like the irresistible invitation of a blue sky, everyday the lure of the lawn is too big a temptation for Victor. The deck is surrounded by a gravelled area and a stone wall about a foot high where Victor would sit, but not sit still, banging his little legs against the wall until he was overwhelmed by the need to run. There was no point in calling him back; I knew he wouldn’t hear me until he reached the edge of the lawn. Victor is all motion and determination, athletic as he can be…and deaf when he wants to be.

That determination was apparent when he was learning to ice skate last year. Wearing a hockey jersey many sizes too big, and with his feet scrambling for balance only to land him on his backside again and again, he looked like a tiny Ice Capades clown. I never stopped laughing, and Victor never stopped smiling. Every time he came over to the bench his big blue eyes were dancing, and there was an ear-to-ear grin beneath his masked hockey helmet, true joy spread all over his face.

One morning I brought pieces of watermelon to munch on while we waited. Sitting at a square metal picnic table with a bench attached to each side, I placed the clear plastic container of watermelon in the center of the table. With the sun lighting my grandsons and the bright red chunks of watermelon sitting on a Christmas green picnic table, I had created a perfect holiday tableaux–if I’d thought to bring my camera. Bits of sunlight sparkled on Grant’s blonde hair, while a khaki-colored sun hat covered brown-haired Victor’s new buzz cut. Their lips were glistening with watermelon juice, and their cheeks were a rosy glow in the morning sun. Both boys have their Mom’s big blue eyes, almost the same blue as the sky, and just as bright. They are children and brothers, so their high-energy world is full of hijinks and squabbles that can push even doting grandmothers too far on occasion, but at moments like this one at the picnic table, they are also perfect.

A minute or so before 9am, the parking lot began sprouting children and bicycles, as a variety of cars, trucks, and SUVs delivered the rest of the bike campers. Our peaceful mountain mornings ended with a sudden explosion of shouting and laughing kids. Wearing a wild assortment of T-shirts, shorts, and bike helmets, they were a colorful group as they began playing around the bike rack. Only their skinny arms and legs looked somewhat uniform, by mid-week all tanned and sporting a similar collection of band-aids and bruises. Victor and I watched as Grant and his friends hopped on their bikes and followed their teen-aged leaders onto the biking hills, then we started toward the parking lot, with Victor reminding us both that next year he will be going to bike camp, too.

*Author’s Note: When writing about family, I do not use their real names.

 

Writing 101: The Chicken Coop

17 Tuesday Jun 2014

Posted by CK Wallis in Memories, Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

1960, Alan Shepard, Denver, Kennedy-Nixon debate, suburbia

We moved a lot when I was a kid. By the time I was eleven, my family had lived in at least ten different houses in three different states. The year I turned eleven we had two homes in one of the western suburbs of Denver. In the 1950s and 60s, suburbs were on the march, devouring what remained of the rural communities and farms that once surrounded cities like Denver. That year we lived at the rural edge of one of those suburbs, a new golf course separating the two houses we occupied. The second house was a new three-bedroom, blonde brick with an attached car port, that was on the developed side of the golf course. It was a typical 1950s tract home, at the end of a cul-de-sac. But, the first house that sheltered my family of five that year was on the rural side of the golf course, and that house was something to remember.

Large parts of the golf course were still bordered by recently consumed farmland. Even though a couple of state highways and a few major streets crisscrossed the former fields, some of the original farm houses and other farm buildings were still there. The elderly owners of one of these farms, after selling most of their property, decided to live out their lives in the farm-house they had called home for over forty years. Converting from farming to rental income, they had remodeled the farm’s other remaining buildings, installing kitchens, bathrooms, and walls to create living rooms, dining rooms and bedrooms. In 1959 we moved in to the chicken coop.

I don’t think my parents ever liked the house; while they were thrilled with the cheap rent, they were never able to reconcile themselves to the former residents. On the other hand, my younger sister and brother and I thought the long, skinny house was great fun. For us, it was soon known as the “chicken house.” Even though it’s been over fifty years, if I were to mention the “chicken house” to my sister, she would know in an instant what I was talking about.

One of the kid-thrilling features was a huge backyard (remember, it had been a farm just a few years earlier), with trees to climb and room to throw a ball. There was a residence on each side of the yard; on the west was the big white farm-house where the owners lived (it’s large front yard now bordered by a big, busy street); an old equipment barn or shed that had been converted to a one-bedroom house on the south side; the former bunk house, that was just a bit smaller than the chicken coop, was a 2-bedroom rental on the east, and our ‘chicken house’ was on the north. The chicken coop was the only domicile with kids, so we had the run of the yard. And, that big yard meant that we finally had a place for a dog.

I’ll be the first to admit that my Dad was flake about a lot of things, but he did try to keep the promises he made to his family–at least to his kids. So, we got a dog, a Lassie-look-alike named Lucky. Lucky hadn’t been so lucky, as his original home was one of the bulldozed farms. We were the ones who were lucky, as Lucky turned out to be gentle, sweet-tempered, and protective of me and my siblings.

Lucky did have one quirk that annoyed my Dad; he would not come in the house, no matter the weather. Dad carried him in once, and Lucky pressed himself as close to the back door as he could, where he laid whimpering and shaking until he was let out again. After that, Dad built him a little lean-to behind the house, and put some old blankets in it to give Lucky a place to bed down on cold nights. Lucky was great at fetch, never got tired running with us, and didn’t mind being a pillow or a book stand when I wanted to read outside.

The house itself was a little wider and longer than a single-wide mobile home. Looking back, I’d guess it to have been about 16′ wide and 75′-80′ long. The first (west) section was a ‘sunken’ living room, where the back door was almost directly opposite the front door. A step up from the living room was a bowling-alley hallway that ran across the front of the house, from the living room to the master bedroom (then known just as “Mom and Dad’s Room”, although it did enjoy the luxury of a half-bath). Along the south side of the hallway were the rest of the rooms: a small dining area,with  a half-wall separating it from the living room, behind that was the kitchen with its own entrance onto the hall, then my brother’s room, a bathroom, the bedroom I shared with my sister, and then across the back, my parent’s room. The best thing about that house was the hall. We used to race cars, roll balls, play hop-scotch, and sometimes just run up and down–and we were always looking for a way to play bowling.

Even though we lived there less than a year, I have a lot of memories of the chicken house.

That’s where we lived when my sister and I got so sick with strep throats we both ended up in Children’s Hospital at the same time. That’s where I had to finish the school year with a home tutor after a heart issue complicated my recovery and I couldn’t go back to school.

That’s where I began to learn the facts of life, eavesdropping on my Mom and aunt while they talked about my unwed 16-year-old foster cousin’s pregnancy.

That’s where I began watching the news with my Dad; where I felt so grown-up when Dad asked if I wanted to watch the Kennedy-Nixon debate with him. (The next year, I wasn’t so thrilled when he roused us all from our beds at 4 in the morning to watch Alan Shepard go into space.)

That’s where I first saw a snake when we were playing with some old tires in the field across the street; I had thought it was a tube inside the tire, but when I went to pull it out, it moved, and I saw it was curled all around the inside of the tire. I’ve been very careful around tires ever since.

That’s where we lived when a girl from my 5th grade class became my first real friend. That’s where we lived when I went to my first real party.

That’s where we lived when we had to give Lucky away because we were moving again.

Writing 101, Day 5: The Letter

10 Tuesday Jun 2014

Posted by CK Wallis in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

short-short fiction

“Come on, Nana. I’m makin’ us a path!”

Swinging a big stick machete-style, Fanny’s five-year-old grandson hacked at weeds and bushes on the overgrown trail that led from the house to the lake. The house had been a bargain. It had been empty for almost seven years, abandoned in a frenzy of illness, divorce, and untimely death—maybe even murder, or so rumors went.

Moving in just before the snows began, there had been no time for Fanny to explore beyond the large yard that surrounded the house. But, after a long, snowbound winter of cleaning, repairing, and painting, spring finally had the upper hand. The snow had melted, the sun was warm, and this weekend her grandson Jack was visiting for the first time.

“Watch me, Nana! Look what I can do!” Jack said with a scowl of determination pinching his blonde eyebrows.

Fanny smiled back as Jack began thrashing reedy grasses and the branches of a wild rose bush that had spilled onto the path. “You’re doing a great job,” Fanny was saying when they both saw the weathered envelope. It had been hidden under the part of the bush Jack had just massacred.

“Look! Here’s some mail,” Jack said, handing the envelope to Fanny, “Is it yours?”

“No, sweetie, it’s not mine.” There was no address, just a faded “D” underlined twice. Turning the square envelope over, Fanny saw an embossed monogram, “RDS”, on the little triangle flap. The flap was sealed shut along its glued edge, and with a round, gold sticker bearing the same monogram.

“This is expensive stationery,” Fanny said, “I wonder what this letter is doing here?” She also briefly wondered if she should open it, taking another moment to contemplate the envelope before she slipped her finger under the sticker, tearing the seal. Prying loose the rest of the flap, she removed a single sheet of cream-colored paper, folded in half.

“Nana, we’re not supposed to read other people’s mail,” Jack said, clearly surprised by his Grandmother’s breach of etiquette.

“It’s okay this time, Jack. We don’t know whose letter this is, and the only way to find out so we can give it back is to look inside for a name,” Fanny said as she stared at the loopy black script laced across the page.

“All is forgiven. Please believe me, please. I want to go home–I need some rest. I’m spending the night on the boat. If you still want to leave, just come to the boat by 7 tomorrow morning. You are forgiven! Trust me, please. Love, R.”

Like the “D” on the envelope, the three words, “Trust me, please” had been underlined twice.

Gazing at the lost message, Fanny suddenly found a tight knot of tears threatening to unravel. Forgiveness, the most difficult of all gifts to give and receive. The forgiveness for which she had waited in vain all those long years. And now, in her hands, she held that gift meant for someone else. The knowledge that someone had been forgiven and might never have known was almost unbearable. Fanny carefully re-folded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope, already planning how she would start her search for “D”.

“Nana, come on!” Jack pleaded, “Aren’t we still going to the lake?”

“Yes, we are, Jack,” Fanny said, putting the letter in a back pocket, “I’m right behind you.”

The Lost and Found

06 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by CK Wallis in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

My cosmic Lost and Found box must be overflowing. . .

As a child, I lost toys and teeth, homework and skate keys, my new hat, and my report card.
But that was just the beginning.

The only reason I never lost a fortune is because I never made one, but,
I’ve lost races and games and
I’ve lost my cookies.
I’ve lost track of time, and I’ve lost track of friends.
I’ve lost books–library books, school books, and the books I haven’t written.
I’ve lost lighters and church keys.
I’ve lost consciousness.
I’ve lost my temper and my mind.
I’ve lost my patience.
I’ve lost keys and sunglasses, and
Ice cream from a cone.
I’ve lost letters and emails.
I’ve lost messages and reservations, tickets and directions.
I’ve lost my way.
I’ve lost my innocence.
I’ve lost faith and I’ve lost hope.
I’ve lost a fight.
I’ve lost halves of pairs…pairs of socks, pairs of shoes, pairs of gloves, pairs of contact lenses, pairs of earrings, and an unmatched pair of sisters.
I’ve lost sleep, and I’ve lost my wits.
I’ve lost weight, and I’ve lost my figure.
I’ve lost my chances and my luck, and some say
I’ve lost touch with reality.
I’ve lost control.
I’ve lost my voice.
I’ve lost tennis balls, golf balls, and bathing caps.
I’ve lost money, and–thanks to modern technology–I’ve lost my phone.
I’ve lost my footing.
I’ve lost out.
I’ve lost my mojo.
I’ve lost youth to experience, and weddings to marriage..
I’ve lost my nerve.
I’ve lost sunshine to clouds, tan lines to wrinkles.

I’ve lost parents and husbands.          I’ve lost a brother.           But…

I’ve never lost the awe of eternity in a starry night sky.

I’ve never lost my enthusiasm for this journey.

 

 

 

 

The Soundtrack for My Life

05 Thursday Jun 2014

Posted by CK Wallis in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

As a young woman, Lesley Gore and Helen Reddy were my background music.
Womanhood was being re-defined.
Lesley reminded an insecure teen that ‘he didn’t own me.’
Later, Helen proclaimed it was time for women to roar. Chanting “I am strong. I am invincible,” she cheered me on.

A guy wrote a song for me once. It was about my smile. It should have been significant. As it turned out, it wasn’t. He didn’t give me much to smile about.

My three-year-old granddaughter sang “You Are My Sunshine” for me. I think that’s the last time a song made me cry. She’s ten now. The years disappear.

We’re sung into the world and we’re sung out.
Some days a melody, some days a march.
Sometimes in harmony, sometimes in discord.
With sharps and flats,
Piccolos and tubas,
Whistling or waltzing,
Strumming or humming,
The daily serenades go on,
And the years disappear.

My Summer Room

04 Wednesday Jun 2014

Posted by CK Wallis in Haiku and Other Poems, Memories, Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Haiku, room, summer

Pushing off old quilts,
In my small, ancient brass bed,
I stretched, yawned, and woke,

A cabin window,
Opened wide to pine and sky.
Cool dawns, noisy birds.

Outside the window,
Strung between two sun-warmed trees,
My old swing still waits.

I watched moon rise, too.
Dreamy, silver light lacing
My little log room.

It was a good room,
Storing giggles and whispers,
Secrets, and daydreams.

My Flowering Side

03 Tuesday Jun 2014

Posted by CK Wallis in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Edgar Lee Masters, Serepta Mason, Spoon River Anthology

The name of this blog comes from The Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters, specifically the poem/epitaph Serepta Mason. Like many people (well, many people my age) I first encountered this book as a high school student when my bent and silver-haired English teacher included several of the poems in a reading and writing assignment, with the instruction that after we read them we were to create a detailed description of one of the graveyard inhabitants–what they looked like, where they lived, the sound of their voice, etc.

I didn’t do the character description, but I remember reading some of the assigned poems, and its possible I read them all, but I doubt it. For one thing, I wasn’t a very good student. While there were few things I enjoyed as much as reading, I resented being told what I “had” to read, my adolescent arrogance pushing me more toward mutiny than obedience when it came to homework (and most everything else). But the main reason I doubt I read them all is that I didn’t like them. I was seventeen years-old and there was too much future and fun to be had to bother with the sufferings and regrets of a lot of old people–hell, they weren’t just old, they were dead. What’s more, they weren’t even real. Or, (famous last words) so I thought.

My mother has been dead for almost twenty years. About a year after her death, at the local library’s annual sale of discontinued books, I came across a small, paperback copy of The Spoon River Anthology. Back then the library used to sell their books by the pound, making this little book practically free, and having one of those “I remember this…” moments, I tossed it on my stack. A few months later, on one of those grimy, cold days when the snow looks dirty, the sky looks old, and winter feels endless, I decided to read it. From what I remembered, it seemed to fit the day and my mood.

It didn’t take long to discover Serepta, as it is one of the first poems in the book (the seventh out of 245, as I recall), but her poem was as far as I got that day as I realized that Serepta’s epitaph was also my mother’s. I was a little stunned, but mostly fascinated, awed that a poem written several years before my mother was even born had so completely captured the exquisite and painful essence of her life. That’s when I “got” it, when I finally understood what people (teachers, mostly) meant when they talked about poetry being universal, distilling the innumerable facets of a human life into a few words so perfect that one hundred, two hundred, five hundred years later another human can recognize that life…can say, “I know someone just like that.”

So, to my fussy and patient English teacher, on whatever hill you are now sleeping, this is for you, with my gratitude. Even though I didn’t do the homework, you did your job–you introduced me to Spoon River, and without that introduction, those tiny sparks of recognition and curiosity that led me to pick up that book thirty years later would never have been lit.

Serepta Mason
MY life’s blossom might have bloomed on all sides
Save for a bitter wind which stunted my petals
On the side of me which you in the village could see.
From the dust I lift a voice of protest:
My flowering side you never saw!
Ye living ones, ye are fools indeed
Who do not know the ways of the wind
And the unseen forces
That govern the processes of life.

The purpose of this blog is to give my ‘flowering side’ a place to bloom, before it’s too late.

Recent Posts

  • I’m Back
  • Cee’s Share Your World 2016-Week 5
  • Cee’s Share Your World 2016-Week 4
  • Cee’s Share Your World 2016-Week 3
  • Cee’s Share Your World 2016, Weeks 1 & 2

Recent Comments

CK Wallis on I’m Back
Thomas on I’m Back
CK Wallis on Cee’s Share Your World 2…
CK Wallis on Cee’s Share Your World 2…
spoonriver2015 on Cee’s Share Your World 2…

Archives

  • August 2017
  • February 2016
  • January 2016
  • November 2015
  • August 2015
  • June 2015
  • May 2015
  • April 2015
  • March 2015
  • February 2015
  • December 2014
  • October 2014
  • September 2014
  • August 2014
  • July 2014
  • June 2014

Categories

  • Haiku and Other Poems
  • Holidays
  • Memories
  • Uncategorized

Meta

  • Register
  • Log in
  • Entries feed
  • Comments feed
  • WordPress.com

Recent Posts

  • I’m Back
  • Cee’s Share Your World 2016-Week 5
  • Cee’s Share Your World 2016-Week 4
  • Cee’s Share Your World 2016-Week 3
  • Cee’s Share Your World 2016, Weeks 1 & 2

Recent Comments

CK Wallis on I’m Back
Thomas on I’m Back
CK Wallis on Cee’s Share Your World 2…
CK Wallis on Cee’s Share Your World 2…
spoonriver2015 on Cee’s Share Your World 2…

Archives

  • August 2017
  • February 2016
  • January 2016
  • November 2015
  • August 2015
  • June 2015
  • May 2015
  • April 2015
  • March 2015
  • February 2015
  • December 2014
  • October 2014
  • September 2014
  • August 2014
  • July 2014
  • June 2014

Categories

  • Haiku and Other Poems
  • Holidays
  • Memories
  • Uncategorized

Meta

  • Register
  • Log in
  • Entries feed
  • Comments feed
  • WordPress.com

Blog at WordPress.com.

  • Follow Following
    • The Flowering Side
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • The Flowering Side
    • Customize
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar