blue girl

Coming Down the Home Stretch

I'm done! And as Jennifer said, Woo-hoo!!! And let me add, "Yay, yippee-yi-yo-ki-yay!!!"

But, there are two other committed bloggers, running this marathon, so to speak. Jeremy and Blue Hussein Wren, who have been with me every step of the way.

From Jeremy:

Smells like the furniture

We were visiting a friend who is responsible for a large garden. He had to check the greenhouses. Plural. In one, row upon row of seedlings, including many tomatoes. I cannot see tomato seedlings but that I have to brush my hand over the tips. My science brain knows that this helps to produce sturdy little plantlets. My reptile brain revels in the smell of bruised tomato leaves. Drinks it in. There was talk of how I have to have a greenhouse again. I churlishly rejected it. It isn’t going to happen, not any time soon. Back home, I pruned the potted lemon.

Read all of Jeremy's 100 word posts here.

And here's Hussein Wren:

What if cranes ...

What could it mean, if the cranes don’t fly home this year? What if these high mountain meadows never hear again the odd croaking of our beautiful, large, long-legged birds? What if they don’t stalk the reedy, peaceful shallows of the clattering river, spearing small fish with their beaks like lightning-quick warriors? Will the real warriors, those cruel, ugly men with grimacing faces, descend upon us instead of the gentle cranes? Will the people of the mountain be forced to take up defensive arms and embrace the black stain of violence? Through tears I search the cloudless skies for wings.

Read the rest of Hussein Wren's 100 word posts here.

They've written many touching, moving and inspiring posts. Please go read and comment. It'll be like handing them a cup of water as they run by. They need it. Believe me, that last mile can be the toughest.

And don't forget to visit Out of Context, who started this whole damn mess.

The End (50-50, Post #50!)

“We have to talk.”

“About what?”

“It’s about time we stopped this whole thing.”

She knew it was coming. Still, she felt a pang of sorrow.

“I know.”

“It’s been fun though.”

“Yeah. Sometimes not.”

“When?”

“When I didn’t know what to say.”

“Those times seemed rare.”

“There were days.”

“Well, at least we shared a lot.”

“Yeah. The memories.”

“The comedy.”

“The tragedy......so sad, but I’m looking forward to the future.”

“No commitment.”

“I can do what I want!”

“It wasn’t that bad!”

“It wasn’t. Goodbye.”

“See ya around.”

“Hope I’ve got something to say when you do.”

Still Telling Me I Can Be Whatever I Want to Be (50-50, Post #49)

My parents go to D.C. every year to discuss Fair Trade with politicians. They also meet interesting people at dinners. My mom, knowing my political obsession, always comes home with career advice.

“We met Kate Snow. Do what she does! You’d be good at that!”

I’m thinking, Pshaw! The camera adds ten pounds!

The next year...

“We met with lobbyists. Be a lobbyist!”

K Street? Pshaw!

And last night...

“We met a political analyst. Be a political analyst! You’d be good! You’d end up on Meet the Press!

I think...Yeah, right! BP would give me some horrid nickname!

Not a Miracle Worker (50-50, Post #48)

Angry, Sheila flew out of the house, leaving her family at the table complaining. Everything tasted like dirt.

A medical social worker, Sheila worked with adolescent burn victims. Usually upbeat, she’d had a rough day. Getting a panicked call, she raced to meet her favorite guy, Leon, who’d been set on fire by his mother when he was two. His foster mother suffered from cancer. And now, a broken heart. She was in shock, sobbing. Leon was leaving for Iraq.

Sheila returned home that night and everything was still. She sat alone and finished her cold dinner in the dark.

Fleeting (50-50, Post #47)

Years ago, in a deli, Blue Kid was in a baby carrier, propped up next to me. He was laughy and drooly, kicking his feet. I looked around at other families with babies. Young moms thanking passing strangers who paid their babies compliments.

I focused on one girl, her baby’s chubby hand tightly grasping her finger. I looked back at BK and thought, I can’t forget this time. Hold onto this. Remember.

This morning in a coffee shop, I watched young mothers gather with their sleepy babies. Smiling, tired, shaking baby bottles.

And I thought, hold onto that. And remember.

Daydreaming (50-50, Post #46)

It was a thunderstormy Sunday afternoon. Jackson Browne’s voice filled the room as we sang...

Love needs a heart...trusting and blind...

...into sterling silver salad spoons.

We melted chocolate over popcorn and poured glasses of merlot. She and I gathered our goodies and snuggled under the same blanket, turning on the DVD.

We drank our wine, and talked about the boys we used to know. The poets at heart. The kind ones with shy smiles.

“Oooooh, here comes our favorite part.”

She raised her glass, “Carpe diem.”

“And haven’t we though?” I said as we clinked our glasses together.

***

h/t Patti Digh

Love and Loss (50-50, Post #45)

When Susan’s husband’s heart gave out, her mind shattered. She couldn’t take care of herself or her children. She talked compulsively about Rick.

“My kids need their father!”

Her daughter, Janet, tried to keep the peace. Her son, Stephen, 16, was angry and volatile. He’d seethe with resentment...

“Mom, you’re a flake!!”

“What do you know??!! Nothing!!”

And once, “You’re a stupid bitch!!”

With that, The Skimmer ran over and grabbed Stephen by the collar.

“Don’t you ever talk to your mother like that!”

“You can’t tell me what to do! You’re not my dad!” And then he broke down sobbing.

Grief (50-50, Post #44)

“He’s gone. I won’t make any big decisions for a year. They all said I shouldn’t.” She said, wiping her tears away.

Kay’s husband, 22 years older than her, was in an advanced stage of Alzheimer's. He’d sit on their back porch, watching me plant impatiens in the beds in our backyard. Kay, in her late 60s, would walk to the hedge that divided us, telling me how her decision, years ago, to lay sod was the best she’d ever made. I always agreed. It looked perfect.

A few months after Frank died, Kay had her sod ripped out and replaced.

The Heartland (50-50, Post #43)

My relatives, just regular folks, live in the country country. Once, at my aunt’s house, we took a walk to look at her horses. I noticed something leaning against the barn.

“Um, Aunt Wanda? Is that a shotgun?”

“Why, yeah, honey. It is.” She said in the accent that sounds like home.

Four years ago, my sister called. They were leaving for Washington, D.C.

“Ok, bye!”

“Wait! Yaya? Remember. Don’t talk to Republicans.”

My mom told my aunt what I said.

My aunt replied, “Well, why would she? They wouldn’t have the sense to know what to say back.”

Long Day (50-50, Post #42)

After a tiring day, I grabbed my book and flipped on the television. Pope coverage. Got a blanket and settled in. Uncomfortable, I decided to switch couches. Thirsty, I needed a Coke. First, I picked up the remote and turned down the volume. Got my Coke then turned on the lamp to read by. I couldn’t hear the TV. I couldn’t find the remote. Anywhere. I searched.  Forever. Finally, I saw what I was holding in my hand. My book and the remote.

Cursing myself, I settled in, began to read and fell asleep to the sound of church bells.