blogging a little of a lot
Are you comfortable with the company you keep?
the skin that you wear?
the decisions you make –
the great ones, the good ones
the bad ones and,
even the terrible ones?
Do you accept the wrinkles,
the imperfections,
the bones of your being?
I hope so.
This is your life.
Your song.
And only you can sing it.
image credit
via Song
I like looking at my teach, Mrs. Alexander, at her nice smile and her fancy dress. I keep picturing my mother getting to wear a dress like that someday.
Right before it’s time to go home, Mrs. Alexander starts to teach us a new song called “Home on the Range”.
“Oh give me a home, where the antelope roam and the deer and the antelope play. Where seldom is heard, a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day. How often at night, where the heavens are bright with the light of the glittering stars, have I stood there amazed and asked as I gazed if their glory exceeds that of ours. Home, home on the range….”
I like those words. They make me feel almost as good as when I’m riding on ol’ Polo, free and easy like deer and antelope playing together without any bickering.
I like it that she tells us what the words mean, words like “discouraging.” She says that “discouraging” means that you don’t like something much, like something makes you feel uncomfortable, something that spoils your spirit.
So now I can say, that “Home on the Range” is my new favorite song. I can also say that recess today, sure was discouraging. But damn, sticking that pocketknife in Tommy Burn’s bully thigh sure felt good. He’s deserved it for a coon’s age.
Maybe there are a few clouds today after all.
Excerpt of No Hill for a Stepper by C. Dennis-Willingham
image credit
via Song
My Frigidaire’s in disrepair
the water’s leaking everywhere
My husband, well, he’s unaware
He’s napping in his underwear.
I tell myself, “do not despair.”
There must be food I can prepare
something fresh, a peach or pear?
Poor Fridge, it’s had it’s wear and tear
this in common, this we share
But I will act most debonair
when I wake up my sleeping bear
still with stance that’s set to square
and tell him he must fetch our fare
(“yes, now go and do your share”)
then waving just one hand in flair
I’ll sit upon my outdoor chair,
paint my nails with greater care
then catch a snooze mid-air.
– C. Dennis-Willingham ©
painting by Kay Crain
(I love this piece of art)
via Frigid
Sometimes,
between the wall that divides us,
grows a single rose.
He started with a solo
unexpected, unplanned
It was more than a quartet when others joined in.
A sad event in American history
a funeral
an amazing song by Joan Baez
incredible drawing and animation
and a wonderful memory and reminder of the compassion of
President Barack Obama.
via Quartet
I face less fears than I once did
those growing pains while still a kid
have turned into a pyramid
of learning tools and skills.
– C. Dennis-Willingham ©
daily word prompt: Faceless
Over 25 years ago, I had the great pleasure of meeting this true celebrity. He was the real deal – the same person I saw on PBS stood before me, thanked me for my service to young children, had his assistant take our picture (when he noticed my disappointment that I hadn’t brought my camera), and reminded my mother of the importance of being a grandmother.
A few weeks later, as promised, I received the photos in the mail.
To this man, no person was “foreign.” They were someone that he had not yet had the pleasure to meet.
I just bought the new “forever” postage stamp.
Also watch for upcoming films about him and his limitless love for humanity.
Thank you, Mr. Rogers. You are still an inspiration.
via Foreign
The first day of school, I’m sitting in the back hoping she won’t see me. But she does.
“Cono,” she says, “Sit on up here in front, where I can keep’n eye on you-uh.”
I hate it when she says “you-uh,” like it’s two words instead of one.
Mrs. Berry doesn’t like anything I do. She doesn’t like the way I look, the way I walk, the way I smell, the way I put on my shoes. Well, I don’t like her neither. She stares at me with the corner of her crinkled up eyes, just to find something else she doesn’t like.
“Cono, you’re pressin‘ down too hard with that pencil, you’re gonna break it.” “Cono, I can barely read what you’re writing, it looks invisible.” “Cono, you-uh got something to say or don’t ya?”
She thinks that she’s higher and mightier than God Jesus himself. She walks with her nose so far up in the air that, if she were a turkey, she’d drown. Turkey’s do that. They’re so stupid that if it starts raining, they look up to see what’s dropping on them and sniff!. That’s all it takes. They’ve plumb drown in a drop of rain. You’d think they would have caught on after a while. Like they would have seen their loved ones plop down dead after looking up, that they’d be onto something. No way. They ever look up just to see the pretty stars? Nah. They only look up when it’s raining. Sniff!
The only thing dumber than a turkey is the man that owns them and he’s dumber than a box’a hammers. Just like Mrs. Berry and Principal Pall.
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper by C. Dennis-Willingham
image credit
via Invisible
I know I am. There is so much I still don’t know and, step by step, I will discovery more.
