Book Blurb Friday # 17

         Yes, it's Book Blurb Friday.(Actually, it's still Thursday, but if I take too long writing this, it will indeed be Friday by the time I get through.)

          The reason why we slather and clamor every week is 1) we get a great photo to inspire us (Sandra, what did you do to the spider web to make it appear so white?) 2) We get to hone our blurb-writing skills (150 words or less) and 3) we get to read everyone else's blurb.

            Go to Lisa Ricard Claro's blog, link your blurb to the efficient Mister Linky, and enjoy the other BBFs that are posted.

Granny, I Got the Clicker Now!

Cecil was smitten and nothing—not even that old bat!—could keep him from his one true love.

That blue-haired biddy insisted on watching her shows, as if no one else mattered on the face of this pitiful planet. Lounging in her Lazy-Boy, Granny refused to loosen her gnarly grip on the clicker.


He longed to gaze at his love’s orange, fake-baked flesh as she scampered across the screen…But no! Granny would not give it up!


Finally, Cecil exploded. A new Jersey Shore was coming on; still, she wouldn’t surrender the remote. In a fury, he grabbed Granny’s tiny frame, carried her out into the front yard, and opening the driver’s side door, placed her in the front seat of the ’64 Falcon that sat up on blocks.


That had been seven months ago. “Aaah, Snooki,” he sighed, as he gazed out the window. Had Granny learned her lesson yet? (150 words--whew!) 

And if you are so inclined as you chatter on twitter or "like" things via facebook, please check out my newest blogging adventure here. Be gentle. I've just begun.

Magpie Tale #70

        Tess Kincaid brings it every week. Every week, another photo, another invitation, another chance to hone our writing craft.

       This is the 70th Magpie Tale, and your mission (if you choose to accept it) is to write a poem or a short vignette, using the photo as inspiration.

        After you write one, link it via Mr. Linky at Magpie Tales and read and comment on the others' tales.

         Following the photo is my Magpie for this week.

         She held the photo in her hand. The number meant nothing to her. Last summer, her great-granddaughter had gone through the dusty, thumbed-edged portraits and together, they numbered them chronologically. She said, "Nana, now we'll have like a timeline of you and what you looked like. Isn't that tight?"

          Tight? What was constricting about it? She let it pass, not understanding, but just nodded a bit.

          Photo # 199 was Margaret at 19, already a mother, but still so beautiful. (Even if she did say so herself!) Her eyes clear, her skin flawless, her face unlined.

           More than six decades had slipped between her fingers since that portrait was taken. Now her eyes were a milky blue. Her skin was as fragile as crepe paper. Her face was cross-hatched with deep crevices.

         Where had the time gone?  And how many other photos were waiting in the wings, still untaken?

(Only after I read Tess Kincaid's Magpie did I examine the photo once again, and felt silly. Of course it is a price, not just a three-digit number!  Since I realized that too late, I went in another direction when I wrote my Magpie Tale.

Which is okay, because as long as we're writing, we're using our writing muse-cles, which means we're working on our craft.)

A Day for Fathers

           I never got to know my biological father. Not his name, not his character traits, nothing about his physical appearance.

       According to the story my birth mother told the adoption agency, his family came from Greece. Since I am white as notebook paper (with the blue lines, since my leg veins have become more prominent these days) and my hair color doesn't look like it's Greek, I wonder if "came from Greece" meant they recently returned from a mediterranean cruise.

       On the other hand, perhaps she was spinning a story to hide the shame that this was the second time she had gotten pregnant and had to give up a baby. I cannot imagine the dilemma she was in.

This is my birth mother with the 3rd daughter she
gave birth to. She managed to hang onto this girl for a while...

      Luckily, I grew up with a great mom and dad. Love and affection and attention showered down on me for the last five decades. While he was alive, I know that my dad's life was enriched because he had a daughter. And yet I have a huge void in my life... 

       This week I was flying around from Goodwill shops to Target  and (sorry) Walmart. Yesterday my husband loaded up a U-Haul trailer and headed to the other side of the state. And it was all for our son, who recently snagged a job in his field, along with an apartment in a very funky part of his new "home" town.

      Looking back on our days when parenting was an every-minute exhausting affair, I cannot imagine what my life would be life if I had to miss out on the joys, the sorrows, the fumbling. My daughter and her family, my son...our lives are so rich because of them.

      My birth father may not have even known about my biological mother's pregnancy. If so, he doesn't even know what he's missing out on.

      But my husband and I know all-too-well what he missed...


(Note: I was prompted to write this post because of what Barbara Hodges wrote on a recent post of hers. If you don't know Barb, you must take my word for it. She is one of the few "ladies" I know--always gracious, always kind--is a retired teacher, and is a prolific writer. Her parents really missed out on something special, but her grandparents got a gem of a deal!)