green-eyed monster

Power

Posted on by cdjcollings

In pursuit of personal power and happiness, some believe they strive for a fair and just society.

They may be startled to find that what they actually seek is the opportunity to inflict some pain of their own.

Choose Love!

Love, the inspiration for my little book:

Two Little Girls by Charon Dianehttp://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

Deep within my heart there was a memory of my grandparents.  And one day, while overcome with several matters of personal concern and no way through, this ancient memory drifted in gently but completely taking the place of my troubling thoughts. I began to write. Eventually it became a story, my little book.

This extraordinary experience of my childhood took place in Virginia in 1957. While putting this memory onto paper, I felt warm and comforting support for a time so dear to me now. I was unaware of how much meaning there was in that experience, and what it gave to my life.

With a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my grandparents and for my family, it might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

 The following is an excerpt.

    Two Little Girls

    Chapter 1

    As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.

    There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.

    I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same.  My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.

    My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.

    Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.

                           ~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~

    Like Mercury

    Posted on by cdjcollings

    An edited re-posting, for a time such as this.

    Love to all,

    Char

    A toucan perched on a branch in Brazil.
    Brazilian Toucan

    Monday, December 21, 2015

    John was an enigmatic sort of person.  He was 4 1/2 years older and next in line with me.  He was a risk taker, a little dark, unapproachable, impenetrable, and brilliant. He enjoyed his own company most times so  I looked forward to when I was allowed access to his inner-sanctum. 

    His bedroom was collection of unusual and mysterious things.  My recollection of his room always included a skull and crossbones upon entering, just above the door.

    The events of one particular day best reveal his character.  He might have been 14 years old then and I would have been 9 or 10.  We were alone in his bedroom.  His mischievous expression, always prelude to something unexpected, commanded my full attention as he opened his sock drawer and reached to the back for a little brown bottle.  It was filled to only 1/4 capacity.  John told me to be very careful and still as he placed the bottle in my hand.  The weight was extraordinary.  Grinning, he took it back, unscrewed the top and spilled the contents of the bottle onto the floor.  It dispersed to all directions into the tiniest of little silver balls.  Using a piece of cardboard John scrapped the floor coaxing one ball toward another.  When the two made contact they instantly became one which he pushed toward the next until they formed one silver puddle.  There was no trace left behind.  John used the torn edge of another piece of cardboard to push the silver ball onto the first one.  Then he curved the board with the mercury into a funnel shape and artfully poured it back into the little brown bottle and screwed the lid onto it.  John beamed triumphant.  I was speechless.

    Butterfly

    Some People

    They would that you never realize your brilliance.

    They would that you never live a day knowing your truth, your strength, your creativity.

    They would break you into bits and pieces.

    They would absorb these parts of you to become one with them…mercurial.

    A great gust would take away what’s left of you…perhaps as far as a desert!

    Your bones could bleach there under the heat of the sun.

    With the stolen pieces they attempt to realize how you are but they can’t.  They can only express a gross misinterpretation of your intention.

    And in failing they feel contempt and loathing for ever having taken notice of you.

    What a colossal waste of precious time!  Will they ever come to realize the beauty and wonder residing within themselves?

    No matter…be Love, be generous, glorious you!

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    It’s been said that each of us has one book inside, a story to tell.  I wrote this one.

    Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

    While struggling through a convergence of life-changing events and making little progress, I was suddenly presented with the most amazing gift.  A childhood memory suddenly emerged.   It seemed to have an urgency, pleasantly so, not at all like matters before me.  I began to write.  With every detail that I could recall, I was gifted another, until all of the shapes and colors were there within a my 50-page novelette.

    It is a story from my childhood which took place in 1950’s on a farm in Virginia. As I wrote the words I felt warm and comforting support for a time that I spent with my grandparents, so very dear to me now.  Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning that summer with my grandparent’s had brought to my life.  And how impossible that it remained safe in my heart all along   It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

    Here is an excerpt.

    Two Little Girls

    Chapter 1

    As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.

    There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.

    I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same.  My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.

    My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.

    Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.

                           ~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~

    You are amazing.  Create something beautiful today!

    Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

    Available through my publisher, Booklocker.   –   http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

    and:

    https://barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon-diane/1022157163?ean=9781609101374

    https://www.amazon.com/s?                                                                          k=two+little+girls+charon+diane&ref=nb_sb_noss_2

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    Worth Repeating

    Posted on by cdjcollings

    In grade school, my class was given the assignment to memorize this poem by Rudyard Kipling. We recited it together in class. It comes to mind as I think of my children.

    char

    If

    Rudyard KiplingBy Rudyard Kipling

    If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
    If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too:
    If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
    Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

    If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
    If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim,
    If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same:.
    If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
    Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build’em up with worn-out tools;

    If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
    And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
    And never breathe a word about your loss:
    If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
    And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

    If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,
    If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much:
    If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
    Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
    And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

    Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/if-by-rudyard-kipling

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    My book!

    Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

    http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

    https://barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon-                                              diane/1022157163?ean=9781609101374

    We tend to forget many of the experiences that we’ve had, and easily so as some are truly forgettable, others regrettable, and still others simply because we must get on with our lives.  Some events, though we may not think of them when they occur as pertinent or relevant, remain with us somewhere deep inside.

    For months I’d been struggling with a perplexing issue which seemed to defy resolution.  I was bound on all sides with thinking about it, when suddenly a forgotten memory emerged.  Shapes, colors, and details became part of the air around me, dancing in concert to form a story that I would tell in a little book that I would write.

    This extraordinary experience of my childhood took place in 1957 in Virginia. As I wrote the words, I felt warm and comforting support for a time that I spent with my grandparents, so very dear to me now.  Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning the summer had brought to my life.   How impossible that it was safe in my heart all along   It is a story of love and an ever-growing appreciation for my family.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

    Here is an excerpt from my novelette:

    Two Little Girls

    Chapter 1

    As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.

    There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make-believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until suppertime. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.

    I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same.  My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.

    My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.

    Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.

                                              ~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~

    You are amazing.  Create something beautiful today!

    Hate-lite

    Posted on by cdjcollings

    What is the nature of the things we find ourselves doing, saying or thinking? Are they loving?

    Love.

    All other emotions are degrees of negativity.

    Deeply-seated as self-doubt can be,

    or surface-level, seething anger,

    there’s scathing commentary, overwhelmingly appropriate at the time so it seemed, but in retrospect, regret is the one and only recollection,

    and that bit of jealousy of withholding a sentiment that freely expressed might have “made the day” for someone.

    You know it would have.

    If God, the Heavenly Father is Love, than what is the source of all of the other emotions?

    Choose love, my Loves!

    What’s Fair?

    Posted on by cdjcollings

    Picture0709201458_1

    Do people sometimes get lost and end with being as brutal as those that they rally against?

    Do people find that what they actually want, is to turn the tables in order to become the abusers…to have the opportunity to feel what it is to dole out some brutality of their very own?

    And in the process, do they completely lose their way, with any sense of fairness becoming farther and farther out of reach, for everyone?

    What if, along the way, we reminded ourselves of The Word?

    And might we find it to be the guide that keeps us clear of mind so that we can actually realize the things that are important to us?

    “…for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”

    Romans 12:19

    *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    It was a complete surprise to find deep within my heart the memory of a time that I spent with my grandparents.  One day this forgotten memory came forward and most effortlessly, revealed itself to me as I wrote all that I could remember of what one month later had become a book.

    This extraordinary experience of my childhood took place during the summer of 1957 in Virginia.  As I wrote I was engulfed with warmth and comforting support, rather startling as it was so real.  I know now that it had to remain deep within me as only the passage of time could reveal the beauty of it.  Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning it had brought to my life. It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

    My book!

    Two Little Girls by Charon Dianehttp://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

    https://barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon-                                              diane/1022157163?ean=9781609101374

    https://www.amazon.com/s?                                                                          k=two+little+girls+charon+diane&ref=nb_sb_noss_2

    ** The following is an excerpt from my book:

    Two Little Girls

    Chapter 1

    As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.

    There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make-believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.

    I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same.  My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.

    My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.

    Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.

                                              ~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~

    Like Mercury

    Posted on by cdjcollings

    A toucan perched on a branch in Brazil.
    A toucan perched on a branch in Brazil.

    Monday, December 21, 2015

    My brother John Issac was an enigmatic sort of person.  He was 4 1/2 years my senior and next in line with me so at times we’d play, if he had nothing else to do that is.  He was a risk taker, a little dark, unapproachable, impenetrable, and brilliant.  I looked forward to the times when I was allowed access to his inner-sanctum.

    His bedroom was collection of unusual, mysterious objects.  With the general feeling that he’d over looked the placing of a skull and crossbones, I imagined it there above the door of his bedroom.

    There was, among his collection of things, a bottle of mercury.  How he came upon the substance is quite another story I am sure.  As with most other matters concerning my brother, I never knew the answer to that question.

    In my mind, his character is brilliantly revealed with the event of one particular day.  He might have been 16 years old then and I, 11 or 12.  We were alone in his bedroom.  His mischievous expression, always prelude to something unexpected, commanded my full attention as he opened his sock drawer and reached to the back for a little brown bottle.  It was filled to only 1/4 capacity.  John told me to be very careful and still as he placed the bottle in my hand.  The weight was extraordinary.  Grinning, he took it back, unscrewed the top and spilled the contents of the bottle onto the floor.  It dispersed to all directions into the tiniest of little silver balls.  Using a piece of cardboard John scrapped the floor coaxing one ball toward another.  When the two made contact they instantly became one which he pushed toward the next until they formed one large silver puddle.  There was no trace of reside left behind. It seemed like magic to me.  John used the torn edge of another piece of cardboard like a dustpan pushing the silver ball onto it with the first piece.  Then he curved the board with the mercury into a funnel shape and artfully poured it back into the little brown bottle.  John beamed triumphant.  I was speechless.

    Butterfly

    Some People

    They would that you never realize your brilliance.

    They would that you never live a day knowing your truth, your strength, your creativity.

    They would break you into bits and pieces.

    They would absorb these parts of you to become one with them…mercurial.

    A great gust would take away what’s left of you…perhaps as far as a desert!

    Your bones could bleach there under the heat of the sun.

    With the stolen pieces they attempt to realize how you are but they can’t.  They can only express a gross misinterpretation of your intention.

    And in failing they feel contempt and loathing for ever having taken notice of you.

    ***

    What a colossal waste of precious time!

    Will they ever come to realize the beauty and wonder residing within themselves?

    No matter…be Love, be generous, glorious you.  Inspire!

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    It’s been said that each of us has one book inside, a story to tell.  I wrote this one.

    Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

    We tend to forget many of the events of our lives. Some, though we may not think of them when they occur as pertinent or relevant, remain with us somewhere deep inside.

    In the midst of struggling with my life’s complexities, I was presented with the most amazing gift.  A long forgotten memory suddenly emerged and I began to write. Effortlessly, with every detail that I could recall I was gifted another, until all of the shapes and colors were there within a my 50-page novelette.

    It is a story from my childhood which took place in 1950s on a farm in Virginia. As I wrote the words I felt warm and comforting support for a time that I spent with my grandparents, so very dear to me now.  Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning that summer with my grandparent’s had brought to my life.  And how impossible that it remained safe in my heart all along   It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

    Here is an excerpt.

    Two Little Girls

    Chapter 1

    As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.

    There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.

    I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same.  My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.

    My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.

    Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.

                           ~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~

    You are amazing.  Create something beautiful today!

    Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

    Available at my publisher: http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

    as well as:

    https://barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon-diane/1022157163?ean=9781609101374

    https://www.amazon.com/s?                                                                          k=two+little+girls+charon+diane&ref=nb_sb_noss_2

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~