Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

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Hobo Memories

   Throughout my childhood, Mom was incredibly resourceful. She crafted celebrations from only construction paper and glue. She filled our table with healthy meals, often from leftovers. She kept five children in good clothing every season. Her resourcefulness also applied to Halloween costumes. I cannot remember shopping for costumes, although plenty of my friends did. But I never felt deprived. For us, building your look out of almost nothing was half the fun! Scavenging through the house for raw materials was a happy ritual.
   One year’s costume stands out in history. I was attending a sixth grade Haloween party with classmates.  Mom conspired with me to exact something wonderful, exploring options like punk rocker (my fave for many confusing years), vampire (the traditional kind, because I hadn’t seen The Lost Boys yet, much less Twilight or anything from Anne Rice), and Carmen Miranda.  For that last option, Mom even let me stuff my dress with rolled up bobby socks, but we laughingly agreed Dad would object. My fake sock boobs were removed. 
   Anwyay, as great ideas often happen, we arrived at my eventual incarnation quite by accident. We were sifting through the accumulation of clothes pieces and possible accessories, piling onto my twelve year old self lots of crazy, unrelated things. I remember Mom joking that I looked like a hobo. Eureka. Her face lit up and she dug until she found a pan of brown eyeshadow.
   Mom smeared my face with the shimmery stuff so it looked like I had a five o’clock shadow. She slid a stocking cap over my blonde hair and added who knows how many more unmatched garments to my frame.  After some frenzied moments of adjusting and editing, she stood back and said, “What do you think?” 
   I was already happy from being the object of her undivided attention and bottomless creativity. So to see that I was also transformed into a completely unrecognizable hobo was bliss. Mom found a long stick from outside and tied to it a piece of cloth stuffed with something bulky, denoting the classic hobo carrying satchel.  Costume complete.
   The pleaseure of being so well costumed would have been enough, but later at the party, I heard people asking, “Have you seen Marie yet?  She’s not here!” They didn’t even recognize me, I was so hoboish. 
   Well done, Mom. And thank you for the creativity and memories. Happy Halloween!

Conjure: One Hundred Words or Less

      Sweet, heavy, grassy breath.  He examines me with liquid brown eyes, lashes longer than any others.  Square nose, slightly moist and leathery, nuzzles me for graham crackers I have hidden my back pocket.  Fingernails combing through the soft, short hairs on his face then through the thicker, coarser fur on his forehead.  Stroking his long, flickering ears, remembering all of those bottles of warm formula.  Massive head tossing around, gently displaying horns that mean business.  Cupped hands tracing their length, admiring the chips and colors, the perfect symmetry.  Baritone snorts, round belly heaving with every breath, perfect love and safety.




Update:  I guess I could have done a better job with some of the other physical senses, or in some way identified the beast better, but that’s the whole idea…  Learning and growing from feedback!  LOVED this prompt, thanks for the comments everyone!  Below is a photo of the mystery animal.  

His name is Chunk-Hi.  
He is a two year old bison.
He feels pretty.
Because of the confetti.
He has never hurt me or anyone else.


Before the Fortune Tellers Arrive, One More Kiss

   In one of the most sensuous cities on earth, at one of the most delicate times of day, I watched him.  The streetlamps were still glowing, reflecting off of the moist, foggy brick and wrought iron.  The only movement on the narrow streets was a garbage truck grumbling around the corner and a handful of old bicycles, pedaled and driven by beatnik poets, some of them wearing long aprons, hurrying towards their early morning shifts at New Orleans breakfast cafes.

   No tourists were out this early, and the street performers still slept soundly in whatever safe dark caves they could find.
   We had agreed to meet at Jackson Square, between the St. Louis cathedral and the entry to Place d’Armes, before breakfast.  Before the fortune tellers had time to set up their card tables and hand painted signs, promising answers.  We didn’t need their predictions,. after all; we only wanted one final quiet morning together.
   The preceding three nights had been filled with romance and surprises, and today we would part ways.  I slept in my hotel bed at The Frenchman for only a couple of hours, rose before dawn to take a hot shower in the minuscule but ornate bathroom there, and dressed in my last remaining clean sweater and a skirt with warm tights and boots.  It was too early even for the hotel’s parlor breakfast of coffee, croissants, and bacon, so I wrapped up in a long, soft scarf and made my way through those magical streets.  
   I walked alone to our agreed upon spot, taking mental snapshots of every tantalizing storefront, every window box garden, and every white-on-black printed street sign.  If this incredible place could somehow be home, would the awe gradually diminish?  Would I slowly lose focus on the sparkle, the hum, the glow of the French Quarter?
   He was already there waiting for me.  He was, as usual, standing tall and straight, broad shoulders square against the gray morning light, hands in his pockets.  He was leaning just slightly back, tilted to view the impressive church that has loomed over the square for nearly three centuries.  He has such an appreciation for grand architecture, so much knowledge, so much wordless passion.
   I stop my boots from clacking and just stand still to watch him for a moment.  Gazing at him like this through the fog, I can almost smell his cologne.
   

Introducing 31 Days of Proverbs 31

   A group of eight well established and supremely inspirational bloggers is embarking on a thirty-one day surge of focused writing, each selecting her own topic for the month of October.  For every single day next month, including weekends, each woman will offer up a blog post related to her topic of choice.  Lots of the writing topics are domestically focused, and I am very excited.  I am looking forward to 31 days of organizing, 31 days of entertaining, 31 days of fitness, etc.
   October is such a great time to actively switch gears and delve into a fresh perspective, a different routine, a new season.  I am super excited.  Super Duper.  Excited.  Ready for inspiration and specifics.  Thirsty for input.  Ravenous for stimuli and encouragement.  Sometimes hearing how one person finds success is all it takes to finally dive into something new and challenging yourself.

   Another yummy gimmick!  I am powerless to resist.

   SOOOO in addition to normal writing I am going to participate in this.  Write about what, you ask?  The Bible book of Proverbs 31 has been speaking to me for years, sometimes more clearly and purposefully than others, and I need the refreshment.  I am also in the midst of a calmer Bible study with friends right now, so this feels just perfect.

  And hello?  31 days?  
Proverbs Chapter 31?  
Kind of a no brainer.
I feel like it was meant to be.
.  So this October I will try to explore this book more deeply than before.  I will try to offer some history, common interpretations, daily life applications,  questions, artwork, etc.  
   
   Previewing some of the other planned writing bonanzas, the month of October can potentially drench us in ideas and inspiration for the coming winter and help us focus on lots of worthwhile topics.  
Happy Autumn Everyone!
I would not upset of you wished me luck.
xoxoxo

   


Autumn Changes Things Again

  

   The water was boiling. 

   She had been standing there in a daze, halfway waiting like a timid little girl for the universe to intervene on her behalf, halfway simmering in anger as hot as the water now steaming and hissing in the tea kettle.  None of this should be happening, she thought bitterly and helplessly.  Tears welled up in her throat but choked her, refusing to bloom in her eyes.
   Still mostly numb, she poured the steaming water into a pitcher with dry tea bags waiting at the bottom.  She turned the burner off, returned the empty kettle to a cool corner of the glass cook top, and wiped her hands dry on the red towel with yellow and gold owls on it.  These few motions seemed to cost her all the energy remaining in her limbs, so without a choice she leaned backward against the counter top and slowly crumpled to the floor.
   She sat on the shiny tiles reviewing the words in her mind, letting every syllable repeat again and again, hoping to gain some understanding that had so far escaped her.  Nothing would take hold.  The facts were cold and stubborn and two-dimensional, unyielding to pain and deaf to reason. 
   They are not coming home, and according to the phone call it was their free and final choice.
  She spent the next few hours just going through the motions of her routine, mechanically and with a hollowness that made her mind way too vulnerable to dark thinking.  Every task had happy memories attached to it; every square foot of the property was still vibrating with the colors and fragrances of family life.

   While in the barn raking hay, she heard a few tentative drops of rain ping against the tin roof, startling the cats and causing her to gasp and shake her vision loose for a moment.  Maybe this is temporary.  Maybe if I handle this wisely and with enough love they will feel the solidarity they need, the peace they deserve, and everything will right itself soon.

   She finished making the rounds outside, taking note of the quietness and mournfulness of the early autumn weather.  How was it possible that every animal seemed to know what was happening?  They all looked at her cautiously, as though a breeze might shatter everything.  

  
   By the time she reached the edge of the pond, the rain had advanced from a gentle sprinkle to a heavy, slanted downpour.  The midday sky was dark now and the air had turned cold.  Thunder boomed and echoed in the valley.  The horses had retreated to their loafing shed, perhaps to escape the rain, perhaps to grieve.  The rain slashed into the surface of the pond with increasing ferocity, finally drawing out of her the wild, primal tears she needed to cry.  She screamed and sobbed and the surface of the pond jumped and kicked against the news.

   The water was boiling.
Mama’s Losin’ It
This post inspired suddenly and unflinchingly by Mama Kat’s prompt:
“Write a story that begins and ends with the same sentence.”