The Dance - A Short Story

Short Story #9 for the year is due today. The prompt was "duck" and the word count was 1000 words exactly. Here's my entry.

The Dance

Manon leaned forward slightly in her comfy corner chair so she could see more clearly out the rain-steaked window. It had been a hectic and tiring week at work, and now the long, wet weekend was dragging slowly by. It had rained non-stop since she left work Friday afternoon. She had cleaned and taken care of household business through the long, saturated Saturday; and today she had read for a while after church and had watched a little TV. Now she had time but lacked inspiration to write or paint. So here she was -- simply BEING!

She gazed out the window and wondered when her life had become so gray and stagnant? Where was the romance and excitement that had filled her life last summer? Where was the joy and love she had thought were hers?

She sat up suddenly. What was that movement she had spotted out at the start of the woods? She wiped at the window to see if she could get a better look. The water forming rivulets down the windowpane distorted the view, so she wasn’t quite sure what she had seen. Was it someone (something?) ducking under that low-lying limb of the dogwood tree at the edge of the yard? She squinted and concentrated. Nothing there now, but she could swear there was movement there a minute ago. Perhaps the neighbor’s dog? Surely not an escapee from the jail on the other side of the woods! Probably just her imagination. She sighed. Then she also smiled, remembering ducking under that very same dogwood branch last summer. They had been seeking respite from the sudden rain under the huge sweeping branches of the large oak behind the blooming Dogwood tree.

She and Bradley, oh yes, she remembered Bradley! What a week they’d had! They had been caught in the rain that day - during that special week a year ago. It had been a lovely, early-summer walk until the sudden downpour had sent them scurrying and squealing. Bradley had grabbed her hand, and they had run, laughing, into the woods to find shelter, hoping the shower would be as short as it had been sudden. How quickly she and Bradley had become comfortable with each other during that week of pre-wedding activities! Such happy memories they had made! She had thought maybe the relationship would continue and grow. So sad, though, that now she was reduced to searching for happiness only by imagining and remembering! Presently, there seemed to be life only outside the dreary confines of her routine life. Outside the walls of her lonely apartment.

Manon leaned back again now, trying to close her mind to the memories and her eyes against the pain. As she drifted, the ghost of a remembered tune began tickling and teasing in the back of her head. It would quickly touch base there before skipping off to hide again. It was just a ghost of a melody, but somehow it persisted and held enough reality to capture her full attention. She couldn’t shake it loose, so she slowly breathed out and let her mind float on the haunting tune as it began to develop a full body. The music began to fill her head. The music lifted her arms and her heart. It pulled her from her comfortable reverie, and she began to sway with the music accompanying the memory that was playing inside her very core.

Time and space dissolved, and Manon was in the arms of the tall groomsman at her sister’s wedding last summer. Bradley held her like a precious jewel; a diamond. Or no! An emerald! One of those brilliant, rare red emeralds valued beyond the most priceless diamond. It was he, Bradley, who glided around the dance floor with her that night. He proudly glided -  happy in the knowledge that his arms were tasked with protecting and displaying this treasure. He held Manon with reverence and joy, delight and confidence. Her steps moved in perfect synchrony with his, although their entire history was encapsulated within that single week. He bent to position his lips near her ear and whispered the words of the love song as they moved together. He whispered, and the dance floor disappeared. They became the music, and the room dissolved. She rested her head on his chest and listened to his steady heartbeat, and her own heartbeat began to keep time with his. They were alone in time and space, dancing to the music of the spheres.

As she circled under his arm in another smooth, elegant turn, her shadowy green eyes met his sparkling brown ones. They smiled in mutual remembrance of their romantic walk on the beach the night before, after the wedding rehearsal. As the waves had rushed into the shore and back out again in the twilight, they had strolled hand in hand along the shoreline. They walked long stretches in companionable silence punctuated by occasional pauses for soft kisses – kisses that mirrored the gentle ones the waves were dropping on the face of the shore.

He had held her hand, often in both of his. He had shortened his stride to accommodate her shorter steps. She had listened with rapt diligence as he tucked her hair behind her ear and told her of past disappointments and his dreams for the future; and she had become drunk on his undivided attention as she detailed the important life lessons she had learned and treasured from her faith and family. Their time together had seemed as rare as that 2-karat red emerald, and she had thought that it would be as enduring at that rare stone.

Now, as Manon danced alone in her room on this rainy Sunday evening, she smiled. An amazing man had loved her last summer. He never said so, and his absence now weighed a thousand pounds; but the wonder and the wondering lit her up as she remembered. Having almost certainly been loved still made her dance.

The Breakup Breakup

Short Story #8 for 2023 has been submitted to the Deadlines for Writers writing group. "Pick" was the prompt. I used the word 9 times in this piece. It is exactly 750 words, as prescribed. 

The Breakup Breakup

Sally glanced at the clock. Again. After a hard day at work, she was exhausted; nevertheless, she had hurried home and quickly cleaned up for the evening.  Don’s parents had insisted that she attend the monthly family dinner that night with their son.

Frank and Genevieve Edison were firmly entrenched in the Atlanta society scene, and Sally had been dating their son for 6 months; but, up until now, they had not considered Sally important enough to be invited to the family dinner.

Now here she sat, ready and waiting to do their bidding. She knew that the Edisons did not put up with tardiness, although their son had no such concerns. His circle of friends laughingly called him “the late Don Edison.”

As the minute hand snailed around the clock face, Sally became more and more irritated. Don wasn’t even answering her voicemails or texts.

“WHERE ARE YOU?” Sally texted. All caps this time.

Silence.

Should she call Don’s parents and make their excuses?

No! that’s HIS job! They are HIS parents, after all.

Angrily, Sally extracted her journal from the drawer beside the sofa and began to make the list she had been thinking about for weeks.

Reasons to break up with Don

1.    This is the fourth time he has been more than an hour late picking me up for a date.

2.    He keeps picking fights with me about my regular outings with my friends.

3.    When I asked his opinion of the last article I wrote, he had nothing positive to say and just picked holes in both the style and the content of my work.

4.    He always finds fault with my choice when he asks me to pick the restaurant for dinner. And then stalls, hoping I’ll pick up the tab!

5.    When we spend the evening in my apartment, he never picks up after himself. He expects me to be a combination waitress/maid, picking my way through the clutter he’s created  - the coat he’s tossed on the chair and the shoes he’s kicked off and left in the path.

6.    He continues to expect me to make all the concessions and “pick up the slack” in our relationship.  When will he begin doing HIS part to make this relationship work?

7.    He doesn’t even care that his best friend is a pervert who “accidentally” rubs against me at any opportunity and even brazenly picks imaginary lint or crumbs from my clothes.

Sally thoughtfully laid the pen down and picked up her phone just as a text message arrived.

“Be there soon! Have some exciting news!  Dinner with Mom and Dad is off.”

Irritated, Sally huffed. Now she had to change clothes AGAIN! And she knew Don would expect her to magically come up with alternate dinner plans. Well, this change of plans was on him, so he could darn well make the alternate dinner plans himself!  She sank deeper into the sofa cushions, picked her pen back up, and angrily added #8 to her list.

He doesn’t consider my convenience when changing plans.

 Well, she WOULDN’T change clothes! Maybe it would penetrate his consciousness that she had spent time preparing to make a good impression on HIS parents. AND she certainly wasn’t going to put together a meal just because her self-centered boyfriend thought that the spotlight should shine on him fulltime. This “exciting news” undoubtedly involved some minor achievement at his workplace, and he’d expect her to celebrate with him!

Sally had worked herself up into a dither by the time the doorbell rang and the door opened simultaneously.

“Hi, Baby!” Don burst into the room and picked Sally up as she rose from the couch. He exuberantly swung her around then abruptly set her on her feet and kissed her soundly.

She looked up at him, questions firing from her eyes directly into his. The enthusiasm and vibrancy he had brought into the room was contagious, and she smiled in spite of herself.

“Remember that Quick-pick lottery ticket I bought Tuesday after my softball game?”

His eyes searched her face and saw realization dawn.

“Really!?” Sally was releasing her previous tensions at warp-speed now; her pulse quickened, and her eyebrows lifted in quest of details.

“The big one!” Don beamed. “I couldn’t wait to tell you. Baby! I’m a millionaire!”

Don held the ticket out and watched in puzzlement as Sally quickly tucked her journal under the sofa cushion and held out her hand to receive the winning ticket.

1852

 Short Stort #7 for 2023 is due today. The prompt is 1852 with a wordcount of 1800 words. Here's my entry.

Anita smiled at her reflection as she finished blotting her lipstick. She was remembering the story of how, as a child watching her mother do this, she had misunderstood and characterized the action as “kissing the tissue goodbye.” Her parents took every opportunity they could find to tell that story. The frequent retelling had embarrassed Anita when she was younger, but she had come to appreciate that her family found it so endearing.

Now, dressed for her date and realizing that she had almost an hour before Nathan would be here, she took her insulated cup of iced tea to her reading corner to relax and mentally prepare for her night out with her new friend. She sipped and reflected on how her life had changed in the last month.

*****

Only a month ago, she had begun her new job as Associate Accountant at Premier Properties, a large firm housed on the 18^th floor of the spectacular Monarch Tower, a new office building in downtown Atlanta. She was a small-town girl and had been nervous about working in the big city. Navigating the heavy traffic was a daunting prospect, and she was a little concerned for her physical safety when walking busy city sidewalks. And a whole new work environment to learn! But, those early concerns aside, Anita’s first week at Premier had gone smoothly. It had definitely been very busy with the paperwork of a new hire, the orientation sessions, meeting all the new co-workers, learning the expectations of her job, new software, new workspace, new bosses, new procedures. But she was a fast learner.

She had hardly had time to breathe that first week, and she had not socialized at all; so she was shocked when she walked into her cubicle on that second Monday to see a modest-sized, but beautiful, bouquet of wild flowers on her desk with a card propped in front of it.

“My Mom is the most thoughtful person in the world,” she thought, her face alight with the affirmation the gift implied. Frances Miller had been the epitome of the loving mother, giving her daughter freedom to grow but also guidance to help her avoid the worst potholes of childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood. So naturally, Anita’s first inclination was to assume that the flowers were evidence of her mother’s continuing support.

Anita picked up the card.

                “New jobs can be stressful. I hope these flowers will brighten your days.”

It was signed simply “1852.”

Anita blinked in confusion. What could that mean? Why would Mom sign the card like that? She’d call Mom tonight and see what the signature meant.

******

“Really?! You didn’t send them? Are you kidding me, Mom?” Anita talked into the hands-free speaker on her way home from work.

“No. I wish I’d thought of it, Honey. Can’t you think of who else might have sent them? Wow, Anita, I guess you have a secret admirer! Maybe it’s someone at your job. What was that signature again? “

“1852”

They brainstormed possibilities as Anita wound her way through traffic out of the city.

“You must have some idea what that number means!” Frances commented. “How about phone extensions in your office? Cubicles? Addresses?  Why don’t you check that when you get home.

After a fast food dinner she picked up on the way and ate at the counter in her apartment when she got home, Anita looked through all her orientation materials and pulled out her copy of the company directory. Following her mother’s suggestions, she checked to see if the number 1852 came up in anyone’s address. It didn’t. “Hmmm All the phone extensions are three-digit numbers. Cubicles? Nope! Two-digit numbers there.” She texted her mom that those investigations had netted no clues.

There was no social life for Anita that week or even that weekend. New jobs are SO exhausting! She came straight home, ate dinner, and crashed every night  -- and then almost slept the weekend away.

Coming out of weekend hibernation, Anita walked into her cubicle Monday to find a new bouquet on her desk! Again?! This time there were three perfect yellow roses. Her favorite flower! And there was Baby’s Breath added - and a sprig of fern and a fluffy white bow. So pretty!

She picked up the card and read, “What a successful first week you had! Here’s to an even better one!” Again the note was signed “1852.”

Throughout that second week, Anita often glanced at the flowers as she worked. She smiled. And wondered. She had little time to think about it while at work, but each night her mom would call to suggest other possible meanings of the signature. On Thursday, Anita even stayed at work until nearly seven because her mother thought that the number might reference the military time of 18:52. As Anita left the eerily-quiet building that evening, after 6:52 came and went in silence, she swore to just forget the mystery. Whoever was sending the flowers would let her know when he/she wanted Anita to know. This staying late thing had been based on a silly theory. What if she got mugged in the darkening parking garage!

That Saturday, Anita and her college friend, Bridgett, met up for their monthly catchup. As they leaned together to talk in the noisy coffee shop, they reminisced about their carefree college days and discussed Bridgett’s on-again-off-again relationship with her high school boyfriend, Mason. That relationship had survived the separation of college years, although none of their friends could understand how. Two people could hardly be more different than those two. Mason had been a buttoned-down, serious student and their senior class president, while Bridgett’s life revolved around art, music, and fashion. She loved flamboyant clothing and vivid make-up. She was the only girl in their class whose hair was seldom the same color on any given week. Mason was now a lawyer in his father’s firm in Marietta, a suburb North of Atlanta, and Bridget was a free-lance designer still struggling to master the logistics of making her creativity profitable. Still, the couple’s frequent breakups always ended in reconciliation.

After Bridgett had finished updating Anita on the current state of hers and Mason’s relationship (hot and heavy right now!), she turned to Anita with her usual question.

“Any new men in your life?”

“Well, you know I started my new job three weeks ago, so I haven’t had time for a social life,” Anita hedged.

But Bridgett was spellbound as Anita began telling about her “secret admirer,” as Mom insisted on calling the flower-sender.

Bridgett, being Bridgett, immediately went into flower-child mode and began proposing several “out there” possibilities to explain the questionable signature on the gift cards.

“Hey! You know in the metaphysical realm, Angels are numbered. When a number comes up in your life, it could be an angel. A lot of people believe that some numbers are messages from the spiritual universe that offer insight. They can confirm that you're on the right path, or give invaluable insight on a complicated situation, or even explain events you experience throughout your life.”

While Anita looked at her, speechless, Bridgett was frantically thumbing her phone.

“It says here that Angel #1852 is an encourager. If you see this angel, the message is about personality development and creativity, suggesting that your personal growth is strengthening. Hmmm. That’s not much help, is it? The flowers ARE encouraging, and a new job certainly shows personal growth; but that doesn’t help figure out who sent those flowers.”

Bridgett’s thumbs began their work again. “Numerology! Why didn’t I think of that before? Let’s see 1852 reduced down to its base number?  1+8+5+2 is 16. Then 1+6=7. So 7 is the base number of 1852.”

Bridgett continued to tap at her phone. “Wow, Anita! Seven is like the best base number you can have! It’s in the Bible as the perfect number; and it’s a prime number, which means that it has power. It says here that ‘Number 7 is a true seeker of truth. It represents an inner need to dig deep to find golden truths…’ ” Her voice trailed off.

“I’ll run that one by Mom,” interrupted Anita. She always said that 7 is the number of perfection. That was her explanation for why she and Dad had 7 children. They stopped having children after they reached #7 – the perfect family.”

As Anita and Bridgett hugged goodbye and each put the date of their next get-together into their calendars, they agreed that the mystery of 1852 was still just as obscure as it had ever been.

Sunday, at church, Anita managed to forget her job and the mystery of the flower-sender while she listened to the music and Pastor Jennings’s inspiring message; but she got a funny feeling afterwards when she talked briefly with Edward. This young man, just slightly older than she, had begun attending Anita’s adopted home church in the city just a few months ago. They had been friendly and talked a little each week after the service but never saw each other outside church. Today Edward asked how her new job was going, but he certainly didn’t seem overly interested.  Hmmm…

When Anita arrived at work Monday morning, she was almost afraid to walk into her cubicle. She actually closed her eyes as she stepped through the opening, afraid she wouldn’t see the bouquet she had begun to expect on her desk.  

When she opened her eyes, there, beside her computer, was the most beautiful artisanal pottery bowl holding a live purple amaryllis! The colors of the flower and the pottery that held it were so aesthetically complementary, it took her breath away!

Anita’s phone dinged, drawing her eyes away from the flowers for a minute. She looked down to read a text from her Mom.

“Good Morning, Baby. I hope you have a great day. About the mystery. I was just thinking could the number be broken up into two numbers? Could it be 18 and 52 for example? Just a thought. I love you.”

Anita put her phone away and picked up the card propped in front of the pretty pottery bowl.

“Happy Monday, Anita! How about dropping by my cubicle (#52) during your break, so we can finally meet.”

Looking closely at the signature, 1852, Anita noticed for the first time that there was the tiniest of dots between the 8 and the 5.

*****

And, as they say, the rest is history.

Tonight Anita is sitting in her reading corner sipping iced tea and remembering how she met Nathan, her new friend who works on the 18^th floor, cubicle 52 of the Monarch Tower.

The doorbell rings.

She opens the door to her date, and the story of Anita and Nathan begins.  

 

?Que has dicho? - A 500-word short story

 The fourth short story of 2023 in my Deadlines for Writers group has to be 500 words using the prompt "teach." Here's my submission. 

?Que Has Dicho?

“Miguel, Miguel!’

I was painting the trim on my garage and looked up to see my neighbor motioning emphatically to the Hispanic man planting the new shrubs around his house. The worker looked up at George questioningly. I saw that it was Miguel, the husband of my teaching partner, Rosita.

“Aqui” said George, much too loud and pointing importantly a few inches to the left of where the gardener was working. “The. azalea. goes. here.” George continued slowly, enunciating carefully, and gesturing widely. “No aqui,” he continued then pointed emphatically, “Aqui!”

I knew Miguel well. His wife and I taught together at the local junior high school and teamed up to plan the fall festival each year.  Rosita and Miquel’s sons played soccer with my sons in the community league; in fact, Miguel had privately and generously stepped in last month and paid the participation fees for the Parker boys, whose father had left the family last year. Their mother was diligently working two jobs to try to make up for the loss of her husband’s salary, but she was having a hard time coming up with the money she needed for her children’s activities and equipment.

Miquel was a devoted father and conscientious citizen as well as the owner of a successful landscaping business that employed more than 20 workers. The Hernadez Nursery was the best place in town to find knowledgeable help with plants and to get dependable landscapers.

I watched in dismay as George continued to proudly pepper his and Miguel’s conversational exchanges with elementary Spanish words that any remedial third grader could comfortably use. I wondered how I could intervene to tell George that Miquel’s English was far superior to George’s Spanish.

As I continued painting around the windows on my garage, I caught George’s voice occasionally. “Bueno. Muy bien.” “Si, Amigo!”  “Aqui.” And even once the expansive and multisyllabic “bueno trabajo!” I glanced over at him when I heard that and found him looking at me to see if I’d noticed his Spanish vocabulary.

By the time that Miguel was nearly finished with the job --under George’s constant scrutiny, I had become absolutely fascinated with what was going on next door and was feeling a little insulted on Miguel’s behalf at George’s condescending manner. But no opportunity had come up for me to speak with George privately.  “I’d pay good pesos,” I thought, to hear Miguel just stand up and tell George to dial down the condescension.

As I began to put away my paint and brushes, I caught movement next door. Miguel was standing and extending his hand to George. I heard his dignified voice say in slightly accented English, “Thank you, Mr. Wilson, for your business. Hernandez Nursery stands behind our work, and we are always available to you for any ongoing landscaping needs. Please call if we can be of further service in the future. The office will put your invoice in the mail tomorrow.”

“Si!” I silently fisted the air.  

The Lady in the Mirror

 The third writing assignment of the year in the Deadlines for Writers short story group is due today. The prompt is "Lady" and the word count is 2500! My first draft was 800 words short of that goal; I thought there was no way to write that much fiction. But here it is - exactly 2500 words. (I've been assured that this is the longest assignment of the year, whew!) 

The Lady in the Mirror

“It’s gonna be a good day,” I told the lady in the bathroom mirror.

She seemed to believe me. Why not, after all? I was up early. I should have plenty of time to get ready for work. I had already made the bed, had a hot shower and washed my hair. Alright, so the hot water in the shower (who am I kidding here? The WARM water in the shower) lasted just BARELY long enough to wash my hair. The rest of me got the cold water treatment. Oh well! Cold showers speed up the metabolism, right? So, maybe the cold water was a karmic gift! One more blessing! 

Still it’s gonna be a good day!

Hurrying to get dressed, my clothes laid out last night, I found that the pants I had planned to wear were too snug on my hips (dadgumit!), so I had to rummage for a looser pair and a blouse to match. The new color outfit dictated that I also change purses. That little complication cost me five precious minutes as I hastily transferred essentials from one purse to the other. The unexpected clothes-selection process added several minutes to my allotted get-ready time.

I glanced at the dressmaker’s mirror standing in the corner to check my outfit. The lady there assured me that I could make up those lost minutes by taking my coffee on the go this smorning. Maybe I could even make up some time on the road -- if I could get out the door before the worst traffic hour started.

I haven’t lost it yet, I told myself.  It’s still gonna be a great day!

Back in the bathroom to finish my toilette, I smiled widely at the lady in the mirror. Psychologists assert that the muscle memory of a wide smile will transfer from the cheeks into the brain and tell the brain to turn on the happy chemicals. Come on, brain synapses, do your job! I need that joy juice!

“It’s gonna to be a good day,” I whispered to the mirror lady although my cheeks were aching from the prolonged smiling.

Make-up all finished, I reached for the hair dryer to begin drying my short hair and styling it to best advantage. Since it had begun thinning last year due to low thyroid levels, it takes more time and effort to get sufficient volume for a youthful and flattering look. Working with the heated air and a round brush, my less than voluminous mane was styled in record time!  And just like I wanted it! Yes!

It’s gonna be a good-hair day for this girl today!

I was out the door only a few minutes behind schedule; the sun was shining, and the birds were chirping. It looked like the perfect Spring day. Sure, I’d burned my tongue on that first sip of coffee, and those minutes I had lost finding a better-fitting outfit will put me on the freeway at the start of the worst traffic hour, and that means a slower commute; but maybe all the crazies who usually share the road with me will take another route to work today. Not likely, but it could happen!

I can still do this! It’s gonna be a good day. Let’s roll!

“No. no. no!” I groaned through gritted teeth as a sudden line of brake lights ahead foretold the future.  I had been breezing along at the speed limit and feeling optimistic, but now traffic had slowed to a crawl. 

Wig-wag lights in all colors flashed as I approached the accident scene. Cop cars flashed blue on one side of the lines of cars; wrecker trucks flashed yellow on the other side; firetrucks and ambulances flashed red both ahead and behind. Damaged vehicles were scattered willy-nilly across the lanes, and dazed passengers stood on the shoulder talking to each other or the officers attempting to manage the scene. One older couple sat on the grassy bank a few feet off the shoulder of the roadway looking forlorn and worried. 

A few of the more aggressive crazies in the cars ahead of me, who unfortunately did NOT choose a different route today, switched lanes repeatedly, slowing the traffic with each whim. Others slowed to a near stop so they could gape at the damaged vehicles and the first responders working the scene. As I inched past the chaos, I sent up a quick prayer for the people involved in the accident, knowing that this day was really off to a bad start for them. I was still hopeful, though, that the traffic would thin now and I could still salvage MY day and get to work just slightly late.

It’s ok, I reassured the anxious lady in the rearview mirror when I caught her eye, it’s ok. The traffic ahead is beginning to pick up speed. It’s still gonna be a good day!

The mirror-lady puffed out her cheeks and blew frustration out as she looked back at me. Something about her tight expression spoke to me, “Are we sure about this stuff we keep spouting?  Are we sure it is not just delusion? If these positive affirmations of ours work so well, then why is so much negative stuff happening this morning? When’s this good day we foretold going to start?”

I looked away from her gaze, left her questions unanswered, and concentrated on the road ahead. Good day! Good day! I kept reminding myself.

I arrived at my office building six minutes late and swung into the closest parking place I could find. Sadly, that space was in the far back corner of the lot, a good 3-minute walk to the employee entrance. Grabbing my workbag and purse, I quickly locked the car and began the trek, affirming myself with each step. You are here safely; all is well; it’s gonna be a good day!

Once inside the building, I tried to slip past Scott Hudgins’s cubicle without notice. Things had been awkward between us since our one ill-fated date. He had not been happy at the end of the long evening when he leaned in for a goodnight kiss at my doorway and I offered my cheek. And now I had run out of ways to turn down a second date with him. He’s a good guy, but I’d just don’t see anything in our future beyond friendship and collegiality.

But avoiding Scott was not in the cards for me this morning. “Oh, hi, Scott.” I made my voice breathless as I rushed past his outstretched hand in the hallway. “I can’t stop to chat this morning. I’m running late again, and I need to get checked in and speak to Nancy.” I didn’t look back to see the effect of my brush-off.

By noon, the migraine, which had begun in traffic and built up as I clocked in and explained my late arrival to the boss, was flaunting her most flamboyant persona – not only cranking out grinding pain but also producing zigzag lights mimicking those at the morning’s accident scene. She displayed lines and dots in all colors. These visual distractions paraded across the world my eyes tried to focus on; and dark spots in my vision made it tricky to even SEE the computer screen much less interpret the data on it. I knew that my pounding head wouldn’t let me work through lunch to make up the minutes I’d lost at the beginning of the work day. These visual disturbances, I knew from experience, would not go away until I rested in quiet darkness for at least 20 minutes.

A lump of anxiety grew in my throat as I left my desk and went into the plush and more softly-lit employee lounge. I sank thankfully into one of the of the upholstered chairs there and closed my eyes. My earlier search for cash to buy some lunch had revealed that when I changed purses this morning I had neglected to transfer my money clip and had no money for lunch; so I carried with me a granola bar of indeterminate age that I had unearthed from the back of my bottom desk drawer.

Still determined to be positive, I reminded myself that the granola bar was a good thing. If I hadn’t thought ahead and built up an emergency snack stash, I wouldn’t have had anything for lunch.

See. It’s all okay. You have lunch, I told myself. It is high protein and fiber with an acceptable number of calories. Remember those tight pants this morning? See, a light lunch is a good thing!

I reminded my determined-to-be-positive self, it’s gonna be a good day.

Eyes closed, I was dimly aware of someone entering the lounge and inserting money into the vending machine.

“Wow! Look at that!” a male voice exclaimed. “I got two apples instead of one!” he continued.

I opened my eyes in response to the enthusiastic and unfamiliar voice. I looked up to see two startling green eyes focused on my face. Those eyes were at home on an angular face sporting a fashionably scruffy chin and strong jawline. My eyes took in the good-looking stranger with the close-cropped light brown hair. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“A-are you okay?” the stranger asked, a little uncertainly. No doubt my pain-distorted visage had alerted him to my unwell state. Instead of hurriedly finessing a quick exit to avoid engaging, he looked at me with concern and inquired again, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I began, “I had a migraine, but it’s easing up now.” I covered my face, blocking out the light, the man, and the embarrassment. First new man I’d met in months, and I was certainly not making a favorable impression! And how nice that he seems concerned for the welfare of a stranger! Who was this man anyway? I just hoped he’d leave without getting a good look at me. If he didn’t recognize me later, I might get another chance to make a good first impression.

Didn’t happen. “Here,” he said, “I’ll bet an apple would help that headache. The machine gave me two!”

I looked up to see a shiny red apple in his extended hand and kindness and concern in those amazing green eyes.

“Here,” the man said again, his voice much lower now, as he leaned down and gazed at me with interest. “I’ve had such a great morning – and now an extra apple!”

The apple lay in the palm of the broad masculine hand he extended toward me. I couldn’t help noticing that there was no ring on his nicely-manicured ring finger as I reached out to accept the apple and his concern. “Thank you!”

“May I sit?” He asked gesturing to the chair beside mine. “Can I get you an aspirin or something for the headache? I’m Mason Hardy, by the way. Today’s my first day in accounting. I’m Mr. Madison’s new executive assistant.”

I finally found my voice. “Nice to meet you, Mason from accounting. No thanks on the aspirin; the headache is already abating. I’m Sarah Eliott from payroll.”

He was handsome. Incredibly so. I couldn’t even bear to think about how I must look to him. I knew my hair was mussed from the temple massages I’d given myself in an effort to reduce the pain. I knew my morning make-up was long gone. Tears threatened behind my eyes again, choking my throat. I thought about turning away. I wanted to explain, to tell him that I wasn’t normally this big a mess, but I clenched my teeth and held my tongue.

I focused on the light blue fabric of his suit coat and reminded myself that he was a kind stranger who had offered to help. I had said thank you for the apple, and that’s enough. I didn’t need to thank him again, or apologize, or explain myself.

All of these thoughts cascaded through my blood in a matter of seconds Then I remembered the promise I’d made myself to stop avoiding social interactions for fear of rejection. Besides, this man seemed to be actually flirting mildly with me. Maybe I didn’t look as frazzled as I thought.

So I smiled at him - that easy warm kind of smile that I’d been practicing in the mirror this morning. I had etched it into my psyche. I made all the lines of my face tilt upwards, as his had when he smiled at me. I watched his green eyes turn more golden as the sunlight coming in the window behind me struck his face. I took a bite of the apple and consciously relaxed the tension in my neck muscles. 

I finally found my voice. “So, Mason, tell me about this great morning you’ve had.”

As Mason talked about the easy working rapport he’s already established with his new boss, I found myself relaxing into the friendly conversation as if we had not just met. He told me a little about his previous job; and we discovered that we had both played golf in college, although neither of us has played much since graduation. He was easy to be with. There seemed to be a kinship there as we jumped from subject to subject, discovering several shared interests. As we sat, eating our apples and maintaining frequent eye contact in conversation, he smiled often, and those green eyes sparkled.

He asked about the company gym, and I told him I usually worked out immediately after work on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I didn’t mention that I’d only started this routine about six weeks ago.

“Will you think I’m a stalker if I join you there tomorrow?” he asked with a smile.

“That’d be great,” I said. “Don’t worry. If it turns into stalking, I know your boss, and I can send him a memo!” I joked.

He stood. “Well, speaking of my boss, I’d better get back to work. I’m glad I met you, Sarah from Payroll. I hope your migraine goes away soon. See you tomorrow!”

I stood too and held out my hand, “Thanks for the apple and the conversation, Mason from Accounting. See you in the gym tomorrow.”

As he disappeared, I suddenly realized that my migraine seemed to be gone. Maybe all I had needed was a little food and some pleasant conversation. I tucked the uneaten granola bar into my pocket as I walked into the washroom and took care of business, preparing to go back to my desk. As I washed my hands and repaired my hair and make up, the lady in the mirror kept smiling at me.

“What are you grinning about?” I asked, with a smile of my own.

And we stood there – the lady and me – both just smiling these big ol’ smiles.

Feeling a little sheepish, I reached out and bumped fists with her.

“We said it first thing this morning, right?!’ she winked.

“Today is a good day,” we chorused.

My Maternal Grandmother

My maternal grandmother kept a jar of dimes in the kitchen, and would often give us each a dime, which was a fortune to us! She was an incredibly attentive listener. Even though there were several of us, looking back I think she must have intentionally managed to spend one-on-one time with each on of us. She would ask Terry to sing hymns for her, and she would listen raptly. 

I don't remember what she particularly did with any of the others, but I remember her asking me questions - real questions - listening and responding to my childish answers seriously - as she taught me to crochet.  She would ask what I was learning in school (not just how I liked it or who my friends were but what I was LEARNING.)  I realize now how unique that was. She was a hugger and a toucher, which made me feel very warm and secure at her house. 

I remember playing hopscotch on the sidewalk in front of her house or in her dirt yard. I remember watching her move around her kitchen singing hymns as she worked. Biscuits. Hair in a bun at the back of the head. Thick glasses. Housedresses. Snuff! Soft speech.

The Agonies of Love - 4th Grade Style

Wilma observed her 9-year-old son interacting with his good friend, Lizzy, at the Middle School basketball game. While their sisters played ball, Lizzy and Eli shared popcorn, laughed together, and shot goals during halftime. They always seemed to have so much fun during ballgames and at their sisters' practices. After the game, Wilma teased Eli, "You should dump Zahra and ask Lizzie out." Eli and Zahra had been "going together" for several months. Eli solemnly answered his mother, "Mom, I'm just not good at dumping girls. (sigh) I just have to wait til they dump ME."

In this true story, the names have been changed to protect this writer from the wrath of grandchildren.

More Quilt Pictures

Fellow quilt enthusiasts might enjoy seeing a few more of the hand-stitched rectangles from the quilt I wrote about in this post.

True Story of an Heirloom Quilt

Born in the 1850s and married in the 1870s, a young Canadian woman had the world at her fingertips. Her two beautiful children, a girl and a boy, were growing and thriving. As a good Christian mother, she instructed her children in the skills necessary for daily living, such as sewing, cooking, home maintenance, and care of the farm animals.

She took equal care to help her son and daughter develop the strength of character that would make them successful, happy, and productive adults. They were taught to be responsible, honest, diligent, reliable, considerate, and self-controlled.

This young mother also took seriously her responsibility to be a moral and religious instructor for her children. Each day she and her young son and daughter studied Bible stories and discussed the life lessons to be learned from them. As a part of this study, they began to construct a quilt illustrating their lessons. Young minds and hands carefully designed quilt blocks with figures representing the Bible characters they studied. David and Goliath came alive in colorful thread depictions. Through the laborious stitching of these young believers, Joseph was sold into slavery and baby Moses was hidden from those who would harm him. Young fingers painstakingly stitched 24 Old Testament stories onto 24 muslin rectangles.


Finally, mother and children stitched the stories together with soft blue strips of connecting fabric into a lovely mosaic. They backed and quilted the resulting unique artwork, and their beautiful Bible story mosaic was complete.

These diligent and obedient children expected to sleep warmly at night for years snuggled in the fruit of their labors. The mother envisioned grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and possibly great- great-grandchildren, living in that impossible-to-imagine 21st century, who would treasure this tangible reminder of the lessons learned at Mother’s knee. These children of the future would learn of God’s wonderful grace and mercy to his children through the illustrations carefully stitched by children of the 1800s. These children of the future would be reminded of the great stories of the Bible as they slept under the quilt made by children who would grow up to be their ancestors.

Alas, it was not to turn out as they expected.

One late winter afternoon in the 1880s, the children were sent to the field to bring in the livestock and see to their care. A cold wind blew the accumulated snow around them as they trudged about in the fields completing their chores. The snow thickened, and darkness fell early as light struggled to penetrate the clouds and the heavy snowfall. In the gathering darkness, the little girl and her brother became lost. They grew tired and discouraged when they could not find their way to the warmth of their home.

The young parents spent an agonizing night searching, praying, and calling the names of their children over and over into the cold and dark emptiness of the fields surrounding the home. In the early light of dawn, a father, exhausted and nearly frozen from searching all night, stumbled across the frozen body of his young son. In the boy’s protective embrace was the body of his sister.

Months and years passed. No more children were born into this family.

Months and years passed. The 20th century began.

Months and years passed. The father died and was mourned by his middle-aged widow.

Months and years passed. The mother, now in her 90s, aware of the ever-diminishing hourglass of her lifetime, took the quilt out and lovingly, with gnarled and aged fingers, traced the designs her children had stitched so long ago. She thought of the grandchildren and great-grandchildren, never born, who never had opportunity to sleep swaddled in the Bible. As was her wont throughout her life, she prayed for guidance.

When she called her young pastor to her home, she told him, “You have been God’s messenger for me in my loneliness since you came to our church. I want you to have this quilt.” She told him the story I have just told you.

When this young pastor later married and fathered three sons, this quilt warmed them as they slept. As they fell asleep each night his boys saw the illustrated Bible stories and learned more about God’s unconditional love and grace.

Today I had the privilege of seeing and photographing that beautiful Bible Story Quilt. 130 years after it was created, my sister became its proud guardian. The pastor, to whom the quilt was bequeathed back in the 1940’s, has also gone to his reward in Heaven, and the quilt has now been entrusted to his daughter-in-law, my sister.

The passage of years and the passing of the immediate participants in this story have left us with scanty details. Getting the information about the quilt second hand, as it were, we are hampered with a scarcity of specifics.

The facts that we KNOW are these: the quilt was made in the mid 1870s. The children who stitched it died in a snowstorm before they became adults. The mother was from Canada, later from Michigan. The lady treasured this token of her children into her last years. The quilt was given to the pastor in the 1940s.

Since the pastor died before we knew of the quilt and since his children heard the story when they were too young to recall details, we do NOT KNOW these things: the name of the mother and children, the exact dates of any of the events, and the details of the children’s and their father’s deaths.

I photographed the entire quilt and each individual panel. Note the attention to detail and the childish stitching and spelling on these examples.