Freelance writer, blogger, aspiring novelist. Former career as a college prof in finance. Encore career as freelance writer for a number of financial websites.
Hello everyone! So nice to see you. Please join me for my #weekendcoffeeshare 162. Grab a cup of coffee or tea and let’s sit down and visit.
The highlight of the week for me was the Kentucky Derby. For those of you unfamiliar with the Kentucky Derby, it is known as the most exciting two minutes in sports. The Derby is a race for 3 year old colts held at Churchill Downs race track in Louisville, Kentucky. It draws not only Kentuckians but people from around the world. This year, horses were entered not just from Kentucky and the United States, but Japan and the United Arab Emirates.
Many of my friends, family and I, and all Kentuckians, are into horse racing. I didn’t go to the Derby, but I studied it in advance, and its horses, and thought I had a pretty good idea who would win. WRONG! Mystick Dan, a 18-1 long shot won the race, which is the first leg of the Triple Crown. He is a bay three-year old colt with a fine pedigree. Derby winners and other great horses are in his ancestry including Affirmed, Northern Dancer, Seattle Slew, and Mr. Prospector. It was an exciting three-horse photo finish.
Mystick Dan is the horse nearest to the rail in the above photo.
It was an old locksmith shop located in an ancient building in a small town. The windows were broken. The inside was filthy and filled with rats. Henri was determined to revitalize it. He was a locksmith by trade and felt like he could make a good living here.
Henri had seen all the special, butnecessary, services drain away from the town. Occupations like clockmakers,shoe repair, and locksmiths were gone as young people wanted to work in themore exciting field of technology. He dreamed of a large town square wherethere was an abundance of such services. Henri had hope since, just down the street, another space would house a clockmaker.
As the crews went to work on the locksmith shop, they found so much that had to be completely redone. Henri also found treasures. Equipment from over 75 years ago. He found antiques that, although he couldn’t use them, he could display them.
Henri’s friend, the clockmaker, also found treasures in his shop. As they talked, the thought of a small museum featuring the old treasures popped up.
One day, a young woman, happened along and spent some time talking with Henri. She was a painter and a former museum curator who was looking for a store front. She had the idea to share her space with the old treasures.
As time went on, Henri’s vision of a town square started to take shape. He and Anais, the painter, grew close and worked together on their projects, both for their work and their lives. Finding that old store front turned out to be the best thing that had ever happened to Henri, Anais, the small town and even the clockmaker.
They found that dreams can come true with a lot of vision and a little luck.
She sat under the protective canopy of the tree reading on a summer afternoon. No one could see her sitting there, but she could see the going’s on outside.
As a small girl, she’d had a tree house. It was a rudimentary one that her dad built for her. That tree house just had a floor and stairs to the ground.
She dreamed of a bigger tree house now, as an adult. The small deer stand was a start. She wanted four walls, a roof, and even heat for winter.
So much on my mind today that I would have to write a book to share it. Instead, I’m going to share a piece of it and that is my flower garden. Things are blooming and are beautiful! Not everything yet. Some perennials bloom later than others.
From left, top to bottom: Clematis, iris, peonies, rhododendron bush, iris
From left: Japanese painted fern, (not sure of variety of fern), hostas
More will bloom as May goes on!
The rhododendron is native to the area in which I live – the Daniel Boone National Forest in the U.S. The rest are perennials that I have added to my garden. The flower garden has a problem right now. It needs to be heavily fertilized with an organic fertilizer. It is raining so much here, almost daily, that I can’t use my fertilizer right now.
Later today, I am driving to an excellent vegetable market to pick up produce. I try to eat as healthy and natural as I can. That’s tough here in the winter, but spring has come and the vegetables are flooding into the local vegetable markets. Unfortunately, the closest market (25 miles) has not received their order yet. The next closest market is 50 miles away and we are making a trip there today. I try to buy fresh produce at least once a week. It’s a considerable drive regardless of what I’m shopping for.
If we make it to a local market today, I will take pictures of their wonderful offerings to share with all of you.
Lily always took her morning walks along the banks of the canal. She loved to watch the graceful and elegant swans as they glided across the water glistening in the morning light.
Lily was nostalgic about her own life. She loved the old, dilapidated boat docked there and she could see its potential. The boatman who owned it seemed content to leave it as it was.
One morning, Lily was standing near the old boat on the canal dreaming of taking it to far away places. A big, white dog bounded up to her full of joy and love. She wondered where he belonged and when she looked up, she saw a man approaching, calling the dog. He was an older man and handsome in a distinguished sort of way.
She and John fell into a conversation about their mutual love for the canal. Over the next few hours, John regaled her with stories of the history of the canal and they set out to explore it together. Over the next few weeks, John filled her heart.
One morning, John told Lily that he had bought the old boat from the boatman. He then declared his love for her, and she fell into his arms.
A few months later, they started off on a magical journey in the old boat. As they left, the swans danced in joy.
One year later, Lily thought back to that day. She was glad they hadn’t known what would happen during the coming year.
Thank you to CE Ayr and Jenne Gray for hosting #TheUnicornChallenge!
Country women are the hardest working women around. Particularly country women who live in Appalachia. All work hard at home. Home is often a farm, more so in the past than now. Many also have jobs outside the home, more now than in the past.
Sarah was a woman of the past, living her entire life in Appalachia. She was born in the 1930’s, so her life spanned the century mark in 2000. Most of her life was like women had lived in Appalachia in the past centuries, but parts of her life were very much in the present and future. She was most comfortable with the traditions of the past but valiantly tried to embrace the present and look toward the future.
She was the kindest, most caring person I’ve ever known. She met the love of her life, Randall, as a small child. They were playmates in the hills of Eastern Kentucky. Teenage sweethearts, they even went off to college together after they married. Randall became a teacher in the local school system. Sarah went to work for the county’s Board of Education.
They had a rich life, full of friends and family and a special daughter who came to them. After they cared for her, she spent many years caring for them. She’s still caring for Randall. Sarah considered her to be her own. Until the last twenty years, Sarah and Randall also cared for Sarah’s mother. Such is the way of the rather clannish people of Appalachia. Family still means something to them. They take care of their own.
Sarah and Randall lived in Sarah’s grandparents home place. It was most of the way up a “holler,” which is the Appalachian slang for a long, narrow valley between close mountains. Most of that holler was part of Sarah’s grandfather’s large farm until the grandparents passed away. Sarah’s mother retained land and the house. Sarah inherited it. They made their home there. It was a beautiful place.
Before the opioid epidemic that affected Eastern Kentucky among many other areas, the entire region was green and lush with farms here and there. Then, one of the area’s major industries, coal mining, began to die and the unemployment rate started to rise. Many left the area, but just as many did not. They didn’t want to leave their families. Drugs found a foothold due to joblessness and poverty. Suddenly, it wasn’t quite as beautiful as it had been in Sarah’s childhood, but she and Randall remained in the family home place after Sarah’s mother passed away.
Sarah’s grandfather and grandmother had a large family. There were many aunts, uncles, and cousins. Especially in the last years, Sarah graciously welcomed any family member who knocked on her door and planned family get-together’s and reunions. In the present day, the family is dwindling away until mostly cousins remain, but the cousins were always welcome.
Then, tragedy struck. Sarah was struck down by a heart attack probably caused by underlying health conditions. Other health issues cropped up and Sarah was transferred to the nearest city where her health issues could be addressed. Sarah was 84 and Randall was 88. Sarah survived for a number of days, but finally, the doctors could do nothing else and hospice was recommended. Sarah only briefly survived in hospice with her daughter and husband right beside her. Tragically, to Sarah’s family and friends, she passed away after a long life with her soulmate.
Sarah was a beauty queen. Beautiful inside and out, she positively affected everyone’s life that she touched. She will be so missed by her family and friends.
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Note: Why am I writing about Sarah? She was my beloved first cousin and we always stayed close. Without Sarah, I will be lonely for the rest of my life for her unique personality, the culture she represented, and my own family which is lost to me. She represented a dying culture that was beautiful to its core. People who cared about their family and friends and were willing to sacrifice to care for them. May she rest in peace.
See this house? It was unexpected that I had the occasion to think about it today. This house was built in 1901, remodeled of course since then. It was built by my grandfather for my grandmother and what he hoped would be a growing family. HIs family did indeed grow.
The daughter of the oldest child is my first cousin. Even after my grandparents passed away and my cousin moved into our family’s home place, it was the place we always gathered. I almost cry when I say those days are over now.
The cousin who lived here was placed in hospice care today. She was elderly, but her illness came on quickly only a few days ago. She isn’t expected to live very long at all. Her life can probably be measured in days. Her husband can’t live here in his home alone since he has dementia.
My cousin and I were very different but quite close in our own way. I will miss her, just knowing she’s there along with the family gatherings in that old house.
The old home place will be sold after they are gone and the last of my grandfather’s beautiful farm will just be a memory. It was a very emotional day for me today, which is why I’m writing instead of sleeping in the middle of the night. First, I have to deal with my cousin’s demise and, at the same time, the fact that our family home will soon be forever gone. A double whammy of grief.
For people my age, these years are called the Golden Years. Tonight, in the throes of my grief-induced insomnia, I say not so much to that.
If there is one thing I’m good at, it is examining my own feelings. I usually do that when I spend time daydreaming. I’m pretty busy with practical stuff most of the time, but I do give myself time to sit and think – and, I guess, feel.
When I was a young girl and even into mid-life, I was good at sharing my feelings with my girlfriends and partner. As I have passed mid-life and am into my last quarter, I have become quieter about my own feelings and I listen more to others. You can learn a lot by listening. I don’t share a lot with anyone now except my partner. There are a couple of very long-term friends and we share our lives with each other, but not always our feelings.
My feelings about many subjects are complex and multilayered perhaps because as you age, you also gain wisdom. I’m surely not making myself an example of a wise sage or something similar, but I am more able to see different viewpoints and the complexities of situations more easily now than in the past. However, these days, I’m more likely to withdraw than discuss feelings, particularly my own.
My feelings about almost everything feel more private to me than ever before. I don’t know why that happens as you age, but it has to me. Maybe it’s because I know that everyone has their own set of problems and mine are no more or no less important than theirs. Maybe it’s because I realize that most people are just not that interested in knowing me, or any other person, that well. Maybe it’s a trust issue because by the time you approach older adulthood, you know who you can trust and who you can’t. Quite possibly, it’s all of the above.
The people who see me a lot know that I’m different now. I’m not as forthcoming or as open. I hope they realize that it is not due to a problem with them. Instead, it’s how to I seem to be approaching this last quarter of my life.
She was 20 years old the first time she heard him sing.
It was a normal weekend day. She was in her senior year in college and was studying for exams, sitting on the sofa in the living room. He walked into the living room with a Budweiser beer in his hand and carefully sat it down on the coffee table. He was in his work clothes, dirty from working overtime as the town electrician with a five o’clock shadow on his face and tired eyes.
She was hard at work at her books and had just looked up to say hello. There was no music playing, no television interrupting the quiet. She looked back down and continued to read.
Her head shot up when he started to sing. She listened for a moment. He wasn’t singing just anything. Without preparation, he was singing…..opera? How could that be?
Through her shock, she tried to place the opera and it was easy. He was singing a part of Don Giovanni in a beautiful baritone voice.
She had never heard him sing anything as simple as a lullaby. She couldn’t believe her ears.
Somehow, she knew not to go to him. She just listened. He sang the most beautiful music for what seemed forever but must have been just a few minutes.
”I don’t know what got into me,” he chuckled, as he started to walk off.
“Daddy, that was beautiful. Sing for me again,” she said as tears rolled down his face.
The Write Scribe 