Posting this so it shows up in feeds.
LJ is slated to go down tomorrow, so I'm deleting this journal. You can find me at https://favoritebean-writes.dreamwidth.org/.
I'll miss the friends and community here, but I do not approve of war.
1.
Robert Wilkinson believed that his meeting with Penelope Taylor was a blessing from the Lord God himself. She was the first morning drop of golden sunlight to him. More, she loved him in return. Robert wished to marry Penelope, and would, but his family continually refused to offer their blessing.
Penelope was from the wrong class and family, and Robert’s parents forbade further contact. It’s true that Penelope was not from a wealthy family or of the same noble lineage, but Penelope was a scholar, a teacher, and a very kind human. Robert, a poet, had already penned lovely works in her honor, and even wrote songs that Penelope’s students would learn in the classroom. <lj-cut>
When WWII ended, Penelope’s father, George, gave his blessing to Robert and Penelope, stating that destiny was theirs to seize. George would even walk his beautiful daughter down the aisle, if she wished for a church wedding. Penelope was ever so grateful, and ever so willing to work to win the hearts of Robert’s parents.
Often during the summer of 1946, they would travel from London to the small village where Robert came from, just north of Manchester. They would devote their holiday to rebuilding the school in Robert’s hometown, work with the countless children who were orphaned, and then spend their Sundays in church with Robert’s parents, aunts, and uncles.
( Read more...Collapse )After the last of the group had been seated, Clarence puffed up his chest and sat up straight.
“Welcome,” he chirped.
Seven faces turned to him, very alert.
“We have gathered once again,” he began, “to reiterate why it is vital to-“
“Touch me again, and I’ll bite your tail!” hissed Gretchen, an elderly gray molly. She whacked a young orange tabby tom on the head before moving up to the brick wall at the edge of the yard.
“We have gathered,” he began again, this time to be interrupted by a bird, which had landed on the tree branch above him. Seven feline faces turned their attention to the bird in the tree. Seeing no point in continuing, he settled into a crouch, and closed his eyes.
Behind him came a tapping at the window.
“Look! Tripodicus is here!” crooned Marshmallow, a calico. She stood, her tail raised to gesture a warm welcome, and crossed the yard to the house. The window opened, and a soft voice could be heard.
“There you go. Look, your friends and rivals are here. Please, no fights. We just replaced the window screen last week.”
A large, fluffy black and white gib settled in the window frame. He surveyed the clowder of cats in the yard before turning his attention to the tree.
“So nice of you to join us, Tripodicus,” Clarence sniffed. “Humans treating you well?”
The gib closed his eyes, and feigned sleep.
( Read more...Collapse )Hi,
I'm not sure about time commitments, but here's a tentative, "I'm in!" for the latest season of LJ Idol. In the event that LJ locks me out again, I have a Dreamwidth account under the name "Favoritebean_writes," which may update more often.
So um, hi, everyone!
Dear Phoebe, I'll miss our games of hide and seek. I'll miss how you always came to console when one of us was hurt, or struggling to breathe from an asthma attack. I'll miss how you always came to break up an argument by interjecting those concerned meows. I'll miss how you always greeted my students, and how you always schooled the other cats. I'll miss your devotion to all things dairy as you got older. I'll miss your soft nose, and your expressive self. I'll miss how you would primp in front of any mirror you passed, and how you knew when the earth was about to move. You were our little seismic detector. You had specific tastes in music. You loved classical, but hated opera. You were the first to welcome yamyam-kat when she was born, and you were so proud of that baby. You were proud of every bug you managed to annihilate.
You were sweet until the very end, and we all miss you dearly. I hope you're at peace in the stars.
Latch hook, cross stitch, macramé
Crochet
Knit
Cutting out snowflakes to reimagine winter
It’s ninety degrees and oh, so dry
Such a boring summer’s day in the middle of July
These crafts we try out
Every midafternoon at camp
Some crafts are okay, but
My friends and I would rather play board games
When we break for free time,
We always take a peek
Why were we not part of the group that made
Friendship bracelets and
Boondoggle keychains?
Emily from Cabin 3 has some string,
Alison and I watch as
She tries to show us how to create
Boondoggles seem too complicated,
Instead,
I begin to weave a friendship bracelet
I pull laces of
Purple,
Green,
Red,
Leftovers from our camp project
Its memory long forgotten
Decades later,
I sigh with disdain as
My child refuses to disconnect from
Online games
I wonder if summer camps will remain
Distant memories
Our camp of choice has ascended henceforth
To the virtual plane,
We wonder if this is forever
The new way
I wax poetic about the crafts
Our cabin never had the chance to learn
Like knitting,
Which I skipped in favor of afternoon hikes
Papier-mâché
Not cool after second grade
Or weaving boondoggles
Always too much work in my eye
It is ninety degrees in April,
And I still yearn for those board games
*** ** ***
Author Notes: This week's topic is boondoggle, which has several meanings. I chose to go with the craft term, which is a camp craft that's been around for years. Do you have favorite crafts from your childhood? Least favorite? Did you also skip craft hour for hikes? Since home schooling is now part of my subset, please feel free to discuss. Seriously, I need ideas to entertain my child, especially when I'm teaching. Why? Because distance learning is well... I'm sure you've seen this inspirational (keep the volume low) video.
Thanks for reading!
“Surely,” Calliope thought, “No, definitely. I know he will return soon. I can feel it.”
A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the pomegranate tree nearby. Flowers bloomed, and the pollen reminded Calliope of Rusty, her one and only. He’d been gone for months, it seemed. Just like the year before. When the branches of the trees swayed last spring, pomegranate flowers shed their pollen then too, and Rusty appeared at the door. Just like that. ( Read more...Collapse )
I try to reassure her, but sometimes I sound rather flippant about it. ( Read more...Collapse )
Only moments before, there had been a commotion. Her husband, Martin, sent Margaret to gather the younger children to hide. News had come that gangs were patrolling the roads in Hazelwood, and they were likely expected here. Margaret heard horses approach the farmstead at the hen house. Quietly, she ushered the younger girls, her sisters in law back toward the root cellar. Edney would join them shortly. ( Read more...Collapse )
Author's NOTES: Many names have been altered, but this is a dramatization of what may have happened on May 1, 1863. During the height of the American Civil War, Missouri was subject to guerrilla warfare. Martin appears here and here. Margaret appears here, and Francie appears here. Francie is my 3rd great grandmother, Edney my 4th great grandmother. Unfortunately, documented interviews of what actually happened that day were lost in a fire, so this narrative is speculation. For more information on what Missouri life during the American Civil War, please visit the aforementioned links.
The song, "How Can I Keep From Singing?" was written by Robert Wadsworth Lowry, a Baptist preacher. My grandmother (Francie's granddaughter) was quite fond of Lowry's compositions, and would program them into her services. My grandmother was a minister and pianist, herself, and while this portion of the story is speculation on my part, my grandmother always told me about Martin and Francis.
Thank you for reading.
It is my hope that you are well, and safe during this time of quarantine.
Gromprakin sat at the table.
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