I found this in my Geronimo research file and thought it was funny because Geronimo hated pumpkins! It was almost all he got to eat at Ft. Picken’s Prison in Florida. A visiting reporter from The New York Times visited him there once and wrote about how Geronimo was always cooking pumpkins because he loved them so much! I have the clipping somewhere. Talk about clueless! Geronimo was not pleased!
Then, after the Alabama prison (when he left Ft. Pickens), he ended up at Ft. Sill, Oklahoma and had to eat pumpkins again! The soil was so poor and water was so scarce that pumpkins were about all he could grow.
“Are you still there?” Aggie asked the old woman under her bed…
Sometimes we forget that everyone else is living their moment while we’re busy living ours…
“Are you still there?” Aggie asked as she picked up
her slipper and beat the metal bed frame underneath the mattress. “Well, you’d
better get out from under there and go home—wherever that is—I’ve got
company coming and she’s going to need the bed.” Aggie leaned way over the edge
of her mattress to peer at the woman who was stretched out underneath her bed. “And
while you’re at it, take off those goofy red socks. It’s the middle of summer
for Christ’s sake!”
There was no answer to Aggie’s scolding; there never was.
The old lady went on talking anyway while she beat her pillow into a more
comfortable shape. “I don’t know what’s become of the neighborhood. This was a
good place when I moved in here thirteen years ago. Now they’ve got the likes
of you running in and out of people’s houses. I keep the doors locked—how do
you get in here anyway?”
Silence.
From my short story book, Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
Psst! If you have a library card, ask your library to order it for you. Some libraries even have Kindle books now!
A Text version of this story was posted a long time ago. I’ve been fooling around with video just for fun. I have about 21 of them now. What a learning experience!
So, yesterday, while I was recording a video, I heard something stuck in my fireplace chimney. This has happened before so I prepared to rescue what I was certain was a little fruit bat. Armed with a flashlight, mirror, and enticements of dried apricots and water, I tried to coax the little guy down the chimney so I could let him out through the back door. I spent a good deal of time trying to save this unseen creature, murmuring a stream of encouraging words and promises meant to assure him that he was in no danger from me (“…If you’re a turtle I’m going to keep you forever and ever!”).
The bat wasn’t at all swayed by my melodious, comforting tones. He chose to go out the same way he came in. About 30-minutes into the failed rescue I realized I’d forgotten to turn off my video editor. It had recorded every word I’d said. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to figure out how to delete my little impromptu Chat with a Bat. No one would ever know about the dingy writer who doesn’t know a bat from a turtle.
Note: Photo by jmh. No, I didn’t through the turtle into the fire, but I’m short on turtles and bats around here…plus, my brother-in-law gave the turtle to me!
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I write these little ditties whenever I get an idea so I won’t forget them. Maybe it’ll be a short story someday. For right now, it’s only on this blog.
Everyone called her Penny—except for her husband. After being married for over 2 years, he still called her Penelope. Lately, he’d added a sneer at the end. Especially when he called her on the phone.
Just then, the phone rang and she looked back at the table set with a white cloth and her favorite dishes from her grandmother and crossed her fingers before she answered it.
“You still home?” a gruff voice asked.
“Yes, I’m here all alone in my pumpkin shell. I’m making us a roast chicken dinner for tonight and I’ve got your favorite homemade rolls rising.”
“I won’t be home in time for dinner. Go ahead
and eat without me.”
“But you haven’t been home for dinner all
this week!”
“You need to get out more and meet some
people, Penelope. I can’t be there all the time just to play house with you.”
Suddenly, Penny was angry. “Well, maybe I
will. Maybe I’ll find a new friend with a big zipper on his pants who has all
his parts working.”
The phone went dead. Penny was shaken. Maybe
she went too far this time, she thought as she went to the kitchen to see if
the rolls had risen enough to put in the oven.
About forty minutes later, the garage door opened
and her husband came into the kitchen, dragged her to their bed and made love
to her until she was breathless. “How did you get home so early?” She asked.
“I have to go back. I just came home to show
you that all my parts still work…they just don’t work for you.”
On his way back through the kitchen to get to
his car, he twisted a chicken leg off the chicken that was still in the
roasting pan and pulled a fresh, warm roll out of the bread pan. It would be
his last one.
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