Friday Shoot Out that didn't happen...and "God Bless the Child Who Has a Home" discussions, etcetera!

The photo is my beautiful mother Ruth Virginia who adopted me, and my two brothers. How young she looks! How hopeful for the future she has no knowledge of, but she did not turn away. She is holding my younger brother.

I will be late with my Friday Shoot out (which is outdoor food: something that will be difficult for me to photograph - but, I will use my imagination if I have to: I encourage you to visit the other Friday Shoot Outers, though!). As I am late with telling my Vegas Trip Tales. As I am late with telling of my Book Club Tales. As I am late with . . . so much more!



I have really good reasons.

First, I became interested in the post discussions below, about Mothers giving up their children; and do Father's get a pass? And what about Fathers who want a bigger role in their children's lives and are not given that opportunity, and what about Father's who do take that role of mother and father, etc etc. I hope you will join in. Of course, this is a theme I am interested in for personal reasons, and for Tender Graces reasons, and, just because I see how much passion it brings out in people, particularly women, as not many men have responded: Barry and Gary have (Gary on Facebook-where my blog posts also go and the discussion is there, as well).

I also want to direct you to Angie Gumbo Writer's space. She is asking a question about literary mags/zines, and this is something we both are interested in knowing the answer to . . . Visit here at Gumbo Writer and throw in your two cents, or a dime, whatever you can afford *smiling*

Tonight is the author's reception at Osondu; tomorrow is the Book Fair. Hope to see you there, those of you who can attend.

(PS - Missy has started this at her book nook , supporting local authors, and I think it's a great idea, and no, not just because she featured TG first *laugh*....)

Let me tell you bout the birds and the bees and sad stories under willow trees

I've decided to put up a little gentle short story - a bit at a time - I've always loved this little story. It's just something I wrote one day because I saw a man and child fishing, their backs to me, and I can't remember why this particular story needed to come out in the way it did. There's no place for it, really, so I will share it here. I'll put up a bit at a time, and it should take 4 or 5 days to have the complete story here. If you haven't been by Eazy Cheezy's place, I'm still there! And more guests will be coming 'round, too....

The next book giveaway "contest" is going to be on Thursday!

Here is the first section of "The Fishing Day"--

Their two backs face a weeping willow tree. Long wispy branches reach out to them as the breeze lifts things lighter than the heaviness. The sun is rising, illuminating what only a few hours before was hidden in shadow. The father shows his daughter how he baits the hook with a worm. She watches, her nose crinkles and so do her eyes—she is smiling because her father is smiling, because they have this day. The father’s shoulders are broad shoulders, but he is thin. The thin caused by unnatural loss of appetites. His once robust frame has wasted away over the months, and he cannot notice to care.

Strands of the daughter’s long brown hair, the kind that is never thick and wavy, but straight and delicate, blow like the willow branches, up and over, landing across the father’s arm as he bends toward her. He cannot feel the tickle of her hair as he concentrates intently on his task of baiting the hook. The tiny hook is sharp, and he accidentally pokes his finger with it, and watches as the blood beads quickly at the surface. The wound feels numb now, but he knows it will hurt later, throbbing in the middle of the night while he lies sleepless. The small puncture will spread inside, unseen, until it becomes infected, red and raw. He knows he will worry it at night, rubbing his finger against the bedsheets to stop the itching pain. For now, it does not matter, for the numb allows him to pretend it will not hurt later.

When at last the worm is threaded, the daughter throws out her line and watches as the cork bobs and then stills. She likes how the minnows swim up to investigate, then dash off, little silvers of light. Her father readies his own pole and casts the line, his cork landing farther out and away from his daughter’s line.

There are only nature sounds, the birds calling to each other, splashes from fish chasing the minnows, the occasional branch falling in the distance. Ducks glide toward each other, meeting in the middle to dip their beaks, their sleek reflections wavering on the pond’s glassy surface. A fat bee buzzes by, then turns back, circling the daughter’s head three times. Another bee, just as fat and black and yellow, joins it. With unseen wings, they quickly fly around her before racing off together. The daughter laughs. The father wants to laugh, but finds he can’t help but stare across the pond beyond the other side. His lips haven’t laughed in so long, they are stiff and unnatural feeling. He works them, trying to smile, trying to mold them back into the shape they used to be, when he laughed, smiled, and said I love you....

(to be continued...)

(image from fotosearch at google images)

PS - from Kimmi's place I saw her Wordle, so I had to do one (Angie - it reminds me of your poetry you did - the one for Dancer's Cap!) - I did mine - it's in the sidebar - pretty cool!)