Monday, December 28, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Scarves
Monday, December 21, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Latest art work
Monday, November 16, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
Good Samaritan Christmas
Last year I started giving two shoe boxes (one for a boy, one for a girl) with Christmas gifts for children in other countries through the Good Samaritan Purse. They have three age groups to choose from. Last year I sent gifts for the 8 year old age group. This year I will be sending to the 10-14 year age group. I like to send something that will keep them warm along with the toys and books I send. Last year I sent socks. This year I made these hats.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009
She knew just what to say...
...it was like Tawny knew when I needed to hear those three powerful words. She would get real close and I could hear her whisper, I love you.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
The Letter
Betty stared at the raised keys. She had become very comfortable with the typewriter over the past three years working as a secretary. What she was not used to were the words she was going to have to type day after day.
The women at the surrounding desks sat up straight and carried blank expressions on their faces. Had they typed so many letters it no longer bothered them? Betty wondered how long it would take for her to detach herself from the task she was hired to do. She put her hands to her ears and tried to quiet the slapping of keys against paper that surrounded her.
“Don’t worry, honey,” a smart dressed red head sitting next to Betty said, “you’ll get used to it. Before long you won’t even hear the noise,” she winked at Betty and went back to typing.
Betty positioned the crisp paper behind the platen and twisted the knob until the paper rolled underneath and reappeared in front of her. Lifting the cold metal bar she set the paper firmly in place. Her fingers rested on the keys as if they were waiting for the gun to go off to start the race. Betty pressed her left middle finger on the ‘D’. There it was; what was to be the beginning of hundreds of letters to come.
Above all the clicking Betty heard a man’s voice coming from behind her. It wasn’t clear, as if he was standing in the room, but had touches of static. She turned around to see an Army Officer’s door standing open. A dim light lit up the radio and Betty could hear President Roosevelt’s voice. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, but she knew it was him. She had listen to him speak too many times to count over the years. Then he was gone, silenced by the officer shutting his door. Betty was forced back into the world of typewriters banging and the occasional chair scrape the ground.
Betty placed her fingers on the keys, took a deep breath and typed as fast as she could. The letter only took two minutes to create but it would bring some mother, father, brother, sister, wife, a lifetime of sadness.
Betty straightened the paper and read the words to herself:
Dear Mrs. Smith,
It brings me deep sorrow to have to inform you of the loss of your son, John Smith. He bravely lost his life on June 6, 1944…
Betty looked at the long list of names of the men that had lost their life defending their country, her country. Her eyes teared up as she slid another piece of paper in the typewriter and began the next letter.
The women at the surrounding desks sat up straight and carried blank expressions on their faces. Had they typed so many letters it no longer bothered them? Betty wondered how long it would take for her to detach herself from the task she was hired to do. She put her hands to her ears and tried to quiet the slapping of keys against paper that surrounded her.
“Don’t worry, honey,” a smart dressed red head sitting next to Betty said, “you’ll get used to it. Before long you won’t even hear the noise,” she winked at Betty and went back to typing.
Betty positioned the crisp paper behind the platen and twisted the knob until the paper rolled underneath and reappeared in front of her. Lifting the cold metal bar she set the paper firmly in place. Her fingers rested on the keys as if they were waiting for the gun to go off to start the race. Betty pressed her left middle finger on the ‘D’. There it was; what was to be the beginning of hundreds of letters to come.
Above all the clicking Betty heard a man’s voice coming from behind her. It wasn’t clear, as if he was standing in the room, but had touches of static. She turned around to see an Army Officer’s door standing open. A dim light lit up the radio and Betty could hear President Roosevelt’s voice. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, but she knew it was him. She had listen to him speak too many times to count over the years. Then he was gone, silenced by the officer shutting his door. Betty was forced back into the world of typewriters banging and the occasional chair scrape the ground.
Betty placed her fingers on the keys, took a deep breath and typed as fast as she could. The letter only took two minutes to create but it would bring some mother, father, brother, sister, wife, a lifetime of sadness.
Betty straightened the paper and read the words to herself:
Dear Mrs. Smith,
It brings me deep sorrow to have to inform you of the loss of your son, John Smith. He bravely lost his life on June 6, 1944…
Betty looked at the long list of names of the men that had lost their life defending their country, her country. Her eyes teared up as she slid another piece of paper in the typewriter and began the next letter.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
The Art of Ballet (short story)
Sarah couldn’t let anyone see how much pain she was in as she wrapped the laces of her ballet slipper around her ankle, especially her understudy, who would jump at the chance to perform in her place. Tonight was the last and most important performance of the show; The Art of Ballet School representatives would be there to decide who would qualify and who would be left behind.
She had to make through this last performance. Mind over matter, she told herself.
The director ran across the dressing room with a flailing hand waving in the air yelling for everyone to finish getting ready, the curtain was going up in three minutes. Sarah took a deep breath and stood. The pain shot up her leg. She tried to stand on her tip toes, the pain was too great and she immediately put her foot down.
“Mind over matter,” Sarah said out loud to herself and took several deep breaths.
The announcer greeted the crowd to a roaring applause and the velvet curtains opened. Sarah glided onto the stage and into the arms of Robin Hood.
Sarah smiled through the entire performance, gritting her teeth and sucking in pockets of air. Her feet became numb with pain and she almost wished there was no intermission to allow her rest. If she kept moving the numbness would continue, rest would only increase the pain. It was the longest two hours of her life.
Leaving the stage she sat on the bench and slowly untied her laces, tears escaping her eyes. A soft hand touched her shoulder, but she couldn’t look up.
“Sarah, the people from the ballet school want to meet with you,” a woman’s soft voice whispered.
Sarah looked up and was met with a kind smile. She allowed the tears to stream down her face knowing that her mother would think that they were only tears of joy.
She had to make through this last performance. Mind over matter, she told herself.
The director ran across the dressing room with a flailing hand waving in the air yelling for everyone to finish getting ready, the curtain was going up in three minutes. Sarah took a deep breath and stood. The pain shot up her leg. She tried to stand on her tip toes, the pain was too great and she immediately put her foot down.
“Mind over matter,” Sarah said out loud to herself and took several deep breaths.
The announcer greeted the crowd to a roaring applause and the velvet curtains opened. Sarah glided onto the stage and into the arms of Robin Hood.
Sarah smiled through the entire performance, gritting her teeth and sucking in pockets of air. Her feet became numb with pain and she almost wished there was no intermission to allow her rest. If she kept moving the numbness would continue, rest would only increase the pain. It was the longest two hours of her life.
Leaving the stage she sat on the bench and slowly untied her laces, tears escaping her eyes. A soft hand touched her shoulder, but she couldn’t look up.
“Sarah, the people from the ballet school want to meet with you,” a woman’s soft voice whispered.
Sarah looked up and was met with a kind smile. She allowed the tears to stream down her face knowing that her mother would think that they were only tears of joy.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Short Short Short Story
As a writing assignment for my writing group we had to take a painting and write a very short story about what was taking place in the painting.
Painting: Two sisters sitting under a tree with a bridge behind them - it's the mid-1800's
Story:
Elizabeth read each line slowly and with precision, pronouncing every word correctly, the way her father had taught her. Her sister, Rachel, found it quite annoying and sat twirling her umbrella, uninterested in what Elizabeth was reading. Rachel could only think of Henry and how to snatch him away from Elizabeth. Rachel didn’t feel one bit bad about devising a plan to steal Henry away from Elizabeth, all the girls were coming up with plots of how to make him theirs.
Rachel let out a deep sigh, “Are you done reading yet?”
“No,” Elizabeth’s voice was as soft as a feather, “I’ll finish the chapter and then I’ll be done.”
Rachel rolled her eyes, stuck out her lip and jerked the umbrella closed. She didn’t have to stay here if she didn’t want to, but if she left Elizabeth alone and Henry came along…she just couldn’t bear the thought. She would stay.
“…their eyes met and,” Elizabeth turned the page. A small piece of paper folded in half fell from the book landing on her dress. Elizabeth set the book down and unfolded the note reading it out loud, “Elizabeth, my love, will you…”
“Will you what! Who wrote that?” Rachel snatched the paper from Elizabeth’s hand. She knew who it was from before even looking at the handwriting. “It’s not finished,” Rachel said nearly out of breath, “it could be any question.”
The sounds of heavy feet walking across the wooden bridge echoed in Rachel’s ears. Elizabeth, smiling, stood up, straightened out her dress, and turned to see Henry in front of her.
Henry knelt down on one knee taking Elizabeth’s hand in his, “Elizabeth, will you marry me?” Henry asked.
“Yes, Yes!”
Rachel rolled her eyes before standing to give her sister a hug and congratulations all the while thinking of how there was still time to break up the engagement.
Painting: Two sisters sitting under a tree with a bridge behind them - it's the mid-1800's
Story:
Elizabeth read each line slowly and with precision, pronouncing every word correctly, the way her father had taught her. Her sister, Rachel, found it quite annoying and sat twirling her umbrella, uninterested in what Elizabeth was reading. Rachel could only think of Henry and how to snatch him away from Elizabeth. Rachel didn’t feel one bit bad about devising a plan to steal Henry away from Elizabeth, all the girls were coming up with plots of how to make him theirs.
Rachel let out a deep sigh, “Are you done reading yet?”
“No,” Elizabeth’s voice was as soft as a feather, “I’ll finish the chapter and then I’ll be done.”
Rachel rolled her eyes, stuck out her lip and jerked the umbrella closed. She didn’t have to stay here if she didn’t want to, but if she left Elizabeth alone and Henry came along…she just couldn’t bear the thought. She would stay.
“…their eyes met and,” Elizabeth turned the page. A small piece of paper folded in half fell from the book landing on her dress. Elizabeth set the book down and unfolded the note reading it out loud, “Elizabeth, my love, will you…”
“Will you what! Who wrote that?” Rachel snatched the paper from Elizabeth’s hand. She knew who it was from before even looking at the handwriting. “It’s not finished,” Rachel said nearly out of breath, “it could be any question.”
The sounds of heavy feet walking across the wooden bridge echoed in Rachel’s ears. Elizabeth, smiling, stood up, straightened out her dress, and turned to see Henry in front of her.
Henry knelt down on one knee taking Elizabeth’s hand in his, “Elizabeth, will you marry me?” Henry asked.
“Yes, Yes!”
Rachel rolled her eyes before standing to give her sister a hug and congratulations all the while thinking of how there was still time to break up the engagement.
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