Running Buddies

I perch on the bench to tie my running shoes, waiting for Becca and Emily. There is a definite chill in the air this crisp fall morning and my icy fingers don't want to cooperate at my second attempt to double-knot my laces. I hear their laughter before I actually see them: my fellow runners, both dressed in lycra pants and sweatshirts. Their breath turns to frost in the air.

"It's about time you got here," I tease, jumping to my feet and rubbing feeling back into my hands. "I thought I was going to have to go it alone today."

Becca grins and points at her sister. "Poor Emily just spent the last ten minutes scouring little Teddy's room for all the pieces to his chess set. He was supposed to bring it to school this morning for show and tell."

"Unfortunately, the white bishop is still MIA," Emily says, shaking her head. "Why he felt the need to sleep with it last night, I'll never know. It can't have been very comfortable."

"Sounds like something my Jimmy would do," I say. "Let's get moving, I'm frozen."

We start out at an easy pace, letting our muscles warm up, each lost in our own thoughts. We set out for the green space behind the neighborhood, headed for the miles of trails that weave through the fields. The path is wide enough for us to run three abreast and as we settle into our running, our conversation comes in spurts.

"Are we still on for the Halloween 5k," Becca asks. "I think registration opens this week."

"I think it sounds fun. We're dressing up, right?"

"They have a free lunch afterwards if you're in costume, so I think we should."

"We could dress as pirates. But I don't know about running with any extra gear clanging around. What do you think, Janey?"

I feel my legs burning as we head up an incline and I have to wait to answer until we reach the top. Pausing to catch my breath, I take a sip of water. "I think we should go as the Pink Ladies from Grease."

"Oh, my golly!" Becca grins. "That would be awesome!" She starts off down the hill and we follow, single-file. She calls over her shoulder, "Should we wear, like, a 50's frock? A poodle skirt?"

Emily laughs, "Or we could all dress like Sandy at the finale? We already have the spandex!"

We're nearing the parking lot and I can see my car. My lungs are burning and my legs feel like rubber. I also have a sinking suspicion that there's a blister forming on my right heel. Breathless, we topple onto the park bench. I clutch my side and wince. "How far did we go?"

Becca checks her phone and grimaces. "Uh, a third of a mile. Only six more times around."

I groan. "Maybe we should just dress up with the kids and go trick-or-treating. It would be a whole lot easier."

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Linking up this week with Writings and Ruminations. 505 words inspired by the picture above and using the following 5 words: blister, grease, frock, pirate, bishop.

To Err is...Embarrassing

"Are you sure this is the right lot? I'm can't imagine using this space for the Mayor's reelection rally. I mean, look at these weeds," Captain Trent gestured to the waist high tumble weeds covering the rocky ground. "How are we supposed to get this cleaned up before Saturday?"

"I'll check the message again, Sir, but I think this is the place." The driver pulled out his phone and scrolled through his emails. "Here it is. Uh...yep. This is it; at the end of Elbert Road, on the right-hand side. I'm with you, though, this looks a little rough."

"Well, let's get started," Captain Trent slid from the truck and waved to the firemen in the truck behind him. "Alright, gentlemen. Grab your gloves and equipment and let's get to work. Start hacking down the tumble weeds and we'll drag the brush and fallen branches to the center of this field for burning this afternoon. We've got about three hours before the planning committee shows up, so let's be finished when they get here. If they want a space in the middle of this wilderness for gunnysack races and croquet, I intend to give it to them. Got it?" Turning back to the driver of his truck, he barked, "Carson, I want you to pull the engine up next to the water truck. We'll want the hoses on hand when we burn this brush. It's so dry, it'll go up like a tinder box."

"Yes, Sir."

In a matter of hours, the field was cleared. Captain Trent stood facing the blaze, grimacing in the intense heat. He hollered to one of his men, indicating a portion of scorched earth that needed to be hosed. The phone in his shirt pocket vibrated.

"Hello? What's that? No, Sir, we're just finishing up. We've been at it all morning, Mr. Mayor. Here. On Elbert Road." The captain felt his face burning and it had nothing to do with the bonfire in front of him. "Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir." Shoving his phone back into his pocket, he spun on his heel and came face to face with Carson.

"Uh, Sir?" Carson gulped. "This is Mr. Granger. He's the farmer that owns this land, Sir."

"Well now, I sure appreciate ya clearing this here field for me, don'tcha know? I didn't know how I was gonna get it ready to plant and, lo and behold, you all showed up. I'm down right elated, I am." The old farmer, rested one gnarled hand on the split-rail fence and grinned, revealing an astonishing lack of teeth.

"Sir? It would appear that I, uh, read that address wrong," Carson cleared his throat. "It was actually..."

"Albert Road, Carson. A-L-B-E-R-T."

"Yes, Sir. Uh, to err is human..."

"Carson," the Captain interrupted, "When we get back to the station, you are to report to Officer Paxton in the Forensic Pathology Department. She mentioned recently that she had several hundred boxes of reports to be filed. Congratulations, you just volunteered."

Linking up this week with Writings and Ruminations. 500ish words inspired by the picture above and using the following 5 words: gunnysack, pathology, croquet (the game), elate and human.

The Artist

"Oh! My feet are killing me," Myrtle moaned.

"You ought to kick off those old sling-backs and stuff them in your handbag." Gertrude responded.

"I can't stand here in just my stocking feet," Myrtle whispered. "No doubt Penelope would see me and share that scandalous tidbit with everyone and I'd never be able to show my face here again. Ever since she told Betty about the terrible crush I had on Betty's oldest brother, I don't trust her."

"That was well over 40 years ago, Myrtle. You really must let bygones by bygones." Myrtle dabbed at her forehead with a lace handkerchief and ignored Gertrude's comment, trying to wriggle her cramped toes. "Truly, Murt, nobody gives a hoot what Penelope Hatfield says. Ever since she showed up at the Fireman's Ball in that atrocious pink getup, wearing her white peep-toe heels, before Labor Day, mind you, she hasn't had a leg to stand on. Just take them off or stop whining. I'm trying to hear the speaker."

Myrtle shuffled her sore feet and craned her neck to see over the sea of perfectly coiffed buns and pillbox hats, peering toward the gentleman at the front. Thanks to the ancient sound system, it was almost as difficult to hear him as it was to see him. "Why on earth didn't they think to put him up on a stage? No one past the front row can see a single thing."

"Shush. At the very least, I'd like to hear him. He's been on TV, you know."

Myrtle rolled her eyes. "Maybe we should have stayed home and watched him from the comfort of your love seat, Gertie. Then we wouldn't be standing in this crowd, suffering this humidity..."

Gertrude shushed her again, "Pipe down, Murt. He'll be finished soon and then we can go home. Okay?"

Myrtle nodded, then she slipped off her heels and cringed, feeling the cold linoleum under her feet. Oh, heavens. When was the last time this floor was cleaned? I'll have to throw these stockings away as soon as I get home. And they were brand new, too. On top of it all, now I'm too short to see through all these blue-haired ladies. All she could see between the ladies in front of her was the curly brown hair of the guest artist. She elbowed Gertrude, "What's he doing now?"

"Listen...it's amazing! He makes it look so simple."

Over the crackle of the speakers, Myrtle heard the painter's mellow voice. "Now, let's add some little trees right over here. Some happy little trees. Just soft, gentle brush strokes. There. Now, aren't they lovely?"

A pitter pattering of gloved-applause filled the room followed by a chorus of "ooh's" and "aah's".

Gertrude beamed. "What a treat! Do think he would give an autograph? Come on, Murt, put your shoes back on and hobble along with me."

With a sigh, Myrtle eased her toes back into her shoes. Standing upright, however, she spied Penelope hanging on the arm of Bob Ross, gushing over his masterpiece. "I think I'll wait for you in the car," she mumbled and tottered away.

Linking up (just a bit late) this week with Writings and Ruminations. 526 words inspired by the pictures above.

Knit, Purl, Purl

Grandma Ruby adjusts her eyeglasses, peering at the knitting needles grasped in her gnarled hands. Squinting, she counts her stitches and scowls. "I dropped another stitch," she grumbles. "This blanket'll be skeedaddled if I don't pay better attention."

Lost in the cushions of the overstuffed chair across the room, Aunt Beatrice shakes her head. She looks up from the pink baby blanket in her own lap and says, "Tsk, tsk. I think it's the heat. And the humidity. This weather turns my brain to mush, I tell you. I can't keep count of my stitches to save my soul." She sits up straighter, her stockinged feet barely brushing the floor. Peeking over her bifocals, she glances at the blanket draped across her sister's lap. "You've chosen such a lovely shade of yellow. The color of sweet churned butter, I'd say."

Grandma Ruby gently shakes the blanket loose; a soft cascade of sunshine spills across her knobby knees and pools on the floor at her feet. "It is lovely and so soft. Perfect for wrapping up a wee babe. 'Course sitting under it today is a bit warm." She gathers the afghan and hangs it over the arm of her chair, dabbing at her brow with her lace handkerchief. "Could you fetch us a glass of that lemonade I made up this morning, dear?" Grandma Ruby asks, turning her gaze towards me. "It's in the icebox, Margaret. Be sure to add plenty of ice."

I smile at my grandmother, unfold myself from the wicker love seat and, placing my Jane Austen novel on the coffee table, shuffle to the kitchen. I can still hear them warbling to one another as I fill the Depression ware glasses with the frosty, sweet drink. After placing the drinks on my grandmother's silver serving tray, I return to the sunroom. Grandma Ruby stops mid-sentence and colors slightly before returning intently to her knitting.

"Grandma, were you talking about me again?" I tease, setting their refreshment on the coffee table alongside the vase of red roses from Grandma's garden. "You know that's not polite." Patting her gently on the shoulder, I peck her on the cheek before settling back into my seat.

My grandmother offers her thanks, but before I have a chance to reach for my book, she adds, "I was just saying that I hoped your little one enjoys this labor of love, that's all." My tattered copy of Pride and Prejudice slips to the floor as I gape at the two little old ladies across the room.

"Grandma! Don't you think you should wait for me to find my own Mr. Right first?"

"As long as you're not waiting for your own Mr. Darcy," Aunt Beatrice titters.

Grandma Ruby returns to her knitting, avoiding my eyes. Over the click of her needles, I hear her mutter, "Well...don't dilly-dally. This blanket is a dozen feet long as it is."

Linking up this week with Writings and Ruminations. 488 words inspired by the pictures above. 

Camp Ah Wahn Gohom

Dear Mom,

Thanks for the package. Unfortunately, Mr. Bulliman was in charge of mail call and he makes us "pay" for our packages by doing something embarrassing. I had to massage his stinky feet. Gross!  I washed my hands ten times before they finally smelled clean.  I guess the homemade cookies from Granny made it worth it. I ate them for lunch.

We've been busy and I've made a few friends. On Monday, our group took a canoe trip around Lake Sludge. (Don't worry, Mom, we wore life jackets.) Jeremy fell out of the canoe while leaning over the edge of the boat to poke a fish. He tumbled in, head first. Fortunately, the water was only two feet deep. He had to walk back so he wouldn't track slimy mud from the bottom of the lake into the canoe.

On Tuesday we practiced archery. It's harder than doing it on the Wii!  I could barely pull that string-thingy back far enough to make the arrow go anywhere. One camper learned how to shoot a bow from his uncle. According to Brutus, Uncle Elmer hunts rabbits in the woods behind his house. He showed me a rabbit's foot on his key chain and now I can't stop thinking about some poor three-legged bunny hiding from Uncle Elmer. Creepy. Once Mr. Hood, the instructor, held the bow steady and I hit the target, but the arrow bounced off the hay bale and landed in the grass. I guess I won't be hunting "wabbits" when I grow up.

We hiked Mount Cumulus on Wednesday. It took all day, but at the summit it was too cloudy to see anything. My hiking buddy, Michelle, was a whiner. She kept asking our leader how much further it was to the top. Eventually, Miss Sandy snapped. "Not another word or I'll cover your mouth with masking tape!" That silenced her. Anytime Michelle started to speak, she'd look over at Miss Sandy and then clamp her mouth shut. The hike was nicer after that.

Yesterday was the Tournament of Strength. Ugh. You know me, I would rather read than see how many chin-ups I can do (which, apparently, is only one). The counselors organized challenges: log rolling, rope climbing, a bungee run and an obstacle course. We finished with a massive game of tug-of-war which resulted in two skinned knees and rope burns on both hands. Our team won. Yipee, I guess.

They're serving grilled cheese for dinner. The food here hasn't been great, but I suppose they can't ruin that, right? Tomorrow's final dinner is International Night with foods from around the world. I heard a terrible rumor they're serving sushi.  I don't know if you'll get this letter before you arrive on Sunday, but if so, please bring me a hamburger from Greasy Jay's. I think I'm going to be hungry.

Give Dad a hug. I can't wait to come home. Next summer, I promise I won't say, "I'm bored," if you promise you won't send me away.

Love,
Joe

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I actually love sushi, but I know
a few kids who don't, wink, wink.

Linking up this week with Writings and Ruminations. 512 words inspired by the picture above and including the following 5 words: Granny, masking tape, cheese, mud and massage. 

Pit Stop

Maggie flipped on her directional and checked her blind spot before changing lanes. Settling into the driver's seat, she tried to ignore the loose spring in the cushion that poked her in the back. It had taken 100 miles for her to adjust to driving the big moving truck, but now she felt like a pro. Rumbling over the bridge that stretched across the expanse of the Colorado River, Maggie reached over and fiddled with the dial on the radio. Only static. I guess no radio waves can reach the bottom of this canyon, Maggie thought to herself before turning off the white noise.

The spring morning had started out chilly. After Maggie had checked out of the hotel in Grand Junction, she had found herself scraping frost off the truck's windows with her credit card. Now, several hours later, the day had heated up and she was grateful for the air conditioning blowing frosty air into the stuffy cab. A few more miles down the road and a fine drizzle misted the windows of the truck. Maggie turned on the wipers as the drizzle became a deluge. The windshield wipers whipped back and forth across the glass making a squeaking sound that made Maggie grimace with each pass. She gripped the steering wheel and leaned forward, peering through the downpour as the interstate slipped past.

Around another turn in the highway and the rain suddenly stopped. The piercing blue sky was blinding after the gray storm. The squeak of the wipes across the dry windshield produced a mewling protest from where Phoebe sat, perched in the passenger seat. "Sorry, old girl," Maggie said, scratching the cat behind the ears. "The weather changes fast here in the Rocky Mountains." She flipped off the wipers and tried the radio again. A country-western song belted out of the speakers and Maggie hummed along, joining in when she knew the words.

The next road sign informed Maggie they were 140 miles from Denver. "That means we should arrive about four o'clock. I'll call Steve in a bit and let him know we're on schedule. I can't wait to see the new house, can you? New house, new job, new start, eh, Phoebe? So exciting!" Phoebe answered with a rumbling purr.

Thirty minutes later, Maggie was surprised to find white fluffy flakes falling from the sky. The clouds overhead were dark and hid the mountaintops. Soon snow was falling steadily and visibility worsened. Maggie turned on the headlights and slowed down, feeling the slip and slide of the tires in the slush. How many seasons can you have in one day? Colorado is crazy, Maggie mumbled to herself as she let a truck pass her.

"There's an idea," Maggie laughed, pointing to the passing vehicle. An oversized sign with the word, "coffee" was strapped to the bed of the truck. "How do you feel about a pit stop, Phoebe? We'll let this storm roll by and I'll call Steve to let him know we'll be a little later.  But better late, than never, right?"

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Linking up this week with Writings and Ruminations. 500 words inspired by the pictures above...and the random weather of my home state of Colorado. Yes, it snows in June.