Caleigh O'Shea's Blog, page 18

Deserted

It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home. ~Author unknown

I

Sit here

All day long.

Vacant, empty.

Dreaming of the past,

When I was loved. Needed.

When I kept a family safe

From storms, robbers, and other ills.

Love and laughter filled my rooms, and I

Felt secure in fulfilling my purpose.

Now my family’s gone, and I sit alone.

My lawn untended; my paint peeling,

Grass in cracks, weeds overflowing.

Who will fix me up again?

Will someone please buy me?

Will someone love me?

I can give much!

Don’t let me

Go to

Seed.

Note: Monkey and I pass this ranch-style house on our morning walks, and it never fails to sadden me. I hear the elderly owner passed away several years ago, long after his wife had died and their kids went to live out of state. A daughter came to look over (and, I assume, take what she wanted) after his death, but she hasn’t been back since. There’s no For Sale sign outside. This poem is a Double Etheree.

Late Summer Posies

How magnificent the flower becomes as its youth passes! Even the flowers have their setting sun. ~Auguste Rodin, French sculptor

Autumn is in the air … finally.

The sun’s rays aren’t quite as penetrating, daylight hours are shrinking, the night sky is alive with different constellations from those we saw in May and June.

Sadly, what was dangled before our eager eyes — a return to normalcy after the pandemic of 2020 — has just as quickly slipped away, thanks to new strains of the virus. Awful news from abroad, unrest here at home, and global weather emergencies only serve to dampen our spirits, threatening to strip us of hope.

But beauty never fails to cheer. So, before the season passes, I’m going to share with you some of the pretty plants in my yard. May they make you smile the way they do me!

Twenty Years Later

God is closest to those with broken hearts. ~Jewish saying

Yesterday, I made my own pilgrimage of sorts.

Back to where I was 20 years ago, when I first heard the news of the terrorist attack on our nation.

I was just a few months into my new career as a web designer and actively seeking clients to help build my business.

The local shopping mall was in need of a website, and I wanted the job; however, they wanted separate interviews with the candidates, and 10 a.m. Sept. 11, 2001, was the selected time for our presentations.

As I parked in the lot, I heard horrific news on the radio — a plane had flown into one of the World Trade Center towers in NYC.

Now I wasn’t so far removed from my days as a journalist that news like this could be ignored. Still, I went into the “interview,” where everyone was talking about the attack, gave my presentation, and raced back home to glue myself to the TV (barely giving a thought to how I’d done at the interview, or whether I’d get the job).

Fast forward 20 years. Twenty! Who knew I’d still be doing web design 20 years later? Who knew how much our world would change over the course of two decades?

So I returned to the mall, but not the actual interview room (which had been gutted in an earlier head-to-toe renovation). I mentally took myself back to 2001 and once again, allowed the feelings to wash over me — confusion over how and why something like this had happened, anger over the senseless killing of nearly 3,000 innocent people, patriotic pride in the heroic actions of so many rescue workers and others, and anguish over the property damage sustained and a nation’s innocence and security shattered.

I walked around the mall, nostalgic over the demise of three big anchor stores, sad over the deaths of two (Daddy and Dallas) important to me, and disconcerted over how little control any of us really have over the ills of our world.

After allowing the tears to fall, I closed my eyes in prayer For I firmly believe that if things are to get better, prayer is the best place to start.

How was your Patriot Day?

Wordless Wednesday

Make your optimism come true. ~Author unknown

Writing Drought

There’s only one person who needs a glass of water oftener than a small child tucked in for the night, and that’s a writer sitting down to write. ~Mignon McLaughlin, American journalist and author

My writing muse has taken flight,

Her disappearance is a fright.

No work in stages,

No counting of pages.

I swear, this just doesn’t feel right.

The drought will pass, or so I’m told,

No need for me myself to scold.

The muse will come back;

I’ll give her no flack

When a manuscript I unfold!

A Dog’s Prey Drive

Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside. ~Author unknown

Monkey here.

Mama’s been tied up with stuff — a flurry of work, various appointments, and a visit from the Domer — so I seized her laptop for a post of my own. Cool.

Here’s what I’m wondering: What is it with humans and food?

Mama watches what I eat like a hawk. Sure, I had that pesky little digestive problem, and she’s had to clean up what she claims is more than her share of my messy diarrhea and vomit.

Sheesh! You’d think that wasn’t her job.

Anyway, a while back (little Monkeys don’t tell time yet), I found something nifty in my back yard.

It popped up from below the ground, then sprinted away as soon as I tried to get a closer look.

Mama came out of the house with all guns blazing, saw the Thing, and called it a bunny.

Okay, whatever.

All I knew was, it sounded like my squeaky toys and moved of its own accord. No strings or batteries needed.

Wow.

Over the next few days, every time I got a chance to go outside, I checked on Bunny.

It wasn’t long before Mama put up some stupid fence to keep me from bothering him.

Hah! Like any little ole fence can stop me. I leaped right over it — into the Arborvitae — but Bunny was gone. I didn’t give up hope though.

Then the rains came. And came. And my back yard grew puddles.

One evening, Mama took me outside, and you wouldn’t believe the treat I found: wet Bunny.

I grabbed it and raced away from Mama, who was busy fussing about mosquitoes and icky weather.

When she came near me — probably to see my treat and snatch it away — she demanded I drop it.

Is she crazy, or what? Like I’m going to drop a treat?

Well, before she could grab it, I swallowed it … whole. Take that, Mama.

I could tell by her suddenly green face that she was about to lose her dinner, and she flew inside.

Really, Mama. Which dog alive wouldn’t eat the Treat they’d worked so hard to catch? It’s not like me and Bunny were strangers or something.

Now she’s mad at me. She won’t let me lick her face, she made me sleep downstairs instead of in her bedroom, and she’s been on the phone consulting with my vet and everybody she knows.

Even some computer guy named Google.

To see if swallowing a bunny whole is gonna kill me.

Huh! Doesn’t she know rabbit is excellent protein, and my ancestors have been catching and killing them for centuries?

Tell her I’m just doing what comes naturally.

Still Growing Strong

We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival. ~Winston Churchill, British statesman and former Prime Minister of the United Kingdom

We all complain sometimes about our circumstances.

Things don’t go according to plan. People don’t act the way we think they should. We build up our hopes for something, yet it doesn’t come through.

I wonder if plants ever feel that way.

Does one flower fret it’s not as “pretty” as another? Do trees agonize over not being as tall or full as other trees?

Somehow I doubt it.

Take these wildflowers, for instance:

Click for more detail

They could’ve complained I didn’t do a professional job of preparing the soil for their seeds. Didn’t water them adequately. Didn’t put them in the right place for beneficial sunlight.

But they’re growing — and might I say, thriving? — in spite of it.

There are Marigolds, Zinnias, and some kind of Daisy. I haven’t identified the others yet, but if you know, feel free to share.

I never really expected them to spring up. I’ve planted seeds before, but nothing resulted.

And these seeds were packaged for last year, the year of COVID, when I had nothing but time on my hands to plant and tend them.

Why did I wait? Who knows.

And look at my little tree:

Click to enlarge

You’ll recall it sprang up seemingly out of nowhere a year or so ago.

If I’d been choosing, I’d have selected a “better” location for it — not beneath a TV antenna that probably should’ve been removed ages ago.

Nor smack dab in landscaping rocks.

But it, too, seems to be flourishing. It’s taller and fuller than before — almost 17 inches high now — and if you look closely, you can still see the tiny red yarn I wrapped around its “neck” last year as the weather turned cooler!

Recently, I asked our yard man what kind of plant it was. Using an app on his phone, he proclaimed it an Eastern Juniper (AKA red cedar), a long-lived species that grows in North America from southeastern Canada to the Gulf of Mexico and west to the Great Plains.

Maybe we (and our plants) would prefer different living conditions than the ones we have, but perfection isn’t always necessary for success.

What do you think?

Gone Too Soon

In teaching you cannot see the fruit of a day’s work. It is invisible and remains so, maybe for twenty years. ~Jacques Barzun, French-American historian and writer

I just learned that one of my former teachers died last year … from COVID-19.

And if you don’t personally know anybody who has contracted or died from that dreaded virus, count yourself lucky.

The news of Mr. D.’s death took me way back to high school.

It was the first day of my senior year, and I was sitting in English class. In walked this tiny, wee man with high-pitched voice, thinning hair, and glasses.

He immediately took charge.

It must’ve been hard for him. Most of the boys and nearly all the girls were taller than he, it was his first year teaching, and we weren’t known for our obedience.

As the old saying goes, We’d pick a fight at the drop of a hat, and we’d drop it ourselves.

But Mr. D. made class FUN. We listened to popular music and dissected the lyrics; we had fascinating discussions of world events and philosophy. We learned to be open to new ideas and to appreciate the English language.

I imagine none of us properly thanked him.

Fast-forward a few years.

I’d moved back to Illinois and was outside walking when our paths crossed again.

He was an avid walker, too, and we spent lots of time walking and chatting — catching up on former classmates, discussing my career, bending Dallas’s ear with small talk. Even someone who wasn’t particularly enamored of dogs liked Dallas.

When my son was in high school, he, too, met Mr. D., only this time, the latter had retired from active teaching and was working as a teachers’ mentor. Mr. D. took an avid interest in Domer’s education and career path, never failing to inquire how he was doing.

Sadly, by the time I needed Beta readers for my first novel, Mr. D. had developed eye issues and wasn’t able to help; however, he did recommend another wonderful educator, who provided much-needed real-world advice for me.

More time passed, and Mr. D. was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease. His family placed him in a nursing facility a half-hour away from here.

Nobody counted on COVID rearing its ugly head. Mr. D. caught it and succumbed.

There was no announcement in the newspaper. No public visitation or services were held, to my knowledge.

And it makes me genuinely sad to think a man can live, positively impact entire generations, then die with nobody to take notice.

Perhaps now, when the Delta variant is circulating, we should remember the basics:

Wash your hands … oftenStay 6 feet from others not living under your roofAvid crowds and spaces that aren’t well ventilatedWear a mask to protect yourself and othersAnd get vaccinated as soon as you can

 

Coping with Disappointment

There is no thief worse than a bad book. ~Italian proverb

Don’t you just hate spending time with a book that disappoints you?

Recently, I read my first novel by NYT bestselling author Tess Gerritsen, and I enjoyed it so much, I grabbed another of hers when I went to the library.

This time, my expectations crashed like the hopes of most people playing their state’s lottery.

The Shape of the Night promised me a haunting tale, one I wouldn’t quickly forget. Here’s part of the cover blurb:

After an unspeakable tragedy in Boston, Ava Collette flees to a remote village in Maine, where she rents an old house named Brodie’s Watch.

In that isolated seaside mansion, Ava finally feels at peace … until she glimpses the long-dead sea captain who still resides there.

Sounds intriguing, right?

But I’d barely read twenty-five pages before I realized Ava was a protagonist I was going to tire of real soon. Her propensity toward drinking herself into oblivion, coupled with an unspecified secret that’s left her guilt-ridden and estranged from her family, made me want to shake her and demand, “Grow up, already!”

A few pages later, she has a physical encounter with a ghost.

Physical? Yes, so the author tells us.

Frankly, I had a bit of trouble suspending belief to accept that.

And Gerritsen milks that encounter for all its worth, with details that made me blush.

Sorry, Author, but you should’ve warned me this book fell into the erotica genre, so I could’ve left it on the shelf.

Another problem is it’s written in first person, present tense — distracting as all get out, and made worse by the proximity we’re forced into with an unreliable protagonist.

Many times, I almost tossed the book at the wall, but the author in me wondered how Ms. Gerritsen was going to redeem herself.

If she could.

I won’t spoil it for those who’ve yet to read it, but briefly:

Ava has more encounters with the ghost, and they become more intimateAva runs into townsfolk secrecy when she tries to find out about the previous women who lived at Brodie’s WatchAva faces danger all around and questions who to believe

On top of all this, the ending failed to tie up loose ends despite a “one-year later” epilogue.

Maybe that’s what the author intended — to let the reader decide what, and who, to believe.

But this reader is miffed at having slogged through 268 pages when she could, and should, have been doing something worthwhile.

Miraculous Beauty

The garden is the poor man’s apothecary. ~German proverb

Patch of wildflowers

I

really

expected

nothing to grow

from this free packet

of seeds someone sent me.

I’d planted free seeds before

and not a single thing came up —

not one weed, no grasses, no flowers.

Blessed is she who expects nothing, right?

Imagine my surprise when I saw these

new beauties popping through the black soil!

First the leaves, followed by flowers —

one pink, one white, one orange —

and there are more to come,

judging by the buds.

A miracle

of nature

appears

here.

Note: This poetic form is a Double Etheree.