Frankly, the telephone call at one in the morning should have tipped me off that my day or dentist appointment would hold a glitch.  Yes, one after midnight calling from a restricted number.

If the call to my cell had not been from a restricted number, I might have thought twice about answering.

If the young lady had not sounded so very professional when saying the words ‘to confirm your appointment’ I might not have listened further.

If I did not have an appointment that had not yet been confirmed, the one at eight in the morning for my dental work, I might not have listened.

If the message had not been so well timed with the punch line toward the end of the professional notice, I might not have listened.

If the message was about anything other than an appointment verification for dog poo clearing, I might not have laughed later.  The Dog Poo Company confirming a three in the afternoon schedule to clean up all the dog poo in my yard.

If I had thought it was at all funny in the moment, I might not have dialed in her ear. Next time I will use my megaphone siren.

So I lost sleep, then had to get up and go to the dentist appointment.

Wrong day, right time.

If I had not skipped the Renee Zellweger movie after the holiday dinner the night before in order to get to sleep early enough.

If the appointment did not require rising at four thirty in the morning on the fourth to the shortest day of the year.

If it had not been snowing little icy flakes for three days.

If I had not chosen the wrong door for my drop off and had to cross the icy parking lot to the right building.

If Hubby had not gone on many errands so I had to await his return.

If the staff scheduler, who was willing to work me in the dentist’s schedule, had not said it would take one to three hours to maybe get me in a chair.

If only one person in that waiting room had empathy with my predicament.  You know how it is when a herd of cows are grazing and one falls over dead? Well, maybe you don’t.  The rest of the herd just keeps doing what they were doing even though they lived their entire lives with the now deceased cow. That is how detached a waiting room of patients can act when someone just might get in front of them in schedule, especially if the intruder is there on the wrong day.

If I had not skipped my coffee and breakfast and had to sit there for an hour. 

If I had not arranged my entire day to spend the wrong morning with the dentist.

If hubby were not on three to eleven shift.

If we did not have to do this again the next morning…..

Then perhaps acceptance would be easier to come by.  Right?

My daughter was discussing acceptance with me a few days ago. Just accepting that, for example, the eggs are over hard instead of over easy when over easy and dippy was the way I ordered them. Enjoy and really accept over hard eggs with no runny yolk. Fake it until you make it.

But if one has enough days like this one of being on time for the dentist on the wrong day – and has been served dozens and dozens of over hard eggs in their life, then acceptance is an elusive, difficult choice. Especially when age fifty-three and rising.

Now, my daughter is wise.  But because she is less than half my age she is also still wide-eyed as she teaches me to accept just like I tried to teach her to accept life. I taught her that this too shall pass, that keep it simple silly was the best thing she could do, that when one door closes then another one opens. I taught her that acceptance is a key to all life’s problems.

So now that I am buggered with irritation and racked with should’ve, would’ve, could haves… now she will remind me.  Then one day, when she has had enough over hard eggs with no runny yolk for her toast, and when finally I, on the other hand, have given up entirely in trying to get anything to be my way – especially my eggs – then I will remind her of the ease of a life with complete and total acceptance.

I will remember then the sunshine that does come out of days like this.

If I had not had a morning of being on time for a dentist appointment I did not have then I would not have had a wonderful breakfast with Hubby and his sister, she who rescued me from the dentist office. I would never have had time for five cups of holiday coffee or to enjoy her Christmas tree with all the unique ornaments.

I know I have probably said this far too often, but once again, this blog would not have been so easy to write, if I had been at the dentist on the right day.

Essa Adams is the author of ‘A Breath Floats By‘ a.k.a. penname Thayne Hudson. She writes Women’s Fiction Blog, Pet Skunk Medicine and authors ESSA Natural.

The Fake Ladybug in My Window

Freezing winter short story by the Women’s Fiction blog.

Feel good winter humor, really….A feel-good holiday story. Sort of....

Fake ladybugs are not to be confused with holiday ornaments either.

Did it move just now? The fake ladybug in my office window behind the plastic film? The thing is right in line with my view of the winter snow garden. Really bugging me.

One of those fake ladybugs.  An imported Asian lady beetle, orange-red with nineteen black dots on its back. The kind that pinches hard.  Pees in your mouth vile liquorish poison that makes you wail and spit for ten minutes.

How do they get in your mouth? They drink from water glasses. Crawl into salads, mixing with grape tomatoes quite nicely.

See how they would fit right in?

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My office has wonderful walls of windows, so we purchased an EdenPure Heater, just to keep me warm.  Now our pets sleep in baskets by me where I spin them like rotisserie chickens.

Ask the ladybugs.  Winters are rough in the Great Lakes region. So hubby applied lovely plastic film to the windows to give them one more layer of insulation. Since I refuse to use drapes or blinds because I don’t want to lose my view of the winter garden, the film is a compromise.

The problem with this bug-thing staring in at me is that hubby is very protective of the plastic film. The technique is in the airlock. He spends the winter accusing me of pushing stacks of books, the lamp shade, and my purse into the film but these do leave dents. I cannot deny evidence.

One must understand the dynamics of our relationship, of him bringing me sustenance of coffee, c ocoa and soup while I create my prose in the frozen office. Autumn onward, I would don gloves, many sweaters with hoods, scarves, jackets, then coats and boots, frozen fingers typing numbly.

Stubborn me with my walls of vintage windows on my vintage office-porch I would not change for the world, freezing to death.  Like the bug.

Fake ladybugs are not to be confused with holiday ornaments either.

What a lovely winter garden though. Birds, wildlife, a tiny lacy cedar tree tipped in ice beads dancing beneath the grey skeleton of the high bush cranberry. I love my trees. My blue wind chimes.

Hubby loves me. So he contours the film, trims the edges within a sixteenth of an inch from the two-sided tape so I never know it is there. Then he uses hair dryer heat to coax the film to completely disappear as it spreads tighter and tighter.

Who would mess with the airlock? Not me. I’m not even touching it.

But the poor fake ladybug got caught between the windows and the plastic film.

Day before yesterday, the bug was lively. Being the coldest day of the year, I felt sorry for it, doubting its survival for more than a few more hours.  I know, I am a heartless fake ladybug hater. That evening when I turned out the lights, I do not remember noticing Fake Ladybug. She had probably frozen to death quite painlessly… right?

She? Yes, she. Aren’t all ladybugs feminine in fairytales?

Yesterday was more spring-like. Fake Ladybug was not flying around but she was still there, behind the plastic, mulling how to escape her winter wonderland aquarium. Then she disappeared for several hours. Before I turned off the lights, I checked for Fakie and she was not between the windows, not in cracks as far as I could see.

Fakie? Yes, Fakie. Just as Gracie is a cutesy name for Grace. Fakie. Using ‘ladybug’ in her name is too good for her.

Gracie, still as a nailhead on the iced windowsill.

Today I come in here to work, five essays exploding in my mind. There is Fakie, still as a nailhead on the white windowsill, staring at me through the plastic film. Eh.

I’m trying to work. And she is either dead or dying.

To my defense, these fake ladybugs can live through the winter. They hide in our insulated homes – all of us – between the drywall and outside wall, then come out in droves in the spring.

Summers they spend in alfalfa fields and when that is harvested, they fly into communities like yours to bite  – or pinch – you and your children, stick in your fresh deck stain, pee on your windows, until they settle down and crawl into your house to stink and hibernate – those that are not rolled into the bales to be fed to the poor cows. I wonder if the cows can taste that poisonous vile they spray. Uck.

To my defense, some environmentalist from some agricultural improvement agency decided the United States farmers would be better off with these cold-weather resistant Asian lady beetles instead of old tried-and-true, gentle North American ladybugs who die off in the winter, it seems, and were a bit more sluggish in cold summers ( huh? ) when they were supposed to be eating aphids, I guess, and they say our native ladybugs were not as aggressive on the aphids.

Please. Have you ever seen the close-up images of what North American ladybugs do to a smorgasbord of aphids?

To my defense, once upon a time I always scooped them up to take them outside and make a nice plot of leaves and stones for them to live under far from the house, just like I do for the mice.

To my defense, I used to take my hanging lamps apart to get the fake ladybugs out before they fried their little feet on the bulbs. And when they fry they stink too.

Then one day, hubby got out the shop vac. Who would win? Me, the defender, or him, the warrior?

But too many times the nasty creatures got in my salad.

Sagie, I should have video taped him after he ate the fake ladybug.

Once my pet skunk  tried to eat one and vomited around the house ten times over, me following with paper towels and the vinegar spray bottle while he squeaked and spit and gagged all over the hardwood floors. You laugh, but it could well be your dogs and cats eating them.

Oh!! Then I drank one of those poisonous devil bugs, so drank ipecac as a chaser to get it out of me.

I let hubby shop vac a gallon of them a week from there on out.

I couldn’t watch, couldn’t stand to hear their little screams as they were suctioned at high power into blackness like a tornado before one is in the center. Could not imagine their little faces when they were left in the stillness of the contractor strength garbage bag he dumped them into everyday.

But within a few weeks of hubby shop vacuuming fake Asian ladybugs, we had no more. And spring after spring our droves were lessened until we gave a sigh.

But now I am staring at Gracie…. I mean Fakie. And I think she was in a different position a few minutes ago. She could still be alive in there.

Not to be confused with iced berries.

But where would I keep her? What could I possibly do with her? A pet? Humor me. But fake ladybugs are not pet material.

Reminds me of when my daughter kept a slew of horned tomato worms from my garden for pets. But that is another story. Or is it? She, too, named them. Wouldn’t let me toss them in the coffee can of turpentine. Yes, that is what old-time gardeners did with tomato worms, we didn’t want to squish them… it was too gross. Couldn’t let them loose in the woods… they would fly back as a moth and recycle. Tough I should have because they reincarnate as good moths that pollinate vegetable plants.  But what is more vicious to tomato plants than horned worms, I ask?  as I transgress…..

So how do I explain the hole in the plastic film to hubby? Took him hours to contour the film to the window so I would forget it was there.

I can’t stand it. I can tape the hole with clear duct tape. If you don’t know it yet, clear duct tape and plastic wireties really are a woman’s best friend. If you take nothing from this blog, that is what I bestow on you and your life from here on out. May you be blessed with an abundance of clear duct tape and your plastic wireties be all sizes and colours.

Fakie is so still.

I just took out the tiny knife I use for graphics. Sliced a tiny opening, like surgery on Grey’s Anatomy. Put the end of the knife through the narrow hole to pull Fakie out.

And she took off running the other way.

I sliced the hole larger to stop her, but she has quite a bit of life left even if she gave up flying.

I wanted to slice the entire bottom edge of the film along the sill to stop her. I wanted to. But that would be a lot of explaining to do.

I know you wanted me to save her. But get a grip, will you. This is not Tinker Bell. We’re talking Fakie, the fake Asian lady beetle that pees in your mouth when you try to eat her, bites you when you mow the lawn, stinks up the insulation between your walls. Has no natural predators in North America. Apparently not even the freezing winters of the Great Lakes.

So just get a grip.

Gracie freezing in the shade.

There she is. Hiding around the corner of the window, a little alcove only Fakie can fit into. I feel bad now. At least before I bothered her, Fakie was sunning herself on the windowsill. Now she is plastered to a piece of metal in the shade.

Okay, I need advice here. What would you do? And don’t tell me to spray bug poison through the hole to put her out of her misery. Really, what would you do?

Hours later… Fakie is on the move…. waddles past the slice in the film, to the other side of my window. I try to pull the plastic loose on the other side of the window but hubby has it down to a science, there is no place for leverage without cutting in.

Wait, Fakie comes back by the hole. Thinking fast, I stick the curved end of my bifocals through and scoop her out the hole. She falls on her back on my open journal. Did I mention they spray that noxious poison too and stink up your stuff and hands and when you are trying to get them out of your hair, they spray so you need to shampoo three times? I forgot they do this. My journal, windowsill and bifocals now need washed.

Fakie is playing dead. I forgot they do this too. With no natural predators, one would think that they would not need to play dead here in North America. Do you suppose it will take a few more generations, or could they be thousands of years here before they lose the natural instinct to play dead? I do know they will become even more cold resistant. Good to know for managing winter happy aphids in the winter garden here in the Great Lakes region.

What to do with her? I never did decide. No, I’m not keeping her in a jar until Spring. Get a grip.

I let her fall onto a soft tissue, then tuck her into an old envelope from my office trash basket, fold the envelope securely so she will not get out. Put her into the trash right on top so I can think about what to do with her. Don’t worry, I won’t leave her there. She wanted to hibernate in peace and warmth anyway. While I think where she will hibernate, I will write my next essay.

Obnoxious little fake ladybug.

Read Gracie’s Freezing Little Sister next. Oh yes, and hubby’s response to the airlock issue.

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Essa Adams is the author of a spiritual fiction romance novel.   A Breath Floats By: An Illusion for the Soul. Penname Thayne Hudson.  “What would you do if you realized you married your best friend’s soulmate?”   Yes, attitude and all, she is a writer of spirituality, really. Excerpts and Chapter One are at ESSA Books.

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She also writes essays on her pet skunks and other fur children, both in blogs and her book, Skunk Medicine: There’s A Skunk In the House! and Other Tail-raising Stories. Pet skunks and Newfoundland dog excerpts are at ESSA Books.

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This blog is entitled ” Women’s Fiction ” because it is about life as a woman. ‘Write what you know.’  ‘Make sure you have suffered enough first.’ Myths, dense observations and the lies we have been told.

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© Copyright December 2008.

Contact author for details on permission to reprint.

ESSA Books

Turquoise Autumn

November 9, 2009

autumnThe startling turquoise of the sky behind russet and golden leaves made me think of my mother the moment I opened my eyes this morning.

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Mom has been gone for over a decade but the colours of autumn always bring the best of memories.  These colours were of the favorite dress I ever had.  She sewed the dresses like crazy to be done for holiday, one for her, one for me, one for my sister.  The material was crisp, medium plaid with azure and turquoise running with rust, bark, golds, maple, wheat colours.  I think she thought that plaid the loveliest material ever too.

Autumn means to me, Mom at her finest.  She was a vivacious, wild card, yet Martha Stewart-type.  A wild card, period.  Ask the family.  But she was down-to-earth.  The farmer heritage ran through-and-through.

She never stopped harvesting.  Rhubarb, strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, peaches, apples, grapes.  The vegetable garden, her gardens.  I think an acre with everything consolidated.thruautumn

The best ever, I think, was Mom stealing walnuts from the farmer.  Well, the tree did stand by the road.  The walnuts did fall in the middle of the road.  They did stay there for days on end after they fell.

But every year we stole them.  She rushed in with the back of the car right by those walnuts.  Hurry Hurry.  Out we would jump, us two girls, sometimes our cousins or a friend.  We would throw the walnuts into a box in the trunk and she sped us away.  Us innocent children fearing arrest.

Did I say she was a wild card?  She was a light.  In those moments, she was a light.

Every year we dumped walnuts from the farmer’s tree on our driveway.  She would drive over and over them, crushing off the shells.  Then she wore gloves as she cracked them with a hammer and brick, and we dug the walnut meats out with darning needles.  Glass jars of walnuts were on our shelf all winter.

You know what that meant.  The first batch was chocolate walnut fudge and buttered popcorn.  The beginning of the holiday spree.   Like I said, a wild Martha Stewart, never-ending of baking and decorating.  Those were Mom’s good days.

Rake and pumpkins laying on wine barrelTurquoise autumn sky.  Dad hauling huge pumpkins to the front yard that she had milk-fed.  Time to deal with the chickens before winter.  Pruning grapes, digging bulbs.  She could wear long sleeves again, she hated short sleeves anyway.  The last chance to get out and see some friends before winter snows kept her in the county.

But mostly, it was all about that dress.

Essa Adams

Essayist, writer, novelist.

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A Breath Floats By: An Illusion for the Soul

Mature women in women's fiction.

I HAD SWINE FLU BEFORE THEY CALLED IT

I take this very seriously though I am a tongue-in-cheek communicator.

In early February 2009, I got sick.  We are talking really really not well.

swine-flu-freezing-fever-swollen-glandsIt started as tired.  I remember thinking, ‘Why am I so tired every morning?’  I could not think of getting up before ten or eleven even though hubby was home on vacation.  Then my body started to fill with fluid and I wondered if I had congestive heart failure.

Then the Swine Flu permeated my body so I could no longer stay in denial.  I did not know it was H1N1 until long after recovery.  Which was a long way off.  I am pretty convinced it came to me through a Chicago connection who works with hundreds of people each day.  Now that we hear what people experience with the H1N1 virus, I am certain I encountered this way back then.  It was unlike any other flu and I am fifty-two.

FLU PERSONALITIES

Each flu virus is different.  Then, in each person it takes a new approach.  The same but different.  Fever, chills, aches, nausea, loss of appetite.

Yes, intestinal aggravations and vomiting can be a complication of the flu.  But the intestinal symptoms on their own are not really flu because the way I see it….  flu is about a raging infection of the very glands whose job it is to grab the infection and fight it…. with copious discharge of the glands, ultimate bronchial congestion, endless cough to dislodge infectious phlegm from body, consequent breathing difficulty, and even fluid in the lungs.

That is why intestinal complications are referred to as ‘intestinal flu’.  And these are serious as they can cause dehydration and that is most serious of all.  Dehydration is when the body dries up and the infection rages higher.

MY FLU PERSONALITY

My Swine Flu was all about the throat.  Like strep only without the crown-to-the-floor-nailing headache I always used to get with strep before I kicked it for good using my own special home remedy. Perhaps I did not feel the other symptoms at first, except the tired part, because of my natural remedies, I don’t know, can’t call it.  For me, it was the throat.

With this flu, February 2009, my throat was on fire, I could not begin to want to drink water but I forced myself.

THEN THE PHLEGM AND COUGH

Then came the phlegm drainage of the swollen glands in my neck which brought the constant cough.  I wanted to not cough but the cough was never-ending, day and night.  And coughing is to protect us from taking the phlegm into our bodies even deeper, coughing purpose is to get it out.  So I tried to never take anything to stop the cough.  In short, I worked with it.  Drank as much as water as possible to keep the bronchial loose and phlegm thin so I could cough it out.

Not pretty, but the phlegm and undulating infection is what the plague was all about.   If they got through that, the pneumonia was next.

AFTER FLU WATCH FOR PNEUMONIA – THE KILLER KIND

Me, I could not breathe at one point, but we are not there yet. I was at the point of pneumonia when I called the doctor though.

I went to a stupid doctor who could get me in before the weekend.  What is it with me and doctors anyway?  He told me I had a cold.  If I had strep, he did not test.  Just gave me antibiotics which I did not take.  Could he not see I was grey as cement, no air, no oxygen, no nothing left to give to this flu fight.

Recovery

I left the stupid doctor’s office and went to the natural health store.  Should have gone there first, I realize.   Got more blackberry syrup as an effective phlegm expectorant.  Some cranberry concentrate for the bronchial and breathing, and that helped some but I was in rought shape by then.  Got some teas for nutrition.  Some homeopathics to continue to follow my other symptoms.  Home to try to live.  But I really was having a hard time breathing.

That night during a snowstorm while hubby was at work on midnight shift – yes, he should not have gone that night, we know – I could not breathe well.  I realized the suck-the-life-out-of-me energy going into the cough was taking my air, it was closing in, I was getting less and less air every time, coughing more sporadically.  Asthma like.

I was ready to call an ambulance.  Found a bottle of homeopathic remedy for asthma in my ‘cold and asthma’ tupperware box, thank goodness for organization.  Took four pellets and the cough stopped in twenty seconds.  Done, gone.  Breathing normal.

My throat still hurt like hell.  But I could breathe.  Because now is was all about the oxygen.

I had to use the asthma homeopathic remedy a few more times.  This was a combination I had purchased four years before on a whim, even though I do not clinically have asthma.

RECOVERY – OR NOT

Then it was all about the recovery.  I was wrung out like an old washrag.

Sage 6 mo

Could not walk across the house without gasping.  Dishes wore me out, I was exhausted.  I continued to sleep lengthy hours, forced myself to shower, it was so hard.  That’s what walking pneumonia can do.  I didn’t even have that.

Sage two days after rescue  snooorrreeeee  (6 mo)

The men from hubby’s work got this too, said they could not walk half a block without sitting down, it was the most debilitating they ever experienced.  It was the most extreme I ever experienced too.

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Hubby, not so much.  He got it and with the homeopathics he used he was able to not feel so much, stay strong and think he was infallible.  When he went in to work with it the guys tried to kill him.

SELF SHIELD – SELF PRESERVE – SELF RESPONSIBILITY

There are many ways to protect yourself from flu, any flu.  I wish I had started earlier, not been wondering so long what was wrong.

1) Colloidal silver – look up Natural Health Solutions Nanosilver and others.  Colloidal silver smothers the bad bacteria, leaving the good bacteria to fight for you.

2) Homeopathic choices are another way, they make the symptoms more subtle while the virus passes through the system… they do not make you well, just stronger.  Get a good homeopath ahead of time.  Homeopathic choices can be given prior to being exposed too, and at first onset if that is what is called for.  Every person is a different candidate for a different choice, homeopaths understand.

3) Keep hydrated.

4)  Do not dry up your cough either.

5) Keep a good asthmatic combination on hand for emergency.  These are available at health stores and online shops.

FLU SHOT

Nope, I did not say do not get a flu shot.  I absolutely will not say that.  Though I will say I would rather go through what I did than risk a flu shot or the new vaccine that is untested.  I did not say do not go to a medical practitioner.  Though I would say I wish my very own practitioner had been around that week.  I will never say what you can take, as I am not a medical practitioner.  I will say this – plan ahead.

Yes, I am just saying….

Be prepared.

Have a plan prior.

Self shield.

Godspeed.

Stay strong.

~And she was at peace…

December 24, 2008

spiritual awakening for life work We all need our magic spiritual train in life. What a blessing to find that magic when we are three.

I cannot stand waiting for Christmas just for my granddaughter to be able to open her gift. This year Thomas and friends is the magic Christmas present. I traded gifts with my daughter so they could give the train to her, but that doesn’t matter. Well, as long as I’m not the one giving jeans, so when she sees nothing fun in the bag says, “It’s gone.”

You understand if you have been a parent of small children, even older ones, they are so excited for a special gift that may unlock the world for them. Music, art, games, skates, globes, strobe lights, dolls. It’s all good. But does the gift match the child?

My daughter loved her bicycle, and she always was a local round-about. She loved the books, and she is an editor and writer. Loved the six-year-old cat that is still alive eighteen years later, still living with me, torturing me. Not her, the cat.  She walked on the guitar and dissected the dolls, except Cabbage Patch Stacey.

Point is the perfect Christmas gift for a child is magic for their life. The gift is a life awakening experience. Their spiritual blossoming. My belief system also includes Christmas gifts as an awakening to the child’s past lives, but that is just me believing.

This brings us to the magic train set for my granddaughter. I thought I would buy a Cabbage Patch like Stacey. My granddaughter is half way to four, it is time. I considered a little dish set, play dough and a sled. Lame basics.

While I could not find all the basics, my granddaughter and daughter were missing in a worldwide toy store. We finally met again. I am told they found the perfect present. The entire time the little one had been engrossed with a Thomas and Friends train set. Quietly enthralled and at peace.

Yes, at peace.thomas-and-friends-christmas-story

Imagine what these computer toys do to our children. They make us crazy. Ages one to two, she could not quite press play buttons for music or  pads on some learning games. I felt her solar plexus rage, I want to scream obscenities and shake my computer too. Computer hell at age one.

I witnessed my granddaughter, at age three, bashing the fake cell phone against her palm because the child was speaking plain English and the computerized message was redundant. Come on. We’re going to have a country of really ticked off little kids running around.

But the train is magic. The train touched this child’s heart. I believe it speaks to her of past lives. Take what you need here and leave the rest, that’s okay. I believe the train is a life training tool for her future. A spiritual awakening for work she will bring to this world that touches hundreds of thousands of lives.

Will she be a writer of train history? Photographer or illustrator of books? Programmer of new technology?  An engineer for green-powered locally run trains in our cultural return to ecological sustainability. Will she be involved in the movement that pulls vintage trains from their graveyards to recycle them for the coming age of small communities around North America where the local market is actually local, and community’s wide market narrowed to five-hundred square miles? When engineers and drivers come home evenings. When family is reunited.

The magic train I hid under my huge coat. Yes, I paid for it, smile. But before we could leave the worldwide toy store, my daughter pried our pleading, but courageous and well-mannered little one from the exhibit train’s magical presence. A heart-rending scene without a tantrum.

The miracle happened. We passed a DVD box on a corner shelf three aisles away, completely out of place, at my eye-level, on its back no less. Forlorn and affordable with a ripped corner. Thomas’ smiling face, the movie, a caboose, even a little book. Look, I show my daughter who was beside herself with empathy for her daughter. We smile and turn to the little one. Shall we get this to watch the movie? Yes, she smiled. Daughter and I agreed that the surprise is not worth the heartbreak for a child. We had to be shown how to deal with the rending moment.

My daughter when she was half way to four.

My daughter with Stacey when she was half way to four.

That ripped up box for me is the miracle I watch for every day of my life. I know we are being taken care of because these little conveniences, these little coincidences never cease. But I know they are never coincidences. I know an angel placed the box on that empty shelf. It’s my miracle, I can believe.

As we left the worldwide toy store, Dora and Sponge Bob faded. Eh with them, granddaughter had the train movie. I cannot wait for her to open the magic train.

Merry Christmas Eve to all whenever you read these stories.

Essa Adams, Women’s Fiction blog

shortversionredballsBe sure to read Gracie: The Freezing Fake Christmas Ladybug before you go, then enter the novel giveaway for December.

~The quilt on the wall

December 16, 2008

Seasonal pausetree

You may momentarily wonder, as you visit, is Women’s Fiction a blog as in a journal?  Or is Women’s Fiction a short story forum within a blog?

Both.

Women’s Fiction will cover a range of life concerns from beliefs to gardening, body image to political (i.e. caring for the people) and relationships to animal rights.

A tapestry of women’s voices are being pieced for the quilt on the wall. This will be a rich wool-backing, whereas the creative side of short stories will dance and illuminate.

Why the pregnant pause?

Actually, I prefer the term peri-menopausal pause.  Seriously though – the holidays are all around us now, but I don’t hear them this year.  Something is amiss in the world, oh what can that be?

I continue to represent what I feel with Gracie, the tiny fake ladybug that needed me. For today, for me, this is as real as it gets.

The little fake ladybug sleeping in an envelope in my desk drawer. Yes, oh yes, she’s in my drawer. Her sister, Phoebe, seems to be down in the wall.

What was also real for me was to reach out, wanting to share a story that flowed from me. Wanting for someone, anyone, to smile while there is so much amiss. My ultimate offering.

I am a person of words, could write until dawn passes and comes again.

But no one has time to read, especially now when it seems like the world could cave in. When we need to ignore that for a time because there are so many holiday preparations. Reading is for January.

So I say briefly to you tonight in an intensely un-politically-correct outpouring….

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas… and all the other happy and merry stuff that goes with this season. I hope you and your family smile often.

Essa

ESSA Books

Remember to enter the book give-away after you read Gracie: The Christmas Ladybug