We all need craziness to help beat the February blahs. This February, Little Guy and I brainstormed plnety of photo ideas for our entry in Evil Squirrel’s Second Annual Contest of Whatever. The rules were simple:
1. Create something using whatever kind of art form you wish.
2. The theme this year is games. I want some form of a game to be involved in your creation. Anything that involves competition between two or more participants is allowed… board games, sports, multiplayer video games, children’s activities… etc.
3. Your creation must include at least two characters… and they must be at least two different species of animals!
So here’s our last minute entry…behind the scenes of “Angry Birds”…
Good news! Our week of quarantine is over! Being housebound made it difficult to tackle this past week’s challenge (that, and I had no energy). Sometimes the greater challenge is using what’s right under your nose!
To see more, click here.
I have a question. Do they shoot the old mare before they take her to the glue factory? This old graying mare wants to know. All weekend I have quietly uttered, “kill me now” but no one in my family is listening to me (as if I should be surprised). Once again, the plague has struck our house. Last Thursday night, I was once again shivering, sweating, aching, and coughing my way through the night (I still am). I worked Friday morning…and haven’t been back since. It’s 4:45 in the afternoon and I’m writing in my pink bathrobe. I did shower and get dressed today – just for the record…
Hubby and Big Guy (who is living here temporarily while he works in a neighbouring city) managed to drag themselves to work Monday morning, but Little Guy was starting to cough and felt warm so I kept him home. When I got up at noon (don’t judge me) he had developed spots – big ones, little ones, angry-red-boil-like ones…like I said, the plague!
I booked an appointment with our family doctor for Tuesday, so Hubby could take the day of and take him. They certainly didn’t need my germs too. Little Guy had to go for bloodwork in the afternoon, so I arranged an appointment…after hours when the clinic was empty…and the staff were gowned and masked!
Yes, we are “unclean” and awaiting test results. So for the remainder of the week, Little Guy and I will be “unofficially quarantined” at home. On the plus side, I’m losing weight and my Minecraft Worlds are looking marvelous. On the down side, I feel no better than I did nearly a week ago…and Little Guy talks non-stop! I’ve completed 7 loads of laundry and like the jar of oil, it never runs out… I’ll let you know when the frogs and locusts arrive…
Since it’s Wilderness Wednesday and I’m not venturing anywhere near the great outdoors, I chose a photo from my archives! Cheers!
So still. Resting gently on the starched, white bed sheets. Her hands, almost blue, the skin paper thin and translucent, barely stretched across bone and ligament. Her hands, finger tips once nicked by sewing needles deftly weaving stitches in colourful patchwork wonders to swathe a newborn or shroud an invalid. Her hands, once calloused, fingernails caked with mud, tending vegetables in a patchwork of soil, or coated with sugar and flour and butter, a patchwork of dishes served to family and neighbours. Her hands, red and chapped from washing soiled bedding and soothing fevered brows, gently caring for aging relatives and growing children. Her hands, scarred but strong, competently filling heavy responsibilities on a farm, in a home. Her hands, young and supple, stroking the hands of her beautiful babies, marvelling at their size, reaching to caress the hand of the man she loves. Her hands, small and smooth reaching to move the checker across the game board, reaching for her doll in the night. Her hands, so small, fingernails like little pearls, resting gently on the starched, white bed sheets. So still.
The assignment today was to write a poem about fingers in a prose format.
An old man stands silently along the shore.
His clothes are worn and musty, pulled closely around his body
Against the bitter, salty mist.
The mist, a scent that beckoned him across the billowing waves
To a land where tired gray eyes stare sadly now.
His mind turns back to a day
When the skeleton of the abandoned dock was alive with young men and women,
And parents who aged unnoticed as the minutes ticked away.
The air was thick with voices – crying, laughing,
The odd word from an anxious mother, wife
Who tried to hard to hold the tears inside and failed.
And soon the boat pulled away from the dock,
The faces blurred, the voices muffled
Until the salty mist carried them all away, and accompanied young boys to where…
…to where? To no man’s land where muffled sounds died with another man’s dreams.
The old man’s face grows darker as he closes his eyes.
Shadows begin to invade the creases and hollows that came with the years.
The old man shivers violently against the sights and sounds locked forever in his memory.
Never shared, never fully understood.
His country had called him to serve, to fight for freedom, for peace.
He recalled no glory then,
When soldiers in tattered uniforms and caked with mud, fell lifeless on the ground.
A lone gull cries and the old man turns from the water.
A gull’s shrill cry had accompanied him home to Canada
Where aching arms would cling to loved ones,
And ache to fill the arms of those left behind.
The dead still call to him behind the veil.
The old man shakes his head and wipes a tear from his face.
He slowly limps away down the beach until the evening mist envelopes him.
And he is forgotten.
Symmetry (noun): the quality of something that has two sides or halves that are the same or very close in size, shape, and position; the quality of having symmetrical parts.
“There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.” – Henry James
To see more Symmetrical photos, click here.
A shadow fills the skies
“Danger”, a blue jay cries
Snow falls, soft and serene
Like a haunting dream
Cloaking the silent spies.