The Beach Cottage

Photo courtesy of  Magpie Tales

"Francine, do you realize we've been coming to this same cottage for 20 years", cackled Edith as her sister turned into the sandy driveway and past the mermaid mailbox?

"Has it been that long," Francine pondered?  "Um, now that I think about it, I guess it has.  We started coming here right after Chester passed away.  He would have liked it here - you know he always loved the beach.  I don't think it's changed much over the years, do you?" 

"No, I guess just they patch the shingles and slap on a new coat of paint every couple of years.  I wonder how they get the color matched so perfectly after all these years."

Edith yawned, stretched and pulled her suitcase out of the trunk.  "I don't know, I guess it's all that new technology.  As the kids are always saying, 'there's an app for that'.  So, do we cook or go out?  I say we go out.  It was a long ride, and I'm tuckered. There wil be plenty of time to shop for groceries tomorrow."

Francine, agreeing that they should let someone else do the cooking tonight, said "OK, I think I'll go for a swim before dinner just to relax a bit.  Want to join me?"  

"Sure" Edith answered from the hall, "but I'd like to get a few things put away first.  Edith began to put her stuff into the drawers on the left side of the dresser.  Francine always used the right side.  It's funny how little things become habit after so many years.  The dresser's faded finish showed its age just like the old faucet out back where guests have been rinsing the sand from their feet for decades.  The storms and salt water are hard on the pipes.  They are rusted and showing some patina, but like the sister's reminiscence upon arrival, not much had changed over 20 years, including the old rusty water pipe.


This was written for Magpie Tales #27

Jelly Jar Mojo

Have you ever pulled the jelly jar from the fridge and grunted and strained to get the lid off?  Only to find out that the lid is stuck worse than an elephant in quicksand.  That's when you know that Mongo has been there.  Mongo is what we call the mysteriously powerful critter that sneaks in and super-tightens your jar lids.  You never know when he'll strike.

Jelly jar and my tools.

There wasn't much to choose from for lunch the other day, so I decided on a PB&J.  Bread-check, peanut butter-check, and then I reach for the jelly.  It's just ordinary grape jelly in an ordinary jar.  That is it used to be ordinary.  Now it it's been Mongo-tized.

After some grunting and straining it's still not budging, so I pull out my strap wrench.  This handy-dandy gadget didn't come from any fancy kitchen store.  Nope, hubby got it from the plumber who was working on the toilets at work.  He asked the guy where he could buy one.  Plumber said it's part of the kit and they're disposable.  Well, it got disposed of into hubby's hands, and then into mine.  It usually works like a charm but not this time, all because Mongo snuck in and put his mojo on my jelly jar.  So I went old school and whacked it with the kitchen scissors (Mom's method for loosening stubborn jar lids).  Strange, but it works.  Then I popped the strap wrench back on and... success.  For a moment there I thought I was going to need the jaws of life just to open the jelly.  

Does Mongo ever wreak havoc on your jars?

Quote of the Week

Most of the shadows of this life are caused by our standing in our own sunshine.

 - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Whenever we feel down or overwhelmed perhaps we should look inside ourselves to see if we are casting a shadow over our own happiness.

The Rose Garden

This magpie is building on last week's poem "Through the Door" and is a work of fiction.

As my cousin Gerald and I were reminiscing about the past, Aunt Abigail came to mind.  Gerald spoke lovingly of his mother, but with much sadness as he related his recent visit to his childhood home.  I had known her well when I was younger, but like most of us, I grew up and drifted away.  She was tall and thin with wispy white hair, and always wore an apron.  For all her apparent frailty, she had the vim and vigor of someone nearly half her age.  She worked in her garden every morning before the heat of the day, weeding her precious roses.  Some of them were descendants of roses from the Royal Garden of Queen Elizabeth, which had been sent to her over 30 years ago. She had tenderly cared for them all those years.  Her most prized bush was the yellow rose, called the Spirit of Freedom, that was presented to her by her husband (known to everyone as "the Duke"), the year before he died. 

Photo courtesy of Magpie Tales

Gerald had moved up north after graduation some years ago.  Now with both his parents gone, he was the sole heir to the house and grounds, and had returned to dispose of the property.  Her garden is hidden behind a high wall, and the gate has been locked since her death last year.

He took the rusty key and slowly opened the lock, stiff from exposure to the elements. 

He opened the gate and stared into the garden. It was overgrown with vines, and small trees sprouting from nuts buried by squirrels.  There upon the stone wall leading to the gardener's shed sat his mother's old watering can.  It was half full of water just as if she were tending her precious roses, her solitary companions these last years.  Gerald glanced around the garden and spotted his mother's yellow rose bush among the weeds.  It had one beautiful yellow blossom that shone with beads of water, creating a miniature rainbow in each drop.  As he turned, he saw a fleeting figure with wispy white hair and an apron freshly smudged with dirt.  

"Mother?"

A Stinging Situation

How about those yellow jackets?  Those nasty, mean,  ground-dwelling attack bees? (which aren't really bees at all but rather members of the wasp family). Well, I tangled with some a few weeks ago.  After a long dry spell, we got rain, and the grass began to grow again.  You know how it is in the summer, either feast or famine in the weather department.  In spite of the sweltering heat and humidity, I gassed up the mower and started pushing.  I made one pass down along the fence, turned and started back up the yard.  Ouch...a sharp pain in my leg.  Mower must have picked up a rock or something.  Ow, smack on the other leg - what the heck?  Uh oh...now my ear, I'm in trouble.  I had just mowed over a yellow jacket nest.  

Image Source:  Wikimedia

At that point, I left the mower in its tracks and made a mad dash to the house where I was dancing around, swatting, and hollering like a crazy person.  I'm sure it was a hilarious sight, but there was no one there to witness it.  There was some momentary concern since I'd just been stung three times, and  I'm somewhat allergic to honeybees.  What would yellow jackets do to me?  Hubby was working so the only person to look after me was me.  Isn't that when most stuff happens?  A bee flew past my head, I shrieked and flailed some more.  Afraid there might be more on me, I yanked off my T-shirt and threw it on the floor, charged through the house and back, picked up the shirt - no bees, put shirt back on.  

I tried to e-mail hubby, but I didn't have my glasses and my fingers weren't working too well, all that shaking going on I guess.  I grabbed the cell phone instead, and pushed the quick dial number...it's ringing.  I looked down and saw that there still bees on my pants.  Freaking!  Phone off, pants off inside out, left lying on the kitchen floor with one dead bee still attached.  I charged back through the house for more pants.

Sometime in the midst of all that commotion, I had the good sense to swallow a Benadryl.  With all this racing around, I was out of breath, huffing and puffing like a freight train, so when I got hubby on the phone, it took a couple of minutes for him to get the whole story.  Hubby: "I'm leaving now."  Me: "I didn't call you for you to come home, I just wanted you to know what happened."  Hubby:  "I know, but I want to be there".   

Now for the first aid - I made a paste of meat tenderizer and water to neutralize the pain and swelling (which, when compared to honeybee stings, was relatively minor).  Hubby asked me to call him every 10 minutes as he drove home to make sure I was all right.  Needless to say, I didn't finish the mowing.

Have you tangled with these little nasties, and how did you fare?