Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness around the world.

October 7, 2006

Today’s Queue Stories

~**~**~

Just Three Words

Michael T. Smith

            July 1, 2005, I met my three grandchildren and my stepdaughter, Heather, for the

first time. She was having marital problems. We were there to bring them back to New

Jersey to live with us.

            Ginny and I walked through the airport in Oklahoma. "There they are!" she said.

             "Where," I asked, looking around.

            "There!" Ginny pointed.

            I saw a beautiful young lady and two boys - ages three and five - the oldest two.

They stared at me, as Heather and Ginny hugged. Ginny turned to the boys and opened

her arms, "Joshie! Seth Man! I missed you!"

            They ran into her arms. It’d been a year since they'd seen their Gingin. Her hugs

were needed. Grandmother hugs are the best. Ginny stood. Heather and the boys stared at

me - the unknown grandpa.

            Heather was polite, but I could sense the doubt. Who was this man? I would have

to convince her, I wasn't replacing her dad. Her dad was in Heaven now. I was just a man

who loved her mom.

            Joshie and Seth were too shy to look at me. They stood, side-by-side, their eyes passing from Ginny and Heather, with only quick glances in my direction. Their eyes said

it all, "Is that our new Poppa?"

            We shared hugs and went back to their house, where I met Benny and his other

grandma - Sonja. Benny was the youngest of the three and even more afraid of me.

            The next day, the older boys were doing flips over my lap and laughing. Benny

hugged Sonja, still scared of me. The following day, we packed the kids in the car and

headed for New Jersey.

            My life changed. My house had been full of breakable and memorable things. In a

few weeks they were gone. I hid them in closets and drawers. Our bedroom became a

storage room. There are only so many times you can tell a child not to touch something

before you realize, they can't help it. I just packed it all away!

            Ginny and I used to spend time talking or reading when I came home from work,

but with the grandkids there, we would be interrupted. It was a new life. The quiet times

were gone.

            A year later, Heather and the boys are leaving on a new adventure. The boys

are visiting their dad in Oklahoma and will join their mom in Idaho in a few months. Our

house is empty. We have our life again - or do we?

            I was up at 5 AM to see them off on their trip to see their dad. Their bags were

packed and loaded in the car. We grabbed the last of their stuff, clamored down the steps

and opened the car doors.

            Benny and Seth jumped in, excited about the trip and seeing their dad. I gave

them the best hugs I could, considering they were in such a hurry. Tears formed in my

eyes. They'd been a thorn in my side, but I'd grown used to those thorns.

            I buckled Benny in his car seat, stood, and heard, "Poppa Mike?”

            I turned toward the voice. Joshie stood staring at me. He’d snuck around the back

of the car. “Yes, Joshie?”

            “I love you.”

            "I love you too, Joshie," I said. Big tears began to roll down my cheeks. "I love

you too, buddy. I'll miss you. Be a good boy for your daddy."

            The car pulled away.  I went into the house and looked around. There were a few small toys scattered

about. I saw a plastic block in a corner. In the kitchen was a pack of Crayons. Behind the

sofa was a cart full of Leggos©.

            My house was bare of trinkets but full of memories.

            A few days later, I sat in the living room and noticed the scratch marks on my

teak coffee table. They were the marks from a "Bob the Builder" plastic saw. When I

first saw those marks, I was so angry, I stomped out of the house and took a long

walk to cool my temper.

            I thought of all the breakables hidden in closets. Memories of a broken lamp,

stomping feet, yelling, screaming, crying, interrupted conversations, spilled drinks and

sprayed food flashed through my mind. It had been a rough year for me. I had a hard time

adjusting to having young kids in the house.

            A little boy walked around the back of the car and said, "I LOVE YOU!" The

stress, cries, scratches on tables, stains in carpets, tablecloths cut with scissors, screams,

nicks, marks, and broken furniture were forgiven.

            Joshie, the one who was the most troublesome, made it right. He was the middle

child, struggling to be acknowledged before his brothers. He said three words. That's all it

took, just three powerful words - I LOVE YOU!

Michael T. Smith

mtsmith@qwestonline.com

To read my stories or to sign up
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http://archives.zinester.com/86758/

 ~**~**~

The Prince and I

A short story by Louise Nomani

I have been looking for a prince for a very long time.  I know him in my mind and in my dreams for I have had a great many years to define him.  The prince will be handsome, of course; he will be tall and dark with expressive eyes that are wise and kind.  I will know him in an instant and he, me; and our knowledge of each other will make a strong bond between us.

It is June, and the blues of Maine Lupine are prolific and bright amidst the granite and slate and greenery of our roadsides. The pinks and purples of Azalea and Rhododendron serve as exclamation points, and I pinch myself to be certain that this is real.  It is all too grand!  It is a magical month.  It is the perfect month to meet a prince, and my hopes are high.

All these years I’ve been searching for him.  I have imagined him and dreamed of him in a dark all weather coat of fine fabric that is  soft and lustrous, giving to the touch and smooth as

satin.    He will be strong and tall and mysterious in a kind way.  I know he will have his way of testing me, of testing my understanding of him and laughing at me in my oversight of the obvious.

“Louise,  Sam said, Would you like to ride Dutch or the Prince?”  I felt my breath catch. “Prince ?”  He was the tall dark handsome one in stall six. Could this be the one I’ve been looking for?  My mind tore into the possibilities while Sam stood there patiently waiting for an answer.  It was a question.  I knew Dutch, but Prince was a different sort; and I didn’t understand his transmission.  Dutch, on the other hand, was well known to me.  He was honest and responsive and generally forgiving of my ignorance.  I always appreciate Dutch.  I think his company makes me look good, and that is very good for the ego. 

            One should do things the easy way, but sometimes its fun to test the dimensions of the equation.  Sometimes its fun to sit a little on the edge and wait for the unexpected.

            “Goodness, I replied, you know I love Dutch, but it would be good for me to get to know the Prince.  Maybe if I get to know him better we can come to an understanding.  I just don’t know how to push his buttons”

“Very well,” she said, and the agenda was set.  My breath caught, and my heart beat faster.  I didn’t really know the prince at all though we had been introduced once.  That seemed long ago.  I walked to meet him now, and like a little girl my heart was fluttering; and I stuttered as I offered him my hand.  The Prince ignored it with an arrogance that was unbecoming.  It irked me.  I would not be put off, and I rubbed his neck.  He saw me then, and I almost laughed at the little boy in him, at the man in him that liked to be petted by a woman.

I may have snorted and the sound did not flatter me.  Prince tossed his head and I clearly heard his words.  “Well, I suppose you may ride me but I will not be easy.” He was getting his back up, and I could tell that he would test me.

            Well I booted him and padded him; I bridled and saddled him.  He was clean and glossy and very tidy, and I was already disheveled with dirty hands and dirty boots and hair flying out from under my hat.  The prince had a clear advantage, and I could see the scorn in his eyes as we left the barn for the arena.   The growing knot in my stomach confirmed that this would not be easy.

            Still I had him though, this prince. I had him in my hands.  I took one hand off the reins and stroked his neck begging his cooperation, asking for kindness.  He gave me one eye, and it seemed to pose a question.  It was The Question, I suppose.  “Can you ride me?” Do you know what you’re doing up there?”

            Well of course.  I picked up the reins, tucked my seat and closed my legs around the barrel of this fine steed.  Eyes came upon us, measuring us as we entered the arena.  The voice of the instructor was soft but all knowing, and it exuded the confidence I was looking for. I began to feel stronger, and the strangeness of this princely horse began to recede.  I took a firmer hold of him and felt him acknowledge the connection.

            “Tell me about your horse,” she said, and I told her that he was a prince of fine breeding and high mindedness.  I told her that his mouth was keenly sensitive and sweet---- always yielding to me with no demands but, that his mind was tainted with the arrogance of royalty.   “He loves to be stroked with complements, I whined, but he is hugely indifferent to my requests.”  I complained to her that the prince lacked a transmission; I complained about his power train.

“Well, the instructor said, you don’t ride a horse with your hands, do you?”  “ You don’t ride him with your feet.  You must ride this horse with your seat!”  With that to digest, she discharged us to another space.   “Warm him up she said, Twenty minutes of walking for you and horse.  Let’s find those muscles.  Let’s finds those bones.  We’ll find the connection.”

            I saw a new brightness in Prince’s eye.  He knew this routine and was beginning to feel relief.  He had a glimmer of hope that he would be saved after all from the clod who was sitting on his back with so little grace.

            I warmed the Prince up a little, but mostly I was the pupil of calisthenics doing circles with my shoulders, my arms, my legs, and my feet. “Soft eyes,” she repeated to me over and over; but I was busy twirling my big toe and defining a clock with my seat bones.  I could have been blind, for my awareness of body parts erased the definition of the arena.  I did not see; I could only feel.  Fortunately the prince was not so distracted, and he kept to the path in spite of the mixed signals radiating from above.

            “Let’s wake up” a voice said. “Trot on.”  I closed my legs around this fine horse and picked my hands up just a little.  No response.  We plodded onward, the prince and I .  I couldn’t find second gear much less third.  I couldn’t get him into drive mode.  The prince was rolling his eyes I could tell.  He was blowing me off with an indifference that was an embarrassment.  The instructor was stoic, but I could feel a smile in her voice.  “Louise, she said.  This is a trained horse.  You have to ride him”

Oh my God.  This was not going to be a tea party. 

She saved me from further humiliation coming up to me and repositioning this piece of anatomy and that.  She prodded and pushed and aligned and realigned.  I began to come together.

            YES, I found it.   I found the go button with my seat, and the Prince and I trotted out with an energy that was engaging and lovely to watch. It was grace and beauty and energy that was connected and shared.  It was communication that made it possible, but I was still not certain of the language.” Where are you sitting?” the instructor asked.  “On my seat bones,” I replied weakly.  “How do you know?” she asked.  My reply came easily.  “I think they’re getting blisters.”

The princely beast became a horse, and my exuberance nearly overwhelmed me. I mastered the transmission and found his ear.  He found mine as well.  “Pay attention, he said to me.  Look out!!!!”  A loud bee had found his leg, and the panic was real.  “Hang on,” he warned.  I’m out of here;” With a huge half turn on his haunches and leap over an invisible wall, he found safe space.  SHOW OFF!  I heard him chortle in his satisfaction.  I was still in the middle of him, and I could hear the instructor breath a sigh of relief.  We didn’t miss a beat.   The Prince and I had found our language, and we praised one another for our grand success.  The tall dark handsome one was mine this grand day, and I felt indeed a princess.

Many thanks to Sam Morrison and

Karen Ireland

Centered Riding Instructors

~**~**~

Readers Feedback

Carol, you are a survivor!  Your life has made you special with a core of understanding and caring that few share.  LOL      Louise

100 Things to Know About Me by Carol Roach:  I have learnt a lot from this story.  I shall forward it to a younger friend who thinks he has the worst life.  He lost his mother when he was just 7 years and each time anybody makes him angry he always say it because he hasn’t got a mother.  He has a father and other relatives but still think negative most times.  He is very aggressive at people and hasn’t got a permanent friend.  He hates people who try to get closer to him.  His father and stepmother are no good for him.  Although, I had similar experience in life but I am learning to overcome the pains, bitterness, seclusion and many more attitudinal behavior borne from such upbringing.  I have taken the job meeting people who have such experience in life to let them know that life is lets live.  We all have something to contribute to this world in our ways so lets forget about the hurts and burns of the past, though, it is hard but lets try, so I always say to them.  I have succeeded in changing few.  One of them about 19 years old, who has never met his biological father is about meeting him sometimes this month.  He is finding it difficult to go over as he has said that if the father doesn’t come over he won’t go to him.  I met my biological mother last year 2005, I went to her so what stops you from going over to him, so I said to him and he is summoning the courage to go now with his mother, some uncles and grand mother.  Life is a misery, filled with pains, anguish, bitterness for some.  Those who have parents don’t know how opportune they are.

GEORGEWATERS OJEIGBE – Lagos, Nigeria gojiegbe@oregun.jhplc.com

Storms and Prayers by Vance Agee: Vance, I do believe in your story on Storms and Prayers.  I believe in miracles, I have seen greater miracles, I have experienced wondereous ones, I have done some in His name.  You have the faith and it worked for you.  A beautiful story, so I have given you the  title, the Storm Doctor.

GEORGEWATERS OJEIGBE – Lagos, Nigeria gojiegbe@oregun.jhplc.com

Feedback

Senior Writers

Chief writer: Sharon Bryant

Chief researcher/historian: Hartson Dowd

Agee, Vance; Apted, Violet; Baker, Kathy; Batt, Al; Berry, Nell; Blaine, Pamela; Boda, Ginger; Booher, Paula; Buhagiar, Victor; Cassady, B.J.; Costner, Joan Clifton; Cavalera, Robyn; Crider, Mark; Dees, Mary; Deming, Barb; Doherty, Maria;  Dowd, Hartson; Dowd, Helen; Gilbert, Robert, Jr.; Gold, Ron; Goodier, Steve; Grisham, Mary-Ellen; Braun-Haley, Ellie; Harris, Kathy Anne; Henry, Linda Ann; Hunt, Sharlett; Hymes, Christina; Jacobson, Gary; Kiser, Roger Dean; Kerens, Claudia; Kevin, Tim; Jenkins, Pamela; Liles, Norma; Lily Jodi Flesberg; Lock, Joyce; Marlor, Janice Bumbalough; Mazzella, Joe; Meeks, Carol; Mizrany, Mary Carter; Morris, Deepak; Ojeibge, Georgewaters; Petry, Dianna Doles; Roberts, Susan; Shiveley, Debra; Shaw, Bob; Sims, Richard; Smith; Michael; Streidel, Saskia; Swarner, Ken; Vaknin, Sam; Verhoeff, Jan; Walker, Bill; Walker, Joe; Warner, Gordon, K; Walsh, Sue; Weymouth, Barbara J.; Whirity, Kathy;

Wainland, David; Westerfer, Clara; White Robert;

Storytime Tapestry Staff

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