Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

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

June 1, 2006

Today’s announcements

Happy birthday my dear sweet writer and friend, Maria Doherty, wishes you the best day ever and the inspiration to write, write, write.

Wow another new writer for Storytime Tapestry.  Today, Leeuma Foster becomes writer # 331.  Please email her and give her the famous Storytime Tapestry welcome!

The Memorial Day Stories finish today and the Publishers Pick, goes to Vance Agee for his wonderful story SSGT. John Hilton, Europe, WWII.

Vance had the privilege to read his story in front of the entire church congregation this Sunday – there were 270 members present.  If you would like more stories about WWII and or John Hilton, please contact Vance:

Now onto the good stuff!

Today’s Queue Stories

~**~**~

GOD, TIME AND SUNSHINE

Leeuna Foster

As I again lifted the shovel over my head... a sudden lack of strength in my arms prevented me from striking another blow. The shovel dropped from my useless fingers into the ruined flowerbed.

My legs would no longer support my bulky frame and I collapsed upon my knees among the broken and bleeding Irises. The tears that had been gouging against the backs of my eyelids finally broke free and streamed down my face. I wrapped my arms around my bulging belly and rocked back and forth. My tears dripped onto the crushed purple petals of the flowers my husband had loved so much, and this made me cry even harder.

I could smell the damp earth and the fragrant flowers. A cloud passed over the sun and yet I still felt its warmth across my shoulders. I bit down hard on my bottom lip and tasted the blood, like warm copper upon my tongue.

The dam had broken. I cried out all the tears that ever was or ever would be. I cried until my eyes were dry.

This was the first time.

I hadn't cried at the funeral. I was too angry then.

I came to the garden today with good intentions... to remove some of the flowers from the bed and transplant them in the cemetery. It needed to be done while the soil around the grave was still fresh. Instead I had attacked the flower bed with a vengeance, hacking and beating the lovely blossoms with the shovel until nothing remained except a pitiful mass of green and purple.

Now I felt an even deeper sadness as I gazed around at the carnage brought about by my own hands. I had vented my rage on the helpless innocent flowers.

But isn't that the way of life...isn't it always the innocent who pay for the sins of the guilty?

I lifted my face skyward and the sun dried the mud and the tears upon my cheeks.

'It isn't fair, God! It just isn't fair"

Kyle was only forty-six years old. He survived Vietnam...and his homecoming...when he had been spit upon and called 'Baby Killer'.

He survived Desert Storm. This time he came home surrounded by his comrades, laughing and cheering atop a charter bus. Driving through miles and miles of yellow ribbons, welcome-home signs, and red-white-and blue flags, waving in the hands of the proud and the joyous.

He survived all that only to die a violent, senseless death six months later. To be gunned down by a psychopath whose only reason for killing was to watch his victims die.

Kyle, with the laughing brown eyes, the eternal smile.

Kyle, who would never be forty-seven, nor see his third-born child.

Kyle, who loved purple Irises.

I could empathize with the flowers. I knew what it was to be crushed and broken.

Filled with remorse, I tried to straighten some of the broken stems, to somehow undo the damage that I had done, but it was hopeless. Only God and time and sunshine could do that. I rose to my feet and started to leave the garden.

My gaze swept across the flower bed and I spotted one lonely Iris still standing upright. Not a very healthy plant, kind of puny and frail, but somehow it had survived my wrath. I picked up the shovel and pressed its point into the soft earth. The plant was small, but its roots were deep. I could still take this one flower to Kyle's grave. It wouldn't be much to start with, this one lonely Iris, but it would multiply and next year there would be more.

I lifted the flower from its bed and felt the baby move.

The sun broke free of the clouds. My anger was gone. I felt cleansed. I cradled the puny flower against my swollen belly and raised my face toward the sun.

God...and time...and sunshine...

Yes, life does go on.

© Leeuna Foster, 2006.

Leeuna@earthlink.net

Leeuna Foster is a Marketing Strategist, Author and Poet. She has been writing for two decades and her short fiction and poetry have won several national and regional awards. To see more of her work, you can visit her websites at: http://www.thebarefootchild.com

http://www.patchworkweb.com

http://www.southernfriedwriters.com

~**~**~

You Are Not Forgotten

By Robyn Cavalera 

I was sitting at the railway station, waiting patiently for a train out. I noticed a man, dressed in rags, wearing a torn jacket with some old medals. Why? I thought quietly, would a man who looked so important, look and be so lonely and neglected?

Just then I went into a dream or vision. I dreamt I was in a land over a half a world away. People were running and screaming. Men were scattered about the land crying for help, but there was nothing I could do. I over heard a conversation, from one man to another,

"Why are we here Skeater?" He said, with a hardened painful look in his eyes.

"I have no idea Lar, just don't die on me!"

They were huddled in the bushes, bombs falling all around them. Guns firing!

Just then it got quiet...and I felt a bit "older", as I walked through this town. There were foreign people every where, or, was I the foreigner? I saw one man carrying what looked like a part of a telephone pole on his shoulders, his arms wrapped around it. He was dirty and scared like an endless tattoo. I walked on a little further. looking down at my feet, I saw a man in the ground in a box with a lid of straw. he was malnutritioned. His eyes were sunk into his head, and maggots were eating away at his flesh. Still, I walked on. Then I saw a small cage of bamboo; Only, about 3 feet wide, and 3 feet deep. There was a man inside! Battered! He reached out for me, and I took his withered and trembling hand. "Don't let them forget me!" He said.

Just then I woke up with tears in my eyes. The lonely ragged man was sitting next to me. I reached out my hand and took his in mine. I told him, "You are not forgotten!"

This is dedicated to all Vietnam veterans, and all Veterans, and POW/MIA's where ever they may be....You are not forgotten...

Robyn Cavalera
Prayer Warrior/Demon Buster
robyajesusfreak@bellsouth.net
321-268-0390
2950B Temple Lane, Mims FL. 32754
http://home.bellsouth.net/p/pwp-JesusKids
http://scripturemeditate.blogspot.com
Need help?:
Rev, Brenda Kelly
womeninchrist@bellsouth.net
Jeremiah 5:30-31
Ezekiel 33:6
Heal me, O LORD, and I will be healed;
save me and I will be saved, for you are
the one I praise. Jer 17:14
For where two or three come together
in my name, there am I with them."
Matthew 18:20

~**~**~

Surrogate Fathers During WWII

Jeannie Frodsham

During WWII while my dad was overseas my mom and I lived outside of Abilene, Texas.  I was three, one cousin was four and the other six.  There was an Army base near where we lived and the troops would march past our house every day getting ready to go to war.  They stopped to fill their canteens with the cold well water and make use of the outhouse.  They gave always gave us candy and any change they had.  They were told to stop giving us anything, so they had us hide in the bushes and as they walked past they would throw the candy and money in there.

On their days off they would come and play "canteen" and other games.  It was great fun for us but I think even more meaningful to them being away from their families.  They saved us from many spankings by talking the grownups out of it.

One of their favorite things to do was to go skunk hunting and we were thrilled because they let us carry the skunks.  You can guess this was stopped quickly by our parents because of the smell.

I don't remember anything about the war but I do remember these wonderful guys that took time out to make some very poor children happy. 

I was born in Texas, lived in Bakersfield, CA, Seattle, WA and after I was married lived in Alaska.  The last two years we lived in a one-room cabin (with a loft), no running water or electricity, and I used a two-burner camp stove to cook with.  We had an outhouse perched on an 80-foot incline.  Going to the outhouse was interesting when it got to 20 below in the winter or the winds blew.  We had four dogs, two cats and a pony.  Our daughter went to a one-room school.  It is a memory we'll always remember. 

We moved back to Seattle to take care of my husband's mother.  When we retired we moved to the beautiful southern Oregon coast.  We have the ocean and the redwoods close by.  We live 1,100 feet up a hill with fir trees all around.  A friend described it as, "Just this side of heaven" and it is.

Jeanie Frodsham

fjfrog@charter.net

~**~**~

Purple Heart for Cussing at the Enemy?

Jeannie Frodsham

The other one is my father got a Purple Heart for being injured in the war.  He told his parents he stood up in a fox hole and was yelling orders to his men when he got shot on his upper lip.  He told my mother a bomb hit too close to the fox hole and he stood up and swore.  Knowing my dad's language, I think the second is closer to the truth.

I was born in Texas, lived in Bakersfield, CA, Seattle, WA and after I was married lived in Alaska.  The last two years we lived in a one-room cabin (with a loft), no running water or electricity, and I used a two-burner camp stove to cook with.  We had an outhouse perched on an 80-foot incline.  Going to the outhouse was interesting when it got to 20 below in the winter or the winds blew.  We had four dogs, two cats and a pony.  Our daughter went to a one-room school.  It is a memory we'll always remember. 

We moved back to Seattle to take care of my husband's mother.  When we retired we moved to the beautiful southern Oregon coast.  We have the ocean and the redwoods close by.  We live 1,100 feet up a hill with fir trees all around.  A friend described it as, "Just this side of heaven" and it is.

Jeanie Frodsham

fjfrog@charter.net

~**~**~

 Other Heart Breaks During the War

Jeannie Frodsham

During WWII my father was in Holland and invited to someone's home for dinner.  They told him about their daughter.  She was four.  She came in and asked to be dressed in her best dress.  When asked why she said she couldn't say.  Her mother dressed her up and went on about her work.  A while later she wondered what had happened to her daughter.  She went into her daughter's room and she was lying on the bed.  She had died.  Somehow she knew she knew she was going to die and wanted to be dressed for it.  They gave my father her wooden shoes to bring home to me.

I was born in Texas, lived in Bakersfield, CA, Seattle, WA and after I was married lived in Alaska.  The last two years we lived in a one-room cabin (with a loft), no running water or electricity, and I used a two-burner camp stove to cook with.  We had an outhouse perched on an 80-foot incline.  Going to the outhouse was interesting when it got to 20 below in the winter or the winds blew.  We had four dogs, two cats and a pony.  Our daughter went to a one-room school.  It is a memory we'll always remember. 

We moved back to Seattle to take care of my husband's mother.  When we retired we moved to the beautiful southern Oregon coast.  We have the ocean and the redwoods close by.  We live 1,100 feet up a hill with fir trees all around.  A friend described it as, "Just this side of heaven" and it is.

Jeanie Frodsham

fjfrog@charter.net

~**~**~

A New Memorial Day For Me

 Sharon Bryant

This year Memorial Day holds a different meaning for me.  Another wonderful veteran has now gone on.  A man I knew all my life, respected and loved.  My father.

I remember when the WWII Memorial was opened to the public in Washington.  Dad called me and asked me if I'd seen it on TV.  I told him yes.  "About time someone remembers the thousands who fought in that war," he said.  I knew it was bringing back memories for him, but I didn't say anything.  I figured if he wanted to talk about it, he would, and if not, I wasn't going to pressure him.

My family knew his nickname during WWII.  They called him The mad Pollock.  Not because dad was crazy acting.  Matter of fact, he had more common sense in his little finger than most have in their whole body.  I knew he earned his nickname.

He earned it because his job during WWII in the Army was to drive the ammunition truck to the front lines.  He sometimes talked about the men who didn't make it.  He told me how hard it was for him to see a soldier lying on the ground and no one having the time to pick him up.  Dad did.  He would get out of the truck he was driving and either carry or drag a soldier to the truck and get him back to camp.  His buddies all told him he was nuts, that he'd get killed doing that.  Dad said, "Every man needs to be brought back home.  I couldn't leave a soldier out there on the ground."

Sometimes Dad said he didn't think he was going to make it when he was carrying a soldier, but with God's help, he always did.

I miss his stories.  I miss the pride he always had for every branch of the military.  I am proud of the man I call my dad.  For I know he gave it his all from 1942 to 1945 in the Army. 

Tomorrow, I'll wear a shirt with a flag on it.  I always do.  I'll have my flag flying like I always do.  But this year.......for the first time, I won't be able to pick up the phone and dial that number 900 miles away and say, "Happy Memorial Day, Dad."  Instead I'll hold his photo in my hands and look at the man I am so proud of.

I'm glad he was The mad Pollock.  I'm glad he cared for his fellow soldiers. 

I'm proud to be his daughter.

Sharon Bryant

1946@bellsouth.net

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.; Cavalera, Robyn; Crider, Mark; Deming, Barb; Doherty, Maria; Gilbert, Robert, Jr.; Goodier, Steve; 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; Morris, Deepak; Ojeibge, Georgewaters; Petry, Dianna Doles; Roberts, Susan; Shiveley, Debra; Shaw, Bob; Sims, Richard; 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

Carol Roach - Founder/publisher

Thelma Hartselle - Co-Founder, Moderator

Clara Westerfer – moderator

Bob Johnston - moderator