Rain and Thunder

 

Summer thunderstorms are an orchestra of nature’s power and beauty. It begins with a distant, low rumble accompanied by a silent flash of lightening.

I sit at my window and began to count. 1 one thousand, 2 one thousand, 3 one thousand, 4 one thousand. CRACK and a flash of lightening. The center of the storm is 4 miles away.

Howling wind kicks up suddenly and swirls of relentless rain make puddles on the pavement and violent run off to the sewer. Thunder rolls across the sky and shakes my aged building.

The birds and insects and lonely cats chasing rats quiet down to wait for the storm to pass. They have been through this endlessly.

The rain tapers off and the thunder is gone as another impressive summer thunderstorm becomes a lasting memory.

Georgia

The Crepe Myrtle Tree

One day during summer vacation a little boy was wandering along the lazy summer creek not far from his home. The water was very clear, but it flowed slowly as there had been little precipitation since the summer had started. Across a meadow a Crepe Myrtle tree caught the boy’s eye. He remembered seeing this tree the previous summer, but it had been bursting with bright red and fuchsia flowers at that time. The little boy walked towards the tree now, but he could see very little color as the flowering tree’s petals were faded and wilting with none of the wonderful, perfumed smells of last year. He remembered how the flowers formed upside down ice-crème cones last year but were now losing their shape. This made the little boy sad, and he decided that he would help the tree.

                The very next day the boy returned with two wooden pails from his garage. The little boy found a spot in the creek where the water dropped down a little embankment. Here the boy dug down into the riverbed so that there would be enough room for the pail to catch the water. It worked perfectly well but it took a while to fill the pail as the water flowed so slowly. The boy began to sing himself a little song to pass the time as the pail filled up.

“Oh Mr. Myrtle Tree I am bringing you some cool, crisp water to drink,

 You should feel better after this tasty drink, I think,

Your roots will gulp the water, your trunk will sigh with relief,

Your branches will grow stronger, it is my belief,

Your flowers will turn brighter,

Your leaves will shine again,

Your canopy will resemble a lion’s mane,

As a specimen you will be a Ten! “

He was quite eloquent for a little boy. The little ditty went on for a few more lines in a similar fashion until the boy realized that the pail was almost filled with water. Now the boy lifted the pail out of the creek and replaced it with the empty pail. The first filled pail was heavier than he expected but he was able to carry the pail to the tree. The boy approached the tree and said,” Hello Mr. Myrtle Tree, I have brought you some water to drink” and poured the water on the roots of the tree that were exposed. A breeze blew through the tree’s branches and the boy thought that he heard the words “Thank you for being so kind” whispered on the breeze.

                The boy returned now to the creek to find that the second pail was almost full, so he switched the pails and marched back to the tree to water it again. He repeated this process five times until he was very tired. Each time the breeze blew he heard the whispered words again.

“Thank you for being so kind “

                That night the boy prayed for rain and slept very soundly. The next morning, he went out again with his pails and repeated his task of watering the tree. The boy repeated his task each day and soon the tree began to bloom with new flowers and to look healthy again. The tree’s perfumed scent returned and soon bees, butterflies and hummingbirds were visiting the tree. The tree was no longer lonely visiting with and hosting his various assemblage of guests.

                Each night in his prayers the boy asked for rain to fall in the meadow and one night he got his wish as it rained through the night. The next day when the boy visited the tree the creek was roiling, rolling and rushing downstream with the rain that had fallen in the mountains the night before and was no longer rambling downstream to the meadow. The boy was able to fill his pails immediately and complete his task quite quickly. The tree looked very healthy and happy now!

                Like the quickly flowing river of life itself, the summer was quickly advancing now, and the new school year was rapidly approaching. The boy came to say goodbye to the tree. “Hello Mr. Myrtle Tree, I have to go back to school tomorrow and I won’t be able to visit you each day as I did during the summer, but you are healthy now and I can still visit you on the weekends. As the boy was about to say goodbye and walk away, the tree began to creek and bend and all the flowering branches came towards the center of the tree bringing the flowering fuchsia cones close together and formed a huge fuchsia heart and the breeze blew again whispering “Thank you very much for all your kindness “. The boy smiled knowing that he had done a good deed and said “Goodbye, You’re Welcome “. The boy knew now what he would write about for his first school composition of the new year, WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION.

 Jim-Aug 24’

The Perfect Purse (a True Story)

 

I stood in front of my closet, surrounded by a graveyard of inadequate handbags. I needed a new purse, a black purse with zippers, compartments, pockets; "D" rings for my keys, and a cross-body strap.

I felt my journey was just beginning.

Boutiques, department stores, online shops, discount outlets—I scoured them all. My children's exasperated sighs became the soundtrack to my search. "Mom, it's just a purse," they'd groan, rolling their eyes as I rejected yet another almost-perfect candidate.

Weeks went into months. I rummaged in flea markets, rifled through vintage stores, and my determination wavering with each disappointment. I was ready to give up.

Then, on an impromptu detour down a street I'd passed a hundred times before, I saw it. There it was my purse at the discount store on the corner. Black leather, long cross-body strap, check. Multiple pockets check. "D" rings on both sides, check. I counted one, two, three, four, five zippered compartments, and—could it be?—a bonus pocket perfectly sized for hand sanitizer.

My persistence had paid off. Sometimes, the perfect thing is worth waiting for—even if it's "just a purse."

Georgia

Whispers Through Time

 

Margaret's hands trembled as she dusted off the ancient radio. Curiosity piqued, she plugged it in, expecting only static. Instead, her grandfather's voice crackled through the speaker, discussing the day's events—in 1955.

Heart racing, Margaret responded, and to her amazement, he answered. The connection lasted mere minutes before fading.

Each day, Margaret rushed to the attic, savoring brief conversations across time. She learned of family secrets, laughed at forgotten jokes, and relived cherished memories.

But as she altered small events in the past, Margaret noticed subtle changes in her present. Photos shifted, memories blurred. She grappled with the weight of her newfound power.

One day, the radio fell silent. Margaret sat in the stillness, realizing that sometimes, the past is best left undisturbed, its whispers echoing only in memory.

Georgia

Tree Hugger

 

Once there was a girl who fell in love with a tree that grew in her green backyard.

It was the most odd love scene you could imagine or know.

She hugged it and kissed its rough, scrappy bark and danced with it in the dark.

She would sing sweet songs and straighten its branches and leaves. She read it books and watered its roots. Helped butterflies build nests and found the best branches to put up a hammock.

Fairy houses on the ground near the orange lilies at its roots for good luck.

The neighbors saw her love and gawked at the weirdness.

“Oh my dear tree,” she would say “Your branches are so strong the squirrels and birds live safely here.”

“You are perfect we all agree.”

The dear tree loved the girl; he stood there day and night and never ran away or started a fight.

His branches were cool in the shade and a place for her to put on a display.

Their love was a leafy delight and seemly absurd. But the tree and the girl never spoke a harsh word.

Georgia

A Momentous, Mammoth Moth Moment

 

A moth stopped by the other day. I do not know how he got in, possibly slipping under the door or sneaking in when someone swung the door open, but regardless of his mode of entry, there he was mercilessly and repeatedly body slamming himself into the plate glass of my east facing window like a wrestler aggressively attempting to scare his opponent before the match begins!

                Initially annoyed by his intrusion into my early morning rituals, I swatted at him and missed. In response he became infuriated and flew around aimlessly venting his frustration. I have a certain intuition in reference to animals and realized what he was trying to communicate, however I cannot repeat his thoughts in mixed company and to clean up his language would lose its meaning as his thoughts were completely lacking in even the slightest modicum of diplomacy as he registered his protest, in no uncertain terms, stating his disapproval of my species in general and his revulsion for my personal aggressive, antisocial behavior specifically. Presumably, imminent death can have that effect on the unwelcome guest.

                By this point in our interlude, I was regaining consciousness and to quote Abraham Lincoln “the better angels of our nature” were rallying themselves on my left shoulder while those of the opposing camp were subverted on my right shoulder and I remorsefully advanced stealthily and raised the window a few inches. The moth immediately flew under the window reinvigorated by smelling the fresh clean morning air. Next, I lowered the window a bit trapping the furry red intruder between the pane and the screen and gently raised the screen a few inches. An intelligent animal, he picked up the drift both literally and figuratively escaping under the screen as the theme song to the movie Born Free suddenly resurfaced from the recesses of my memory and played aloud in my head. Overcome with regret at my initial actions, I ran to get my favorite pair of clean wool socks, rolled them up and threw them out the window after the moth, hopefully giving him some sustenance for his sendoff. While he did not have the glamour or beauty to be a famous butterfly in the Davis Family Vivarium at the American Museum of Natural History, Morty Moth my furry red little guest might have made as good a companion as any of those sophisticated chocolate poodles you see prancing along 5th Ave, wearing their Jimmy Choo shiny fire-engine red booties and matching jacket!

Jim - July 2024