1 November 1977– The rain drips and pours relief upon a dry, parched earth. It comes down steadily all day and all night. The brown leaves are soaked and lie heavily upon the ground. The roar of the rain sounds across the silence of the room, loud and then softer it falls, almost hushed, as it drips upon the leaves.
© Freeda Baker Nichols
“A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness . . . It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.”–Robert Frost
At the age of nine, I had not heard of Robert Frost when I wrote my first poem, there at Banner Mountain in the two room schoolhouse. But my first poem was about love for my mother. My words rhymed, and I’m sure I was following the teacher’s instructions when I penned my first masterpiece onto the page of that Big Chief tablet.
But it would be many years before I set foot on my journey into writing and poetry. And now, I continue with writing and poetry because they are my destiny. The journey is still adventurous and lovely, sometimes frustrating but always satisfying. I agree with the quote by Robert Frost on how a poem begins. He created masterpieces!
~ Freeda Baker Nichols
I am not a Halloween cat.
My master knows where I am at.
Although today is Halloween.
I prefer not to be seen.
And so guess what?
this big flower pot
and I could not.
©2017 Freeda Baker Nichols
“I got out of my nest, but I can’t fly yet.”
Only a Smile
goes a long way . . .
transports peace, joy, delight
and stops when it is not returned.
© Freeda Baker Nichols
falls in droplets
in the early morning,
but later it comes in torrents–
© Freeda Baker Nichols
As I shred old copies of my writing, I sometimes come across a note that makes me stop and think. Like this note within a folder, marked CADRON– “Writing is no longer fun. I work at it but I do not enjoy it. I seem to have lost something in the shuffle of life.
Today I must start the novel. First, I will give it a name. ALONG THE CADRON
THE CADRON CREEK
AS THE CADRON DRIFTS
THE CADRON DRIFTS EASTWARD
EASTWARD FLOWS THE CADRON
EASTWARD DRIFTS THE CADRON
The Cadron Drifts
The Cadron drifts westward
with its secret and song.
Two hearts wait patiently
yet ever so long.
One will claim ownership,
the other must leave
desolate and destined
forever to grieve.”
Years later, here’s the book in published form.
My kitten named Polly was silky black with white trim about her face. She looked like a tiny panther, which had been sprinkled with honey and then turned loose in a cotton patch. The white patches resembled bits of cotton stuck to the honey on the black, silky fur. Honey was an appropriate way to describe Polly because, as a child, I loved my kitten very much.
Another kitten, called Peter, was my sister’s pet. I suppose that sometime in the first readers, Yvonne and I must have read stories of Peter and Polly, a little boy and girl, because I know that as a child I was not creative enough to think of original names.
As an adult, I found that naming my children was a difficult task. When I gave birth to four babies, I was flabbergasted–not about the four babies–about how to choose suitable names. The babies did not come to me during one delivery time; they were delivered at four different times, spaced quite appropriately, I thought. They were spaced from two years and eight months to five years between them, so that the range of time I had children in the house was a total of thirty years. That makes me sound very old, but I don’t feel old. I must be getting old though because now I’m remembering my childhood and Polly.
Polly was a kitten which I loved with all the love and warmth that a little girl can give to a family pet. My sister and I treated Peter and Polly like real children, feeding them milk, trying to put them on a schedule, making them take a nap. Polly often would nap, but Peter never did. And he was spanked many times for misbehaviour. But spanking Peter made him worse instead of better.
My sister and I tried to feed the kittens three meals a day from one glass of milk. Our “day” might be only half an hour, and often Polly would take her nap and eat again when the milk was offered to her in a short while, which we called lunch time. But Peter thought he should drink the whole glass of milk in one great gulp for breakfast.
I can’t recall what happened to the kittens. I do not think, though, that it’s because I’m older or that my memory has faded. I think the kittens just went away, the way children see things like that go away.
My sister and I are stronger because we held close to our hearts, literally, two little kittens who might have been just as happy without us,but without them, we would not have grown to love and create as deeply as we do. My sister is now an artist and this story makes me a writer–I think.
© Copyright, 2012, Freeda Baker Nichols
Yvonne & Freeda Nella Freeda & Yvonne