Messaging, then and now . . .

DSC_0471Early spring mornings are memory makers. From the first chill of cool, fresh air as I step down the lane to the mailbox, I am excited and looking forward to opening the box. And no, there’s not anything of interest in there. A couple of bills and a magazine. No checks or letters from editors, today. No cards or letters from friends.

Actually, texting, messaging, phone and Facebook are the means of communication nowadays. My memory is beginning to fade about how wonderful it was to open an envelope, unfold a letter to find the ink-written or pencil-written words from a dear friend. I hope I never forget the immeasurable joy of having had that experience.

Communication still happens, perhaps stronger than ever, judging by the many cell phones turned on in public places at any given time. Mine included.
–Freeda Baker Nichols

 

 

Looking Back into my Journal

From my 1980sBig truck and little truck (3) Journal: “Time is a most precious gift. We must cherish it as we would our very best friend. We must greet it with a most warm welcome and treat it with respect because the time of each day is as a guest who will not come our way again.” —Freeda Baker Nichols, Tuesday, March 25, 1980.rose-1

AN ILLINI SONNET (for my friends)

Pattern for the Illini sonnet:Fourteen lines written in three quatrains of iambic feet, using tetrameter and pentameter, concluding with an iambic pentameter couplet.  Each quatrain is set up with one tetrameter, two pentamter and one tetrameter.  Metric feet: (4-5-5-4, ) ( 4-5-5-4,) (  4-5-5-4.) The rhyme scheme is abca, bcdb, cdec, ee

For My Friends

I did not want to start a blog
until one day a mentor said I should
and so I took to heart his sage advice.
At first, my mind was full of smog.
I wondered how some bloggers could
create those posts that made their websites nice.
and then, I started out to write and share
some stories that I thought were good.
I wrote a post about blind mice
and not one blogger seemed to even care.
But then I found that I could write haiku.
Those little gems soon cracked the ice.
My blog took off when bloggers came to view.
And now my blogging friends are quite a few.

c Copyright, Freeda Baker Nichols

Thoughts from an everyday . . . writer!

Crooked Pine

Crooked Pine

Birds in the Snow

Birds in the Snow

From my diary: four pages,  January 29, 2010.

The coffee remaining in my cup is cold.  I could zap it in the microwave, but I won’t. I’ll begin typing four pages just as fast as I can.  Ooops!  At this very second, Gene turned on YouTube and the song, “It only hurts for a little while,”  interrupts my thoughts.

So now I must contend with my husband, Gene,  sharing YouTube with me.

The snow is still falling.  It came last night, stopped, and started again around 8 a.m.  It’s now  11:02 a.m. and snow is falling steadily.  There’s ice underneath the snow and when I walk on it, it crunches under my feet. I walked to the mailbox.  Got one item, a bill from the insurance company.

Steve, Caleb and Logan are back from a four-wheeler ride with Bill over on Bill’s property. Gene did not go.

Our breakfast this morning consisted of bacon, biscuits, butter, gravy, eggs–fried and scrambled–orange juice, milk, coffee and chocolate syrup.  Emma, Steve, Caleb and Logan ate with us.  We sent food home to Angela.

I’ve already cleaned the bathroom and washed a load of towels. Need to start another load of clothes soon.

I am working on a new chapter on the novel.  It’s a back chapter.

YouTube softly plays “Loving her was easier than anything I’ll ever do again.” How can I concentrate?  Who cares if I do or don’t?

My coffee will be colder now.  Oh, well.

I must telephone Betty.  We heard last week that her husband has died. He was the Line Chief on the Flight Line at Torrejon Air Base, Spain,

when Gene was stationed there. We’ve maintained contact with them each Christmas since our return from Spain.

“California Girl” sounds from YouTube.

The snow is falling in small flakes now but still peppering down.  I watch it from my window.

Another song gets my attention: “Time is a river that sweeps us along in its stream.”  “Her children were scattered like feathers . . .”

Halfway down page two.  Slow moving.

Chewing gum. Why chew gum?

The mist of snow is now so fine it’s barely visible.

Three turtledoves, three female cardinals, four or more snowbirds, and some sparrows are feeding by the post where Gene scattered birdseed.

“South of the Border, Down Mexico Way” sounds from the computer in a lively beat.

A shiny brass bowl sits on my desk. An antique from Bangladesh.

I wonder how much longer it will take to finish the book.  I’m almost to the end of it.  But revision is staring me in the face.

It is now 3:49 p.m.  I’ve been watching snow fall all afternoon.  Three and one half inches about an hour ago.  The wind is blowing occasionally and the temperature is dropping. Last night, a rabbit nibbled for food beside the birdfeeder.

YouTube again: “Coming in on a wing and a prayer.”

I talked to Tracy. She was making peanut butter cookies.  Thought they had six or eight inches of snow. They were “snowed in.”

I didn’t realize that we might get such a big snow. When the forecast was for snow, it didn’t register with me that there would be this much. It started sleeting first of all.  Then the mix came and later, the snow.

Snow.
Snow birds . . .
Snowbirds eating from the feeder . . .
Snowbirds in fights with cardinals.
Cardinals are bossy. They are big. They peck at smaller birds and scare them away.
Snowbirds are numerous. They come in to feed in a group.
Snow falling as snowbirds eat the seed scattered on top of the snow.

Snow with wind blowing. Snow is white. A few cars move along on the highway. Cars are moving slowly, most of them.  Sometimes a pickup whizzes by faster than the others do. A reckless driver. Wild driver. Young driver. Drunk driver?

Will tomorrow bring the sunshine? Where do the rabbits hide in this snow? Snowshoes. Snow rabbits? Is there such a thing as that?

The tea was hot and sweet with sugar.  Sweet tea.

Snow across Burnt Ridge, five to six inches deep, some places eight to nine inches deep.  A deputy on the scanner said he went across Burnt Ridge and found no one in the ditch. Another deputy said he found a truck in the ditch, and another truck trying to pull him out.  He said he’s going to have them call a wrecker if they can’t get out.  He said he was sending someone on home because he had been cutting doughnuts in the ice. On Highway 110, there’s a vehicle off the road.

The sky is pale gray, dipping out snowflakes that have been falling all day. All those snowflakes are stacking up into inches, at least five by now in my yard; more snow is falling as though there’s no end to it.  All night, it may fall.  Temperature is 26 degrees, falling.  Snow is on the pine tree trunk and body of the tree.  The crooked pine in my neighbor’s yard. The pine’s needles are green.

One thing about typing my thoughts is that it limbers up my fingers. I’m almost to the end of four pages.

The room is getting cooler. It always does at this time of evening. Thinking of supper, I will serve chili tonight.

 Nancy wrapped the shawl around her shoulders.  She continued to write. Her poetry was coming together in a way that pleased her. The wool shawl in a drab brown color was a gift.  She was so tired of the drabness in her life.

“Blue Skirt Waltz” is being played and sung now. It’s a pretty song and pretty music.

Gene enjoys playing music through YouTube on his computer. Entertainer. That’s what Gene is. To transpose words of an earlier song, I’d like to say loving him is easier than anything I’ll ever do again. May the music continue.

End of these pages. Begin again another day. Tomorrow.

Hasta manana.

c Copyright 2012, Freeda Baker Nichols