Today's prompt from Rick was a tiny statue of a little boy and a man. The three participating writers are in two countries, France and Switzerland, but each regarded the prompt and spent 10 minutes writing. Next Tuesday it will be Julia's turn to send a prompt.

Rick's Free Write Man and Child 

They had been constant companions in the boy’s formative years – trips to parks, playing soccer in the huge backyard, chomping ice cream cones in summer and feeding the animals at the zoo. 

Best buds. 

He missed Garrett’s infectious laugh. They rarely talked these days, and only then on Zoom when the lad happened to be visiting his parents. He was in university now, more than halfway through his degree, and before long he’d be out in the business world. With his multiple talents and charming personality, he could end up anywhere. 

They had moved away when he was 10 and the old man 60 – to another state halfway across the country. Without the means to travel, visits were rare, twice in a decade. They’d become almost strangers. The old man sat in his apartment, the dog by his side in the recliner, and continued to whittle the wood, a skill he had acquired in a free class at the community center. 

“That’s quite good on the body forms,” said the young instructor. “But why no faces?” “Because… because… I’ve forgotten what he looked like.” 

Rick is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices. com 

D-L's Free Write -- Later 

Sebastian slammed the wet clay onto the board to remove any bubbles. 

He didn't usually do statues. The bowls, vases, plates he made were on the shelves awaiting shipment to exclusive shops in Boston, Washing, D.C., New York. 

He made the father first, using a knife to make it look like it was a wood carving. 

Maggie appeared at the door of his studio. "You need to go to bed." Her skin was blotched, her eyes red. She wore mismatched PJs.

"Later." As he shaped and reshaped the boy he heard conversations in his head. "Play with me, Papa." 

 "Later." 

"Read to me, Papa." 

"Later." 

Maggie was at the door again. "You really need to come to bed." 

"Later." He could not put faces on the man and the boy. 

Maggie was back. Her blotched skin was covered by makeup. She clutched dark glasses in her hand. She wore a somber black dress. "The car will be here in 15 minutes to take us to the church." 

He knew there was no later. 

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check out her website at: https://dlnelsonwriter.com 

Julia's Free Write

"Dad, tell me a story-" This was often my little boy’s plea – so here it is, leaving out the quote marks. Well son, a long, long time ago I lived near a river, a river where logs floated by quite often as we weren’t far from a logging mill and that was the quickest – and safest – way to get them to the mill. 

I grew up watching them and dreaming of the day that I could be a logger, like my grandpa, he was so solid, never said much, but when he did it was always worth listening too. 

He would tell me of his journey across the seas and finding a job as a logger as that was all he knew how to do- He and his brother worked side-by-side, taciturn both of them, but getting the job done. 

What must it have been like to work hours every day in the woods, to risk a tree falling on oneself, to risk cutting if the saw was not just right. 

As I grew, I too had a fascination for wood, but as I had had a more classical education, I only carved for a hobby and not as a proper job. 

Although my statues and carvings are definitely “proper”. You see the one in the corner? That’s you and me – something for you to treasure forever and to accompany you when I am not always by your side. Use it as a reminder that your father loved you and chose to fix that love in wood. Sleep now, son, the statue is watching over you. 

Julia has written and taken photos all her life and loves syncing up with friends. Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/

 

In the Beginning

Then

May 11, 1961 President John F. Kennedy approves sending 100 Military advisors to South Vietnam.

 Now

14 October 2024 The United States is sending one of its most advanced missile defense systems and about 100 U.S. troops to Israel. 

As the song says, "When will they ever learn?" 

U.S. citizens are paying for genocide then and now.

Bronze Baby Shoes

 

When we found our dog's puppy harness, I suggested to my husband we have it bronzed like my baby shoes had been bronzed.

I have no idea what happened to the shoes, although they were on display throughout my youth. 

A high school friend mentioned her baby shoes had been bronzed too. 

My brother, born seven years later, did not have his shoes preserved in metal for prosperity.

Recently, when at an antique fair in Switzerland, I saw a single bronzed baby shoe. The dealer had no idea why. He just knew it was American.

I explained that it had been a fad in the 1940s. He was grateful for the information, even if he was disappointed that I didn't want the shoe.

Many of the shoes were preserved forever by the American Bronzing Company, started in the 1930s by Violet Shinbach. I remember being in many of my friends' houses growing up and seeing their bronzed shoes. Millions were made before the company closed in 2018. 

My daughter's (born in 1969) shoes were NOT bronzed.

The process is a multi-step process:

• A special formula stiffens the shoes
• Laces are tied.
• Before electroplating, the shoes are coated. 
• They are placed on a plating rack up to four hours.
• A high luster is accomplished by polishing. 
• A protective coating is applied. 
• The shoes may be mounted on a base or not. 

My husband gave me one of those strange looks when I mentioned bronzing the harness. I told him I was kidding.

Thank you in marriage

 

Should a wife thank her husband for helping with chores, was the basis of a recent lively discussion. There were two schools of thought.

• Yes...he has helped
• No...he is part of the household, he isn't helping
  

I'm of the yes school taking exception to the word "helped" and not just because a woman is in charge of the house. And part of me says, he's part of the household.

My husband and I share household chores.  I make beds, do dishes, laundry and clean. He makes beds, does dishes, laundry and cleans.

I do the ironing most of the time, he takes care of the car all of the time.

We share cooking. My days are Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday afternoon. His are Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday morning.

Either of us can decide "to cook" at any local restaurant, to a point the wait staff of a restaurant we frequent might say, "Oh, it's your day to cook, Rick," even when it was my day.

Both of us thank the other of what is done regularly.

Why?

Because whoever "helped" contributed to the smooth running of our household. Their efforts frees the other one to continue writing, reading, watching something on television, take a nap, whatever. When two of us do the chores, it gives us time to spend together in doing non-chore things.

I can be OCD about some things, and I try to  control it when he does whatever I would do differently. Years ago where I worked, four women colleagues and I were talking. One complained how her husband folded laundry. Everyone verbally jumped on her.

"He folds laundry. You should thank your lucky stars," one of my colleagues said. That colleague considered herself lucky when her husband carried his glass, leaving hers on the table, to the kitchen .

Of course, there are times depending on work schedules, illness, social commitments that one will shoulder more of the responsibilities. That shift can be on either spouse. That should provoke another thank you.

Thank yous say "I recognize what you are doing and I appreciate it." It shows the action was NOT taken for granted. It never hurts to accompany the thank you with a kiss.

Visit www.dlnelsonwriter.com to see D-L novels and non-fiction.

Behind a Free Write

 

As a writer, I find free writing to a prompt is a great way to stimulate my other writing. I free write regularly with two other writers. We take turns thinking up prompts and then write non-stop for ten minutes. Perhaps it will be helpful to other writers to see how my mind worked on our latest free write.

Millicent, that was the first time I've ever used that name and have no idea why it popped into my mind. or Millie as her friends called her, sat on the park bench looking at the wooden statue This recreates a scene I experienced in Aosta when my husband and I went there for a weekend.  scene as she ate her egg salad sandwich I was debating making an egg salad sandwich later and drank her tea from her thermos I imagined that Millie was staying at a BnB and where she made the sandwich. In reality, the shops that sell sandwiches in Aosta would be more French in style. A ham and cheese baguette might have been better, but the object is to keep writing.

She talked to the statue. I used her comments to give more background. I had decided not to do straight tell.

"You've aged well." When Millie fell in love with Marco, he was in his early 20s.  I do believe what a writer doesn't say can still be in the piece.

"What have you done since I left Aosta?" Seemed like a normal question for her to ask.

"I had to leave to start my last year at uni." This explanation sets the approximate age Millie was at the time she fell in love with Marco. I debated using the word uni versus senior year of university. I wasn't sure whether to make Millie an American or a Brit at this point. If I were to expand the free write, a piece of flash fiction into a longer short story, I would need to work this out, but again with a 10-minute limit there was no time.

"I became a lawyer, married, had three kids, five grandchildren. I'm a widow." This is a quick way to give Millie's history since she left Aosta.

She had fallen in love with the Italian village of Aosta during her junior year abroad decades before.

She'd fallen in love with Marco Siragusa. He had looked so much like the statue, only he was younger. I wanted to make the first two paragraphs parallel.

That was 52 years ago. I could give the exact time that has gone by. In a longer piece, I might show how the village had changed, the people, etc. She could notice all the mobile phones or the Neptune statue rusted with age.

At first she'd written daily, then weekly, then monthly then not at all. He'd sent two postcards. Did Marco love her as much as she loved him, was she just one of the many students he romanced or was it that he couldn't write well? If he had written, would Millie have gone back to Aosta when she finished her degree? Again free writes in a ten-minute session don't allow for that.

Did Marco still live in the village of his ancestors? I wanted to show that Marco was a local.

***

At the tourist office a woman told her, "The Artist Guido Conti still works in his atelier." Had I had more time, I would have gone more deeply on Millie searching for Marco at the town hall, the library, the local church, but I sent her straight to the tourist office to ask about the statute.

***

Millie smelled the smell of freshly cut wood as she approached the door. Inside, sawdust filled the air.

Guido had white long hair fastened in a pony tail. He removed his goggles and mask. Guido is probably as old or older than Millie but as an artist he can continue to work as long as he lives and is healthy. I would have liked to have gone into why there was no plaque on the statue, but again, within the time limitation, it wasn't possible.

"Yes, that was Marco," he told her when she asked.

***

Millie's last stop was where Marco now lived in a nursing home. He didn't recognize her, but he didn't recognize anyone. A rather realistic ending. I could have staged a great reunion if he recognized her, but I left him mentally incapacitated.

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Two of her books, The Corporate Virgin and 300 Unsung Women are in the process of being published. Check out her website at: https://dlnelsonwriter.com 

Free Write Wooden Statue of a Man

 

This week's Free Write was from a photo, I took when we were visiting the village of Aosta, Italy. There was no plaque saying who carved it or who the man was.

D-L's Free Write

Millicent, or Millie as her friends called her, sat on the park bench looking at the wooden statue as she ate her egg salad sandwich and drank her tea from her thermos.

She talked to the statue.

"You've aged well."

"What have you done since I left Aosta?"

"I had to leave to start my last year at uni."

"I became a lawyer, married, had three kids, five grandchildren. I'm a widow."

She had fallen in love with the Italian village of Aosta during her junior year abroad decades before.

She'd fallen in love with Marco Siragusa. He had looked so much like the statue, only he was younger.

That was 52 years ago.

At first she'd written daily, then weekly, then monthly then not at all. He'd sent two postcards.

Did Marco still live in the village of his ancestors?

***

At the tourist office a woman told her, "The Artist Guido Conti still works in his atelier."

***

Millie smelled the smell of freshly-cut wood as she approached the door. Inside, sawdust filled the air.

Guido had white long hair fastened in a pony tail. He removed his goggles and mask. 

"Yes that was Marco," he told her when she asked.

***

 Millie's last stop was where Marco now lived. He didn't recognize her, but he didn't recognize anyone.

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Two of her books, The Corporate Virgin and 300 Unsung Women are in the process of being published. Check out her website at: https://dlnelsonwriter.com 

Julia's Free Write

High in the mountains the forests are deep, dark, but yet welcoming.

He has gone up with one idea in his head, in his spirit: find the perfect tree, the perfect piece of wood for his, perhaps, most important work yet.

Going deeper, he encountered the few animals hiding in the woods, holes in trunks, burrows in the moss, rustles in the brush.

He was able, when he stood still, to even see the odd deer. Overhead, unseen but heard, the eagles soaring over these dense forests.

Out into a mountain prairie, full of sunlight and air, he found what he was looking for.

Down to the valley he let it rest a few days gathering his cuts and planings in his head.

Then one fine fall day he started: days, weeks and eventually a month went by, then he was finished – the wooden replica of his father was done - a statue that would weather well on the tombstone of his father, lost too young.

Julia has written and taken photos all her life and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/

Rick's Free Write Wood Man

Macleish had been revving up for this match for a year, ever since his failure in the event last August. He had practiced diligently every morning before work and into the long-light summer evenings after. He knew he was capable, but he didn’t quite understand what held him back from winning in the end.

One day he overheard talk in the pub that a witch had moved into the outskirts of the village. So he decided to pay her a visit, maybe have her tell his fortune.

At the end of their conversation, she offered a bargain. She could cast a spell – for a price, of course – but if he revealed her secret there was a curse.

The match went back and forth. Sometimes Macleish was ahead, sometimes Tavish. But on the last hole at St Andrews Old Course, Macleish holed a 60-foot putt across the green to win.

In the pub after, Macleish let slip his bargain with the witch. But added quickly, “Weren’t the wench. Were me skill.”

As he walked home with the trophy, he leaned against a tree to rest. And as soon as he touched it, Macleish turned to wood himself, flat cap and all.  

Rick is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices. com        

 

 

 

 

No More Art Work...and then

 

Rick and I decided no more artwork. Our walls were full. We had bought work from local artists as part of my -- only have things that are beautiful, have a memory or are useful philosophy. We've enjoyed all that we added to our home. Art warms the soul.

So much for declarations.

Our good friend K. invited us to lunch at Bartavelle, my lifetime favorite restaurant. Not only is the food a work of art, the owners have started a traditional art gallery above the restaurant featuring local artists, which we had to see.

I followed her up the curvy staircase.

One work, a wall sculpture with a branch and metal leaves, petals and seven birds in different colors, I adored. Still, there was no place to put it that would do it justice.

K. went home to the UK. Yesterday, my husband brought the sculpture home and changed everything on the wall facing our bed. This morning, I woke to see the work. And each day from now on, that will be the first thing I will see bringing joy to the start of my day.

As for memories I will never look at the branch, leaves, petals and birds without the memory of the lunch, time with K. who spent three weeks in Argelès. Had she not taken us to lunch, we'd never have checked out the gallery. I would never have fallen in love with the birds and branch. 

If it weren't for Rick figuring a way to rearrange the wall, K.'s leading us to the gallery, it would have still been a good memory of the shared time together, but everything came together.