From the Bean Bunk ~ by Author Marj Ivancic

photo courtesy of Amazon

In May of 1996, I hopped into my sister’s shiny red Dodge Dakota, and together, we set off on the adventure of a lifetime.

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We lived out of that pickup truck and a tiny, two-person tent for the next two and half months, traveling across twenty-two states and a bit of Mexico. We moved from one free National Forest campground to another, intermixing pay-for camps where we could afford to or when the need for a real shower could no longer be denied. Several times, we merely pulled off on the side of the road to sleep. And once, we were welcomed to hunker down with what can only be described as a homeless community.

Photo courtesy Pinterest

This was in the analog days before smart phones and 4G…before any G, actually. The cell phone we had for calls home to Mom and Dad required assembly before use (antenna had to be screwed on, etc.) and could only get a signal in cities, so it spent most of the trip tucked under the driver’s seat. We navigated highways and dirt roads via road atlas, which meant doubling back every so often, but on a trip with no real agenda, there weren’t too many wrong turns.  Our budget was small (I was fresh out of college and my sister had just left her job) so our pleasures were simple; we read books out loud; we listened to the same ten cassette tapes, over and over; we talked; we hiked; we laughed; we communed with the majesty around us.  

We learned a lot about each other and about ourselves during that time. We also learned some interesting life lessons. I thought I might pass on a few…for the good of posterity:

1. Necessity truly is the mother of Invention. But Devilry is its father, and Chaos is its little sister.
2. Sometimes, the best conversations are the silent ones.
3. Showering in a mountain waterfall is much colder and more awkward than it appears in the movies.
4. Home really is wherever the heart is.
5. Gus McCrae’s advice to Lorena in Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove is 100% accurate - “If you want any one thing too badly, it’s likely to turn out to be a disappointment.” 
6. When you think you’re alone, there’s a darn good chance that you’re not. So, if you decide to do some shadow dancing in your skivvies…(enough said).
7. Resilience isn’t one thing, it’s a toolkit of skills:
  **The ability to be still
**The know-how of when and how to employ the “I never did mind about the little things,” tactic (ala Anne Bancroft’s character in the 1993 Point of No Return remake)
**Mental and emotional flexibility
**A keen eye for distinguishing between the Must Haves and the Nice to Haves
**And many, many others…
8. Don’t set an alarm clock when you camp among the buffalo.
9. You can’t—I repeat, CANNOT—out-drink a cowboy. And bad things happen when you try.
10. An older sister is one of the most precious gifts a gal can be given.

Photo courtesy of PinClipArt

I recognize this is not an experience everyone gets the opportunity to have, nor is it one that everyone would want to take, but I suggest that if the chance for something like this ever comes along—take it!

To this day, I look at those months as some of the most liberating, peaceful, and joyful of my life. I often pull forth a memory from that trip to help anchor me during Life’s many storms.  

Finding Inspiration ~ Elle Rush

Like many of us, I spent part of my social distancing time giving the house a really good cleaning. I even reorganized the storage room, except this time instead of moving my box marked “Childhood Treasures” from one place to another, I decided to open it.

Oh, past me, you have me shaking my head.

I remembered the stuffed animals, and who gave them to me, and I’m keeping them all. To let you know how old some of them are, the green pig is named “Green Pig” because he’s been around since before I knew how to name things, and the AM-radio raccoon was named “Racky”. Obviously, I’ve learned how to pick better names since then.

The wee table and chairs still make me smile. I never had any dolls small enough to use it, but how can I not love it! I would move the chairs around for invisible characters, and sip from the cups, and have engrossing conversations with myself. I’ve written for as long as I can remember, and I think this toy set is part of the reason.

I remember pre-teen me thinking folding fans were so terribly elegant. 

And the owl nightlight chased away nightmares for my entire childhood. Now that I’ve dusted off those memories, perhaps they may appear in a character’s room sometime.

I have NO excuses as to why a photocopy of remote-control instructions and line-dancing VHS tape made it into the box. None! 

And if ever I did consider them treasures, the reason has long since faded from my mind. But they were a hilarious find.

Inspiration fades, but when it comes to the things that truly impacted your life, I think it never truly disappears. You can’t hold on to all the mementos from your past, but a handful of ones that truly lighten your heart shouldn’t be hidden away in a box in the attic. Try to find a way to keep them out so you can see and appreciate the things that turned you into the amazing person you’ve become.

Elle Rush is a sweet romance author from Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. When she’s not travelling, she’s hard at work writing books which are set all over the world. From Hollywood to the house next door, her heroes will make you sigh and her heroines will make you laugh out loud.

Elle has a degree in Spanish and French, barely passed German, and has flunked poetry in every language she ever studied, including English. She also has mild addictions to tea, yarn, her garden, and holiday decorations.

Book Link (Fall A Million Times) - released May 4th

https://www.ellerush.com/books/display,hopewell-millionaires/23/fall-a-million-times 

Website:  http://www.ellerush.com 

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/Elle.Rush.Romance/ 

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/elle_rush 

Grandpa's Coffee Cup ~ by Grace Augustine

Morning after morning Grandpa would brew a pot of coffee. I

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wouldn’t actually call it coffee, it resembled thick, black goo but it was something he enjoyed. The blacker the better.

“Ah,” he would say. “Elixir of the gods.” A broad smile would then cross his face as he picked up the newspaper and read the daily tidbits which could be anything from the markets to the local sports.

The coffee always accompanied countless games of solitaire, too. Sometimes he’d cheat to win, sometimes he’d be frustrated, smacking the cards into submission.

As the mornings wore on, there were always chores to do…dusting,

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heading to the garage to work on some project that would prevent him from doing “woman’s work.” Then there was always the trip to the restaurant for more coffee and kibitzing with the locals that had the same agenda.

If there was a Chicago Cubs or Chicago Bears game on television, he would be in the corner rocker watching the games with his eyes closed. Even though Grandma wasn’t paying attention to television, she always had something to say about him sleeping through whatever program he’d chosen to watch. She would peer occasionally over her glasses while making sure she didn’t drop stitches from her current knitting project.

Saturdays were for driving the countryside. It was setting out with no agenda and taking country roads and driving with no destination in mind. Sometimes it would be hours, sometimes it would be thirty minutes. It was always an adventure in the back seat when it happened because as a kid, I spent time with two of the most wonderful people.

Sunday, while Grandma dressed, Grandpa always put on his gray suit and white shirt and drove to church, only a few blocks away. After services it was the trip home to change clothes and dive into the roast beef dinner that had been cooking while they were away.

Grandpa was a master storyteller. Having served in WWII, he had many things to share—shenanigans of his unit mates, the enemy, where he was stationed, operating the weapon assigned to him, fixing the vehicles. It was always new, even if he’d told the story a hundred times.

He wasn’t afraid to spend time with his grandchildren. He would

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load my brother and me in the red wagon and we’d take walks around the block, sometimes never getting any further than the end of the driveway if the neighbor (his best friend) was outside. If we did make it around the block, a stop at the neighborhood park happened and he pushed us in the swings or on the merry-go-round. When it was time to leave, we knew not to whine about not wanting to go. We hopped back in the wagon and rode the block back to his house where Grandma had a yummy snack waiting.

Again, I’d see Grandpa reaching for the old stained coffee cup, pour the dark liquid into it and pop it into the microwave before grabbing a couple freshly baked cookies and sitting down at the table to watch a game show and play more solitaire.

In his later years, he spent most of his time in the corner rocker sleeping. He passed while I was in high school. I regret that I didn’t

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have more time with him.

Every now and again when I make my morning coffee, I smile…I see a lot of him in my coffee cup and hope that I can live up to the man I saw in my Grandpa.

     --Grace Augustine 2017 (c)


**Author's Note: This flash fiction story was inspired by my boys's paternal grandfather. It is told from their perspective.

Photographs and Memories ~ by Grace Augustine

I didn’t have the luxury of knowing my father because he passed away when I was 9 yrs. old. Sure, I remember bits and pieces of him: the fragrant cherry tobacco from his pipe, the silk shirts, the wool pants, the Roi Tan cigars and using the cigar boxes for my crayons.

I’ve done search after search through most of the ancestry sites, trying to find out more about my heritage, mainly, my dad.

What I do know 
      • He stood 5’4” tall
      • He had tattoos on both arms, a dancing girl and something to do with the US Coast Guard.
      • He was born in Malalos, Philippine Islands in 1889 (yes that is not a typo)
      • He came to the US and lived with an uncle in California
      • Found his way to Port Angeles, WA and Victoria, British Columbia Canada
      • Served in the US Coast Guard as a cook on board the USS

McCullough
      • Was a cook at a local restaurant in Shelby, Montana
      • Married my mom in 1944
      • Died in February 1966
I also remember he loved eating fish and rice doused with soy sauce.

What I don’t know that I’d like to know: 
      • Was he compassionate?
      • Did he like children?
      • What did we do together when I was younger that brought him joy?
      • What wisdom would he give to my sons?
      • Would I have turned out differently if I’d had his teaching while growing up?
      • Would life have been different if I’d had both of my parents?
      • How would he have counseled me in various situations?
      • Was he a hugger?

So many questions that will never be answered. So many times I wish I’d had those opportunities to hold his hand, to walk with him, to go to different daddy/daughter things, to have a hug and hear I love you.

All I have are photographs and a few memories. 

Memories, Cookbooks, and Favorite Recipes ~ Joanne Jaytanie

 

Everything in life evolves and changes, even how we cook and bake. For the most part, people don't want to cook or don’t have the time to spend preparing a meal or baking a cake.

Years ago, I had well over 250 cookbooks. I finally realized that I only used my favorites. The ones that were actually in the kitchen, not upstairs on a bookshelf in the guest bedroom. So, as time passed, I scaled down to around 30. The problem with 30 is they still take up too much space in the kitchen. The years went by, and I found I used about 10 of them. I still cook, but I guess you could say that I cook the same way I write. I begin with a recipe, a general idea, and then I create my own version. 

I do have a few favorite cookbooks — special ones, dear to my heart and filled with recipes from my childhood.

These two cookbooks are special to me, and I'll keep them forever. My Godmother, Aunt Rosamond, gave me the "St. Malachy's Church Cookbook" for Christmas in 1982. St. Malachy's is located in Sherburne, NY, and the church where I grew up. 

This book is unique because it's filled with recipes from women I grew up knowing. Women who lived in Sherburne and the surrounding area. The friends of my parents, my friend’s mothers, my neighbors, my Aunt Rosamond. Aunt Rosamond was an excellent cook and baker. After my mom died, it was Aunt Rosamond that taught me how to cook. She made the most delicious cinnamon buns. I can still smell the scents of cinnamon, butter, and baking bread wafting through the house and out the open windows.

This cookbook represents a community. I see it on every page. In the names of the woman who created the recipes. The way the book is put together the index isn't only divided up by regular categories, it's got a unique index:

Old Family Favorites

International Dishes

Soups, Salads and Lo-Cal

When's the last time you cooked for 50 People? 

The Art of Syrian Cookery was given to me by my dad. He was Lebanese and he grew up eating the food of his culture. My mom learned to cook Lebanese dishes. I remember she would bleach the kitchen floor so that she could use it to roll out her oversized, very thin Syrian bread dough. The kitchen table wasn't big enough for the job. She'd use an oversized wooden board, similar to a pizza peel to scoop up the dough and slide it onto the solid oven floor.

I've used this book often. My husband loves the food. One of his favorites is Baklawa. It's really not a difficult recipe, but it does take a lot of time.

I'm known for making notes on recipes I use more than once.

I still collect recipes and I'm sure I have thousands of them. But, I no longer have to find room in my kitchen to store them because they only take up the space of an iPad or my iPhone. 

They’re all on my Pinterest Page

Until next time...

Joanne 

Visit Joanne's page to read her blog posts and learn about her books

Wisteria vines and Dan Fogelberg ~ by Kristine Raymond

It's funny how one thought can lead to another.  I'd intended to write a post about Wisteria and my fascination with the flowering vine; instead, I'm writing about one of my favorite musical artists - Dan Fogelberg.

Now, the switch from one subject to the other came about honestly. I was searching YouTube for the link to Dan's song, Wysteria - it's a hauntingly beautiful tune, one of the earliest I remember listening to - and had it playing in the background while I gathered facts about
Wisteria frutescens.

As happens on YouTube, the song ended and immediately went into another, and I found myself transported back decades to a time when Dan Fogelberg music was the soundtrack of my life.  I have a clear memory of the first time I heard Nether Lands, sitting in a darkened stairwell after choir practice waiting for my ride; of the week spent camping alone in the woods of New Hampshire, rewinding my portable cassette player over and over again in order to listen to Souvenirs, There's a Place in the World for a Gambler, Old Tennessee, and Song from Half Mountain, praying the batteries would last the entire trip; of looking up at the moon on a partially-overcast night and 'hearing' the first line of In the Passage.


It was his song, Tucson, Arizona, quoted by Dan as being his all-time favorite track, that intensified my desire to move west.  Not so much the lyrics about drug use and murder, but the melody; and the emotions those notes invoked.  I could envision that wide open space; 'see' the expanse of cloudless blue sky, 'feel' the heat of the desert that was nothing like the day-to-day humidity in Rhode Island.        

In my late teens, I learned that Dan Fogelberg was touring nearby, and quickly snapped up a ticket, only to be disappointed when the concert was canceled.  I'd hoped to see him perform at a later date but never had the opportunity.  Instead, I bought every album he recorded (yes; vinyl) and wore them out listening to his powerful ballads and stirring anthems, falling in love with his more obscure stuff.  Interestingly enough, his top 40 songs are my least favorites. 

So, that's how my post navigated from Wisteria (this is what's growing in my yard.  Isn't it beautiful?) to Dan Fogelberg.  A single song that opened a floodgate of memories.  Don't you love when that happens?

Copyright 2019 - Kristine Raymond