A WORLD THAT HAS LOST ALL COLOUR (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ Leave a comment

Mary got out of bed and when she turned into the kitchen all her beautiful plates and cups were grey. She couldn’t believe what happened to all the beautiful reds, greens, and blues.

She called for her son to come. When he went into the kitchen and asked her what she wanted Mary showed him the dishes.

“Mom, did you also see the walls are grey and the floors?”

Disturbed by his comments, Mary looked around and saw he was right. The two went out the back door and saw the grass wasn’t green and all her beautiful flowers were also grey.

“Oh my,” Mary said. “It seems that the entire world, at least ours, has lost all its colour.”

Mary’s son went into the house and came back with his laptop. He turned it on and immediately saw an articlethat said, “Sad day. The entire world has lost all colour. Everywhere only the colour grey is present.”

Mary wondered what that could mean. Is the world about to end or has something taken over the atmosphere that caused this change.

“Mom the article says they think this is happening because there is too much sadness in the world.”

Mary thought about that but how could that be true. She didn’t understand how sadness would remove the colour in the entire world. She hoped it had to be something chemical that was causing this change.

Wells (Madeleine Horton)

~ Madeleine Horton ~ Leave a comment

Wells to me have always been a source of fascination, mystery, and fear. Places where an unsuspecting walker deviating from the usual path stumbles into an abandoned well, where a child on a dare looks too close and tumbles forward, where a wandering dog disappears forever, where a body is thrown with disregard.

The well of my childhood was old but in use. Its cover was wood, easy to remove one supposes. With its aged, cracked boards, I remember feeling anxious around it though it was perhaps no more dangerous than the holes in the floor of the hay mow or walking home from public school, alone, along the half mile plus gravel road while my two brothers ran ahead.

The cover of the well came off only when there was a lack of water. This could happen in summer or winter and my father would stand and lower a bucket on a rope down, down to draw up water. My brothers and I were allowed to step in for a look, to see the dank dripping brick walls and its seemingly impenetrable bottom. To my child’s mind, it was bottomless. To my adult mind, it is still unknowable. How was it dug out and bricked? Do the bricks go all the way to the bottom? Cover the floor? How does the water get in and out? And stay in?

Years later, a new well was drilled. This was when my brother who lived at home as a young adult saw fit to throw a pile of rocks down the old well, for what purpose I remain unclear. However, it has created an enduring family legend. Another brother is convinced that one of the rocks, disregarded for years as it sat beside the barn, is in fact a meteorite. Worth, of course, considerable money.

We will never know. The well was finally capped with concrete, covered in sod, and surprisingly, the little fir tree planted on the top, took root and flourished. Those who own the property now are doubtless unaware of the site of the well.

The new well is in essence a very long pipe within a cylinder, measuring only six inches in diameter.  It goes down an impressive two hundred and sixty-five feet. No one will ever talk about the new well.

But the old forty foot well lives on in my memories and imagination. Now awe and gratitude sit beside fear. That well watered a barn full of cattle and a few pigs. It serviced our large household for many years and let us down relatively seldom. One time, perhaps not surprisingly, was the winter my father welcomed an old army buddy and his family to share the upper floor of the house until they found permanent shelter, after making a disasterous and failed trip to start a new  life in Mississippi. Family photos show the two men hauling water, standing over the well, covered with snow. It speaks much about my father.

            I like the mystery of the well. I suppose I could research its construction but I prefer to think of men over a hundred years ago digging with hope in search of water, life sustaining, part of a long history of human need and symbolic endeavour.

There must be many of these old wells, hidden, water still ebbing and flowing into them, breathing like a pair of lungs, destined to play out their secret lives for another hundred years or more.

She Forgot (Krista Vanderhoeven)

~ Krista Vanderhoeven ~ Leave a comment

The next thing I knew was how the sound of the crunch of the snow felt beneath my boots.  I didn’t plan on stopping.  That would be an utter failure.  Everything is wrong.  The world is wrong.  My self is wrong.

I could only see two feet ahead of me.  The sounds of the road reverberated into my brain.  I couldn’t think, or remember, or realize.  I was definitely awake.  I could manage to move my legs to walk, my head completely covered with the hood of my winter coat.

My gait was akin to my own heartbeat.  I was definitely in the zone, being somewhat habitual.  I knew that I existed.  I did.  However, my thoughts were clouded, and my world was a dream.

Hours went by and still I walked.  I walked and I walked, steady and absentmindedly.  I didn’t pay much attention to the road; however, I felt somewhat secure with the humming in the background.

I was essentially among the public but very alone.  There was no past, no present and no future.  For me what was left was a meager existence.  I had a lost sense of self.  There was just nothing there.  Nothing inside.

The ground was solid beneath her feet.  She felt secure in that.  The matter of the world still solid around her.  It was the intangible part of life that troubled her the most.  What can be felt in the heart and mind. 

Where am I, she thought.  What is this world?  Who am I?  What can I do?

The struggle was real. 

She walked and walked.  And walked some more.

She didn’t even know that she had thoughts, she didn’t have any insight into that. 

After all, she was sixteen years old.

And the only thing different about her day is that she was skipping school today to walk.  To her it was a compelling act.  Something moved her to do it.  Again, she didn’t know why.

She felt sorry.  Guilt over something.  She didn’t know what about, or why, she was overwhelmed with the impulse to just go, go somewhere else, just escape this town, these people.

No one was to blame, that was the surprising thing.  She just suddenly switched into a ghost of some kind, in a human form.  Her self-drained out through her toes, who she knew herself to be.

She looked up for a moment up the street and discovered that she was so out of her neighbourhood.  She had no one.  And she was alone.

How did she get here?  She had no hindsight.  She wanted to give herself a reason to emotionally “check out”.  It was an emptiness’ that took over.  Like the Nothing that infiltrated the world in The Neverending Story.  Sucked right out.

She thought that she was alone, but she wasn’t.  She expertly hid behind her winter hat and hood, but maybe someone might recognize the green colour. 

Hours went by and she continued to walk and walk.  Seemingly going in circles.  It eventually got dark.  then the streetlights went on.  The slush was turning into ice underfoot, she could hear the crunch, crunch, crunch.

How could she sum up her feelings?  She in fact didn’t have them.  They have all gone away.

Herself, was gone.

Where did she go?

In the midst of it all, not knowing what time it was, she fell asleep on the snowy sidewalk after falling from knees to hips to head.

Opening her eyes after some time away in the dark, she noticed that she was in a hospital bedroom. It was private, the door was closed. It was just her.  The sun was just coming out it seemed through the singular window to her left.     

How long has she been there?

She felt very tired and worn out.  Her muscles were aching, her legs especially.

She remembered the walk.  But she couldn’t remember where she ended up or where she was.  It must have been last night, right?

The door clicked open, and a woman came in.  She gave me a warm smile for a moment, seeming to be pleased to see me awake.

“What is your name, Hun?”

I swallowed and then said I didn’t know.

“I’ll be right back,”

She turned and left the room very quietly to me.

It was just me.

The doctor came in followed by the woman a moment later.  A long white lab coat.  a stethoscope around his neck, and a clip board.

She hovered by the door as the doctor approached the bed.

“We are looking into your identity.  The police picked you up two nights ago on the corner of Blithe and Clarence near the 670 highways.  It’s a wonder that you were found at that time of night.  Young girls are vulnerable to attacks and trafficking over by the highway.”

“Where do you live,” asked the woman as she walked to the other side of the bed.

“I don’t know.”

She and the doctor gave each other a concerned look, then their gaze floated back to me.

“I am Mellisa, the floor nurse, you are here to be assessed by the physician on duty right here: Doctor Rosen.”

The doctor had flashed a smile and said: “We will do our best to find your family, that way we can call you something other than Jane Doe,”

He was a nice person, she thought.  He had a bright smile and an animated face.  I felt like I didn’t deserve to know him, for some reason.  And maybe I didn’t.  After all he was just my doctor, he was being his kind self, I was here for it, I don’t know.

The TV just above my bed was on.  It was the news down on very low volume.  There was a fire, as it turned out on the other side of town, I started to remember.  A small ranch bungalow house.

Why was this so familiar?  It was just TV, not the reality of my life.  But I tell you, the red bricks I know I had seen before, I felt it, I know it.

I had fallen down the stairs at my house.  Apparently.  I think that I hit my head.

The Doberman and I barreled down together.  Smoke everywhere.  I kept instinctively low bending down and sprinting the stairs two at a time.  His name was Chuck.

Wow I can remember!

Mellisa said: “Are you okay Jane Doe?  Is it something on the news?”

She winked at me as she witnessed my first real smile since I got to the hospital.  I think that what I was feeling was happy.

“I know now, Mellissa and Dr Rosen!  I know now!”

“Well, enlighten us,” the doctor said attentively leaning forward.

It was a fire, a fire, that was my house the one on the TV, help me help me I am so confused”

Her sudden passion and sensitivity were deeply felt by the two, though they couldn’t help but be hopeful enough to help this very young, troubled woman. 

Then came the question: “Who are you?”

Then she drew a blank, and it went dark.

She woke up during the night.  She could see the crescent moon through the window to her left, it made her room look hauntingly ominous.  The room itself was quiet.  I was alone.  For how long I didn’t know.

 What was I to do here in the dark all alone?  I remember that I was in a hospital room, but I don’t know why for how long or what my name was.  All I knew was that I existed.

I felt very peaceful inside, relaxed.  I felt surprisingly secure cooped up in this room.  There was nothing I could do, nowhere to go, no one to see.  I was lost.

What was the world, what was my world?  Home, where is my home?  People who are my people?

She fumbled around the sides of her bed and found a button and came to sit up.  Then felt around for something else.  She clicked another button, and a red light went on.

The next moment a short stout woman came in after knocking on the door gently.  “Hello Jane Doe” she had a warm smile.

I had no idea who or what or where I was.  But this woman could very well be a family member, she seemed happy to see me.

“Who are you?”

“I ama Jacqui,” she reached out to gently pat my hand.  Must be a nurse.

“Where am I?”

“You are in Mount Springs General Hospital.  You have an appointment with our psychiatrist Doctor Reeve.  We are concerned about you not seeming to have a home or a name or family members.  From an anonymous 911 call, the police were directed to a snowy sidewalk near the highway.  They couldn’t believe what they found.  A young girl passed out cold.  Good thing that you had on a green coat and a yellow hat.  The person was out walking their dog and noticed you lying there.”

“I was just lying there?”

  “Yes. They figure you were sleeping or passed out at the time, so they transported you from the ambulance to here to assess what had gone on with you.”

“What did you learn?”

“You didn’t have any ID on you, or anything identifying who you were.  How old are you?”

“I think that I am 14 years old,” How did she know?  It just popped into her head, oh no, what was happening?  What does this mean?

Jacqui’s eyes lit up and she said: “Excellent.  What school do you go to?”

“I don’t know.”

“The thing is that where the police found you there were no schools nearby.  Where were you walking from?”

“My legs really hurt,” I said.  It was one sure thing I knew.  But why?

“Who is your homeroom teacher?”

“Mrs. Alvarez, I think”

How did I suddenly know?  And what else could I remember?

Suddenly I saw the faces of my grade nine classmates in my imagination or should I say memory.  Familiar faces.  My friends Jude and Lexy in particular.  Riding their bikes on the Neighborhood roads.  She in particular remembered as many summer afternoons doing this very thing with the warm sun on our backs.  We wore sunglasses and felt like we were cool.  Even if it was not the case, it made vision better and served a purpose.

COFFEE AND INK (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ 1 Comment

It was now January, and the weather had turned cold, so I headed to the local Tim Horton’s to get a much-needed coffee and something to eat.

The crowded tables were filled with several customers slowly sipping coffee and writing something in a notebook with a Paper-Mate style pen.

I was now curious about what kind of things they might be writing in their notebooks, but I hadn’t yet gotten up the courage to ask.

Finally, not able to wait any longer, I walked over to a woman who looked about thirty with short blonde hair and dressed in attire for an office and said, “If I’m not being too nosey, would you be willing to tell me what you’re writing about in your notebook?”

The woman looked up at me and said, “Sure. It’s just my journal, and every day when I have my coffee break, I sit here quietly and write about all the things that happened yesterday.”

“So why do you come here to write instead of at home after work?”

“Well, life is pretty busy at my house during the evenings as I have five children and a husband who needs my attention more,” the woman replied.

“Well, thank you for talking with me,” I said, returning to my seat where I had left my coffee and notebook.

That was interesting. Now, I’m even more curious about several others, especially the men, as I don’t believe they would be writing journal entries.

I sat and wrote in my notebook about my talk with the woman, then decided there seemed to be more to this concept. I got up after gaining enough courage to talk to one of the men in the room.

I approached a man with silver streaks in his short, nicely groomed hair and said, “Excuse me, but could I be so bold as to ask what you’re writing about in your notebook?”

He looked at me with a large grin on his face and said, “I’m writing a letter to my wife, who is away on a business trip in Japan for the month.”

Curious now, I asked, “Why don’t you just e-mail your wife or talk to her on the phone?”

“I find it more intriguing to write long letters to her, being able to share all my love in a manner she can see over and over as many times as she wants instead of just a quick casual moment in life,” he replied.

“That’s an interesting way to put it,” I thanked him for his time and honesty.

Returning back to my table I took a sip of my coffee, which had now turned cold. I concluded that people had found a unique way to share their coffee with their ink.

For me, this would be a great way to write down short stories or ideas that I could use to develop a complete story for a book. The bonus is that I get to have coffee and a quiet place to enjoy doing it.

For all who are stuck with their writing or just want to journal or write letters to others, I recommend buying a small notebook and a Paper-Mate type pen and getting to work. I guarantee it will be a rewarding experience.

Wordwrights Christmas Lunch 2024

~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

Hard to believe but this was the 8th Wordwrights Christmas lunch – one of them virtual. Since the first lunch we have lost two of our original members – Rian Elliott and Alison Pearce. Two of the original members – Muriel Allingham and Maria Melillo Jones – did not join us. Two new members of the group were joining the lunch for the second year – Cathy Sartor and Krista Vanderhoeven. Welcome back to our supporter, Mary Ann Colihan, Annie Carpenter, Diane Chartrand, Madeleine Horton, Marian Bron. And me.

The location was the RiverBend Golf and Country Club, freshly renovated.

It is a great occasion to share some seasonal treats and to look forward to a productive new year. 2025 will be the 10th year of the Wordwrights. Hard to believe.

A writing challenge has also been regular and this year was no exception. We were challenged to write a “seasonal” piece and read it to the group. All the contributions were entertaining and creatively varied.

See the posted writings under Special Occasions..

The Words of Christmas 2 (Madeleine Horton)

~ Madeleine Horton ~ Leave a comment

 One year my sister gave me a gift I have continued to treasure. It is a gift of words. She gave it at a time when she had two young children and little money. However, she has always been resourceful.

She gave me a photocopied page from my Grandmother’s journals set in a gilded wooden frame. It has become a touchstone of Christmas, set out as early as possible.

My Grandmother’s journals are written in a flowing script with elegant capital letters. I first became aware of them as a child when I saw her writing in a scribbler and asked about it. She told me she recorded such information, as when the first and last frost came, when crops were planted and harvested, the price the geese and pigs brought, for Grandpa. I later have learned they contain more than that, but they are never confessional, not often reflective but they show the daily life of my rural grandparents in my Grandmother’s voice I remember well.

My frame has entries from December 23- December 25, 1945. As always the weather hovers about like a background character determined to take the front of stage. On the twenty-third and fourth, it is 20F below. Molly, a cow, freshened Sunday Dec 23rd, (they) are calling it Mary. Small farmers like my grandparents who would have no more than a dozen cows typically named each one. A sow had birthed a dozen piglets. That Saturday night friends, the Yoeman’s, dropped in after we were to bed, but we got up and had a cup of tea together and when they departed we gave them the 3 pigs we had in the house to see if they could have any luck with them. Friends dropping in without calling is usual and acceptable, newborn pigs at risk are brought into the house, and my Grandparents went to bed early. Best to draw a curtain on that. By the next day we just have four baby pigs now all told, I guess it was too cold for them to move and the sow laid on them. gosh it sure is bum luck. Sows lying on their young is an all too common trope. In the daytime, my Grandmother goes into London, about ten miles, to her sister-in-law Beatrice to help prepare for the next day’s dinner.

Christmas Day, 1945. My Grandparents’ two eldest sons are still overseas in the army. For my Grandmother, here’s the day all the kids look for, but oh gosh what a day it has been. Rain and sleet, we could not get to Beat’s too darn icy. George (her husband) and Vernon , (the youngest son who stays home on the farm), went up to Dales to phone her and got soaked it was raining so hard  and had an awful time to keep from falling it was so icy, they couldn’t get (through) to her, guess the wires were either busy or down, but we had a chicken picked (plucked) so we had chicken for Christmas dinner steamed pudding and a mincemeat pie. Vernon got the dime out of the pudding and George the nickel. George gave me a lovely pair of ornaments. Lady and Gentleman, in blue and gold, they are real good china not Woolworth’s goods. I gave him an Oddfellow’s (his Lodge) pin and a steel measuring tape he had been wanting. Vernon got a pair of skates from the baker. So we’re all happy. 

 I read the words of my Grandmother and I am there magically seeing her younger self and I am at the same time in that house, where she wrote her words, at many later Christmas gatherings with my family and cousins. Now I read and smile about the Yoemans, wonder at a heifer called Mary, at pigs kept around the wood stove, and the joy of real good china. I am humbled by the simplicity. So we’re all happy. I am remembering my Grandmother, a small woman with little education who came to Canada as a Home child from England, who raised five boys and buried her only daughter at three, who married another like her from England, who worked nine years as tenant farmers before they bought their own fifty acre farm. The many Christmases at my Grandparents blend into one happy memory of sledding down the hill in the pasture, skating on the creek, presents from the cedar tree, angel hair, mittens knitted for every child, and once lovely horse head bookends from Kingsmill’s, not Woolworth’s. Grace before the food imagined for weeks. The bird, of course, and all the trimmings. Then the desserts. Christmas pudding with its special caramel sauce. Mincemeat pie, completely homemade like everything else. In the evening the adults played cards, children played crokinole or with some present, perhaps read. In the evening, the Christmas cake is brought out, admired and sliced. The chocolates with the cherry in the middle I had helped make are passed around. Adults glare at children to let them know to only take one. So we’re all happy.  

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer from the point of view of Comet (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ Leave a comment

When Rudolph came to the North Pole, the reindeer had a red nose, which was different from all the others. Comet had never been impressed and seemed a bit jealous of all the attention the other reindeer were giving this one.

Comet was the oldest of the nine reindeer brought to the North Pole to pull Santa’s sleigh on Christmas Eve. In the beginning, things went well, but the weather had changed over the years, making it a challenge to get to all the children.

One night a week before the big day, Comet saw a red light glowing in the distance and went out to check it out. Once he saw that it was Rudolph’s nose with a red glow going on and off, he began to laugh and laugh. 

“Are you for real, Rudolph? What is that you have attached to your nose?”

Tearfully, Rudolph told Comet it wasn’t an attachment but his real nose.

“Come on, none of us have noses that light up. I know your nose has always been red but the same color glowing of all things.”

“It just started to do this, and I have no idea what’s going on. Do you Comet?”

Comet walked away laughing and went back into the barn to tell all the others. As he revealed what he had just seen, the other reindeer told Comet he had to be mistaken, and they all walked out to where Rudolph was standing, covered in tears.

They all watched as Rudolph’s nose had a red glow going on and off. Vixen told the others that Santa needed to know about this so he could get the vet to check Rudolph out.

“Come with us, Rudolph, to see Santa. He will get to the bottom of this problem and fix it for you.”

Comet was watching from the doorway and followed the others as they escorted Rudolph to Santa’s workshop, hoping he could fix the problem. Quickly, Comet stepped in front of the others and, getting Santa’s attention, told him that he needed to fix Rudolph’s nose before it caused a problem on the big day.

“Rudolph, come over near me, and we can see what the problem is that Comet is so worried about.”

The youngest reindeer slowly made his way through the crowd of reindeer and stood near Santa, his nose shining a red glow over the entire workshop.

“Santa, please make it stop.” Rudolph cried.

“I see now why when you came to us, you had a red nose instead of the normal color like all the other reindeer. Let’s go and see Dr. Humour. Maybe he can tell us why it’s now glowing and if there is a way to turn it off and on. Everyone else, go back to the barn, and I’ll let you know what we find out.”

Comet stomped away, upset at all the attention the baby reindeer was getting just because his nose wasn’t typical. Maybe once he could find out how to get one like that, perhaps even more significant, he would then be treated special, too.

Santa and Rudolph returned to the barn and told them that this particular reindeer’s red glow was usual. It would be helpful whenever the weather was challenging to see through on our big day.

Comet was not impressed and asked Santa how they all could get a nose like Rudolph’s.

Santa replied, “That’s not possible. You have to be born with this special red nose like Rudolph’s.”

Santa declared Rudolph would be put in the lead on bad weather nights to light their way.

Winter Season (Catherine Campbell)

~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

My relationship with winter has deteriorated drastically over the years – although it didn’t start off all that well either. Five years old I froze my hands because I lost my mittens. Winnipeg weather is not kind and the family spent three years there.

Next stop was Goose Bay, Labrador. Activities there revolved around winter. Neighbourhood kids dug tunnels in the snow. Easy to do when the drifts were over our heads. My father rescued me walking down the corridor between those drifts in the middle of the night – barefoot. My sister and I loved to watch the dog sled races – teams racing across the frozen bay. The northern lights were spectacular as I walked home from Brownies.

Ottawa wasn’t a lot different. A long, cold winter with lots of snow was common. Here I did try and enjoy activities in that wintery environment such as skating on the canal.

Needless to say, our two years in Tanzania didn’t include “winter”. My mother still decorated. The fake tree was a montage of drawings of pastel branches stuck on the wall. The community celebration was odd – dishes prepared and served on picnic tables. The roast goat didn’t happen. Someone stole it the night before. I suspect its ending wasn’t any kinder.

Winter in Edinburgh was just “cold”. Our school uniforms didn’t include panty hose and the heating in the classroom was a copper pipe across the front of the room. Since I was the most junior member of the dorm room I was appointed the task of lighting the heater first thing in the morning. Of course I then dove back into bed to warm up my feet. No real winter sports made up my life here but I did continue horseback riding. My pony was decidedly hairy.

Back in Ottawa I invested more in “enjoying” winter. I started figure skating lessons and skiing on the local hills. More horseback riding on our palomino, Drifter, and our little thoroughbred, Tony. Felt boots, toques, scarfs, parkas – very chic. I did some cross-country skiing.

When I moved to Guelph to finish my first degree I acquired a car. Not exactly a winter vehicle – 1964 MGB. It was an ongoing challenge to get it started.

The next few years revolved around work and law school in Toronto, walking distance. No winter activities. I tried to revive my skiing activity but just ended up somersaulting down the hill. Bruised and humiliated I haven’t downhill skied since.

Cross-country skiing didn’t last long either. My husband and I actually took the skiis, two dogs (vizslas – not exactly cold weather dogs) to Calgary. We brought two collie puppies home with us. The skiis ended up in the rafters in our garage in Aurora. They might still be there.

The vizslas liked to run in the snow. My champion obedience dog and I finished a miserable dog show (failed all the trials) by going to Ashbridge’s Bay. February but the sun was shining. Sheba (the vizsla) took after ducks on the frozen surface of the bay. She went through the ice. A piece of ice was under her chest so she was floating – and howling! I crawled out on a spit with a good Samaritan and we coaxed her over to us. We got her out to the applause of about 200 spectators just as the ladder firetruck arrived.

So here we are in London. A gorgeous vista across the golf course and Kains Woods. The dogs (Dobermans) and I enjoyed admiring the view from the sunroom. Any snow activity was brief – exercising the dog and a little retrieving.

My current enjoyment is similar only now with a poodle. He quite likes the snow. Our short jaunts in the drifts results in a trip to the grooming table to comb out the snowballs and dry him off. Tedious. Sends me back to the hand warmers and a coffee.

”Imagine all the people…living life in peace” (Cathy Sartor)

~ Cathy Sartor ~ 1 Comment

John Lennon hoped to inspire the world through the lyrics of his song “Imagine”.

In 2024, these lyrics are most fitting. Imagine, all the people living in countries torn apart by hate and violence. Imagine, all the people living in the midst of gun fire, bomb blasts and explosions.   Imagine, all the people in war torn countries imagining how they will make it through the night.  Imagine, all the children searching the rubble to locate their possessions or even members of their family.  Imagine, the struggle to find food, to access medical supplies or medical care for injured family members. Imagine, all the institutions struggling to remain supportive; schools struggling to remain open, hospitals over-crowded and challenged to provide care in the midst of constant bombing, supply shortages, confusion, sobbing, or the tension created by persons demanding care or shrieking from the pain.  Imagine, doctors providing care for the injured in the midst of confusion, angst and supply shortages.  Imagine, market places struggling to provide much needed food, while managing confusion and hysterial hunger competing for access.  Imagine, volunteers driving medical supplies into a war zone from England to Kiev.   Imagine, the angst of volunteers and their families over the safety of these missions.  Imagine, the courage required to fight, to volunteer, to support or to survive in the midst of the many deadly conflicts around the world.  Imagine, a time when all people everywhere will be able to live in peace.

MAKING A WISH BY BLOWING ON A DANDELION PUFF (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ 2 Comments

Dora and her friend Max were sitting on the front porch just talking. Dora told him she couldn’t wait for her birthday to come so she could blow out her candles after making a wish.

“Dora, my Mom showed me a different way to make a wish any time we want to.”

“How do you do that, Max?”

He told her that since they were both too young to light matches to light a candle in order to make a wish, his mother showed him a safe way to make a wish any time he wanted to.

“So, How Max? You didn’t say how?”

Max grabbed Dora’s hand and took her out to the backyard. He told her to look for some dandelions that weren’t yellow anymore. The two walked slowly around the yard, going in a different direction with their search. After a short while, Dora yelled out, “Found some Max, come quick.”

Max made his way to where the swing set was and sat on the grass next to Dora, looking down at a bunch of dandelions that had large white tops.

“Good job, kid.”

“So now, what do we do now, Max?”

He instructed Dora to carefully pick one of the dandelions without losing the ball of white stuff on the top.

Dora took in a deep, deep breath as she carefully broke off the stem from its roots and held it in front of her.

“Now what, Max?”

He told her to make a quiet wish and then gently blow on the dandelions white top.

Dora closed her eyes and made a wish. Then she blew all of the white puff balls off the dandelion. She watched as they blew all over the yard.

“Do you think my wish will come true, Max?”

Wait and see. My Mom says it really works. “Now, my turn.”