Hard Times and Brick Bats

Little Girl sat on the porch watching the rain make puddles in the street.  Summer was gone and so was Pa.  He always went away to work because, Ma said, it was “hard times”.  It had been Hard Times as long as Little Girl could remember.  Ma said some people did not have enough to eat; some did not even have a roof over their head or shoes to wear.  Little Girl had shoes but only one pair so she didn’t wear them all day every day.  They pinched her toes anyway.

Sister came out to the porch letting the door slam behind her.  Little Girl smiled; Ma would not like that.  Sure enough Ma yelled from the kitchen.  “You tryin’ to break that door?”  Sister stuck out her tongue but Ma couldn’t see her.  Ma could see and hear a lot but she couldn’t see through walls.  Lucky for Sister.

“Whatcha doin’?”  Sister came to stand at the porch rail next to Little Girl.

“Nuthin’.  Watchin’ the rain.”

“That’s not nuthin’.”

Little Girl wanted to sass Sister but Sister was older and bigger so she zipped her lip.

“Ma says it’s time to get ready.”

“For what?”

“Dinner.  We’re goin’ to Old Woman’s house.  You gotta put on your shoes and get a sweater.”

Little Girl groaned.  Old Woman’s house was bo-o-o-ring.  She only had two toys, leftovers from when her son was a little boy.  A wooden train and a wooden car; all the paint was chipped off and the car only had three wheels.  Old Woman’s son had died of something called tub-burr-culosis but she kept the toys.  She always told the same story about how her son had loved the train and the car.  Besides, Old Woman’s cooking wasn’t as good as Ma’s.

Sister poked her in the ribs.  “Come. On.  Ma says move it.”

Little Girl did as she was told.

When they got to Old Woman’s house she greeted them at the door, shooed Little Girl and Sister toward the old toys which sat on the shabby living room rug and took Ma into the kitchen with her.  Little Girl and Sister sat on the floor but they did not play; instead Sister shushed Little Girl and nodded toward the kitchen.  Ma and Old Woman were talking quietly but some of their words got into the living room and into Little Girl’s ears.  It sounded like Ma was crying.    Ma never cried! This scared Little Girl who started to get up to run into the kitchen. 

But Sister grabbed her arm and shook her head “no”.  Little Girl sat back on the floor and listened.

“He’s not coming back . . . said we was done . . .what I’m gonna do . . .”

“It might be a good thing.  He can’t hit you or the girls any more.”

“. . . have to find a job . . .  my sister might help but . . .”

“If you have to work, the girls can come to me after school.”

It was then that Sister pinched Little Girl on the back of the hand; she yelped real loud and Ma came rushing into the room. 

“Elsie, Barbara Jayne!  Stop it this minute.”

“But Ma!”  Little Girl waved her reddened hand at Ma.

“I mean it.”

“Sorry, Ma.”  Sister was looking like an angel.  Little Girl frowned at her.  But when Ma went back into the kitchen, Sister whispered.  “We can’t come here after school everyday if Ma has to work.  It’s too boring!  We hafta find some way to make her take that back.”

Dinner that night was chicken and dumplings, one of Little Girl’s favorite meals.  Ma made the best dumplings.  Pa always said they were light as a feather.  Always used to say.  Old Woman ladled up the food, putting two small dumplings and a bit of chicken on Little Girl’s plate.  Sister got the same.  They both scooped up a dumpling and bit into it.  Sister made a face but kept eating.  Little Girl’s dumpling was hard.  She spit it back onto her plate.

“I can’t eat this.  It’s hard as a brickbat!”

“Barbara Jayne!”  Ma was red in the face.  But not as red as Old Woman.

“But Ma, you always says that!”

When Ma tucked them in that night she didn’t say much.  After she left the bedroom Sister whispered from the other side of the small dark room.  “You hungry?”

“Yes, you got any food?”

“Nope.”  Sister was quiet for a minute but then she giggled.  “At least we won’t have to go to Old Woman’s house again.”

Just Before Sunset

The waxing moon hung in a diaphanous cloud.  He remembered to look down just before he flew over the river.  There she was, looking up.  He could count on her.  Every evening, at sunset, looking up; looking for him.  Once she waved and seemed to beckon him.

As a youngling, he’d considered trying to meet her, his faithful watcher.  But one of the elders, his grandfather or a great uncle, had warned him off.  “Not a good idea.  Women like that are untrustworthy.”

As he grew older, he grew to understand why.  She was a human.  He was a crow.

Image by Robin Anderson

Skyhawk

In his carefree youth, he and the camera were inseparable.  When a daredevil friend took him flying in a one engine plane, the camera went along.  They flew off the coast, over the Pacific, getting the bird’s eye of trees, cliffs and sea stacks, cold wind seeping into the cockpit.  He clicked the shutter a hundred times.  Back on earth, he printed a dozen images.  In one, the sepia sea gleams like glass, the sky stretches into silence.

Much later, his adult children gaze at the old photograph, smell naphtha-kerosene and feel the dip and rattle of the Skyhawk.

Image by Chris A Anderson, courtesy of the Estate of Chris A Anderson

This Beach, In Summer

Photo by Ray Hennessy on Unsplash

This beach, in summer, is full of life; Bright human life, pushing all other bits of consciousness aside.

A family group, mostly males, flying dangerously large kites to the squealing encouragement of the females.  Elders, walking slowly and frowning at their mates, but mostly perturbed by the shenanigans of youngsters.   Volleyballers, runners, sitters, sunbathers, readers.  Solitary walkers with bumptious dogs.   And a boy who named himself “Siegfried the Dog”.  A single child at sunset, bent in contemplation of a seashell as the tide slips quietly out.

Oh for the cold, sandblasted landscape of winter, when we others will have space.

 

Featured image by Ray Hennessy via Unsplash.com

 

With Feathers

Black-capped chickadee

“Hope” is the thing with feathers.   Emily Dickinson

In the kitchen on a warm afternoon, the breeze blowing in an open door.  An unexpected movement near the window.  That’s not right.

A flutter and chirp.  Distress.   Small bird inside the house.

The family dog sleeps in the next room so I rise quietly.  A black-capped chickadee stares up at me from the sill.  Crooning in the face of terror, I try to catch it.  Frantic fluttering and shed feathers.   Still not right.

Softly, I open two windows, stand back and hope.

YES!  It flies out into its world.  That is right.

Image by Brandon @greener_30 via Unsplash.com

As the Crows Fly

birds in flight at sunset

Each evening, one half hour before sunset, crows fly to roost

Copper light by strange alchemy turned silver on the black gloss of their wings

To light the moon or the night gold eyes of owls and bats

And to draw in the hapless moth for a midnight snack

 

Image by Diego PH via Unsplash

Mr. Crow Takes a Walk

Take a walk they said, you’ll like it they said, something different, a new point of view they said.  So I’m walkin’ here, I’m  walkin’ there.  Always late, missin’ out on the  best food, the best views.  But ya know what, I like it.  Givin’ the wings a rest.  Takin’ my time.

Thing is, I’ve forgotten how to fly.

Image by Gio Diani via Unsplash