Tiny Tuesday...m
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Tiny Tuesday...m
| Tue, 06-11-2002 - 7:00am |
Tiny Tuesday...m
Well, Tuesday is here again and this phrase has been setting in my head, just waiting to get out. I know, I know, I did a phrase last week. But I'm afraid that if I don't post this phrase for this week that it will take on a life of it's own. LOL. So here goes, let's see where this phrase takes our creativity this week. "I would like a dress length of that cornflower blue calico." Have fun, Sammi

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TT:De-je-vu
Have you ever felt at times that you've lived during another time? Ever heard voices whispering to you to come back to them? That you don't belong in the century you're living in? I know what you're thinking, move over Shirley McLaine. But I'm serious. I hear those whispers.
Just the other day when I was visiting the Great Platte Riverroad Archway Monument in Kearney, Nebraska, (it's one of my favorite places by the way), as I was traveling up the excalator, I heard the whispers. They were calling my name. But they were'nt calling to Sammi, they were calling to Becca. "Becca... Becca..." I heard before the recorded voice came over the earphones as I entered the museum part of the Archway.
As the escalator took me past the mannequin of the little pioneer girl sitting on a rock, writing in her journal, the heart strings did a double 'whang' as I looked into her face. Did I know you, I wondered? Were you my child? Or was I you?
The same reaction as I came up to the mannequins of a young pioneer mother that is pushing the backend of their covered wagon and the husband's grimace as he leads the team of horses out of a muddy rut. "Becca..." I heard again. "Becca..."
As I stepped into the General Store, I could see all the supplies that my ancestors would have bought back in 1889 when they came from Sweden to settle in Kansas. Most people only have an inkling what some of these utensils were used for, but my memory is excellent. A women standing next to me pointed to a flat-head wooden utensil and asked her husband about it, and without thinking before he had a chance to respond, I said, "Oh they used that when they made cheese."
I ignored their raised eyebrows and moved deeper into the shop. I stopped in front of a table laden with bolts of fabric, and felt like crying. Right there in front of me was a medium blue calico print. The same calico print that my mother had made me a dress out of for my sixth birthday. Again I heard "Becca... Becca..." And the question on my mind was what lifetime was I remembering. Who is calling out to my soul everytime I hear that name?
"Can I help you Ma'am?" The older gentleman who was manning the General Store Display looked at me in a gentle manner. "You're crying, is there something that I can do?"
"Yeah," I said as I wiped at the tears on my cheeks with my fingers. "I would like a dress length of that cornflower blue calico."
Sammi, I really enjoyed this (m)
loved the economy of style here. Great.
e
Hey sammi, nice work.(m)
It's so good to see your writing here again, and a kindred spirit in historical writing.
Welcome back, kiddo.
Linda
cl-ozarker
"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway
Loved it, Sammi!!! (m)
Your story provoked so many thoughts for me. I do believe things from our past lives are in our subconscious and sneak out sometimes. I hope you expand this one. I’m dying to know who was calling out to Becca and want to know more about her.
Great job!
Mac
My TT
I wasn't quite sure what the word limit was on this, but I tried to pare it down as much as I could. This is still just a first draft, so level one comments would be appreciated.
Ramona
===
I can’t say that I take any particular pleasure in what I’m doing, but I know that it’s something that has to be done. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to leave my house. And I’ve had far too much of locking myself indoors to want any more of that. Let the others stare. That’s no longer a problem or concern of mine. If I let it bother me too much I might as well just lock myself in my bedroom again and refuse to face the world. I came close to that point before, and I never want to be there again.
That’s why I’m doing what I have to do.
I’ve been in the Fab Brickhouse for over a half an hour, slowly and carefully moving about while looking over the different patterns and fabrics. The fabric shop has kind of a trendy, cutesy name, but they give decent deals when you buy a lot of fabric.
I finally settle on a pattern that I think won’t look too bad on me. Now it’s a question of getting the young salesgirl to notice me. Actually, I know she notices me. But she, like most other people, tries not to make it too obvious that she’s staring at me.
The salesgirl – Tori, her nametag says – finally bounces up to me and asks me if I need some help. She doesn’t look me straight in the eye. But I’m kind of used to little things like that now. People rarely look me in the eye anywhere I go. It’s kind of like if they look they’ll catch what I have. Not that it’s contagious.
"I would like a dress length of that cornflower blue calico" I tell her.
Tori flashes a plastic smile at me. I can tell from her slightly nervous giggle that she’s embarrassed to ask me the next question. I save her the trouble by telling her exactly how much extra to cut. She giggles softly again, takes the bolt of fabric, and begins to measure out the material.
As Tori cuts the material I move slowly over to the Wall of Buttons. I glance back at Tori. She is humming along to the cookie cutter pop song on the radio, slightly shaking her 34-inch hips.
I’m pretty good at judging people’s measurements. It’s almost second nature to me now. Well, it has been ever since my accident.
I’m not going to lay down my self-pity story on you. I’ve run through it so many times in my own mind and I’m tired of knowing how that story ends.
Let’s just say that one of the after-effects of my accident or attack or incident or whatever you’d like to call it was a nearly year-long depression. I was never suicidal, or at least never seriously suicidal. But I did spend a long time trying to think of something, anything, that would tell me that life was still a good thing.
And in between all that thinking I ate. And ate. And ate. And when it hurt to think I ate some more.
My doctor expressed his concern when I went in for some more pain medication. He filled out a new prescription for my “low spirits,” as he called them. As it turned out those pills made me even hungrier. So, naturally, I ate.
I’m not exactly sure how much I weigh now. I stopped looking when the scale hit the 325-pound mark, and that was a few months ago. You wouldn’t think that so much could fit on a 5’3” frame, but it does.
Tori tells me that my fabric is ready. I grab some buttons from the wall – cornflower blue – and slowly make my way to the check out counter. I’ve had to learn how to make my own clothing, since things off the rack don’t fit me any more.
Turns out I’m pretty good at sewing.
Thanks, Everyone! n/t
Nice, Portrait...m
...I think you did well with this really weird sentence. LOL. I thought at first that the narrator had been disfigured. I could definitely relate to the emotional eating disorder that this person was battling. I would like to see more of this character. Do you have plans to expand this? Good read, Sammi
Imagine knowing about...
that cheese spoon, that must have suprised the other tourists, lol.
You need to tell us ho you thought of this sentence and why it wouldn't leave you alone. Did it leave you alone? Lol.
Eyewrite
I like this, Ramona...
I like the feeling in this piece, feeling that I was inside the head of the narrator. Like Sammi, I thought she was facially disfigured, not obese. If you want to keep the obese part, consider how you allude to this issue earlier in the piece.
These parts, "Let the others stare." and "She doesn’t look me straight in the eye. But I’m kind of used to little things like that now. People rarely look me in the eye anywhere I go. It’s kind of like if they look they’ll catch what I have. Not that it’s contagious."
suggest disfigurement/disability more so than obeseness. The latter is more common and not so startling to others. But that's just my feeling.
I always enjoy your writing. Have a good week.
Eyewrite
Thanks, and...
When I sat down to write this piece, I initially had a quite different narrator in mind. I was going to write a piece in which a young man in a small town comes one step closer to announcing to everybody that he's a transvestite, but it kind of flopped around a bit and I ended up changing it in the end.
As for the way it did come out, I initially did put in a bit more about her "accident." Actually, it was an attack in which she was facially disfigured by her assailant, but I ended up having to drop it because it was making the piece longer and longer.
Thanks for the feedback, guys! Ramona
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