Unfinished works...

Just another beginning to one of the various stories I began writing...

I happened to be sitting on a wicker rocking chair on the front porch when Papa appeared in my driveway, wobbling down the rocky path with his wooden cane. The day was at its peak and the air was heavy with moisture with hints of thunderstorms in the near future. My kids were playing cheerfully in the front yard even though the grass was dry and yellow from the lack of precipitation this winter. Living in the plains of Kansas isn’t always the best place to find comfort outdoors, especially if you grew up in the Great Lakes region. Their curly, blonde hair bounced happily on their heads while they chased butterflies and crickets.

            “Papa!” I yelled from my chair, “What on earth are you doin’ walkin’ down our driveway with bad weather rolling in! You should let us come visit you from now on.”

            I watched him look up suddenly from deep concentration of foot placement and pause momentarily. Squinty-eyed and flushed he managed to hear my voice on the wind.

            “What’s that you say, honey?” He shouted back with a muffled, old voice.

            I shook my head and rose from my seat, stretching like a cat awoken from a long nap. My kids were still oblivious to the fact their great-grandfather was stubbornly making his way down the driveway. Instead their attention was now focused on the huge purple clouds looming in the horizon. I adjusted my sunhat and made my way to greet Papa. My turquoise jeweled sandals crunched on the rocks until I embraced Papa, inhaling the distinct scent of lilac soap and nursing home.

            “Papa, you should let us visit you at the home instead of taking the bus and walking.” I scorned with the hint of a smile on my lips.

            “Oh sweets you shouldn't worry about me, I’d rather die trying to see my granddaughter and great grandchildren than be cooped up in that dratted old building.” He persisted.

            “You know I worry. You also know they've been asking an awful lot to hear your old stories about Scotland.”  I turned to see if the kids were still in sight. “You should sit down with them on the porch and tell your grand stories before the storm hits. Can I get you some lemonade?”

            “That’d be fine, honey. I’ll gather some of the memories this old brain has left.” He wheezed.

            As I helped Papa up the steps, a rumble of thunder rolled over the plains like the muffled sound of bowling balls striking waxed lanes. My kids were running toward the house in no time at all because thunder can mean great danger is coming on the plains. They waved their arms in the air wildly and screamed for help, running away from imaginary twisters.

            “Bella Rose and Jack! My two favorite great grandchildren! Come here you two!” Papa exclaimed.

            Bella and Jack ran straight to their Papa’s arms and gave him big kisses on his cheeks. Their freckles stood out on their tanned skin to mark the stories of ancestry that ran deep in their veins. By the expression on their faces, I could tell they were eager to hear the story of love and despair Papa always told me when I was their age.

Spring semester 2013.