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Dennis looked over Charlotte’s shoulder at her bulky pickup list. “Wrecked bicycle. Check. Commodore computer. Wait! Not my bench!”
“Anyone who sits on it risks getting a butt full of splinters.”
“I’ll take my chances.” He sank down. “This is where I used to sing Abby to sleep, help her with her homework, and wait for her to come home from her dates. My claw marks are still on the armrests.”
A small boy crawled onto Dennis’s lap. “I want to sit on Grandpa’s special bench, too.”
Charlotte crossed out bench. “You win.”
Dennis frowned. “Now, about that Commodore computer.”
The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
Despite my husband’s protests, I gather seashells along a Massachusetts beach. They are my favorite souvenirs from my travels.
I pick up a rock and hold it in the palm of my hand. Awhimsical drawing of a cat smiles at me.
Later as we have lunch at Theresa’s Stockbridge Café, I show my find to our server.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “You don’t see many of those on the beach these days. That’s an Alice original.”
My heart pounds. “You mean as in the Alice?”
“Yes!”
Suddenly I find myself singing, “You can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant.”
The photo prompt this week is mine and while it’s true that I can’t resist collecting shells on the beach, the ones pictured came from St. Thomas, Florida, and Wilmington NC. I’ve never been to Massachusetts. 😉
Click the images below for the full pictures:
Genre: Tribute – Non Fiction Word Count: 100
II REMEMBER ALICE?
Alice’s Restaurant wasn’t really a song about Alice—or a restaurant. It’s just the name of the song.
As the story goes, “It all started two Thanksgivings ago…”
Rock stations across the United States play Arlo Guthrie’s classic narrative every Thanksgiving which falls in late November.
While she enjoyed cooking, Alice Brock never expected fame or fortune to come of it. In recent years, she reminisced how, thanks to her “funny looking friend with the guitar,” and his eighteen-minute ramble, she became the “living legend Earth Mother.”
She left us this year, a week before Thanksgiving. Rest in peace, Alice.
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Every day it’s a-gettin’ closer. Goin’ faster than a roller coaster… I think back to the day we said our “I do’s.” Sometimes we did. And all too often we didn’t. Three babies came. Thankfully, one at a time—each with his own unique personality. We weathered the lean times. Hamburger Helper was what was for dinner. We endured the alone times—both physical and emotional. We survived chicken pox, broken bones and injuries requiring stitches. Every day it’s a-gettin’ closer Goin’ faster than a roller coaster Life was never ever neat. Love like yours has surely come my way.
Tomorrow marks our 53rd year of marriage. Our parents gave us six months. I guess we beat those odds. Sometimes I think we stayed together out of pure stubborness. At any rate, I’ve waxed reflective this month. Thank you for understanding. 😉
If you don’t already have an earworm, let me help. 😉
The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
Please, be a pal, and identify yourself in your comments. I kind of like to know to whom I’m replying to. Thank you. 😀
Genre: Hysterical Faction Word Count: 100
HONEYMOON PHASE
I gave my parents a tour of the apartment and said, “Only $85.00 a month.” Mom glared through tears at the black and red kitchen cabinets. “It’s a dump. You’re only eighteen. Please reconsider this.”
After our wedding, my husband and I moved into our first home—a four-room apartment in the attic of a turn-of-the-twentieth-century two-story brick house. The paper-thin walls allowed us to hear every word spoken by our pothead next door neighbors—usually uttered after midnight.
I could be a romantic and say that to us it seemed like a palace. Nah. It really was a dump.
This is the only picture we have that was taken inside the apartment. (December 1971) Sadly you can’t experience the end tables made of old barrels (speakers inside them) with cast-off marble tops. Between those was the green naugahide couch. Across from them was the portable black and white TV on rough board shelves propped up on cinder blocks.
Once satisfied that I wasn’t in a family way, our parents gave us six months….53 years ago. 😀
The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
Holding up a typical swim dress, Charlotte glared at the all-male committee of the Amateur Athletic Leage “One lap in this meshuggeneh getup and a girl will sink like a stone.” One of the men studied her proposed swimsuit on the table. “Are you suggesting women be allowed to compete? In this skimpy thing?” “Indeed, I am, sir.” Charlotte never wavered and in 1915 one-piece swimsuits for women were sanctioned and pools were open to both genders. Affectionately known as Eppy, Charlotte Epstein is remembered as the Mother of Women’s Swimming in America. Nu? Who doesn’t appreciate a Jewish mother?
CLICK to learn more about this amazing woman. One of her proteges happened to be Gertrude Ederle. 😉
The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
Twenty-year-old Gertrude Ederle’s heart pounded as she waved to her adoring fans who thronged Manhattan’s streets shouting, “Trudy! Trudy!” Slathered in lanolin and olive oil, she’d conquered twenty-one miles of frigid waters. President Calvin Coolidge dubbed her America’s Best Girl. When asked her thoughts on being the first woman to swim the English Channel, she shrugged. “I just knew it could be done, it had to be done, and I did it.” Not only did she do it, but she did it in fourteen hours and thirty-one minutes, beating the records of the five men who swam it before her.
Of course, Trudy is one of my heroes. I’ll never go the distances she did, but I’ll forever applaud her for her role in history. For more of her story from her own mouth, friends and family CLICK HERE and HERE. (Parts 1 and 2 of a documentary.)
The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
The setting sun’s light made the waters of the sea sparkle. Aliseyu basked in its warmth. Hutash had been good to them today. A grand catch of fish would provide a feast for the village tonight.
Aliseyu’s father recounted histories with the other men who paddled their long tomol. Even though he’d heard it many times, Aliseyu never tired of hearing the story of Hutash leading her Chumash people over the rainbow bridge to their home by the ocean.
In the distance, a huge boat with white flags appeared. As it came closer, Aliseyu blinked. Perhaps it was a dream.
On our recent trip to California I learned of the Chumash people who all but perished at the hands of the Spanish. To learn a little more about them CLICK HERE.
The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
“You’ll like Orville,” George told Corrine. “He has a great personality.”
Who hadn’t heard that line before?
However, George hadn’t lied. She found Orville to be a most charming gentleman. He regaled her with stories of farm life and how he’d been the first in his family to go beyond the eighth grade.
When he told her he wanted a college degree so he’d have a name his children could be proud of, he won her heart.
One date led to another until the day he proposed to her. “Corrine Strate,” Orville Redenbacher asked. “How do you feel about popcorn?”
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As you can see, Orville Redenbacher did indeed become a name his children and grandchildren could be proud of. 😀
CLICK HERE if you have 20 minutes to learn more about this amazing man.
he next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
Ettore patted Jerry’s head. “How’s it going small fry?”
Twelve-year-old Jerry squared his shoulders, stretched to his full four-foot-three-inches, glaring up at his six-foot-tall eighteen-year-old brother. “Who you calling ‘small fry’?”
The youngest of eleven siblings, he’d always be the shortest.
Over the years his lack of height served him well as an actor and a stuntman. His hand and footprints appear in front of the famous Grauman’s Chinese Theater in Hollywood.
Puffing on his cigar, eighty-year-old Jerry Maren reminisced about his part in The Wizard of Oz. “Great times. That mangy mutt made better money than us Munchkins did.”
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My brother has always had a vivid imagination and a penchant for fabricating tall tales. This time I thought he’d gone too far.
“Too many sci-fi comics, kiddo,” I said. “If extraterrestrials had arrived on this planet, it would be all over the news.”
“I saw their spaceship land. They’ve set up weapons of mass destruction.”
At his insistence, we hiked to the site where I expected to have the last laugh. But now both of my hearts stand still as I watch the two-legged creatures in shiny suits lumber about their craft.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple 