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“Oh, you can’t be serious, Margaret,” said Ethel. “He gave that monstrosity to a young child. It will give her nightmares. What’s wrong with a Teddy Bear?”
“Mortimer isn’t too keen on Teddy Bears. Too cliché.”
“Then he shouldn’t have one. But a stuffed chimpanzee for a one-year-old?”
Margaret smiled. Her husband had brought the stuffed monkey he’d named Jubilee a few days prior.
She led Ethel to her daughter’s room where Jane slept with her arm curled around the monkey. “See for yourself.”
To this day, ninety years later, Jane Goodall’s beloved Jubilee sits on her dresser in London.
Baby Jane Goodall with her toy chimpanzee Jubilee.
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I purchased my tickets last March, for my annual North Carolina, “sibling revelry” visit, dreaming of sunshine, beach combing and ocean swimming.
August came. In anticipation, I boarded my flight in Kansas City. My thirty-minute layover in Charlotte turned into two and a half hours in a thunderstorm. After a thirty-minute flight I was greeted by my brother and his wife in Wilmington after midnight.
Lost luggage, computer glitches, Hurricane Debby (not to be confused with my gentle sister-in-law Debbie), and a rained-out concert made for a challenging “getaway.” And that, my friends, is how I spent my summer vacation.
We made it to the beach…once…for an hour. After that the heavens opened once more.
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Happy holidays to all who celebrate at this time of the year! In light of that and the fact that I’ve been battling some kind of sinus crud, today’s story is a rerun. However, the prompt is new. 😉
Genre: Pure Fiction Word Count: 100
SUBJECT TO CHANGE
Ted set up a row of chairs in the reception hall. Jessica plopped down on one and pouted. “This is all-kinds-of wrong.” “Hey sis, ever hear of John Cram?” “No.” “Lemme educate you. John Cram patented the folding chair in 1855. Then in 1947 Fred Arnold created the first aluminum one and by 1957 his company was manufacturing—” “Ooh, cram your history, Mr. Wikipedia.” Jessica gritted her teeth. Tears stung her eyes. “It’s just not fair.” Ted hugged her. “You’re going to be a gorgeous bride tomorrow.” “What about my garden wedding? It’s not supposed to snow in May!
We celebrate both holidays in our house! Happy Merry from us to you!
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It’s one of those “the muse is tired and not speaking much.” Holidays on the horizon and my mind is going in too many directions. So I revamped an oldie from the Weekend Writing Prompt. 😀 Enjoy.
THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME
My parents bought a single-story house in 1956. Moving from a tiny apartment with two small children, the house seemed like a palace.
When mom and dad passed, Jan and I bought my brother’s half of our inheritance and moved in with our three rambunctious sons.
At the time it seemed like a good idea since it was a nicer part of town with better schools.
After twenty-five years, we moved from the nine-hundred-fifty-square-foot cracker box and declining neighborhood.
When asked why empty nesters would buy a house three times larger, with vaulted ceilings we grin and reply, “Breathing room.”
A few pictures below. Mostly taken four years ago. But you get the idea.
Three times the size of that little house, to us, this place is a castle. We bought it 17 years ago and I still love it!
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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. 😉
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When I was a small child, we all went to the same synagogue. Passover seders and bar mitzvah receptions were epic events.
I remember how excited I was to be the flower girl at my cousin Marshall’s wedding. So nervous, walking down the aisle, I forgot to throw the petals.
We grew up, married and went our separate ways. My parents, aunts, uncles, and most of my cousins succumbed to the inevitable.
Time has scattered the rest of us to the wind. Fewer invitations, cards, or even texts are sent. Recently I learned of Marshall’s passing—in a Facebook post.
Mishpocha is Yiddish for family. L’chaim! To Life!
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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. 😀
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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. 😉
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple 