Note: The following piece was written in a poetic-prose style as a piece of flash fiction. Intentionally.
week twelve: sisters versus the great farm picnicsummer 2018
I’ve always like spending time with people who are older than I am. However, after spending weeks and months with only the occasional punctuation of a companion under the age of 60, I wasn’t looking forward to the Farm Bureau picnic, even though the food was guaranteed to be good. The mean age at that event was sure to be about 67, and taking a book would likely be considered bad form (though I would do so anyway, in a pinch).
And then I convinced my sisters to come to visit.
week eleven: maintaining sanityreviews, summer 2018
Here’s the problem with living on a ranch: sometimes it’s really dull.
This week was miserably hot and–what might be worse–fairly slow. I had things to do in the mornings, but after moving a little water and doing a few hours of yard work, I’d be more or less done with work until the evening, when I moved those same, miserable wheel lines again. This lack of joie de vivre, the mundanity, can become oppressive, even to an introvert like me.
So, to keep my mind busy and sane, I read. And listen to podcasts. And I’ve found some really good ones, which I will now pass on to you.
week ten: SCANDALsummer 2018
“On July 6, 2018, at 6:36 PM, Tiffany K received the above selfie from her daughter. It wasn’t accompanied by a caption, but she quickly noticed the change. Her usually straight-laced older daughter had gotten a nose piercing.”
week nine: the atcay-atchingcay saga, part twosummer 2018
I have captured the renegades.
Of the five original kittens, three were subdued in a timely manner, caught and tamed by food and affection. We gave them away easily fo delighted families
Yet two kittens maintained their independence, growing larger, stronger, and faster. Grandma and I knew that even if we saw them, we couldn’t catch them by our own strength. They were simply too quick. It would take wit to catch them, wit and strategy.
week eight: toeing the linesummer 2018
I rarely put myself into situations where I am cognizant of my own mortality. This is not to say that I don’t put myself in danger–I do many dumb things–but rarely am I fully aware of the riskiness of an action.
week seven: about “five”into my world, reviews, summer 2018
For those of you who don’t know, I’m an Enneagram Five with what I like to describe as a “very aggressive four-wing.” Five-wing-fours are visionaries with “introverted, cerebral personalities who enjoy learning, theorizing, and innovating. They are often artistic, intellectual, or scientifically oriented. No matter what their field of endeavor, they are iconoclasts who bristle at authority. Under difficult conditions, they may become reclusive.” For those of you who know me, this will likely sound very familiar.
week six: reflectionssummer 2018, Uncategorized
Time is an odd beast; it doesn’t seem to behave like it’s supposed to behave. When I was young, Time crawled along, each day a millennium. As I’ve gotten older, however, Time has changed, passing by at a speed which is constantly taking me by surprise.
week five: mistakessummer 2018, Uncategorized
The general struggle of the human race, I think, is its inherent fallibility. Being mortal and limited in our knowledge–along with other struggles, such as clumsiness and moral failings–we often make mistakes. How we process those mistakes, however, says a lot about our character.
week four: the atcay-atchingcay* sagasummer 2018
My grandparents have a cat who they call Grandma Cat. While she might be old enough to be called “Grandma,” she does something that very few grandmothers do: she has an obscene amount of babies. Like clockwork, each autumn and spring, her belly swells and shrinks as new cats are brought into the world.
This wouldn’t be an issue, except that this cat is wily and old enough to know every trick in the book when it comes to hiding kittens. Instead of having her children in the cat house next to our old white house or in the woodpile across the yard, she buries them in the hay, conceals them under the old house next door, or buries herself under the weights in the weight house.