The Flower Man

It was a small town –a small, plain, town that no one would spare a second glance at. There was really nothing special about the place. The streets were cracked, the buildings old, and the downtown was home to the only stoplight in town, which never turned green and guarded a mostly vacant intersection. Regardless of the weather, the stores down town always had business. Though you wouldn’t think it by looking at the mostly empty parking spots that sat before them.

                In the winter, down town was bustling with life. Cars were parked along the roads. People honked in frustration, looking for a place to rest their vehicle. Tempers flew, people cursed, and then smiles were given. No matter how mad you were at another, you always made sure to bring a bit of holiday cheer with you.

                Yet, in the summer, when the days are long and the sun too hot, very few cars could be seen. With shorts and tank tops the townspeople wandered around on foot. Their skin getting gloriously sun kissed. Shop owners loved those days. Their doors would be propped open, box fans would be blowing beside them, and people would wander in for the sake of getting out of the heat or for a friendly chat. It wasn’t about business on those days. It was about community.

                On one such day, near the middle of the hottest season, a couple of kids ran out of the local coffee shop. Their hands held freshly made smoothies in clear cups with large neon straws. Their sneakers thumped as they raced after each other, giggling.

                “Run, run, as fast as you can!” chanted the little boy with a mop of dirty curls. His orange colored smoothie was held tightly in his hands.

                Chasing after him was a girl a bit older than he, with pigtails of the same dirty curls. She had been entrusted with his safety for the hour, while their parents socialized with the coffee shop goers…and the lumberman…and the sheriff…and any other person they happened upon on their way to the town barbeque that was taking place at the town square.

                “Maxie! Slow down!” The girl huffed as the distance between her and her brother grew.

                “You can’t catch me! You can’t catch me!” The little boy did a twirl in the street.

                “Watch out!” the girl screamed just as her brother tumbled back. Baby blues grew wide as he tripped on the cracked street, falling back into a man riding by in his motorized scooter.

                “Woah, careful there,” the man grinned down at the child who had fallen at the wheels of his transportation.

                The girl rushed to her brother’s side. She quickly picked him up, her eyes scanning him for any injuring. The man above them chuckled, and she looked up –knelt on one knee and still holding on to her brother –to see him grinning down at them.

                “Looks like you gave your sister a scare there, little man,” the skin around the man’s eyes crinkled with glee. His face was folded, as were his hands, from the years he had endured. There was nothing more than a small wisp of snowy hair atop his otherwise bald head. Freckles covered his face, and spread down his neck, like someone had splattered chocolate across his flesh. His brown eyes twinkled at the children.

                “Sorry, mister,” the girl apologized as she stood up and drew her brother closer to her.

                The elderly man was a common sight around town. Though neither of the children knew his name. They only knew what they saw daily, and daily he was seen driving around town in his scooter with a bag of groceries and a camera in his wire basket.

                The man chuckled again, his polo covered chest shaking from the force. “Now there, there’s nothing to apologize for.”

                “Sorry,” the little boy mumbled.

                “No blood, no foul,” the man assured again. His smile was so kind that both children found themselves lacking fright. In a town where everyone basically knew everyone, they were standing before a man they had never met. A man who everyone knew of, but didn’t know personally. At least, the children had never heard anyone call him by name. He’d always been referred to as the flower man.

                The man had a reputation in town. Everyone knew of his daily routine. He’d leave his small, one bedroom home early in the morning and spend the entire day riding around town. He’d never go home without a bag of groceries and a new picture on his camera. A new picture of a flower.

                His entire day was dedicated to finding the perfect flower to take a picture of. And it had to be a flower he had never taken a picture of before. He’d ride thought he parks, through down town, by the gas station, pass the police station, by churches and homes. He’d inspect every flower he’d see. But, it would take him hours to find one that he deemed photo worthy.

                No one knew why he did what he did. All they knew was that he seemed to enjoy doing it. There was a rumor that he was a retired nature photographer, and another that he collected photos of flowers. But the most wide spread rumor was that he was a veteran who suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. That rumor said that he had fought in World War II and that, after seeing all the bloodshed and losing all his friends, that he had come home and started taking pictures of flowers as a reminder to himself that there was still beauty in the world.

                Despite there being rumors, and despite him being a frequent customer of the down town shops, no one had ever asked him of his past. It wasn’t because they didn’t care that they didn’t ask, but that they feared triggering painful memories. They knew not what the man had experienced in his life, and they didn’t wish to inflict pain upon him by inquiring of his experiences.

                “Say, do you two think your parents would mind if I borrowed you for a bit? There’s this flower, in the barrel sitting outside Jenkin’s Hardware, that I’d like to get a picture of,” the man asked. “Problem is, I can’t seem to work my camera today. My hands are old and sometimes my bones down’ want to bend right. But it’s important that I get this picture. Do you think you could help?”

                The brother looked up at his sister, who looked down at him before nodding. “Sure.”

                The man’s smile widened. “Oh good!”

                He lead the children across the street and to an old barrel that sat outside the hardware store. With shaky hands, he carefully handed his camera to the sister and instructed her as to how he wanted the picture taken. “That purple flower there, dear. Get down close, so you can see inside. Not too close now. Back up a little. That should be about right. Now, take the picture.”

                The girl pressed down on the camera’s button. A small click was heard as the shutter was snapped shut. She pulled the camera away from her eye to look at the image displayed upon its screen. “Is this okay, mister?”

                “Yes, dear,” the man praised. “That’s perfect!”

                The man took the camera from the girl and, for a moment he didn’t say anything. He stared down at the picture of the purple daisy. Its petals were soft. The lighting had been perfect.

                “Do you know,” the man spoke up with watery eyes. “Why I take these pictures?”

                The children shook their heads.

                “They say you’re a veteran,” the girl spoke, “that’s wants to see beauty.”

                “They say you’re crazy,” the little boy added.

                “I am veteran,” the man’s smile was sad now, “and I am crazy, but neither of those rumors are right. I take these pictures because my beautiful bride loves flowers. When we were younger I would shower her with flowers. She use to keep the most beautiful garden. Children would flock to our home to gaze into the pond and dance among the rose bushes, but sadly they’ve all stopped coming now. Those children grew up, and had their own children, and made their own gardens, and never come to call. But my bride, she still loves those flowers. She still loves their smell and their beauty. She still loves the way the sun looks on them and the way they can make a person smile.”

                The man paused, shutting off his camera and placing it back in his wire basket. “My bride and I are frail now and gardening is not something we can do. She’s been very sick. Has been for many years. She can’t leave the house now. Can’t even leave the bed. So, I bring the flowers to her. Every day I take a picture of one of the pretty flowers those children that use to roam through our yard have grown, and I stop by the drug shop and have it printed out, and I give it to her. You should see her smile,” he beamed. “Ninety-four years old and she still looks as pretty as she did when we were sixteen. My Elma Mea. My lovely bride.”

                The children didn’t know what to say, so they stood silent until they saw their parents leaving the coffee shop. The adults caught sight of them right away and crossed the street to meet them.

                “Well you two didn’t get very far,” the mother announced.

                “I’m sorry, Sally,” the old man greeted the woman, “Your daughter was just taking a picture for me.”

                The mother’s eyes softened. She opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by the man, who said, “I should be going now. I need to have this picture printed.”

                “You should come to the barbeque,” the father suggested.

                “Oh no,” the man laughed, “All that smoke. Not good for my old lungs. You and your family have fun though, John.”

        

        “Will do, sir,” the father smiled back as the old man began on his way.

                “Daddy, Mommy,” the little boy spoke up. “You know him?”

                “I thought no one knew him,” the daughter stated.

                “Of course we know him,” the mom smiled, her eyes watching the old man as he thanked a young lady for holding open the drug store door for him. “We use to play in his and his wife’s garden.”

                “Mommy?” the little boy asked.

                “Yes, baby?”

                “Could we go see him tomorrow?”

                The woman looked at her husband, who smiled down at their son. “You know what, Maxie, I think that’d be a great Idea.”

Night Storms: A collection of poems

Rain, Rain

Rain, rain,

Come and play;

Wash all the dirt away.

Rain, rain,

Please don’t go;

I need you more than the mountains need snow.

Rain, rain,

Please just stay;

This little soul’s crumbling like clay.

Rain, rain,

Come and play;

I’ll do whatever you say.

Rain, rain,

Please don’t go;

You fill my life with such a lovely glow.

Rain, rain,

Please just stay;

Keep these ugly thoughts at bay.

Rain, rain,

Come and play;

Please don’t ever stray away.

Rain, rain,

Please don’t go;

I’m begging you with a heart of woe.

Rain, rain,

Please just stay;

Hear these words I pray today.

Storm: A Haiku

Lightning breaks the sky.

Thunder roars through the hazy night.

All is basked in grey.

Night: A Haiku

Tiny little lights

Hang within a vacant sky

As the shadows dance.

Nocturne

Tranquil, pretty, void of light

It’s the path to the dreamer’s sight.

Quite, still, vicious little tide

In the shadows is where demons hide. 

(And another poem, which has absolutely nothing to do with the theme that's been carried through the others.)

Teen Girls: A Haiku

Giggles can be heard,

Drifting through locker lined halls,

As a boy smiles.

Life from a Death

It's Easter morning and I haven't slept a wink all night. My thoughts were too alive and I kept thinking about how wonderful it would be to see the sunrise. There's something magical about watching the sunrise on Easter Sunday. Maybe it's the symbolism...maybe it's the way the early morning rays kiss the earth. Either way, it's something glorious to behold.

When I was little my family would go to sunrise services. We'd get dressed up in pretty dresses and suits, pile into our two cars, and head for the lake where that year's sunrise service was to be held at. I have fond memories of those services.

I can remember that I always got cold. I'd stand there, under some park awning or near the waters, in a circle with all the rest of the congregation. My knees would be shaking and my arms would have goose bumps, and I'd watch the sunrise as the pastor reminded us of the importance of Easter...of what it was that took place on that day so many years before.

It's been too long since I've been to a sunrise service.

Last night I couldn't' sleep, but it wasn't because I was reading an enthralling story or watching movies, but because as I laid there -staring out at the city lights in the darkness of the night -I realized that I longed for a sunrise.

I got to thinking about Easter and about Good Friday, I got to thinking about how it's been so long since I last read the Easter story, and I was overcome with the need to experience a sunrise service. Sadly, I didn't know where one was being held, so I made do. I didn't get to gather with a congregation of humans, but I had my own personal service with nature's congregation.

A bit before seven, I threw on some day clothes, grabbed a hoodie, and left my dorm building. The sun wasn't quite up yet but I couldn't wait any longer. I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve night, eagerly waiting for their gifts. I just had to feel that sunrise.

There's a trail that runs by my university, part of it's blocked off right now but I walked some of it anyway. The world was so still. The air chilly. It had an aroma of fresh rain; of rebirth and renewal.

I was almost lead to an early grave by a pair of ducks on my way to the trail and, after that, birds were everywhere. The world may have been still but nature was buzzing.

I kid you not. Blue-jays, Cardinals, sparrows, ravens, and robins were scattered about the trail and lurking in the blooming branches of the trees. There were squirrels running all around and worms wiggling their way across the black trail top. Even the stream that runs along the trail was bubbling with life. It was as if nature herself was praising God on this Easter Sunday.

Even as I sat atop slightly damp grass after walking the trail -writing in my journal as I took in the world -nature did not stop singing. The birds were everywhere, and they were loud. It was glorious.

So long ago, a man -a god (thee God) -sacrificed Himself so that we could all have eternal life. So that we wouldn't have to spend our eternity in the absence of His presence. Think about that. Not only did Christ die for us, but He died so that He and us wouldn't be separated. He died because He didn't wand to live without us; because He wants us to be able to spend eternity with Him.

Romans 5: 6-8 says:

 "For while we were still helpless, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will hardly die for a righteous man, though perhaps for a good man someone would dare even to die. But God demonstrates His own love towards us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us." 

Christ died for us. Christ died for us. Christ died for us. Christ died for us. Do you get that? Do you feel that? How humbling is it to think that the Almighty God came to earth, placed himself in the form of a human, and died so that we may know eternal life. God -a deity (Thee all powerful deity. The one who knows it all. The one who spoke and the universe came into existence) -sacrificed himself so that we might live.

I don't know about you, but that makes me rejoice. Because of Him, my soul doesn't have to be condemned. Praise God for what he's done. He is truly a loving and caring God.

Tupperware Party

You’ve been invited to a Tupperware party

A Tupperware party?

My mom used to get invited to Tupperware parties.

I would always sit there bored, thinking about how stupid they were.

I didn’t understand why dishes could be so fascinating.

I didn’t understand why ladies would throw Tupperware parties;

Why to be a lady one had to sit and look at dishes.

I’m twenty-two now,

And I was just invited to a Tupperware party.

A Tupperware party?

Am I really old enough to be invited to a Tupperware party?

Am I really at that point where I can no longer sit on the side line;

Sit on the side line thinking about how stupid talking about dishes is?

I don’t know what’s worse.

That I was just invited to a Tupperware party,

Or that I actually kind of want to go. 

Perfect Little Lines

Perfect Little Lines

Dedicated to a little sister who's been going through a lot lately. 

Perfect little lines,

As straight as can be,

Decorating her skin

For eternity.

Faded from years,

But their red is still clear.

Her eyes can still see

What her heart use to feel.

Covered by bracelets,

Those lines use to be,

Yet now they are displayed

For all to see.

The battle was fought,

The battle was won,

And her badge of courage

Shows that it’s done.

Marred Innocence and Other Poems

Lately, the dreaded illness of writer's block has prevented me from working on any of my ongoing chapter stories. In an attempt to cure myself, I've been working one some other, smaller projects. My energy has been turned from those larger works to practicing my skills on short stories and poetry. Thus far, I've written two short stories and three poems. Well, three poems that I will be sharing with you. I've written two others, but I am not at all pleased with them. That's how writing goes sometimes. You write, and write, and write, and some times you end up with the most glorious diamond...yet other times you end up with a piece of writing that you just know isn't going to go anywhere. 

What I have for you this fine night are the three poems I've written lately. I may eventually post the short stories as well. But, for the moment, just enjoy these little writings. They aren't the best I've ever written, but they're decent...in my opinion. 

Marred Innocence

Such a beautiful sight,

An empty page.

White, clean, perfect,

It’s all innocence.

Then along comes an artist,

Pen in hand.

With ink and paint,

They steal the innocent land.

Such a dreadful sight,

The marred page.

Lines, letters, curves,

Gone is its essence.  

Yet what remains,

Shows only truth.

With words and sketches,

The artist speaks to the youth.

Black

Tastes like freshly brewed coffee.

Smells like moist earth.

Sounds like vinyl records.

Feels like ground charcoal.

Looks like an endless starry sky.

Yellow

Tastes like Lemonade on a hot afternoon.

Smells like a field of blooming tulips.

Sounds like a choir of canaries.

Feels like the sun’s warm rays.

Looks like summer.

Reminiscing On the Good Ol' Times

Traditions. We all have them. Whether they're personal traditions or family traditions. Traditions that we celebrate together or alone. We all have those things that we love to do and do them ritually. My family has a lot of traditions, some of which are nothing more but memories. As my siblings and I grew up, as family members moved and aged, our traditions warped, shifted, changed into new forms. Some died, others are barley there, and still others remain strong.

Growing up, there was a tradition in my home that took place every Sunday or Monday night. Two sports. Two seasons. And parents that us kids would sit down and watch both with. With my mom, it was football. With my dad, it was NASCAR. Both of which, I wasn't insanely fond of.

As a child, I use to get bored watching football and NASCAR. I didn't understand the thrill of chasing after a ball or driving in circles, but I learned the sports. Learned how to yell out at the TV and how to cheer on my favorites. For not caring much, I did have favorites, and my caring for the two traditions grew more as I aged.

Now, at 22, I can honestly say that I like one more than the other. And I can honestly say that I have my favorite team and racer(s). I now enjoy watching the games and races. But its not because I care so much about who wins them. It's because of the memories I have attached to them.

I watch the Superbowl every year. I couldn't care less about catching any of the other games, but that one is a must for me. Likewise, I try to catch the Daytona 500. Those two events were two of the biggest nights in my house growing up. Friends and family use to be invited over for them, and for the races that followed and games that lead up to them. With those gatherings, came those memories.

Like all children, I never thought about how such events could effect my life. I never thought about the memories I would take away from them.

Now, I do.

Today was the Daytona 500, one of the biggest races in NASCAR. Race cars and drivers hadn't been anywhere in my mind until my dad called and said he was watching the race. The sound of his voice as he talked to me about the race brought the urge to watch it. I couldn't remember the last time I had caught an entire race. I'm normally busy or forget about them. But I had time today and it was the Daytona 500...I had to watch it.

Due to a rain delay I actually got to watch last year's Daytona race as well as this years. Two races, two years, same day...and I enjoyed every second of it. Annoyed my roommate a little too, because I channeled my father. By that I mean that all those times watching him and his friends talk to the TV during races, wore off on me...and I found myself doing the same thing. At the end, I actually said, "Man, I sound like my dad." That's a good thing though.

When I think of my dad, I think Pepsi, Sega Genesis (Some of you reading this probably have no idea what that is...look it up, kiddies), Star Trek and Star Wars. I think calloused, grease covered hands, and shirts smelling like tar and anti-freeze. I think summer days in the garage. Nights kicking Sith butt on the Xbox. I think of the man who had to watch The Return of the King before us children in order to make sure it wouldn't scare us, but didn't flip out when I purposely set out to draw a reaction from him with a fake nose ring (By the way, that earned me a reaction from my mother...where I was threatened with being sent to Georgia...I don't blame her though, and actually found her reaction to be amusing. Sorry mom, but it was kind of funny!)

My dad and I have butted heads so many times in the past, but he's one of the most important people in my life. My dad taught me how to ride a bike...an event that lead to me zooming down a slopped sidewalk and fearing that I'd run into something. He taught me how to throw a bunch of random food together in a way that's wonderfully delicious...he taught me how to fix the chain on a bike...how to check the oil in a car...how to deep clean a house (that was a weekly tradition that all of us children dreaded but my mom and dad taught us to do...I still do deep cleaning on Saturdays because of it). And my dad taught me to never give up.

I have so many wonderful memories of my dad. I'm so lucky to have him as my father.

I've been homesick for awhile now. I've been counting the days until Spring break when I can pack a bag and leave this lovely city I'm in for the corn fields of home. Funny how I use to hate those fields -how I use to see them as a barrier -and now sometimes all I want is to see them again. Watching the Daytona tonight was a little piece of home.

For a while during the race, I just sat there thinking. I thought back to this one race I watched back in high school. I think it was in 2008 or 2007. I'm not sure. But I remembered sitting on the green couch that was in the living room of the house that I spent most of my life in, in front of the window. I can see it as perfectly as if it happened yesterday. Light was streaming in from the large picture window behind the couch, the green drapes were pulled to the side in the way that my mom liked them. The light created a glare on the TV, but I liked the golden puddle it left on the floor so I dealt with the glare.

My parents weren't home that day. No one was. I don't remember where they were. But I remember sitting with my math book open, and reasoning to myself that the race was more important than my homework. I remember thinking, "Dad'll want to know who wins." It was the first race that I think I actually completely watched from beginning to end. It was the race that I chose my favorite driver...Jimmie Johnson. I'd tell you why he's my favorite, but I don't think you'd understand. Let's just say I'm a fan of stories and that entire race was a story of him.

That memory is precious to me. Johnson won that race, just so you know, and his niece was born just as he crossed the finish line. I talked to the TV then too, but I don't think I thought about how much like my dad I had sounded at the time. Tonight, though, I did.

While I talked to the TV through this year's Daytona, and cheered on my favorites, I felt like I was at home again. The only thing that could have made it better would have been if my parents and siblings and friends were there. I mean my friends that I use to watch the races with. I do have friends here, in this city, (just to clarify), but I kind of miss the ones I grew up watching the races with. The ones that I use to talk with about how hot Johnson and Gordon were and how we wished they weren't married so we'd have a chance. The friends who I use to talk about how cool it would be to get into Pit row with and meet the drivers with. Those friends that can't really even be called my friends anymore because we're more like family. Like sisters or cousins. We grew up together. Our dads use to tell us how to read the racing stats together.

Then there were our moms. Our moms, just like our dads, are amazing. They instilled in us what I like to call the Pioneer skills. Those skills that all homemakers at one time needed. They taught us to sew, to do crafts, to participate in Church events (that was taught by our dads too. Church was a family thing), and use to tell us stories of the women's retreats they went on. As a little girl, one of the things I looked forward to was reaching the age where I could go to women's retreat with my mom. Sadly, I've only been able to go to one...but it was as amazing as our mothers described.

Like my dad, my mom's taught me so much. She's taught we how mark up my Bible, how to read, how to write, how to sew, how to fix a vacuum, how to properly set a table, how to be a lady. You know how I mentioned all those things that made me think of my dad? Well, when I think of my mom I smell vanilla and  I hear Twila Paris, I see my mom singing along to A Warrior is a Child and driving me to quizzing, and teaching quizzing, and homeschooling me, and giving me my first journal, and reminding me to write in that journal, and going to my Track meets and my cheer leading events (with my dad,), and showing me how a record player worked, and dancing around the living room with my siblings and I to that record player, and telling my sister and I to stop spraying each other with the sink's sprayer. And as I remember sitting on my dad's lap as he read my favorite children's book series to me, Alice in Bibleland, I remember my mom kneeling by my bed and teaching me the Lord's prayer...and singing to me It Only Takes a Spark.

Theses are the memories that last. The memories that are important.

If you can't tell, I've been missing home a lot lately. I can't wait to get back to good ol' Nebraska. Even if it's only for a week. I think what I'm missing more, though is the past. I mean, yesterday I caught myself staring out my dorm window at an empty soccer field...but I wasn't seeing the soccer field. I was seeing a worn wooden eagle's nest, a chain link fence with morning glories growing up it, and an old burn barrel sitting by the garden gate that my dad had made for my mom's garden.

Maybe it's not home. Maybe it's not the past. Maybe what I'm really missing is familiarity. Someplace, sometime, that knew me as well as I knew it. Or maybe it's all three. I don't know. I just know, that this Daytona was needed for me. I needed the memories it brought up. The tears that sprang to my eyes when I thought of them. I needed that happiness, because -honestly -lately I haven't been very happy. I'm at a point in my life where I don't know where I should go from where I'm at. It's not a point of depression or sorrow...it's just a point where I'm trying to juggle all the stuff life throws at me so that I can make it past this step (schooling) and onto the next (graduation).

I don't know where to go from here in this post. Honestly, I didn't plan on making this post as personal as it's turned out. I try to keep the personal stuff in the pages of my journals. I suppose it happens though, and a personal one every once in a while isn't a bad thing. I guess, if any of you were trying to figure out if I was a human or not, now you have you're answer. I'm most definitely human, and I most definitely have memories. And I absolutely, positively, wouldn't trade those memories for the world.

There's a book I like, City of Lost Souls by Cassandra Clare, where some of the characters are forced to trade in a memory in which they were truly happy in, in order to save the world. If confronted with that decision, I don't think I could make it as quickly as the characters did. There's not a single memory that I can imagine giving up. Both good and bad. Theses memories are what keep me going when I get into ruts. They're what remind me that there are people out there that care for me and want to see me succeed. I couldn't part with a single one of them.

If any of you who are reading this, are the people in the memories that I mentioned today, I want to say thank you. Thank you for caring. Thank you for giving me such wonderful memories. Thank you for everything. Because, when the darkness threatens to consume me, it's memories like that which save me...which bring smiles to my face. So, thank you. And I love you. Each one of you.