When they asked me how I was feeling, I always told them "fair to middling," even if I was struggling to breathe, or had a hard time lifting myself upright in bed, or couldn't keep a spoonful of oatmeal in my stomach for more than five minutes.
(more) No sense in them worrying. I did enough worrying for all of us, those days, about how they'd pay the bills without me, and who would split the firewood, and whether another man could ever love my girls as much as I did after I was gone.
I never told them about those worries. Not out loud.
Then they came to see me one day, and Greta had a pay stub, and Maria had a callous from the axe handle, and I found the answers to my questions:
they could pay their own bills;
they could chop their own wood;
and nobody in the world could ever love them the way I did.
So I raised myself up in my bed, swallowed some oatmeal, and began to find my way back to them.(less)
My computer is playing with my head.
What I know about computers could fit in this box here with enough room leftover for a good 295 words. I try to fake my way through (a lot of things) but I think it caught onto my fakery because for the(more) last 3 days or so, it's been giving me a hard time.
Usually I wouldn't mind, but this time it's personal because this time my computer messed with Typetrigger.
See, here's what happened, the same day the invitation to the Cupcake Royale reading was posted I noticed that whenever I clicked the "more" thingy "more" wouldn't show up. Also, the page was a good 3/4 blank-white-unable-to-write-in space with the current trigger at the top of the page and the box to write in at the bottom of the page.
Since my computer skills are nearly non-existant and not even close to fair to middling I thought perhaps it was something that would correct itself. (Could all you computer experts please stop laughing at me!)
Enough with the boring details, the main thing is I've fixed the problem and I can once again do the things I was unable to do the last few days such as read everything here and "like" responses and write and answer messages and on and on.
Oh! I also learned a lesson, it's time for me to start backing up my own writing.
So to sum up: Typetrigger's site is working wonderfully now on my end, my computer skills are poor yet I was still able to fix what was wrong so I could get back to writing and reading and most of all, now that things are fixed, I may never write another haiku again.
Oh no. Crap. Now my spellcheck won't work!(less)
"To be born on Middling Earth is bad enough, but to be born on Fair Earth, as your grandparents were . . . Even on Middling Earth, where I now know I had it pretty good, I had no words for where the truly fortunate lived. None of us(more) did. The media would call it Grand Earth or Brilliant Earth--that was the accepted standard--but for all any of us knew, it could have been Wonderful Earth, Amazing Earth, Super-Duper Earth, Yeehaw-Ride-Em-Cowboy Earth."
"Mahhhh-ahm," my girls draw out the word *mom*. That's shorthand for: we've heard this story already we're tired of you forget the past and enjoy where we live right now leave us alone or give us ice cream are we there yet.
They go back to doing whatever they were doing, and I play with the closest one's hair, brushing it with my fingers, braiding and unbraiding it.
Humankind's planets may have changed, but our basic nature hasn't. I imagine women a century ago, a millennium ago, who look not much different than I, telling these stories, getting these eye rolls, drifting back into comfortable afternoon silence.
Now that we live on Peace, and I'm thinking about other planets, other lives, I wonder if those on Grand Earth thought of us as much as we did them, the way I do still--and did their media call my grandparents' world Shit Earth, mine Meh-Why-Bother Earth, down-value our worlds the way we up-valued theirs? I know the planet of War is out there, and truly called that--I know it, because I believe I live on Peace. I *have* made a better life for myself and my children, so someone else has to *not* have.
I realize my fingers have stopped, so I start combing again, and I find no tangles.(less)
Reginald Wormington the Third was gliding his way around a deep rain filled pothole on the lane by Five Pig Farm.
He wore a white collar, a red bow tie and his Grandfather's grey top hat.
(more) It was a fresh and misty morning, the rain had ceased but it didn't bother Reginald. In fact he preferred it. He felt good being the only one out and about in the rain with his hat, he felt important and that anyone who's anyone would have their attention solely on him.
However, this fresh and misty, and at the moment not raining moment, he met Brian Shelley his old school friend coming from the opposite direction. He was quite out of puff by the time he reached Reginald Wormington the Third.
"Good morning my fellow" said Reginald "I say, you kept a good pace up that slope, no one would think you were as old as we are! damn impressive! how do you feel?". Brian came to a stop and faced the direction he'd come from, "Ta much, Reggie. Ohh fair to middling I'd say aye fair to middling". (less)