tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56325891219701894312024-03-20T01:23:10.389-07:00Ramblings of a Biker HenOn the 3-R's: Reading, 'Riting and Riding:
and there might be other stuff too.Bikerhenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05190901961239804183noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632589121970189431.post-1822772390967116452019-02-26T11:34:00.000-08:002019-02-26T16:13:00.364-08:00Fiction created from a news headline<br />
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Activity 3.11 – New story from newspaper headline</div>
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*Note to any local people who read this:</div>
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The news headline was "Pedestrian killed at railway near Maitland". This just
happened and there are few details yet. A 78 year old man, no name. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Investigation is ongoing. I do not know the people involved, I have NO details,
no reason for how or why it happened which is why I wrote a fiction piece about a possible someone at the house waiting, not the man killed so tragically. </div>
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<br /></div>
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This is fiction. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
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The woman breathed a long sigh as she settled in her wing
chair by the front window. She closed her eyes and breathed two slow conscious
breaths, head leaned back. She treasured the break. These 45 minutes to an hour
was usually the only time she had to herself. She loved the old man, her
father-in-law, but he was demanding. His needs were constant not that it was
his fault. She didn’t blame him. Worsening Alzheimer’s held them both captive. But
he walked everyday and it being Apple Blossom Drive with a dead end he was safe.
She saw him away, up the hill, and she saw him when he returned. It was good
for them both.</div>
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<br /></div>
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She picked up her book, slipped the bookmark out and settled
back to read. Her cup of tea steamed on the table beside her. Bliss. She fell
into the story and never heard the train, nor the elongated urgent blast of its
whistle.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Three chapters later she began to glance out the window at
every page break. She was in such a half aware state when the first OPP cruiser
screamed by, lights flashing and siren wailing. She leaned forward and peered
up the road at receding taillights. Another cruiser streaked by, and then the
Paramedic van. She heaved herself to her feet and went to the door, flinging it
open. In her many years here there had never been a police emergency. Her heart
began to pound, panic shortening her breath. She stumbled out the icy driveway
in her slippers peering up the road. A few neighbours had done the same and
they migrated together in a worry huddle, the fog of their anxious breath
mingling.</div>
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<br /></div>
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They still stood close when a cruiser eased back down the
drive and stopped by their group. A young male officer got out of the car. He
straightened his duty belt before turning to the curious faces. There was reluctance
in his posture; a hesitation as he stepped toward them. </div>
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<br /></div>
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“Mrs. Garner?” he asked as he scanned their worried eyes. </div>
<br />Bikerhenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05190901961239804183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632589121970189431.post-22913383363366100032019-02-26T06:33:00.000-08:002019-02-26T06:33:10.923-08:00Trench Art<br />
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I discovered something new to me Sunday. I’ve been around a
number of years (little haha) and am a curious sort with at least an average
amount of awareness. But I never knew about Trench Art. I knew people always
made things out of what they had, wartime or not, but did not know this had a
name and was considered an art form. If I don’t know, there are other people
who don’t. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]-->I
had this little plastic crucifix with emblem for sale at the flea market. Came
in a box lot from somewhere I know not, since the husband multi auctions and I
get the leftovers to sell. A fellow vendor spotted it in my costume jewelry and
asked if I knew what it was. I thought it was a plastic crucifix with little
value but she knew different. She didn’t take advantage which tells me
everything I need to know about her character and we had a lovely discussion
about wartime art. Trench art. Soldiers, pilots and aircrew, navy seamen; anyone
with a creative bent would take bits of things they had and make something of
it that meant something to THEM. Now highly collectible, in my Google searching
I have found other pieces in museums: ovals, circles, diamonds and stars as
pendants and bracelets. Each piece is unique.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwPZaFeIbrGSpY3eAyajy4wbaqAcmJHD0TleTNRcqeZx9LumHa6VdZ_OMGW8ZKH0DNTkEmuiGL_ieTB2P2YX_eWboBmtF-uiIkhqEX2H5UPB6fUYL4i9Au0HbKoggjWSZs7dq8MGYn10rT/s1600/trench+art+3+-+from+Jessie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwPZaFeIbrGSpY3eAyajy4wbaqAcmJHD0TleTNRcqeZx9LumHa6VdZ_OMGW8ZKH0DNTkEmuiGL_ieTB2P2YX_eWboBmtF-uiIkhqEX2H5UPB6fUYL4i9Au0HbKoggjWSZs7dq8MGYn10rT/s320/trench+art+3+-+from+Jessie.jpg" width="240" /></a>The crucifix is very light and quite small, 2 inches long,
with the crosspiece at 1 ¾ inches, made out of early acrylic. The sterling RCAF
sweetheart wings in the centre are tiny. The crown is red, the wings dark grey
and the round centre is blue. I can see through to the back of the emblem to
see the Sterling stamp and a maker mark <span style="font-family: "Freestyle Script";">E</span>
– whatever company that was. Not having much luck with that search. This little
piece would have been made by someone in the Royal Canadian air force out of a
little piece of scrapped windshield. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amazing!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A tiny little piece of history that I would
have sold for $3.00 is now going to the National Air Force museum in
Trenton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If they have a collection they
may want it.</div>
<br />Bikerhenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05190901961239804183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632589121970189431.post-90472093140378922442019-02-24T03:19:00.000-08:002019-02-25T05:05:19.043-08:00<b>4 am Thoughts</b><br />
<br />
<br />
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Parable of the Oak</div>
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A mighty oak stands in the meadow. Seasons pass and each
autumn the seeds fall. Sometimes they ripen and slip from their stems to fall
on the fertile leaf compost below the spreading branches. Other times
thunderous winds carry the seeds out and away where they fall on uncertain
ground. <br />
<br /></div>
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Winter passes and spring comes and with it nourishing rains.
The seeds sprout. They send out their tiny roots to burrow into the soil and
find nutrients. A stalk begins as a sliver reaching for the mother of all life,
the sun. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The sprouts under the tree have a rich home. The massive
trunk protects them from wind and the worst of the storms but they do not
thrive. The mighty oak has leached the ground of it goodness. Each year it
sends its roots deeper and farther out in search of its own food. The dense
leaf canopy shields the seedlings from rain and sun. Seedlings become saplings
but they wither and die.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The seeds that have flown from their home on the wind have
fallen by chance; on rock, in water, or with some luck, on ground. Some will
not survive, will shrivel and die with no place for a root to grow. Some will
become food for birds or small meadow creatures and will travel even farther. Some will sprout. They will
send their tendril of a root into the good earth; they will reach their slender
spike to the glory of the sun. As the seedling becomes a sapling, the rains and
wind will test its fiber and find it strong enough. </div>
<br />Bikerhenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05190901961239804183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632589121970189431.post-56371285050120902322019-02-24T03:14:00.001-08:002019-02-24T03:14:46.790-08:00Good morning blogworld, I have come back to it. My last post in here was 2010, a 9 year hiatus. I'd best not put it off much longer. I am writing again and I need a place to connect. Writers need readers, else what's the point?Bikerhenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05190901961239804183noreply@blogger.com0