Being a Renaissance Woman, I write in a variety of styles
© Linda M. Kurth 2010
Diamonds in the Grass
Picture a bright, sunny morning, a light-hearted child, a faithful dog, and a contented mother walking to school. A moment like this is precious enough. Even more precious was a gift my seven-year-old gave me that special spring morning.
The grass crowding the sidewalk where we passed was of a particularly tall variety. The early morning mist was lifting in gossamer banners. Clinging to each blade of grass were numerous droplets of water, shimmering in the sunlight.
“Look, Mama,” my son said excitedly. “Look at the diamonds in the grass!” Sure enough, there were a million diamonds winking at us all across the field.
Many other spring mornings have come and gone since that special morning. The old dog has passed away, the grass has been plowed under for a housing development, my life has become busier, and my little boy is now eleven, and big enough to ride his bike to school unescorted.
One afternoon after school this past year, my son breathlessly rushed into the house. “Mom,” he panted, “I’ve got a present for you! It’s supposed to be for Valentine’s Day, but I couldn’t wait to give it to you.”
There had been a fund-raiser at school and as an incentive, the children had been allowed to choose a toy or gift.
“I didn’t care about any of the toys, Mom. I wanted to get something for you.”
From his backpack he pulled a small plastic box and thrust it into my hands. He eagerly watched as I opened it. Inside lay a small crystal drop on a silver chain.
“Let me put it on you,” he insisted, as he fumbled with the clasp.
“Oh, my son, you have given me one of your diamonds in the grass,” I exclaimed. We hugged each other tight for a long, delicious moment.
Now whenever I feel a need to bring calm and perspective to a particularly hectic moment, I finger my crystal necklace and call forth the image of my little boy’s small, warm hand in mine, as we walked together through the diamonds in the grass.
(This was written a long time ago, and I love recalling those days. LMK)
Biking to Blackbird Island
My legs pump hard as I pedal up the ramp to the pedestrian bridge over the Wenatchee River. “Who hoo!” I yell, reaching the summit, startling the walkers. “Not bad for an old broad!” I shout as I pass.
My legs and my lungs have not let me down, even though it’s been at least a year since last riding my shiny red comfort bike. Sure, my mounting is awkward…man, I need to do my stretches more often…and my hands tingle from arthritis, but I still have it.
Wheee! I peddle down the hill as fast as I can, the wind streaming past my body. I’m a kid again, feeling free, fearing nothing. What a ride!
And then a hill. I pedal furiously, gaining momentum as I reach the base and begin to climb. If I can at least make it halfway up... but then my foot slips. Ouch! The pedal bites into my shin. Rats! I walk up the rest of the way, my leg stinging. But not my pride. I was young for a few exhilarating moments. Not bad for an old broad.
Our pad was blest with order and repose
tranquil, though rather dull, wanting of some
lively entertainment we supposed.
And so in humble digs a young musician
we auditioned from who knows where
a real hep tom who's rhythm we applauded.
Engaging him that very day, two square
meals we promised, getting more than bargained.
Without delay he pounced upon his task
fluffing carpets, draperies too. And most abhorred
the grasscloth he removed before we asked.
His designer stamp oft adorned our kitchen floor.
Serving us his calling, his fondest wish
discerning our true need to refurbish.
© Linda M. Kurth 2010