Another Orphan

I think all writing needs a little love. More than a few tears, blood, and sweat go into the effort of putting the words into something that resembles a story. This is the opening chapter of a story that is some six years old. It hasn't gotten any love or been touched for that length of time. I thought it needed to see a little love. I hope you like it.

Itch

Merlin gave the doorknob a turn and pushed it open for the twenty forth time. Today would be the final day for this job. After what seemed like months, this task had finally come to fruition. He’d practiced and perfected his plan for weeks until he'd become completely confident in his ability. This time tomorrow he’d go for a walk on the beach to celebrate. That’d be a nice reward for a job well done. He closed the door and moved across the thin layer of pea gravel toward the roof’s edge. Over his shoulder, he carried a black nylon silk lined bag.

At the last landing, he’d pulled on his coveralls, nylon gloves, and rubber booties. The gravel crunched and growled beneath his feet, but the result of his foot attire would be no detectable prints on the roof. Merlin came up with the rubber bootie idea, because he didn’t want to leave anything for the police to ponder over and call evidence. He took great strides in his planning to eradicate anything of the sort. He pulled a reed mat out of his bag and unrolled it close to the edge. He lay down on the mat and slowly moved toward the edge of the roof.

He’d have about a quarter of an hour wait, but he wouldn’t be burning up that time smoking. When he started his new profession, he knew that habit would be a liability, so he gave it up. It’d been difficult at first, but when he got the first installment in his bank account, he had no doubt he'd be able to maintain his diligence. So far, he had, and that had been more than five years. Someday when he retired, he might take it up again. He actually liked smoking. At one time, it'd been one of the great joys in his life. Another joy had always been a nice hot cup of coffee. When he really wanted something special, he’d add a shot of Irish whiskey.

After he slipped the rifle out of the bag, he examined it for signs of trauma. Most people didn’t know such a weapon could suffer trauma, but it certainly could. The slightest jolt could upset the alignment and render the most expensive weapon useless. Especially when shooting from extended ranges, a fraction of imperfection at the origin of the shot could result in a miss of several feet. It would be very embarrassing for a paid assassin to call up his handler and try to explain he’d shot the flowerpot instead of the mark because he bumped his weapon while getting into his shooting position.

Today that wouldn’t be a problem. After taking almost ten minutes to slowly and meticulously inspect his weapon he felt satisfied. The L96 looked fine. Earlier, he sighted it in at a vacant pasture in the hills. He couldn’t take the chance of going to a shooting range and having some ambitious cops come asking questions later of the employees. “Sure I remember a guy sighting in his scope on that afternoon.” That’d be the beginning of the end. That’s why he’d developed such an attention to detail. That’s where the devil lived.

Patience, perseverance, and practice were the magical P's that made his profession worthwhile. The money didn’t hurt either. What else paid a quarter of a million dollars for a few days work?

He raised the barrel of the weapon over the lip of the ledge. The image of the empty driveway swam into view inside the scope. For the past twenty-three days, it’d been vacant until approximately five forty five, and that would be in five minutes. Merlin knew the mark had started dutifully making his way into the killing zone. He knew this because the mark had developed a routine that he adhered to with the utmost vehemence. Merlin knew other people like the mark, and they all loved being able to walk away from the daily grind of life and step into a world they'd created for themselves. It always proved to be a place that pleased and soothed them and in turn gave them the courage and strength to make it through one more day.

Merlin gently placed the gun on the mat and picked up his compact binoculars. He looked up the street and then down. He wasn’t looking for anything, in particular, but then again, he was. He looked for anything that didn’t belong. An oddity that set itself apart from anything that he'd seen in the past three weeks. The low probability of seeing something out of the ordinary did not diminish his need to search. He didn’t want to realize later handcuffed in the back of a patrol car that the scene had been screaming for him to forget his task and just get out. Right now, he hadn’t really broken any laws here, but when he loaded and fired his gun, he’d become the prey. He believed his attention to this detail would benefit him in the hunt to follow. One he intended to last for a very long time.

The sky overhead exhibited a brilliant blue with nary a cloud anywhere. Any wind had been virtually non-existent for the last few days, and the weather radio station had alluded to the possibility of a stagnant air warning if the situation did not change. Perfect conditions for his eight hundred and fifty five meter shot prevailed. After he completed this job he could tell his handler, who called himself Gandalf, never to second guess his decisions again. The guy had been pushing him to finish the job for almost a week now, but Merlin told him he’d finish it when he felt ready and not a minute sooner. Gandalf didn't like that, but that’s the way he did things. No one would ever tell him when to pull the trigger. He had the patience necessary to complete a perfect job. He’d never decide to finish a job until its completion would be a thing of beauty.

The afternoon sun had started to set behind him and the long thin shadow of the building he'd stationed himself atop silently crawled over the distance and approached the empty driveway. If, for some reason, the mark looked toward the rooftop upon which he waited, his eyes would look directly into the evening sun. Merlin planned this as well. He didn’t want anything to go wrong with this job. For no reason other than he considered it a high profile hit. The mark had simply become an itch to someone who would pay to have it permanently scratched. Merlin knew all too well that tomorrow every cop in the city would be working overtime to find him. He paused and gave his situation one last consideration.

    Everything felt right. The time to finish what he’d started had come. He pulled out a box from the bag and removed a single bullet from inside. He looked at the shiny object that seemed to glow in the reddish light of the afternoon sun. He put it to his lips and kissed it softly then placed it into the open gun chamber. He closed the bolt and sent the bullet into the firing position. He looked at his watch.

    “Time for the final act to begin,” Merlin said to himself in a barely audible whisper. He looked again over the edge of the ledge at the empty driveway. “Now cooperate with me and don’t make me wait. I’ve got a TV dinner in the oven at home, and it’s getting cold.”

The Zone

“You're traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's the signpost up ahead—your next stop, the Twilight Zone.”


—Rod Serling


I was thinking about these words the other day. They were one of the introductions to my all-time favorite TV show. If you’ve never seen any of the episodes, then you have missed some really terrific writing. As in anything some of the episodes were better than others, but as a whole, the show stretched the boundaries of sixties TV.


Even so, I have no intention of praising that show here in this post. What I would like to embellish on is Rod Serling’s words. For the last two years, I’ve enjoyed taking part in the National Novel Writing Month held every year in November. If you are so inclined you can find more information at nanowrimo.org


The catch line for the challenge is: “Thirty days and nights of literary abandon." In my opinion, this is absolutely correct. When you’re attempting to put 50,000 plus words into a story, there isn’t time to think about what you’re writing. So it is very liberating for a writer’s muse to take hold of a story and run. That’s what I try to do. If the story isn’t completely concrete, I’ll have time to flesh it out after the 30th. The important thing is to get those words out of my head onto the paper or into the computer.

So with November 1st fast approaching, I see a signpost up ahead. In fact, for me, there are two.

The first image that comes to mind is the tunnel sign. For me, November is like traveling through a tunnel. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end. At the onset, the light at the end of the tunnel is obscured by the Everest of words I’ll need to churn out as fast as possible, so I can keep the story fresh in my mind. The focus is on that story and those words that will tell the story.

The second is the caution sign. I don’t want to spend my entire month focused on this challenge. Let’s face it November is a time for celebrations and holiday prep. The last thing anyone needs to do is shirk those challenges to sit in front of a computer screen with some background music blaring as white noise. I plan to proceed with caution and schedule at least three hours a day to reach my daily goal of 1667 words. Those hours may be early or late but I'll need to make them count.

When midnight on the last day of November arrives, I plan to look at another completed story. Oh sure it’ll take some rewriting and some editing to make it shine, but that magical muse will have done his work, and I’m sure he’ll want a few days off. He always asks for Christmas.

If you join us in nanoland this year, you will enter another dimension. Not one of sight and sound but of mind. You’ll journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. If you should need a guide or a writing buddy search for rc022762. See you there.

Octoberfest

October, the harbinger, has finally arrived with a basket filled with pre-holiday forebodings and sharpened tools of harvest. It seems as if yesterday the lazy days of summer pressed down upon us with the heat of canicular days bursting with abundant sunlight. Every so slowly Old Sol has trekked on to a new path leaving us northerners for the belly dwellers of the earth. Our days have shortened and made way for a show of varying shades of orange, gold, purple, and red. We can stand back and be amazed as we witness nature’s own brilliant color display. It is wonderful how each year goes out in a blaze of brilliance.

Fall is upon us and with it, the closing of another year fast approaches. The favorites of Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years Eve peek laughingly at as from the shadows that linger along the edges of the road. Three-quarters of 2012 lay behind us and the light we see at the end of the path is the year 2013 hastening toward its birth. Over the next three months, we’ll all remark how short the time seems and wonder how we’ll manage to perform the mountain of tasks that stand between us and a new year.

Somehow I’m sure we’ll manage just as we always do. At the end of this month, we’ll pass out candies and treats to little ghouls that walk our streets every other day masquerading as adorable children. Three weeks later we’ll load up our tables with a feast fit for any kingdom, and celebrate our year giving thanks for how far we have come. Then on the day after we’ll rush out with a list of tasks into the senescent remains of 2012 determined to be triumphant, and we’ll either succeed or submit but either way we will declare victory. After Christmas comes the winding down. Not only for the year that lay behind us, but for ourselves in preparation for the last hurrah on New Year’s Eve. Hours will tick away into minutes, then seconds, and at last we’ll kiss and sing as we welcome the fresh New Year. All the time of 2012 will have evaporated, and we’ll have only the memories we choose to store within our heart.

On New Year’s Day, we’ll arise to look at the path set before us and survey the 365 steps we have yet to take, and we’ll vow to make 2013 better for us in some amazing way. It’s out there waiting for us like a virgin field of untracked snow. A white pristine fresh canvas waiting for us to paint the scene, and it will become whatever we choose from our hearts and minds. We can start sketching it out now. Get a feel for what it’s going to be and how we’re going to make it happen. Then when we step up to that unmarred year, we’ll be ready to make of it whatever we want it to be. Think of the possibilities.

Orphans

I think I speak for everyone who calls themselves a writer. Along the path of getting somewhere, there are sacrifices that must be made and dear friends are left behind. I call these forgotten stories "orphans" because they don't belong to a finished work and they probably never will. They exist lonely and unused on paper, on hard drives and flash drives, and in some cases floppies. It's not because the writer doesn't love them, we do; it's just that they weren't going anywhere. We put so much work and effort into something and then step back and look at it and say, "What is that?" On the other hand, we could be like the bricklayer who works and works at his project until the day when he sees the completion of his labor and shows it to his companions who all say. "What is that?"

Then he says, "I don't know, but isn't it wonderful?"

The crowd departs and the bricklayer realizes there are no doors, or windows, or roof on the building, but he loves it regardless.  He built it, and he put love and effort and struggles into it hoping it would turn into something, but it didn't.

So an orphan is a piece of writing that at one time had promise but like a giant firework that fell over smoking on the ground, it fizzled. I thought I'd share some of my orphans with you reader, because even if it doesn't tell a complete story. I still love them. I hope you see something you love too.

The Coming Storm

from

Trio

Dave and Art both looked at Steve with anticipation. His turn came to tell a story of some event from this summer or one from years ago.

The idea had been Dave’s, and Art thought it a good way to spend a few minutes while their underwear finished drying in the sunshine. Dave used his turn to tell Art about his harrowing experience with a snake earlier. It all proved to be information Art had no interest in hearing. He hated snakes with a deep-seated fear that neither of his friends could understand.

Art stood up and threw the acorn he’d been fiddling with toward the creek. It ricocheted off of first one tree then another before landing in the water. Normally, he’d have celebrated such a unique throw, but today he seemed reticent.

Steve felt the tension grow stronger, thicker. Art wasn’t going to wait much longer for him to tell his tale. So he took a long breath and began.

“It happened six years ago. It was just a few days before I started first grade, so I remember.

“It must have been in late July or early August, but it was in the evening, and the wind had been building up the whole time we’d been eating dinner. Rita and Mom were clearing off the table while, Dad, Jim, and I sat in the living room. Suddenly, the lights went off. It startled all of us a little I think. Usually it’s already raining before they go out, but that night not a drop had fallen and we were in the dark.

“The light from outside was creepy looking. You know how it gets when the rain clouds blow in from the west late in the evening?”

Both boys shook their heads in agreement. Then Art walked over to Dave and sat down beside him to listen to the rest of Steve’s story.

“Yeah it was kinda purple, orange, and pink. Like the whole world was being lit up with some weird light.

“Before any of us could get scared, Dad said he bet there’d be a good lightning show in a few minutes. So we all went out onto the porch to watch the approaching storm.

“Dad was sure right about the lightning. It took it a few minutes to really get going, but when it finally did, it streaked across the sky from west to east off the clouds like a rock skipping on water.

“For about ten minutes we laughed and enjoyed the show. Then Jim began to talk to dad about going to Vietnam. Not long after he started, all the joy in the moment seemed to disappear.  He didn’t want to go. He was thinking about going to Canada. He knew a guy from Charleston and one from Hurricane that were going to cross the border to avoid the war. They’d already found a place to stay and if Jim wanted to go with them; he could ride along. Dad never said a word. He let Jim go through all the details, then just stood there looking up at the sky as he watched for the lightning. His silence was deafening.

“Finally without any warning, it started to rain. We all moved under the cover of the porch roof and watched. Normally, this would be a fun time. Watching it rain was one of my dad’s favorite pastimes. He always said it was a miracle that water could fall from the sky with such uniformity.”

Dave and Art were listening intensely. Neither spoke.  They didn’t want to interrupt the flow of the story with a stupid question or a lame comment. They wanted their friend to finish his tale because they sensed he needed to.

“The rain fell harder and faster. It was really coming down. It was a torrent of water falling, crashing, running. I guess dad would’ve said it was a miracle the sky could hold so much water. The sound it made when it hit the ground became a painful roar.

“After about five minutes, which seemed like hours, the rain slackened as the worst part of the storm passed. Slowly, the world around us changed. The sky lightened; the wind died down, and the rain trickled off to a light shower. All this time Jim stood with Dad and waited for his reply. Seconds stretched out to become minutes, but he remained silent.”

Steve stopped talking for a second and looked at Art and Dave, who were both listening keenly. He’d never seen either listen to anyone this way. Their attention was so absolute that even when Steve paused, both remained silent and listened to the soundless void. Maybe it was respect or realization that stayed their tongues.

 He needed a moment to collect his thoughts and finish his tale, so he looked away from his friends and took a deep breath. The trees of the mountain caught his eye, and his thoughts ran to them.

They looked so lush and beautiful, but he knew that soon the real show would begin. There’d be fiery colors of red, gold, and orange. Cooler tones of purple, brown, and green would provide balance. The show would be breathtaking.

Only weeks after the beauty those same trees would shed their covering of leaves. The wind would blow most from the branches. Others would cling to their homes longer, but the cold fall rains would put a sad end to a beautiful chapter. It reminded him of how quickly a wonderful thing can change. Like the joy of that last night on the porch.

Steve finally broke the silence and resumed his tale. “Way off, in the distance, the storm raged, but over our yard, there was calm. Lightning cracked in the east and thunder rattled the windows of the house. I saw Jim flinch, and Dad turned toward him. I don’t think he was mad, but he looked agitated. I still remember his words.

“He said, ‘Son, I agree with the way you feel about this war. It’s not our country’s finest hour. We probably shouldn’t be interfering in the politics of other countries. Our young sons shouldn’t be dying for this cause, but we as Americans have a duty to answer the call when our government says it’s necessary. Your government requires your service. Is that too much of a price to pay for freedom? I hope you think it isn’t. On the other hand, if you go to Canada, you’ll become a fugitive of the law. If you go, then you're, in effect, renouncing your citizenship. To me that’s too high a price to pay. You’ll always be a wanted man, and if you go, we’ll never see you again. Is that the life you want to live? On your own in another country with only two friends seems like a hard life to me. Wouldn’t it be better to serve your time in the military? Then you can come home and live your life on your native soil.’”

For a moment, Dad stopped talking and listened to the soft rumble of thunder crash from across the mountain. He waited and allowed an eerie silence to enshroud us. When he spoke again his tone was loud, and I think it shocked us all, including Jim.

‘“But if you go, you go for good. Don’t ever come back here. You’re now a man and men make their own decisions. Right or wrong you must decide what road you’ll choose.’

“When dad finished, I remember Mom and Rita crying. Not loud or anything like that. There were tears on both their faces; silent tears marched slowly down their soft rosy cheeks toward the corners of their mouths. Without a word, they went back inside the house to finish clearing the table and do the dishes. Dad looked up into the sky, walked out to the car, and left.

“Jim and I watched the last of the storm clouds part and the evening sky clear. The smell of the air was fresh and clean, and it felt cool against my face where dampness remained.

“After a few more minutes, he went back into the house. By the end of that week, he was gone. On the day he left, Dad drove us all to the bus station. Jim told us all he loved us, and that he’d miss us. Then he told us he’d try his best to come back when it was over.

“I never saw him again. Within a year, he died in one of those villages along the border. His platoon was trying to get the villagers out before an attack, but the timing must have been wrong. When the planes dropped the napalm, they were still getting them together. Only three men survived, but each one received life threatening burns. They could only identify Jim’s remains by his dog tags. We know this because dad contacted everyone he could. He didn’t stop until he got the story.

“They shipped his body home and we buried him in the cemetery. We go up twice a year, on his birthday and Memorial Day to put flowers on his grave. Dad won’t go with us because he says it’s too hard on him.

“I don’t know if you guys know this or not, but now my dad’s a drunk and the only time I see him is when he’s leaving for work. I watch through my cracked bedroom window. Most nights he doesn’t come home. But sometimes he does and when he does he always leaves before anyone gets up. On occasion, I hear the door close and rush to look out the window at the man who used to be my dad. I watch him struggle to make his way into the car. Some days he sits there for a while looking at the house before he leaves. I believe he hopes someday he’ll be able to forgive himself and come home. There are days when I hope he can do that, but mostly I doubt if he’ll every find his way out of that prison of self-hate."

 Both boys knew of Steve’s dad. They’d both heard people call him a drunk. To both boys, he still seemed to have the shell of a good man, but what was inside that shell had turned rotten, bitter, and hateful. Neither thought he’d ever be the person he was before.  They figured the man too far gone, and to some small extent that’s why they protected their friend as best they could. They liked Steve and would never hurt him. So neither told him they already knew about his dad.

September Night

Every year as September ages, I begin to search inside myself for memories, which haven’t been attended to since last year. It’s not that I’ve forgotten; it's just that over time other things get piled upon them, and they disappear from view. So at this time in the year, a little fall memory cleaning is in order to reconnect with those old friends that are beautiful yet hard to recall.

As is most often the case, my thoughts usually wax toward a state of reflection and sadness. It is difficult to visit those happy/sad memories we all have. They provide smiles and tears, as well as laughter and sadness. Such is the power of memories and who are we to shape them into something they cannot become. They simply have the power they have because of us and the thoughts we've attached to them.

So on the evening of the 911 terrorist attack anniversary, I searched out some memories I’d stored away and shook them like snow globes and watched with awe as the magical swirls began. This poem is the result of those minutes I spent with some of my best/worst memories. I hope you enjoy it and I hope it makes you think of some of your own memories.

I remember

I remember a midnight

Together we did share

A viewing of the sky

Stars shined everywhere.

We laughed and talked

With heads turned up to see

A splendid sight above

Together you and me

Now years lay between

That memory and today

But the really strong ones

Can seem like just the other day

I keep that memory safe

Tucked into a corner of my mind

And sometimes when it’s quiet

I take it out and find

It’s still just as bright

As the stars were on that night

And if I listen, I just might.

Hear your laughter soft and light.

But it can’t be like that tonight

Time has taken you from us

And left memories adorned with pain

Along with a faithful promise

Castile

Once again, we have returned from our yearly trek to Castile, New York. My wife and I along with her parents have been making this trip to visit with her uncles for more than ten years. I’ve so fallen in love with this trip, and it never ceases to amaze me new discoveries can be made each year.

Castile is located in western New York southeast of Buffalo and southwest of Rochester. This area is farmland. Acres and acres of corn fields line the roadways and hundreds and hundreds of milk cows inhabit the vast expanse of open rolling hills. No mountains here to obstruct a person’s view of the green palette that reaches out and up toward the blue sky. In the evenings, along the trees that line the rivers deer come to feed. I’m not talking about one or two oh no. Entire herds of deer to numerous to count materialize in the fields of alfalfa. It’s really difficult to believe they must have gathered on the fringes of the trees just waiting for their chance to trot out into the open for their meal.

This made the second year my wife and I have stayed in Geneseo. When we arrived at our hotel, our welcoming party was already busy at work. On the little rise behind the hotel, two young deer decided to have dinner. They walked around and ate and then rubbed on each other briefly before returning to the grass. It was quite a site.

Several years ago we drove around off the road we normally travel and came to a lake that had hundreds of Canadian geese taking a respite. To me, it seemed the entire surface of the water was a living mass of birds, but they still paddled their way to and fro across the lake and back as if they too were enjoying the Labor Day weekend. I guess they also need to decompress.

On Saturday night, before we left, a train whistled in the distance, and we walked down to the road to wave as they it roared past. The crisp breeze that rushed against us felt so nice. The rhythmic click clack of the train wheels put a smile on my face, and I marked this down as just one more thing that makes the trip worth making.

This year, on our last day, as we spent a few relaxing hours on the patio talking and laughing, we looked in the distance, to see two hot-air balloons rising up from the tree line and floating gently into the blue evening sky. Soundless and carefree they slipped off toward the west’s fast approaching sunset.

In years past, we’ve commented how long the weekend seemed, but this year the days raced along, and before we knew it, we had to return home. As we said our good-byes, each member commented how much they enjoyed this visit and looked longingly forward in anticipation of the next. Many of the things we’ve grown to love about our trip will be waiting for us when we return, others may not. I only hope the sweet smell of fresh cut alfalfa on the cool morning air greets me when I make my next trip to Castile. If so I’ll take a deep breath and smile knowing this trip was worth the making too. 

The Deep Six?

This is the story behind the creation of “The Deep Six."  It all started in early 2010 with the title that I wanted to use for my first ever NANO attempt. November is national novel writing month, and although I’d known about the challenge for some years, I’d never managed to remember to start my project at the time when I needed to. That is to say, that usually around November tenth or so I remembered the challenge. Too late for me to start a fifty thousand word project which is the minimum necessary to have a document considered a novel. So while the event was taking place in 2009, I made a vow not to miss the next challenge. Once my account was set up, and my title submitted, I waited for the glorious day when the writing would begin.

If you’d like to learn more about NANO or join in the fun, you can visit: www.nanowrimo.org

The idea behind the title was to tell a story about a mine accident from the perspective of the families above ground rather than of the miners below ground. Having grown up with the term the deep six, which to me meant something buried under the ground, I thought it was an apropos name for a book provided I had six miners trapped during the accident.

You can see the definition of deep six here: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/deep six

However, during the months before the challenge began, I pondered the idea for the story. That’s when I realized the loved ones I’d be writing about were experiencing their own struggle. Not only would they need to deal with the terror of what happened underground; they'd have to deal with the situations in their own lives, which had trapped or buried them. These people had let the muck of life smother them. How would they ever be able to survive this additional trial? They needed someone to help them and lead them out of the darkness. They needed someone each could trust and believe in. They needed someone in tune with a higher power. This person turned out to be Joyce Pennington.

So that is how “The Deep Six” came to be. If you’d like to read part of the book, you can click on the book's cover image, and you’ll go to Amazon.com where you can enjoy the beginning.

Until next time, I hope you have a great day.

Will that burn?

I guess I’ve always been intrigued by words. Without question I’d have to attribute this to my mother who on many occasions would read stories to me and my brother before bed. I know this had a great deal with my love of reading and it always amazed me then how fast she could read a book. I attribute this to the time I checked out “Robinson Crusoe” from the school library. It took me two weeks to read that book, but my mother read it in a single evening. She was an avid reader and when she went blind losing that ability pained her more than anything.
 
It was on a trip from my grandmother’s house that we ended up behind a fuel truck. On the back of the tank with all the placards and warning signs was the word inflammable in bright red letters.
 
“What does that word mean?” I asked pointed past my mother toward the letters.
 
“It means it will catch fire. That’s a gasoline truck. It’s hauling gasoline.”
 
“So why did they spell it that way?” I asked, not entirely sure I’d hear an answer I’d find satisfactory.
 
“That’s just the way it’s spelled.”
 
“Well it just seems to me that something that will catch fire should be called flammable instead of inflammable. Because doesn’t the prefix “in” mean not?”
 
My dad agreed with me, but my mom took the high road. “Why don’t you look it up when we get home, then you can tell us what you find out.”
 
Great I thought. I ask a simple question to question what I’d learned in school and end up doing homework. Needless to say I opened our dictionary soon after arriving home and looked up my questioned word. To my horror I discovered the use of the word had been correct. That troubled me then, but now the word flammable is the preferred word for such warnings. Due to the fact that the prefix “in” can be confusing to some people and lead them to believe the item is not flammable or nonflammable.

Still if you look up both words, flammable and inflammable, you’ll find they have the same definition.

Have a ball

Since the ball is in my court, I thought I’d get the ball rolling and run with the ball.  I must admit, I felt as if I’d put myself behind the eight ball. Not wanting to drop the ball on my first attempt, I did some research. Now I think, I can carry the ball and will proceed to play ball with this post.

So let’s talk about the word “ball”.

In written records, the usage in reference to a spherical object traces back to the twelfth century. Evidence suggests that the use of a round object to play games dates back centuries earlier.  The Mayan civilization dates back to 2000 BC and they constructed courts in their cities in which to play a game with a ball.

The reference to a ball is almost always associated to some aspect of play. Whether used in sport or simply for entertainment doesn’t matter. Even today, the majority of sport requires the presence of a ball before game play can start. In ball games, players and coaches want to control the game so they design set plays to score points. So when players play a game they use plays to play the game. If they are playing a game, then why do we call what they’re doing plays?

I went to a play recently. My wife and I enjoyed the performance. The actors did a marvelous job, but I know it didn’t come easy for them. They must have spent countless hours rehearsing their lines and movements on the stage.

 

In sports we call this practice, and we all know that practice makes perfect. Sports teams spend countless hours practicing their plays so when they perform them on the field they can score. I’m not talking about a musical score for a play. I’m talking about putting points on the scoreboard. This is what we want to see. We want our team to score.

 

Okay, I hope I didn’t ball the Jack too much on my first time out. I’ll try to keep the ball rolling in future posts. If I keep my eye on the ball I’m sure I’ll be able to keep up. In the meantime I must go, that’s just how the ball bounces. I hope you had a ball reading this post. I did during its writing.

Welcome to Navarre Word Sushi. I can hear you now. What is Navarre Word Sushi? It is my blog. A place where I can expose some of the thoughts I have from time to time. It happens. Not very often, but sometimes when the juices get to flowing and the blood rushes to my brain the gears start to turn, and things form. Ponderings and such that make me ask questions like: Why did they do that? What does that mean? Or does that make any sense at all?

Okay first thing let’s look at the title of this blog.

I like words. I use them every day to communicate. They are important and if you want to, you can make them do wonderful and amazing things. A few simple words can express and describe beauty, love, and awe.

That brings us to the word sushi. I like sushi. Add soy sauce and a touch of wasabi or some chili sauce. Ah good. Now what does it have to do with this blog?

Sushi is a Japanese word which originated sometime between 1895 and 1900 to describe the Japanese dish consisting of cold rice and various types of raw fish. The literal Japanese meaning of this word is: it is sour. Sour, sweet, hot, or spicy when you take words and put them together in a sentence, a paragraph, or a large collection you get word sushi.

Finally, we come to the word Navarre. Once upon a time it was a kingdom in Southwest France and Northern Spain. Today it is the name for an unincorporated community with a population of about 30,000 people. I’m one those, and I love it here.

So to review, Navarre Word Sushi is me and the words I roll around to make pretty things. Come back and visit again soon.