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For Terri’s Sunday Stills prompt, the theme is “Reflections.”
Successful Crossing
I crossed the wilds, my staff in hand,
the first to conquerl this wild land.
My hood in place to combat the sun,
I would not stop until I’d done
the task I’d set to cross this space
that had been the burial place
of so many, from first to last,
who had found their lot was cast
as they had tried, only to find
the task to be a hopeless grind:
trails split by crevasses deep and wide,
cliff ledges with no room to slide
back to cliff, from right to left
across the mountain’s mighty cleft.
As said before, so many failed––
died in the act, or merely bailed.
Only I succeeded, by machination
to cross in my imagination.
For The Sunday Whirl Wordle 767 the prompt words are: wild cross left staff last split burial grind space land room hood
For the “Blast from the Blog” prompt, I am rerunning this post from today’s date (July 25) ten years ago. It is connected to two other blogs that tell the entire story. And if you’re wondering, after ten years, in spite of what seems to be true at the end of this segment, I’m still addicted to Scrub Daddy. You might also want to read the comments as the saga continues there.
On February 20 of this year, I posted an entry about the Scrub Daddy Sponge my sister put in my Xmas stocking.
(Click first photo and arrows to enlarge and see commentary under each photo, then click on X at upper left to return and read the poem.) Note: Wordpress seems to be having some problems. If the process just suggested doesn’t work, hovering over each photo will let you see the captions.)
The Demise of Scrub Daddy
Scrub Daddy, Scrub Daddy, where you gone?
There in pieces, so limp and wan,
you hardly seem the selfsame sponge
meant to scour and expunge
clinging morsels of cooked-on rice
when I swipe once and maybe twice.
Yet after only thirty days,
I must amend my former praise,
for after one-too-many rubbings,
you haven’t very many scrubbings
left in you. You’ve lost your heart,
unstiffed your starch, fallen apart!
Scrub Daddy, Scrub Daddy, I won’t buy
another cut-out scrub sponge guy.
I’ll make do with a simple square
that’s lacking mouth and eyes and hair.
Though you’d win any cuteness casting,
I’ll choose a sponge that’s longer lasting!
Now, if you want to know the full story of Scrub Daddy, read my earlier posting about him Here.
And, if you want to know the final outcome of this story, read this:
https://judydykstrabrown.com/2016/06/14/scrub-daddy-goes-on-fiesta/
and, since this post follows in the footsteps of an earlier one, I’m posting it in Footsteps as well.
When the Union Pacific Railroad was finally completed on May 10,1869, it was a cause for great celebration. A very good source describing the somewhat hilarious ceremony may be found here, but a segment from that source follows as a background for my own story:
A railroad linking America’s east and west coasts had been a dream almost since the steam locomotive made its first appearance in the early 1830s. The need for such a link was dramatized by the discovery of gold in California in 1848 that brought thousands to the West Coast. At that time only two routes to the West were available: by wagon across the plains or by ship around South America. Traveling either of these could take four months or more to complete.
Although everyone thought a transcontinental railroad was a good idea, deep disagreement arose over its path. The Northern states favored a northern route while the Southern states pushed for a southern route. This log jam was broken in 1861 with the secession of the Southern states from the Union that allowed Congress to select a route running through Nebraska to California.
Construction of the railroad presented a daunting task requiring the laying of over 2000 miles of track that stretched through some the most forbidding landscape on the continent. Tunnels would have to be blasted out of the mountains, rivers bridged and wilderness tamed. Two railroad companies took up the challenge. The Union Pacific began laying track from Omaha to the west while the Central Pacific headed east from Sacramento.
Progress was slow initially, but the pace quickened with the end of the Civil War. Finally the two sets of railroad tracks were joined and the continent united with elaborate ceremony at Promontory, Utah on May 10, 1869. The impact was immediate and dramatic. Travel time between America’s east and west coasts was reduced from months to less than a week.
The ceremony at Promontory culminated with Governor Stanford of California (representing the Central Pacific Railroad) and Thomas Durant (president of the Union Pacific Railroad) taking turns pounding a Golden Spike into the final tie that united the railroad’s east and west sections. As the spike was struck, telegraph signals simultaneously alerted San Francisco and New York City, igniting a celebratory cacophony of tolling bells and cannon fire in each city.
“It was a very hilarious occasion; everybody had all they wanted to drink…”
http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/goldenspike.htm
It will probably come as no surprise that in 1969 it was decided to have a huge ceremony honoring the 100th anniversary of the “Wedding of the Rails” in Utah. To that end, two trains set out—one from the easternmost point of the track and the other from the westernmost point. These trains were destined to meet at the original point of their joining, but since they were filled with dignitaries, they made numerous stops along the way with celebrations at each point where they stopped.
In 1969, I was attending university in Laramie, Wyoming. It was announced that John Wayne and Glen Campbell would be on one of the trains and that they would do a whistle stop where they would both say a few words before continuing on to the ceremony. Now it just so happened that this event coincided with Sigma Chi Derby Days—an annual event that consisted of a number of challenges whereby campus groups could assemble points. What the prize was I can’t remember, but I do remember that one of the contests was to gain the signature of the most famous person, and I happened to know that John Wayne himself had been a Sigma Chi. If I could somehow gain his signature, we would have it made in the shade for that particular challenge.
And so on the prescribed day, we were off, fully laden, with five of us filling the seats of my little red Ford Galaxy. How we would get close enough to the train to gain the autograph, I did not know, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.
There was, as may be expected, a huge crowd at the Laramie train station, and we waited in anticipation for the train. Finally, it came up, sounding its whistle, flags waving. Several men came out to a small stage that had been constructed just in front of the train. Finally, Glen Campbell came out, but no John Wayne. We were puzzled when the speeches started without him. What could have happened to John Wayne? Finally, I was hit with one of those instant inspirations often depicted by a light bulb going off over someone’s head in cartoon bubbles.
“I bet he got off the train to fly back to California!” No one disagreed and it was my car, so off we sped to the airport, which was several miles outside of town. We drove well over the speed limit down the two-lane nearly carless road. As we approached the airport, we could see no larger planes loading, but there was one smaller private plane. We went speeding up to the airport. “I’ll go see what’s going on with that small plane,” I told my friends, springing from the door almost as soon as the car had come to a screeching halt. I went running out onto the field—not hard to do in a small airport in those years before airport security—and ran smack dab into a man who was walking toward the plane from the opposite direction. “Well, whoa, there, little lady. Where ya goin?” said the brick wall I’d just run into.
“I’m trying to find John Wayne. Do you know if he might be in that plane?” I asked.
“Nope, I’m pretty sure he’s not,” said the man, “because he’s standing right here!”
I looked up—way up—and sure enough. There he was with his hands still on my forearms where he had caught me just before I ran into him broadside!
Yes. It was a surreal experience. And it was even more surreal when I explained about the points and he said, “Well, would it give ya more points if instead of delivering my autograph you could deliver me?” I said it sure would, and we had reached my car and my somewhat astonished friends had piled four in the back for him to climb into the front seat with me when a harried looking man came running out from the landing field shouting, “John, John! What are you doing?”
Long story short, John Wayne did not come back to campus with us. His manager managed to persuade him it was not in his best interests given that something in California was important enough to warrant his immediate return. But, I did get his signature and no, I did not turn it in for Sigma Chi Derby Days. To this day, it resides in a square of a memory box—one of the kind popular in the sixties and seventies that is made out of an old newspaper print box—and as proof, I include a picture below.
And yes, of course John Wayne was three sheets to the wind, for in keeping with the original rail-joining ceremony, “It was a very hilarious occasion; everybody had all they wanted to drink…”

“Great Minds Think” wants us to tell a Story with a twist.
The Wall
I cannot follow
where these lost parts of me go––
these thoughts, wishes,
aspirations
that I surrender to the wall.
It is not by choice, you know,
that I sit here facing what
has been leached out of my life.
I go on living what life I can,
knowing that in time
all of me will finally
flow into the wall.
So much of what has kept me engaged in life
has already gone into that gray world
where I cannot yet follow.
I’ve lost so much ambition to it—
and hope and curiosity.
Now I sit here, facing it,
acknowledging my failure
as well as the wall’s exclusivity.
Only my shadow
cast against it
reminds me that
somewhere behind me
there is a sun.
For Fibbing Friday, July 24, 2026 the assignment is:
1. What is a faucet? One of Charley’s Angels.
2. What is a patella? Cinderella’s younger sister.
3. What is an elevator? An escalator for elves.
4. What is a lancet? A small sword.
5. What is a ferris wheel? A tire for Tinkerbell’s car.
6. How would you describe a pomegranate? Either vocally or in written script or on my computer.
7. What is a fringe? The Amharic word for a foreigner.
8. What is a bunion? A very small rabbit.
9. What is a munchkin? What you call your younger brother or sister when they are chewing their after-school snack.
10. What is an arctic roll? It’s what happens when a walrus or seal slips on the ice.
When I was young and limber and given to wild rambles,
I came home from my wanderings complete with burrs and brambles.
I shed them on the carpets, I shared them via towels.
Never taking credit for the curses, shrieks and howls.
I thought my lovely meanderings among the fields and ditches
were worth the sacrifice of things brought in on my britches.
For Thursday Inspiration, the prompt is “Young.”

jdbphoto
Punished
There is something one can do with anger—
some sign that can be recognized
and answered—
a scab to be picked,
a mystery that leaves clues.
The only punishment
impossible to rectify
is
silence.
“Rewind” asks that we. republish a post from a past year that was published on the same day of the month. In this case, July 23. This poem was one I published on this date ten years ago.
Love in a Warm Climate: Bali/Mexico
Why did we think that love would be any easier in a warm climate?
Shed of clothes in Bali, we didn’t shed our different skins.
You were prickly as a rambutan,
while I slipped in and out of moods
like one directed
by a maestro.
You once said you couldn’t write when you were happy,
and when you didn’t write for years with me,
you were unhappy in your happiness.
All the planets of your family were pulled by the gravity of your moods.
Could we break the fatal pull beneath the Southern Cross?
Pulled back into love by a climate Equatorial?
We tried again, but once there,
you said you couldn’t stay in Mexico for three days,
let alone a year,
and lobbied for our ejection from this paradise.
Then one week later,
you asked me how I knew
that this was what we were supposed to do,
and you won the argument I never thought I’d let you win.
We bought a house in Mexico.
Perhaps we both thought we could warm our hearts once more
to find that hot love that had fueled our beginning,
and I am left to wonder how our story might have ended
if you had lived to try with me––
love in a warm climate.
The Ragtag Daily Prompt today is “Eject.”

This is the dress made for me by my sister, Betty Jo, in 1957 for the parade celebrating our town’s founding fifty years before. The theme was “fairytales” and you have probably already guessed that I was Little Bo Peep.
Our dVerse Poets assignment today was: Now write a list poem that begins ‘These I have loved:…’ of the everyday things that are important or precious to you. Be specific, picking out tiny details, and don’t stop until you get to the bottom of the page.Finish with ‘All these have been my loves’. Leave yourself time to refine your draft.
Here is my answer to this prompt:
Pleasure/Pain
These I have loved:
Tastes abandoned, former loves,
outgrown pleasures, bleached white gloves
worn for church or the senior prom,
fresh cherry pies cooked by my mom
from cherries pitted by our juice-stained fingers.
How memory of both labor and reward still lingers.
The cold bite of a walk-in freezer on a sweltering summer’s day.
The smell of sweet clover and itch of hay.
The press of leather constricting toes in my first pair of three-inch heels.
The squeak of rusted bike chains and the crunch of wheels
on gravel roads in our small prairie town,
the pelt of hailstones coming down
deafening on the metal of our brand new ride
with myself and sister sealed, terrorized, inside.
Hurtling across the street to the last school bell’s pealing.
Scabs peeled from skinned knees too slow in their healing.
The squeeze of painful memories of love gone wrong,
resurrected by the lyrics of a song.
Placing flowers on a sister’s grave,
remembering the past gifts that she gave:
that tiny dress that she once made
for me to wear in the parade
Recalling the pleasure and then afterwards, the pain
of the swell of memories the heart no longer can contain.
Grandma’s crazy quilt, of family clothing scraps stitched thin and wide,
left abandoned on the bed wherein my sister died.
Homes left to the lives of others, families left for other lives,
memories like bees swarming to other hives,
memories crumbling in boxes stored on shelves,
these bygone relics of our other selves.
All these have been my loves.
And this is that same dress, 69 years later, brought to me by my niece Cintra when we met in Peoria, AZ a few months ago. She had found it in her mother Betty’s things when she passed away a few years ago. More mingled pleasure and pain.