For Getting to Know You, #53 Balderdash Edition, the words to define are:
For Cee’s FOTD
Next
To live in yesterday’s a sorrow.
From the past I need not borrow.
I just need my next tomorrow.
For the Three Things Challenge the word I chose was: NEXT.
For Cee’s FOTD
If you have not yet seen the movie Flow, move heaven and earth to see it. It is spellbinding. If you have a cat, you will be especially impressed with how perfectly the main character is illustrated. And, that said, we will have much to talk about afterwards.
The Taste of Love
What we feasted on
in those first stages of internet romance—
when nine hours was too short a conversation—was words.
We passed on to the next stage of computer dating:
our first dinner date.
He watched on his desktop computer as I prepared a salad.
This was a long and lengthy process
I recorded as closely as was possible,
using the camera from my laptop.
A prisoner of his large unmovable console computer, I watched his empty desk chair
as he repaired to the kitchen to prepare his meal, hearing sound effects but little else.
When he returned to the living room, he laid his meal in front of his computer.
I had yet to see it as I, in turn, placed my salad in front of me and took my first bite,
watching closely my technique according to my Skype image.
I chewed politely and then smiled,
revealing the lack of lettuce shards on my front teeth.
I looked up. He was watching me as lovingly as usual.
Now, it was his turn.
What are you eating? I asked. Ham, he said.
He lifted a huge hunk on his fork, taking a dainty bite
and chewing happily.
What else? I asked. Just ham, he answered.
And so he demolished the entire pound of thick ham steak,
now and then washing it down with a healthy swig of rum and Coke.
Rum and Coke.
It had been one of our bonding experiences
to find that the drink of choice for each
was Bacardi Rum with caffeine-free Diet Coke.
How could this not be a romance made in heaven?
Culinary compatibility from 2,000 miles away
seemed to be less of a problem than it would be months later,
when we first made physical contact.
But, there was a resolution. He started munching on carrots and I had no objection to ham.
We discovered a mutual mania for potato chips, and true romance bloomed
when I found the full bar of Hershey’s chocolate atop his refrigerator.
Who says we need to concentrate on our differences?
For dVerse Poets we were to post a poem about internet romance in honor of Valentines Day
I had the pleasure of reading the manuscript of this book before its publication in 2023, and I recently reread it so I could review it with a fresh impression. If anything, I liked this book even more on second reading.
I’ve loved Judy’s poems ever since I stumbled on her blog 10 years ago (where she posts a new poem or two every day). The China Bulldog, subtitled And Other Tales of a Small-Town Girl, contains poems and essays about her childhood in rural South Dakota. It’s illustrated with vintage photos of her family. I’m close to Judy in age, so the photos trigger memories of my own small-town childhood, with similar architecture, furniture, clothing, hairstyles, toys, etc., even though I grew up on the other side of the country, in New Jersey.
The story called “Five Gifts for my Sister” gave me one of those flashbacks, when Judy mentions giving her sister a box of “old aluminum tinsel.” The tinsel of my childhood was actually lead foil. Its weight made it hang straight down, unlike the modern plastic tinsel. And the correct procedure Judy described for placing it on the tree reminded me so of my mother’s admonitions—evenly spaced, “draped on the ends of branches so it hung just to the top of the next branch without lapping over,” and never just thrown on the tree—horrors!
The essay “Hail, Hail” is about the family getting a shiny new green Oldsmobile, and Judy’s mother deciding to allow 17-year-old sister Patty drive Judy to summer camp, 200 miles away. Just before arriving at the camp, they were caught in a severe hailstorm that “marbled” the car’s windshield and cratered every inch of the new car’s surface. Now, if that had happened to me, I would have been terrified to drive it back home, suspecting that when my parents saw it, I would somehow be blamed. But throughout the book, Judy reveals her parents’ characters by their words and actions. About the damaged car, Dad said, “Accidents happen. It wasn’t your fault.” Mom said, “I never really liked that color of green anyway.” I’m guessing insurance paid for a replacement, because Judy’s parents picked her up in a brand-new rose-colored Pontiac Bonneville.
My favorite story in the whole book is “Zippy,” about their pet raccoon. Yes. Hysterical.
Who we are in our adulthood is significantly influenced by our upbringing and where we were raised. Judy Dykstra-Brown does a wonderful job of portraying her early life on the prairie. I was transported by her vivid descriptions and reminiscences. This book is definitely worth reading. And rereading.
Poor Sport
I’ve never climbed a mountain.
I don’t dive in the sea.
Team sports are simply pastimes
that don’t agree with me.
I cannot bat or pitch or catch.
A baseball skill I lack;
and when I tried at tetherball,
it hit me in the back.
I flinched and ducked, then stood back up,
tried once more for the ball;
but when I missed, got hit again
and took another fall.
I ski a lot upon my back
and when I swim I sink.
The water I can handle well
is in my kitchen sink.
In grade school when we played those games
involving run and chase,
I was the last one chosen;
for I never won a race.
I did not shine at tennis,
nor at volleyball.
When it comes to doing sport,
I find I’ve flunked them all.
Bowling, golf and badminton,
croquet and racquetballing
are talents I just don’t possess.
They simply aren’t my calling.
I fear I lack the focus
to hit balls with stick or hand.
To me, it’s hocus-pocus.
I’d rather join the band.
In games that take sports prowess,
my teammates rave and rant
that I do not play kick-the-can,
but rather, kick-I-can’t.
Some people lacking talent,
coordination, speed—
simply choose spectator sports
to fill their sportly need.
But I don’t like watching football,
your soccer or your hockey;
and when it comes to horse racing,
I neither bet nor jockey.
I admit, at sports I am
the worst you’ve ever seen.
So stop expecting more of me.
I simply lack the gene!!
For Esther’s Writing Prompts: Team
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 