Tag Archives: Ragtag Daily Prompt

For Ragtag’s daily prompt: Freedom

This is ForgottenMan subbing for Judy while she and her nephew Ryan are traveling in Mexico. She asked if I’d like to reblog some of her old posts in response to the various daily challenges here. I decided to only look at her posts from 2013-14, her first two years of blogging here.

Today’s Ragtag prompt is “Freedom”. HERE is one of Judy’s earliest blog posts, examining a form of freedom.

For Ragtag’s daily prompt: Blue

This is ForgottenMan subbing for Judy while she and her nephew Ryan are traveling in Mexico. She asked if I’d like to reblog some of her old posts in response to the various daily challenges here. I decided to only look at her posts from 2013-14, her first two years of blogging here.

Today’s Ragtag prompt is “Blue”. HERE is a poem Judy wrote in May, 2013. It’s called “Give Me Blue”. Seems like it fits.

For Ragtag’s daily prompt: Zest

This is ForgottenMan subbing for Judy while she and her nephew Ryan are traveling in Mexico. She asked if I’d like to reblog some of her old posts in response to the various daily challenges here. I decided to only look at her posts from 2013-14, her first two years of blogging here.

Today’s Ragtag prompt is “Zest”. I love the poem Judy wrote in September, 2014, which is filled with zest (and the actual word, “zest”). You can read her piece HERE, still zesty after all these years.

Play Date

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Play Date

 

My sister’s house has sold and they are cleaning out her attic. My niece and I make one trip more and I find my old dollhouse, collapsed, in the garbage can. I take the pieces out—some of them—and stash them in her trunk. I’d thought them gone forty years ago when the tornado took the roof off my parents’ house, but now, here they are like the leaves of memory blown miraculously back to me.

When she sees I’ve taken them, my niece asks what she should do with the dolls she found in the back recesses of her mother’s attic storage room—the one I hadn’t got to on my last visit—perhaps because of the roofing nails sticking through the wood which made reaching back behind the eaves a physical danger.

I find them where she has stashed them In a suitcase in her garage, and when I open the case and see the first doll staring up at me, I think it is a “find” from some antique store, like the dishes in my sister’s China cabinet or the tiny figures on her shelves. One rubber arm, sticky with age, has burst open and streams kapok like a froth of bleached and fermented blood. Other limbs have decayed to nothing but empty puddles of congealed rubber. Only the torso, held in place by a sagging pink fancy gown; and the face, stained red in places from some surface it’s been pressed against for too long, are still intact. As I lift the first doll from the suitcase, the other doll—the size of a toddler—stares up at me, one eye unhinged, her hair in pigtails sealed with rubber bands. When I lift her by one arm, her head turns, her legs pump and I realize this is my Ideal walking doll. When you raise her arms, one at a time, she walks toward you and her head swings, side-to-side. Hard and beautiful, she was not a doll to cuddle and she would not sit. She stood propped up against one corner of my room, rarely played with. What, I wonder, has happened to the bright blue dress she wore? Then I look closer and see that she’s still wearing it—faded to paleness even in the dark. What is here is original—her hair, her limbs, her dress, her petticoat—but her shoes and socks have been lost to another little girl, perhaps, or have jiggled off in some trunk and been left behind.

I’m 1500 miles away from home, yet I load the child-sized dollies into my boyfriend’s trunk: my sister’s doll in it’s fancy pink floor-length formal, my doll with her eye gone wild in its socket. They won’t make it home to Mexico in my suitcase this time, but it is impossible to leave them there in the suitcase to be thrown away by someone who has no memory of them. They are not collector’s items. They have been too neglected in their lives since they stood propped up in the corners of our rooms, then in the corners of our closets, the basement, my sister’s trunk and then her attic 800 miles from where they called us their owners and stimulated our imaginations to the extent they were able.

They’ll now reside in my boyfriend’s garage in Missouri until the time comes when I can carry them back in an extra suitcase or he can mule them down for me. If they were miniatures, I could include them in a retablo or a memory box, but each head is larger than the largest assemblage I’ve ever made. The closets of my house are full and overflowing, as are the wall-to-ceiling cabinets in my garage and studio and every area of my house where I’ve had room to build a closet. But I must use them. Give them some purpose for still existing other than to fill up room in some box on some cupboard shelf.

I imagine a memory box of gigantic proportions and suddenly, I have to make it, even if it takes up all the work room of my studio, and I start to plan how I could take my own doll back with me and what I’ll have to leave: the case of books that I’ve just had printed or my clothes or all the cartridges for my laser printer? If I wear a baby carrier, will they believe it is my baby, sound asleep? And what sensation will I cause when I try to stuff her into the overhead rack?

When I start to plan what else will go in the memory box with her, I remember the metal dollhouse sides and suddenly, I’m planning another trip back to Missouri, where I will make the mother of memory boxes—four feet square—and I wonder how my boyfriend will react to this and what I’ll do with it when it is finished. But somehow all these practicalities do not matter, because this dolly, relegated to corners for its whole life, is finally going to get played with!!!

This is a reblog from a 2014 piece. Since their prompt was “Play,” I’m reblogging it for the Ragtag Daily Prompt.

The Naming of Gassy Dan

 

 

The Naming of Gassy Dan

I’ll tell you of a man I knew by name of Gassy Dan.
It’s true he was a glutton—a mountain of a man.
A sopper-up of every bowl, a scraper of each pan.

He wasn’t the most pleasant guest to ever grace one’s table,
for his appetite was something of legend and of fable
aa he gobbled up more than his share whenever he was able.

Once seated at the table, though, he never had enough
of pork chop and of gravy, still he’d commence to huff
and puff about some gossip with language rude and rough.

With his slanderous assertions, his posturings and brayings,
his sanctimonious protests and all of his trite sayings,
he punished all our eardrums with incessant oral flayings.

Thus the rumblings at our table as we commenced to sup

were not his gastric gasses growling like a pup.
His borborygmus rumblings came from farther up. 


The Ragtag prompt for the day is borborygmus. bor·bo·ryg·mus (a rumbling or gurgling noise made by the movement of fluid and gas in the intestines.)

Return to the Adventures of Little Duck

 

 

Some of you have been following the adventures of Big and Little Duck, but for those of you new to my blog, since Ragtag’s Daily prompt is “Duck”, this seems a good opportunity to catch you up on their history.

Here are some links to their past adventures:

https://judydykstrabrown.com/2017/11/14/whoa-momma-mismatched-socks-what-a-bummer-cffs-words-with-two-ms/

https://judydykstrabrown.com/2016/07/31/little-ducks-adventures-cees-odd-ball-challenge-2016-week-30/

https://judydykstrabrown.com/2016/09/23/little-ducks-further-adventures-cees-odd-ball-challenge-2016-week-38wordpress-one-word-photo-challenge-quest/

https://judydykstrabrown.com/2016/09/25/travels-with-ducks-the-continuing-saga-of-little-duck-episode-5/

https://judydykstrabrown.com/2016/09/28/which-way-little-duck-cees-which-way-challenge-sept-28-2016/

https://judydykstrabrown.com/2016/09/29/little-ducks-almost-novel-adventure/

https://judydykstrabrown.com/2016/12/27/duck-duck-goose-turkey/

https://judydykstrabrown.com/2018/03/21/little-ducks-adventures-odd-ball-photo-challenge-mar-21-2018/