jacki k

The Dessert that Never Was, a response to a Jacki K prompt

The Dessert that Never Was

a response to a Jacki K prompt

I think my favorite Thanksgiving dessert—and I believe my siblings will concur—is the dessert that never happened. While growing up in Pittsburgh, we had the annual Thanksgiving feast, of course. We also invited over the two women, mother and daughter, who lived next door. They were delightful company (all year), and for Thanksgiving always offered to bring the pumpkin pie.

One year they were late. Late enough to make me wonder if something had happened to the mother who, naturally enough, was on in years. But they both showed up, chagrined and with a story to tell. They had baked the pie, as they had each year, with everything whipped up by them and typically starting in the morning. As the day progressed and with that the pie in the oven, something smelled not right to them. And when they pulled out the pie and looked around their kitchen, they discovered what they forgot to put in the pie.

The pumpkin part.

So they baked another pie and brought it over late. So embarrassed were they, they only brought the good pie over. But I guess we made them feel at ease enough about making a mistake that anybody could make (well, not anybody) that they brought us over later to view a pumpkin pie without the pumpkin. As I recall, it was a round brown mess, sunken into the pie plate.

None of us is in that neighborhood now, and we are scattered some. But in our respective homes we tend to tell that story every year. And, while all of us were at one home and our neighbors continued coming over, we’d tell that story and laugh—together—every shared Thanksgiving day.

(Cue image of empty pie plate.)

C L Couch

for the image, http://www.wanelo.com (from Google Images)

November 17, 2015 3

Jacki K’s Free Writing Prompt—What Makes You Grateful?

A Free Writing Prompt for You: What makes you grateful? How do you say, “Thanks”?

from Jacki K

response and illustration

Is that free writing or freewriting? I’ll probably respond to both. And with. Okay, I start.

Finding something lost makes me feel grateful. And I say thanks. To hear good news from family makes me feel grateful, too.

Longer time on earth—and I like being here, by the way—means loss. Someone dying is not about me, but I can’t help but take it personally. I think we’re supposed to, actually. After all, after death the issues are for those us remaining.

With losses that are severe—yes, loss of life but also loss or lessening of health and means and prospects—the small things to be thankful for mean more. I mean, I suppose losses in life could lead to bitterness, though as a lifestyle I try to move myself away from that. Maybe when I’m old and all alone, I’ll give in.

So lost keys, then. And that one piece of paper with information on it that I need. Sleeping a number of hours without obvious break. A day of color, whatever the season. Which would include a cardinal on the snow. Something new and interesting I see when I drive by. A new-to-me old building to admire or a community announcement that shows the town alive. Remembering to have grabbed exactly what I needed on my way outside the door.

There are many things. Imagine yours.

I do say thank-you and perform small courtesies in kind. Whatever the reaction is matters, though not so much. The joy is in the giving. And so is thankfulness. Small things to be thankful for are gifts and courtesies. I’m a better person when I know these and acknowledge them.

Aren’t we better people for saying and receiving thanks? Giving or receiving? Both? You’re welcome. And thank you.

C L Couch

for the image, kennethkeiferphotography.zenfolio.com (from Google Images)

November 16, 2015 4

Jacki K Challenge, memoir with image(s) and metaphors

(www.whatwillmatter.com at Google Images)

The painting might be depicting the story of Narcissus and Echo, but I can think of no better way to think of the self as through reflecting into glassy water. And the art looks like the pre-Raphaelites again, a favorite school of mine.

The Song of Myself by Christopher Whitman (by me)

The title is an homage, of course, a
Metaphoric salutation to the great
Transcendentalist, who also was
A correspondent in the Civil War, up
Close to the blood-washed fighting

Do I see myself as a war? I do not
But rather see myself as a struggle in
Stillness, like the water in a pre-Raphaelite
Painting—reflections on reality were
Important in that school; they are
Important to me now

I reflect and, as best I can, marvel at the
Metaphor so wondrously used by Paul
In his assertion that we see through the
Glass darkly for now—and like a dim
And frosted mirror, I see myself as best
I may, while on this side

The song about myself, then, that I might
Sing, is one of dissonance—I don’t know
If Whitman heard any of his words set
To musical notes and then performed—my
Song would be entirely syncopated and
In minor keys, a monstrosity of jazz, a
Movement barely born when he wrote
About the war and then about you and
Me

(www.dreamstime.com at Google Images)

You know, it’s impressive what you can search for while at or with Google Images. First, I searched “the self.” Then I searched for “a small house” and then “a small brick house,” because that’s what I was really looking for. And, I’m sorry, I selected two images because self and small house were too compelling to enter into competition.

My Small House

I lived in a small house after
Being born in a hospital since renamed

The photo above is neither mine nor
Theirs (the other members of my
Family), although the resemblance to the
Actual look is surprisingly close, because

I view this house only in memory now
And for some many years: a red-brick house
With greenery in front, behind; a pointed
House too small for four brothers and Mom
And Dad , and then my sister arrived—so

We were not there so long—and yet this
House is my earliest memory box; take
Off the top by grasping at the point, and see
Inside images of my father reading, my
Mother cleaning, and the me I saw
Once within a mirror, after coming home

From the hospital again—four, now, and
Having fallen onto the hard floors
(Wall-to-wall carpeting would be next,
For sure) and splitting my four-year-old
Forehead open: in this image, I see me

Head bound up, wearing my favorite
Shirt (I don’t know how I know this), red with
A seal stitched on the front and balancing
A ball upon his circus nose

Wound and red and balancing—metaphors
Too soon worked out in the troubled new
House

The Jacki K Challenge, Day 3

Four. One of my six words. And the image of the Celtic knot with imposed heart. What do they mean, and how do they work together? A paragraph about this is the assignment, I think.

Four

There’s a fancy word for that Celtic sign, which reminds of the fancy word for phobia of the number thirteen. I chose the word because it implies existing through relationship. Four is not one and certainly is not zero. Four is more, and four works because it is in companionship. Four have come together. Four isn’t that important symbolically in religion or folklore. I mean, there are things it can represent, though other numbers do more and are better known. So four can be more personal and intimately appreciated. The Celtic symbol of the Trinity is old and represents a merging of two ways: an ancient world of many gods and the world of the one God come to be known and loved. The Celts themselves had to give way to the Romans regarding religion—I mean the Roman Christian Church that made the Celts give up their Christian understanding—and for a time this symbol went away. Or was hidden. But it’s back, telling us that worlds and understandings deserve their time. And older insights need not be thrown away because something new, even better, comes. After the first day, I chose the symbol with a heart imposed upon it. The heart for me is paradoxical. It is vital for understanding faith and life, I do believe. But my heart is diseased and struggles to function in the center of me.

November 3, 2015 1