She's Always Ready to Play Jenga.

Image by Susan Foster.

I sometimes participate in a monthly six-word photo story challenge on Medium. When I saw that "play" was the prompt for July, the idea for this photo and the following two-sentence "story" came to mind.

The tower falls. We try again.

~~*~~

These six words do tell a story, but they leave out the details of why and how this came about. 

During a long, cold winter when temperatures were well below zero, I tried to think of ways to keep our dog entertained. So I taught her some tricks. 

One of which was how to play Jenga.

She caught on much more quickly than I anticipated. Almost right away, she got the concept of taking just one block from the tower.

Image by Susan Foster.

She doesn't like to take turns, but the "wait" command helps out with that.

Image by Susan Foster.

Most difficult of all was getting the main objective of the game across to her ... that the blocks must be removed gently from the stack so that none of the other blocks fall. Sometimes she does this. But often her enthusiastic approach causes the block tower to fall. 

Image by Susan Foster

We're still working on that. We stack them up and try again.

When we finish playing, she helps me put the blocks back in the bag. This cleanup effort requires lots of prompts, but I've seen toddlers be less cooperative.

Image by Susan Foster.

I was not the first person to teach a dog to play Jenga. I got the idea from this video on Instagram that features a dog named Secret, probably the best canine Jenga player, ever. Secret and Mary, her human, set the bar for the rest of us pretty high! I doubt that we will ever get that good, but it's fun to try.

~~*~~

In addition to the original small blocks, there's even a giant version of the game of Jenga, with jumbo blocks that stack to over five feet high, I wonder what our dog would think of that!

~~*~~

One word of warning: Jenga blocks used with canine players may become riddled with tooth marks. It's pretty tempting for a dog to occasionally chomp right down on them!

This blog post contains affiliate links for products I believe in. This does not affect the price of items purchased, but I may receive some compensation. 

Have you ever seen a dog play Jenga? 

What Can You Be the Best at in the World?

Daughter, Find Your Purpose: A short story.

I haven't written much this past month or so, but I've always found a writing challenge to be a good motivator to get me back in the writing habit. The "Ask Yourself Empowering Questions" writer's challenge has done just that, and I have been working through the list of ten prompts. 

Rather than explore and write about my own “best gift,” I answered prompt #7 “What can you be the best at in the world?” with a short piece of fiction.

The main character's talent fits well with the theme of this blog, making the most of every moment, so I've decided to share this story here. Enjoy ... 

Image by author, Susan Foster

Daughter, Find Your Purpose

The king stared hard at his daughter. She was 14 and floundering. It seemed she had no purpose. Life as a royal had made her soft. When he was her age, a commoner not yet married to the queen, he had worked hard to survive. He chopped wood, hunted, fished, and foraged for his family. He cared for his younger siblings and often counseled his widowed mother. All of these responsibilities taught him decision-making and leadership. He knew those traits made him a good leader. But, what was his eldest daughter even good at? It was time, he decided, for her to find out.

“Daughter, I am giving you a task. You have one week to figure out what you can be the best at in the world. Once you do, I want you to tell me about it. Together, we will decide how this will affect your future. It is time you found your purpose.”

His daughter, Maribeth, gazed at him with love in her eyes. “Yes, father. I would like to do that. Can you tell me how?”

“No, dear daughter, discovering your gifts is something you must do by yourself. Now, off you go, and find your skill.”

Deep in thought, Maribeth wandered towards her chambers. Her path to her room was not a direct one, however, as was so often the case. In the hallway just down from her bedroom, she encountered Jane, her lady-in-waiting, struggling to carry a heavy load of bed linens. Kindly, Maribeth took part of the burden and carried the sheets to the laundry tub for the maid. On the way back, she stopped to steady a ladder while the lamplighter replaced a high candle.

Once finally in her room, Maribeth sat with quill in hand at her desk, staring at a piece of parchment upon which she had written 

Things I am best at:

#1. …

Maribeth was stuck. She couldn’t think of even one thing to add to her list. 

As she sat there, her thoughts were interrupted by a tapping sound. Following the whispery noise, she realized a moth had become trapped behind the heavy drapery over her window. Carefully she lifted it and released the poor creature into the open air.

Sighing, she thought perhaps a ride would inspire her. Maribeth changed into her riding habit and walked down to the stables. It took a while, because en-route, she retrieved a ball that had been kicked by two small children over a wall; played fetch with one of the dogs that guarded the castle; helped the gardener weed a patch of the flower garden; and directed a merchant the kitchen door so he could sell his basket of produce to the cook.

Upon arrival to the stables, Maribeth realized the grooms were frantically busy getting ready for the upcoming hunt. She told them not to worry, she could curry and saddle her own horse. Before doing so, she grabbed a pitchfork and cleaned the stall, so they would have one less task to do. 

Towards the end of her ride, Maribeth came upon one of the castle’s barn cats, with a badly injured paw. It appeared to have caught its foot in something, perhaps a snare, and the cat had injured it pulling loose. Gently, she scooped the cat into her skirt, climbed back into her saddle, and rode home cradling it in her lap, soothing it with her voice. Once there, she cleaned and bandaged the wound and brought the cat to her bedroom for surveillance and further care. The feral cat seemed to know she was helping it and didn’t try to scratch or bite her, even though it was clearly in pain.

Throughout the week Maribeth’s days continued much the same. She added writing, cooking, needlepoint, playing piano, painting, and singing to her list, but then crossed off each one. Although she was competent in all these skills, she knew she was far from the best in the world at any of them. In addition to English, she could speak French and German, but neither as fluently as her sister. Maribeth was good at her lessons but didn’t know enough science or arithmetic to consider herself a scholar. She began to wonder if she even had a gift or a purpose.

Just before the two weeks were up, Maribeth’s lady-in-waiting found her in the garden, crying. “My lady, whatever is the matter.”

“Oh, Jane. Remember I told you father tasked me with discovering what I am best at in the world, and gave me one week to do so? Well, this afternoon I must report to him, and I can’t think of anything I am best at. How can I be so worthless?”

“Worthless,” Jane scoffed. “You are the least worthless royal I have encountered in all of my days. “Worthless -pffishh. No, my dear lady, what you are, actually, is worth your weight in gold. You are a gem.”

“WHaaaat? What do you mean?” Maribeth sniffed and rubbed her tears on her sleeve.

“My lady, your gift is your heart. You show others compassion and caring every chance you get. No creature, be it butterfly or maid, is unworthy of your attention. You make life easier for everyone around you, every single day. You have a healing touch and a compassionate soul. Your gift, dearest m’lady Maribeth, is the gift of love.”

Maribeth stared at her, wide-eyed. “But, Jane, surely others are no different from me. I need to find something I am the best at in the world. The things you have mentioned are so easy to do, anyone could do those things.”

“Anyone could, my lady, but not everyone does. Go tell your father I said these things, and he will recognize them in you, too. Your father is a good king because he has good leadership skills. As queen, one day, you will be an equally good leader because you are so well-loved.”

Maribeth gave Jane a quick kiss on the cheek and thanked her for her insight. With her head held high, her heart bursting with humble pride, she went to find her father.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As you now probably realize, Maribeth finds joy in making the most of everyone else's moments. Do you think her father will consider this a worthy talent?

_____________________________________________________________________________

If you are needing some writing inspiration or want a place to publish your own work, I highly recommend checking out the website Medium and the thought-provoking “Ask Yourself Empowering Questions” writer’s challenge. See details here.

~~~*~~~

Links to some of my other writing challenge responses:

Prompt #1: What Does it Mean to Be Human? Why are we all suspended on the side of a spinning ball in a vast universe?

Prompt #2: What experience do I want to create now? Is a Bountiful Harvest Still Within Reach?

Prompt #3: What is your worst flaw and why are you keeping it? Why Would Anyone Refuse to Give Up Their Worst Flaw? 

Do Other Writers Have These Thoughts?

When my insecurities woke me up one night, I wrote them down.

Image by Susan Foster.

A Writer's Doubts.

Are the hours I sit in my chair in front of my computer time well spent?
Should I be doing something else instead?

Hours go by, and all I do is write.
Is this a worthwhile effort? 
Should I be doing something else?

Do other writers feel the way I do?
Do they have feelings of uncertainty and doubt,
as they write the minutes of their lives away?

Are the words that spray out from my pen ever any good?
Are the thoughts I share just commonplace or are they brilliant news?
Do people read my work because it draws them in?
Or do they read only out of loyalty to me or, worse yet, obligation?

Have other writers found my work because it’s too good not to read, 
or simply because I left a comment on one of their own stories
and they want to return the favor?

What would I be doing if I wasn’t writing?
Should I be spending such vast quantities of time on this?

Perhaps these questions are of a futile type.
I’m not sure there’s anything I can do but write.

I’m not sure there’s any way I cannot write.

Do other writers have thoughts like this?
Or are these concerns and doubts uniquely mine?

Do you ever get up and record your own thoughts at night? If you do, are you then able to go back to sleep?

He Wasn't Standing Where He Was Supposed To Be

Word Prompt Flash Fiction.

Image by author, Susan Foster.

This piece of flash fiction was written using word prompts. See below for more details.

He Wasn't Standing Where He Was Supposed To Be

I rushed to the door and darted out from beneath the shop canopy into the street. Behind me, in hot pursuit, was the cashier. Despite his age, he was almost as fast as me, thanks to my gimpy gait. Minutes earlier, he watched me sneak a chocolate bar from the sweets aisle into my pocket. 

Like a well-oiled machine, this was all working out just as I'd planned. Earlier this morning, I stomped down hard on a rose stem from my mother's garden, making sure a thorn punctured the ball of my foot. This made me limp, causing soreness with every step. It was so important that I be viewed as a bit of a charity case. Nothing, not even pain, was too much to endure for the end result.

The cashier caught up to me, grabbed my arm, and shouted, "Show me what's in your pocket. I saw you take that chocolate bar. You can't steal stuff and expect to get away with it."

I hopped two steps and leaned against the wall of a nearby building, holding my injured foot pitifully off the ground. It throbbed intensely after running on it, so my grimace was sincere. Opening my eyes wide, I gave him a mournful look. 

"I'm sorry, Mister.  I started thinking about all that candy and it seemed like a good way to help me forget how much my foot hurts," I said. "I was just daydreaming about the taste of this chocolate bar, and I pocketed it without thinking." 

I sobbed for a minute to emphasize my point, and then continued,  "I knew right away you saw me do it and that you probably thought I was stealing, so I  - I ran. Or hobbled, anyway." I gave a loud sniff. " I don't want to go to pp-prison."

 

Just as expected, the cranky old man's expression softened.

Convinced that I had drawn things out long enough, I seized the moment. I reached into my pockets and pulled out the chocolate bar from one and a few dollars from the other. I offered it all to the cashier. 

"Here," I said, "I really did mean to pay for it. You can have my money, and I'll give you the candy bar back, too."

 

"Oh, that's all right," said the cashier. "This one's on me. But, be more careful from here on out. This sort of mistake doesn't often work out so well."

"No, sir, It certainly doesn't." 

I grinned inwardly and pictured my friend and shoplifting partner, Billy. By now, he'd be waiting for me in the back alley with bags full of candy and other stuff for each of us, stolen while I'd lured the unsuspecting cashier out of the otherwise unattended shop. 

We were so good at this.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Word prompt writing sometimes practically writes itself!

I used all of the words provided to write this story but decided not to include the image. However, after I finished writing, I realized I had been inspired subconsciously by the photo, which then helped to write my title! 

By the way, despite having concocted a rather elaborate shoplifting plan, I have never (ever) stolen anything! I'm a little nonplussed by how easily I came up with such a devious plot.

Words for Wednesday Word Prompts for the week of 4/4/21

This story was written in response to the Words for Wednesday Challenge on 4/4/21. The prompts are provided this month by Wisewebwoman on her blog. I encourage you to go to the comments there and read the other stories writers have posted.

This week, there were two lists of words and an image with a caption, all of which were taken from The Book of Longing by Leonard Cohen. Here are the prompts: 

Canopy, Thorn, Machine, Charity and/or Limp, Aisle, Nothing, Sneak

and/or 

a photo of art by Leonard Cohen (shown here), described in this book review as "A very loose self-portrait sketch is accompanied by the words, "I believe that you are standing in the place where I am supposed to be standing."

Do you see how (although completely unintentionally) the image influenced my story?

A strange coincidence

I am currently reading a book with a nearly identical title but a very different genre called The Book of Longings written by Sue Monk Kidd. So far, I am really enjoying it.

Please keep social distancing, wear a mask, wash your hands, get vaccinated, and stay healthy. 

A personal update

I was lucky enough to be vaccinated on Tuesday, and although I was pretty under the weather with flu symptoms for about 24 hours after the shot, I agree with the protagonist in my story that some discomforts are worth enduring for the end result. 

A few hours of a fever (and the embarrassment of my newsletter publishing itself without me remembering yesterday to update it from last week) is definitely better than getting COVID! Stay healthy, everyone!

Taking Time to Stitch a Tapestry (Word Prompt Fiction)

This piece of flash fiction was written using word prompts. See below for more details.

Taking Time to Stitch a Tapestry

The world outside was silent, blanketed by a thick layer of snow. Martha sat by the window, taking advantage of the last of the evening light. Her needle darted in and out, weaving the embroidery thread into the stiff fabric, while the peppermint aroma of her tea faded as it grew cold. She had been stitching longer than she realized. Her thoughts had wandered pleasantly while embroidering this summer scene, which centered on a sweet brown hare darting behind a flowering hedge.

Earlier, along the side of the house, she had seen a similarly sized rabbit, wearing his winter coat of white. Perhaps, she mused, when she finished this one she should embroider the same picture again, but change it to show a winter season instead of summer. Maybe she could even create a set of four tapestries with this same view and rabbit, showing all the seasons. It wouldn’t be hard to do and would add one more dimension to her catalogue of items for the sale.

"If professional artists can present some of their work as a series, why shouldn't I?" she thought. 

The hard scrunch of her husband’s footsteps through the newly fallen snow on the path beyond the window interrupted her thoughts. When the men clear-cut that swatch right up to the house she had disapproved, because she hated to see such beautiful old trees cut down. However, she now appreciated how much easier it was to get to the house from the end of the road, and how the layer of rocks (or snow) warned her when anyone approached.

With a sign, she pushed aside the tapestry and rose from her chair. It was time to get supper started. Her dream of being able to make her sewing a priority over mundane household chores would have to wait.

"Someday," Martha vowed, "I will become a full-time, self-reliant artist and leave this place."

~~~~~*~~~~~

Delores of Under the Porch Light used to offer a weekly writing prompt called Words for Wednesday, and encouraged others to use it to write something creative.  Unfortunately, Delores began to have computer issues, and could no longer provide the weekly prompts. Elephant’s Child took over for a while, and then she organized volunteers to share the responsibility.

The prompts for this week were provided by Hilary Melton-Butcher but posted on the website Elephant’s Child. (They were posted last Wednesday, but it has taken me this long to get around to writing this!) I encourage you to go to the comments there and read the other stories writers have posted. 

I used the entire list of word prompts to create this story: Silent, Tea, Summer, Scrunch, Tapestry and/or Hare, House, Catalogue, Clear-cut, Path.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Where would these words have taken your imagination?

Please keep social distancing, wear a mask, wash your hands, get vaccinated, and stay healthy!

This post contains affiliate links. The opinions expressed, however, are entirely my own.

They Say Cats Have Nine Lives

I’m (gratefully) convinced our cat has many more than nine.

Today is our cat's 18th birthday and his age is catching up with him.

His skeleton feels bony when I pet him. Sometimes he just sits and stares into place, or lets out pitiful yowls for no apparent reason. His whiskers are often coated with particles of food and his backside with who-knows-what. When he uses his litter box, more often than not anymore, he misses it and body waste and fluids flow down the side. He swings his back hips strangely when he walks, and his gait has become timid from arthritis. He has a funky smell and his fur is rough and patchy.

This feline member of our family has always been ornery and destructive. The veterinarian's office attached a label on his chart, warning all their employees that our cat is “very fractious.” He’s unfriendly (actually quite ferocious) to everyone except my family, and he is a lot of work. 

BUT ––He loves me unconditionally, possibly more than any living creature ever has. I can't imagine life without him.

Our beloved cat turned 18 today, and he’s been a member of our family since he was just 6-weeks old. We adopted him to satisfy my daughter's intense longing for a cat, but it was he and I who formed the strongest bond. Perhaps that's because he became ours on Mother's day. The amount of days and months and years this cat has lived in our house now equals or exceeds that of either of our now-grown children. 

I worry it will soon be time to say goodbye. Will he tell me when he’s ready to go, or will he just slip silently away? 

In the past year or two, I’ve said farewell to this treasured cat multitude of times. I’ve held him and I’ve cried, convinced he wouldn’t make it through the night. On each of those occasions, he proved to me the saying that cats all have nine lives. In his case, we could probably adjust that number upwards to 15, or so.

For years, our kitty’s been on a slew of meds for irritable bowel syndrome and decreased renal function. So far, the prescription food, pills, gels, and injections have been working. We’ve had a few diabetic scares, only to find out diabetes did not cause his problems; instead he suffered from severe urinary tract infections which cleared up with antibiotics. 

Eighteen years seems like a long life for a cat, but it doesn’t feel like enough time to spend with this one. This sentiment seems mutual; though old and frail, our cranky cat still appears to be enjoying life with us. Just when I’m convinced his arthritis badly threatens his mobility, I spy him nimbly getting onto a kitchen counter or teasing our big dog. He seems as happy as he’s ever been, especially when he’s nestled in my lap or stretched out in a ray of sunshine, puddling on the floor.

Our elderly cat’s end-of-life is probably not too far away. But today he’ll get some happy birthday treats as we reminisce and celebrate his life. 

Who knows, if we are lucky enough, perhaps this time next year we’ll be celebrating his birthday when he turns 19. That would be so nice.

Please keep social distancing, wear a mask, wash your hands, get vaccinated, and stay healthy! 😷 This post contains affiliate links. The opinions expressed, however, are entirely my own.

It Started With A Glance In the Mirror (Word-Prompt Fiction)

A long time ago, I regularly participated in a word prompt challenge, as some readers here may remember.

Delores of Under the Porch Light used to offer a weekly writing prompt called Words for Wednesday, and encouraged others to use it to write something creative.  Unfortunately, Delores began to have computer issues, and could no longer provide the weekly prompts. Elephant’s Child took over for a while, and then she organized volunteers to share the responsibility.

~~~*~~~

Today, I once again participated in that challenge. The prompts for this week were provided by Hilary Melton-Butcher, but posted yesterday on the website Elephant’s Child. I encourage you to go to the comments there and read the other stories writers have posted. 

I used the entire list of word prompts to create this story: wafer, haggard, procession, juniper, drips, disdainful, stream, weed, chalk, treasure. 

Where would these words have taken your imagination?

It Started With a Glance in the Mirror

Julie stared at the mirror and sighed. Who was this haggard woman staring back at her, anyway? She needed to find a way out of the slump she’d been in ever since she left her job. “I need sunshine,” she decided.

“I know, I know,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. “Getting a tan isn't good for my skin. But it will help me feel healthy and pretty. That seems like a priority right now.”

Wandering into the kitchen, Julie poured herself a cup of coffee. With no energy to make a proper breakfast, she grabbed a box of vanilla wafers from the cupboard. She placed her mug and the box on the table in the breakfast nook. She went to the front door and grabbed the newspaper from the stoop before sitting down at the table.

Munching on a wafer, she turned to the classified section of the paper and perused it. 

“Ha,” she exclaimed loudly, after a minute of reading. “This is just what I need... a job I’m sure I can do, and it’s outside work, so I will get a tan.” 

She picked up the phone and dialed the listed number.

~~~*~~~ 

Julie stared at the procession of potted plants laid out in neat rows along the hospital walkways. They expect her to plant all of those by lunchtime? 

“Oh, goodness,” she thought. “I certainly hope I don’t get fired on my first day!” 

She loaded as many of the plants as she could onto a wheeled cart and took them over to one of the soil beds near the hospital entrance. The other gardener had already tilled it. She eyeballed where the plants would look best, picked up a spade, and started digging.

~~~*~~~

Tired, but feeling accomplished, Julie was proud all the plants assigned to her were neatly in the ground. She and Sam, the other gardener, were sitting at a picnic table eating sandwiches for lunch. Julie assumed the hospital had kindly placed the table there for visitors and possibly for patients who were well enough to venture outside for a bit. She realized the garden might help brighten an otherwise dismal day for some people who came here.

A minute later, her good mood deflated as Sam told her what her tasks would be that afternoon.

“All the old juniper bushes need to be torn out. Make sure you dig up all the roots. When you finish with that, add drips to all the flowers you just planted.”

“OH, MY,” thought Julie. “Removing those bushes sounds like scratchy and backbreaking work.”

Poetry Has Always Frightened Me. How About You?

Even back in elementary school, I loved to write. But not poems. Both reading and writing poetry scared me. I was afraid I wouldn't understand what the author was trying to say. The rules of writing poetry intimidated me. To be truthful, these fears followed me into adulthood and well beyond.

A page from "The Art of Writing and Speaking The English Language: How and What to Read" 

by Sherwin Cody, copyright 1905. Image by Susan Foster

Only in the last decade, I have begun to appreciate poetry. I now understand the interpretation of poems is subjective. Often, a poem is written to express a feeling even more than an actual thought. My favorite way to experience a poem is to listen to the author read it.

My education did not require me to write a lot of poetry. For this, I used to consider myself lucky, but now I am regretful. I do remember having to write a poem for a homework assignment (using the style of one of the poetry types we had been taught) when I was nine or ten years old. We were expected to read our work to the class the next day. I was terrified. 

I decided to write a limerick, probably because it was the style of poetry with rules I thought I was least likely to break. I don't think I realized back then that limericks are quite often funny and sometimes leud. Mine was neither! 

A limerick is "a humorous poem consisting of five lines. The first, second, and fifth lines must have seven to ten syllables while rhyming and having the same verbal rhythm. The third and fourth lines should only have five to seven syllables; they too must rhyme with each other and have the same rhythm."

"I can count syllables and come up with words that rhyme. Maybe I can do this assignment, after all," I thought.

I remember sitting a long time in our family room just twirling my pencil through my fingers, overcome by writer's block. I knew I needed to write just five lines with a set number of syllables. But, what to write about? My eyes roved around the room and finally focused on a figurine my parents had bought in Mexico, while on their honeymoon. An old man with a skeleton-thin horse. I vaguely remembered my parents telling me the story of why they bought it. Something about the old cowboy being named Tex and his horse was called Paint. 

Strangely, I still recall the lines I wrote and memorized to recite to my class the next day. I'm pretty sure I took the figurine with me to school to show my class, hoping it would bolster my performance. 

Here's the poem: 

There was an old man named Tex

He had an old dog named Rex

He had a horse named Paint

Who sadly once did faint

Because on him was placed a hex.

I was well-acquainted with Edward Lear's rhyme, "There Was an Old Man With a Beard." I know this because I remember studying the accompanying illustration in our copy of The Book of Nonsense when I was small. I suspect his first line may have laid the groundwork for mine.

  🤣 🤣 🤣 Well, I don't need to point out that my poetry was not award-worthy. That is one of the very few poems I've ever written. Lately, however, I've been thinking I should take another stab at poetry. Maybe I'll work on conquering the technique of the haiku.

A traditional Japanese haiku, according to this definition from poets.org is "a three-line poem with seventeen syllables, written in a 5/7/5 syllable count. Often focusing on images from nature, haiku emphasizes simplicity, intensity, and directness of expression."

Living in Montana, I certainly have plenty of images from nature to spark my creativity. 

This photo was taken from the car while leaving Big Sky Resort, Montana. Image by Susan Foster.

Some rules of poetry have relaxed a lot and new formats have emerged since I was in elementary school. These new forms are probably just as challenging to write, but somehow seem less intimidating. I was recently introduced to one of these new types of poetry by a review written by Adeola Sheehy-Adekale, about The She Book by Tanya Markul. The emotions this poetry evokes are almost visceral.

Sheehy-Adekale explains the recent style of poetry Markul uses is, "a form of writing which focuses on the affect it has, the shared experience which the reader can identify with, rather than rhyming couplets or any other poetry convention." 

What caused me to start thinking about poetry was a photo of a "tear-and-take" haiku poster tacked to a public message board. What a lovely gift a poem can be.

 Who knows, maybe one day I'll finally tackle my fear and try to write some poetry. But not today.

If you feel inspired to write a haiku about the mountain scene in the photograph above, feel free to share it in the comments below.

Don't Judge a Book By Its Cover. How I Became Aware of My Unconscious Stereotype

I previously published a version of this post on 10/23/14. Since newer readers may not have seen it, I've revised it a bit and I'm sharing it again. 

___

Never judge a book by its cover is a worn-out cliché, but it is true advice that I should have remembered during a brief encounter in the past.

The covers on these books have seen better days, but the contents are still classic. 

I visited an auto parts store to buy jumper cables

Almost a dozen years ago, I stopped at an auto parts store one afternoon to look for the jumper cables. I had promised these would be our donation for the “car-care items basket" my son’s class was assembling, to be auctioned at the School PTA fundraiser later in the week.

I wandered up and down the somewhat scruffy and cluttered aisles, feeling very out of my element. I was surrounded by people who all seemed comfortable locating what they needed. I perused every aisle, but couldn’t find the jumper cables.

The store shelves were disorganized and I was overwhelmed

My frustration mounted and I was nearly ready to concede defeat and leave empty-handed. Suddenly, a man in dusty jeans and a rumpled store vest approached and said, “I’ll be with you in just a moment, Ma’am.” (He must have read my mind . . .)

Seconds after he spoke to me, my eyes spied an inexpensive “Emergency Car Kit.” The label bragged that it included all sorts of emergency items, including the jumper cables I had hoped to buy. Lying partially covered by another item on a bottom shelf, I had nearly missed seeing it. 

I was taken by surprise by the excellent customer service

When the salesperson returned to my side, I asked him if the contents of the kit were accurately depicted on the packaging, and told him why I needed it. He confirmed the contents. 

To my surprise though, he added,

An Unexpected Surprise for Valentine's Day

I think you may be surprised by what Ryan has in store for Mindy this Valentine's day. 

It's been a while since I have written a chapter of "The Mindy Story", but I am publishing one today! As with the rest of this short story, Words for Wednesday word prompts (provided this week on the blog Elephant's Child) are woven into this chapter. 

To catch up with "The Mindy Story" so far, here are links to all the previous segments: 

Part 1, Cleaning Products Don't Work Unless You Use Them
Part 2, A Perfect Match
Part 3, Fiction, Sangria, Roasted Red Pepper Spread and a Picnic
Part 4, Stitches and an Uncomfortable Surprise
Part 5, A Banana Relapse will Require a Repair
Part 6, Capturing Fruit Flies & Wine Glasses for Two
Part 7, A Coffee Date and Cathedral Windows
Part 8, Chicken Broth and Walnuts - - Oops!
Part 9, A Mystery and a Secret
Part 10, Blue Bird - Blue Bell - - Blue Bonnet!
Part 11, Lemonade and a Pleasant Conversation
Part 12, A Photo Album, a Lunar Event and a Furry Friend
Part 13, France and a Friendship  

 When you are ready, here is Part 14  ...

Another chapter in the unpredictable life of Mindy ...

An Unexpected Surprise for Valentine's Day 

The instructions indicated that she should grease the pans. Using a piece of waxed paper, Mindy carefully smeared dabs of butter to coat the bottom and sides of each ceramic ramekin completely. 

The recipe Mindy was following was one which her cousin had posted on Facebook. Apparently whenever she serves these warm Molten Chocolate Cakes, everyone says they are exquisite.

She was hoping that Ryan would give rave reviews after his first bite of hers, but she sort of doubted that he would. Ever since his return from Paris just before Christmas, he had just seemed so ambivalent about everything. It was like a light switch had been turned off. He and Mindy were still spending a lot of time together, but it always felt like his mind was somewhere else. The energetic, enthusiastic man he used to be seemed to have been replaced by a zombie.

“The best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” thought Mindy grimly, as she got out her standing mixer.  “Or, so the saying goes. Well, I’m giving it my best shot.”

Mindy had spent a lot of time planning the elaborate Valentine’s Day dinner she was making for Ryan. She felt like it was her last chance at securing a future with him. If these efforts and the bold little pink dress and stiletto heels she planned to wear tomorrow didn’t aim Cupid’s arrow directly into Ryan’s heart, she didn’t know anything that would.

The evolution of their relationship from secure and comfortable to distant and uncertain had happened practically overnight. Mindy had been sure that when Ryan had returned from Paris on December 6th, he would have with him an engagement ring and be ready with a proposal. But, both Christmas and New Year’s were now over, and no little box had magically appeared.

Crossing the kitchen to get the cocoa from the pantry, Mindy nearly tripped over the cat. Scooping up her furry pet, she softly crooned, “Oh Eiffel, if only I could be sure he loves me as much as you do.” 

Looking back, Mindy realized she had been happier during the three months Ryan had been away in Paris then during the two months since his return.  Taking cooking and dancing lessons with Barb had made the days go by quickly. She had kept the lessons a secret, hoping to knock Ryan off his feet when she demonstrated her skills; but she had told Ryan about adopting the cat. He had seemed to fully approve, and had even suggested she name him after a French monument. 

Since Christmas though, Ryan had shown no enthusiasm for her new talents or her pet. He discouraged her offers to cook French meals for him, saying they were too heavy for his taste.  He had ignored all her suggestions to go out dancing, and lately, he barely ever paid any attention to her cat. 

Eiffel had been licking a smudge of butter from Mindy’s finger with his rough tongue. With a sigh, she set him down and went to the sink to wash her hands. While she was drying them, the phone rang. Glancing at caller I.D., she smiled when she recognized Barb’s number.

“Hey you, I was just thinking about you,” said Mindy into the receiver.

“Really - well, I’ve been wondering how your fiendish scheme to tempt a marriage proposal out of Ryan is going? Have you set the table and are the cooking preparations underway? Did you remember to strain the Port-Rosemary Sauce for the beef tenderloin steaks the way we were taught? Do you plan to let him have just a bite of the lobster, and then take it away and refuse to give it back until he pops the question? Or - maybe you will just wait till he gets a whiff of those terrific chocolate cakes?” Barb giggled as she fired off these questions. Mindy appreciated how she was trying to encourage and help her to relax.

"I’m hard at work Barb. This better work. If not, I’m just not sure how long I can last with things the way they are,” said Mindy.

Mindy heard a beep. “Oh Barb, I’m sorry - I’ve gotta go. That’s Ryan on the other line.”

“Sure Mindy, I understand. I hope that boyfriend of yours has come to his senses and is calling to say he is absolutely smitten with you. Have fun tomorrow sweetie - and call me with a full report!”

Mindy laughed. She ended the call with Barb and connected with the other line, saying, “Hi Ryan, I was just on the phone with Barb, but I’m off now.  What’s up?”

Without even saying hello, Ryan abruptly began, “I know that you are planning something for tomorrow, but what I have to say can't wait. I can't celebrate Valentine's Day with you, knowing that you went behind my back while I was gone. I should have said something as soon as I found out, but I just couldn't believe that your adaptive behavior to my absence would be to start seeing other men.”

“What - ," Mindy interrupted. “Ryan, is this a joke? What a ridiculous thing to say!" 

“Hear me out!,” roared Ryan. “This is the angriest I have been in a very long time. I’ve been so mad and hurt and humiliated that I haven’t even been able to confront you until now.  I had grown to really like you - actually, I loved you Mindy - and then I find out that you betrayed me. I couldn’t believe that it was true, but now I'm convinced.  I’m sorry to do this on February 13th, but I really think it is over between us.”

“Ryan - what are you talking about? Wait …” wailed Mindy, as the phone went dead.

~~*~~

The Words for Wednesday word prompts supplied this week on Elephant's Child were:

grease, ambivalent, fiendish, exquisite, terrific, evolution

AND/OR 

tongue, adaptive, angriest, furry, bold, zombie

Why do you think Ryan is so angry? 

What will Mindy do next?

A little information about Words for Wednesday:

Words for Wednesday was a meme originally created by Delores of Under the Porch Light. She used this weekly writing prompt to encourage others to write something creative. When she could no longer continue to host it, Elephant’s Child took over for a while and then organized volunteers to share the responsibility. 

This post may be linked to one of the great link-up parties I follow and list on my blog. Check them out!