Mixed Vegetable Soup

Our class leader, an English Professor at one of the colleges here in Philadelphia, suggested we do something a little different for our next assignment, which we all dubbed "Mixed Vegetable Soup." Each of us contributed just one word and the assignment was to create an essay using all of the words we contributed! The words were:

Jubilation, exemplify, confusion, love, duplication, pond, muzzled, goldfish

Now, for the task at hand, this is what I created:

 

Nothing causes as much jubilation as to see a lost child returned home, to the safety of his loving parents’ arms! I remember when I was a youngster that one of the kids from our school suddenly went missing one late spring day.  The deep-creased look of worry on their haggard faces exemplified the emotional pain his mother and father were feeling.  Adding to the confusion, the missing child had a history of just going off on his own,  and until that fateful day, no one ever doubted he would be back home before nightfall.

So, in a united spirit of love and compassion, friends and neighbors all banded together to help find the missing boy. This required the duplication of posters and fliers, which in almost no time at all seemed to almost miraculously pop up on every tree, telephone pole, and building in our little town. Even at the local butcher shop, Mr. Latimer’s usually hyper and cranky watch dog seemed on the alert, as if listening, and expecting to hear something. Not muzzled on that day, the dog was the least of everyone’s worries.

It was starting to get dark, and slowly, one by one, many parents had to return to their own homes to tend to their families. The police, however, enjoyed no such luxury – their hunt continued. Still no sign of the missing boy, everyone was getting more than a bit anxious. Then, Chief Daugherty slapped his forehead with his hand and in a loud, explosive voice said, ‘Oh my God! Why didn’t we think to search around Beacon Pond? C’mon..let’s go!” and away six of our burliest cops went with the chief to the community’s favorite swimming hole in Beacon  Park.

The warm spring night was fairly loud with the sound of peepers, little tree frogs. Squish, slap, squish went the policemen’s feet as they trod along the pond’s banks. They began calling out the boy’s name:  “Bobby! Bobby Smith – are you here?”  Nothing. No response other than the steady song of the tree frogs.

Suddenly, a small voice wove its way through the cacophony of frogs.

“It’s me…it’s Bobby. I’m here” the voice said. And there, on the far side of the pond sat little Bobby with a makeshift fishing pole lying by his side. It was clear that he had fallen asleep and was awakened by the men’s loud calling.

So happy to find him at last, the policemen all but fell over one another to get to Bobby, and when they reached him, they scooped him up in their arms. Bobby asked one thing, to please have his prized fishing pole. There, on the end of the safety pin hook dangled a little goldfish, quite obviously past his prime. But, hey….Chief Daugherty was so happy to have found Bobby that he promised to buy him a dozen goldfish!

Everyone trudged back to the police station, where Bobby’s folks were waiting with open arms. It was a really bad scare our town had that day, but it ended really well and as far as I know, Bobby had goldfish to call his own and take care of for quite some time, up until he left for college! 

(This story is pure fiction! It did not happen, I promise you!) 

Writers Group Assignment: Our Choice of Topic

When the Well Goes Dry

For those of us who love to write there comes a time for all of us when a curious phenomenon hits, called Writer's Block, or as I like to call it, 'When the Well Goes Dry.'  Right now, it feels as if my well is pretty much dried up.  For me, this is truly a highly unusual state because almost always I can find something that I would like to write about.  But, not right now.

I can't write about it much because it is still much too painful to even think about, but just last week we lost our beloved dog who was our faithful and loving companion for the past 14 years.  And that is the last sentence I'm going to write on that for this essay.  But the curious thing is that it seems my emotions have dried up as well, and for me I'm beginning to realize that once the emotions go so does any feeling to write.

On my very first plane trip, when I went to visit my parents in Florida for the first time, it was as natural as rain for me to grab my notebook and my pen and write down every little detail of my trip from the super-fast take off to the floating bubble-like landing.  The results of that essay were actually hilarious, and it kept my parents entertained for a while.  That is when my mother confessed that she had saved all of my writings from when I was a young child, which filled me with a sense of nostalgia and pleasure.  She ran to fetch the folder which she lovingly kept in her bureau drawer and when I opened it, it was as if I stepped back in time.  We enjoyed reading through it together.

When mom came to live with us for the last three years of her life, I kept a journal of her last several months.  That was the time when mom was terminally ill with cancer and was receiving hospice care, here in our home.  For some strange reason it gave me a lot of comfort after she passed to read what I had written about her final months.  It was almost as if she were still here with me, looking over my shoulder and silently reading along with me.

Then there was the time about 10 years ago when my husband and I went through a very rough patch in our marriage.  Needless to say, I grabbed my computer and kept a long, heart wrenching journal of the events as they transpired.  This, too, gave me a measure of comfort, or balance, both during our trial and for a period of time afterward.We were able to resolve our differences and to go on with our relationship, thank
God.

However, this time, it is as if someone flipped the switch on my heart and simply turned it off.  I do not feel my heartbeat, I feel no air coming into my lungs, and I have to concentrate to feel the warmth of the hot sun on my skin.  Food does not interest me, and indeed, I lost 12 pounds in just one week.  My grief was so all-consuming that it feels as if I am the ghost, the shadow of the being who was once here.  I next found it absolutely impossible to write on any topic because the one I want to write on the most, I cannot.  And so, this piece is on "when the well goes dry".  For me, it means that my bank account of emotions at at the moment is overdrawn, and there are no more emotions to be spent right now.

For now, my emotional account needs a chance to fill up with deposits again, and I know that it will.  But for the time being, I have to be content with writer's block.  I know, at least I hope, that in the whole scheme of my life this short-fall is only temporary, and as my life goes on, there will be many deposits made into my emotional account. All it takes is to live, and that, I intend to do.