Two Second Thrill

“Two-second Thrill”
 By
Bob Conder

 It had been a perfect Christmas day; 4” of fresh snow covered the ground, and the stillness of the air was comforting and peaceful. At eight years old, there was still some magic in the season.
 

After the usual clutter of opening and sharing, I had bathed and dressed, waiting for the big dinner, complete with turkey homemade rolls and aunts who kissed you on the forehead. They all came every year, nine aunts, their spouses and cousins, and younger kids who just wanted to go home and sleep or play with their new toys.

 

Santa always knew when I needed shoes, and this year he had come through again. Black dress shoes, not loafers or even wing-tips, these were Sunday's best shoes for church and other special occasions. I was proud of their shine and put them on that morning.

 Outside, I walked around the yard and examined the now melting icicles, which at times could be three feet long, hanging from the back of our home. I wandered over to the lot next to us, it had been a tomato farm, but in the spring, a new church was going up there. A wooden building had already been delivered and placed at the far end, a combination office and tool shed from what I could tell.

As I climb on top of the shed, I looked forward to the view of the neighborhood; you could see two or three streets away. Further then, I usually needed to go. I stood for a moment on the crest and observed my kingdom. Then I noticed the snow on the north slope. Fresh snow slightly melting and stark white in contrast to the dull green shingles.

 

 stepped with the new shoes into the snow and felt like I was shot out of a cannon as I flew forward. Somehow my feet were parallel, and my waving arms kept me upright. The roof ended before I could react, and then I was really flying. Arms still waving, I hit with a soft thump. All the tumbleweeds had gathered against the building and softened by the snow, held me safe. Some snow had fallen down my collar, but I didn’t notice.
 

When I got home, the aunts were just starting to arrive, and I smiled as they kissed me, glad to be able to walk after my two-second thrill.

Bobbled Necklace

Bobbled Necklace
By
Bob Conder

Jewels stood silent and still, staring at the dresser with the bobbled necklace Nana would wear. The moments, old memories now that will never be replaced with anything new, floated through her mind. The sun was setting, casting long shadows that crawled across the room were almost gone before she even moved.

No one ever mentioned Nana as Jewels was growing up. It had been a happy childhood, she thought, until the divorce. One day her Father slammed the door behind him as he left, then just drove off, that was the last image she would ever have of him. The next day her mother packed a few things, loaded the car with snacks and Jamison, her four year old brother, and they drove across the country.

The sun was low in the sky when they arrived. Nana had been standing in the doorway as they drove up. A woman who’s heart was almost bigger than her smile greeted them.

The bills were big and Momma had worked two or more jobs as Jewels and Jamison grew up. Nana was the sitter, taxi driver, homework helper, and confident in matters of young love. She filled Jewels life with meaning and gave her goals, helped and encouraged her. Nana even stood and cheered as Jewels graduated from every school grade.

The nursing program was tough, but long hours of studying mixed with a Spartan life style and Jewels had made it. Only one research project left to complete. She had been in the lab for what seemed days when she got the call.

Candles had been lit, prayers and songs sung, complimentary comments from unknown friends, and the passing was over. The only physical thing left of Nana was the bobbled necklace now laying out on the dresser waiting to be worn, waiting to make a statement, waiting to share a good time.

 “It’s not fair.” Jewels whispered as a tear landed on the pearls.

Trust

Trust

     Today as I once again maneuvered through a road construction detour, I slowly drove in an old neighborhood. The homes well cared for, trees tall and majestic, even the last dying flowers of fall stood comfortable in their surroundings. Then I noticed something as I pasted the elementary school that gave me pause and caused me to reflect.
     I believe we are born with certain instincts. Traits inherited from our parents, or from our eternities before. Some people love without hesitation, some understand beyond their years, some fear spiders and snakes. Yet we all have varying degrees of so many things. One is trust.
     Trust seems to begin at birth as a new mother suckles her son and trusts he will be strong and courageous in life. Parents trust as the child struggles to stand and falls again and again, ofttimes gaining badges of bruises, scraps, and cuts, nevertheless each time getting back up again. 
     Going to school we trust those to whom our children’s future is entrusted. We trust the education will be of life not just sentence structure. We trust they will have a broken heart and break a few along the way.
     We trust the future spouse they bring home, will love them forever. One trusts they will understand the marriage commitments, and honor those covenants. We trust they will be good parents, and we will love the grandchildren no matter what. 
     As I drove past the school today, I was reminded of these things because a hundred bikes were parked in the stalls, on the grass, and on the sidewalk. None of them had locks, because each owner had faith in his classmates and trust in society, that at the end of the school day, their bikes would still be there to take them home.

Experience

Today I had a conversation with a good friend; we were discussing life and how individuals will pray for inspiration, looking for answers to what they should do. I am convinced we can and do receive spiritual promptings from whatever spiritual guidance one believes in. The question is, when we seek guidance and we do what we think is inspired, how come our experience is not always what we thought it would be?

I think the answer is in the question. If we follow our spiritual promptings as closely as possible, they are always the way things are supposed to be. It is not our desire that drives our lives but our Father's desires for us. Sometimes I think it is not the specific circumstances we are to do but the experience of what we do and the results or repercussions that he desires for us.

  Sarah’s Home
By
Bob Conder

     Some people swore that the house was haunted. The years of neglect and the occasional vandalous abuse by scared children or bored adults, would help give the impression of evil or at the least a haven for those who do evil deeds. Broken windows, overgrown shrubbery, dying fruit trees, and a high-backed weathered rocking chair strangely placed upon the porch waiting to give comfort and ease to someone, all added to the dark mood.
  
     Sarah, a long slender figure dressed in a heavy coat to fight the chill, stood admiring the finely scalped wood trim that separated the falling eves and the rippled shingles. A few nails, some paint, and flowered, yes flowered curtains could give life to this house of shattered souls.
  
       Although her own past had dark times she regretted, to many could’ve, woulda, should'ves, a sordid past with moments that could have added to this sorrowed landscape. Perhaps, just maybe, this single house could help her heal and give the world something positive to judge her by. But why was she worrying about them again. Her past loomed on her shoulders and perhaps added to the roundness they now had. As a young girl she would watch as her older brother, Benjamin and his friends, would torture and kill birds, cats, and any other small animals they could get their hands on. What was it she saw in their eyes, their acts, and their hearts, which she found so intriguing?
  
     Tulips, daisies, and roses, that’s what this yard needs. If there is any life left in the fruit trees they would add beauty in the spring with their colorful blossoms and sweet fragrance, and preserves in the fall to tantalize the taste buds.
  
     Sarah now stood on the porch admiring the doorknob, a tarnished finely detailed brass lever probably handmade by an old artisan. She gently took hold of the knob and easily turned it, the door swung open with the expected creeks and groans. The oak wood floor looked solid, the large rag-tied carpet dim with dust, and the furniture unmoved for years looked somehow new compared to the outer appearance.
    
    In the kitchen plates, silverware, and blue tumblers were on the table, as though waiting for the family to sit and enjoy mother’s Sunday roast. Even napkins were folded and carefully placed with the silverware. The smell of a thanksgiving feast with fresh potato rolls, would be a pleasant addition, and fresh flowers oh lots of fresh flowers to color the scene.
  
     Sarah had longed for a home she could call her own, a place to care for, to clean and beautify. A home with a strong family, lots of children, and friends, yes friends to sit on the porch and drink tea with. Friends with hobbies they loved and husbands to gossip about.
  
     It would be dark soon, and with no electricity or even a  flashlight, the house would be scary once again. Funny she thought how darkness means danger. Undaunted, Sarah found the stairs and surveyed the bedrooms finding her new bathroom with rose flowered wallpaper. What a wonderful place!
  
     The sound of a dog and the laughter from mischievous boys awoke Sarah from her thoughts. She stood in the shadows of the upstairs window watching as they approached. Sarah remembered the pain evil deeds leave behind. It will stop now.
 
      As the boys approached the house, rocks, slingshots and destruction in hand, Sarah ran down the stairs across the dusty rugs and creaking floors, finding the door still open she rushed into the yard to face the evil doers.
 
      Some say the screams could be heard all the way to Tower Street a full mile away. Others heard the laughter of Sarah as she watched the boys run, scared to death by the tall ghost with a flowing coat, coming out of the house, boys tripping over each other trying to save themselves, trying to find the gate first and escape the certain agonizing death.
  
     With paint, nails, and time, Sarah changed the house into a home, found a husband and started a family. Friends, lots of friends came drinking tea and gossiped as she sat in the high-backed rocker. Her good deeds erased the past, and three scared boys earned money mowing lawns, trimming trees, and planting her tulips.

    Sarah had been a stranger when she came to our town, she taught us all how to be a loving neighbor, to find the light in the darkness. Thanks to her kindness and the beauty it brings we transformed all the homes in our town, one house at a time. Nothing was ever the same again after that.

THE END

Time for Watching

Time for Watching
By
Bob Conder

Approaching the house brought back a flood of memories I didn’t expect. But then again what in life is expected?

    
     The Professor had been a sort of mentor to me. I loved going to his home and listening as he spoke, to no one in particular, about whatever it was he was working on. His writings were world renowned I had heard. Nevertheless in his office as he wrote and researched, and wrote some more, there was no other world.

     I don’t even remember how I met the Professor, I just remember being there from a very young age. It wasn’t until years later I realized he was watching me. Not like he would watch a research project trying to find the hidden secret, or even a baby sitter so mom could work. He watched me as I watched him work. Kind of a mutual watching society I guess.

     The Professor had a strange sense of humor he only knew two jokes and told those at the most inappropriate times. One was about a girl, a horse, and bag of tricks. Either I was to young or uneducated about it’s content, but I never understood it. For the other joke he would look around as though he was going to reveal the secrets of the universe, lean in close, and ask, “What do you get when you cross an elephant and a rhino?” With the anticipation of a four year old at Christmas time, he would wait for your reply. I would just shake my head and say, “I don’t know.” With a slight giggle he would answer, “Elephino, get it? Hell if I know?”  to which I would politely laugh.

     After a time he began to ask me to help research a subject and I would spend hours turning the pages, looking for clues, or information, or sometimes just names of bugs, plants, spiders, anything to make his green house better. I’m pretty sure my research was not about finding the answers or asking the questions. It was about our relationship.

     When high school came, along I spent less and less time with the Professor, not for any specific reason, I just found girls and sports and musicals and cars and other things to interest me. Yet every time I went into the library, I wondered what he was doing that day.

     As college came and quickly went, I seldom went home. Oh the holidays were good, but even they soon became a bother, then graduation, advanced degrees, marriage. All the things, which in reality are the thieves, we give our life to, the things that take us to where we should be and move us from where we had fun.

     Today was one of those days, when we are moved to where we should be, out of respect and love, from where we want to have fun. But today they are the same place.

     I stood a moment longer, reflecting on my life and the moments we spent together here at this very home, divided between the library and the green house. Time where I watched things grow and bloom, and fought the adversaries of bugs and spiders. Where he watched me grow and find answers.
After everyone left, I walked into the now disheveled green house and wept.  

THE END

Who's who?

So, I recently went to a high school graduation and enjoyed the speeches about remembering who we are, and we have our future before us. Great motivating moments for all who attended and perhaps listened.  As we exited the building I noticed a reoccurring theme… who am I. By this, I mean there were mothers who had come to see a child graduate, or aunts and sisters with presents and flowers. Nevertheless, they dressed alike. Not like everyone had the same outfits, but you could see generations, mothers and daughters wearing very similar outfits.

There was one mother/daughter with strapless sundresses, the same cut, the Levis and western shirt duo, even matching jackets could be found.

The question that vexed my mind was who was dressing like whom? Was the daughter mimicking the mother, or the mother mimicking the daughter?

I will never know the answer but it was a never world of creatures imitating creatures.

Technology chain

There will be more to this later, but let me just say how interesting it is to be chained to technology. In the last month, my computer of several years received a virus and was in the shop for 10 days to fix it. Then another virus, even after installing an antivirus program, comes back to the shop, and two days later, it is returned. First time I used it …. Another virus! Will it never stop!!


Therefore, I finally succumbed to the technological demons that have entered my world. I now have a new laptop with some of the old programs I love and use regularly and some newer ones I am trying to master. I am staying up late, getting behind in my classwork, and not answering emails which I am sure is frustrating some people.

The adventure of life continues!!!  

Procrastination

Procrastination: postpone doing something, especially as a regular practice.

I have concluded that some confusion has arisen out of this word. To many it does mean to delay or put something off. Yet to others it is waiting for the muse. A great book by Karl Iglesias “101 Habits of Highly Successful Writers” has a section, which describes the writing practices of these great writers. I must be one of them, as I turn on the computer, get some food, check emails, play a card game, and then wonder why I’m not writing.


So here is the deal from this day forth I will write a few minutes on my latest project before I answer or even attempt to look at emails or any other functions of the computer!!! If one could only understand how hard that is to write. OK I can do this, how about you?

Gratitude

There is a circle in life that can change one’s life. It is a combination of emotion and a sincere activity, an activity, which no one sees, but one that everyone can observe. It is gratitude. A simple thing really, just the appreciation of the acts of others, those who smile or say hello and make your day better. An appreciation for those we interact with in our daily lives by business or personal situations. Gratitude is the act of being grateful for the things others provide for us that we cannot provide for ourselves.


An ungrateful heart may become cold and removed or closed off from the joy of this world. The ungrateful mind tries to justify its actions thereby not acknowledging the sacrifices of others. An attitude of I deserve this, they owe it to me, I am special above others develops. These are empty pots with hollow, selfish, thoughts that will fail leaving the person with more emptiness and less happiness.

Gratitude starts with the quiet acknowledgment we are unable to go through life alone, without others, an appreciation develops for those with whom we live, those who may provide food, shelter, financial or emotional support. Family, then friends, who without reward give of themselves for our benefit, and help us, navigate through troubled waters as they arise.

Gratitude for our Savior whose love and blessings sustain us, blessings he freely gives as we obey his simple requests. This builds our faith. Faith builds humility and both help build a desire to do good. A desire, which in turns develops gratitude and the circle, goes on.

Whatever we desire of life we can achieve if we but start with gratitude.


28 May 2011
Bob Conder

Why are people mean?

In the last few days I have had many encounters with mean people. Like any good antaganist I know; they think they are right, and have a mind closed by the conviction they are absolutely correct. Is it power and greed? These two emotions fuel all wars, all repression, and all bad people.


I pray I may always have a good heart, open mind, and treat others with respect, whether I agree with them or not.

On a lighter note I hope I have enough students to start my next screenwriting class. Sign up today!!
http://www.utahfilmschool.com/id19.html

Response to Merilee starting a post

Therefore, with courage and abandonment, she sallied forth into the world of prose, fearing nothing, save the cat under her bed. A middle-aged mind sharp as a tack, fingers flying across the keyboard, crossing the references and finding the folly, scoffing at the insidious idea that nothing is related, and giving freely of her knowledge to the students at her feet who had come by hoof and foot, by sail and internet trail, to learn of timeless tales, forgotten words, and iconic phrases with meanings ever hidden.


Tell us oh great one expound we implore, the chanting crowd begs, “Give us more!”

I'm back

So my computer had a bug and I lost a lot of information including this blog. But alas poor Yurik, we have returned and will try to be more prudent in contributing to the world of words.

In my return I found a response to my good friend Merilee as started her wonderful blog

http://ijustfinditinteresting.blogspot.com/

I responded with the following;

Therefore, with courage and abandonment, she sallied forth into the world of prose, fearing nothing, save the cat under her bed. A middle-aged mind sharp as a tack, fingers flying across the keyboard, crossing the references and finding the folly, scoffing at the insidious idea that nothing is related, and giving freely of her knowledge to the students at her feet who had come by hoof and foot, by sail and internet, to learn of timeless tells, forgotten words, and iconic phrases with meanings ever hidden.

Tell us oh great one expound we implore, the chanting crowd begs, “Give us more!”

Just a fun way to say way to go Merilee.