Just when I begin to think I've tasted all that early morning has to offer I'm handed a new treat and told not to be so arrogant.

This morning it was copious showers. I had to smile thinking of the conversation I had recently had with my husband about this very subject. He had had an in-depth conversation about exactly what "copious showers" were with another friend of ours. Both are working to keep acres of grass sprigs alive and flourishing, and the best way to diminish the time they have to spend moving sprinklers about is to be blessed with copious showers.

The clouds are earthbound this morning, swirling about under my headlights like the remnants of dry ice. I do love fog. I have only had one experience in which it scared me--a fog literally so thick that you could not see and I was attempting to drive home over unfamiliar dirt roads; it was impossible to tell exactly where on the road you were and I was so petrified I would meet another vehicle head-on and I'd know it only by the sound of tearing metal. Not that I was moving that fast. It took me hours to get home that night.

But I digress. This morning's fog was gentle, curtaining off the rest of the world at a comfortable distance for driving. It made the street lights and traffic signals shimmer as if I my astigmatism were not being corrected. Every piece of light was made soft and gentle by air drenched with water.

When I walked out of the door of the house I noticed the grass shimmered with dewdrops. I didn't understand that the air was full of tiny bits of moisture until I stepped out into it and the water collected on my face as I walked to the garage. It was a fine mist, the kind you expect out of an atomizer. Yet it was there all the same, feeling more refreshing and awakening than the morning face-washing ritual. There was a faint swishing sound in the air, as if the rain was making some effort to be heard. It reminded me of the sound you hear if someone is twirling in a silent room. There is a soft sound that comes from simply moving through the air.

The moisture collected on my windshield more like beads of sweat than raindrops.

I find myself smiling, knowing the grass that is trying to root and grow is loving this morning even more than I.

There's a man in an elegant Italian double-breasted, well-tailored suit. It's charcoal gray, his shirt is winter-white silk and cuff links glitter at his wrists. His black tie has yellow smiley faces on it. His hair is uncombed and his shoes are in one hand, his socks in the other. He is skipping down the sidewalk with three young children, grinning bigger than any of the others, and panting from the exercise. Why? What's happening here?

Note: We used this prompt in workshop yesterday. The portion before the "--" was written during our workshop writing period. The rest was 10-minute practice for today.

Anton quickly slipped out the kitchen door unnoticed and turned to make his escape and ran right into a child who promptly fell backward and landed in a heap on the herringbone paving stones. Two more children exploded from around the corner of the house and stopped short, their faces a mixture of concern, dismay and downright fear. He imagined that his face looked much the same, only with a little irritation thrown in.

He knelt down beside the child, thankful to see the eyes slam shut as he did so. There was no blood anywhere, no swelling or bruising that he could see.

"Are you all right? It's okay, I'm not going to scream for your parents." It just so happened that he recognized all three of them, but only by sight, not by name. The fallen hero was the son of the chauffeur and his wife. The other two lived with their parents in the cottage at near the gate. Their parents were also long-term employees of the estate.

With that the boy opened his eyes wide. It was almost frightful. "Promise?"

"Promise. Hey, go easy there," Anton said as the boy began to scramble to his feet. "Let's test things out as we go, shall we? Make sure nothing is broken. Come on over you two. He's fine." Anton gestured to the two others who were still rooted in their tracks, one boy and one girl. Anton guessed that they were all around 10 or 11.

The other two approached cautiously. The boy was shaking out arms and legs. "All in working order. I'm sorry for running into you."

"Ditto. So who are the three of you and why are you lurking about the kitchen patio?"

"I'm Herman. This is Joseph and Pauline."

"Nice to meet you Herman, Joseph and Pauline. I'm Anton Brewer. And what about the rest?"

"The rest?" asked Herman.

"The rest of the question. Why are you here?"

The boys maintained a cautious silence, but Pauline piped up, "We wanted to see what it looked like in there. We wanted to see the ladies in their gowns and the gents in their tuxes. We had a bet--"

"That doesn't matter anymore," Herman cut in, scowling sideways at her. "I'm sorry we trespassed."

"No matter. And let me tell you, I was escaping from in there. Yes, it looks nice, but it is more boring than....than.... I can't think of anything more boring than that party. What I wouldn't give to be your age again and have some real fun."

--

He looked at their upturned faces and could tell they didn't believe a word he had said. "It's true!" he protested. "See this tie? What do you think of this tie?"

He held the point of the black tie out toward them and watched them all grin, just like the yellow smiley faces that polka dotted the black silk. "I think this is a cool tie, don't you?"

"Yeah, it's a cool tie," Herman said.

"Well can you believe that my father was upset with me for wearing this tie here tonight. I ask you," Anton tucked the tie back inside the suitcoat where it belonged and stood at attention, "does it detract from my overall appearance?"

"No, you look very handsome," Pauline replied.

"Well thank you. My dad said it made me look childish."

"Dads are like that," responded Joseph. "I think they go to work too much and forget how to play. My red sneakers go perfectly well with my church pants and they're clean, but never in a million years will I get to wear my red sneakers to church."

Anton rolled his eyes. "Don't get me started on shoes!" The kids all giggled and then a silence fell over all of them. Anton knew they were on the verge of taking their leave, but something inside him wanted their company a little while longer. "Do you really want to see what's going on in there?"

All three heads bobbed eagerly.

"Okay, here's the deal."

Well I'm behind on my count by 400+ words so guess what? I'm parking myself here at the page and letting the words flow until I reach what I wanted to reach and maybe something wonderful will happen. Maybe it won't. Either way I'll meet my goal.

It's been an odd month so far. At times it seemed easy. So far all my goals have been met--with word count and by MS submission (if I manage to churn out 400 tonight. LOL!) Taxes were in on time and done well, even got a good start on organizing stuff for next year--don't need that crunch headache anymore. Then I realize I have to quit resting on my laurels and think about all the things that I have yet to get done, the major being--you guessed it--Abe's transcript. Lordy. Between that and coordinating this Europe thing. I start to feel the crunch again.

Well we finally got weather today. I'm not as relieved as that sounds. It was a tense afternoon for OKC, but it moved East, up close to my parents's and sister's place. Then they kept rolling east and it dawned on me that I don't have a good fix on exactly where my newly married sister is in the state of OK. I know it's between my folks and Tulsa, but if I had to pinpoint it on the map, it would be a bit like playing pin the tail on the donkey. Just aim in the general direction and pray you hit it. So I watched the lines move east while I cooked supper (late) and worried and prayed that everything would be okay.

I guess a poor flock of ducks didn't fare so well. Report was they got stoned in the sky by hail. Not high stoned, either. Forty birds. Some places had baseball-sized hail. The news should be interesting to watch tonight.

I'm rambling and I feel badly about rambling. I wish I could put something meaningful and memorable on the page. I've come to the decision that I really need to be working on a project. These words would still be new words and fresh words but they would be aimed (when I felt like aiming them) and it would give me a place to dig in whenever I opened up my writing practice.

So what do I want to do? The first thing that come to mind is the Pinckney biography. I have to think of a way to make the story inspiring for girls. For smart girls. That here is an example of why it's okay to love being smart, to work at building a good mind. This young lady did incredible things, and I'm still learning about her. There has to be a way to make her appealing to someone who is looking for an identity.

So those would be non-fiction words but still creative. Creative non-fiction. I think I need to check out Jean Fritz again. I love the way she handles history for kids.

Saturday is the 24-hour short story contest. I'm hoping that this regular practice will make a difference this time around. I've been creating characters and settings and blah, blah, blah. I'm anxious to see if the blah, blah, blah makes any difference come Saturday.

Well, I'm going to see how many words this is before I chase away any reader I might have left.

572--you're safe!

Revisit the young lady from April 17th. She has a secret that none of her friends know about. What is it? Why doesn't she tell them? Make a list of possibilities.

Established:
She likes classical music.
She's smarter than they are.

Other possibilities:
Her friends bore her.
Her parents are terrorists.
She would love to live in the country.
She's in love with a nerd.
That she dances. She doesn't want to be pressured to join the pep squad or something in which she'd be asked to dance for any other reason than her love of it.
She takes lessons to be a pilot.
Her family lives in the wrong part of town (hard to hide!)
Her mother is schizophrenic.
Her father deserted the army.
She was found on church steps; her parents are not her biological parents. She's afraid if people found out she was "riding her parents' coattails" into society they'd shun her.
She loves purple, but that color is "out" now.
She'd rather live in the country and ride a horse Western style, than live in the city and trot a jumper.
She hates most of what she does to be accepted by the community. (She's not admitted this to herself yet, though)
Her teeth are false.
She has a heart defect.

I have a hard time with the terrible, terrible things we know could have happened to this girl. Like rape or incest or molestation. Bullying, extortion, blackmail....of all sorts and types could be going on while she is locked in a fear that keeps her silent and feeds her need to be accepted by her peers because she doesn't accept herself. Or she thinks she's less than everyone else but doesn't want to feel that way.

Then there are all those things that are important to teens that aren't really that important. They just seem huge at that age. She doesn't have a boyfriend, but even worse doesn't really want one. Or she has a boyfriend who is "right" socially but she is afraid of his temper. Or she has the boyfriend and really cares for him but he's abusing her.

She makes her own clothes. They are slick and stylish and show great talent, but they don't have the right "labels" so she cuts those labels out of clothes she doesn't wear and stitches them into the clothes she designs and then tells everyone that her parents know the designer and s/he gives them things she's made but doesn't like enough to sell to the public. I like this one. It's a bit different.

Because she doesn't like to dance in public she doesn't want to go to the prom.

That she wishes someone would hug her and tell her stories that would make her laugh and would take care of her instead of leaving her to fend for herself most of the time.

It's hard sometimes to know what else is going on in the average teen's life out there. My kids are home schooled and don't feel the pressure of wearing the "right" thing or dating too young or for recreation. Their peers are important but not the be-all and end-all of important opinions. There are at least three other opinions that weigh in before peer pressure (thank goodness). My teen is worrying about raising money to go to Europe and finishing his geometry course on time.

Prompt: Describe the weather. Use all your senses.

I had to laugh when I read this. I spent about 5 minutes in the parking lot at the grocery store doing just that. I had just finished shopping and the atmosphere was something that needed to be caught, but I think it escaped my pen. I love the new gray of pre-dawn, how it meets the street like a wall meets a baseboard painted a few shades darker. Here and there trees break the connection, but even they seem gray-green in the early morning light.

It's one of those Oklahoma days that make you wonder if your life is going to be completely shredded by the time night falls. And if not yours, whos? And if we manage to escape a swirling mass of clouds and rain and wind, we will all wake tomorrow counting our blessings. I've felt days like this before. Many times, actually. More often than not we just get an interesting demonstration of weather. But the times that stand out in the memory are when homes and lives were lifted and leveled and scattered. It makes one think. And it makes me put a finger on exactly where my one-of-a-kind, irreplacable manuscript information is and have it packed and ready to flee to safety with me. I pause to wonder why I have yet to put copies on media to store in the safe deposit box--and will I procrastinate doing that until it's too late. Always the writer.

There's a hush. The birds are unusually quiet. You have to understand that these critters have been singing loudly enough to be heard indoors with all the doors and windows closed. This morning there's silence. It feels like there has been a collective inhale, and everyone is holding their breath to watch and wait and listen to hear if the wind will tell us its secrets. It hisses through the trees and gives a flag or two a good snap--like a wet towel in a locker room--but there is no message there.

This wind has been trying to brew something for the past two days. Day before yesterday the gusts were close to 50 mph--wind advisories had to be posted. You could feel the gusts move your car on the road. Yesterday was better, but the wind still blew, and today it's back up again though not quite as brutal as Sunday. Still, hang up the comb and brush. Unless your hair is so short that it can't blow, it will no longer be combed once you step outside of the house. Any dress with a full skirt has been wisely shelved.

The breeze is heavy with moisture and coolish when it touches the skin, or at least it was before the sun was up to warm it. Clouds clustered at the horizon rim all around, the only clear sky directly overhead. That all changed quickly and continues flow and change like a river in flood. The wind won't let the clouds rest--they're pushed northward at speeds that allow little time for them to shape-shift. The cloud layer is thick at times, then thins and allows a brilliant burst of sunshine that lights up the green in the trees and grass like neon. Most of the spring blossoms have been blown away, and sometimes they float on the breeze in scent form as well as confetti.

All in all the day seems pressing, a contrast of spring delight and silent foreboding.

Prompt: Use as many of the words in the following list in your freewrite today as you can. Any form of the word will do. Read through them first in case you have to grab a dictionary before you start.

cellar, bite, snow, twilight, illusion, offering, raspberries, cream, tagged, barn, codswallop: codswallop (KODZ-wol-uhp) noun Nonsense. [Of unknown origin. According to a popular story, a fellow named Hiram Codd came up with the design of a soft-drink bottle with a marble in its neck to keep the fizz. Wallop was slang for beer and those who preferred alcohalic drinks dismissively referred to the soft-drink as Codd's Wallop. This story is unproven.]

I'm sitting in a haybarn watching a cow who will soon be giving birth to twin calves. Her ear is tagged, a yellow circle stamped with a number by which she is identified by everyone but me. I call her Snow. She is more white than any cow I've ever seen. (I've not seen many.) Just a few black flecks here and there. Like chocolate chips.

She keeps trying to bite the wood of the barn. I guess cow cravings are a bit different than human mother-to-be cravings. Still, I want to go down to the cellar and find her an apple, but don't you know the second I take my eyes off of her she'll go into throes of labor and die before I can call for help.

"Codswallop!" I hear my uncle mutter under his breath. He doesn't believe that this farm is out to get me. He can't understand that I've been living in a bad episode of The Twilight Zone since I arrived.

I had been so eager when my mother told me that I would finally get to visit her Swiss family for the summer. I had visions of Heidi, with her toasted bread and cheese, perhaps some raspberries and clotted cream for dessert because my mother would go on and on about the raspberries of her childhood. I could picture neat little cottages tucked in the sides of mountains, and narrow dirt trails that snaked down the sides to the valley where the town offered up all the necessities that one needed to survive in the hills.

Wow, were my illusions shattered. My goodness me. My mother drove away while the disappointment was still registering and I didn't have the wit to run after her. Turned out my aunt was bedfast and my uncle was grateful for the free slave labor. That is until slave labor started creating more work than she actually did. Mind you, this was not my intent. I really wanted them to like me. I'm not afraid of work and I love new experiences. Not to mention I had a month's worth of visit left and I really had no intention of completely wearing out my welcome in a matter of days. Yet it seemed everything I touched dissolved into disaster, and no amount of penance or peace offerings would make them believe that I wasn't a teenager hell-bent on destroying them out of spite. Spite for what I don't know.