Archive for the ‘ Fiction ’ Category

Long ago in a land far away, there was a happy band of people.  They loved their land, loved the people they served, and toiled each day at a task that made them feel worthwhile and joyful.

They were masters of accommodation; being all things to all people.

These masters of accommodation knew the land and its people like no other; its hills, its valleys, the caves in which to hide, and the open fields where they could soak the sun’s rays.

They were helpful, hopeful, hop-to-its who never failed, always came through, gave much and demanded little.  They were teachers, fortune tellers, mentors, and nurse-maids; they could work miracles, find the lost, feed the hungry, and fix the misfortunes of the failed.

And the people loved them.

And the land was happy.

Then, there came an evil princess.

Evil Princess

She was jealous of theses masters of accommodation.

Mandating a meeting of her minions, the princess declared, “Something must be done.  These masters of accommodation have too much fun, too much joy, too much power.  They do to much for others. They must be stopped.”

So into the land the minions flew, questions were asked, meetings were held, brainstorming boomed.

“What do they do that the people love them so?”, asked the foolish followers of the evil princess. “How can they make the people so happy; how did this happen, this power, this joy?”

Shaking with fear, the weak ones cried, “Oh, it is not so, it cannot be, they aren’t so grand, they aren’t so brave, they don’t help me.  I can do this and I can do that, I find my way each and every day.”

Loving the lies and lapping UP the lore, no one asked those who knew more.  The masters of accommodation were completely ignored, knew nothing, were blind, and went on being kind.

So off to the castle the minions flew, armed with the lies of a chosen few.  The princess was pleased with the news that they brought, and felt joy in the fact that her efforts would not be for naught.

Sessions were held, the coven was called, the young and the old the short and the bald gladly gave UP the lay of the land, and all was to go according to plan.

Back in the land all was well, the rumors appeared, and then began to swell.  The masters of accommodation huddled in fear, knowing the end of their joy was near.

And on a day least expected the hammer did fall; no mail, no message, no call, no hint – no, nothing at all.

A flurry, a fluster, flashing and fighting; what goes, what stays, who helps, who hides?

There were some who cried, “Why is this so?”, they knew it was done, and some things must go.

As darkness crept in on that warm summer eve, the landscape was ravaged, the air not so fresh, the masters of accommodation were wounded in the flesh.

Back in her palace the princess was pleased, she’d stopped these masters, and that was her need. She cackled and crowed, the minions cowered at her screed!

But, hope springs eternal in the land far and wide, they are waiting, and watching, some continue to hide.   The cries of displeasure are heard day to day, but really the people know not what to say.

Yes, hope springs eternal in the land far and wide.  Princesses come and go, workers roll with the tide. The masters of accommodation, though battered and bruised, are helping and hoping and hopping as they usually do.

Kronos

I’ve always enjoyed Greek Mythology.  I don’t know why, it’s a bunch of hooey, totally un-true, and patently Pagan…but I find it interesting.

For some reason, again, I don’t know why, Kronos – one of the Titans – has been on my mind.

Kronos was the son of Uranus and Gaia…ok, that just makes me laugh!

He overthrew his father and ruled the Greek Pantheon with and iron fist until he, himself was overthrown by his children.

He is often shown with horns, and the Rev. Alexander Hislop has asserted in his book, The Two Babylons that he is “the horned one”, i.e The Devil. But, Kronos  is usually shown, much like Father Time,  holding a sickle, the very weapon he used to castrate and dispatch his father Uranus, all at the behest of Gaia, his mother.

And you think your family is dysfunctional!

You may be more familiar with his children:  Zeus, Hera, Poseidon, Hades, Hestia, Demeter, and Chiron.  Then again, maybe you’re not. 

But, Kronos, or Cronos as some spell it was a Titan, actually he was the ruler of the Titans.  The Titans were known as the Elder Gods and ruled the earth before the Olympians overthrew them. 

This little revolution came about when Zeus, Kronos’ son deposed his father, just as Kronos had done.

Now, all this was prophesied to Kronos, and to avoid the unpleasant fate he inflicted UPon his father, he devoured his children when they were born.

Kronos devouring his son, Poseidon by Rubens.

Except for Zeus.  Apparently, Rhea a.ka. Mrs. Kronos, had quite enough of his “post-partum ingestion”, and replaced Zeus with a rock wrapped in a blanket, which Kronos promptly scarffed down. 

Zeus was sent to an all boys school in Greece, Zeus being the only student, and was raised by a goat…and yes, I know it should be reared by a goat, but that just sounds too nasty! 

The goat, Amalthea, taught Zeus the ways of the worlds along with his Alphas, Betas and Gammas.  To keep Big Papa K from hearing the cries of the baby Zeus, a  company of Kouretes, or armored male dancers, (you’re killin’ me here) shouted and clapped their hands to make noise.

Broadway Bound

This just gets better and better!

Once Zeus grew UP, he was given a poison potion by his Grandma Gaia, who was apparently a Whiz in the Kitchen.  The Potion would “engorge” the contents of his father’s stomach in reverse order…and viola!  Zeus had brothers and sisters again.  And they along with many of the other Titans fought to rid the universe of Kronos. 

This sounds like a good thing.

Sadly, not all the Titans were on the winning side, and they were banished to Tartarus, the Greek version of the underworld, which they obviously deserved.

This story just screams “Lifetime Movie”, doesn’t it?

Running.

Today’s post is a little different.  It was inspired by two people, The Urban Cowboy, who writes beautiflul posts often that make me think, jealous, and want to write more.  Debbie  a friend and collegue at school, who is a runner and has recently won several events in her “age” class, also inspired me.  She’s an amazing woman, and this is her story as told to and interpreted by me.  A little bit fiction, a little bit fact!

Run, jump, run!

 

I always knew I was fast.  Everyday each summer in Sandersville, Georgia, Mother would wake the five of us and have breakfast on the table.  My brothers were usually slow to get to the there, but I had places to go, things to find, and Grandma a mile up the dirt road.  The morning sun was already beating on the red Georgia clay when I darted out the door.  Grandma never came to see us.  I went to her.  No, I ran to her.  

Like I said, I knew I was fast.  Faster than any other girl in the sleepy, nearly dead village we called a town.  And faster than all the boys my age.  Faster than some who were older.  I eventually became faster than my brothers.  Mother said it wasn’t lady like.  That Lady like thing was very important to her and the rest of the women in Sandersville.  Ladylike behavior didn’t include much of what I wanted to do.  Climb, play, fish, fight, and run.  I had to run. 

I ran to Grandma’s up the road.  It was the quickest mile of the day.  I ran home too, Mother was always calling up there on the party line to let Grandma know it was time for me to come home.  I ran to Grandma’s, I ran home, I ran everywhere.  There was no reason to walk.  Things waited for me. I had to be somewhere, usually somewhere else.  I was running, and I didn’t know why.

We rode the bus to school.  I would have run there too, but Mama wouldn’t let me.  Too far, too much danger, too many unknowns.  Mama worried.  My brothers, all four of them , had girls to talk to on the bus and at school. They had a reason to ride.  I had a reason to run.  I ran off the bus, ran into the school, ran into class.  I hated sitting still.  I wanted to run. 

But, it was summer, and there was no school.  No bus, no girls for the brothers to talk to.  There was Grandma.  I ran to her every day.  She would always greet me with a smile and a scolding.  

“Slow down.”  She’d say in her sweet, South Georgia drawl. 

“Where’s the fire?” “What’s the rush?”  “It’s just me here.” 

And she was enough.  Grandma was what I would later realize was typical.  Typical southern, typical woman born in the early part of the 20th Century.  Typical depression era girl who never wasted anything and never found a reason to throw something out if it could be used again.  Her kitchen curtains were once bed sheets, her throw pillows old shirts and dresses she had worn until she couldn’t stand them any more.  But she couldn’t throw them out.  

She was typical in that she always said, “Ladies don’t run.”  

I wanted to run, and I wasn’t interested in being a lady.

Through high school and college, Grandma never missed a track meet.  She hated the bleachers, hated the sun, hated the hot Georgia Springtime heat, but she never missed a chance to see me run.  Secretly, I think she approved.  She was proud of me, but she wished in her heart that I would do things that were more ladylike.  I really hated that term.  And Grandma loved me even if I wasn’t ladylike.  I knew that.

I ran to her house every day.  Mama would yell, “Get in here” as soon as I got off the bus, but I ran to Grandma’s first. 

One spring day as I came home from college, Mama didn’t yell.  She was waiting on me.  

“Grandma’s gone.”  She said, and I knew what she meant. 

I never ran to Grandma’s again, but I had a new reason to run.  I knew she was still watching.