The towel was placed with great precision. Angled absolutely appropriately to be facing the exact rays of the sun. A nice even tan with no shadowing high on the list of necessities.
The hair was exquisitely sculpted. The perfect flip, with the perfect bangs, adorned with the perfect white soft headband. The sunglasses were the latest style. The frames you would probably recognize walking down Rodeo Dr. in California.
The bathing suite was two-piece. Not a bikini. That would not have been acceptable for that time period. No, it was two piece. Brown dotted swiss with a white ruffle around the hips, and also white ruffles over both shoulders. My big sister, 16-years-old, lounged on the beach with one leg extended, the other curved to a slight angle. Not a speck of sand on her. I always wondered how she made it to the chosen spot on the beach, spread out her towel, and got positioned without a speck of sand on her. She's pretty anyway, and this day she looked beautiful and adorable. She could have been a vision in one of the famous beach movies ... like "Beach Blanket Bingo."
Now, picture the little sister. Thirteen years old, hair slung back in a pony tail. Trudging down to the beach with a beach bag, towel, and one of her favorite possessions ... the family poodle, Fi Fi. This would be the first time Fi Fi had been on a vacation with the family. It took some convincing the parents to agree to let the dog travel with us. But in reality, I don't think they looked forward to leaving her behind either. Fi Fi was quite energetic. If there was a wrong way to do something, she would seek it out and go for it with great enthusiasm. She shredded phone books one day, while home alone, into such small pieces that it would have put an electric shredder to shame. Standing almost an inch deep in her paper creation, with pieces of paper hanging off her ears and mouth, made her look quite guilty. So cute, all you could do was laugh.
The little sister and Fi Fi continued on to the beach. Found a spot right next to the big sister, and flopped down for an afternoon of fun and sun. The little sister, anxious to show Fi Fi all about the ocean and beach said, "Look Fi Fi. See the sand." Taking one of her hands and the tips of her fingers, she made a small digging motion in the sand.
Cocking her head a bit, pricking her ears, wagging her tail, Fi Fi discovered the magic of the sand. Slowly at first, but then with great exuberance, the digging began. I think she could have made it to China if left to the task. The sand flew. It kicked to the sides some, but the biggest majority kicked to the back of her. And where do you think it all came to rest? You're right! All over the big sister, so strategically placed, looking so adorable. Oops!
At that point, my memory recalls, that it may have been time for a shower.
This is in response to a challenge by The Red Dress Club to write about sand.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
Negatives Turned Into Positives
I have become quite adept at being able to ignore negative comments that get slung in my direction. I would wager that all of us have been exposed to this kind of emotional and verbal bullying at some point in our lives. You know. The comments that are designed to state a negative, designed to tell us something that we do is not right, not important, designed to hurt our feelings? Instead of being able to actually speak with us regarding a topic, some folks use backhanded comments to say hurtful things. Furthermore, sometimes words are not even needed. Have you ever been laughed at, supposedly slyly, amongst others in the room? Haven't you had someone just totally ignore your presence, make no comment about something you've made, or even acknowledge something you have accomplished?
I remember once sharing the excitement and news of a promotion. The response I received was, "Well don't be too excited. Most of the time they're only looking for someone to dump on." Did I remember? Of course, I did. This particular comment was 21 years ago. I still remember the exact intersection where we were sitting, where we were going, and who was in the car. I still remember it word for word. Other times I have shared what is going on in my life, and I have tried to engage conversation regarding an upcoming fun event. The response ... total silence! I've often wanted to say, "Oh my goodness, have you gone mute?"
I could cite so many of these happenings. However what purpose would it serve? Often, once I leave the environment, I am absolutely worn out by trying to diffuse the comments that come at me like a laser gun. Zing, gotcha again!! But since this has happened to me repeatedly over the years, I have come to realize, and sincerely believe, that the goal is to be hurtful. So, I have decided and chosen not to allow that satisfaction. I refuse to let someone else steal my joy.
I have learned to take the comment, repeat it back, and then add a positive remark to the end of it. I am a firm believer that most, if not all, negatives can be turned into positives.
Do I still get injured by these types of comments? Of course, I do. I'm a human being, and a sensitive one at that. I have shed many tears and have grieved over many hurt feelings, when all I've ever wanted is to be included in a life. The lesson I have learned, though, is that I cannot control other folks comments ... but I can certainly control my emotional reaction to them. I think I do it fairly well, all things considered.
This is written in response to a challenge by The Red Dress Club. Our assignment was to write about something we do well. This is my attempt .. the word attempt being the keyword here.
I remember once sharing the excitement and news of a promotion. The response I received was, "Well don't be too excited. Most of the time they're only looking for someone to dump on." Did I remember? Of course, I did. This particular comment was 21 years ago. I still remember the exact intersection where we were sitting, where we were going, and who was in the car. I still remember it word for word. Other times I have shared what is going on in my life, and I have tried to engage conversation regarding an upcoming fun event. The response ... total silence! I've often wanted to say, "Oh my goodness, have you gone mute?"
I could cite so many of these happenings. However what purpose would it serve? Often, once I leave the environment, I am absolutely worn out by trying to diffuse the comments that come at me like a laser gun. Zing, gotcha again!! But since this has happened to me repeatedly over the years, I have come to realize, and sincerely believe, that the goal is to be hurtful. So, I have decided and chosen not to allow that satisfaction. I refuse to let someone else steal my joy.
I have learned to take the comment, repeat it back, and then add a positive remark to the end of it. I am a firm believer that most, if not all, negatives can be turned into positives.
Do I still get injured by these types of comments? Of course, I do. I'm a human being, and a sensitive one at that. I have shed many tears and have grieved over many hurt feelings, when all I've ever wanted is to be included in a life. The lesson I have learned, though, is that I cannot control other folks comments ... but I can certainly control my emotional reaction to them. I think I do it fairly well, all things considered.
This is written in response to a challenge by The Red Dress Club. Our assignment was to write about something we do well. This is my attempt .. the word attempt being the keyword here.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Lady Ruth Fi-Fi Center
OK, so I don't end up in therapy, I am admitting now, very forthcoming, that I will be a royal wedding watcher. Yes, I will be setting my alarm at 4:00 a.m. That hasn't happened since the last time I jetted off to a tropical isle, which would have been ... NEVER! I want to watch it all "live" I just don't think I could be happy with re-runs, which I am sure will infiltrate all the news mediums for the next several weeks. No, I want to watch it live!
If we were all truthful to ourselves, I'm sure everyone of my gender, will admit that we, at some point in our lives, have dreamed of riding off into the sunset with our beautiful prince. It may have been the gangly boy with braces and pimples in the 9th grade, our first adult love in college, or the pot-bellied mate we may currently have in our lives. I know I had one prince in my lifetime, and I let him slip through my fingers. If I had only been as smart 30 years ago, as I think I am today.
So here comes our opportunity to watch this lovely lady transform into a princess. I know it's a cliche, but it truly is a modern day fairy tale. For this brief period of time, we get to travel through our fairy tales that we only envisioned as a child.
Surely you have heard of the mechanism for determining your Royal Wedding Guest Name. First you put Lord or Lady in front, then you add the first name of a grandparent, then you add the name of your first pet, then you add the name of the street where you grew up.
Well, I must bug off! It's time to set the alarm. I think I will make some scones, have a spot of tea, and of course, will adorn myself with my finest hat. Lady Ruth Fi-Fi Center is about to arrive at the event of the decade!
If we were all truthful to ourselves, I'm sure everyone of my gender, will admit that we, at some point in our lives, have dreamed of riding off into the sunset with our beautiful prince. It may have been the gangly boy with braces and pimples in the 9th grade, our first adult love in college, or the pot-bellied mate we may currently have in our lives. I know I had one prince in my lifetime, and I let him slip through my fingers. If I had only been as smart 30 years ago, as I think I am today.
So here comes our opportunity to watch this lovely lady transform into a princess. I know it's a cliche, but it truly is a modern day fairy tale. For this brief period of time, we get to travel through our fairy tales that we only envisioned as a child.
Surely you have heard of the mechanism for determining your Royal Wedding Guest Name. First you put Lord or Lady in front, then you add the first name of a grandparent, then you add the name of your first pet, then you add the name of the street where you grew up.
Well, I must bug off! It's time to set the alarm. I think I will make some scones, have a spot of tea, and of course, will adorn myself with my finest hat. Lady Ruth Fi-Fi Center is about to arrive at the event of the decade!
Sunday, April 24, 2011
The Search Itself ...
Three days after Easter, Wednesday, March 30, 2005 my Mother died very unexpectedly. In my blessed numbness I went through all the motions. I personally went to her best friend's house to tell her the news. I just couldn't do it over the phone. I went to the church to meet with our priest and nun to coordinate her sacred Mass of Burial. I went to her house to pick out what I thought she would want to wear, choosing her teal dress which I had picked out for her for Easter. But then the weather had turned cold, and she was unable to wear it. I knew it to be her favorite color, but when I took it out of the closet, I realized it hadn't been hemmed yet. I guess she had put it off, since she knew it was going to be too cold to wear it. I could hear her saying to me, "Oh, honey that dress is too long." But, then I knew from prior experience, upon the death of my father, that the undertaker does not want you to bring shoes. So I said out loud to Mother, "I know it is too long, but you always freeze to death. Maybe it will keep your feet warm." I hope it did. Then I went to the funeral home to pick out everything else. When I asked the undertaker if he thought the casket I had chosen was too masculine, he said, "Well, let's just lay the dress in here and see what you think." This was really weird to me, and my best friend who was with me, walked up about that time, and the look on her face was just priceless. I said, "Mary, does this look all right to you?" "Yes, I think it is fine."
The following day was her funeral home visitation. I awoke that morning feeling quite ill. Thinking it was nerves, grief, shock, whatever, I tried to go about the day. We were to be at the funeral home at 2:00 p.m. By noon I was flat on my back, so ill I wasn't able to even stand. I guess I had caught the same virus that had hit my Mother so hard just two days before. I somehow managed to dress and get to the funeral home. The first person to visit was my dance instructor for many, many years during my childhood. This was so appropriate, because other than my parents, she had more influence on me than anyone during my formative years. After she left the funeral home, I continued to get sicker and sicker. I ended up being able to stay for only about one-half hour, and then I had to be taken to the Emergency Room. I spent the rest of my Mother's funeral home visitation in the hospital.
Who misses their Mother's visitation? It's not something that you can say, "Oh, I understand now. Next time I'll know to do ..." There is no next time. There is no re-do. I missed the hugs. I missed the commemorative stories shared by so many. I missed the support of just being in the presence of the people who thought enough about my Mother, our family, to come to pay their respects.
It's now been six years since this happened. I'm still not sure what the lesson is to all this.
I do know that I have always known I have wonderful friends. But their love during this was a beautiful affirmation of their importance and blessing in my life.
I do know that, even though I missed the hugs during the visitation, that the cards that came to my home almost daily for three months recreated my Mother's life for me. The memories shared with me with the handwritten notes within these cards were a lovely testament of her life on this earth.
I do know that the grief counselor at my church has now become a lifelong friend of mine.
I do know that the spiritual journey, spiritual search I have been on since this fateful day, has been one of confusion, learning, and awakening.
Sometimes the blessing is in the search itself.
This week The Red Dress Club wanted us to recall something in our life that seemed terrible at the time, but looking back, brought something wonderful.
The following day was her funeral home visitation. I awoke that morning feeling quite ill. Thinking it was nerves, grief, shock, whatever, I tried to go about the day. We were to be at the funeral home at 2:00 p.m. By noon I was flat on my back, so ill I wasn't able to even stand. I guess I had caught the same virus that had hit my Mother so hard just two days before. I somehow managed to dress and get to the funeral home. The first person to visit was my dance instructor for many, many years during my childhood. This was so appropriate, because other than my parents, she had more influence on me than anyone during my formative years. After she left the funeral home, I continued to get sicker and sicker. I ended up being able to stay for only about one-half hour, and then I had to be taken to the Emergency Room. I spent the rest of my Mother's funeral home visitation in the hospital.
Who misses their Mother's visitation? It's not something that you can say, "Oh, I understand now. Next time I'll know to do ..." There is no next time. There is no re-do. I missed the hugs. I missed the commemorative stories shared by so many. I missed the support of just being in the presence of the people who thought enough about my Mother, our family, to come to pay their respects.
It's now been six years since this happened. I'm still not sure what the lesson is to all this.
I do know that I have always known I have wonderful friends. But their love during this was a beautiful affirmation of their importance and blessing in my life.
I do know that, even though I missed the hugs during the visitation, that the cards that came to my home almost daily for three months recreated my Mother's life for me. The memories shared with me with the handwritten notes within these cards were a lovely testament of her life on this earth.
I do know that the grief counselor at my church has now become a lifelong friend of mine.
I do know that the spiritual journey, spiritual search I have been on since this fateful day, has been one of confusion, learning, and awakening.
Sometimes the blessing is in the search itself.
This week The Red Dress Club wanted us to recall something in our life that seemed terrible at the time, but looking back, brought something wonderful.
Monday, April 18, 2011
The Holiest of Friday's
It is the holiest of Friday's for Christians. This last Friday in Lent ... this most holy Good Friday. The color of the Bishop's, priest's, and deacon's vestments are in reverence to His blood and also the Holy Spirit. The cloth draped over the cross for veneration the same sacred color. When I come forward for the Veneration of the Cross, bow, and kiss the cross, it is truly the most solemn of actions in my Catholic heritage.
It is not about the fish fries or whether I've been able to hold true to my fasting from my beloved pasta. It is the culmination of the last 40 days of prayer, meditation, reflection, and renewal of my baptismal promise.
I remember as a child the Passion of Our Lord being read on Good Friday. I remember the shifting from foot to foot and wondering if the priest would ever come to the end of the story. Thankful that it was only read during this one period of time throughout the year. Glad, when at the end, he finally would say, "The Passion of Our Lord." As a child was it even possible to understand what we had just heard? And, as an adult, is it possible to absolutely comprehend the love that drives our salvation? So often we get caught up in the mysticism of our faith, and we forget that this was a man in flesh and blood, with a mother and father, and friends who loved Him. This man, made to carry the burden of His cross, and suffer unbearably so our sins could be forgiven.
I find myself trying to stretch this into a longer written piece, when in reality I am not even worthy to approach this subject. I will leave it where it is, and on Good Friday, when I see the Bishop, priest, and deacon enter the church in their vibrant vestments, my mind will be on the prayerful lyrics of a beautiful song written by Timothy R. Smith, "When I Survey The Wondrous Cross"...
"See from his head, his hands, his feet, Sorrow and love flow mingled down! Did e'er such love and sorrow meet, or thorns compose so rich a crown?" ... "Love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all."
The Red Dress Club has challenged us to write about the color red without using the word "red." I was inspired by Holy Week.
It is not about the fish fries or whether I've been able to hold true to my fasting from my beloved pasta. It is the culmination of the last 40 days of prayer, meditation, reflection, and renewal of my baptismal promise.
I remember as a child the Passion of Our Lord being read on Good Friday. I remember the shifting from foot to foot and wondering if the priest would ever come to the end of the story. Thankful that it was only read during this one period of time throughout the year. Glad, when at the end, he finally would say, "The Passion of Our Lord." As a child was it even possible to understand what we had just heard? And, as an adult, is it possible to absolutely comprehend the love that drives our salvation? So often we get caught up in the mysticism of our faith, and we forget that this was a man in flesh and blood, with a mother and father, and friends who loved Him. This man, made to carry the burden of His cross, and suffer unbearably so our sins could be forgiven.
I find myself trying to stretch this into a longer written piece, when in reality I am not even worthy to approach this subject. I will leave it where it is, and on Good Friday, when I see the Bishop, priest, and deacon enter the church in their vibrant vestments, my mind will be on the prayerful lyrics of a beautiful song written by Timothy R. Smith, "When I Survey The Wondrous Cross"...
"See from his head, his hands, his feet, Sorrow and love flow mingled down! Did e'er such love and sorrow meet, or thorns compose so rich a crown?" ... "Love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all."
The Red Dress Club has challenged us to write about the color red without using the word "red." I was inspired by Holy Week.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
What I Lack? 0.00004571634269 Nautical Leagues
I'm 57 inches tall. I always thought that was 4'9", didn't you? But, when I went to the conversion chart, the calculation from inches to feet was stated as 4.75 feet. I've just lost another .15 inches. That hardly seems fair. Some of the other conversions were:
57 inches ... 144.78 centimeters
57 inches ... 1447.8 millimeters
57 inches ... 1.4478 meters
57 inches ... 1.58333 yards
57 inches ... 0.0014478 kilometers
57 inches ... 0.00026058315335 nautical leagues. WHEW! I'm exhausted and just can't go on with these conversions.
But I can tell you about the perils of a grown, single, adult who is 0.00026058315335 nautical leagues tall. For starters, any items in the kitchen, frequently used, are kept in the first tier of cabinets. So the kitchen is already at a disadvantage, because these lower shelves are crammed past capacity. There are things in my top cabinets that I haven't seen in years. I'm hoping, as I reflect upon this now, that at some point I haven't put money up there for some reason. I could be rich! Who would know? I would need to go retrieve the extension ladder to crawl up there and look.
I can tell you that a back scratcher works really well, when you are standing on a four foot step ladder, to wind Christmas lights around the top of the tree. Now the angel on the top is a different story. The back scratcher won't work for her, so that is when you get the neighbor, the mailman, the landscaper, the cable guy, or whoever you can nab, look pitiful and say, "Can you please put my angel on my tree?" Hey, it's part of the Christmas festivities each year at my house. I never know who may become a part of my Christmas tradition. I have photos of folks in my Christmas album who I identify as, "Oh, that's who put the angel on my tree." Gee, if I had only learned all their names, I would have quite a list of Christmas card recipients by now.
I can tell you that I absolutely love it when I am scaling the racks in the grocery store for my salad dressing, which I might add, is always at the top. A glass bottle to boot! When I need aerobic exercise, I don't pay for a gym. I go to the grocery. I have become quite adept at placing my feet securely on the bottom shelf, strategically positioning my hands midway up the shelving, and then determining which hand I'm going to release to grab the item from the top shelf, then return safely to the floor, and place the item in the basket. I have been known to thrust my arms in the air, upon completion, just as a marathoner does when he crosses the finish line. I just adore it when I have finally reached the top of the shelves and someone walks by and says, "Can I get something for you?" My reply, "Naw! I'm just stretching and limbering up for the frozen food section." The degree of difficulty is much higher over there, and you get extra points. You have to master the same scaling expertise, but hold the door open by thrusting your hip to the side, all the time while your hands are turning blue and going numb from the Arctic touch of the freezer.
It's not just about the reaching part either. It is really exciting, and I'm sure entertaining for others, when I take my car into the car wash. Oh my goodness, the guys just dry, and buff, and polish the car, place the baby powder air freshener in the car, and then smiling proudly hold my door open for me. Did I know they had moved my seat back for the 6'8" employee? Nope ... I get in, sit down, reach for my pedals, and slide right down to the floor board. "Oh, mam, are you all right?" "Yes, yes I'm fine. I'm just reaching for my earring that fell on the floor!"
Yes, there are many obstacles for a person who is 0.00026058315335 nautical leagues tall. I just make sure I can always reach the margarita mix!
57 inches ... 144.78 centimeters
57 inches ... 1447.8 millimeters
57 inches ... 1.4478 meters
57 inches ... 1.58333 yards
57 inches ... 0.0014478 kilometers
57 inches ... 0.00026058315335 nautical leagues. WHEW! I'm exhausted and just can't go on with these conversions.
But I can tell you about the perils of a grown, single, adult who is 0.00026058315335 nautical leagues tall. For starters, any items in the kitchen, frequently used, are kept in the first tier of cabinets. So the kitchen is already at a disadvantage, because these lower shelves are crammed past capacity. There are things in my top cabinets that I haven't seen in years. I'm hoping, as I reflect upon this now, that at some point I haven't put money up there for some reason. I could be rich! Who would know? I would need to go retrieve the extension ladder to crawl up there and look.
I can tell you that a back scratcher works really well, when you are standing on a four foot step ladder, to wind Christmas lights around the top of the tree. Now the angel on the top is a different story. The back scratcher won't work for her, so that is when you get the neighbor, the mailman, the landscaper, the cable guy, or whoever you can nab, look pitiful and say, "Can you please put my angel on my tree?" Hey, it's part of the Christmas festivities each year at my house. I never know who may become a part of my Christmas tradition. I have photos of folks in my Christmas album who I identify as, "Oh, that's who put the angel on my tree." Gee, if I had only learned all their names, I would have quite a list of Christmas card recipients by now.
I can tell you that I absolutely love it when I am scaling the racks in the grocery store for my salad dressing, which I might add, is always at the top. A glass bottle to boot! When I need aerobic exercise, I don't pay for a gym. I go to the grocery. I have become quite adept at placing my feet securely on the bottom shelf, strategically positioning my hands midway up the shelving, and then determining which hand I'm going to release to grab the item from the top shelf, then return safely to the floor, and place the item in the basket. I have been known to thrust my arms in the air, upon completion, just as a marathoner does when he crosses the finish line. I just adore it when I have finally reached the top of the shelves and someone walks by and says, "Can I get something for you?" My reply, "Naw! I'm just stretching and limbering up for the frozen food section." The degree of difficulty is much higher over there, and you get extra points. You have to master the same scaling expertise, but hold the door open by thrusting your hip to the side, all the time while your hands are turning blue and going numb from the Arctic touch of the freezer.
It's not just about the reaching part either. It is really exciting, and I'm sure entertaining for others, when I take my car into the car wash. Oh my goodness, the guys just dry, and buff, and polish the car, place the baby powder air freshener in the car, and then smiling proudly hold my door open for me. Did I know they had moved my seat back for the 6'8" employee? Nope ... I get in, sit down, reach for my pedals, and slide right down to the floor board. "Oh, mam, are you all right?" "Yes, yes I'm fine. I'm just reaching for my earring that fell on the floor!"
Yes, there are many obstacles for a person who is 0.00026058315335 nautical leagues tall. I just make sure I can always reach the margarita mix!
Monday, April 11, 2011
What Is it?
"This, what is it?" Rao asked in his broken English. His newly adopted mother turned and saw him with the hose and sprinkler head in his hands.
Rao had been orphaned two years before in Haiti. He had spent time on the streets, time huddled under make-shift roofs, always in filth and squalor unimaginable to masses. In his young life, he had endured more than most would in a lifetime.
With his smile stretched to fill most of his face, he turned the nozzle over and around until he accidentally pushed the trigger that sent a jolt of water spray directly into his face. He jumped with shock, and fear took over the previous smile. "Don't be afraid, Rao" his mother soothed. "It's just water." Rao continued to wipe his face, saying "but dirty, dirty."
His mother, sadly, then knew his fear. Rao was not accustomed to fresh, clean water. He was only used to puddles with sewage, and on rare occasions, the need for him to carry heavy buckets filled with rarely available clean water, back to his living environment for the day. Only then could he drink and wash without the fear of disease. How many times had he seen his family dwindle and die from disease related to his poverty. He had eventually seen his entire family perish and leave him alone and frightened, fending for himself at such a tender young age.
His new mother had been on a mission trip with her Catholic Cathedral. Their main hope had been to install a water purifier system for the school her church supported. It had taken three to four trips to just prepare and complete the necessary requirements to finally install the purifier. It was now in place, and the remaining task was to educate the people how to maintain the system once the missionaries returned to their homes.
It was during this trip that she and Rao met each other for the first time. They were both connected by their mutual smiles. Even with the language barrier, they quickly became best friends. They were shadows of each other. Learning of his orphan status nearly broke her heart. As she left to return home, she felt as if she couldn't walk away. Each step was a step in pain. Tears accompanied her on the plane all the way home. Would she ever see him again?
Now she had completed the months of red tape, and her return to Haiti was filled with excitement and expectations. But, what if something had happened? What if he was gone? What if he was lost to her forever? They both saw each other at about the same time, and those smiles returned. This time when it was time to leave, they had boarded the plane together ... hand in hand. Tears on this journey were tears of shear happiness. As Rao looked out the plane window, as they landed in his new home, she said, "We are family."
"Rao, the water is absolutely 100% clean. You are safe to drink it, and play in it. Let it run over you, feel the coolness." Rao took the hose, put the sprinkler head over the top of his head. This time when he pushed the trigger, there was no fear. Only a smile that could have lit the world. With his eyes closed, his head back, the water ran over his silken ebony body. He stood motionless for what seemed like an eternity to him. He was safe in the enveloping arms of the cool, clean, healthy water.
The challenge for The Red Dress writing club was to view the picture of a hose and sprinkler head. This is the story that came from that picture.
Rao had been orphaned two years before in Haiti. He had spent time on the streets, time huddled under make-shift roofs, always in filth and squalor unimaginable to masses. In his young life, he had endured more than most would in a lifetime.
With his smile stretched to fill most of his face, he turned the nozzle over and around until he accidentally pushed the trigger that sent a jolt of water spray directly into his face. He jumped with shock, and fear took over the previous smile. "Don't be afraid, Rao" his mother soothed. "It's just water." Rao continued to wipe his face, saying "but dirty, dirty."
His mother, sadly, then knew his fear. Rao was not accustomed to fresh, clean water. He was only used to puddles with sewage, and on rare occasions, the need for him to carry heavy buckets filled with rarely available clean water, back to his living environment for the day. Only then could he drink and wash without the fear of disease. How many times had he seen his family dwindle and die from disease related to his poverty. He had eventually seen his entire family perish and leave him alone and frightened, fending for himself at such a tender young age.
His new mother had been on a mission trip with her Catholic Cathedral. Their main hope had been to install a water purifier system for the school her church supported. It had taken three to four trips to just prepare and complete the necessary requirements to finally install the purifier. It was now in place, and the remaining task was to educate the people how to maintain the system once the missionaries returned to their homes.
It was during this trip that she and Rao met each other for the first time. They were both connected by their mutual smiles. Even with the language barrier, they quickly became best friends. They were shadows of each other. Learning of his orphan status nearly broke her heart. As she left to return home, she felt as if she couldn't walk away. Each step was a step in pain. Tears accompanied her on the plane all the way home. Would she ever see him again?
Now she had completed the months of red tape, and her return to Haiti was filled with excitement and expectations. But, what if something had happened? What if he was gone? What if he was lost to her forever? They both saw each other at about the same time, and those smiles returned. This time when it was time to leave, they had boarded the plane together ... hand in hand. Tears on this journey were tears of shear happiness. As Rao looked out the plane window, as they landed in his new home, she said, "We are family."
"Rao, the water is absolutely 100% clean. You are safe to drink it, and play in it. Let it run over you, feel the coolness." Rao took the hose, put the sprinkler head over the top of his head. This time when he pushed the trigger, there was no fear. Only a smile that could have lit the world. With his eyes closed, his head back, the water ran over his silken ebony body. He stood motionless for what seemed like an eternity to him. He was safe in the enveloping arms of the cool, clean, healthy water.
The challenge for The Red Dress writing club was to view the picture of a hose and sprinkler head. This is the story that came from that picture.
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