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My home for twenty-two years was beautiful, warm Grenada, West Indies. I was born five years before World War two started. The war affected every one in the island as we depended on imported goods including foods, manufactured goods, textiles, which came by boats from other larger countries. The Caribbean Sea was not safe from the enemies patrolling the area.
I was born in a Bamboo Sea. That was the name of my home town because we were surrounded by bamboo wherever we went. When I was a baby, my cradle and my toys were all made of bamboo—my special little round red lantern, a box, a turtle and a rabbit. It’s true, I grew up with bamboo.
Thanks for inventing the photograph technique, so that people can take pictures of their daily lives and then remember past events that were happy or sad. A picture is a record of a family’s history and a witness to the development of the family. I would like to introduce my four pictures to you.
The telephone was put in ten years ago–the first he’d ever allowed. A great deal of energy had been spent resisting connection with the outside world when it was not of his choosing!Now, here he was, practically an invalid.His legs hardly worked now.The two elegant brass animal headed canes with which he used to play the Victorian ‘bon vivant’ were now unwieldy sticks he could hardly count on.His bent height and portly but still handsome figure had become to him a Galapagos turtle-like shell serving as protection from close encounters–even as it was
The room is so still, so quiet, that I can hear the katydids far away, through the open window. My pink and yellow blanket, with the satin trim, is smooth and tucked in all around me on my parent’s big bed. My favorite cuddly doll and my brown teddy
And that bicycle was a MONARCH. No, not the butterfly, but the Cadillac of bicycles. Even better than a Schwinn. Beautiful color—aqua blue with white pin striping. What a beauty she was.
Such a dark, sad soul
still mourning his long-dead wife
as if her death occurred yesterday.
Half-heartedly he picked up his mantle.
Lacking the courage to join her
he continues to hold himself out
as hers only.
His life is just busy work now:
his children, his church, his car and her cat.
Nothing brings him pleasure.
He awakes each morning to meaningless days.
Till death do us part, but he really
didn’t mean it.
In my favorite comic strip, there is a bird in a tree and a cat in the grass below. Spring has arrived, it’s a glorious day, and the bird starts singing. I know this because musical notes are in the balloon pointing to its beak. The cat looks around and then looks up at the bird. And then the cat starts singing the same song! I feel their joy and want to be transported to their little world on the comic page of my newspaper.
Looking at my image in the mirror today,
me thought it reflected a touch of decay.
Wrinkled skin and thinning hair turned grey
indicated the end was on display.
A thought suddenly came my way:
look not upon yourself with dismay;
remember you are but an imperfect popinjay
modeled from eternal heavenly clay.
Why not reverse this roundelay?
Out of dross create a bold bouquet.
Overcome yourself; be what you want to convey.
Create the values you wish to obey.
