Through a Darkened Pane

by compound complex 730 Replies latest social entertainment

  • compound complex
    compound complex

    Greetings, dear Baba!

    Thanks for asking. The paranormal events my family did experience were at another home, that during my tenure at Bethel. Regarding the cabin, points 1, 2 and 3 are as related by my mother; I cannot recall at what point in my childhood she recounted them. It's likely it was a fertile topic of discussion while we were there at the "spooky" house.

    I am somewhat florid in the evaluation of my own modest, personal life. While my stubbornly earthbound body has, to date, resisted all literal flight, my heart continues to soar upward toward those castles in the sky I've always wished to inhabit. Or spiral precipitously downward toward a haunted house in a dark and chill glen. Decidedly, I am copious with Poetic License and her attendant Ambience. I like how you put that! Can you say and spell pastiche?

    Sergeant Joe Friday would have burst a blood vessel getting the straight dope from the likes of my religio-superstitious madre and the head-in-the-clouds tyke CoCo.

    CoCo

  • compound complex
    compound complex

    Wendy has grown older, but she hasn't totally forgotten her childhood as a Darling. Nor fleeting remembrances of the brief idyll that started with a flight of fancy out the nursery window so many moons ago. True, today she occupies a world where matters of great importance take precedence over the frivolity of youthful extravagance. Nevertheless ...

    She would sooner walk the plank with her sons than take tea with Mrs. Higginbotham and her cranky and mentally arthritic associates. Wendy, though a dutiful mother and pillar of her community, has, as stated at the outset, grown older.

    Grown up?

    Never.

  • BabaYaga
    BabaYaga

    Grown up?

    Never.

  • compound complex
    compound complex

    Greetings, Dear Baba!

    Away to Neverland ...

    Second star to the right and straight on till morning....

    CoCo

  • cameo-d
    cameo-d

    The blood stain could never be lifted ...

    I once begged momma to get rid of that carpet.

    She squinted her eyes and looked at me as though I was some foreigner that did not belong in her house.

    "That...is...my ...son's....blood!" She enunciated each word. "That is all I have left of him."

    For sixteen years my sister and I tiptoed around the edge of that carpet.

  • compound complex
    compound complex

    Good morning, Cameo:

    I am enthralled, whether those four lines of gripping text are derived from your own life's experience or simply from your imagination.

    It's taut and unnerving, this exclamation in particular:

    "That...is...my ...son's....blood!" She enunciated each word. "That is all I have left of him."

    Thank you so much for putting that up. It's incredible!

    CoCo

  • musky
    musky

    Hello CoCo,

    Just checking and enjoying the latest posts.

    Maybe the local library would have a newspaper article regarding the reason for the stain?

    Baba, Thanks

  • compound complex
    compound complex

    Good evening, Musky:

    Hope you've had a great day. Thanks for checking in.

    That's a good idea about the library ... there had to have been an article written on the murder. I'm surmising it was circa 1940, though I cannot say for sure. Money for replacement of the linoleum (as well as for upgrading any of the interior) must not have been possible for the house's owner: the hovel was in a state of general disrepair, as were most of the homes my parents rented. It may not have been an issue for him. As I said, I was only 5 when we left, yet certain elements of one's early environment leave a lasting impression on the mind.

    If we could only go back in time and meet the people who inhabited the neighborhoods where we now lodge ...

    Is there a story lurking there?

    Good to "see" you again.

    CoCo

  • snowbird
    snowbird

    Miss Anna

    She lived in a one room cabin down a dirt path that veered off diagonally from our little Rosenwald School.

    On beautiful days when Teacher dozed off or was otherwise preoccupied, we would pay her an impromptu visit. She was always happy to see us, inviting us into her immaculately kept front room and filling our little hands with a syrup-filled biscuit, a sweet potato, or a lemon tea cake.

    We would tell her what we were learning in class and she would listen attentively, running her long birdlike fingers over our faces in order to tell who was who. You see, Miss Anna was blind from birth, but we children had no idea of the implications of that. To us she was just a kind lady who showered us with love and attention.

    She knew each child by name, knew our family history, and would remark on how fast we were growing. If she had down days - and I'm sure she must have - we never could detect it. She kept her own house, washed and ironed her own clothes, and cooked her own meals. We would watch in fascination with bated breath as she poured her coffee.

    She would place an index finger on the rim of the cup and when her finger felt the steam, she knew it was time to quit pouring. She never burned her finger or made a spill. Miss Anna was a study in resourcefulness and fortitude.

    ************************************************************

    I'm still waxing nostalgic, CoCo.

    Hope you don't mind.

    Sylvia

  • BabaYaga
    BabaYaga

    ...this thread just gets richer and more lovely all the time.

Share this

Google+
Pinterest
Reddit