Mary Jo

Mary Jo                  

By John W. Vander Velden

 

At work in her kitchen, a place she knew better than the backside of her hands, Mary Jo had so much to do.  Yet all the while as she prepared the midday meal, her mind drifted to another time.  Weary, Mary Jo made herself a cup of coffee – instant.  It was quicker, and time always had rushed her along.  She sat at the kitchen table turning the cup with tired gnarled fingers.  The house seemed large these days.  It had not always been so.  Mary Jo smiled at the thought of how her three boys had been practically stacked in the only real bedroom upstairs.  And though both girls may have had their own rooms, each of those spaces were scarcely larger than the twin bed wedged within.  Yes, they had made do in so many ways.  Mary Jo Hawkins shook her head.  How many weeks had she wondered how they could afford the groceries.  But each week the pennies, dimes, and nickels had been enough.  That did not matter now – perhaps it never did. 

Mrs. Hawkins decided thing had turned out well – better than she had ever dared to hope.  The farm family had found a way to send all five to school.  Larry her oldest went to the technical school in Indianapolis and ended up settling there.  Both Jenny and Sue had become registered nurses with families of their own.  Jenny, her husband Leo, and their two daughters lived in Crawfordsville, so far away.  Well Sue wasn’t much closer.  Her brood lived two hours distant.  Lyle became an electrician.  He lived the closest, the drive only took fifteen minutes.  Lyle’s wife was a delight – of course she would be -- for she was a Mary Hawkins too.  Lyle and the young Mary didn’t have any children – yet -- but the Elder Mary Hawkins put in a good word for them in her prayers each night.  And though Mary Jo would deny it, her favorite, Jim the engineer, her youngest, lived furthest of all, in Sacramento.  Mary Jo sighed, California seemed a world away.

Now the house felt so empty – so quiet.  Lee had stepped out.  That man always seemed to have something to do – outside.  Leaves or some such thing Lee had said – if Mary Jo had heard correctly.  She wasn’t sure she had.  “Enough dilly-dallying” Mary Jo scolded herself.  “I’ve got lots to do.  They’re coming home today – all of them.  And I expect they’ll be hungry.”  Her smile grew as she went back to her stove.  Yes, today would be special – life was good!  

(428 Words) 

Brushstrokes

Brushstrokes

 

By John W. Vander Velden

 

The years seem to fly by.  Our lives so busy we seldom consider the place we find ourselves.  The young, with so much canvas before them, don’t even notice the brush held which has set the first stokes to their art. Going day after day, doing what might seem mundane, yet forming a framework that years hence will be unable to completely erase.  How a person deals with the everyday create the subtle colors and shades of their masterpiece.  Times the brush paints with fervor -- bright colors -- reds and blues -- green and gold.  Those days we find ourselves in changes most dramatic.  However when things settle in to new patterns and change comes more slowly, the colors subdued, soft shades, lavender and peach -- mint and silver.  Life and its changes never cease while we have breath and so the painting goes on.

Those that have the years and take the time, might step back and consider the art that reflects their lives.  Too easy for us to dwell upon each of the picture’s imperfection – mistakes -- poor judgments -- foolish decisions, and become angry with ourselves.  But those flaws are but a part of the whole.  They make us human.  But there are also the grand and beautiful scenes we most often ignore.  Times of love and compassion -- of self-sacrifice -- times when we have been our very best.  Does not art reflect the light and the dark, and does not our painting show our best and our worst.  We are not so bound to the past, to the things we once did, to the people we once were, for transformation is always possible!   Does not our painting show change and growth?   Our lives are not cast in stone -- but rather a great painting forming -- a lifetime of brushstrokes.

(306 Words)

BEN

Ben                         

By John W. Vander Velden

 

The light entering through colored glass, the only illumination in the large room with a high ceiling and precisely ordered furniture.  Benjamin Richards had come in search of answers.  This place the last of many locales he had gone with a yearning heart.  Richards had no idea why he had chosen this particular building.  There were many from which to choose.  Yet as he drove, feeling so lost, he pulled into the parking space.  Why had he left his car and moved those few steps to the doorway which Benjamin felt certain would be locked?  Where was the logic that had driven his life?  But leaning upon the heavy oak door, grasping the handle, the way opened easily.  It seemed Benjamin Richards had been expected.  Without thought Richards moved to the large room, the open dim space of high windows and scents unfamiliar, filled with silence.

  Benjamin had never moved across these carpeted floors before, nor had he darkened any other building of this type.  Until this day Richards had never felt the need.  There had been so many other places to be.  So many other places that supplied the needs he felt.  But days of seeking what remained hidden, drove Benjamin at last to a place he felt had no purpose, at least no purpose for him.  Now here in the dim light, a place alien yet familiar in ways Richards could not fully understand, something primal, something written it seemed deep within the subconscious. 

Alone in that space, Benjamin crossed most of its length.  Taking a seat, the man stared into the dimness before him.  It was then Benjamin Richards began to speak, a whisper soft yet clearly auditable.  And as Benjamin Richards asked questions, the questions that like lead, weighed upon his heart, his voice grew stronger.  As tears began…tears of fear…tears of guilt…tears of pain…tears of anger…Benjamin’s voice now shouting…demanding…begging…echoed as the words moved back and forth, filling  that space to the rafters.  Filled with anger and doubt Benjamin continued his ranting’s until at last even his voice failed him.

Sitting bent, feeling broken, filled with hopelessness, Benjamin supported his wet face with trembling fingers.  Wailing, as with gasping breaths, Richards struggled to regain control of raging emotions.  When at last the shuttering ceased.  When at last breathing came in even intervals.  When at last his racing heart calmed, and Ben could lift his head, a stillness entered him.  As if the quiet dignity of his surroundings had absorbed all the hate…all the anger…all the contempt.  Within that immense calm, came something most unexpected.  For though others would believe this room contained only one angry, bitter man…Ben realized he was not alone.  That something great and good, far beyond his understanding, told Ben, that he had never been alone…That he would never be alone, no matter where he went or what he faced.  That together strength could be found.  And Ben understood…that would be enough!

(500 Words)

Just a Stone

 

 

Just a Stone   An excerpt from: The Game.                 

By John W. Vander Velden

 

Jacob tumbled the stone he had found in his hand.  It seemed very much like those he had found in the stream behind his grandfather’s house, small enough to be concealed within his grip.  His fingers moved about its smooth shape.  Smooth so very smooth, as if polished like the rocks his Uncle Harold had.  Rocks that spent weeks rumbling around inside noisy machine his uncle used.  Yes, this stone was as smooth…but different.  Jacob’s finger moved over the stone’s cool dry surface.  Not that it always felt dry.  Times he had noticed it seemed damp…even slimy…slippery, difficult to hold.  Other times it wasn’t cool at all.  On occasions it might be pleasantly warm, but times Jacob could scarcely hold his precious treasure, as it grew quite hot.  Sometimes the smooth hard stone became cold.  More than cold!  It seemed to draw the warmth out of his hand.  Those times Jacob would stare at that stone, as he felt the cold crawl up his arm, stiffening his elbow, slithering toward his shoulder. Pain took hold of him then.  Jacob wanted to throw away the stone or at least allow it to fall, but he didn’t.  Gritting his teeth he would move the stone to his other hand, the effect there the same.  Then a moment later the cold ceased.  It was after all nothing more...

than a stone.

 

 

(230 Words)