Blogging · nonfiction · postaday · writing

Weekly Writing Challenge ~ I Wish I Were

This weeks writing challenge from the Daily Post is “I Wish I Were”. We are to finish the sentence …..I Wish I were…..

I wish I were a better writer, so that I could say in words all the dreams, thoughts and pictures in my mind. They are beautiful. But I never seem to get the words right. How can I tell you about the bright reds of my dream trees? The sunshine a brilliant yellow that glows with happiness.

If I were a better writer I could tell you about characters in ways that would make you think you were by their sides in each adventure. I could paint my word pictures with the hues of the rainbow, each chapter being another layer of color one upon the other.

My words could convey the heart thumping fears of the unknown. The shivers of suspense that builds in each small word. The colors themselves would not be on the page, but in your mind, playing your imagination like a well tuned violin. Each letter a note  of wonderful music gently strumming your nerve ends in tingling melodies.

I wish I were a better writer so that you my readers could see what I try to write with each sentence, each paragraph, each page  of my thoughts. Not only would the stories grow with light and beauty, or dark with shadows. Each story would show you the tiny piece of my soul that went into the writings.

I Wish I were a better writer of dreams so all of you could see my world of words.

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Blogging · Mi Vida Loca · nonfiction · postaday · Stories of my life · Uncategorized · writing

The Colors of My Life

This post came about from the Daily Post challenge for this week. A splash of color. We are to write a post inspired by color. Here is my contribution. I didn’t want to write about the fall colors outside. They are beautiful no doubt. I’m enjoying them immensely, I’m also enjoying all the pictures and posts about the fall colors. You guys know how to take some beautiful pictures and your words that go with them are great. I decided to get a bit more personal with my post. I wanted to show how colors become a part of who I am. Being a writer, and also an artist color to me IS personal. Hope you enjoy.



When I was young the color of my life was black, brown, gray, or some other  nondescript color. Very rarely did a bright or cheerful color come into my life. The clothes I wore reflected this darkness. I didn’t want to be noticed, I didn’t want anyone to see me. I could open my closet and it would be dark, dark, dark.

My mother would try to force some colors on me. Like pink, ugh. I am not a pink type of girl. Wasn’t then, not so much now either. But Mom was of a generation where pink was for girls. Period. And frills, and lace and, well you get the idea. Now also being vertically challenged (5 foot even) I have to be careful what I wear. If I pick the wrong style, color, whatever I can look ridiculous. I mean that’s fine if its Halloween, you have a free pass to look ridiculous. Other than on that day, no.

My teenage years weren’t  much different. Dark colors. I had some rough years during that time. My mom and I very rarely got along. In fact looking back. We NEVER got along. So I stayed with the dark colors. Every once in a while I would throw in a purple or a forest green. Never pastels. Not for this girl. As for clothes, well the shorter the skirt the better. But, I had to wait till I was away from home. My dad would not allow me or my sister to wear dresses or skirts that were above the knee. Very old-fashioned man that he was. I believe he just thought he was protecting his little girls. So my sis and I would go to school and then roll up our skirts till they were as short as we wanted. Naughty naughty.

Once I grew older and moved out of the house I was happier so the colors of my life got a bit brighter. I threw in some reds, oranges, bright blues, and even (gasp) some pastels! I would have even put in some yellow, but yellow is just not my color! Made me look like I was ill. 😉

I was even starting to experiment with my hair color. I would go light, or dark, or something in-between. My natural color is a light auburn/brown mix. I would go red, which I really liked. One time I went a really dark brown. Boy was that a mistake! Everyone for weeks asked me if I was sick. That dark hair color was just not for me! So, as soon as I could I went to Ash blonde. Whew, at least I didn’t look like a zombie anymore. (zombie’s weren’t popular yet)

It’s interesting to me to look back and know how my life was going just by what colors I would wear. After I got married my colors got much brighter. For a while. Then they got darker and darker. Till I was at a point that I only wore black or brown. I wonder what a psychiatrist would get out of my wardrobe down through the years?

After my divorce my colors once again got lighter. Some nice royal purple or emerald-green got thrown in the mix. I was getting braver about the colors I would wear. My hair color changed with the new me also. A bright Auburn color was my choice. A shade that said, “I am in charge of my life for once! Look at me!”

Now that I am a bit older. More settled in who and what I am. The colors of my life have changed once more. I wear reds, bright blues, bright greens, orange, and yes sometimes even pink! My hair color is back to its normal one. A light auburn/brown. I don’t feel it’s necessary to hide anymore. I am who I am. And proud of who I became. Honestly, I don’t think those dark colors will come back into my life. I will stick with the bright ones. I love red, orange, yellow, purple and green. Those are the colors of life.

Those are the colors of MY life.


Blogging · Fiction · Humor · writing

A Poem From a Non-Poet ~~ Daily Post Challenge

This week’s Daily Post challenge is to do something that is away from your comfort zone. If like me, you write fiction or nonfiction, then we are to try photographs or poetry. I picked poetry, well  because I don’t have a very good camera, and poetry is words. I love words.

But also poetry is far removed from what I would normally write. To be honest I would never attempt poetry unless challenged! I’m just not good at it. So be warned! Do NOT read any further, well unless you want a good  laugh. But if you like good poetry, quite frankly you will be disappointed!

Don’t say I didn’t warn you! 😉

The challenge was issued and accepted by me

now I have to write in stanzas with words that flow free.

I’m good at stories and writings that come and go,

but something that rhymes is beyond my control.

I could cheat and pen something of roses and violets blue,

but I can’t think of anything that goes with that except flu.

Somehow I don’t think limericks will do either,

or odes to my eyes or nose would be  much of a thriller.

I warned you it was bad, so don’t be a hatin

my days as a poet are now quietly forsaken.

Blogging · Humor · nonfiction · postaday · Stories of my life · Uncategorized · writing

Weekly Photo Challenge ~~ Mine ~~

Today I thought I would try something different. Here at WordPress they have a weekly photo challenge, you can click here to read it. This week we are supposed to post a photo that captures what is “mine”.

To quote the blog post  “Mine. Is there a place, object, or view that’s entirely yours, or you’re a bit selfish or possessive about? Is it a feeling you feel when you look at the photo, or perhaps an unwillingness to share? I get rather possessive about that first cup of coffee in the morning. It’s definitely mine and I want it all to myself. “

Here is what I decided to pick…

My Computer


Yup,  my computer. MINE.

No one  touches this computer but me. It has my life on here. I know, I know, kind of sad but it’s the truth. I have pictures of favorite things, my dog Sam , the 2 devil cats. But mostly it has my writings in it. It has all my stories, my dreams, my hopes of becoming a published writer one day.

It has ME in there. So yeah, I’m pretty possessive  about it. I keep it dusted while the rest of my house has dust bunnies breeding in every nook and corner. I make sure the everything about this computer is in working condition. This is mine and mine alone.

nonfiction · Stories of my life · Uncategorized · writing

The Past is a Pair of Heels with Matching Purse

When I saw those high heels for the first time. I was about five. It was New Year’s Eve and my Mom and Dad were going to a New Year’s party. My mom looked beautiful in her short dress, her legs encased in silk stockings and those high heels  on her feet. In my young eyes she looked glamorous. Diamond earrings hung from her ears, her diamond  studded watch on her wrist. But it was those high heels that I coveted. With the matching purse.

My mothers shoes and purse

They were brown, made out of Alligator skin. The purse even had a small alligator head on the front flap and small feet in the back. Later when I was in my early teens I listened while my Mom told the story of those Alligator heels and purse. Long ago, her oldest brother joined the army to fight in World War II. He was sent to Europe to fight the Germans. There he spotted the  heels and purse in a small store in one of the tiny towns he was passing through. He immediately thought of his young sister. He knew she was too young to wear them at the time, but sent them home anyways. My uncle knew that my  mom,  even at that young age loved fancy things. He knew it would be just the right gift, and that she would love them. She did.

My mother and uncle came from a really poor background. They lived in Upper Wisconsin in the middle of the woods. In a log cabin that was without electricity or inside plumbing. I was told he joined the army when he turned 18 to get away from the poverty and see something of the world. He also thought it was exciting in his young age to fight the enemy.

At first she played dress up with those high heels.  Walking around that log cabin, playing fancy dress. When she ran away from home at the tender age of 14, she said the first thing she packed were those high heels with the matching purse. She was determined that she would make the opportunity to wear them in the big city of Chicago. I’m sure she did too. She was always  a stubborn woman.

Those fancy shoes with the fancy purse has traveled quite a lot since they were delivered into my  mother’s young hands. They traveled to Chicago many years ago. Back to Milwaukee. Years later they moved to Texas for a short stint. Then back to upper Wisconsin. They have seen lots of wear. Lots of dancing floors. Lots of memories made with those strappy heels.

A few years ago they made the long trip to Alberta Canada. My mom had told me she mailed something to me and to be on the lookout for it. I was never so pleased or as excited as when that box  came and the first thing I pull out was those heels! I quickly searched the box and there was  the matching purse! Yes! My childhood dreams became reality, those shoes were mine!

I couldn’t wear them of course. They are much too old now for that. Also, at a  size 5 they were too small for me. So I decided that after 70  plus years it was time to retire them for good. They are on proud display in  my living room in a glass case. On the shelf below the beloved cookbook of my Grandmothers .

Everyday when I see those wonderful shoes with the matching purse memories come flooding back. Of my childhood. My mom’s early teens. Of a barely known uncle that fought in a war so long ago and thought of his young sister. Lots of memories have left scuff marks and scratches on an Alligator hide from a country far away. Indeed, the past is a pair of heels with matching purse.

Now my 1940s alligator heels and purse
nonfiction · Uncategorized · writing

Sounds That Move Me

The weekly Daily Press challenge is to write about sounds. What sounds are your favorite.       What sounds  stir you. What memories do these sounds conjure up. I had  to really sit and think about this. Sounds are usually taken for granted. Sounds of the city, the country, the weather. There are all sorts of sounds coming from every direction.



Sometimes I have to concentrate to listen to my favorite sounds. Like the birds outside chirping and singing. Those are one of my favorite sounds. To me it’s very relaxing. Or it can be very lively and uplifting. I remember when I was living in Texas, every morning I had a male mockingbird sit right outside my bedroom window. He would go through his whole repertoire of songs for  me each morning. I just loved it.




Then there is the Thunderstorm! Ah, it has got to be one of my top 2 sounds. I love a good thunderstorm. From the beginning rumbles from far away. The rain gently beating a tattoo on the roof. The wind whipping the rain against the windows. And the smell, it was like my little piece  of the world was washed clean. The smell of wet earth, wet wood, of fresh green grass. A few bright flashes of lightning. Then the sharp clap of thunder right over the house! The feeling of excitement as it rumbled on for what seemed like forever. Then the silence as it ended, deep and dark.



My most favorite sound has got to be when I walk through the forest. The breeze playing through the leaves in the trees, as they talk to each other gently. The sound of crickets and grasshoppers as their back legs rub out a tune. The birds chirping and singing a song of beauty and peace. The bees buzzing as they fly past me heading to some unknown flower.


The leaves underfoot rustling with a dusty sound as my feet shuffle down a barely seen path.  The air fresh and new. The smell of grass and sunshine  floating gently, surrounding me  in a fragrance that call their own. With a hawk’s cry overhead, piercing in its intensity. Letting all who hear it know that it’s on the hunt for  some small furry creature. The loud “CAW, CAW, CAW!” of a crow or black bird as it sits in a nearby tree watching my every step.

As I walk I hear the stream, water rushing over gleaming wet rocks. The sound of small waves hitting the shoreline. Rushing in and out. I can almost hear the coldness of the water as it splashes down its watery way. It greets me like a long lost friend, gurgling it’s hello! This to me is peace,  love and  the hope that my world will be all right. For me, these sounds are home, security and where I will always want to be.


Bird - Blue Jay
Bird – Blue Jay (Photo credit: blmiers2)





nonfiction · Uncategorized · writing

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly of the first Social Olympics

This posting is for the Daily Post weekly challenge. The question we are to answer is: Has social media changed how you view the Olympics?

I have to admit I did not watch much of the Olympics this year. What little I did see or hear about pretty much turned me off watching it. From my viewpoint it was run on Tweets and which athlete was more fashionable.

Ralph Lauren, via Associated Press

I remember the first article I read was about the sexual escapades of the Olympic athletes.   Seems the Olympic Village was more one big frat party then a place to rest. Read this article here and see what you think.

Then it was the fashion of the Olympic  teams. That was an epic failure and much talked and tweeted about. From the French looking USA outfits, to the blaring red of Spain. Here is another article you might enjoy here.

I think the best example of how Social Media dominated the Olympics this year is with the outpouring of love for USA’s gymnast Gabby Douglas. This tiny little dynamo captured the hearts of Americans and people from all over the world. Not only is she the first African-American to win the All Around Olympic Gold, we watched the 16-year-old grow from a nervous teenager to a confident young woman. Go Gabby!

Getty Images

Although her online popularity started out a bit rocky, when someone tweeted about her hair,  saying she had a bad hairdo! I mean really??? She makes history at the young age of 16 and all you can do is hate on her hair??  That soon changed when a couple of classy ladies decided to start a “Love Gabby” campaign. This article describes that digital movement.

So  there were good, bad and ugly moments during the first Social Olympics. From my perspective, it actually turned me off the games more then turned me on. What’s your opinion?


nonfiction · Stories of my life · writing

You’re Just Average and That’s All You’ll Ever Be

Years ago when I was a teenager, my father and I had a conversation. It didn’t happen too often because on the whole my Dad was a quiet man. But, that one conversation stuck in my mind all these years, because of that one statement. Nine short words that would resonate throughout the rest of my  life.

“You’re just average and that’s all you’ll ever be.” my Dad stated to me.

Now, he wasn’t trying to be mean. He wasn’t using it in a derogatory sense. For him it was a simple statement of his belief. My father always stated he was an atheist. He grew up in a strict Protestant household. My grandfather was one that he was not going to spare the rod or spoil the child. From what I can gather my grandfather used his religion as a reason for corporal punishment. It left a mark on my father, and so when asked, he said he was an Atheist. Whether that was strictly true, I don’t know. But, my father did have his own beliefs.

I don’t really remember how the conversation got started. My father and I had deep talks once in while. No subject was off-limits. I know we talked about people and what made some so much more talented, smart, ambitious, etc. My dad believed it was “predestined” on how or what we became in life.

He told me that he was just average, as was my mother, and my grandparents. That I came from a family of “average” people. So there fore I was just average and that’s all I’ll ever be. I would never become famous, I had no outstanding talents and neither did my siblings. But according to him that was not necessarily a bad thing. It was what it was.

Now I disagreed with him. Still do in fact! And I hope I  proved him wrong. That conversation  always played a major factor in my life and what I did. I set out to prove to my father that I was not average! That just because one came from a family that had no rich, famous, highly ambitious people in it did not make me average!

I always read a lot. Inherited that from my dad. I will read anything and everything. If it has words on it, I will read it. I’ve always loved to write. I used to keep a journal during my school years and beyond. I wrote in it every single day. Now I have my blogs. And, I’m working on a novel.

I have always admired people who could draw or paint. What a great way to express yourself! So one day I set out to teach myself to paint. I started with oils and then moved to acrylics and have been painting for 20 years. I like to think I’m pretty good at it! I do lots of crafts, crocheting, knitting, and sewing. I have to find a way to be creative!

Looking back, I taught myself all these things because deep down I wanted to show my dad I was not “average”! I needed to show myself this also. I believe I succeeded. Am I rich? No. Am I famous? No. Am I talented? Your damn straight I am! And there is still time to become the other two. I have my Dad to thank for that, and I do.

My father died about 8 years ago of cancer. A few years ago I went to visit my mom and siblings and found out that my Dad WAS very proud of me. I learned that he used to brag about his talented daughter to his friends. My brothers and sister even said I was his favorite, shocked the hell out of me I can tell you!

But, after I learned all this, I had a little conversation with my deceased dad. I thanked him for that long ago conversation. I said, “Daddy, I love you. And thank you for showing me how  NOT be just average”.

My painting of a wolf


nonfiction · Uncategorized · writing

A Morning of Memories

This morning started out like any other morning. Dragged myself out of bed, drank my first (of  many) cup of coffee. Then headed for the shower. After dressing I did what I do every morning. Clean the cat box. Exciting I know, but someone has to do it.

I have two beautiful gray and white cats. Brother and sister, named Notwen and Pouncer. And they are big cats! Notwen the male probably weighs a good 30 pounds, Pouncer maybe a bit less. Every morning I have to clean their cat box, because well, being big cats they produce a lot of waste!

Most mornings I clean it without really thinking about it. I mean it’s cat poop. Do I really want to think about cat poop? This morning Notwen is sitting watching me, probably wanting me to hurry up so he can use the kitty bathroom. And my mind goes back through the years and all the fur babies I’ve had. Almost every single one of them rescued from bad situations. They were either in an abusive home, or they were running in the streets, unfed and unloved. Neither situation I can tolerate.

Memories came rushing back of my past pets. My babies. There was Bubba, who when she was a tiny pup I couldn’t tell if she was female or male, but the name Bubba seemed to fit, and so it stuck. She was a pure black Cocker Spaniel, and one of the most intelligent dogs I ever owned. Then there was Gray, a beautiful gray German Shepard I rescued off the streets in Ft. Worth, TX.

Gray had been beaten and starved. I took her to my favorite vet and he told me she was about 6 months old and must have been beaten before because he could see old wounds and old broken bones. My heart was hers from that first day till she passed 13 years later.

Can’t forget about the cats in my life either, especially Fred. Fred was a special cat that showed up one day and stayed. He was a male cat, a beautiful black and white short hair. Fred had an identity problem though. Well, Fred thought he was female. One day Fred showed up with a very pregnant female cat I named Wilma. You know Fred and Wilma, from the Flintstones??

Now, I really don’t think Fred was the father of Wilma’s kitties. Because Fred just never wanted a female in that way. Fred brought Wilma home because he wanted to raise her kittens. Yeah,  he even tried nursing them, but that idea didn’t go far. They finally worked out a deal, Wilma nursed the kittens, and Fred took care of them otherwise. He wouldn’t even let her near them unless she was nursing! Wilma didn’t seem to mind, she lounged in the sun and enjoyed a life of leisure.

Some of my memories are bitter sweet. But, they all made me smile this morning. Made my day a little brighter. I never had children of my own, except for my fur babies. Those children gave me so much love, so much companionship, so much unconditional acceptance. My life was forever touched with their love.