FYV Lesson 6: Bug and the Peanuts

Bug and the Peanuts

Peanut planting time!  It was late April, the weather was warm and Wheeler  knew if he wanted a harvest in early September, he needed to get the peanuts in the ground.  He had plowed the field the week before, walking behind ol’ Ham, his red, long-eared mule. 

Quite a few neighboring farmers had taken to planting  the peanuts in the shell instead of shelling them, but Wheeler was apt to do things the way he knew brought success. He shelled his peanuts. So, the night before planting, he was up late shelling his peanuts, careful not to remove the thin red skin that fostered germination.

Little Bug had just turned five and he wanted to be a farmer just like his Daddy. He could already milk ol’ Bonnie, the brown Jersey cow, and he could fill the manger with hay. He had helped plant the truck garden  this year and the early peas had already sprouted. And tomorrow he was going to help plant the peanuts. He was very excited – he was going to be a farmer!

Early next morning, Wheeler hooked ol’ Ham and Ben to the wagon and loaded up the basket of peanuts and a sleepy Little Bug.  It was a beautiful morning, the sun peaking over the mountains in a glow of pink and orange, gradually turning the dark sky to day. Bug ate a peanut, casting a guilty glance at his Daddy. He hadn’t noticed.

As they neared the field, Wheeler told the boy that he needed to turn over the soil and get the mounds ready for the peanuts. Bug was to wait in the wagon,  then he could come help plant.

Bug waited. He watched the sun come up, then turned his attention to the mules’ ears, watching them twitch, and he ate a peanut.  He examined an ant struggling with a bit of something bigger than he was, and he ate another peanut.  Time dragged by slowly and he ate another peanut.

Meanwhile, Wheeler was breaking up the sandy soil, making sure it was just right for planting.  He raked the soil into mounds where the peanuts would go.  He would show Bug how to push the nuts into the soil and cover them up.  An afternoon rain shower would be welcome and would provide the water for them to get a good start. He dusted off his hands and headed back to the wagon.

What was this?  Bug had been crying?  “What’s the matter, Son?” he asked.

“Oh, my sweet, precious, darling, little Daddy, I’ve done eat all your peanuts!”

And he nearly had!

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FYV Lesson 5: Photo Stories

Prompt 3 - Storytelling Photos

Here is a short story in photos  
             
                              The Deer Come

 

The scout approaches cautiously. She sees me through the glass door but does not leave. Ever vigilant, she moves toward the food. All is well.  She trusts.

She allows the young deer to come.

Another, then another warily come forward to feed.








And these - well, I think they each tell a story all their own.  Let me know what you think...

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FYV Lesson 5: When The Time Comes

When The Time Comes

The shaft of sunlight inched across the bed until it stabbed his eyes. He turned his head, not wanting to get up. He hurt. His muscles ached, his joints screamed with pain when he moved, his head felt too heavy to lift.  Then he remembered - today was the day...the time had come.

Slowly he ambled into the kitchen. “Good morning, Sunshine!” She smiled at him. “Got your breakfast ready.”  She put his breakfast down and kissed the top of his head. She sat down to eat, chatting about this and that, about the day ahead. He gazed at her, remembering the day they met, the years between then and now. He loved her. He loved everything about her – the way her hair curled up on the end, the bit of gray, the way her  eyes sparkled when she looked at him, the sound of her voice. He would miss her.

Too soon she was ready to leave. He walked her to the car. She turned and put her arm around him, “I have to stop at the grocery store after work, but I’ll be home in plenty of time for supper. You stay out of trouble.” She smiled. His heart ached.

He watched the car until it was out of sight. It was a beautiful day. The sky was such a bright blue and the clouds were so white and fluffy. He walked to the front yard. Past the bird bath where a vivid scarlet cardinal splashed. Past the rose bed and her red and pink and yellow roses. He remembered the day they planted them; well, the day she planted them. He had tried to help, especially with the digging, but she shooed him away and said she could do it by herself.

His gaze drifted across the road to the large empty field. One summer there was a tent revival there and they walked across the road to listen to the singing. What is it like to die, he wondered? Will I go to heaven like that preacher said? He didn’t know about those things; he wished he did.

In the back yard he thought about all the times they cooked supper on the deck. That was nice; especially afterwards when they just sat and enjoyed the summer night sounds. They had had a good life together, him and her. He hoped she would not be too upset with him.

He walked slowly up the path that led into the woods. That was one of their favorite things, walking through the forest together.  Shadows closed round him as he entered the cool darkness of the trees. Sounds of the birds and squirrels followed him down the familiar path. When he came to a fork, he turned and went away from their usual path.

He had found the place last fall. If you didn't know it was there, you wouldn’t find it, especially now that bushes covered it. He didn't want her to find him. He had to do this his way; it was better this way. There it was just ahead, just a small crevice between two boulders. He slipped inside.

Inside the small cave, it was dim, just a small bit of sunlight filtered through. At least here he would be dry if it rained, and it was cool.  Leaves had blown through the opening and covered the floor. He pushed them together to make a bed. There.

What is it like to die? Will there just be nothing or will I go to heaven? He was so tired. His legs throbbed from the walk, his muscles ached. He laid down on the bed of leaves, thankful for their comfort. When the time came - there was nothing left  now but to wait. He would think of her – remembering their time together - and wait. With a sigh, he laid his weary head down on his paws.

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FYV: Lesson 4 Sunny, Scrambled Sunday

Lesson 4: Prompt 3 Pick out two photographic storytelling styles and tell the same story using different styles.

                    Recipe: Scrambled Eggs

6 eggs 1/3 cup milk ¼ tsp salt ¼ tsp pepper
STEP 1     Break eggs into bowl.	STEP 2    Add milk, salt and pepper.
step 3   Mix eggs with fork or whisk.	STEP 4    Spray skillet with cooking spray. Heat skillet over medium heat.   Pour in egg mixture and immediately reduce heat to medium-low.
STEP 5    As eggs begin to set, gently move spatula across bottom and side of skillet to form large, soft curds. Cook until eggs are thickened.	STEP 6    Spoon into bowl and serve.

 And the story/photo part...

 The Guys' Sunny Scrambled Sunday

“Bub, it’s Guys’ Sunny Scrambled Sunday.  We’re making breakfast this morning,” Dad was shaking me to wake me up.

My  eyes flew open. I love Guys’ Sunny Scrambled Sundays! That means Dad and I  take over the kitchen and fix breakfast for the family.  I can almost make the scrambled eggs all by myself.

Maybe today I will!

In the kitchen, I washed my hands again.  You always have to wash your hands before you touch any food or cook anything. That was one of the first things Dad taught me.

“Dad, I’ve got the eggs. I don’t need any help.” Let’s see – get the stool and get the bowl. I can reach the eggs and other stuff – I mean ingredients – that go in the eggs.  I’m ready! Today, I am going to do this all by myself!

Careful, careful - break the first egg into the bowl. The first egg is always the hardest, you know. Once that one is in, somehow the others are easier.  Hey! I broke all the eggs and didn’t get any shell in the bowl!  Sometimes that happens, you know. Then you have to fish it out. When I was littler, I would be trying to get the shell out and forget about fixing the eggs! Now I just scoop it out!

                

OK, we measure the milk and pour it in the bowl. Then put in the salt and pepper. This is the  measuring spoon to use. Did you know that ¼ and ¼ was the same as ½ of a teaspoon; and that two of those was the same as 1 teaspoon?  

Now you just beat, beat, beat the eggs up!

	Now comes the best part. It’s a little scary being this close to the hot stove; Dad fixes the heat for me.

Now just pour the eggs into the pan and stir it till the magic happens.  Look!  The eggs turn into lumps!  They are scrambled eggs!  Now, just scoop the eggs out into the bowl and  they are sunny scrumptious ready to eat!
“Dad, are you finished? The eggs are ready.” It's a sunny, scrambled Sunday!    BREAKFAST, EVERYBODY!

                              

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FYV: Lesson 4 - Watermelon Time

Lesson 4  What is your storytelling style?
 This is Prompt 1. (Prompt 2 is with the main lesson plan.)
   http://gertiessimplethings.blogspot.com/2013/07/fyv-lesson-4-part-2.html

Prompt 1 (Crafting Based)

Pick out two different storytelling styles and tell the same story using different styles.

I had a lot of fun with this one.  It is just a fun, summer post.  Two storytelling styles - I chose photos and poetry.


                  Watermelon Time

What’s juicy, sweet,  a summer  treat

For cooling off in summer’s heat?

Here’s a clue – it’s green and round,

Thump it and it makes a sound.

You know it’s Watermelon!

Carve it open, salt all ‘round

Bite into the bright red mound,

Don’t need knife or spoon or fork,

Dig right in, don’t be a dork!

It’s good ol’ watermelon!

Icy cold, the juice runs down,

Spit the seeds upon the ground.

Young or old, it doesn't matter,

Eat your fill, you won’t get fatter.

It’s just water melon!   

 

If you eat it when you’re young,

The mem’ry stays upon your tongue,

And though the years may come and go,

You know you never will outgrow

Your love for watermelon!

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Lose your fear

“The one thing that you have that nobody else has is you. Your voice, your mind, your story, your vision. So write and draw and build and play and dance and live as only you can.”   Neil Gaiam

I love this quote!  There IS no wrong, so lose your fear of being wrong and do it!  

 

When I first decided I wanted to get in touch with my creative side, I didn't know where to start, and then I didn't want to do it wrong.  The perfectionist in me reared its ugly head and told me I wasn't creative - that nothing I did would be good enough.   The realist in me got busy and found me a quote - "To be creative, you must lose your fear of being wrong."  

So, a year later, am I an artist? a writer? a poet? Yes, I am - as only I can be!  Do I measure up to the likes of Monet, Dickens, Frost?  No, and I don't want to.  Am I having fun?  Absolutely!  So if putting your work out there gives you a moment's pause, stop comparing yourself to Monet. You are YOU, and your creation is a part of YOU.  It is wonderful - just like you are!

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FYV: Lesson 4: Domestic Goddess II

FYV:  Lesson 4  15 July 2013 What Is Your Storytelling Style?

Lesson 3: Prompt 2

Tell the same story using two different storytelling sSince I have posted one story “Reclaiming My House” in lesson 2, I have re-written it in a little different style.tyles.

Domestic Goddess

Domestic Goddess was not on her list of character traits. She couldn’t even classify as a Side-tracked Home Executive!  Madiho looked around the kitchen and hesitantly opened the door to the laundry room.  Unbelievable!  

What a mess!  No cute little elves had come to clean it!  Clothes were piled on every available surface - and the floor.  Tools spilled out of an open toolbox in one corner; a box of light bulbs teetered atop a pile of clean? dirty? clothes.  Cleaning supplies, old shoes, was this a bathing suit?  She reached up to move a quilt from a shelf and was startled as a black streak hurtled past, knocking her off balance.  “Macbeth!” She reached out to grab something – anything to steady herself.  Her hand grasped the edge of a basket and then she was falling …..

....

Slowly she raised herself to a sitting position and reached up to gently touch the goose egg rapidly forming on her head. “Ouch!” Her head hurt and she was dizzy. And what was she doing on the floor? - a stone floor at that!  Nothing looked familiar. She was in a large room that smelled of soap and  - wet clothes? Large black cauldrons and wooden wash tubs lined one wall. Baskets of clothes took up most of the floor space. “What a mess!”

Carefully she pulled herself to her feet and brushed off the gingham  apron. Gingham? Really?  Looking down, she giggled at the old-lady black lace up shoes on her feet. “This is too weird!” she muttered to herself.

“Madi? You in here?”  A young girl with long black hair and snappy dark eyes stuck her head in the door. She was dressed in a long homespun dress, covered with a gingham apon. “You cleaning? I’ll help you; I’m finished with the kitchen.”  She handed Madiho an empty basket, “You put all the  bed linens in this; I’ll just gather up this trash.”  Moving through a fog, Madiho picked up a bed covering that had fallen to the floor, then began to fill her basket. 

Her helper bustled around the room, chatting non-stop about people she didn’t know and things she didn’t understand. Whenever she had one basket filled, the girl handed her another one and pointed her to another task. Gradually the room began to take shape as they tackled the piles that surrounded them.

At long last, the girl stood in the center of the room, surveying their handiwork. She looked at Madiho and grinned. “Good job. You look like you could use a cup o’ tea. Come along.”  In the unfamiliar kitchen, Madiho watched as her new friend pulled a kettle of hot water off the spit in the large fireplace. In a short time she was sitting on the kitchen steps, a hot cup of tea in her hands.  She leaned against the wall, tired but surprisingly satisfied. Her friend's chatter turned into a constant buzzing and her eyelids drooped. She didn’t notice when the black haired girl took the cup from her hands.

..... 

 Madiho slowly opened her eyes as the sound of purring pulled her awake. She  was in the lounge chair on the deck; Macbeth, the black cat, settled on her chest, one yellow eye daring her to move.  “Ah, Mac, that was a good nap. Come on,  let’s go tackle that laundry room.”

“I never said I was a Domestic Goddess,”  Madiho remarked to the feminine shadow that flitted out of the corner of her eye.  She looked around the kitchen and with a grin,  opened the door to the laundry room. Unbelievable!

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