Today, instead of washing dishes, I did my laundry. Don’t you wish you could enjoy the same adventures i do.
Writers Weekly
I got my Writers Weekly email today. They are the ones who sponsor the writing contest. It looks as if results may be delayed. Angela and Richard’s daughter and her boyfriend were in a head-on collision. They are being cared for by the Hoys so some of their writing responsibilities have been put on hold. If you want to read the very moving story of what happened, check out
Scrabble
I’ve been playing a lot of Scrabble on my iPhone4 and mostly winning (41 of 45 with 1 draw or 91%). I guess it’s time to take the next step up in harder opponents, but if you know me, you know I HATE to lose.
There are three levels of player Easy, Normal and Hard. I’ve been playing the Normal one (called Norm1). Oh well, I guess if I start losing too much, I can go back to Norm1.
Writing Prompt: Open the box.
“Quick, Johnny, open the box.’ He was shaking it and listening to its contents, but for some reason just wasn’t opening it.
“What do you think it is?” he asked.
“The only way we’ll find out is if you open it.” I tried to grab it but he was too fast for me.
“Who do you think it’s from?” He peered at the return address label even though he couldn’t read anything except his name. He could tell the package was addressed to him.
“Let’s see,” I said, reaching once again for the elusive package.
He once again pulled the box back, holding it so I could see the return address label.
“It’s from Uncle Frank,” I said, squinting to make sure I was seeing correctly. “Why would he send you something?” I’m sure Johnny caught the implied “And not me.”
“I dunno,” he said as he carried the package over to the kitchen table and set it down as if it contained a dozen eggs.
He tried to push the string off the package, but was unable to do it. I reached in the junk drawer and found the scissors. “Here, try these.”
His fingers were so small he couldn’t make the scissors work right. I snatched them from his hand and quickly cut through the string.
He turned the box over the where the brown paper was stuck together with tape and lifted one edge of the tape, gently pulling it out so it wouldn’t tear. How different we are: I would have ripped the paper off the thing, whereas when Johnny got done the paper would be as intact as when Uncle Frank was wrapping it.
Inside the paper was a shoe box, tied together with more of the string Uncle Frank had used on the outside. Rather than let Johnny fumble with this string, I quickly snipped the string in two.
“What do you think it is?” Johnny looked at me, seeming almost afraid to look inside.
“Just open it,” I said.
He grasped opposite sides of the top and gently lifted the lid. Inside the box all you could see was more of the brown paper Uncle Frank had used to wrap the outside of the package.
By now, I was about ready to forget it all and just stomp off, but I’m glad I didn’t. Johnny reached in the box and lifted the contents using the ends of the brown paper. When he pulled back the brown paper, he revealed a number of sandy seashells individually wrapped in white tissue paper. A book about seashells was in the bottom of the box. Inside the book was a note from Uncle Frank.
He said he had picked up the shells himself while visiting Sanibel Island in Florida and that Johnny was to share them with his sister. We oohed and aahed as we unwrapped each shell from its tissue cushion. We looked through the book until we were able to identify each one.
In that box was the greatest treasure for two kids who had never been out of North Dakota. Those shells brought us as much warmth and sunshine as Uncle Frank enjoyed while he was walking on the beach picking them up.
Until next time…
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