A Poem

I feel as though I have been writing almost everyday for the past month or so. I really haven't, but at times it sure feels like it. This week I wrote the next "letter" for my book, wrote my "marshmallow thief update" for the Pickwick, wrote a little more on a "just for fun" story, and I still have two CPA reports to write, plus my CPA essay, the next part of "Meleah's Western" (don't you like my title?), another "letter", and get ready for my first class that I am teaching writing to on Monday! I knew I was busy.:) But what do I post today? Let me go see what I can find in my files. . . . I found a poem for you. I wrote this two years ago. Sorry there's no picture. I hope to have a story of some kind next week. What do you want? Another "calendar story," a part of my book, another part to "Meleah's Western," or something else. If something else, please say what.:) I won't promise, but I'll try.:)

Now enjoy the poem.

The Old Porch Swing

Fondly I gaze
As I swing to and fro,
At the beauty before me
On the flowers that grow.

The warm summer breezes
How gently they blow,
And they sway the old porch swing
As if they did know,

That the memories they bring,
And that over me flow
Are the sweet days of childhood
I spent swinging to and fro.

So I sit here and dream
Of the times long ago
On the dear old porch swing
As I sway to and fro.

Its NOT FRIDAY!

I know, I missed Friday! I didn't post anything! I have broken my record! But as fast as the days are flying, it will be Friday again before I know it. So, I think I'll wait until then to post a new story. Until then.

The Race Won By Inches

I know it is not Friday, but I'm not sure what I will be doing in the morning, so I thought I'd just go ahead and post this tonight. I guess that means that any of you who get on the computer late at night instead of early in the morning will get a chance to read it first.:) This was also a "writing assignment." But don't worry, it is not about elephants.:) Enjoy!

The Race Won By Inches
by Rebekah Morris

One beautifully sunny morning, Cecil Centipede stopped to laugh at Inez Inch Worm slowly inching himself along the ground.
“Ha, ha!” he jeered. “You are so slow! You can’t even make it across the sidewalk before I have crossed it ten times! You are the pokiest, loiteringest, slowest insect I have ever seen!” He continued to taunt as Inez humped along.
Now Inez was growing irritated because Cecil Centipede kept bugging him day after day about his speed. That morning was the last Inez Inch Worm could tolerate.
“Would you like to race?” he questioned, pausing half way across the sidewalk.
“Race!” Cecil howled with laughter. “You’re not just slow, you’re stupid too. Ha, ha! Sure I’ll race. I’ll be at the finish line before you have even started! Ho, ho!” Cecil acceped the race as a joke because he thought it would be no contest.
Well, the race was planned. Spencer Spider and Anthony Ant were finally chosen to act as the judges, and the race course was carefully chosen. The day of the race was perfect, not too hot or too cold.
“Racers, take your places!” Anthony Ant bellowed. “On your mark, get set, GO!”
The race had begun! Right from the start Cecil Centipede took the lead; his hundred legs working so fast that the onlookers could scarcely see them. Inez Inch Worm was soon left in the dust, slowly but steadily humping his way along the track.
Cecil was gloating to himself as he ran of how easy this race was when all of a sudden one of his legs became tangled with another, and before he could stop, he fell. There he lay, his hundred legs all hopelessly tangled in one great big knot! How he squirmed. How he wriggled. But the more frantically he tried to free them, the more impossibly tangled they became. He comforted himself, however, with the thought that Inez was so far behind that he would never catch up.
Inching down the track, Inez spied the tangled legs of Cecil off to one side. He decided not to say anything, but continued on his way one inch at a time. Before long the finish line was reached and cheers erupted on all sides.
“Inez Inch Worm wins the race!” shouted Spencer Spider. “Three cheers for the winner!”
The exuberant cheers reached the ears of Cecil Centipede just as he finally succeeded in freeing the last of his legs. He leaped to his feet and raced to the finish line.
“I demand a re-race!” he shouted indignantly, but no one heard him.
Thus it was that inch by inch Inez the Inch Worm won the now famous and much talked of race.

The End

Part 2 of no title

Here it is, Meleah. Just for you. I tried to answer your questions. For those of you who haven't read the first part of this story, or can't remember it, it was the very first story I posted back in January. Sorry, I have no idea how to link back to that, so I guess you'll just have to go to January and find the story with no title. If anyone comes up with a title for this, I'd love to hear it! It is a little awkward to say, "That story I first posted, you know, the one about those guys and they were in a hurry to get somewhere..." So I assume you are ready for the story. Here it is.

Part 2

The cabin had only one room, lighted on one side by a glowing fire and a few candles. The other side was shrouded in darkness and a rough bed was to be seen in the corner, a still form lying under the bed clothes.
The wind was heard whistling outside around the cabin, and Sally shivered a moment in Ty’s arms.
“I thought you’d never come,” she whispered. “Oh Ty, its been so very long.”
Ty released himself gently from the girl’s hands and returned the gun to its holster before saying anything, and then his tones were low,
“I didn’t intend for it to be this way. How’s Pa?” He glanced over at the bed as he spoke.
“Very weak.”
Ty moved slowly over to the bed and gazed in silence at the thin, rough face of the man who was his father. It had been two years. Two long years since he had left that cabin and joined Carson in a adventurous trek farther west into the Nevada territory. Little did he dream at that time how long it would be before he saw either his father or sister.
The man stirred and called feebly, “Sally.”
“Yes, Pa,” the girl answered quickly, “I’m here. And Pa, Ty is home.”
Slowly the sick, old man opened his eyes. His gaze wandered around the room, coming at last to rest on the rugged, bearded face of his son. “Ty, that you?”
“Yes Sir. I’ve come home.”
“Sally told me you’d come, an’ I didn’t doubt it. . . The Good Lord has been right kind. . . to me an’ I. . . prayed you’d make it home in time. . . to hear. . .” the older man’s feeble voice faded, and his eyes closed once more as he fell asleep, worn out after only a few words.
“That’s how he’s been for days now,” whispered Sally. “He hasn’t the strength to talk for more ‘n a few sentences ‘fore he goes to sleep once more.”
The brother and sister moved softly away from the bed. The girl ,struggling to keep the tears from her eyes, stirred the pot over the fire and then sank drearily onto an old log hewn bench.
Ty, taking off his coat and hat, hung them on a peg near the door. His movements were quiet yet an alertness not seen in his earlier riding, was visible. His keen gaze swept the cabin from one rough log side to the other taking in each small detail. His quick ear was the first to catch the sound of his companion’s footsteps in the snow before they reached the cabin. With the opening of the door, a blast of frigid, snow laden wind entered nearly blewing Carson into the room and snuffing the candles’ flickering flames. Ty hurriedly pushed the door shut, slipping the latch over it to secure it from the wind.
“Tain’t much feed fer the horses, but I reckon the storm ain’t gonna last too long.” Carson spoke with a softer voice than usual for he too had noticed the bed with it’s quiet occupant.
Sally filled a small tin cup with broth before motioning the two travelers to eat. This they obeyed at once, for such a long hard ride had stirred up quite an appetite in them.
Nothing was said in that dim cabin. The whistling of the wind round the chimney sounded as though it would gladly tear the old cabin down to get at those within its walls. Anyone who had not been used to the roaring and sighing would have been quite fearful. As it was, no one so much as noticed it save for an occasional glance now or then at some particular strong gust.
“Sally,” the sick man’s voice sounded from the bed.
Ty arose, followed his sister to the bed, and lifted with gentle hand the gray head of the father as Sally spooned some warm broth into his mouth.
“Ty, get the . . . pouch . . . hangin’ by my gun,” the voice was low but insistent.
Ty strode across the room to the door over which the rifle was hanging and lifted the old leather pouch. Placing it in his father’s hand he waited in silence.
“Get the Good Book, Child,” and Sally stumbled to a shelf and brought back the Family Bible, playing it gently on the bed at her father’s side.
It was several minutes before the old man spoke again.
“All these years . . . find her. You must!” In his excitement the father raised himself up and grasped Ty’s hand with a vise like grip. “Ty, promise me you’ll find her! Promise... promise...”
“I promise.” Ty assured quickly, trying to ease the old man back onto the pillow. “I’ll find her.”
The hold relaxed and the tired eyes closed. The face was white, and the breaths came in gasps from colorless lips for a few minutes then steadied into the slow breathing of the sleeping.
The young man turned at last with set face. “Who am I to look for?”
Sally shook her head. “I don’t know,” she choked over a sob. “I sometimes think his mind ain’t right. He’s never told me ‘bout any person needin’ found. In fact he never talked of anyone ‘cept you since he took sick.”
The night wore on. The storm raged with unabated fury through the woods and around the little cabin. Inside all was still. Carson slept, rolled in a blanket on one side of the darkened room. Sally sat on her little bench near the fire. Sat and thought, cried a little when she thought of her father and slept, then awakened and thanked God that Ty was home. As for that young man, he didn’t sleep. He spent most of the time sitting beside his father’s bed in silence. It was good to be back home again.


Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. Since April of 1994 I have read a total of 770 new books. Anna, you were certainly the closest.:)

Mr. Pickup's Problem

Friday is here again already. I don't know where the days go, but I seem to have misplaced a few. Has anyone seen any stray days hanging around? I was able to get something a little more interesting than a paragraph about elephants ready this time.:) This is a short children's story I wrote. I am looking for someone to draw some pictures for it. If anyone is interested, I'd love to see what you come up with. Perhaps someday I will publish it. Right now it will just sit in my notebook and in a file on the computer. But, if you got on here, it wasn't to read my ramblings, was it? Okay here is the story. Enjoy!

Mr. Pickup’s Problem
by Rebekah Morris

Once upon a time, in a small town somewhere in the world, lived a man. His name was Mr. Pickup. Now Mr. Pickup owned a small store in the center of town where he sold many useful and some not so useful things.

One morning as Mr. Pickup walked to his store, he stopped to look at someone moving into the the shop next door. He paused for a few minutes to watch the men working.
“Hmm,” he said to himself, “they seem to have the same things that I sell.”

All during that day, Mr. Pickup wondered about the store next door.

The next morning as Mr. Pickup walked to his store, he stopped and his eyes opened wide as he looked at the shop next to his. It had a large sign over the door which read: “Best Buy.”
“Oh no,” Mr. Pickup thought, “what can I do?”

All that day he thought about that store beside his and wondered what to do.

The next morning as Mr. Pickup walked to his store, he stopped, his eyes opened wide, and he whistled as he looked at someone else moving into the shop on the other side of his store. On looking closely, he realized that they too had the same things he sold in his store.
“Oh no! What am I going to do now? Mr. Pickup thought.
All that day he thought about the new store and wondered what to do about the sign on the first store.

The next morning as Mr. Pickup walked to his store, he stopped, his eyes opened wide, he whistled and shook his head as he looked at the new store. The new store had an even larger sign over it’s door which read: “Lowest Prices.”

All that day Mr. Pickup sat alone in his store and wondered what he could do about the first store. And he wondered what he could do about the second store. And he wondered what he could do about their signs. He thought and thought.

He was still thinking as he walked home to his house. He thought as he ate his dinner. He thought as he got into bed and turned out the light.
Suddenly, a wonderful idea came to him, and he bounced out of bed. Not waiting to get dressed, he ran out to his garage and started working. He worked hard.

In the morning Mr. Pickup walked to his store. He was earlier than he had ever been. He didn’t stop, his eyes didn’t open wide, he didn’t whistle and he didn’t shake his head, but he got out his ladder and put up his own sign. In letters larger than the other signs were the words: “Main Entrance.”
All that day Mr. Pickup didn’t have time to wonder and think about the two other stores. He was very busy all day long. Mr. Pickup had solved his problem.

The End

Expertly Trained Elephants

Here it is Friday again, and I don't have any short story ready for you. I have been doing a ton of writing, but none on my book this week. I had an assignment for my "Teaching Writing" course I am doing, so I thought I would post that. No one will probably be interested in reading it, but as hardly anyone comments anyway, I wouldn't know if my posts even get read.:) (hint, hint) Seeing that the assignment was to be about elephants, I didn't have much choice when I wrote. However, I did manage to get all six dress-ups in as well as all six sentence openers and even managed to get at least two triples.:) If the paragraph seems a little over done, it is because I used everything instead on only some.:) And now with no more delay, here it is.

Expertly Trained Elephants
by Rebekah

Domesticated elephants can learn anything they are taught. Before an elephant can learn however, he must first be caught and domesticated. Humans might dig pits to catch them, or use fire, guns or loud frightening noises to drive the wild elephants into an enclosure. Training them to fight in human wars can be traced back to olden times when Hannibal overwhelmed and terrified the Europeans with his superbly trained elephant cavalry. Although elephants were taught to help batter forts in war, they also helped build them in peace. Asiatic elephants were used for transportation because of their great strength. Their great Herculean strength equals fifty horses. They are used in logging as well. Skillful men cut. Mighty elephants haul. Faithfully all contribute. Over the years, domesticated elephants who were wisely, expertly and cleverly trained for many different tasks have clearly leaned them well.


Now, you have either read the above short paragraph and thought "Surely she could do better than that," or you just skipped it thinking, "I don't what to read about elephants." But then, probably no one is even reading this. I feel as though I am rambling on to myself. I do like talking to myself, but not as well as I like talking to others.:) But be that as it may, I do have a question for you, just in case you do decide to read this.
How many "new" books do you think I have read since April 1994? By "new" books I mean books that I had never read before, be they old or new. Believe it or not, I have kept a list of each "new" book I have read since April 1994. Of course this list does not include all the books I read and re-read once, twice, five or ten times, nor does it include all the books I have skimmed but not read all the way though. Take a guess. I'll tell you the answer some other time.:)

"Home Fires of the Great War" . . .

As you can see, I decided to change the look of my blog. I just wanted to play with it. I really wasn't sure what I was doing, so I hope it looks okay.:)
I thought it was time I posted another bit from my book for you. This is from one of the "letters" I have just written. This was written by Emma in October 1917.


. . .Daddy’s visit was wonderful but much too short. He had to go back on Tuesday. He doesn’t have any idea when they will be shipped out. In some ways I think it is harder now to have Daddy gone after he was home, than it was when he left the first time. Why is that? Perhaps it is because at first we were stirred by all the news of patriotism, and now the reality of it all has sunk in. Whatever the reason, it was harder to say good by. Perhaps it is also the fact that we know Daddy could be shipped over to France any time now, while before, he was just going to a training camp.
I was so shocked to hear of Kent’s death! Poor Mary Jane! This war is really becoming more and more real. How many blue stars now hanging in windows will be gold before the war is over? Will ours be gold? Maybe that is really the reason it was harder when Daddy left this time. Deep down inside I wonder if... But I won’t even think it. . . .

. . . “Would you four older ones please sing “Keep the Home Fires Burning” for me?” Mama asked looking into the dying flames.
David hummed a note and then at his nod, we began:

“They were summoned from the hillside;
They were called in from the glen,
And the Country found them ready
At the stirring call for men.
Let no tears add to their hardship,
As the Soldiers pass along,
And although your heart is breaking,
Make it sing this cheery song. . . .


Keep the Home fires burning...”

That last word “home” seemed to linger in the air around us as we ended. Someday this war will be over. And if we aren’t to meet here in our earthly home, we will meet in our heavenly one. The fire was not more than glowing embers with an occasional flame here or there. The cold could be felt, and though I had my coat on, I shivered.
Edmund glanced over at me before he spoke, “I hate to mention it, but it is getting late, and the wind is rather chilly to keep the younger ones out in it much longer. Besides, I don’t think I could sing another note.” . . .

Well, what did you think? Would you like me to keep putting bits of my book up?