All the birdseed that got flung onto the ground under the feeders and on the patio smells like socks, but I don't mind because that means the sun is out and the snow and ice is melting. Hooray!
Jennifer, I like your little piece. It's very vivid and says a lot with a few well-chosen words.
March 16--French School, The Traffic Problem in Paris. Sylvie sighed and lowered her great-grandmother's high school yearbook. Everything was so much cooler when Grandma Babe was her age. She loved the sleek waved hair and the long lines of the drop waist dresses. Even the shoes they wore to school made Sylvie wish she had been born a hundred years sooner. If she had been she would have been a young woman in the Roaring Twenties, like Babe. She'd have been a flapper too, binding her breasts with strips torn from old sheets to achieve the flat-chested look that was the style. She would have bobbed her hair, worn short skirts that barely covered her knees, and rolled her clock-embroidered stockings down over those rouged knees. Sylvie was she that she'd have had a boyfriend in a raccoon coat and porkpie hat who would serenade her while he strummed his ukulele, just like the stories her Grandma Babe had told from her bed in the nursing home. Sylvie had brought that same ukulele to the nursing home where Grandma Babe had taught her to strum and play "Speak to Me, Darling." They were a great hit at Talent Night last year. Sylvie missed her a lot.
This one took writing half a page of garbage to get to, but it makes me smile. I miss my
Grandma Babe, too, but Mom's got her uke.
--Barbara
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