Tuesday August 30th, 2016

The exercise:

Write two haiku about: running away.

Actually managed to get the 72 ears of corn that were ordered for today. A few extra, even, as the birds have been getting into them so I wanted to make sure the big order had a few extra to make up for it. It would seem that Max has been slacking on his scarecrow duties.

Took a trip across the border this afternoon to pick up several packages, including a highchair for Miles and some groceries for the family. Also a couple things for Max, but I'll wait until I can share a picture before talking about that bit.

Back to the bakery tomorrow morning.

Mine:

My bags are packed, I'm
ready to go; now to make
sure nobody knows...

*     *     *

Enough was enough
a long time ago, but now
she gets it at last

Monday August 29th, 2016

The exercise:

Write about: the doodle.

I can't believe we've almost reached September already. Doesn't seem right to me. At all.

Got back to the job search this morning. Nothing promising yet, but trying to remain positive and hopeful.

Harvesting corn tomorrow morning for local orders. Like, all of whatever is ready. We had someone order five dozen ears, which I don't think I'm going to be able to manage. But I do plan on giving it my best shot.

Mine:

The drawing was found crumpled up into a jagged ball in the garbage can at the back of the garage. Just a messy doodle done in red and black crayon. Officer Westbrook discovered it, I think. Maybe Officer Whittaker. I'm always mixing those two up.

Anyway. Whoever it was that found it didn't think much of it at first. Probably figured it was a neighbour's kid who'd done it. The deceased found it blowing across his yard, maybe, and just tossed it in the trash.

But then somebody must have pointed out that the neighbour's don't have any kids. In fact, nobody on the whole block has kids.

That's when they called me in.

Who did it? they asked. And, more importantly, What the hell is it supposed to be?

The implications were easy enough to determine, even though nobody dared to speak them aloud: had the Crayon Kid come out of retirement to strike once again? And if so, would he dare to continue his dreadful work or was this simply one, sick, twisted finale?

Except we all knew that it was him. And, worse, we all knew the answer to that second question was that people like the Crayon Kid never stopped until somebody stopped them.

Somebody like me.

Sunday August 28th, 2016

The exercise:

Write about: chaos effect.

Max and I cleared off the deck this morning before giving it a good wash with the hose and scrubber. We took turns with each tool, both to give him a break from squeezing the nozzle on the hose and to make sure the whole thing generally got done properly.

This evening we met up with the farm family at the beach for a picnic dinner. Lots of fun but, oddly enough, the drive home was the highlight of the night for me...

Mine:

We left the beach around seven o'clock, as Miles needed to go to sleep. Which meant that he was pretty fussy and not interested in having to drive before being put to bed.

Kat started singing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star to try to calm him down shortly after we started driving. I joined in and we went through it several times with some success.

Then, out of nowhere, Max decides to start singing his ABCs. Kat and I laughed, but she managed to continue with the song that she'd started with. Max laughed and kept going with his song. It took me a little longer to recover.

And then I decided to start singing Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.

Max thought that was hilarious.

Kat hit me.

I choose to be encouraged by the first reaction and quite entirely ignore the second. So we drove the rest of the way home with each of us trying (with varying degrees of success) to sing our own songs.

The end result was Miles getting home without too much fussing. Not the least bit sleepy, but I was happy to take what I could get.

Max, to my great surprise, was very sleepy. To the point that he insisted I carry him from the car to the house. I even got him to sleep before Kat got Miles to sleep.

And, as I sit here typing this, the whole thing still brings a smile to my face.

Saturday August 27th, 2016

The exercise:

Write a four line poem about: mold.

Market got off to a slow start this morning but did pick up to a pretty steady pace. In the end I came back home with 4 of the 16 crates of Galas I'd brought, 1 of the 4 crates of McIntosh, .5 of the 4 crates of Honey Crisp, a couple pounds of plums, and a handful of peaches. Didn't bring any corn to the market, as the first planting is done and the second one isn't quite ready yet.

It was manageable on my own, though change was getting a little dicey at several points. My float starts out with $26 in coins and at the end of the market I had about $5 in coins in the cash box. If I'd had someone with me I'd have definitely gone for a run to the bank to get more, but it ended up being okay.

Looking forward to a day off with family tomorrow.

Mine:

These apples look moldy,
She said with a frown.
I struggled to smile
And resist throwing down...

Final customer of the day, as I was packing up the truck about 15 minutes after closing. She was looking at the Honey Crisp, which honestly don't look all that great (they're difficult to grow in this heat). I informed her it was just the remnants of a calcium spray.

The implication that I would sell moldy apples, however, was absolutely infuriating.

Friday August 26th, 2016

The exercise:

Write four lines of prose about: Lackadaisical Larry.

Who's that, you ask? You tell me. Well, I have a few ideas about this guy, but I'm interested in seeing your interpretations as well.

Going to the market tomorrow with three different varieties of apples (McIntosh, Gala, and Honey Crisp), along with a couple crates of plums, a few crates of leftover peaches, and hopefully some corn (Kat's dad will check what's ready tomorrow morning before I hit the road).

Doing it by myself again, so hopefully things go smoothly. And successfully, ideally.

Mine:

"The brakes are seeming pretty... unresponsive."

"Which mechanic did the tune-up on this rig for you?"

"Uh, some old guy named Larry."

"Oh no, not Lackadaisical Larreeeeeeeeeeeeeee..."

Thursday August 25th, 2016

The exercise:

On this, the 3,000th day in a row of Daily Writing Practice, we write about: the guardians.

Inspired by my finally getting around to watching Guardians of the Galaxy on Netflix over the course of a couple nights this last week. Good fun.

Bakery was significantly quieter than it has been this morning. The opening lineup actually fit inside the shop, and we had lots of cinnamon buns left for most of the morning. And they were still open when I left at quarter after twelve!

I guess we're starting to get into the quieter time of year, as tourists head home and students prepare to return to school.

Although not all that quiet - all that was on the shelves when I headed for home was about ten loaves of bread and one macaroon.

Mine:

I have been feeling... conflicted, these past few weeks. The work that I do has not changed... yet, somehow, it feels different now. Or, at least, I feel differently about it.

Do the others feel this way? Have they felt it too? We've worked together so long now, we know each other so well. If they are not experiencing this... shift... then surely they have noticed the shift within me.

Hesitation has crept into actions that required none before. I carry so much guilt around with me that it must alter the way I speak, walk, sleep... the way I shoot.

My aim is not what it used to be. I could blame it on age finally catching up with me. But that would just be another lie. I have already collected enough of those to last two life times. I am done with them.

So what is the truth? I am a member of this team of guardians. We still guard this place. We keep the people here safe.

But who are they, really? Do they deserve to be kept safe? What have they done that makes others wish them so much ill that they require our presence and protection? Am I a good guy, a hero? I had always thought so.

Recently, however, I have begun to feel much more like a villain...

Wednesday August 24th, 2016

The exercise:

Write something which involves: the lighthouse.

Had a short shift (8 to 11) at the bakery this morning, as a new person was being trained to take over the full-time position starting in September (when Mary goes back to school). As a first shift back after vacation, it worked out pretty well for me.

This afternoon I picked corn from the garden and collected some McIntosh apples from the cooler for the lone local customer who put in an order this week. Who then proceeded to arrive late to pick her stuff up.

I'm about done with local orders. You know, in case I haven't mentioned that yet.

Mine:

I watch the storms come.

Black clouds roll in from the horizon, an unstoppable avalanche of Atlantic fury. The waves reach higher, frothing at the mouth as they crash towards my shore. Screaming winds urge them onward. The air is electric and heavy with the promise of that which shall arrive all too soon.

I watch the storms rage.

Rain lashes against my walls and windows, seeking an opening into my sanctuary. Winds wish to topple me to the rocks which surround me. Lightning flashes. Again. And again. And again. Thunder rattles my bones.

I watch the storms go.

My waters, now filled with debris, return to soft rolling sighs, their tantrums quickly forgotten. The air is made new once more. Sunshine parts the clouds and brings with it warmth and the tentative calls of the birds who, like me, call this place home.

I am the keeper.

I keep the light on, burning bright in the deepest darkness. I keep ships and sailors safe, warning them away from my deadly, treacherous rocks. I keep this tower strong, forever reaching for the sky. Forever standing against the storms.

I am eternal.

I must be. For there is no one waiting to take my place.