The exercise:
Write four lines of prose about: the patch.
We have about 200 pounds of cherries, 50(!!) pints of strawberries, and other, less numerous things, to sell at the farmers market tomorrow morning. The forecast is currently calling for a 40% chance of rain, with not too much of it expected to fall.
I would very much like for that to become 0%, with a nice dose of sunshine to bring the crowds out. Please. And thank you.
Currently there is an impressive thunder and lightning storm going on outside, so hopefully the weather is just getting it all out of its system now. Also, the power has gone off and on three times in the last hour, so if this is late getting published, that'll be why.
Mine:
I have spent far, far too much time in our strawberry patch this week. Four hours on Monday, two more on Tuesday, another four on Wednesday, and at least six today (I refuse to make an accurate tally, for fear of losing my mind).
The only reason that I can stand up straight right now, rather than being confined to a wheelchair or permanently attached to a massage table, is that Kat is a trained yoga teacher who knows plenty of tricks to keep my back in shape.
9 comments:
I hope the rain holds off for you then. The storm sounds nice though!
I'm not sure I can imagine what 200lbs of cherries looks like but it sounds like it could be your entire stall when it's laid out for people to purchase. Fifty pints of strawberries is a bit easier, though I've never figured out why you'd use a liquid measure for irregular solids. Probably one of those traditional things from when scales were scarce :)
And yeah, it seems like yoga is something you'd have had to learn after picking all those strawberries even if Kat weren't a yoga teacher!
The patch
The lights went on as Charles Asciugimento, Head of Building Security, coughed politely; a signal Security Team Nehéz were waiting for. He looked around at the assembled Council of Nastiness, plus Red Lightbulb, and then stared more intently at the Green Lightbulb. Green squirmed as Charles's grey eyes seemed to bore right through him, and visibly jumped when Charles asked, "What is that on his face?"
"A soul patch," said Sylvestra quickly, adding, "if you shoot it, you kill his soul."
Michael was a good looking boy with big eyes and a broad smile. His almost feminine lashes attracted almost as much attention from the girls as it did derision from the boys. His inviting demeanor, however, belied a pugnacious sensitivity. His greatest Achilles was a small bald patch on the back of skull, a small rectangular palimpsest of childhood fear and violence that his sharp knuckles and boxy shoulders tried to deny.
http://teachingjournals.blogspot.com
A little trivia for you: In the Límon area of Costa Rica, Patuá (also known as Patios) is typically pronounced as 'patch' and is spoken just as frequently as Spanish.
-----
I looked at the young man in his pressed suit as he gestured knowledgeably down the street. He was incredibly handsome, looked very successful, and I loved the sound of his voice. When he looked back in my direction, I smiled foolishly and walked in the direction he had pointed. I was going to need to learn to speak Patch if I wanted to survive here .
Greg - yeah, it's enough that we have to keep some of it under the table until enough's sold that we can top up/replace what's already been put out.
Oh my goodness, Green with a soul patch. Now there's a mental image.
Nick - hell and welcome! Thanks for sharing your writing with us :)
That's an intriguing character you've introduced us to. I'd love to hear more of Michael's story.
Heather - ah yes, Jamaica has Patois as well. I'd not heard of that pronunciation before though!
So did you pick some of it up while you were away?
"Hell and welcome" – now there's a greeting that makes you sound like to belong to an nineteenth century London Gentlemen's club! I might borrow that and start using it myself, actually. (And now I plan to do that, I realise it definitely sounds like something Ben or Red might say).
@Heather: I've heard of Patuá but I didn't know it was also called Patios, or would have guessed that it was pronounced Patch. Thank-you :)
(Marc, you're tired I think; Patois is a dialect language, but Patios is the place name).
The Patch
She was always going to name her ten acres, The Patch, but as it turned out her building plans were scrapped and she sold up. She had to move north to take care of her ageing parents.
I’m sure some little piece of her heart had been broken by this move but, ever the Warrior, she soldiered on.
Dad died, leaving mum actually quite capable of looking after herself so, with a job transfer, she moved back to her home state.
Her life soared. She met new people, joined new groups, acquired new skills, one of which was coast guard. You never know what drives you until you dig deep.
One day, something beckoned. She’d spent months googling for it, scanning the real estate pages in a treasure hunt for her own patch of earth she could call home.
There it was, around the corner from her original block. This patch of good, green earth already had a house, shed and fencing on it. Nothing to do, well, almost nothing.
“Just buy it”, a little voice urged from within.
She did.
The Patch now matches her new business making patchwork quilts.
You never know what opportunities lay ahead, do you? You just have to give it a go.
Greg - ugh. Yes, obviously too tired to be allowed anywhere near this blog.
Writebite - love that final paragraph. More people need to give it a go.
The Patch
Keith ran in the front door his sneakers squeaking and squealing as he skid across the foyer floor and slid down the hall, racing his way to the kitchen.
“Mom! Mom!”
“Keith! What’s the matter?” mom asked as she appeared at the end of a short hall that marked the entrance to the kitchen.
Keith charged into her wrapping his arms around her thighs and hugging her tightly.
“Mom! Look what I got!” Keith erratically waved a small piece of what looked like fabric in front of his mothers face. “Isn’t it great?”
Mom tried to read the writing on the small patch her son held tightly in his little hands but it was moving too fast to make any sense of it.
It was then that Dad entered. Mom looked up at him and smiled.
Dad smirked and then started to speak. “He earned his Boy Scout badge for blueberry picking today honey. It was all he could talk about the whole way home.”
Mom’s eyes grew wide as she looked first to her son and then to her white pants. She sighed. “Oh, Yes Sweetheart, it’s fantastic!”
Morrigan - haha, white pants and blueberry hands do not make good companions :)
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