The Footbridge - Kathy

 playing with poetry and repetition...

The Footbridge

By: Kathy Heim

Every time we pass the footbridge

By the pond where ducks and turtles 

Sun on cement drains, 

Molly lunges at the leash, pulling

Towards the sculpture of The Stages of Life.

Every time we pass the footbridge,

When the air is warm, but the grass is wet,

And a mid morning sun casts shadows,

She checks for muddy water, stagnant and waiting

For her to plunge in, her squatty body Wiggling

Stooping chest high.  She hides behind the 

Silky overgrown grass, stays for a satisfying soak.

Every time we pass the footbridge

Where the only sounds are occasional commuter trains, 

Chirping birds, or quacks of a duck, Molly laps at 

Unfiltered water under The Stages of Life.  

Every time we pass the footbridge, 

Molly hops out, a shaking muddy mess,

Prancing, she returns to the path towards home.  

Clicking with each footstep, sniffing each chance,

Enjoying the sun on her back.

Every time we pass that footbridge, 

I wonder, will she grow 

Out of this stage of life?

10 Minute Writing Exercise #1 - Marc

10 Minute Writing #1

Wreck of the Hesperus - Marc

 Anaphora-  by Marc

“I feel like the Wreck of the Hesperus.” which is something my dad would way when he didn’t feel well.

The Wreck of Hesperus; what an odd thing to say, I often thought as a child.

The Wreck of the Hesperus; as an older child, I thought that perhaps dad was quite mad for saying it.

The Wreck of the Hesperus; why would anyone use that analogy to describe not feeling well?

The Wreck of the Hesperus; in hindsight, dad was self educated, and a prolific reader.

The Wreck of the Hesperus; perhaps it was a story of some sort?

The Wreck of the Hesperus; why would I think about that now, dad has been gone for 34 years.

The Wreck of Hesperus; Damn it, now I’m curious about where it came from.

The Wreck of the Hesperus; tells a story of a daughter and her father who die when their ship sinks in a storm.

The Wreck of the Hesperus; has nothing to do with felling ill.

The Wreck of the Hesperus; perhaps dad was quite med.

10 Minute Writing #2 Marc

 10 Minutes Writing Exercise #2   by Marc

Luis had been in the U.S. for a year, having snuck across the Southern Border one moonlit night. He believed that any country foolish enough not to patrol their borders deserved to have happen to them what he and his colleagues had planned.

The day had finally arrived, and the plans had been finalized. Luis had the van gas tank filled yesterday, and double checked the explosives in the back of the van.

He was willing to give his life up for the cause that he believed in, just hoping to take as many Godless Americans with him.

So easy, so easy he thought, as he rode towards his target. 

His GPS led him into the community, and he soon spotted the children and their parents walking toward the large tent, where Halloween treats awaited.

He gunned the engine, mowing down innocents as he roared toward the tent, thinking;

“God is great!”

10 Minute Writing #3 Marc

 10 Minute Writing Exercise #3    by Marc

“God damn it, these illegal immigrants are killing our business,” Luis yelled.

Marisol had heard this rant many times before. They owned the Te Amo Bodega on the corner of 113th Street and Arlington Ave. in the Bronx. Six months ago, the immigrants, or as Luis like to call them, the illegal cockroaches had started to arrive. At first, it was mostly women and young children, and Marisol helped these poor, lost families with food when she could.

But these had been placed in housing in Manhattan, replaced by restless, young single men. There was no place for the men, and many of them were sleeping on the sidewalks at night, and simply hanging out in front of storefronts during the day. Marisol remembered what her mother had said to her years back;

“Men, without women to civilize them, will always end up in trouble.”

The relationship between Luis and the crowd camping out in front of the Bodega had deteriorated, and Marisol was concerned.

The sound of shouting awakened her from her daydreaming, and she rushed to the sidewalk, where Luis and a group of men were arguing.

“Luis,” she cried, 

“Come inside.”

But it was too late, as the shovel crashed into Luis’s head, and the men rushed the store.

10 minute writing #4 Marc

 10 Minute Writing Exercise #4         by Marc

Marisol held her infant close to her breast. At least she is getting enough nourishment she thought. There was so much concerning her. Would her hunger ever subside? What would happen to her and her baby when the cold weather arrived? It was bad enough that the only shelter they had was a tarp to cover them at night and when it rained. And she didn’t want to recall the personal degradation she had endured to get it. Living on the sidewalk in this foreign city was not what she had imagined when she and the baby crossed the southern border months ago. The shopkeepers hated her and the others, whose only home was on the sidewalk in front of their shops.

Marisol didn’t understand how a country that welcomed immigrants, legal or not, could be so cruel as to not care as to what happened to them when they arrived. We are transparent she thought, the unseen and unheard, and sobbed softly.

But the rain had started, so she and her dear, dear child huddled under their tarp.

Waifs - Marc

 WAIFS

By: Marc

Grainy photographs of children

with hollow eyes

Make me want to reach out 

    grab them

And ask how they found

limbo

Silk, By Marc

  Haiku-  by Marc

SILK

Silk is like dancing

Closely with you at sunrise

The sea our witness

The Waiting Room - Marc

 THE WAITING ROOM

By: Marc

The door moaned its’ protest

when opened

Like a cranky old man given

a reason to complain

Leading into the room

of shadows

Lined with wooden chairs

built to cause pain

Pale adults stare

suddenly neglecting

Magazines they weren’t reading

their eyes dissecting

And when I’m certain the stillness

will become a grave

A nurse calls me, like an angel

She leads me away to save

Baba Yaga's Hut = Marc

 Baba Yaga's Hut  By Marc

 Just playing around with short poetry - 

Cinquain (2.4.6.8.2)

Fall

Golden
Little pendants
Floating on the way down
Nourishing new life for the next  
Springtime

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Haiku  (5,7,5)

My Man

The only man for

Me is a boy at heart who

Protects my heart, too

Three Paths

Three paths show me how

Past, present, and future tell

The story of me

—-------------------------------------------------------------------

Triad 

(2,4,6,8,2 format) Comparing 3 different, but connected ideas/things/concepts

In the Night

Cries shriek

After a score,

Bats soaring in night sky,

Teenage girls at a Swift concert

Then still

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Free Verse

Christmas Dreams

My parent’s living room
Orange shag carpet and 
Wood grain paneling, 

visits me In late night 

dreams covering me

With the warmth of childhood..

Visions of holiday tree lights

Cast a warm glow 

through the night

I sleep wrapped in a 

crocheted blanket

All by myself 

as my family sleeps in their own beds.

The Tragic Legacy of Carmen and Kyle, By Nez

 The Tragic Legacy of Carmen and Kyle

Freddy's Christmas Present - Nez

 Freddy’s Christmas Present

By Nez Nesmith

Christmas 1953. Freddy got a new pellet rifle for Christmas. He was really excited. It was exactly

what he wanted for Christmas. It was a really nice one. Freddy had dreamed about the new rifle

since he saw it in the new Sears Catalog. He had shown its picture to his dad. Dad had not been

very enthusiastic. Mom was certainly unenthusiastic. Yet here it was. It was an air rifle with a

lever pump action, so he could pump it up for more power and distance. He couldn’t wait to

show it to his friends when he got back home.

When Christmas dinner was over at his grandparents’ house Freddy got dad’s permission to

take his new rifle outside and try it out. He a whole box of pellets. His dad cautioned him about

being responsible with the rifle. “Remember, it’s just target practice. Nothing live,” dad said.

Freddy put some cans and bottles on fenceposts, took aim from about 20 yards away and hit all

of them on his first try. “Just like my BB gun”, he thought. He moved further away, and his

results were the same. He knew he was a perfect shot. He could hit anything. He decided that

stationary targets weren’t much fun. He really wanted to try to hit something that was moving,

maybe a rat, a squirrel or a rabbit or opossum.

Freddy went to his grandpa’s barn and made noise hoping to scare a rat or something out from

hiding. No luck. Probably wouldn’t find a rabbit or squirrel either, just machinery. Too cold.

Besides they probably wouldn’t be in the barn. Leaving the barn Freddy headed for the chicken

house. Maybe he would scare out a rat or something there. In the chicken house he found

dozens of chickens, some in their nests, others strutting about, clucking and eating from their

feeders. Wow! He didn’t know grandpa had so many chickens. He just knew that grandpa

wouldn’t even notice if he shot a couple, so he shot three strutters. Dead. Oh! Freddy decided

he had better get out of there and quickly left the chicken house but forgot to latch the door.

Freddy made his way to the road in front of his grandparents’ house searching for something to

take a shot at with his new air rifle. The only thing he saw was a kid on a bike about 100 yards

away. Freddy pumped up his rifle and took aim and squeezed the trigger. A second later the kid

on the bike yelped and stopped and checked his shoulder. Something had hit him there. His

coat sleeve had a hole torn in it. He looked up the street and saw a kid with a rifle. He knew

that kid. That was Freddy, the Hagen’s grandson.

Wayne went in the house and showed his mom his red shoulder and torn his coat sleeve. He

told his mom that he saw Freddy up the street with a rifle. His mom looked and Freddy was still

out there, shooting at things. Wayne’s mom phoned the Hagens to ask if Freddy got a new rifle

for Christmas. Mrs. Hagen said he did. Alan’s mom asked them to check on him. At that same

time Mrs. Hagen saw that their chickens were out in the yard. She yelled for Mr. Hagen to go

put the chickens away. As he did that Mrs. Hagen asked her son-in-law, Freddy’s dad, to check

on Freddy and his new rifle. Freddy’s mom got on the phone with Wayne’s mom, an old friend,

and learned that Wayne had been shot. However, he only had a red spot on his shoulder, and a

torn coat sleeve. Thank God for that. That was enough for Freddy’s mom.

Minutes later Freddy’s grandpa came back into the house carrying three dead chickens. They

had been shot. Freddy and his dad came in the front door then and his mom asked Freddy if he

shot the chickens. He looked down and didn’t deny it. She asked if he shot at a kid on a bike.

Again, Freddy did not deny it. Freddy’s mom took his new rifle, emptied it of pellets and air and

threw it into the fireplace’s blaze. Freddy’s dad said, “I told you, ‘nothing live’ remember?”

Freddy’s mom and dad took him to Wayne’s house to offer their apologies.

The next day Freddy’s grandparents also went to Wayne’s house to apologize and brought

Wayne a new coat, the one they had bought for Freddy for Christmas.

Freddy’s Christmas present.

Nez Nesmith

August 2023

Lyman Grade School - Nez

 Lyman Grade School:  Lyman Grade School By Nez

Swamp Skating - Nez

 Swamp Skating

By Nez Nesmith

On the north side of Lyman there used to be the remains of an old river slough,

which we all called the ‘swamp’. It wasn’t very deep, two-to five feet, and had

water most of the year. Some Augusts it almost dried up, but in northwest

Washington nothing was very dry for long. Being only about thirty miles from the

British Columbia, Canada border, and on the west side of the mountain ranges,

most of our winters were cold, but not real cold, like in the upper Midwest states:

Minnesota, North Dakota, and Wisconsin. But, some winters were very cold, and

the swamp would freeze over. The ice was sometimes thick enough to skate on

and we did. Most of us didn’t have real skates, so we just slid on our leather soled

shoes, pretending we were skating. We had fun.

One winter the ice was really thick, and there must have been a dozen or so kids

skating (fake skating) on the swamp. I remember Marily Meyers and Mary Jane

Van der Griff both had actual skates and knew how to actually skate. There were a

couple of kids with clamp-on skates, but they weren’t very successful. The rest of

us were just pretenders enjoying ourselves. Gene Daves, a sixteen year old, who

lived just yards from the swamp was on the ice having a good time “fake skating”

but decided it might be more fun to drive on the ice. He had an old 1930’s jalopy,

which he and his Dad had spent months working on to make it roadworthy. After

several attempts he finally got it started, then drove it through his snowy

backyard down the slope and onto the ice.

Once on the ice he had no traction whatsoever, and mostly spun his wheels and

slid wherever the vehicle decided to go. Most of us moved out of the way to the

edge of the ice and watched. He made a few spins and got the jalopy out to the

middle of the ice, and suddenly the ice broke all around him. He and his jalopy

sank straight down with him at the wheel. With the kids on shore enjoying the

show, he was out there all alone, in about four feet of water and ice. He crawled

out the window and onto the ice yelling “help” and blubbering. A couple of guys

helped the ice-cold and soaking-wet Gene to his house. His Dad was so mad he

couldn’t see straight. The jalopy was in the middle of the swamp in four feet of

water, and they had to figure out what to do and how to get it out the swamp.

Gene’s jalopy sat there in the water from January until the water was low enough

late that summer. They drove a tractor out to the jalopy, hooked a chain to it and

the tractor got stuck in the mud. So they tried a truck on shore with a winch and

cable, but the tractor wouldn’t budge, and the winch started pulling the truck

toward the tractor. So that didn’t work either. They finally ended up getting a

team of old draft horses named Buck and Major to pull the tractor out of the

swamp first and then the jalopy. I think Gene’s jalopy went to the junkyard.

Sometimes the old ways are more reliable.

Nez Nesmith

October 2023

Writing with 3 separate phrases - Mike P

 Writing with 3 separate and distinct phrases

Ice cream headache times ten. Another Nor’easter whistling in off

Lake Erie. You try shaking off the cold, but it blows right through

you. If it wasn’t for the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame, I have no idea

why I‘d live in this godforsaken cesspool of a town. But no sense

complaining about my lot in life. I’m the freakin’ mayor of

Cleveland, Ohio and until the voters see otherwise, I’m the man

who cuts the ribbons, poses with the scout groups, and chairs the

dysfunctional city council.

Today I’m heading northeast for mayors’ conference. It’s just a

short hop between Cleveland and Buffalo; and normally I’d

grab a puddle-jumper and be there inside of an hour. But the

weather’s grounded all air traffic. As a result, I scraped the ice

from the windshield of my aging Ford F-150 and, crawled up into

the cab, and fired it up. The gol dang “check engine” light came

on. Probably just a suggestion for maintenance. Next week I’ll

run it by Bernie Kosar Ford and let the boys take a peek at it.

Just to feel good, I went ahead and stuck some duct tape over the

light…because what you can’t see, can’t hurt you. Right?

So far so good. I’m about 75 miles from Buffalo, which means I’m

20 miles south of nowhere. Dagnabbit, who knew? So maybe

what we can’t see can, in fact, hurt us! You guessed it, black

smoke crawling out from under my hood. The old girl started

clicking and clacking like cousin Skeeter’s false teeth.

I eased to the shoulder of the county two-lane where she ground

to a halt…dead as disco and going nowhere in a hurry. I reached

for my cell to call for help. Yah, you know the story---no service.

No service, no AAA tow, no help. I started to laugh, which makes

absolutely no sense. Night is coming, the wind is howling, the

snow is falling and I’m up the creek with no paddle. I figured I

was only about 3 miles from an exit with a service station. If I

could just get there. So, having read that laughter is one’s inner

jogging, I piled out the truck, pulled up my coat collar and smiled

as I looked down. Yep, I was wearing my brand spanking new

New Balance sneakers! I might just make it. If I catch a break.

I’d only gotten about three-quarter of a mile. My feet were

uncomfortably numb, my nose looked like Rudolph’s, and the

ache in my chest made me think one thought: widow maker. Just

when it seemed darkest before the dawn (every paper needs a 7 th

grade cliché in it), a Cadillac rumbled up next to me. It was

Steve Plissken, councilman from the 4 th district. I always hated

that low-life snake, that self-centered, smug bastard. But today he

was an angel. He was my angel and here to save my keister. He

rolled down the passenger window and smirked. “So, how’s it

going, mayor?” I paused and thought, ‘how the hell do you think

it’s going, you freakin’ jerk.’ “Truck broke down, you’re a life

saver, Steverino, old friend….you’re my salvation, man.”

Plssken wore a, s-eatin’ grin and cackled, “There’s a Brian Snipe

Sunoco about 2 miles straight ahead, mayor. Figuring, If you

double-time, you’ll make it….maybe.” Before I could speak, up

went the window and off went his Cadillac. Left shaking my head

I knew that when the character of a man is not clear, look at

his friends. Where did I read that? Where did that come from?

What the heck does it even mean? Maybe it’s the numbing brain

freeze that’s got me babbling such gibberish. My face went

numb, and my feet left my body. I closed my eyes.

The next day the Cleveland Plain Dealer reported in part, “mayor

frozen, found stiff as a board, head-first in a snowbank on a

remote county highway; shoes in pristine condition. Councilman

Plissken to be named acting mayor today.”

Gestures - Mike P

 Storytelling with Gestures (before it went off the rails)

Delbert Does the Big D, a Mini-series docudrama, part 1

He bussed in last week from Turkey, Texas. A panhandle boy he was all

his life. But times were changing. The town’s major employer, Sonic Drive-

in, paddle-locked up with a sign that just read “gone.” He took it like a

trooper. Picked up his last check and packed up his only Sunday-go-to-

meeting clothes. Then bought a one-way ticket on a Trailways bus to Big

D. “Now don’t get yerself all citified, Del,” his sobbing momma pled. “Aw,

momma, you know’s me better than that.” His big smile always melted her

like a Baby Ruth in the August sun.

It was his first Saturday night away for the 34-year-old virgin. She was all

dressed up in blue. He was watching her at the bar, and, well by golly, she

was watching him too. He looked at her, just somehow knew that her heart

had been broken. Her heart was in a mess. He caught her eye and smiled.

And she winked in return. Delbert was not one for small talk, or much of

any talk at all.

He'd been around a time or two up in Lubbock, and knew that some girls

wanted a fancy dan on their arm or a sweet-talking Romeo by their side.

Del wasn’t a good looker by nobody’s measuring rod, and neither could he

recite poetry like them rich college boys. But when he smiled, tossed his

head back and cracked his knuckles, he could just tell this little lady was

smitten with him.

Ol’ Del even broke down that day and “got myself one them store-bought

haircuts”. A little dollup of pomade, slick ‘er back and he figured he’d be

one of them chick magnets he read about in People magazine. Just saying

those two words—chick magnet-- made him blush in a bad way, but he had

love on his mind tonight. And love don’t need no two-syllable, big city

words to be heart true.

Lordy, if she wasn’t still smiling at him. She was a real looker. All gussied

and with makeup like you see in them picture shows. Del was getting

serious now. He popped the top gripper on his shirt, flexed his broad

shoulders and flashed her one of those Magic Johnson grins. It was

working! It really was. She smiled again and flicked a finger toward him.

No, not the bad kind of flick. One of those, “I got a secret to tell you,” finger

flicks. What’s a poor boy to do but be polite to a lady. Delbert scooched up

next to her on a bar stool and when she winked and touched his hand, he

blushed even more. When he tried to tell her his name, she just kept

calling him sailor and putting her finger over his lips. He weren’t no military

man, but that’s okay. Why Can’t this be Love played in his mind. Over and

over. Why not? He was in love! He just knowed it.

Del fished out his wallet. A wee bit over $400 in cash money from his life’s

savings out of Turkey Bank & Trust. Drinks cost a bundle in Dallas, and his

new love was a thirsty gal. Her hand touched his thigh, causing him to

quiver and blush even more. Not since Raylene Crenshaw touched him

there on prom night, ….ah, no it really ain’t none of your business where

Raylene touched him. Now is it! Back to the story. She whispered that her

brother was coming soon to give them a ride to a motel on someplace

called Harry Hines Boulevard. Harry Hines. That sounded classy and

probably one of those high dollar places where the rich folk go. Places with

a color tv, ice maker machine, HBO, and a swimming pool out front.

You know, her brother was a lot older than her. A whole lot older. And he

didn’t look a lick like her neither. Not a bit. He didn’t say nothing, just

nodded at Del to get in the car. Lickety-split, they pulled into the motel

parking lot with a flashing sign “by the hour, great rates.”

Room 9 wasn’t too fancy, and it carried a familiar smell. Kind of like the

nursing home where Delbert’s grandmother lived. That stench faded when

his gal fixed him a “special drink,” she said. Said it would make him feel

relaxed and good. Sure enough, it did! Del felt a bit lightheaded. A big

bang on the door followed, and clenched fist came next-- smack dab

between his nose and both eyes. Confusion followed sharp pain, followed

by total darkness. And then a whole lotta nothing.

Banging on room 9’s door awoke Del. “Open up, you pay now, or I call the

police.” Del’s head was throbbing and his saw double. Stumbling to the

door, he was met by front desk lady. “You pay now! Now!” He was nearly

buck naked, ‘cepting for his JC Penney jockeys. Del was dazed. Del was

confused. No clothes. No wallet. No cash money. And worst of all, no girl.

And then it became clear. He knew what had happened. What terrible

event had transpired. Cold, hard reality. A wake-up call from hell, itself.

The horror of it all! He looked at the lady and screamed, “Help me, ma’am,

my fiancee’s done been kidnapped!”

……….to be continued…….

Change - Mike P

 Change

One of the few constants in life is change. Time passes, people change. Societies

change. Cultures change. So, change is an inevitable part of life, but also one

frequently oozing with anxiety, dread, and flat-out resistance.

Not surprising that once we carve out a comfortable existence, we want to keep it. No

desire for change since life is good. But if we live on the short end of the stick and life is

often one long emergency, then we will do almost anything to change it. Change is

sought, and maybe at any cost.

Add to the mix the natural evolution in society. Technology advances and the way we

live our life changes. Populations grow, become more diverse by age, ethnicity, religion

and more. Managing change becomes more complex, maybe more desired, maybe

less desired, but certainly more complicated.

Cries of “I remember the good old days when life was ….” “Back in my day we didn’t

have all this…..” And the often lament that someone, somewhere is keeping us from

doing or being what we want or saying what we think. Change can breed resentment,

grievance, and feelings of victimhood.

As for me I have a love-hate relationship with change. I accept it, I understand it, and I

know it’s going to happen with my approval or not. I often wish change moved slower,

since I’m a late adapter to most of life. And I cling to what was, long after it’s long gone.

I make a concerted effect to stave off the role of the grumpy old geezer for as long as

possible. But in the end, we either figure out how to adapt and live in the now. Or we

are stuck carping about today’s problems and the way things aren’t.

There’s no Wayback Machine to rewind the clock to the 1950s. Ozzie Nelson

wandering around Harriet’s kitchen in his cardigan sweater isn’t there anymore. And

Jim Anderson is no longer dispensing wisdom to Bud, Princess and Kitten.

To close with Bob Dylan…. If your time to you is worth saving

Then you better start swimmin' or you'll sink like a stone

For the times, they are a-changin'

Active Verbs 10 min write - Kathy

 Active Verbs - 10 min write

Kathy Heim

Billy dribbled his basketball several times, and then swoosh, knocked it through the torn net of the town’s run down park.  He sprinted to rebound his own shot, caught it and shot it again.  This time the ball missed and bounced to the right. landing under a park bench.  Billy crouched on his knees and lengthened his arm to grasp his ball and roll it back to him.  As he stood up, he sensed a tinge of danger. The late afternoon shadows grew long and all other kids already left for the day. Few cars rambled by.  Even the street vendors Glancing up, Billy noticed the  darkened sky.  Street lights hummed to life, the only sound he heard.  This was the witching hour kids like Billy dreaded.  Hoodlums and no-gooders invaded the park at sundown leaving kids like Billy susceptible.  No telling the troubles in front of him if he didn’t get home quickly.  The boy grabbed his ball, looked suspiciously around him, then ran towards home through the alleys and twisting narrow roads to his home on Apple Valley Road.  Billy’s heart pumped, and he sucked in air as he got near home, but suddenly, without a sound, a gloved hand reached out, grabbed him by the back of his hoodie, and pulled him into a darkened alley. 

Storms Pass - One Syllable Story - Kathy

 Storms Pass

Kathy Heim

One Syllable Story

A night of storms and rain left a small girl scared. The silence of the old house woke her.  In her night clothes and bare feet, she snuck out of her room, climbed down the stairs and stepped out the front door.  The night sky was still dark and the farm still. The roads were mud filled, and the night was black as coal.  All signs of storms seemed far off now and she felt a bit more brave.  She stepped onto the dew-clad lawn and peered up towards the sky.   

What is that she thought?  She blinked, looked once more, and then aimed her eyes north with a squint.  A bright blue and white light lit up the pitch black sky. It moved in a straight line towards her.  As it came close, the size of the light seemed to grow. Now it looked like two flares. A bit of fear raced through her veins and cooled the back of her neck.  A low pitched hum seemed to come from the strange lights. The girl snuck next to a bale of hay and held her breath. Her thoughts raced…was it from space?  Was it a drone?  She peered through strands of hay and breathed with a sense of joy…it was just her mom’s truck on the way home from her shift as a night nurse. The Dodge pulled up the drive and came to a halt. The girl raced towards her mom and held her tight.  “I love you, Mom,” she cried.  

“Why are you out here?” asked the mom, who held her girl just as tight. 

“Just came out to look for you,” she smiled.  “Let’s get some eggs and toast and start the day.” she grinned and squeezed her mom. 

The two strolled to the house arm in arm.  Storms pass.