“This was my first accident,” Marlise said with laughter in her voice.
Grandma didn’t find it funny at all.
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He had just shown up one day.
He stood there silently and looked around like he was trying to figure out if this place was to his liking.
Funny, how things can change. All of a sudden I didn’t like my favorite perfume anymore. I had loved it for 20 years, had wished for it every Christmas or when my birthday came around, and then it stopped. The love affair was over.
The smell of fresh baked cookies was hanging in the air. We were playing outside, we could smell it from a mile away and it drove us crazy. I don’t think there is anything more tempting to a child than a warm, fresh-baked cookie.
I think we were poor, but I really don’t know. We always had enough food, and I had clothes; we had livestock and fields with vegetables and fruits, our pantries and the cellar were stocked with jars and cans, but money was tight. Most farmers are not rich; they are just getting by, and we were no exception.
A picture of the boarding school I went to
She walked into the classroom, put down her briefcase, and wrote her name on the chalkboard. I was watching her -tried to figure out how to pronounce her name correctly when she turned around and greeted us all.
When I was a just a little girl I had a best friend named “Dusie.” She knew the dark secrets of my early childhood, back then when I was just a little girl and I still lived with my birth-givers. She was there when I cried and she was there when I laughed and played. She stayed with me when I left my parents house, to live with my Grandmother.
Fear works like breaks on a car. There is no moving forward and no going back, we stay there frozen like a deer in the headlights, whenever we hit the fear-pedal.
I never knew his name, but he was a familiar face. He didn’t live in our village, but he came often by and stayed for a few days. He sharpened tools, knifes and scissors. He was from the South of Italy; his face was dark brown and looked weathered. He wore old clothes; his pants and shoes were old and the knitted, patched up cardigan he wore had seen better days as well.
Is a blogging Break – good or bad?
I took a 4-week break from blogging and it was a very interesting experience. The first days felt odd; almost like I was suffering from blogging withdrawal -if there is such a thing to begin with.
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