My Father's Heart

Tonight I've been going through some short stories written by one of my favorite writers- my father. As I'm a bit choked up while typing this I'll let his work (below) speak for itself. After rereading his story A Prairie School of My Own for possibly the hundredth time I just felt compelled to share it with someone so here it is, one of the stories that is most near and dear to my heart written by the one man on this earth who I love more than life itself. Hope you enjoy.

A Prairie School of My Own
(Published in Prairie Magazine ca.1998)
by Tim McGannon

Growing up amidst a maze of intersections rumbling with traffic offered certain advantages to town kids. My brothers and I could usually count on a half dozen neighbor kids for a game of kick the can or sand lot baseball. An ice cream cone was never more than a few minutes and twenty five cents away. And, a frosty bottle of coke cost a dime at the local gas station. But every so often, as if to torment us, our father would announce at the breakfast table “we are going to grandfather’s farm for the day”.

“There’s nothing to do on the farm.” We lamented. “We will die of boredom.” But off we went, heads bowed solemnly, packed into the family’s Ford, for a day in the country.

Upon arriving at the farm we three slowly crawled from the back seat of the car, lumbered over to the concrete stoop in front of my grandparents house and pouted for a reasonable length of time. My youngest brother, looking for a way to end this self imposed penance slowly raised his head as a bright yellow finch danced from tree to tree. Off he went, on a solitary mission to capture this golden fowl. My older brother and I, experienced in this sulking game and without a word between us, admitted our defeat. Our mood broken, we too began to explore.

My grandfather’s farm was a wondrous place filled with adventures, mysteries and treasures. In the back yard, close to the barn, stood a galvanized steel stock tank kept full with a pipe running cool water from an artesian well. The continuous flow, spilling over the low side, produced a steady stream coursing over the ground to the slough several hundred feet away. Old pieces of farm equipment supported on wooden spoked wheels with forged iron rims dotted the trees surrounding the farm yard. Armed with a bag of Black Cat firecrackers and a punk, we boys could turn these relics into cannon for many imaginary wars. Inside my grandmothers chicken coop I learned that with a steady hand I could reach under a sitting hen and pluck her guarded treasure.

But my favorite spot of all was an old one room school house. An important looking building with raised steeple pointing majestically to the Dakota sky, this particular school sat vacant for a decade until discovered by me.

The old school house was about a half mile’s walk from the farm. For a 6-year-old, this journey from farm yard to school yard was a long one, requiring a canteen of water, a sandwich, a couple of apples from the tree and at least one brother.

The path from farm house to school house was a worn gravel road lined with grasshoppers, gophers and a snake if we were lucky. A steady hum of crickets, highlighted with the whistles of meadowlarks reminded us we were not alone on the journey.
The ditches, cropped low to the ground and sun dried in the fall air, crackled underfoot. Midway, a conveniently placed bale of hay served as lunch table and rest stop.
In the quarter hour it took to make the journey, an occasional car would pass on the gravel road, momentarily silencing natures sounds and stirring the dust into the air, leaving a choking cloud lasting for minutes.

Arriving at the school, our sandwiches gone and canteens half empty, my brother and I discovered that an abandoned country school is one of the loneliest places on earth. Unkempt with thistle and kosher weed growing through the sandy soil, the playground looked tired and abandoned. Saplings pushed their way upward from around the outhouse. The outhouse door, long relieved of its duty banging into the well worn door jams, now lie askew on one hinge. Wooden swings hung by rusty chains eerily creaking in the prairie wind would unnerve all but the bravest of souls, but not my brother and me.

We played for a short while on the swings, but soon our curiosity about what treasures lie within the school took over. First, we opened the outer door of the foyer, only to find the inner door padlocked soundly. We climbed upon the coal box and tried the window. It too was locked or stuck shut. For some time, we gazed at the belfry wondering if there was a way down from that tower, but soon discovered that the way up to the tower was a greater problem. We were ready to give up until my brother decided to open this coal box upon which we were perched. We climbed down and opened the large door of the box and in the dark bottom there appeared a small, square opening about the right size for a boy. In we went. Lying on our backs, feet in the air propped over the edge of the coal box, we squeezed into the schoolhouse head first. Covered with dirt, dust and cobwebs, we began to dust ourselves off.

The air in the school was heavy with the smell of mildew. And dust, awakened from its long sleep, danced excitedly in the sunlight. Bookcases of oak lined the walls, and wooden desks in neat rows waited for the next morning class. On the teacher’s desk sat a brass hand-bell with a long black wooden handle. In the corner near our new entrance stood a wood or coal burning stove. The wooden floors sounded a creaking welcome, punctuated by the sound of the bell, now in my brother’s hand. Hearing an approaching car, we ducked down, listened as the car passed and shared a feeling of sheer excitement that somehow we had gone unnoticed by this passerby . We were inside and no one was the wiser.

Driven by the wind, the ghostly sound of the old swing set alerted us that the weather was changing. The sky had dimmed, the setting sun hid behind fall thunder clouds and a cool breeze announced an imminent shower. We unlocked the window above the coal box, climbed out, pulled the window down behind us and ran back to the farmhouse.

Arriving at the farm yard about the same time as my father and grandfather returned from the field, our dust of adventure went unnoticed amidst their dust of harvest. We men all washed up for dinner. When we finished eating, my father announced that it was time to go back to town.

“There’s nothing to do in town.” We lamented. “We will die of boredom.” But off we went, heads bowed solemnly, packed into the family’s Ford, for the drive to town.

xoxo
Abielle

Inspire Thy Soul

For the last hour I've been sitting in my favorite coffee house at my favorite table attempting to write despite the muse's absence from my fingertips. Instead I've been sitting here pondering the concept of: "What exactly is a 'muse' and how does inspiration work?"

There are so many little subconscious actions or sounds that can have a ripple effect on our creativity. Something as simple as seeing an animal scurry along it's daily routine outside our bedroom window or as common as a song we may have heard fifty times before could strike a chord in our brains, releasing that adrenaline rush and making us jump internally for joy! 'I've got it! This is going to be incredible! I can't wait to show the world my interpretation!' Houston, we have lift-off- cue dramatic 'ooh'ing and 'aah'ing. Inspiration has struck.

Tonight must be one of those lovely summer nights where the ancient Greek inspiration givers are off frolicing among the forests and rivers, enjoying the eternal life they've been given rather than tolling away at the office. After all, even the muses must require a holiday every now and again, right?

Though inspiration helps bring life creativity is it really nessecary in order to produce a great work? Surely all artists can't just sit and wait for that one single drop of rain to fall from the sky and fill the ocean with waves in order to play in the water, right?

Regardless, the show must go on...

xoxo
Abielle

Book Review: Burned by P.C. and Kristin Cast

Synopsis of Burned by P.C. and Kristin Cast

Things have turned black at the House of Night. Zoey Redbird’s soul has shattered. With everything she’s ever stood for falling apart, and a broken heart making her want to stay in the Otherworld forever, Zoey’s fading fast. It’s seeming more and more doubtful that she will be able pull herself back together in time to rejoin her friends and set the world to rights. As the only living person who can reach her, Stark must find a way to get to her. But how? He will have to die to do so, the Vampire High Council stipulates. And then Zoey will give up for sure. There are only 7 days left…

Enter BFF Stevie Rae. She wants to help Z but she has massive problems of her own. The rogue Red Fledglings are acting up, and this time not even Stevie Rae can protect them from the consequences. Her kinda boyfriend, Dallas, is sweet but too nosy for his own good. The truth is, Stevie Rae’s hiding a secret that might be the key to getting Zoey home but also threatens to explode her whole world.

In the middle of the whole mess is Aphrodite: ex-Fledgling, trust-fund baby, total hag from Hell (and proud of it). She’s always been blessed (if you could call it that) with visions that can reveal the future, but now it seems Nyx has decided to speak through her with the goddess’s own voice, whether she wants it or not. Aphrodite’s loyalty can swing a lot of different ways, but right now Zoey’s fate hangs in the balance.

Three girls… playing with fire… if they don’t watch out, everyone will get Burned.

Review

After months of eagerly awaiting the seventh installment of the House of Night Series I hate to admit that I feel greatly underwhelmed by Burned. One of the things that turns me off of a series is when it starts to feel like the author is writng book (insert next number in series here) instead of a must read continuation of the story, regardless of previous books published. To me this one felt like it was being put out as book number seven rather than a 'must read or the suspense will kill me' creation.

Though the writing has always been just a little over mediocre, I've been able to overlook that in favor of a great story, but the House of Night seems to have hit its summit for me and I do not plan on reading any further in this series.

That being said, if the Casts were to do a spin-off centered around the character of Aphrodite, I would be the first in line to pick up a copy. She is the only character in the whole thing who has gained my utter devotion as a reader.

Overall I would rate this book a 1.5 out of 5.

Next book on the list- Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang by Chelsea Handler

xoxo
Abielle

Losing My Virginity (blog style)

Hey there *waives awkwardly* So, as you can see this is the first post on my shiny, new Stained Glass in the Night blog. I welcome you all and hope you are able to find something worth reading in the future here as I will be posting reviews of the books I've read, original writings/musings and maybe the occasional rant. All commentage and suggestions are much appreciated, so don't feel shy! I don't bite...hard. ;)

The poem below is one I wrote last week and is rather short and simple, but hey, that's my style. It is one of my favorite creations thus far so I hope you enjoy.


If my heart were a painting on display for all to see,
I’d paint myself with shades of water flowing ever free.

Tender strokes and swirls I’d use to illustrate the tide,
Blue and green and turquoise for the waves I’d never hide.

On that canvas I’d pour my heart and never be ashamed,
to show my soul for what it is in gold forever framed.

Raise me up and steady me on the wall with gentle hands,
View my soul’s true nature and please try to understand.

This portrait’s of a woman grown who’s not afraid to show,
The beauty of the ocean deep for all the world to know.

xoxo
Abielle