Promise Made

Yes. I want to write a fresh story here every day during my free trial. I wonder if it will be worth the time, again. Well, any writing is worth my time. I published on Medium for a month. Maybe this time, I'll put forth more effort.

Short stories, fiction, tales with name changes to protect identity. I wonder often, if I'm any good at it. I want to spill the beans, as it were, sometimes. I think maybe I can tell stories from a fresh point of view. As I wrote the sentence before using "as it were" I think of my Aunt Nome. She always added, "so she was" or "so he did." at the end of one of her stories. I think of her World War II story. Her birthday was the third of July, born with red hair. They called her a firecracker.

Aunt Nome seems like a safe story today. I woke from a dream, wondering if that was to be my story today. The more I thought about it, the more I realized it was too raw. I'd have to work on it to protect the innocent. I'd have to make it indiscernible and that is a task on a cloudy morning when I didn't want to wake up I declined. At least today.

Some one also posted on Facebook their tree fell down in the middle of the night. I thought of something similar that happened when I was fifth teen, but decided with the recent horror story out of Texas, a storm in the middle of the night was too raw. It all seems raw. The girls at camp. I'd been one. My daughters attended camp. Tragedy in the middle of the night with little warning is hard to comprehend in our modern day world of cell phones. Yet, it happened and as I enjoyed the pool yesterday, I thought of them. Not my story to tell.

So I pray for the story to tell and know from experience, actually sitting at the keyboard and typing, a story can show up. Like Aunt Nome. I also thought of writing more about my mother, but that can be another day, as well.

In my early morning twilight before getting out of bed, I also thought of my novel, City, a Gables and Gingerbread Story, the sequel to Country, a Gables and Gingerbread Story. Where was I going next with that? As I sat yesterday writing, the theme directed me. I'm a pants-er, not a plotter, so frustrating in a way, but I find this is the way I want to write.

This introduction is a bit of my Story Behind the Story, my paid subscriber section on my Substack page. I had hoped people would want to know my inspiration, but I didn't want to spill the beans to just anyone. It was to be an insiders bonus. I guess I'm not that famous. Delusions of grandeur. Hopefully, that's better than delusions of persecution. Or maybe they go hand in hand. Story for another day.

Aunt Nome, born Naomi. Her brother, I can't remember right now, if he was older or younger, but he couldn't say Naomi. Nome became her name. Nome somehow met my dad's brother, Dave. I don't know that story, either.

I do know a year after my parents married, she took a train to Texas in 1943. She married Dave, who was in the Army. Dave served in France. Infantry. He suffered PTSD, shell shock it was called then. In the cozy bedroom, Nome spent many nights in a chair watching over his nightmares.

Nome prepared excellent food with twists. An orange salad dressing made with Tang complemented fruit. She gave me a jar of a cherry concoction, she called "Witches Brew," to take home one time.

Going to her house was fun for a little girl. Not because her girls were my age to play with, but because they stoked my make believe. I laid on the floor for hours looking at a hole on the side of the bottom step. Nome told me a mouse lived there. I never saw it, but I imagined the furniture in the insulation.

One day, she gave me a slimy mouse. Yes, we had our own version of slime I told one of my young girl patients, who had a slime birthday party. Nome always had gifts for me. She worked at a jewelry store. Often on my birthday, I received a pair of earrings once my ears were pierced. I have some still.

Her girls as teens to me were stylish. Little girl fascinated by their long painted nails, especially the underside. I grabbed their hands and rolled them over and over to examine all aspects of the nails. Don't ask me why. I don't know, except they were different than my sisters'. When they started driving, I sometimes rode with them on errands. Their weddings and their cousin on the other side were so fun for a tween. I caught the bouquet at Penny's (their cousin) wedding and practiced throwing it to the little girls. I was nine or ten.

As an adult, we always celebrated Aunt Nome's birthday at the Fourth of July. Boating, picnic, swimming in a canal at a local lake. Of course, fireworks at night for the Firecracker.

In her casket, the young grandson placed a firecracker. A fitting tribute to a fascinating lady. And I will include her in a JT story some time.