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Shots Fired

3/25/2023

The morning mist floated through the trees. Sounds of shots being fired in sporadic volleys filtered through the branches. The two silhouettes stopped to listen for any voices. Hearing none, they moved on, small puffs of moisture escaping their mouths as they entered the alcove, their steps cushioned by the ground’s needle bed. With a nod they moved into position, each ready for the inevitable that would soon commence. Easy, fluent motions start to finish. A soft relaxed word, “Pull”. Making eye contact with the inbound target. One shot fired and chunks of clay pigeon dropped to the ground.

I am comfortable with the prompt provided by CRLC this week - shots fired. As always, it is a prompt that can go in lots of different directions, but I have decided to wander down my heritage trail once again.

Owning firearms has been a normal thing in our family since long before I was born. Our grandmother was gifted a 12 gauge shotgun for a wedding present. Mom was included in a knee jerk plan that Granny came up with to shoot a bear that had become a nuisance around the barn, garden, and yard. But, that’ll be a story for another day.

As Granny’s shotgun made its way down through the generations, it was given a nickname - Long Tom. My first experience with Long Tom was a one-time event; and again, a story for another day.

Our family were, and are, avid hunters. We enjoyed the challenge of filling the freezer, and we were not always successful. The rule in our house was if you shot it, you cleaned it. In my teen years, Dad gave me a bolt action 22 calibre rifle. Believe me, I was happy to hunt for grouse with my 22, since there was not much in cleaning a bird compared to a deer or moose.

I no longer hunt for grouse, but I sure do enjoy a day shooting clay pigeons. It was a sport that Steve and I did together and there was always a wager involved of some sort as to who was going to be the better shot. Now it has become one of the things I do that gets me outside, and it lets me be competitive, mostly with myself trying to better my top number of clay targets hit. I can go on my own or with a group, and either way, for me, it’s always good fun.

March 20, 2023, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about shots fired. Where is this story taking place? Is there urgency or surprise? Who is there? What happens next? Go where the prompt leads!

Ann Edall-Robson
Author, Photographer, Lover of Life
"Capturing moments others may never get to experience.”

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Playground Echo

3/18/2023

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The sign announced a new housing development on the old school site. A tear slid down her cheek. They’d never take away the sound of the children laughing, calling to each other as the clanging school bell echoed across the field announcing the end of recess. Would newcomers know about the forts that had been built in the nearby trees, the baseball games, and the ultimate risk of pumping hard, taking the swing to its highest peak before launching from the wooden seat to fly through the air? How could they tell these stories if they hadn’t lived it?

When you are raised where everything outdoors is your playground, it is hard to imagine being curtailed to green space or asphalt covered ground as a place you’d call a playground.

We had free rein as to where we went to play. We climbed trees, built tree forts, built fires and heated water for a hot drink, and cooked our lunch. No need to stop playing just to go home and eat inside. We made a game of it, no matter what we were doing. Our horses added another element to the fun in life. I now know we took for granted every day.

Our school had two classrooms. When I attended there, it accommodated everyone up to grade six; however, I do know at one time, there were students in higher grades. I shall have to contact some of the old-timers that I know and see if they can give me some additional history. There were two buildings/housing known as a teacherage, one for each room’s teacher.

In the wintery months, which could easily be October to April for some years, we pushed the desks to the side of the classroom and played floor hockey. That was our gym and you became very adept at warding off an opponent with one hand and running the length of the room while maneuvering the plastic puck at the end of your stick and keeping your distance from the desks that had become the ‘wall’. Crashes happened, and sometimes included blood, but it was up and back at it without much thought.

The area around the school had been cleared long before I started school. The brush piles at the back side acted as a fence line. The brush piles were riddled with little alcoves perfect for forts and hiding during a game of hide-and-seek. Beyond the pile of downed trees, the forest was another place that encouraged the imagination, as long as you made sure to listen for the bell.

Two teeter-totters had been built. One had a narrow board, not too thick, that the smaller children used. The other one was a thick and wider hewn piece of timber for the older kids. The swings, wooden seats secured by thick rope, provided hours of play. The deep impressions in the dirt below were a sign of skidding to a stop and pushing off to get started. Sometimes someone stood on the seat with another person sitting between their feet. And yes, going as high as you could before jumping on the forward swing was not only a risk, it was a challenge to see who could jump the farthest and land on their feet. Different rules every day.

We played baseball here. We had our school sports days here. There were two outhouses to facilitate the needs of after-school and hours needs. The sports day was a kind of wind up to the school year. A fire was built to roast wieners and marshmallows when the day was over. I don’t remember that we received ribbons for winning. We didn’t need them to know who had won. And we didn’t need one to tell us we had participated.

A high jump and long jump pit had been dug out of the dirt and gravel and filled with dirt and sand, not much sand. You could easily have a mud bath if the rain had come the day before. It didn’t matter, no part of the event was cancelled just because of a little weather. We might go home mud-spattered and wet, but we had fun.

And yes, the day the old school was torn down and new portable-type buildings were brought in to replace it was a sad day for all who had once gone there.

March 13, 2023, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about a place where children once played. It can be a field, a playground, or any place that attracted children to play. But now it is empty. Abandoned. Go where the prompt leads!

Ann Edall-Robson
Author, Photographer, Lover of Life
"Capturing moments others may never get to experience.”

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AnnEdallRobson #FromWhereICome #99WordStories #FlashFiction #playgroundisgone #ranchtradition #naturesplayground #tworoomschool #makeyourownfun #schoolhistory #memoriesinthemaking #playgroundghosts #MoonRisingAnEclecticCollectionOfWorks #makingmemories #familytime #carryingontradition #playtillitgetsdark #ConnectWithThePast #storiesofthepast #CapturingMomentsOthersMayNeverGetToExperience #CozyMysteries #cookbooks #PromptWriting #WesternHeritage #TheOldWays #RanchCulture #BeginningToEnd #RuralLiving #WhoaBackUpStop #AnnEdallRobsonPhotography #thestoriestheycouldtell

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Memories of Gloria

3/11/2023

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“Tal, where’d you get that box of records?”

“Mac asked me to clean out the shed. Said anything useable, put it aside, the rest to the burning pit.”

The record cover on the top made her giggle. “Gran liked the original version by an Italian singer. Grandpa liked the English singer. They teased each other big time every time Gloria came on the radio.”

“Funny how songs remind us of people. I've decided I’m going to use these for target practise. Want to come?”

“Absolutely!”

Smiling, he glanced at her. Tal already knew what song reminded him of Hanna.

In 1982, when the English version of Gloria hit the airwaves, I have to admit, it was not my choice of music genre, but it was a genre that was most available on the radio unless you were lucky enough to be in a location to pick up one of the very few good country stations (my preferred music genre).

I didn’t remember the words, other than Gloria, Gloria. I did remember the music, which created an infiltrating music worm in my brain. I went in search of where, why, and how.

I find it interesting that the original expabded version was released in 1979, so the internet says, by an Italian singer named Umberto Tozzi. His take on the words seems to be opposite to how Laura Branigan portrayed the song’s namesake. I could go into the details, but if you are interested in that part of the story, I am sure you will look it up.

My 99 words for this week’s prompt took me down the music memory lane, and who better to chat about the topic than Hanna and Tal. The expanded version hit 299 words. You get 99.

Music was a big part of my life, and still is. The radio cranked out tunes as we drove to events, us singing along as loud as we could. When 8-tracks were introduced, and then cassettes, that opened other doors. Of course, CD’s, and other gadgets followed, but it wasn’t quite the same.

Our mom was a lover of all kinds of music. If the radio wasn’t playing, there was a stack of 33’s on the record player that she sang to as she went about her daily chores. Sometimes you might catch her dancing with a broom or mop. Because of her, an appreciation for classical music, big bands, and other types of sounds of her era became instilled in us and conjures up all kinds of great times.

Music and dancing were synonymous with each other. Our folks would interrupt a meal with a turn around the floor to a favourite piece on the radio and Dad’s comment about how they’d
danced miles to that one. Sitting down once it was over and carrying on as if nothing had happened.

To this day, when I hear a song, I find my brain starts flipping through the memory bank like some old jukebox searching for a record. The scene plays out as the music plays on. There are times when it is necessary to get up and dance because I, too, think of the miles I have enjoyed dancing to that tune.

Our girls enjoy music and dancing. They even know the words to some of their Nana’s favourites and have a liking for my era in music as well. I think they would even recognize Gloria. As for our grandson, he likes to shake a leg at his tender age; and, I am thankful for how Steve was always gracious about being pulled out of his chair to enjoy a slow dance to a few of the oldies while our dinner got cold.

The tradition carries on and so will the memories…Like the one where we pulled the truck and horse trailer onto a wide spot off the road, got out to sing along with the song on the radio, Crocodile Rock, while we danced. When it was done, we climbed back in and continued down the road. It was broad daylight with vehicles passing by, honking, it didn’t matter...Hmm, I wonder where that came from?

No, I did not find a Laura Branigan record cover among my vinyl stash. Yes, I still have a stack of 33 albums and there has been no thought of using any of my collection for target practise (yet). As a matter of fact, I had forgotten all about them until I wrote this piece.

As long as there is music, memories will be made for us to keep.

March 6, 2023, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about Gloria. You can name a character that comes to you as Gloria or you can interpret the Laura Branigan song into a story. What image comes to you? Go where the prompt leads!

Ann Edall-Robson
Author, Photographer, Lover of Life
"Capturing moments others may never get to experience.”

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