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Day 2 - What's in a Name?

What's in a Name?

On the edge of a black top road that seems to dissolve into mist, there was a house that seemed older than the road itself. The garden was almost wild looking with a gentle riot of pastel flowers, arching vines supported only by air, a gate without a fence that appeared rusted into a solid object but opened with the touch of a single finger. The long graceful grasses and seemingly alive banks of shrub in the small dale behind the house gave way to a rose-lined path deepening into the tangle of woods.

The folks from town didn't come by here much. There was no need. It was outside the township limits, unincorporated land they called. They didn't actually cross themselves when the cottage was mentioned. But there was something in their eyes.

The folks from town didn't come by here. Except when there was need. The women came in late afternoon or very late at night, actually morning. They parked up the road a pace in an anonymous parking lot and walked down the black top road. The men, they came less often, always shrouded by darkness, sometimes with shrouded intent.

The house was small, a cottage really. The owner was a woman, long dark hair, soft dark eyes, and a gentle red smile. She was always there. She was there when the town was just a few homesteads and she was there when the first roads came. She saw the arrival of the Iron Horse, she saw town grow. She saw the highway bypass the town, she saw it dwindle. If anyone knew her name, they never told. It may have been whispered from mother to daughter to granddaughter, but no one said it aloud. But the folks from town told themselves it couldn't be the same woman. But only in the whispering  done behind their hymn books on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights.

If you listened closely as you drifted pass the cottage covered in flowers, you would hear chimes, light and airy. And you would hear children's laughter, light and sweet. No one saw a child at the cottage, not even on clandestine visits. But there was something that tugged at the mind, just out of sight, a slight movement, a soft giggle.

Every few years, a new person or family would move to town. They always were from away but said to have had family here, years back. Many of these folks would have a young daughter, with dark hair and gentle smile; sometimes the eyes were dark, sometimes sparkling crystal blue and sometimes, very rarely, emerald green. These families would stay; these daughters would not.

Until Wisteria was born. She had two older brothers and a hard man for a father. Her mother died in childbirth and Hard Harold blamed his small daughter. The last thing his wife did was to name her baby girl who had violet eyes. Wisteria had two older brothers who loved their mother but also loved their little sister. But Harold could not love this wife-stealer, this love-killer. And as Harold's heart hardened, Daniel and Aaron could not stay. They were half-grown men who needed to take their place in the world. It broke their hearts to leave Wisteria, but she was too young to come with. So promising to send for her, they left on that highway that bypassed the town.

Wisteria had a kind heart. She was good to her schoolmates and Sunday School teachers. She didn't have friends. Harold allowed no one into the house and Wisteria was not allowed to participate in school activities other than class. School, church, home - these were the limits of Wisteria's world.

Until the day of the big storm and Wisteria got lost in the dark dust clouds and howling winds. She felt, rather than saw, a rusted gate but it opened silently in the howl. She pushed through and found the eye of the storm. There was no dust swirling, no wind howling. There was only a garden with a gentle riot of pastel flowers, arching vines, long graceful grasses, banks of shrub in the small dale behind the house and a rose-lined path to the darkness.

And a woman at the purple-painted door. She smiled, "Come in, Wisteria, and rest a while. I've put the kettle on." Dazed and more than a bit enchanted, Wisteria followed the woman with the long dark hair and gentle smile in to the cottage. "I'm sort of a distant auntie.My name is Lavinia Easley. Welcome to my home."

Lavinia and Wisteria had a calming cup of passion flower tea. And talked. Wisteria had many questions, not just about the cottage but about her family, her mother and the things a young girl learns from the women in her family. And they talked, and the storm raged. Wisteria started, concerned about the time, about getting home, about her father. Lavinia simply smile and agreed Wisteria ought to getting back. Lavinia picked up a small packet of herbs and handed them to Wisteria. "More tea. Have a cup before bed to relax you."  Wisteria, suddenly embarrassed for it seemed Lavinia knew far too much about her life, her swirling mind, her cacophony of emotions, snatched the small packet and put it in her school bag. She hurried into the garden and out the gate. The storm suddenly gone, the air heavy with humidity and scent and promise. Wisteria feared she'd been there for hours, her absence well noted. She rushed down the black top road as if all the Hounds of Hell were at her back.

Lavinia, standing at the door, simply laughed and went inside.

When Wisteria arrived home, she was aghast that it was only a few moments passed her normal arriving. Hard Harold wasn't home yet. She quickly changed into work clothes ("School clothes are only for school. Your work clothes are for everything else." Her work clothes were hand me downs from Daniel and Aaron and Hard Harold.)  Dinner was started, clothes were washed, house was cleaned. Hard Harold would have nothing to criticise. Yet he would.

After dinner, Harold harrumphed off to bed and Wisteria rediscovered the small packet of tea in her bag. She wondered at her day. She made a cup of tea and went to bed, where she slept deeply with no dreams or tossing and turning until she awoke at dawn.

Thenext day after school, she went back to the cottage. And every day after. Each time she and Lavinia would talk for hours, Wisteria learning craft and cooking, healing and gardening, growing and knowing. Each day Wisteria would return home only a few minutes after school let out. And Wisteria wondered.

Sometimes Wisteria returned home with tea. Or pot herbs. Or breads and cookies. She took some of these to school. She used some of them at home. But she learned every day.

Hard Harold was growing older with aches and pains and nightmares. Wisteria would make him a tea or tonic to aid him, but he only grew harder towards her.

One night, Wisteria made a mistake in judgment. She talked of how well school was going and how Daniel had a secured a small job for her at a college in his city where she could continue her schooling. Hard Harold would have none of this. There were no funds to educate a stupid girl, no way he'd let her go as she needed to aid him and take care of him until the end of his days. Then, if she wanted, and only then, could she leave.

Wisteria was up late that night. School ended in a few weeks. She would miss her home and Lavinia. But she knew she'd be back. But her father was old. He was in pain. He still missed his wife every day. And although Hard Harold had hardened his heart to her, she had not. Wisteria wondered. And waited.

Every night, Harold ate in silence. He drank a small amount of medicinal whiskey and he too wondered. Wondered how long he would hurt. Wondered how long his wife would wait. Wondered how long Wisteria would wait. Each night he drank her tea of purple petals and leaves. Passion flower. Valerian. Lilacs. Melissa. He slept well with the tea, a gentle dream-filled slumber.

School ended. But Wisteria's education did not. She learned from Lavinia every day. She made soups for the ailing in her church. She worked poultices for the injured. And Wisteria waited.

Until the early summer day when Hard Harold came home early. His skin was wet, his face was white. He went to bed before dinner. Harold asked his daughter to come sit with him. She came with a mug of her purple tea. She sat silently beside his bed while he drank. Hard Harold asked her so softly Wisteria almost did not hear him - "Why? Why did she call you Wisteria? The preacher told her that was no name for a Christian soul. But she smiled. And she died. Why? Why?"

Wisteria took the cup as his hands began to shake. She put a cool cloth scented with lilacs on his brow. Her laugh was small and light. "Why, Father, what's in a name? She could have called me many things. Melissa for lemon balm, Syringa, Lavinia, May Pop. No, Father, my mother knew you well. She knew this would come. And she named me after a purple flower in your tea tonight. A purple flower that will make your sleep eternal. Another name might smell as sweet but not bring relief. Sleep well, Father."

Wisteria went to her room. She called her brother Daniel to tell him to come home to get her. She called the funeral director to come to get her father.

She was leaving home. But she'd back. She'd know when Lavinia needed her. And she knew her violet eyes would darken over the next few years. The woman with the long dark hair, soft dark eyes and gentle smile would still be here in the cottage at the end of black top road.

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Day #1

Prompt: The lights go out for five seconds. When they turn on again, you see a note stuck to your window. It says one word.  "Run."
Sounds like the start of a Doctor Who fanfic, right?  But no, let's go this way↩

Run

It was a Monday. Remember that, it'll be important.

I spent time getting dressed this morning. Hair, dress, jewelry, shoes. Even put on silk stockings. Spent extra time on makeup, using the 36 hour shadow, foundation, etc. Used that dusty bottle of setting spray. Checked teeth, breath, back seams. Dug out that tiny vial of Joy. And my special sparkly, dangling earrings that look like diamonds.

Yeah, you've already figured out it wasn't an interview. It was lunch. A late lunch.

And you know it wasn't a ex-husband; if you're working that hard to convince him you've moved on, you haven't.

It was the one who broke my heart.

So yes, I took a lot of time getting ready.

It was a windy day; you could see storms building to the north. That means rain and wind, sometimes a soupçon of hail. In this season, we call it cloudy with a chance of tractor trailers. Look it up on YouTube. The vids are new each spring but the story stays the same. Tornado!!! End result, I summoned an Uber rather than deal with parking or the bus (or lack thereof).

Work dragged on. Every email was a torture, every call a nightmare. I was terrified The Pointy Haired Boss was going to call a 12:30 brainstorming (Miki calls them zombiestorming because if we had any brains we'd quit). But no, it's 12:40, :58, 1:11. Yes! It's 1:25 at long last.

"Won't be long", I lie.  "Just popping out for a bite. Be back soon."  Soon-ish, I mutter.

Here I am. At a nice little table for two, at the picture window, a tiny carnation in the smaller vase, hopeful tea candle bursting its minuscule heart out in flame.

The lights go out for five seconds, even the candles. It was already dark outside with the oncoming storm. When everything, including the candles, came back on, there was a note stuck to the picture window. It says one word.  "Run."

Weird, though. The note is stuck on the inside of the window. And the candles re-lit, too.

And all I can think is: oh, no! Not again. He can't have done it to me again. Saved my life and broke my heart?!? Nope. I don't care who your great-great-great-grandfather was and what he built in that musty wreck of a house. Another freaking storm levels city block but not us. Not me.

This time I've built my own machine and I wore it today. I guess I'm going to be taking a longer lunch than the PHB expected.

I've finished my degree in quantum entanglements. I'll show him spooky action at a distance with a diamond forged in the heart of a dying star.

I'm right behind you, Herbie Wells. You’re running out of time.

Oh, and I lied about Monday being important. I only needed that if I'm coming back.


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So why the greyscale image....

You may have arrived here via IG and are wondering "Hey, all the all 100 Day Projects have colorful logos. What's your deal here, Miss Morose?"   

Valid question. This is to be a pictorial representation of creativity blooming (back?) into my life. So I am coming from a black and white place and will be heading into 256 RBG colors, maybe even the 1M seen by the human eye, or the 65K colors if you carry 16 bits, or magickally the 4B colors if you expand your mind to 32 bits per channel. 

I vacillated between writing (which I want to practice) and photography (which I am easing back into). Fortunately, a clear sighted friend, Miki A., suggested both. So I will write every day and on each Wednesday, I will take a new photo and incorporate it into the day's tale. More photos may turn up. Photos will be here and in IG. Stories will be here with a photo of it on IG. Some things may turn up on FB. 

My guidelines (rules sound too strict and like something I would rebel against, even when they are my own):

• Post daily. It will likely be in the evening or actually early morning hours.
• At least one photo a week
• Spend no more than 30 minutes on a story. These are short exercises, not NaNoWriMo.  They do not have to flow together.
• Use prompts for the story. Start in longhand, transcribe to blog.
• One story a week will feature photo mentioned above.
• Extra photos may appear. Some may be gardening related, some cats. Likely no people. Yet. 
• 100 Days, starting April 2nd

And GO!  Wish me luck!!

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#The100DayProject - The Beginning

I've never done this project before so follow along as I learn and fail and learn and fail and learn and occasionally succeed.  Wish me luck (or send me condolences).