20 Lines A Day

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Mittens

My grandchildren were over recently, before our early Christmas celebration, before the hassle of the illnesses we’ve had, before the travel. It was a typical Friday, a cold day, and before I started giving my grandson his piano lesson my granddaughter said, “I’m going outside to play. OK?”

“Sure, honey.”

Five minutes later she was in again.

“Grandma, do you have some gloves I could wear? It’s colder out than I thought.”

I gave her a pair of my mittens. Turns out she had a “job to do,” and she picked up lots of twigs on the ground that a very strong wind had blown around.

“And I wanted to check Snuggles’ grave,” she said, “to make sure the sticks around it were still there.

On the day she and her brother came over to decorate our beloved cat’s grave, she had encircled the grave with sticks. Snuggles’ final resting place up on the hill is duly marked.

I got to thinking about those mittens after she came in, had her piano lesson, then after we took them home that evening. We so often say “walking or following in someone’s footsteps,” but in this case she mittened in my handprints. I love the fact that her little hands have warmed my mittens.


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A Monument to Strong Hands & The Forgottens

I appreciate that this beautiful mausoleum is an erected testament to the MacLeay family of Portland, Oregon. But, for me, this structure, the highest amongst thousands of graves in the Lone Fir Cemertery, is a fascinating testament to stone masons and glass-smiths that carried out someone’s vision. No, it’s not a European edifice many hundreds of years old, but the craftsmen here were definitely a byproduct of those craftsmen. 

Project to Honor Chinese and the Insane Buried in unmarked graves here


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The Lone Walker

The lone walker going by the war-field,

Without nothing that could be used for a shield.

He was there weeping for the ones that have gone,

Silently with no noise what he did was moan.

He lost everything to the war,

Now he is left crying with a throat so sore.

He was crying, weeping all alone,

Never could he see his child grown.

The small child who was still in his wife’s womb,

Now he has to be buried within the tomb.

He had nothing else to live for but his pain,

Which is there settled for eternity in his brain.

But all of a sudden a voice within him speak,

The voice he did seek-

“Do not cry for the dead”, it said in a firm way,

Now he knew there would come a new day.

He won’t lose himself like he lost his beloved as such,

He would now try to survive, he knew this much.

He would live for his wife,

Dedicate to her his life.

He would live for that child, he could never know,

And love the people once again to show,

That he is still alive even after what happened to him,

And would outcast his grief full to the brim.

He would try end all this violence, so futile,

He would have to walk on a long mile.

Never would he allow anyone else to face,

He would pray to the Almighty for his grace.

The lone walker would live another life,

This time he would not allow the use of knife.

He would live, he would save,

So that not another person go in this way to grave.

The lone walker going by the war field,

With nothing that could be used as a shield,

Because he doesn’t require it anymore,

He has gained after all the ultimate lore.

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