20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


Losing Touch – Come back to me Mum

I see that glazed look
in your old eyes
the eyes that hold tears
wear and tear
from life
I feel your struggle
for recognition
of the past you
once knew
conversations had
Longing glances
to the distance
eye contact barely given
comprehension difficult
of those around you
your eyes can see, I saw you
yesterday, yet you had forgotten
feelings of loss
your life now changed
a burden you feel
to yourself and to others 
Like fitting the pieces of the
jig-saw puzzle
the pieces don’t seem
to fit anymore
trying to recollect
events of yesterday, or just a minute prior

Below is whom I write about tonight, her memory fades a little more each day and there is not a damn thing I can do to help her. If you wish to read a little more about this ‘English Rose’ that is my mum- please click on the below.




Her hands, crippled with arthritis, clutch the flour sifter
and scoop just enough flour to knead the flaky pie crust.
Knobbed fingers, spotted with age,
lovingly stitch dresses for a little girl’s dolls.
Warm rough hands, callused from hours, hoeing in the garden,
hold a little girl’s hands in hers, as they walk to the piano lesson.
The little girl knows,
all is well, the world is safe and she is loved.
She is with grandma.

Her hands, crippled with arthritis,
scrape clumps of cookie dough onto the shiny sheet.
Knobbed fingers, spotted with age,
stitch a wedding gown for a not so little girl.
Warm rough hands, callused from years of putting tractor parts in bins,
hold a little boy’s hand in hers, as they walk to the lake.
The not so little girl knows,
all is well, the world is safe for her son,
he is with her mother.

Her hands, crippled with arthritis, clutch the flour sifter,
only at Thangsgiving, now.
Knobbed fingers clutch a pen, attempting to catch a piece of life,
and put it on paper.
These hands have known the touch of a woman’s hands,
which pass on the love that has gone before.
These hands have held the hands of children,
have dried their tears and her own.
She carries on, she is the daughter.


Who Are Fathers?

Mom & Dad, 1943 Portland, Oregon

Random musings about my father. We spend so much time honoring mothers, women in general. Bedrock, sacrificing, patient or of great endurance…women are worthy of such honor. Fathers, men, are what? Taken for granted? Tainted by imperfections that  diminish their worth. What is it? Do they contribute to this?

My father never told me he loved me. I never thought about it until later in life. He didn’t hug. He didn’t touch. He worked two jobs for most of his life. He worked until the day a stroke brought him down at seventy four years of age. His work ethic, his sense of duty was astounding. Not once did I ever hear my dad brag or did I ever once see him stay home from work ill. But aside from the most incredible outward persona and example, who was he inside? I never knew.

He left home at 13 years of age. He worked in saw mills, coal mines and rail yards. He lived in a violent place outside Panther, West Virginia, one of eleven children. Eventually, he made his way into the Army in WWII and served honorably in the hell hole Aleutian Islands and the historic Al-Can Hiway. Again, what did all that, amazing stuff actually, create inside my dad? I never knew. He didn’t offer and I didn’t know enough to ask. 

I rubbed his forehead as he gasped in the end. I held his hand and said “I love you”. It was too late to hear it back.

For those of you that are a son, daughter or someone looking at that older gent puttering away in the shop, watching television, dozing in a chair…be courageous and gently, repeatedly seek more about that man. You the father, make the time to say it, write it, show it…that you care about those around you. Go ahead look them in the eye, say it…’I love you’.

I said it was random. Just contemplating today, while looking at an old picture.

My Mom Made the Prettiest Cakes


Boston Flower Show

Originally posted on Living and Lovin:

My Mom has decorated cakes since I was a baby.  In fact I never had a store bought one,  nor did my three brothers.  She only stopped making cakes when her hands crippled with arthritis and no longer could produce beautiful displays of her artwork., I think they were still beautiful but she was so hard on herself, really her cakes and frosting were so good and me being a kid, I hate to tell her it could have been messy and still yummy.

When she had orders for huge wedding cakes or say Big Bird for a Boston show, I always helped wash all the bowls, as each color on the cake had a separate one.  She made the best frosting.  I can not explain how good our cakes were at home.  When I was a Brownie she made a Brownie Cake and when I was a Rainbow Girl she made my…

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Clive the cat

Clive is a cat , he looked  like no other

He searched the world over , looking for mother

His coat was a wash , of gray and some white

When the moon glowed ,  he sure was a sight

He walk down the hill , to the pond so calm

Not a soul was found , especially his mom

He looked up with tears while god he did hear

Your moms up here , she didn’t disappear

He asked the great voice , as he started to walk

Can I see my mom , or can we just talk

The voice being slow was also real soft

As most of Clive’s wishes mostly were lost

grabbing and clawing scratching his chin

He replied to the voice as he started to grin

when I close my eyes and begin to dream

Thinking about our life, it will be supreme

God voice was bold as he said kinda loud

Clive I will tell you , your mother is proud

1 Comment

Doll Carriage Parade


Sharing from Living and Lovin

Originally posted on Living and Lovin:

This was me as a young girl. (Yes me who turned out to be a tractor trailer driver).

Mom helped me get all dressed up, she even made an outfit like mine for my doll Crissy..

She also did up my doll’s carriage to match our outfits.  Crepe Paper is AMAZING!


There was going to be a parade!


We had just 15 homes on our dead end road and most had  2 to 5 children in each.

The girls pushed their decorated carriages and the boys made their bikes look better with baseball cards in the

spokes, .which made a noise that made them feel special and wild.

Kids from others streets who played at the end of our road could also come and join in.


I got a ribbon for all of Mom’s hard work but I will never forget some of the others and how…

View original 145 more words


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