One of My Short Stories

I have wanted to post one of my short stories, but wanted to take it from my documents and post here. Have not figured out how to do that yet. So...I decided to retype it in three sections starting today and ending on Friday. I hope you enjoy the story. I would really enjoy any comments you might have as this is one that is going into the book of shorts I am nearly finished creating. Enjoy...

Bottled Time
by
Mary Bulliner

I grew up in a middle-class neighborhood in the Midwest. The town was in the middle of the state, and the house was in the middle of the town. The houses were the same, mostly two-storied frames in colors of white, yellow, and blue with a few brick homes scattered throughout. In the summer, lawns were manicured when kids pushed mowers as a weekly chore; in the winter, snow was piled high when kids shoveled the snow to make a lane from the street to the house's steps. Most houses did not have a garage, and if they did, it was located in the back of and away from the house. Our home was one of those white two-storied frames with black shutters. We did not have one of those detached garages, but we did have a carport that jutted to the front city sidewalk and we enjoyed a river beyond our long, sloping backyard.

It was that river that I loved in the summertime. It was not the boating side of the river with its cruisers and pontoon boats; it was the canoe side where those more adventurous maneuvered the river's constant flow. And it was in the backyard where I wanted to be in the summertime, watching the river and the people rowing the canoes; listening to the fishermen cast their line and talk among themselves; and watching the trains travel north and south on the railroad tracks above the river's dam, beckoning travelers to ride the rails with its horn blowing as it entered the town's city limits and depot.

Our house was a magnet for people to come and visit on a hot, humid, summer day. Mother always had lemonade and a cookie for anyone who stopped by, and dad always had a story to tell. It was a feel-good house even when the air did not circulate. Then, there were no whole-house air conditioners and when the central air did arrive, my parents would not hear of such an extravagant expense: fans and room air conditioners were enough for them. Usually, the fans were in the kitchen and the living area, the room air conditioners were in the bedrooms. Living on the river, we did not really need central air conditioning; there was always a breeze that went through my parent's bedroom and filtered into the kitchen. With the overhead fan roaring in the over sized kitchen, we were comfortable most days. On a few days, not many, the heat did over come us while we sat around the round oak table with clawed feet talking about the day, playing cards or throwing dice in a game of "1000".

Then, when the humidity was unbearable, we would go outside and sit under the umbrella on the patio. My parents had a yellow steel glider and multi-colored webbed lawn furniture on the poured concrete patio. Flowers were everywhere -- orange day lilies hid the chained link fence on one side of the property in the front of the backyard with an old garage with a tin roof turned shed --hostas lined the chained link in back of the day lilies -- rose bushes and lilac trees lined the other side of the lawn -- morning glories climbed the clothes line next to the poured concrete -- rhubarb grew in back of the shed. On the patio. mother placed her planted geraniums and inpatients in old, painted milk vats. Trees' branches hung over the patio and gave the area a welcomed, shaded spot to escape from  the day's heat while enjoying the river's breeze and each other's company.

Marge, my parents' neighbor, would come over every day after lunch and stay until it was time to go have a cocktail with her husband. She lived directly across the street in a yellow house with a wide porch and white shutters. She lived on the alley, and her home was hot in the afternoon when the temperatures rose to near 100. She always came over to enjoy the river's breeze and to join in the storytelling. I couldn't tell you who enjoyed each other's company more, my parents or Marge. It was always a lively afternoon.

Marge had retired as a bank teller, and when she retired, she also retired those nice dresses. Her clothes post-retirement consisted of what was called mu-mus. Her favorites were colors of red and violet with pink, white and bright yellow flowers shouting for everyone to see. They flowed easily with a broad, gathered neck and stopped at her knees. Her locks were plentiful and salt was thrown into her pepper hair. Her laugh, ready and robust, was throaty from smoking unfiltered Camels. She would always come with a joke to tell and an opinion or comment about one of my father's many stories.

"Anyone here?" Marge would yell as she opened the back door and came inside.

"Come on in," my mother would respond while getting up to go to the refrigerator. "Lemonade?"

"Sounds good. It sure is hot today." Marge made herself at home and joined us around the kitchen table. If we were finishing a game of cards or dice, we would continue to talk while playing. If we were beginning the game, we would fold and enjoy the camaraderie.

"Hey, did you hear that Ida Kelly over on Third got arrested for shoplifting a can of pears?" Marge started our afternoon of stories.



Until tomorrow...have a great day
(The story continues tomorrow)