Posted by: penpatience | July 2, 2013


SI Exif


Writers Words: “We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.—Ernest Hemingway


     Sitting on my back deck on a late spring afternoon, a sweater draped over my shoulders against the approaching sunset, unexpected musings flowed into my mind.

Out of nowhere, I thought of my three sisters; imagined the four of us sitting in rocking chairs, rocking away on the porch of the proverbial old ladies home.  While the music from a radio wafted out to the porch, we rocked to the rhythm of familiar tunes from our generation.

Statistically spouses, companions, significant others would have passed away, the kids grown, scattered over the continent while we rocked and reminisced about days and events gone by. Our youth, pregnancies, ailments, failures, loves, and achievements were all fodder for discussion. We were somewhere between the golden and twilight years; four aged hens clucking away recalling the bitter with the sweet as my deceased mother-in-law often said.

Still spring chickens mentally sharp despite a variety of diminished physical capabilities; we knew we faced a limited future. Although our beliefs varied, we chatted about heavenly clouds, hellish heat, or what I called the immortal great beyond— tired, worn out bodies discarded, left behind to enrich the earth’s soil while our brand new, weightless spirits rose high for eternity.

The sun now set, wrapped tighter in my favorite sweater, I wondered if the earlier sunshine had addled my heated brain. I chuckled at that vision of four old biddies sharing gossip, sob stories or yesterday’s annoying hemorrhoid while still breathing deeply of oxygenated life. I stood up from my chair and raised my half-empty wine glass in an imaginary toast to four “mature” hens.

To Four Hens A Cluckin’: “Life is for the living and we’re still here “rockin’ and cluckin’ on the right side of the grass.”

Next Musing: Self-Editing-Why I love it and hate it at the same time.

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