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cjsinkythoughts · 4 years ago

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Birthday Memories

Word Count: 1591

Warnings: A little angst, a bit of fluff, some recovery Bucky

Summary: Bucky figures out why birthdays are so important.

A/N: This is just a little something I put together for one of my favorite characters of all time to celebrate his birthday. It hasn’t been beta’d and I wasn’t planning on writing it, but my finger slipped. Oops. 😇

He didn’t tell anyone.

He didn’t want them to know. He didn’t want to be reminded that his life was taken away. He didn’t want to be reminded that he was over a century old.

He didn’t want to remember that the last birthday he ever had was in the midst of a war he never wanted, among friends who became brothers, and whom he’d never see again.

He didn’t want to remember the “party” he had with his family. How his sisters would give him something meaningful of theirs since they didn’t have money, usually a stuffie or a toy. How his mother would stay up all night decorating their small apartment with everything they could afford - streamers and a couple balloons, usually. How his father would work overtime to make him something at the shop; a small wagon he got for his eighth birthday, a wooden gun for his tenth, and a new baseball bat for his thirteenth after he broke the one he had for years. How his parents would scrape and save all year so that he could have that stupid chocolate brownie cake that he loved so much, but was extremely expensive, form the bakery down the street.

He didn’t want to remember how Sarah Rogers - one of the greatest women he’d ever met, a second mother to him - always came over early, dragging little Stevie along, to make those delicious blueberry pancakes she concocted, even though she was busy enough without stressing over him and his birthday breakfast. Even though she always had a new hat she made him every year and didn’t need to make food with a hard to come by fruit. Even though she was alone with her own sick son to worry about.

And Steve. He didn’t want to remember how he always stayed over for the night. How they would talk for hours about their dreams and aspirations. About where they were going to be by the time the next birthday hit. The blonde used to say that his birthday present from him was not having to bail him out of any fights. He always kept that promise; no fighting on Buck’s birthday. It wasn’t the only thing he got from his best pal, though. Steve always kept a sketchbook - a journal of sorts - illustrating their adventures throughout the year, starting the day after Bucky’s birthday when they always went to Coney Island, and ending on his birthday, whether it be a sketch of Bucky blowing out candles, or a drawing of the stars they looked at while talking later in the night.

He didn’t want to remember, because it hurt to do so.

Sometimes he wished he never remembered. It was a cruel thing. A life that he could never go back to. One that he wasn’t ready to leave, no matter how many times he told himself he was while sitting in muddy ditches with bullets flying over head.

Sometimes, on his bad days, he wished the experiments didn’t work. That Steve never came. That he was never “rescued” by that Soviet soldier. That he never survived the fall.

It just so happened that his birthday was one of those bad days.

He missed his life more than he let on. He missed his sisters. He missed his ma. He missed his pa. He missed when it was only him and tiny Stevie against the world. When they could do whatever they wanted, curious and innocent, exploring the big wide world as they knew it.

Turns out, the world is a lot bigger, and a lot scarier, than they thought.

He missed it, and he didn’t want to remember because it hurt, so he didn’t tell anyone, and he didn’t want anyone to find out. He stayed in his room all day, until he got too hungry to ignore around dinner time.

So he walked into the common room of the newly built Compound.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

He froze as confetti was shot out of those little hand-held cannons, balloons were dropped from the ceiling, and party horns were blown. His team - his friends and family, he had to remind himself - were beaming at him with party hats on their heads, frosting and flour on some of their cheeks. A banner reading, “HAPPY 107th BIRTHDAY, CYBORG!’ was hung up, no doubt courtesy of a certain birdbrain, along with streamers that looked like they were just thrown randomly.

He blinked, trying to process what was happening, before Sam had an arm over his shoulders, dragging him over to the table and sitting him down. Wanda set a plate of blueberry pancakes in front of him as Tony blasted music from the speakers overhead. A pile of gifts sat at the other end of the room, and the island counter was filled with all kinds of treats.

The team gathered around, laughing and teasing while eating the breakfast dinner that Bucky swore came straight from the 1920’s. Once they were done, a familiar chocolate brownie cake was placed in front of him, a gazillion candles on it, which he blew out in one breath to spite Sam, who said he couldn’t do it. Turns out, however, they were trick candles. Bucky rolled his eyes when Tony, Sam, Clint, and Pietro started laughing way too hard, but he couldn’t fight the small smile on his face.

He had yet to say more than a few words by the time they were done with the food and opening presents. He had gotten more books, a telescope, new boxing gloves, a teddy bear, a newsboy cap like the ones they used to have, and a wooden baseball bat along with a new glove (among other things). Tony even booked Coney Island the next day for the team to have it all to themselves.

It was too much; his brain was still processing all that had happened so suddenly in the past hour or two.

They knew. About everything. They knew about his birthday. They knew about the blueberry pancakes. They knew about the brownie cake. They knew about the hat and the baseball bat and Coney Island. They knew it all.

He didn’t have to question how. He looked up from the bear in his hands when something was placed in front of him. He met the ocean blue eyes of his best pal, and instantly knew what he’d done. How could anyone else know? How else could Wanda make blueberry pancakes that tasted just like Ma Sarah’s? How else would they find a hat that looked just like the last one she gave him when he turned 19 in 1936? How else would they know he, one of the most deadly assassins in the world, would want a teddy bear? How else would they know how much the silly decorations and the simple brownie cake meant to him?

Steve gave him that mischievous smile that never ceased to make Bucky chuckle, pushing the book he set on the table in front of him closer. “It’s a little more than a year…”

His icy blue gaze fell to the table, jaw clenching as he realized what it was. A sketchbook. Bigger, better quality than the ones he used to get, but that was to be expected. It was still torn up a little bit, the edges fading, the pages separating.

With shaky hands, he tugged the book closer and flipped through the pages. The Potomac River in DC. His little apartment in Bucharest. The airport in Germany. The Citadel in Wakanda. His hut in Wakanda. Him with his goats. Him and his new arm. Him and the team this past Thanksgiving when everyone came back. Him ice skating at Rockefeller Center during Christmas. New Years. Valentine’s Day. Snow days. Training. Watching movies. Playing games.

The very last couple pages were something he wasn’t expecting though; his family, new and old. Headshots of his smiling parents and sisters and Ma Sarah. The Commandos, laughing despite dirt on their cheeks and tears in their clothes. The Avengers doing signature poses with smirks and winks and cheeky grins. All perfectly drawn, safe in charcoal and ink, hidden protectively within the worn out sketchbooks covers.

“They’d want you to celebrate. So…happy birthday, jerk.”

Bucky’s eyes, prickling with unshed tears, making his vision slightly blurry, wandered up from the pages of black and white to the team, all smiling at him, before landing on Steve.

So maybe he missed the past. And maybe it hurt to remember. But he had Stevie with him, and he had his new team - his new family. And the blonde, as much as it hurt to admit it, was right. His old family would want him to celebrate. To remember them and, instead of getting upset and angry at the world for what it took away from him, would want them to cherish the memories he has. To be glad for what the world gave to him.

A few tears slipped down the curves of his cheeks, but he didn’t mind. They weren’t out of frustration and sorrow. They were good tears. Relieved tears.

“Thanks, punk.”

Maybe birthdays shouldn’t be about holding onto the past and wishing you were back. Maybe they’re about letting go and celebrating everything you’ve accomplished, how you’ve grown. Maybe they’re about being grateful for the people you’ve met, the places you’ve been, and where you end up.

And James Buchanan Barnes was glad to be who he was. A son, a brother, a friend, a teammate, a comrade…a hero.

#HAPPY BIRTHDAY BUCKABOO #cjsinkythoughts #cjswriting #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky #the winter soldier #mcu #marvel #happy birthday bucky barnes #💙🦾#🎂🎈🎉#bucky fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes fanfic

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daybreak-academy-fanfic · 4 years ago

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Daybreak Academy: Chapter 88

Uncle Eraqus

Summary: In which Anora and Brain have an off campus Thanksgiving feast with the latter’s uncle. Word Count: 1,686 First | Previous | Next ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆

It was right in the middle of history class when Anora got a text from Brain.

'Are u doing anything tonight? Wanna meet me by the gates for a Thanksgiving feast off campus? I know a real quiet place by the lighthouse. Wear your jogging pants- I'm not going to let you leave until you gain three pounds.'

Anora only wished that she could have seen her face after reading it. The young woman looked up at her teacher before carefully typing her response. Thank goodness that the keyboard on her slider phone was a quiet one. Too bad that she was generally a pretty slow typist.

'what if i'm not hungry?'

After sending the text off, Anora set her phone in her lap and tried to write some notes down. Brain must have been in the middle of class too- his text came back to her roughly ten minutes after.

'Ur nothing but skin and bones, madam. If I don't stuff you up, my uncle will.'

Anora almost had to force herself from questioning why Brain had an uncle. But, still. If this was going to be a Thanksgiving feast, would more of Brian's family be coming along? A small spike of fear hit Anora's head when she asked him just as much.

'Don't worry pretty girl. It'll just be you, me, and uncle E. Like I said, the buffet is a quiet place even on its worse days. It's got separate rooms like a karaoke bar. It's pretty cool.'

'i don't do karaoke'

'It's not an -actual- karaoke bar. Just trust me. Or don't. You don't have to come if you don't want to. I'm kinda just throwing it at you anyway.'

Anora lightly nibbled at her lip as she thought it over. It wouldn't hurt her to get off campus for a bit. She wasn't really expected to join in on anyone else's Thanksgiving dinner. Brain had also appealed to her social avoidance side too- there would be a lot more people in the cafeteria tonight. Some family members joining their kids on a free meal provided by the school. She knew for a fact that Mog's family would be coming- and that included both parents, a brother, a handful of cousins, and a persnickety aunt or two for good measure.

Come to think of it, she probably wouldn't have had dinner at the cafeteria tonight anyway. Still making sure that the history teacher wasn't going to notice her texting, Anora carefully typed her reply back to Brain.

'do i have to wear a dress?'

The bell that signaled for class end went off before Anora got a reply. She didn't even look at her phone until she got to the next class.

'Of course not. Wear what you've got. E's not picky and I literally just mentioned jogging pants. I'll wait until 6:30 for you at the gates.'

After reading through the message, Anora gave a little nod to herself and tried to focus on the rest of class. If there was one difference between Ephemer and Brain, it was that Anora didn't particularly feel like she needed to impress the latter. Hypocritical as it sounded- considering she was the one that told Ephemer he didn't need to impress her to keep her love for him. Most of her dresses were better suited for the summer anyway.

But she should still dress, nicer, though. Meeting with your significant other's (rebound or not) family was a big deal. She didn't want to give Brain's uncle the wrong first impression. Not that she'd be able to talk enough to form a good impression to begin with…

After classes were over, Anora went up to her dorm and started to go through her winter coats. The one she usually wore, a very warm double down jacket, was a bit ratted from years of use. She had to dig real deep in her stored away clothes for the fancy things. The young woman let out a happy noise of discovery when she found her maroon colored peacoat. It would match well with what she was already wearing; a long sleeved, light brown colored tunic shirt and dark washed jeans. It was respectable, but not too dressy.

She didn't waste any time in meeting Brain at the front gates. He was casually leaning on the brick archway before noticing her. When he did, he stood up and adjusted his hat a bit.

“So all your girl clothes are hiding in winter wear.” Brain mused as he looked her over. “Sounds like the opposite of every other girl I know, but it sounds about right for you.”

Anora suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. “Is it bad?”

Brain shook his head. He took a step or two closer to so he could take her hand and gently kiss her knuckles. “Not at all.” he gently purred. “You're just more unique.”

The blush on Anora's face came quickly and without restraint. Brain chuckled a bit at her before calling up a taxi. As the taxi headed on down to the lighthouse located outside of town, Brain tried to make a bit of light conversation with Anora.

“I'm not trying to scare you, but you should know what kind of guy my uncle is.”

Anora turned to him and raised an interested, but wary, eyebrow at him. Brain laughed at it for a moment before going on to explain himself.

“He's the principal at one of the main Departure County public schools. The same one that Ven came from.”

“Oh.” came the rather small answer. A snort escaped Brain's lips in return.

“Don't worry,” he assured her, gently taking her hand to rub her thumb over it, “I'm just teasing. He'll love you.”

Still giving Brain a wary glance, Anora carefully nodded her head and said nothing further. The drive to the lighthouse was spent in a still silence. When they were close enough, Anora could see a man that, at a distance, looked a lot like Brain. As Brain helped Anora out of the taxi, she continued to study the man. She must have stared for two long because he looked right at them. But he didn't call them out. Instead, Brain politely guided Anora by the elbow to the man and even tipped his fedora at him.

“Long time no see Uncle Eraqus!” he happily greeted the old man.

The man gave a nod of his own. “It's been a long time since we've met...”

“Brain.” Brain finished for his uncle.

“Brain...” Eraqus repeated with unease. “So it's official now?”

“Yep.” the young man boasted, grinning at his uncle with a cheeky certainty. “Well, no. A lot of the school paperwork still say I'm 'Blaine', but as far as anyone else knows, I'm the one and only Brain Renzhen.”

“Certainly is a unique name.” his uncle warily agreed. With this out of the way, Eraqus turned his attention to Anora.

“I don't believe we've met before.” Eraqus politely said to Anora. “My name is Eraqus, young lady. I am the brother of Brain's mother.”

Anora shrunk a bit, but offered him a smile and nod of acknowledgment.

“She's not much of a talker.” Brain laughed. “It takes a bit of getting used to for this little bird to sing.”

“Well, if that's the case,” Eraqus offered, “The let's go secure a private room for just us three. I'm sure it would be a lot better to the more socially anxious.”

Anora gave him a small smile in thanks, and with that the three of them entered the buffet. It was a rather cozy place, with amber lighting and the smell of freshly baked bread faintly hinted in the air. The individual rooms were separated with a sliding divider. Anora still sat a bit closer to Brain as the relatives started to talk to each other. The two seemed to have a rather amicable relationship. But the hardest part Anora had to wrap her head around was that Brain hardly referred to his uncle as uncle. Instead he called Eraqus by his first name only. It took time for her to realize that he was doing the same for his aunts as well. From what she could gather, he had two; one older than Eraqus, and one younger than both Eraqus and Brain's mother.

“Do you have any plans for winter break?” Eraqus asked Brain at some point.

“Not really.” the young man mused as he reached for his water glass. “I know Mom wants me to come home. But that means Beli and Chika are going to be there too with their small armies.” Brain took a sip of water before adding, “Thanks for not adding to the gaggle of cousins, by the way.”

Eraqus gave a rather bemused chuckle. “Not yet, anyway.” he teased. “There's one young man that I've been keeping my eye on. He's not much older than you two, but he could benefit from a more kinder household.”

“Are you going to take him to Christmas or New Year's dinner with you?”

“I might.” Eraqus agreed with a sigh. He then turned to Anora and said, “What about you, Anora? Do you have any plans for the break?”

Anora jumped a little, surprised to be a part of the conversation, before carefully shaking her head.

“Daybreak is one of the better campuses to be on during breaks.” Eraqus told her with a nod. “It's a shame that it can't provide housing for its recently graduated students. Assuming that a Tenth Year didn't buy an apartment in town already. Has the food quality improved any since we last had an all state school conference? Urd still swears she got food poisoning from the meatloaf they served.”

“Doesn't Miss Urd get sick off of anything that wasn't served on a gold plate?” Brain lightly snickered. Eraqus gave a small snort of amusement.

As Brain and Eraqus then went into a conversation that slightly mocked whoever this Urd lady was, Anora found herself lost in her own thoughts. What was she going to do for winter break?

#daybreak academy #chapter 88 #kingdom hearts fanfiction #Anora #Brain #Eraqus #Season 3

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natural-0-games · 5 years ago

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Let The Flames Begin: Tune Tuesday

Alright y’all might have seen that this account’s been starting up for the first time in a while. We’re actually going around and doing stuff, cool. There’s one simple reason for that, and this is me, Lexi, the one behind this whole thing talking: I’ve decided to cut out all the toxic people in my life and extend my vetting for letting new people in. (queue this music because I’m allowed to have musical overlays on my textposts it’s tuesday! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M_ohWuaNPWo ) If you’ve been reading my other posts you can probably piece it all together, but in the last 6 months I found myself a decent friend group at college... at least I thought I did. See, originally it was just me and this real chill guy who I won’t say the name of because internet, so I��ll just call him E. E and I met up near the start of the school year because E was just such an approachable person that even I could overcome my big NPC energy to talk to him. We got to talking, and decided it would be cool to start up a club for RPGs at the school, so that players and gamemasters could draw from a pool of people to make sure everyone got the experience they wanted. Then came D (again, not their name because privacy, but also y’know, I can’t resist calling him a D because he’s a d i c k), he was originally pretty chill, but almost immediately he ripped the club idea from my hands and decided all on his own without any input from me or E or anyone else that the club was going to include all tabletop games. Alright not at all what the club was supposed to be about, but okay. So a month rolls by, and D has determined that the club is going to do RPGs at most once a month. You know, the thing we were designed around in the first place, not ‘each campaign once a month’ which I could vaguely see to prevent burnout but nah, nah he means ‘one official club campaign session spread across all campaigns per month’. What. The. Fuck. Then it’s October, and I’ve got this cool idea, reverse trick-or-treating, you know that thing where you go door to door and give people candy? It was gonna be nice, and cool, and I told the whole friend-group about it at the start of October. Other shit happened in October regarding people I look up to and the discontinuation of my absolute favorite show, so there’s that. But the important thing to this post happened on Halloween, that day when they all said they’d join me going around giving people candy, and we’d all have a good time. I’d arranged it for six... six rolls around, no one’s there. I check the group discord, and I’m like ‘hey, where is everybody?’ only response is from E, saying that most people are at dinner and we should probably reschedule to later. I reply that it’s understandable and rearrange for 8. I get a message from B (only time she’s mentioned) saying she’ll be able to show up for sure. No one showed up. Only one person at 10 who came to console me because I kinda exploded in the discord server because I’d been planning this all month and no one fucking showed up. Yeah I cried myself to sleep that night, don’t judge. So now it’s November, and I finally put into action a plan I’d wanted to work on since the start of college: A larp league at the school, only problem is I’m going to have to craft the system from nothing. Alright, I’ve got inspiration from said favorite show ever that was cancelled in october, I’m going to base it around that. I then tell everyone in the friend group and they encourage me, I tell them I’ll be running a christmas event after thanksgiving break, they say that’s awesome. That’s when I realized I’m going to need to make over 1200 abilities because each of the 40 classes needs 33 abilities. I asked them for any suggestions, got a grand total of 0. So I worked my ass off, far more than is healthy, and got... absolutely nowhere because there was no chance in the first place. Right before thanksgiving break I tell them ‘hey, there’s no chance of me finishing the whole system in time, we’ll use a simplified edition i’ll come up with now’ they gave approval. I made a whole mini-system on 3 hours of sleep. I went home for thanksgiving break and caused my whole family extra stress during their move by needing to make swords for this event. So the day of the event rolls around, I’ve got everything set up, I’m out of the field, waiting. The event starts at 11, and that’s when i get there. No one’s there. ‘That’s okay’ I figure, ‘they’re not exactly punctual, they’ll be here in 15-20 minutes’. They are not. At 11:30, E shows up, I ask him where the fuck everyone is. Turns out B is still asleep despite giving me confirmation she’d be here last night, D and the rest of the group are at breakfast and have no intention of showing up despite being 25 seconds away, and E doesn’t see anything wrong with this. I waited until noon, still no one, so I gave up and headed back to my dorm, I’d informed them on the discord that if no one showed up by noon I’d cancel. And I fucking seethed. These people didn’t give a single fuck about me, or my time, or my effort. And after a few hours of calming down, past the tears, past the attempts at breaking things, I got onto the discord server, and I told them, in no indirect terms, that repeatedly encouraging people to devote time and effort to projects for the group, to get them excited for their events, to say that you’ll be there, and then all ghost without a word was absolutely abusive and I didn’t want that in my life. Instead of even a single attempt at an apology, or even a bullshit excuse, they all started yelling at me and kicked me from the server, the club, and the friendgroup. So that’s where I am. I don’t give a single fuck about people who disrespect my time. I don’t give a single fuck about people who think that just because someone has bigger problems than me my problems don’t exist. I don’t give a single fuck about people who bail on plans without a warning or remorse. And I feel so free. So I’m turning all the effort on projects I was making for those toxic assholes inward, I’m making the shit I love, and if you don’t enjoy it, you don’t have to be around me or use my stuff. Sure the first few apprentice games and such will be free, and the proof-of-concept for anything will be free, but if I’ve put in serious effort? If i’ve put in 150 hours already (like on a certain larp system...) and it’s not even a tenth of the way done? You bet your left buttock that I’m not giving that away for free. If I’m going to make something I want to get something out of it. So there’s that. And just because I know I need help here, I do have some open positions: Sabrina needs a pilot, and that’s the fancy lore way of saying I desperately need an artist, because my art is shit and while I have no idea how to make UI-interactive games, I’m going to try my best to learn. Elluwen needs a pilot, and that’s still a fancy way of saying I need playtesters. I’ve been relying on my friend groups too much for this, posting a message about this new game I’ve got that’s nearly done, and waiting 2 weeks to get a single person to even try to play it. Meanwhile I’m playing it repeatedly to try to find bugs and their version is almost completely replaced. and several more... honestly to just put it clearly: I need reliable people in my life, and if that means setting up a patreon for people to see sneak peaks and be playtesters through, wonderful! If I can find an artist willing to be on call for my projects, and of course still pursue their own endeavors, I can’t afford a full-time artist, that’s amazing.

I know what you’re here for, at least on tuesday, you want the shitposts, I’ve still got those, but everything above is far more important.

This week’s themesong: Let The Flames Begin This week’s cryptic meme: Slowly ripping the limbs off an effigy This week’s mood: Focused Anger This week’s character: Lokeeda

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anotherfiveyears · 6 years ago

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24: Another One Bites the Dust

March 1999

Dave ripped open the glass door of the dive bar and held it for Jimmy and Taylor.

"Thanks, baby!" Taylor mocked and ran his hand across Dave's cheek as he passed, earning himself a swift kick in the ass.

Dave looked around, smiling to himself and finally feeling back at home. He loved that bar. It smelled vaguely of cleaning solution and fried food, the bartender had been the same angry old man for years, they refused to play any music made after 1987 and the beer was always cheap.

Taylor gasped in excitement when he saw the old Street Fighter game propped against the wall and bounced towards it like an eight-year-old with a pocket full of quarters while Dave poached a table and Jimmy ordered beers at the bar. Dave tried to remember the last time he was there, finally deciding it was the night before Thanksgiving with Anna and butterflies rose in his chest at the thought of her. Jimmy set down a pitcher of beer and three glasses while Dave worked up the courage to ask him about her. "Hey, man... have you-?"

"I saw her last week," he interrupted flatly. "She's fine, still hot as hell and no, she didn't ask about you."

Dave felt every single one of his butterflies die a slow and painful death as he poured himself a beer and began to suck it down.

"Who are we talking about?" Taylor appeared at the table after losing interest in the game and snatched the beer Jimmy was pouring.

"Nobody," Dave grumbled the same time Jimmy said, "Anna."

"Oh, that brunette that you talk about in your sleep?" Taylor looked between Dave and Jimmy as they exchanged glares and broke the tension by ramming his hips into a bar stool while laughingly moaning her name.

"Goddamnit, Hawkins," Dave flung a paper coaster at his head, then dove off his bar stool at him, tackling him to the floor.

"You have to get over her, man!" Jimmy yelled as Dave and Taylor wrestled around.

"I am over her!" he insisted, looking up through Taylor's hand that was splayed across his face. His voice wavered and his two best friends knew better. "Fuck both of you."

"Jimmy!" Right on cue, her voice pierced their conversation and Jimmy leaped up, sending his bar stool crashing to the dirty wood floor next to Taylor and Dave. He picked her up and swung her around before leading her directly towards the bar.

Dave sat up from pinning Taylor and narrowed his eyes at Jimmy's back, annoyed that he wanted to keep Anna as far away as possible. Probably because that short black dress she was wearing was a fucking killer and that Dave had absolutely no willpower around her.

"Jesus fuck," Taylor groaned as he sat up next to Dave. "Is that her?" Dave didn't answer, just dropped his head between his knees. He felt Taylor's hand on his shoulder, squeezing a little in support of his friend and helped him to his feet. They sat together, finishing the pitcher of beer while scanning the large group she had arrived with. They were all far overdressed for the tiny dive bar and had probably been out at the clubs before deciding to finish off the night closer to home.

"Weren't you two really good friends?" Taylor finally asked, interrupting Dave's sulking.

"Yeah, we were super close," he sighed and shoved his empty beer glass away.

"Well then go fucking talk to her. How could that hurt?"

She could rip my heart out and stomp on it like she did last time? he thought. There were a thousand different ways it could hurt, but Jimmy had been distracted by someone else and there was Anna, alone at the bar.

"Dude, go," Taylor coaxed.

Dave swore under his breath and gathered the courage to walk over, though all the beer he had consumed was quickening the process. He was almost there when she turned and saw him, a devious smile spreading across her face as she bit into the tiny straws in her whiskey glass. He quickly devised a plan, knowing he needed her in his life like he needed air. He'd follow the same old routine by somehow managing to weasel his way back into her life, but this time he was determined to end the cycle and keep her around for good.

He had moved back to Virginia to get away from LA and the chaos it caused. He had felt himself slipping into the madness, going out every night with Taylor, getting fucked up and screwing anybody that was willing, but the numbness to it all was becoming too much to ignore. He had woken up one morning, sent some redhead on her way with a signed NDA and taxi fare and realized he just wasn't feeling anymore. The fear that he was becoming as apathetic as Kurt had jolted him into action, rousing Taylor from his sleep in a panic to tell him they were moving as soon as possible. A month later they were blissfully barbequing on the back deck of his new house in Virginia and planning the basement studio.

"Look at this joker," she called to him once he was within earshot.

"Hey, gorgeous. Come here often?" he grinned and blatantly checked her out, knowing his trusty LA pick up line would make her roll her eyes and it succeeded almost immediately.

"Sorry, handsome. I don't date guys in bands," she laughed and threw her arms around him, squeezing him tightly for a lingering moment before letting go. "How are ya, kitten?"

"Good, now that I'm back home," he paused for a moment to order more beer from the bartender. "What's the occasion?" he nodded to her group of friends that were still filtering in from outside.

"Bachelorette party," she said through a lazy smile. She was drunk. Perfect.

"Oh yeah? Who's throwing their life away now?" He scanned the crowd, recognizing Amy and the rest of Anna's old punk friends glaring harshly at him from their table in the far corner.

Anna stared at him for a moment as she took a long drink of whiskey. "It's me, kitten. I'm getting married."

Time slowed, his ears began to ring and his breath caught in his throat, making him choke on his beer. "What?" he coughed, clearing his throat as he blushed from embarrassment. The last thing he wanted was for her to know he was still in love with her, but he couldn't take his eyes off the massive rock on her ring finger.

"You okay?" she frowned and set her drink on the bar, patting his back as if that were going to clear his airway of the devastation he felt.

"Yeah, I'm good," he lied. "Congratulations, Annie."

"Thanks," she said quietly. "So what are you doing back in Old Dominion?"

"I got sick of LA," he shrugged. "We're recording the next record here."

"David!" she shrieked, making him jump. "That's great! What studio?"

"Don't have one. I bought a board and we're installing it in my basement." He watched her hand some cash to the bartender and frowned. "Wait, are you buying your own drinks?"

Anna laughed, one of her loud, throwing her head back laughs that made his heart swell. "Yeah. My friends are... shall we say between jobs," she giggled.

He looked up at her friends that were still whispering amongst themselves and throwing him dirty looks. "Band didn't take off, huh?" he stared Amy down as she glared back at him.

"Oh David, you know those things never work out. No one ever makes an entire career out of being a rock star," she rolled her eyes and despite the pit in his stomach, he laughed.

"So when's the big day?" he didn't really want to know, but he was scared she'd find a reason to go back to her friends and walk out of his life for good. He just wanted to hold on a bit longer.

"A week from today. The tenth."

Fuck. That's so soon. "You ready?"

She shrugged and looked away, "I guess. I don't know if anyone is ever really ready for these things. I need a smoke. You wanna come with?"

He pushed away from the bar as an answer and followed her, but not before motioning to the bartender that anything she wanted would go on his tab. She led him out the back door to the deserted back parking lot where she slumped against the wall and pinched a smoke between her lips.

"So what's he like?" he lit her cigarette for her, idly imagining her beloved as some horrible beast so he could use Stockholm Syndrome as an excuse to rescue her. Shit, it had worked once before with William, he thought bitterly, but her bright smile and giggle almost killed him. She looked so happy.

"He's pretty great, kitten. He works with my mom at the Pentagon."

"A jarhead, Anna?" She didn't even need to specify, he knew the exact type, but he was surprised she had fallen for one.

"Well, yeah... but he was a professional skater and a guitarist before all that. He got into trouble and the judge gave him the old jail or Marines option."

"What kind of trouble?" He knew he was prying and he didn't care. He wanted to know everything about this fucking guy.

Anna shrugged, her sly smile returning. "Got caught underage with a trunk full of beer at a punk concert." His eyes widened a little before he realized she was kidding. That would be too much of a coincidence. "He was his high school's weed dealer," she relented with a laugh.

Dave nodded and wondered if maybe he knew him somehow when the back door opened behind him.

"Annie?"

She lit up like a fucking Christmas tree at the sight of him, knocking the wind completely out of Dave. There was no saving this, she was gone.

"Over here! Look who I ran into!" she reached for his hand and pulled him into Dave's line of sight, oblivious to his suffering. "Dave, this is Aaron. Aaron, Dave."

Of course he was painfully handsome. Tall, dark, built like a Marine, but with longer hair and tattoos. "Hey man!" Aaron smiled warmly and firmly shook his hand. "I'm a huge fan of yours!"

"Yeah, thanks," he tried to sound sincere but wasn't sure it came across that way.

"Annie told me all about the shenanigans you two used to get up to," he laughed and put his arm around Anna's shoulders.

Dave forced a laugh, "She was a terrible influence on me." Also, fuck you, I'm the only one that calls her Annie.

Taylor poked his head out the back door and spotted Dave, "Hey man, Jimmy's passed out."

Both Dave and Anna groaned. "I'll be right there," he called back. He just wanted a couple more minutes with her.

"We should probably call it a night, too," Anna said softly, then looked back to Aaron.

Dave felt as if he might lose it when she gave Aaron the smile she had given him so many years ago. He turned on his heel, unable to look at them anymore and rushed inside to find Jimmy slumped in the corner with Amy at his side.

"You really need to keep an eye on your friend here," she admonished. "He's gonna get himself killed."

"Fuck off, Amy," he snapped. He didn't have the patience to deal with her griping bullshit, he needed to get Jimmy in the car and get home where he could go to sleep and pretend none of this was happening.

"Can I help?" Aaron asked, kneeling beside him and looking at Jimmy with concern.

Goddamnit, go be nice somewhere else. You're making it hard to hate you. "Just need to get him to my car."

Aaron nodded sharply, then leaned into Jimmy and easily picked him up over his shoulder. "Come on, buddy. Let's go home." Oh now Jimmy's your buddy, too? Was everyone here a total backstabber?

Once out in the parking lot, Dave noticed Taylor making out with some blonde against his car and sighed in annoyance. Anna's giggle at his side surprised him. "Is that your friend?" she asked, gently touching his arm. "Cause he's got his tongue down my bridesmaid's throat."

"Yeah... and my new drummer, actually," he laughed in spite of how bad his heart hurt.

The mention of his drummer sparked something in Anna and her eyes almost instantly filled with tears. "Oh, kitten...," she looked around for Aaron and must have decided he was too close for comfort because she shook her head and stepped back, dropping her eyes to the pavement.

"Which one's yours?" Aaron asked, shifting Jimmy's dead weight on his shoulders. Dave kept his eyes on Anna, disarming the alarm on his new car as an answer. Aaron looked in the direction of the beeping and gasped, "Duuuude, no. Jimmy's gonna hurl at any moment, there's no way I'm letting him fuck up the interior of a brand new Audi." Dave didn't have time to protest before Aaron lugged Jimmy to a black pickup and carefully set him in the back.

"We'll follow you to your place," Anna said quietly. "Is it far?"

He could only shake his head, knowing his voice would break if he spoke. Watching her hurry to Aaron, him opening the door for her and helping her into the passenger seat... it so easily could have been him taking care of his drunk friend and looking forward to a spring wedding with Anna, but he had spent the last two years in LA getting fucked up, sleeping with anything that had a pulse and living the rock star life that Anna always rolled her eyes at. He couldn't even get the closure he needed with her, he had fucked it all up.

#anotherfiveyearsfic

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homervnned · 5 years ago

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–– f l o u r - c a k e d h a n d s c l o s e t h e r e g i s t e r .

“ oh, for fuck’s sake. ”

there’s that signature eye roll. they’re talking ‘bout their dead wife A G A I N.

haven’t they read the roll along’s no sentimental bullshit policy ?

“ just eat your fuckin’ cinnamon roll. ”

whaddup. hope y’like your bakers how you like your sweet rolls : rude and emotional unavailable !

( sean teale, human, he/him & cismale ) is that ( spellbound ) by ( ac/dc ) playing? guess ( “brooks baker” / ferris feller )’s comin’ in hot! heard folks say the ( “25” / 52 ) year old ( bakery owner ) was at the thanksgiving fair, ( nearly droppin’ a tray of sweets ‘n goodies at his bakery stand as he thought he recognized the orange-wearing witch who hexed him years ago ) when chaos ensued. during the glitch, ( he tried to follow that damned lady to give her a piece of his mind, but wound up defendin’ himself from incomin’ hooligans with a blow-up baseball bat instead ).

b a c k g r o u n d.

born as ferris feller in letum falls, oklahoma, 1930. his mother, greta feller, raised him and his little sister ( possible wc, if she’s been turned supernatural ? ) on her own. the story goes his father was stationed abroad in the military as a courier and died in a freak accident. there were photos of him ‘round the house, but really, those are just black and white photos of some random soldier his ma had written correspondence with as a volunteer letter writer during world war i. his real father was the local pastor. his mother started sleeping with him after he brought his suits in to be dry cleaned at her laundromat.

ferris took a natural liking to baseball, and distinguished himself as a standout batter early in elementary. his ma worked extra mending clothes in order to pay his little league dues, and soon little ferris was catapulted to local baseball success.

he never was the brightest tool in the shed. always quick with a comeback, but his faculties were always more geared toward the sport than mental acuity. he passed high school with the help of a tutor and very lenient teachers, who all wanted to see the first letum falls baseball star make to the big leagues.

and make it, he did. in 1948, ferris jumped on board with the new york yankees and made major league history with the team for over fifteen years.

but there was always this one gal throughout high school who couldn’t get the hint. she asked him to the sadie hawkins and he said yes out of pity, which he learned was a big mistake. this girl confessed her love for him at the end of their senior prom, ‘n ferris didn’t know what to say except no. that summer, stuff got weird. it started with small things. a beetle in his salad. worms in his burgers at the diner. and then he noticed the trend: it all happened when she was around, watchin’. she cornered him after a game in baltimore about two years after he started playin’ and demanded he propose to her, that she’d seen into the future and they were meant to be. ferris laughed in her face. and she said he’d rue the day. she said, you’ll get what’s comin’ to ya, feller, and then you won’t be so gosh darned smug.

ferris thought nothin’ of it, until the tenth year of his baseball career rolled around and he noticed his hits hadn’t changed. his records hadn’t budged anywhere but up. but... he was supposed to be pushin’ 33. his original teammates were talkin’ about retirement. developing some crow’s feet, some aches ‘n pains, some grays. yet there ferris was, as fresh-faced as when he joined.

and that’s when it hit him. that damn girl hexed him. and with the media talkin’ bout his miraculous youth, ferris knew he needed to step outta the limelight. but just retiring wasn’t an option –– they’d send reporters to monitor his post-game life. they’d see that he still looked the same. sounded the same.

once again: not the sharpest tool in the shed. ferris ups and disappears in 1964. the media speculates kidnapping. murder. the search is on and ferris flees. ducks into the shadows. waits a few years livin’ quiet before he slinks on back to letum falls.

it isn’t until near arrival in ‘66 he realizes he’s... he hasn’t got a plan. he parks the car he bought off the side of the road in delaware and racks his mind for a story. a name. anythin’.

brooks. it works. different letter, different sound. he buys himself a modest house near the outskirts of town ‘n gets his ducks in a row. doesn’t even blink at the idea of a surname, ‘til people start askin’. he’s gotta have a reason to be here. a story. people start sayin’ he looks familiar... and there’s his in: ferris feller’s son. came here in search of my pa, you seen him? he’ll fake shock when folks say feller disappeared years ago. swallow his tears ‘n pay his vague condolences when they say his ma died of a heart attack in ‘64, after learnin’ about ferris’s disappearance. and he’ll... open a bakery. yeah. he’ll lie ‘n say his ma was a baker in baltimore, she met feller after a game ‘n he was the result. he’ll stay a while. open a bakery. bakery. baker. brooks baker. that’ll work.

so he opens the roll along. the town loves it. by 1970, he’s winnin’ awards with his sweets. but the baker’s disposition doesn’t match the confections’ flavor.

he’s bitter. crass. a dark cloud. you don’t walk into the roll along for a chat. but that doesn’t stop some from tryin’. behind that glare, there’s somethin’. behind those icy eyes, there’s a different story.

ask him if he knows baseball. he’ll say nah, never played a lick in my life. he misses it. god damn it, he misses the game.

he keeps facial hair to look around his age. although his age is loose –– he avoids numbers. avoids specifics. folks speculate he’s in his mid-20s and that’ll do. but if he ever shaved? he wouldn’t look a day over 22.

t h e f a i r .

the roll along had its very own tent at the thanksgiving fair, and it was doin’ great business. brooks almost dropped a full tray of sweet rolls when chaos broke out. and then he saw the lady in orange and he just about lost his marbles. chucked the tray onto the nearest table. set off after her. but she disappeared ‘n then he had some hooligans on his hands, so he snatched the closest weapon –– a jumbo inflatable baseball bat and had at it.

no glitz and glam. no heroics. he whacked those monsters upside the head with a useless bubble of hot air, sustained some deep slashes, ‘n then got the fuck outta there. locked himself in the bakery, slumped against the fridge, bloodied. cursed himself for bein’ here. cursed himself for not just dyin’ already.

the roll along was roped into hosting one of the pre-vigil gatherings. the mayor asked for 400 sweet rolls to honor the 400 fallen. brooks thought it was in poor taste but hey, can’t argue with asherby. he spent all night bakin’ the damned things in his blood-stained shirt.

c u r r e n t l y .

he can’t shake it. seein’ that woman. because that might be her. that might be the bitch who did this to him. the bitch who took everything by giving him it all.

so he’s stress bakin’. a lot. pawning it off on everyone and anyone. takin’ out his frustrations on unwitting customers.

people are askin’ more questions ‘bout where he’s from, but it’s been so long and he’s told so many white lies, it’s hard to keep his story straight. what’s it to you? is his go-to response, but that’s not sufficing any more.

c u r r e n t c o n n e c t i o n s .

unlikely friends – duffy freely. they’re an unlikely pair. but somehow, brooks’ bitterness doesn’t scare duffy off. and there’s somethin’ about this girl’s earnestness that’s got something akin to trust risin’ up in him. a friend. who’d have thunk.

smug flirty banter – cal caldwell. the roll along supplies baked goods to letum skate, and ever since findin’ its owner hiding away in a closet from customers and coaxing him out with baked goods, brooks has developed... an intrigue ‘round cal. and, well. the guy’s a warlock. maybe he can help figure a way outta this fuckin’ curse.

w a n t e d c o n n e c t i o n s .

younger sister. she’d be pretty old now, but i imagine if this was filled, she’d have been turned supernatural in her 20s or 30s. growing up, brooks and his sister weren’t very close. brooks was always their mother’s priority because of baseball, and i imagine there was a lot of bitterness when he left town so quickly for the yankees. she’s likely around, and if they have interacted, it would be clipped and tense. dysfunctional as fuck. there’d be a lot of resentment about how their mother died. because, well... it’s his fuckin’ fault.

drinking buds. two shots of vodka, glug glug glug !! brooks is... well. definitely an alcoholic, among other things. he carries such a weight that it’s the only way he really knows how to dull it all. he’s bound to have a person or two for choice company in those need-to-drown-it-out moments.

bitter buds. they don’t take one another’s shit. and in all other universes, maybe they’d be sworn enemies. but for some reason, these two wind up actually getting along.

someone haunt the shit out of him. ghosts, i’m lookin’ at you.

unofficial baker’s aid. alright so. brooks is all about flying solo. managing his own shit. but maybe this customer hangs around so often that they’ve become part of the process? taste testing, helping to get things out of the oven, dealing with customers when brooks is done with their shit, etc.

#othqintro #intro.

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gracewithducks · 5 years ago

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Wonder (Luke 2:1-7) - Sunday School Stories #13, preached 12/1/2019

Almost a year ago, one of my husband’s friends told Mike about the great deals his family had found at Niagara Falls in Canada over American Thanksgiving. Because it’s out of tourist season, and because Canadian children and workers don’t get a break for an American holiday, the prices and the crowds are both pretty low. Mike said, “Why don’t we go to Niagara Falls for Thanksgiving next year?”

I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes. I may have laughed in his face. Because Niagara Falls – in November – with children… all I could imagine were all the ways things could go wrong. It could be frigidly cold. It could rain the whole trip. We could get snowed in and not be able to go at all. Our kids might look at the waterfalls, shrug their shoulders, and say, “Meh. What else you got?” - - and we might not have a good answer.

But Mike was persistent. Our girls were, at that moment, fascinated with waterfalls; they’re growing quickly, to the point where we no longer have to travel with strollers or plan around naptimes. We looked at prices. We discovered all kinds of indoor back-up options. And we booked a hotel we would never, ever, ever have been able to justify splurging on without the off-season deals – a hotel overlooking the Falls. We made a countdown calendar, and our kids have been crossing off the days until our trip ever since before Labor Day.

Finally, finally, it was time to go. Our girls were nervous about crossing over into another country, only to find that Ontario, Canada looks an awful lot like Michigan. We drove past farms and forests, and lots of wind turbines, and strange foreign restaurants and shops with names like “Home Depot” and “McDonalds.” Our ten-year-old was pretty excited when we saw our first sign for Shoppers, the store mentioned in the musical Come From Away, and our five-year-old was excited with every Canadian flag we saw.

And finally we started seeing signs for Niagara Falls. We could see the towers of hotels rising on the skyline. We could see the mist rising from the Falls, and the girls rolled down their windows to see if they could hear the water’s roar. We checked into our hotel, rode the elevator to the tenth floor, walked into our room, and the girls immediately ran to the window.

Their jaws dropped. There really is no way to prepare yourself for the Falls: they are just so big; there is so much water, rushing, pouring, constantly, unendingly, more and more and more. And the mist gives a sense of magic and wonder to it all.

Our oldest looked. And looked. And looked. She excitedly pointed out to her sister the Horseshoe Falls, and the American Falls, and the little Bridal Veil Falls in between; she pointed to the Rainbow Bridge, and the wrecked ship which has hovered above the falls for over a century. And she said, with a contented sigh, “I don’t think I could ever get tired of that view.”

And then she said, “Can I watch something on the iPad?”

And we all started laughing. It became a joke this week; every time we returned to our room, one of us would look out the window, and say, “I’ll never get tired of that view… I wonder what’s on TV?”

There we were, on the brink of one of the wonders of the world – there we were, with all the people we loved most in the world – there we were, in a place people travelled from the world over to see – in a place where explorers would fall down and pray in terror – in a place where kings and queens have walked, where daredevils dreamed the impossible – there we were, and it was amazing… but it was also amazing how quickly we just got used to that beautiful site.

“I don’t think I could ever tired of that view… I wonder what’s on TV?”

How quickly we lose our sense of awe; how quickly we take even the most incredible wonders for granted. I remember the first time I ever heard of electronic mail; I was amazed by the idea that I could send a message to someone and they could see it immediately. But now many of us use email daily without a second thought. I remember when our family got our first remote control for the television, and I was intimidated by the idea that you could change the channel without even standing up. And I remember our first VCR, the novelty of being able to record a program and watch it later. These days, my husband can set the football game to record on our DVR from his touchscreen pocket telephone; we don’t have to be in the house or even in the country at the time. And speaking of phones, when I was a kid, video phones were science fiction right out of the Jetsons or Star Trek – and now it stuns me to realize that my children will never remember a world where video phone calls weren’t a thing.

And we just take it all for granted. We don’t think twice about the once unimaginable wonders around us. Machines that wash our dishes and dry our clothes. Groceries delivered right to your door. Flying machines and even a car that could travel hundreds of miles in a day were once inconceivable.

I don’t think I could ever get used to those wonders, we say… and then we turn around and ask, what’s next?

And nowhere do we see it more than every year at Christmastime. And I’m not even talking about the kids who count down the days until Christmas morning only to be bored with their new toys after five minutes and forget them entirely after five days… no, I’m not just talking about stuff. I’m talking about the story of Christmas itself.

We hear the story every year; we know it so well that we take it for granted:

In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken… and everyone went to their own town to register. So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David… He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn child, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.

We know the story: a Caesar, and a census; a little town, a man, a woman, and a baby in a manger. We wait for weeks every year to hear the story again; to sing the carols, to light the candles, to bask in the glow – and then we walk away, asking, “What’s next?”

We know the story; we know it so well, maybe too well – so much so that we can shrug our shoulders, and say, “I’ve been there, and seen that; I wonder what’s on TV?”

We can become numb to even the most amazing wonders – and this story is one. This is no ordinary story. This is the story of God entering into the world. This is the story of a God who so loved the world that God just could not stay away. This is the story of God entering into the world – not with fireworks and fanfare, but so quietly that, if you blink, you might miss it. This is the story of a God who surprises us, the story of a God who shows up in the lives of people who are being buffeted and shaped by kingdoms and powers out of their control.

While everyone is looking at Caesar, God is looking to the ordinary people. While everyone is bustling to arrive first, God is looking towards the latecomers, the ones who show up when there seems to be no more room.

There is a lot on our to-do lists for the month to come: shopping, wrapping, decorating, baking, travelling, taking pictures, sending cards, making calls… But my hope and my prayer is that we will take some time to enjoy the view, to remember what it is that brought us here in the first place. The story of Christmas isn’t about the presents or the decorations: it’s about a God who surprises us, who shows up in the times and the places we least expect it. Where is it, that God would surprise us today? Where are the mangers, where children have no bed? Who are our neighbors, whose lives are thrown into disarray by governments and laws beyond their control? Who are the strangers, looking for shelter, looking for a friendly face? Who are the people outside, longing for a place to belong?

Do we see them? Do we look? And do we believe that Christ is still being born, that God is still showing up, in humble and surprising ways today? We tend to associate this story with Christmas Eve candlelight services, but the story of Christmas is about as far away from stained glass and organ music and new clothes by candlelight as you can get. The story of Christmas is about a God who shows up in real life, in the messy and difficult stuff of our every day.

I want to encourage us to make a different kind of to-do list this year. And put on your list things like: smile at your cashier; over-tip your server on purpose, even if they’re having a bad day; donate to the giving tree; give non-traditional presents;

volunteer in the community; bake a pie for your neighbor; buy coffee for the person behind you in line; make it a point to compliment someone every day; donate pet food or old towels or blankets to the animal shelter; offer to babysit for some exhausted parents; visit a nursing home; donate new socks and underwear to those in need; volunteer to serve meals to those who are hungry; bring new coloring books and crayons to the children’s hospital; shovel your neighbor’s walk, or if you hire somebody to plow you out, ask them to do the rest of the street while they’re there; write another letter or make another call telling our leaders to stop separating families and get kids out of detention camps this Christmas; ask a family with a loved one in the service how you can help make their season brighter; pay for someone else’s groceries; invite your neighbor to share a meal with you – do whatever you can each day to find a way to show God’s love and bring hope into the world.

The good news is, just like the waterfalls which never stop, which keep flowing and flowing, noticed or unnoticed, appreciated or not, night and day, season after season, year after year – God’s love keeps flowing and flowing, and God keeps showing up; hope keeps being born into the world. The good news of Christmas isn’t just about a story that happened long ago; it’s the good news that God is still being born into the world in unexpected and surprising ways.

My hope and my prayer is that we won’t grow numb, that we won’t grow weary, that we won’t look away. May we have eyes to see Christ in the world this holiday season, and may we have hearts that never tire of seeking God’s presence and sharing God’s love.

O God, let your love roll over us like thundering waters; let your justice pour out around us, and your grace flow through us. Teach our hearts to be still this holiday season, to bask in your presence, to gaze on your grace. And help us to remember that being present is so much more important than buying presents;

help us to follow your lead, and to show up in the most humble and unexpected places. May we show your love to struggling families, to immigrants and refugees, to neighbors and strangers, to the hungry and the homeless – to all those looking for a place to find rest. In your peace, by your peace, for your peace we pray; amen.

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emulateharry · 8 years ago

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story of my life

Chapter 12

A/N: Could not keep this up without the help and encouragement from my peeps @niallandharrymakemestrong, @melissas173 and @whoopsharrystyles. Almost to the end...

Oh, Christmas Eve is covered in detail in the SOML Christmas Special

If you read this and like it, would you tap on the like button? If you really like it would you consider reblogging? And if you don't like it, would you send me a note to tell me why? All critique is welcome.

The morning after she had become lost in the storm, Kacey had awakened before dawn and could not go back to sleep. She lay in the dark listening to Harry’s soft breathing and trying not to cry. She was unsuccessful. All she could think about was how she had royally fucked up. She should have just answered his mum, just told her what she wanted to know. She shouldn’t have lectured her then stalked out like a petulant child. What they must think of her!

Until this trip she had somehow managed to hide her crazy side from Harry but the day before it had come blazing out in all its glory. He had been so kind to her last night, but he was the kindest person she had ever met. He was kind to everyone. She knew it was just a matter of time now. She wondered if he would tell her it was just not going to work out or if he would slowly stop spending time with her until he left for good. She wasn’t sure which would be worse but she did know that, either way, she was going to lose him.

She closed her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. She opened them again when she felt Harry’s thumbs softly wiping the tears away.

“What’s all this, pet?” his voice gentle and his eyes concerned.

Her lips trembled as she began in a tremulous whisper “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to cause such a ruckus! I was unforgivably ru--”

“Shhh, love. No. Mum told me what happened; why you left so suddenly. She was very worried about you and sorry for, well, I’m sure she’ll tell you herself,” he said quietly.

Kacey’s tears would not stop. She tried to quell them but the stress of the last 24 hours was too much. Harry held her in his arms, cradled against his chest while she cried soundlessly. Finally, the sobs lessened. He looked down at her, kissing the last of the tears from her face. He continued kissing down her cheeks to her chin, then her throat and on down her body. He kissed every inch of her, and then returned to her face to look into her eyes. He made love to her then, trying to tell her with his body what he was not yet brave enough to say aloud.

Kacey was unusually quiet for the rest of their stay. Though she and Anne had apologized to one another, Kacey was still uncomfortable and did not want to be alone with her. Harry was usually right next to her, hesitant to let her out of his sight. Gemma kept her mother occupied much of the time. When Anne suggested they accompany her to visit old friends one afternoon, Kacey politely declined opting instead to stay at the house. Though she explained that she needed to study the script for an upcoming episode of Mortwick Murders, Harry knew that the primary reason was to avoid spending the afternoon trapped in a car with his mum. Harry kissed her goodbye and Kacey spent the afternoon with Robin. She was drawn to his gentle demeanor and quiet humor. He, in turn, enjoyed getting to know the woman who had captured his stepson’s heart.

The next four weeks were very busy for both Kacey and Harry. After driving back to London, they had only two days together before One Direction’s fifth album was released and all the promotion craziness began. The Made in the AM release coincided with a Justin Bieber album release and the internet went ballistic hyping a competition that wasn’t there. Kacey was annoyed at the comparisons, particularly when 1D debuted at Number 2 in the US behind Bieber at Number 1.

“Laura, those assholes all need a fucking punch in the nuts. Did you read this bullshit? Bieber has been too busy spitting on fans and pissing in mop buckets to release an album in the last three years. This is the guys’ THIRD album in those three years. Let’s compare total sales, yeah? Those anonymous little digs on the internet. Fuckers. I want them killed,” Kacey was raging over the phone.

Laura, listening on speaker as she worked in her office in the US, made the appropriate soothing noises at the appropriate points in the tirade that continued. She decided to intervene as Kacey began planning how she was going to do away with the people criticizing One Direction.

“No, Kacey, you can’t poison Dan Wootten no matter how much you and the rest of humanity would benefit. Blow torch is out too. The humiliation thing might work if the man had any shame but I think you’re out of luck there as well. As for the rest of them, they are just minor little leeches. You know what we do to leeches,” she reminded her.

“Pour salt on them? No wait, that’s slugs. What?” Kacey asked, distracted from her anger for a moment.

Laura, thankful for the first time for her friend’s ADD, replied “Pitch them back into the cesspool from whence they came.”

“I’d rather set them on fire and pour salt on them,” Kacey muttered.

“I know sweetie. But you realize that the salt would put out the fire, right? Defeating the purpose? Anyway, what does Harry say?” Laura asked, knowing the answer already.

Huffing, Kacey said “He says to ignore it all. But…”

“Ah, ah, ah! Harry is a Zen kind of guy. You should try to emulate him,” Laura tutted.

“Fine. But just wait until the next book. I’ll find some special treatment for these twits. Prepare for grisly, violent deaths,” Kacey promised.

“Yay! I smell another best seller cooking in that brain of yours.”

Harry was in North America promoting the new album and appearing on talk shows and award shows. He had been on Jimmy Kimmel in the sexiest pair of floral trousers Kacey had ever seen. Then they played at the AMAs and filmed a performance for New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. Kacey had hoped they could be together on Thanksgiving but Harry was in Mexico for a performance on the Premio Telehit awards show.

During one of their facetime sessions, he had hinted that his mum was going to invite her to spend the weekend in Cheshire. Kacey, not yet ready to face Anne alone, immediately made other plans.

Kacey had lived in a flat in Henley on the Thames just after she moved to England. After her first book was successful she had bought the flat. Her downstairs neighbor, a widow by the name of Heather Crutchley, had become like a surrogate grandmother to her. Kacey would spend afternoons with her helping with chores around the flat or taking her for errands or just having tea and listening to her reminisce. Mrs. Crutchley, Hedy as she insisted Kacey call her, had taught her to knit and crochet and tat insisting that keeping the hands busy was a good way to calm the mind. Hedy adored Kacey and always treated her as one of her own grandkids. It had been far too long since Kacey had gone back to visit, so she had called to talk and see how she was doing. Seeing an opportunity, Kacey had offered to make Thanksgiving dinner for her and her bridge club (of which Hedy was the youngest member at 75 years of age). Hedy, being no fool, agreed immediately; Kacey was a very good cook.

On Wednesday Kacey drove the 40 miles to Henley and made a quick stop at Sainsburys for supplies before heading to her flat. She had ordered a turkey from Douglas Willis Meats that was going to be delivered at any moment and she didn’t want to miss it; particularly since the 17-pound bird cost $110. She cringed a little at the price, at home a much larger turkey would be on sale for a tenth of that cost, but it would be worth it. She spent the rest of the day prepping the feast and texting Harry between his promo events. She was making a traditional Kentucky Thanksgiving dinner with cornbread dressing, gravy, fresh cranberry sauce, candied yams, green bean casserole and her grandma’s famous rolls. She decided to make the pumpkin and apple pies ahead of time, filling her flat with the spicy sweet scents.

Thursday dawned cloudy but relatively mild. Kacey planned to have dinner early in the afternoon for the ‘Henley Bridge Babes’ because they all preferred earlier meals. The ladies were playing cards in the downstairs flat as Kacey prepared the food in hers on the second floor. Harry called at 1230, 630 in Mexico City, eager to hear her voice first thing in the morning. He had an invitation for her as well and was excited to tell her about it.

“Kassidy, I talked to Jeff last night. He has invited us and some other friends to his yacht for New Year’s. We’ll be cruising in the Caribbean. What do you say?” he inquired eagerly.

“Oooh, sounds wonderful. When would we leave?” she asked as she basted the turkey.

“We’ll fly to Miami on Boxing Day and then spend the next ten days on the yacht. We’ll fly home on January 3rd.”

“Oh. Boxing day? Well, hell. I can’t! I have to film a Mortwick episode on the 27th. Will take at least 3 days—I have a pretty big part in this one. And Geoff Adams is directing. I’ve told you how picky he is. We’ll be lucky to get done by the 30th,” irritation creeping into her voice.

“Oh no. Bloody Hell. Mum and Robin are coming and Jeff and Glenne want to meet you. I was hoping to start the new year off with---” Harry was interrupted by Kacey shouting.

“Shit!! Ow, ow, ow. Damn it, I burned my hand!” she exclaimed.

Harry could hear the oven door slam and then the sound of water running in the background. “Are you okay? Is it bad?” the worry evident in his tone.

“I think it’s okay. It’s small. Damn. I’ll bet that scars,” she muttered.

“Love, I’ll let you go. I’ll call tonight after the show…unless you’d rather I wait until the morning.”

“No, please call me when you are finished. Good luck, break a leg. I miss you.”

“I miss you too. Eight more days,” he consoled.

“Eight more days,” she repeated.

Kacey tried to rearrange the shooting schedule so that she could accompany Harry on the yacht. Geoff, her co-star turned director for that episode, was adamant that no changes be made. He informed her that he had a meticulously prepared shooting timeline and they would not deter from it. Harry was not happy but eventually resigned himself. He would take her on holiday later, just the two of them. At least they would have Christmas together.

They had originally planned to have a simple day with his family, everyone coming to his house and spending the night so that they could leave early together the next day. Kacey was not entirely happy with this arrangement. She was excited to spend her first actual holiday with Harry. After mulling it over for a few days she decided to, as her gift to them all, do Christmas right. Harry took a little convincing, but seeing how much it meant to her, he agreed.

Kacey threw herself into list making and contacting florists, landscapers, designers and suppliers. One morning, in the middle of December, a team of workers showed up to his house and transformed it. There were Christmas trees and garlands and ribbons and candles everywhere. All in all, it was very elegant and yet comfortable. A huge package arrived addressed to Kacey a few days later and she squealed as she unpacked a beautiful antique china set with a Christmas theme. The elaborate traditional meal that she had planned for them would look wonderful on the plates.

Harry decided to help by hanging mistletoe in almost every doorway and over his bed. He even took to wearing a sprig of it in the waistband of his jeans, waggling his eyebrows at her whenever she walked past him. Kacey finally asked him to stop because taking numerous sex breaks during each day, though very nice, was hindering her ability to “Get shit done.”

Despite the over the top decorations and meal plan, Kacey had asked Harry to go with a simple gift, if any. The sting of his mum’s question lingering in her mind, she explained that she really didn’t need anything. Harry echoed the sentiment and was glad that she was so busy because she didn’t notice him sneaking away for a few hours each day. Kacey had also put a Christmas tree in Harry’s bedroom. This one she left bare for him to decorate. He was excited to pull out his personal ornaments and place them where he could enjoy them. Kacey watched him as he carefully decided on a spot for each one, Christmas movie playing in the background and the smell of pine, hot cocoa and popcorn mingling in the room.

The days flew and before she realized, it was December 23. Anne and Robin and Gemma were coming in the afternoon. Kacey was making a lasagna and salad for dinner, while Harry insisted on making breadsticks from scratch. They worked well together in the kitchen, enjoying the morning. They took a little break while the dough was rising because Harry mentioned that something else was rising as well and they really should go see to it. Kacey snapped him on the behind with a towel and then ran squealing with laughter to the bedroom where he caught her up in a hug.

Christmas Eve was a long day spent at the Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park. They ice skated and toured the ice sculptures and shops.

Christmas morning was lively. Kacey had prepared several breakfast casseroles the night before and they ate leisurely before moving to the lounge to open gifts. Kacey wanted to clean up the kitchen before going in but Harry was insistent that she join them.

Harry, of course, played Santa. Before he could get under the tree to start pulling out gifts, Kacey handed him a small wrapped package.

“What’s this? I’m Santa!” he tried to sound pouty.

“Try opening it to see, goober.”

“Do I hear sass on CHRISTMAS? Oh, love, that’s not going to go well for you.”

“Oh, hush and open it.”

Harry tore the paper and ribbons and tossed them aside. He opened the box and found a plush velvet and fur Santa hat. He pulled it out and put it on.

“Now, you’re ready to play Santa,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

He grinned at her as Anne snapped a picture.

Harry handed out the parcels with glee and watched as everyone opened gifts.

Kacey and Gemma enjoyed a laugh when they realized that they had given each other the same gift—tickets to the same upcoming concert.

Harry did, in fact, get some slippers from his mum and Robin. Kacey opened her gift from the Twists and gasped. It was an antique British cookbook “Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management.” Kacey had a collection of antique and vintage cookbooks and had wanted a copy of Mrs. Beeton’s for a while but had never actually looked for it. She thanked them enthusiastically, opening it carefully to glance at the first few pages. Robin was very pleased with his present from Kacey, grinning when he saw the season tickets to his favorite local football team. Anne opened hers and sat back in surprise. It was a signed copy of the newest book by her favorite author, Peg Hughes, entitled “Dante’s Alfredo.”

“Kassidy, how did you get this? It doesn’t come out until next month!” she asked, looking at her in awe.

“Oh, I know someone at the publisher,” Kacey said with a smile and a wave of her hand. “Don’t tell anyone!”

Harry handed Kacey one of the last two packages under the tree, taking the other for himself.

“You go first,” he encouraged her, practically bouncing with anticipation as she held the brightly wrapped box labelled “To Kacey, From Harry”

Kacey gently tore open the paper and then lifted the top off the box. Inside was a scarf. Not a silk scarf, a beautiful knit infinity scarf made from the softest wool she had ever felt. It was a lovely steel blue, the yarn bulky and plush. It was long enough to loop around her neck almost three times. There was no tag on it and Harry was watching her closely for her reaction. That’s when she realized.

“You made this? You knitted this?” she asked wide-eyed.

Harry shrugged and said “My grandma taught me how. I was a bit out of practice but I think it came out alright.”

“Oh, Harry, it’s beautiful! And it’s so soft, is it alpaca?” she said as he nodded that it was. Kacey moved to kiss him softly, tears threatening to fill her eyes. “Thank you. I love it.”

Harry turned to his gift as Kacey watched nervously. The wrapping torn off, he opened the box and looked at the contents, confused for a moment. Then he let out a huge laugh and grabbed Kacey and hugged her tight. Kissing her soundly he picked up his package and ran out of the room. Kacey was laughing and the rest of his family was sitting bewildered, looking to her for answers. Before she could respond, Harry came barreling back into the room and sliding across the floor wearing a large pair of Batman footed pajamas. Peals of laughter rang out as he slid and strutted and struck superhero poses.

Gemma took several pictures and then smiled at Kacey. “How did you know?” she asked her.

“I saw an interview where he said he always wanted some. I thought I would make that happen,” Kacey grinned.

“They’re great! Liam is going to be so jealous. I’m going to text him a picture right now. Here, Gem, take my picture, please,” he asked handing the phone to his sister. Striking a pose with his hands on his hips, he affected a serious expression staring off into the distance. He sent the text with the caption “I AM BATMAN” then hurried to take off the PJs. They were too warm over his sweater and jeans. He bent to kiss Kacey and thanked her with a stroke of her cheek.

Harry settled down next to the tree once again and began rummaging around underneath for what he dubbed ‘Kacey’s best gift’. He emerged and turned around, a bright red bow on his forehead and a tag on his jumper that read ‘To: Kacey, From: Harry.’ Kacey’s face lit up and she squealed. Anne and Gemma and Robin were laughing and Harry’s expression was one of pure mischief.

Kacey exclaimed “Yay! It’s just what I’ve always wanted!” clapping her hands as she stood to walk towards him. He opened his arms to her but she stopped short.

“No, no, no, no, no! I want to examine my present,” she giggled. Reaching her hand out she touched the hem of his jumper and rubbed it between her fingers. “Just as I thought. Boyfriend material!” Gemma and Anne snorted. Harry rolled his eyes and smirked at her but stood still with his arms akimbo as she slowly circled him.

“Oooh, the Perky Bum 2.0 upgrade! Very nice. That cost you some serious squats” she observed, giving his glutes a close look as he flexed them at her. Harry’s family was laughing at them.

“Good of you to notice,” he remarked drily, watching her as she circled slowly.

Walking around his side and looking him up and down she cooed “You sprang for the ‘enhanced’ rock star package. Excellent!”

Harry leered and said “I’ll show you an enhanced package later…”

“Harry!” Anne admonished, smiling and shaking her head.

“What?” he asked innocently.

Kacey giggled again “And you even got The Cheeky Chat Module! Good, I like a little challenge.” Stopping directly in front of him, she looked up at him and said, seriously, “Best. Gift. Ever. I’ll treasure it always.” She tiptoed to kiss his nose. Harry grabbed another bow and stuck it on her forehead. They both laughed and he pulled out his phone for a selfie.

Christmas dinner was delicious and everyone raved about the food. Kacey had never made goose before but with pointers from Mrs. Crutchley and several google searches, she managed it. There had been a wariness of the candied yams with pecans but, once tasted, they were deemed a new holiday favorite. The roasted root vegetables and brussels sprouts with bacon were successful as well. Kacey had even made a Christmas pudding, complete with an antique sixpence cooked inside, Kacey being the lucky recipient. After coffee, Anne, Robin and Gemma insisted on cleaning up while Harry took Kacey upstairs to snuggle and take a quick nap.

They rounded out the day playing board games and watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” in the lounge. They all went to turn in early as their flight was scheduled for 630AM. It had been a lovely day. The night was special as well. Harry and Kacey loved each other goodbye until it was time for him to take a shower and get ready to leave for the airport.

At the door, he kissed her and then joined his family in the waiting car. As the car pulled away, Harry turned back to see her smiling and waving. He blew her a kiss which she 'caught' and put in her pocket. He was smiling as they pulled out of sight.

#soml12 #Harry and Kacey #Harry

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wendyimmiller · 4 years ago

Text

‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing.

So, it’s come to this.

As a nation, we are so starved for American garden programming that we are willing to accept that a woman worth over $620 million dollars, stuck for 82 days on her 153-acre estate in Bedford, NY; with her gardener, one of her housekeepers, and one of her drivers; and joined as needed by groundskeepers and their foreman, is going to fill that need and leave us hungry for another season of down-to-earth gardening advice.

So starved, that we are willing to accept HGTV promos that tell us that this immaculately dressed and fully made-up celebrity, sans sweat, sans grimy hands, and sans, apparently, a production assistant to create some small illusion of same, is relatable; and “puts the G back in HGTV.”

So starved, that we are willing to overlook her frequent – and historical – transposition of the pronouns “I” and “they” when discussing the nitty-gritty of projects undertaken on that 153-acre estate.

So. Starved.

Six episodes worth of gilded crumbs. And I’m afraid this gardener has lost her appetite.

It’s not about the money…

Perhaps the best way to launch into my review [and accompanying visual aids] of the first season of HGTV’s Martha Knows Best, (which I watched in its entirety after Susan’s recent review here) is to make it perfectly clear that I have no problem with the [legal] accumulation of wealth.

What wrestling a tiller really looks like.

I have no problem, as it were, with the wealthy.

You earned it. You spend it. Martha Stewart is not just an extraordinary business woman, but a talented creative with an expert eye sharpened over many years.

She also has the genius to recognize, nurture, and promote that spark in other creatives.

If she insists that the 1000+ containers on her property be of the same color family (stone, concrete or marble), and never wishes to see an artistic vegetable in a flower arrangement, and lines utilitarian pathways to peacock enclosures with cut blocks of granite, who am I to criticize her from enjoying the whims that whacking great wads of cash can indulge?

I’ll have to tell my insanely talented friend Louisa Zimmermann-Roberts at Thanksgiving Farms in Frederick, MD, that her summer arrangement of Swiss chard, sweet pea, red raspberries, grapes eggplant, okra, chives, black-eyed peas and banana leaves is not officially sanctioned. She’s going to take it really well.

If I lived across the street as one of her “very many fancy neighbors” I would raise a glass to her abilities at the neighborhood block party, and conscientiously ask her advice when it came to pairing champagne and stemware for a well-lubricated celebrity crowd of twenty on a Saturday night.

I might even ask which echeveria to use in the tablescape.

Wickedly, I’d also try to tempt her hardworking gardener, Ryan McCallister, to cross the street and become my personal gardener. My current gardener, Cutout Andy (though versatile and well-traveled), doesn’t have the same twinkle in his eye.

Cutout Andy and I discussing plans for the garden.

All this to say, I respect what she has achieved and have no desire to set up a mini-guillotine in the exquisitely designed cobblestone courtyard of her horse stables. I won’t even debate aspects of her gardening advice. Susan did that already.

I also respect the fact that she is a 79-year-old woman who is a damn sight more active than your average 79-year-old American.

Let Them Eat Cake

What I don’t respect however, is this laughable attempt to appear ‘relatable’ as someone who is just like me, or like 99% of the gardening public.

I don’t respect the producers of this show having so little awareness of the current suffering going on throughout the country that they felt that a conspicuous display of fabulous wealth could feed the public’s very real (and in many cases, economic) need for gardening advice.

At a certain point it goes from being laughable, to being downright offensive. From the intro:

“I’ve lived on this farm for about 17 years. And like you I’m spending more time at home than ever before. So I’m going to take you behind the scenes as I do my gardening projects. I’m going to help my celebrity friends. And surprise new gardeners.”

Here’s one of my gardening projects – Endlessly Weeding. On my knees. On my own. And I’m one of the lucky ones.

It must be horrific to spend 82 days on 153 acres. With a modified staff.

What about 82 days on a tenth of an acre (like my last house)? What about 82 days in an apartment with a philodendron?

Uhhh….there’s a pandemic going on?

We have been six months at this pandemic. After years in cramped quarters, I now live on ten beautiful acres in a four-bedroom house. And I’m ready to bury my husband’s work-from-home body in a remote corner of the property at this point. It might even be classified as a COVID death.

And no doubt my husband feels the same way.

And yet, every evening of this mess, when I watch the news and see cities in such turmoil, I think of my 10×12′ apartment in New York, when I was 100% dependent on food service jobs and student loans to make my bills.

Each and every morning when I walk through the garden I think of our little upstairs flat in Southeast London when my son was a toddler, and how desperate I was for more than a window box and a few pots by the door.

My very first vegetable garden – a 2x17ft unpaved strip in the parking lot outside our tiny apartment in Southern California. (Photo from Big Dreams, Small Garden, 2017)

And each morning I am deeply grateful for the space around me, and painfully aware that others are struggling in this pandemic under terrible conditions with no end in sight.

No awareness from Hollywood apparently. Or from Bedford.

“When the pandemic started and quarantine became de rigueur,” says Stewart, “I invited Ryan, my gardener, I invited Carlos, one of my drivers, and one of my housekeepers Elvira, to stay with me during this time.”

Quarantine. De rigueur. Alrighty then. So is a floor length gown at a debutante ball Martha. But okay, we’ll just go with it.

Lost in Translation

And if you didn’t study French in high school and are currently running to Google Translate – keep the tab open. To Martha, soil that is ready for planting does not resemble a palm full of pastry dough, but pâte brisée.

It’s actually an excellent analogy that falls short in its delivery. As does dropping mise en place to describe setting gardening tools in place for a project.

While you’re at it, you might want to check out Île de la Cité, where Martha gets “all her seeds.”

No Chanel or Dior for this everyday gardener when she arrives in Paris, she tells us, but straight to those lovely little seed markets.

I didn’t want to bring Marie and her cake into this, but damn.

My husband and I on our way to the seed markets. Regrettably he had to drive us due to some staffing issues.

I remark upon these Gallicisms as someone with five years of French under her belt, a fair amount of experience in the kitchen and garden, and an unfortunate history of dropping sans into conversation, but a young, beginning American gardener doesn’t know her pâte brisée from her pot of ease-ay.

99.9% of low or middle-income gardeners are not jetting to Paris for their seeds and will probably see what’s available at local garden centers before they consider even splurging on shipping fees for online sources, no matter how wonderful they are.

I know I did.

And here. Here is the issue. Pretending that this is a gardening show instead of a celebrity reality show.

The wonderful thing about Cutout Andy is that he is so incredibly portable. Here he is on his way to help my mother in her garden in California.

Just Ask Martha

A few moments of FaceTiming Mitch in Lemoore, California about soil preparation for his carrots; or telling Maggie in Mississippi that she needs “ferns” for the north side of her shady house; or letting Karlin from Florida in on the not-so-little secret that she needs a coop for her ducks to keep them safe from predators; does not constitute ‘hanging with the little people.’

Especially after each performs the requisite sycophantic prelude before speaking to “the Gardening Queen Herself”

Maggie: “I almost started crying but I did keep it together.”

And then there are the celebrity cameos. Hailey Bieber needing dog grooming tips. Jay Leno showing us the kitchen in his garage and asking what a pomegranate is. Zac Posen telling Martha he’s been gardening since March in Bridgehampton.

“Well. It’s SOOO easy to garden in the Hamptons” she laughs.

I’ll just leave that right where it fell.

Cutout Andy taking a few moments away from digging out a new pathway to enjoy a warm tomato from my mother’s garden.

I made my life-long gardening mother watch two episodes with me. When Martha begged Snoop Dogg to join her in Maine on her 63-acre estate, Skylands, for her next party post-COVID, Mom turned to me with a puzzled look on her face. “It’s like digging your heel into somebody’s face.” She said quietly. “I’d be embarrassed to say that.”

Even if I gave millions of dollars to charities each year – as no doubt Martha does – I would too.

To his credit, a tee-shirted Richard Gere sat cross-legged and underneath a tree in his father’s average suburban garden where he grew up – even if they spent the entire time discussing the shade beds at his exclusive Relais & Châteaux establishment, The Bedford Post Inn. He almost seemed a little embarrassed.

Perhaps we have his friendship with the Dalai Lama to thank for that.

She knows her stuff. But she’s forgotten her audience.

Martha’s smart. She’s exceptionally talented. She built an empire.

But she is not the person to put the G back in HGTV.

Those are people like Joe Lamp’l on Growing a Greener World, or Nan Sterman in A Growing Passion, or or down-to-earth influencers like Erin Schanen (www.impatientgardener.com) or Doug Oster (www.dougoster.com), or Ron Finley (www.ronfinley.com) who show you the trials, tribulations and glorious successes without the catchy music and celebrity friends.

Ron Finley of South Central L.A., an activist gardener who has changed thousands of lives by inspiring people living in the food deserts of inner cities to garden (Source: www.RonFinley.com)

For advanced gardeners who have yet to watch ‘Martha Knows Best,’ do. I’d like to know what you think.

But if you’re a brand-new gardener – look to the shows, feeds and podcasts of those who garden with the resources and in the region that you do. I guarantee you there are hundreds on YouTube.

Or, depart these shores altogether and take advantage of UK programming that still respects its population enough to provide polished and professional gardening programs to inspire everyday gardeners, such as Charlie Dimmock’s new endeavor, Garden Rescue, classic episodes of Ground Force, or Monty Don and others truly getting their hands dirty in BBC Gardener’s World. (Please leave your suggestions in the comments for excellent gardening programming in other parts of the world.)

Martha Knows Best is not a gardening show. It’s a celebrity reality show that takes place outside. And in the middle of a pandemic, when millions are out of work, businesses are shuttered, and large segments of the population are watching their future dreams for even a modest home and garden sabotaged by something completely out of their control, we deserve better.

Let’s hope HGTV digs a little deeper and finds it.

‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing. originally appeared on GardenRant on September 10, 2020.

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turfandlawncare · 4 years ago

Text

‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing.

So, it’s come to this.

So. Starved.

Six episodes worth of gilded crumbs. And I’m afraid this gardener has lost her appetite.

It’s not about the money…

What wrestling a tiller really looks like.

I have no problem, as it were, with the wealthy.

You earned it. You spend it. Martha Stewart is not just an extraordinary business woman, but a talented creative with an expert eye sharpened over many years.

She also has the genius to recognize, nurture, and promote that spark in other creatives.

I might even ask which echeveria to use in the tablescape.

Cutout Andy and I discussing plans for the garden.

I also respect the fact that she is a 79-year-old woman who is a damn sight more active than your average 79-year-old American.

Let Them Eat Cake

What I don’t respect however, is this laughable attempt to appear ‘relatable’ as someone who is just like me, or like 99% of the gardening public.

At a certain point it goes from being laughable, to being downright offensive. From the intro:

Here’s one of my gardening projects – Endlessly Weeding. On my knees. On my own. And I’m one of the lucky ones.

It must be horrific to spend 82 days on 153 acres. With a modified staff.

What about 82 days on a tenth of an acre (like my last house)? What about 82 days in an apartment with a philodendron?

Uhhh….there’s a pandemic going on?

And no doubt my husband feels the same way.

My very first vegetable garden – a 2x17ft unpaved strip in the parking lot outside our tiny apartment in Southern California. (Photo from Big Dreams, Small Garden, 2017)

And each morning I am deeply grateful for the space around me, and painfully aware that others are struggling in this pandemic under terrible conditions with no end in sight.

No awareness from Hollywood apparently. Or from Bedford.

Quarantine. De rigueur. Alrighty then. So is a floor length gown at a debutante ball Martha. But okay, we’ll just go with it.

Lost in Translation

It’s actually an excellent analogy that falls short in its delivery. As does dropping mise en place to describe setting gardening tools in place for a project.

While you’re at it, you might want to check out Île de la Cité, where Martha gets “all her seeds.”

No Chanel or Dior for this everyday gardener when she arrives in Paris, she tells us, but straight to those lovely little seed markets.

I didn’t want to bring Marie and her cake into this, but damn.

My husband and I on our way to the seed markets. Regrettably he had to drive us due to some staffing issues.

I know I did.

And here. Here is the issue. Pretending that this is a gardening show instead of a celebrity reality show.

The wonderful thing about Cutout Andy is that he is so incredibly portable. Here he is on his way to help my mother in her garden in California.

Just Ask Martha

Especially after each performs the requisite sycophantic prelude before speaking to “the Gardening Queen Herself”

Maggie: “I almost started crying but I did keep it together.”

“Well. It’s SOOO easy to garden in the Hamptons” she laughs.

I’ll just leave that right where it fell.

Cutout Andy taking a few moments away from digging out a new pathway to enjoy a warm tomato from my mother’s garden.

Even if I gave millions of dollars to charities each year – as no doubt Martha does – I would too.

Perhaps we have his friendship with the Dalai Lama to thank for that.

She knows her stuff. But she’s forgotten her audience.

Martha’s smart. She’s exceptionally talented. She built an empire.

But she is not the person to put the G back in HGTV.

Ron Finley of South Central L.A., an activist gardener who has changed thousands of lives by inspiring people living in the food deserts of inner cities to garden (Source: www.RonFinley.com)

For advanced gardeners who have yet to watch ‘Martha Knows Best,’ do. I’d like to know what you think.

But if you’re a brand-new gardener – look to the shows, feeds and podcasts of those who garden with the resources and in the region that you do. I guarantee you there are hundreds on YouTube.

Let’s hope HGTV digs a little deeper and finds it.

‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing. originally appeared on GardenRant on September 10, 2020.

The post ‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing. appeared first on GardenRant.

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