“That old car behind us reminds me,” boasted Wilberforce to Mabel, “That yesterday was the fifty first anniversary of Stan Laurel’s death.”
“I just watched “Murder Case” last night.
“Oh I’ve always liked that one too honey,” she reminded him.
“It wasn’t one of those dark, moody film noirs,” he went on, “Where there’s always some dame with gams down to the floor.”
Somehow I can’t imagine their winning somebody like that over with all those lopsided gestures and babbling.”
“Oh I don’t know about that,sweetheart,” she chimed in. “I seem to remember that was how you impressed me.”
Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff~Fields for her weekly help with Friday Fictioneers. This week’s photo prompt is from Al Forbes.
I thought my life would be like cartoon talk or a piece of gum,
Ever ready to be contained within, or to produce, a bubble.
I soon shall figure out a way to make it so.
I sha’n’t relax until I see that day.
Time for the third quadrille where De wants us to bubble with 44.word poetry at
Of course I most certainly don’t give any credibility whatsoever to the dualistic claims of eastern religions and modes of thought which claim that each individual must go through a series of different lifetimes in order to be purged enough so that he may be happy in the next life. Beatle George Harrison may have been quite an absolute expert at music but he got it all wrong when it came to that topic. God puts each of us here for only one opportunity to do the right thing. In that sense my view of life is more linear than cyclical. Whenever a new baby is conceived, God does not insert a new soul into a material container. Each individual is conceived with his body and soul inextricably linked permanently to each other. The Catholic Church has consistently taught that for over two thousand years.
“It is appointed unto men to die once but after this comes the judgment.” (Heb. 9:27). That’s where the Four Last Things-Death, Judgment, Heaven, and Hell-must be dealt with. Once someone has faced up to his Particular Judgment immediately upon his decease, he goes either to Purgatory temporarily, straight to Heaven, or straight to Hell.
Nold and Conklin went out for their daily constitutional.
“Life’s short, you know,” Nold averred.
“T’ain’t so, McGee,” offered his companion.
“That’s just my point,” replied the former.
“We’ve got more of those obsolete lines accumulated between us than Carter has liver pills.”
“Every time we blurt out a bygone bromide we’re reminded of just exactly how ancient we really are, old fellow.”
“Let’s wallow in them!” Conklin demanded.
“From ‘Don’t touch that dial!’ to ‘Film at eleven’. We’ll go door to door announcing dead rabbits!”
That’s the spirit, y’ole crow!” his friend cajoled him. “Now let’s get moving.”
Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff~Fields for leading us every week in our Friday Fictioneers. This week’s photo prompt is provided by Sandra Crook.
US Supreme Court Justice Scalia dies –
“Whenever I see a daffodil,” chanted Francis to his friend Gunther, “I can never forget my girlfriend Muriel, the English major. Wordsworth’s ‘I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud’ was always her favorite.”
“Oh I know that poem,” Gunther mused. “Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy were walking near a lake at Grasmere in Cumbria County. He was inspired by a shore lined with daffodils. It’s a classic of English Romantic poetry.”
“Wow!” Francis reminded him.” I wish we could get away from this dreary city to that relaxing environment.”
“Well,” Gunther nudged him, “Your habit of hanging around with bookworms helps.”
This week’s photo prompt was supplied by the Reclining Gentleman. Rochelle Wisoff~Fields, each week, guides us with Friday Fictioneers.
My name is Larry. Officially I’m named Lawrence, after my mother’s father, who died in late August of 1959, slightly over two weeks before I was born. Although I never got a chance to get to know my grandfather, I grew up constantly in touch with my Uncle Larry and my cousin Larry, on my father’s side. Among my father’s relatives there have even been nine Joseph’s, and a bit too much repetition of other names too. Throughout the years, in order to differentiate from among us Larry’s, I was too often referred to as Little Larry, and even Baby Larry. My niece and nephews, knowing that my full name is Lawrence, have often asked if I have ever gotten any mileage out of that variation of my name. I remind them that under official circumstances it frequently comes up, in school, work, and anywhere else that may require me to be a bit formal. Sister Miriam Therese, of the Sisters of Charity, was my fifth grade teacher at St. Gabriel’s in East Elmhurst. It was in her class that I was first reminded constantly that my name was Lawrence. She was quite strict about each student’s always being addressed and referred to by his first name. Around the time of my twelfth birthday we moved from Jackson Heights to Lindenhurst. When kids in my new schools, Copiague Junior High School, and then Our Lady of Perpetual Help, asked me what my name was, I took a chance on introducing myself as Lawrence. The Copiague kids stuck with it for around the next three years. Somehow after that it faded away entirely. In my Catholic school, though, things were a bit different. The first kid I met there was Jerry Antonacci. He asked me my name. I introduced myself as Lawrence. He then asked if he may call me Larry. I said yes and that was the end of it. Unlike certain other names, such as Anthony, David, Michael, and Peter, the name Lawrence simply doesn’t strike people as that interesting as far as always calling somebody by his full name. I see no point in ever bothering to change it. There have been times over the course of my lifetimes when it has struck me as somewhat annoying. In general, though, it’s quite nice.
“I’ve always been in the habit of visiting graveyards on Ash Wednesday each year,” Clarence reminded Gertrude. “Remember, man, that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.”
“It’s so cold and windy,” she gasped, “but it’s a really good way to get ready for Lent.”
In the distance was the world they’d have soon to return to.
“Most of the time we have to play Martha,” she went on, “but it’s always necessary to give the regular doffing of the hat to Mary too.”
After a few hours they went home, back to their usual routine.