A woman who works with her hands is a LABORER; a woman who works with her hands and head, a CRAFTSMAN; but a woman who works with her hands, her head and her heart is an ARTIST. ~ St. Francis of Assisi

Thursday, October 6, 2011

the story

I was given an assignment at work.  It was a rather odd assignment and I did not know exactly what the Captain wanted.  I think it was not disclosed to see what direction I would go.  A little back story.  I was given an office that had no pictures.  One of the LT found me a picture and it was hung on the wall yesterday.  The Captain asked if I was creative on the computer.  I asked what she meant by it because you can do sooo much creative things.  The computer is an awesome tool.    She noticed the new picture and asked me to write a descriptive passage from getting to one point to another describing the scene as if she had never seen it before. 

I will not show the picture at first (I don’t have my camera is one reason) and the other reason is to see if this is something you could picture. 
I will warn you as I warned her.  My grammar is hideous.

I have been in this little town on the coast of Norway for a short time.  I had actually intended to stay for only a few short days but I never left.  It has a certain aura about it.  I have often heard the phrase time stand still.  I never understood what it meant until I came here.  It could be Tuesday or Friday.  I lost track.  I suppose I don’t really care what day or time it is.  I am guess by the grumbles of my belly it must be about lunch time.  There is a little bread shop down the stone paved road from where I am staying that has the most divine sandwiches.   That is my destination.  I walked out the door and vaguely recall getting into the car just to drive to the end of the drive way to retrieve the mail.  Unthinkable!  Would I deny my senses by driving in this quaint town?  I think not.  I walk up the hill and still amazed that places like this exist.  To my left is the water.  So clear and calm.  I can make out the reflection of the little bread shop in the water, along with the rest of the town and the mountains.  Straight ahead stands the mountains, guarding the little town.  It protects it from the weather and the Viking ghost from yester year.  I stop to talk to the old man who had the most breathe taking garden.  It is hidden behind the old house that has been there forever.  It holds the only warm colors in this village.  Everything else is either blue or green.  He tells me about his grandchildren.  They are all grown up now and having children of their own.   I tell him about hot dog carts and it blows his mind away.   I continue on to the bread shop and pass a bunch of school children out for the day.  They are running up and down the street playing with their jump ropes and balls.  They beg me to tell them about video games.  So I tell them about my favorites.   They do not believe they really exist.  I hear their parents call for them and they scatter in all directions.  One stray dog stays behind with me, thinking I was more likely to give him a scrap.  So we continue down the street and I can smell the warm bread as the breeze floats by.  I finally made it to the bread shop and to my dismay it was closed.  As I was about to leave the owner, an old widow, beckons me into the shop.  She chases the old mutt away, but not before tossing him a meat bone.  The widow hands me a bowl of thick stew and we talk about the fishing stories that have been passed from one generation to another.  They are about as believable as the children found my video games.  As we talked the sun slips behind the blue mountains and the town is cast in a curtain of darkness. 

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