RSS

Tag Archives: Dogs

HITLER vs. TRUMP-a comparison and my opinion…

womanwriterblog

HITLER vs. TRUMP-a comparison and my opinion…

main-qimg-d3b423ad9a0409deb89fc03a7e729ca1-c

Hitler meant to wipe out the physical embodiment of social equality in Germany, the conflagration provided the first step down a path that led to Hitler’s dictatorship and to the most devastating war, the world has ever known. This was no accident.

(Did Trump purchase plants that can produce war ammunitions and other destructive weapons that will bring him profit; is that why he is pushing for the possibility of War? Trump is using his bullying tactics about FIRE AND FURY is no accident either.)

Nazis succeeded in marginalizing the rest of the government through political tricks as well as brute force. Police was in charge of imprisoning anyone who was an enemy of Hitler and journalists massively disappeared behind bars.

(In Trumps’, case its “You’re fired”. He has had a staff turnover every day, almost since he was elected.  Although he has used the news media for his own purpose, he calls every thing printed or televised as FAKE. )

Hitler quickly became popular when he promised change. Hitler blamed the Jews for losing WW I, therefore he promised to get rid of the Jews, improve the economy and make Germany just as powerful as it use to be.

 
(“Well, DEJAVU! TRUMP SCREAMS  I CAN MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!”)

 
Then comes such statements as, Trump saying “North Korea better get their act together or they are going to be in trouble like few nations having ever been in trouble.” He also said that it was time that someone stood up to Kim Jong Un.  Doesn’t Trump know you do not go about handling an Idiot in this manner?

 
Then I wake this morning to our Idiot’s view on NK attacking Guam. In addition, I quote, “If there is one thing that Guam does not have to worry about while in the nuclear cross hairs of North Korea, its tourism. Trump also said that the threat would boost Guam tourism “tenfold.”

 
Hey, I looked it up in the dictionary, Idiot… an utterly foolish or senseless person. thKZOPHWAPYep, there it is a picture of Trump.

 

But Hey, all of this is just my opinion!  Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree

 

 

Tags: , , , , , , ,

Easter…for Me!

womanwriterblog

 

At the age of three and yes, I can remember back that far!  Easter meant dressing in your best clothes and going to church.  There was always an Easter egg hunt at the church, which was lucky for me, as my mother believed it was a day to worship “The Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost”, not hide Easter Eggs. 

Daddy would put me into one of the two dresses I owned, both quiet plain and ugly, he brushed out my tight as coils hair and mother finished it off in a crown of corncob ringlets.  My mother and sister wore store bought dresses I wore hand-me-downs.  Armed with my one-pound lard bucket I was placed in the front seat of an old Army jeep.  We could only use it on nice days as the cloth top had been removed after the War!

In those days I did not realize that, everyone in the little Rural Grove Baptist Church was dress in their Sunday finery, and that only a few of us were labeled “share croppers” wore everyday clothes.  This did not matter when the service was over, all of the colorful eggs were found, Easter dinner of ham, and the trimmings were waiting at home. 

Daddy who refused to go to church would be waiting on the front porch of our tiny clapboard house, picking his banjo with a few of his farm hounds howling.  Even Soap sticks, our old mule brayed along with the dogs.  When my mother drove up the road, a silence fell across the land.  Relatives came from near and far for that Sunday feast, which she hated.

thOUE5SYF0.jpg

By the age of six my mother made certain that I knew that there was “no” Easter Bunny, she may have been tired of me all year long refusing to eat the rabbits that my daddy killed on a regular basis as part of our food source.  I understood by the age of six that the only eggs boiled would go into the potato salad; coloring eggs was a waste of money, to hide them was a waste of time.  She no longer allowed me to hunt for the eggs at church.  By now, I knew why my daddy would never attend church, my sister left home and that left just mother and me. 

By the age of twelve, we had moved from the farm into the city, I was old enough to dress myself and I walked to church alone, for some reason my mother always stayed home with my daddy.  In her later years she returned to the church. 

The Easter Sunday that I turned thirteen, many of us were put into busses and cars to be taken to the backwaters of the Tennessee River to be baptized.  My mother never asks why my clothes were still wet and my hair hung down my back weighing a ton.  Daddy looked at me saying, “Well little girl they got you too”, the subject never came up again as relatives were piling into the front door greeted by the aroma of that big ham waiting for them.

By the age of sixteen, I was teaching Sunday school to an excited group of six-year-olds, I did this for ten years, through the years.  By the age of twenty-six, I was still teaching Sunday school; by this time, I was taking with me my three little girls, their daddy stayed at home.  Now, everyone is gone, my family from my childhood, the husband, and I have lost two of my five children. 

If for no other reason, I have to believe that Jesus existed and rose from the dead to enter his father’s Kingdom in Heaven, for if it is not so that would mean I will never see my family again.  So, with my time getting closer I celebrate that day and to grasp the idea that there is a Heaven and a Easter Bunny; in my mind’s eye a little curly headed child of a sharecropper is skipping on the green grass at the Rural Grove Baptist Church in Alabama hunting for eggs.  Sorry… I have to go; I see another colored egg in the tall grass by the Oak tree!

 

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I dreamed that I was a Sheepherder…

womanwriterblog

I dreamed that I was a Sheepherder…

My dream overflowed with hope, I was tired, the dogs rested; the flock hungry, bleating throats, a fading moon.  I led the sheep through a field of scarlet poppies to green grasslands.  The sheep pull the grass from its roots, the paling tendrils wilted and died, the day moves on, I am high upon a half reaped ground that I knew would soon turn fallow, but the sheep would thrive.  Then sun lowered itself behind the mountain the day is ending.  Before long a small fire will be lit sparks will rise into the night, and I will speak of gypsy lore to my only friends, the dogs.

thvtkjhcng

Beyond the fire, the poppies meld like a purple maze into a black star scattered night.  A glimpse of the future lies within my dreams, a glimpse of tomorrow.  I am tired, the dogs all resting; the flock all feed, no bleating throats, I am alone under a fading moon and one dog stands silently while the night fades into another day, and I think… happiness is the lost paradise.

 

©2017.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

 

Books by Author at locations below:

https://www.createspace.com/pub/simplesitesearch.search.do?sitesearch_query=ann+johnson-murphree&sitesearch_type=STORE

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/ann+johnson+murphree

https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=ann+johnson-murphree

 

 

[This writing is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.]

Your support of my blog and its contents are appreciated

Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree

 
Comments Off on I dreamed that I was a Sheepherder…

Posted by on February 25, 2017 in Aspirations, Heavens, Life, Memories, Nature, Short -Short Stories, Thoughts, Writing

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

The Icebox…

womanwriterblog

The Icebox…

In 1943, my family became the proud owners of a new used icebox.  A square box, one door, when you opened it there were two compartments, one with shelves and one at the top where a block of ice could the stored.  My daddy made the trip into Decatur every Saturday to the ICE Company to purchase a block of ice.  He would wrap in a burlap bag to keep it from melting during the forth-five minute trip home in Alabama’s August heat.  This icebox looked like the old one without the rust looking much like a dead vine crawling up the sides and door.

My Grandpa Johnson (whom I called Mr. Johnson, that is another story), but my sister Billie called him that endearing name.  Anyway, Mr. Johnson (my daddy’s daddy) hitched old Soap Sticks, our mule to a wagon taking the old icebox into the pasture throwing it into a Sink Hole.

It was the summer my ten-year-old-sister convinced me a four-year-old that she had a new game for me to play.  Excited I ran to the pasture with her.  All throughout our childhood she played spiteful tricks on me.  This one was the promise of playing “train”, I would soon know it was another trick.  We slid down into the Sink Hole, a dangerous thing to do but she was more afraid than I was.  I seem to live within my own world where fear was not in my make-up; my memory is vivid from that age, a blessing or curse.

She told me that I was to be the passenger and she the Engineer.  I sat down inside and she shut the door.  I could hear her laughter as she ran away.  Yes, the door should have been removed, but it was 1943, safety was not thought of in those days.

It was a Saturday, and normally I was with my daddy; when he remembered that he had not seen me for some time he questioned my sister as to my whereabouts.  She quickly answered that she had not seen me since waking that morning.  Mr. Johnson started walking through the sugarcane field next to our house and daddy rode his horse into the woods they knew that even at four the woods and fields were my playgrounds .  Soon, Mr. Johnson hollered for my daddy, he heard my dog Buttercup barking in the pasture.  They said my daddy road like the wind, jumping the barn and pasture-fencing heading toward the bark.

Buttercup was barking at the door, daddy jerked the icebox door open and by now, I was  blue.  Scared, he did not know what to do ; he got back on his horse with me across his lap and rode to a spring feed pool that was ice cold in the hottest of summer days.  He laid me in the pool splashing water on my face.  He said that within a few minutes I began to cough and cry.  He thought I had died, and maybe I did.

While Mr. Johnson went to the Sink Hole to turn the icebox over on the door, daddy carried me into the house the first question, my mother asks calmly looking at my limp body…

“Well, has she been swimming in the catfish pond again?” 

Daddy told her what happen, as he placed me on the bed my sister and I shared; mother continued to chastise me for getting my clothes wet.  She looked toward my sister saying

“You have got to stop running the woods and pastures, you should try to be a lady; more like your sister”

Later, my sister smiled when no one was looking sticking her tongue out at me!

Below is my painting, an image in acrylics of our old barn and pasture.

22.Lynns barn

 

©2017.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Authors Books on Line:

https://www.createspace.com/pub/simplesitesearch.search.do?sitesearch_query=ann+johnson-murphree&sitesearch_type=STORE

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/ann+johnson+murphree

https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=ann+johnson-murphree

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Second Anniversary…

womanwriterblog

Today is the second anniversary of my blog Confessional Fiction, Free Verse Poetry, Prose, Non-Fiction and Art. During the last two years, I have been fortunate enough to acquire 1363 followers, 680 Twitter followers from the blog and 355,885 hits. 

All of this is because of “you” my followers, and those who drop by just to browse.  You have supported and help me get through serious health problems and the continued grief of a lost love one; this is because of you. 

Then, there are those of you who have become “Cyber” friends, and to these friends…you held me up when I was down and you walked beside me in spirit as I struggle to become healthy, write and create, a special thank you goes to you and you know who you are.

Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree   

27.Night Dragonfly

NIGHT ANGELS

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

A Sheepherder’s Life – A 100 Word Short Stor

th

 

A Sheepherder’s Life

On a dusky hillside, the sheepherders and dogs are tired.   No bleating comes from the sheep all is at rest.  The sheepherder’s whisper of the day and what will come tomorrow.  They talk of keeping the wolves away on this warm summer night.  They watch the sparks from their fire ascend into the purple night.  Tomorrow they will have to move to a new meadow or hillside, the grass where they lay is only roots.  They smoke their pipes and talk of gypsy-lore, the sheep, the dogs and herding, a gift from God.  This was their father’s life, their life.

 

 

©2016.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Ann Johnson-Murphree at Amazon.com

http://www.amazon.com/Honeysuckle-Memories-Ann-Johnson-murphree/dp/150029070X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1465255573&sr=8-1&keywords=ann+johnson-murphree

untitled

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

 
%d bloggers like this: