| General Fiction posted November 23, 2021 |
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Family story-fiction
Yesteryear
by zanya
Our family seemed just like the others in our street when I was growing up. Grandpa and Grandma Smith lived outside our town. On Saturday afternoons we all piled into Dad's Ford to wend our way to their old farmhouse.
Christmas was special at Smiths. Gingerbread aromas wafted through the kitchen windows as we climbed out of the car. Cabbages grew in the garden and we had greens for winter.
At home, I spent long hours alone reading and stamp collecting.
Mama worried because I wasn't out playing football.
'George,' Mama used to say,' put your boots on and have a kick around with the boys.'
Burying my head in a good adventure story like 'Tom Sawyer' was more my style.
Papa too loved books. When he arrived home from the bakery shop in the evening he reached for his latest book and became engrossed, much to Mama's annoyance.
'Jimmy,' drain the potatoes,' Mama would shout to Dad.'
By the time Dad would have put his book down the steam from the potatoes would have filled the kitchen.
Mum and Dad were good buddies. On Sunday afternoons after Church service Dad wound up the gramophone. He took a yellow duster, a chamois and wiped down the turntable. Mama finally took some time off from her household chores. She kicked off her Sunday shoes and the pair of them danced a Charleston while the gramophone played.
One Sunday afternoon, when I was fifteen, there was a loud knock on the door. Papa answered, in his stocking feet.
Standing there was a young boy, a little older than me, about sixteen.
'Good afternoon,' the boy said,' Does Mr Jimmy Smith live here at number 59.'
Surprised, my father replied, 'yes, I'm Jimmy Smith.'
'My name's Jimmy Smith too, sir,' the boy answered, handing my father an envelope.
'Mr Smith please read my letter. It's from my grandmother, Jane Ryan.'
Perplexed, my father opened the envelope and read the letter:
Dear Mr Smith,
My daughter Anna passed away one month ago from tuberculosis. Jimmy is sixteen years old now and her dying wish was that he should be raised by you, his father. I have contracted the disease and am unable to raise Jimmy. We live ten miles away.
Yours Jane Ryan
Looking back now from the vantage point of my seventh decade, that Sunday afternoon changed everything. Jimmy did come to live in our house. We hiked forest trails together and Papa brought us fishing to the river at the back of our house.
Papa was bewildered. Those carefree Sunday afternoons on the couch faded away. Mama seemed preoccupied. Soon, she too, fell victim to tuberculosis.
Years later, one afternoon when I returned home from College, Papa was alone with his books in the parlour.
'George,' he called, 'I've never had a girlfriend called Jane Ryan. I've had only one girlfriend in my lifetime, your deceased mother, Elizabeth.'
'Then why did you accept Jimmy as part of the family?'
'Your mother insisted upon it. She said it would help her cope with having lost a baby at birth, a baby she conceived with a man with whom she had a relationship before we met, a Mr John Ryan, brother of Jane Ryan.'
Papa's world crumbled that afternoon when Jimmy knocked.
Throwing my arms around him, I gave him a big bear hug.
Since my girlfriend was expecting our baby at the time, I gave thanks for growing up in a world where love was allowed to blossom.
**********************************************
~Family Story ~ Fiction writing prompt entry
Our family seemed just like the others in our street when I was growing up. Grandpa and Grandma Smith lived outside our town. On Saturday afternoons we all piled into Dad's Ford to wend our way to their old farmhouse.
Christmas was special at Smiths. Gingerbread aromas wafted through the kitchen windows as we climbed out of the car. Cabbages grew in the garden and we had greens for winter.
At home, I spent long hours alone reading and stamp collecting.
Mama worried because I wasn't out playing football.
'George,' Mama used to say,' put your boots on and have a kick around with the boys.'
Burying my head in a good adventure story like 'Tom Sawyer' was more my style.
Papa too loved books. When he arrived home from the bakery shop in the evening he reached for his latest book and became engrossed, much to Mama's annoyance.
'Jimmy,' drain the potatoes,' Mama would shout to Dad.'
By the time Dad would have put his book down the steam from the potatoes would have filled the kitchen.
Mum and Dad were good buddies. On Sunday afternoons after Church service Dad wound up the gramophone. He took a yellow duster, a chamois and wiped down the turntable. Mama finally took some time off from her household chores. She kicked off her Sunday shoes and the pair of them danced a Charleston while the gramophone played.
One Sunday afternoon, when I was fifteen, there was a loud knock on the door. Papa answered, in his stocking feet.
Standing there was a young boy, a little older than me, about sixteen.
'Good afternoon,' the boy said,' Does Mr Jimmy Smith live here at number 59.'
Surprised, my father replied, 'yes, I'm Jimmy Smith.'
'My name's Jimmy Smith too, sir,' the boy answered, handing my father an envelope.
'Mr Smith please read my letter. It's from my grandmother, Jane Ryan.'
Perplexed, my father opened the envelope and read the letter:
Dear Mr Smith,
My daughter Anna passed away one month ago from tuberculosis. Jimmy is sixteen years old now and her dying wish was that he should be raised by you, his father. I have contracted the disease and am unable to raise Jimmy. We live ten miles away.
Yours Jane Ryan
Looking back now from the vantage point of my seventh decade, that Sunday afternoon changed everything. Jimmy did come to live in our house. We hiked forest trails together and Papa brought us fishing to the river at the back of our house.
Papa was bewildered. Those carefree Sunday afternoons on the couch faded away. Mama seemed preoccupied. Soon, she too, fell victim to tuberculosis.
Years later, one afternoon when I returned home from College, Papa was alone with his books in the parlour.
'George,' he called, 'I've never had a girlfriend called Jane Ryan. I've had only one girlfriend in my lifetime, your deceased mother, Elizabeth.'
'Then why did you accept Jimmy as part of the family?'
'Your mother insisted upon it. She said it would help her cope with having lost a baby at birth, a baby she conceived with a man with whom she had a relationship before we met, a Mr John Ryan, brother of Jane Ryan.'
Papa's world crumbled that afternoon when Jimmy knocked.
Throwing my arms around him, I gave him a big bear hug.
Since my girlfriend was expecting our baby at the time, I gave thanks for growing up in a world where love was allowed to blossom.
**********************************************
Christmas was special at Smiths. Gingerbread aromas wafted through the kitchen windows as we climbed out of the car. Cabbages grew in the garden and we had greens for winter.
At home, I spent long hours alone reading and stamp collecting.
Mama worried because I wasn't out playing football.
'George,' Mama used to say,' put your boots on and have a kick around with the boys.'
Burying my head in a good adventure story like 'Tom Sawyer' was more my style.
Papa too loved books. When he arrived home from the bakery shop in the evening he reached for his latest book and became engrossed, much to Mama's annoyance.
'Jimmy,' drain the potatoes,' Mama would shout to Dad.'
By the time Dad would have put his book down the steam from the potatoes would have filled the kitchen.
Mum and Dad were good buddies. On Sunday afternoons after Church service Dad wound up the gramophone. He took a yellow duster, a chamois and wiped down the turntable. Mama finally took some time off from her household chores. She kicked off her Sunday shoes and the pair of them danced a Charleston while the gramophone played.
One Sunday afternoon, when I was fifteen, there was a loud knock on the door. Papa answered, in his stocking feet.
Standing there was a young boy, a little older than me, about sixteen.
'Good afternoon,' the boy said,' Does Mr Jimmy Smith live here at number 59.'
Surprised, my father replied, 'yes, I'm Jimmy Smith.'
'My name's Jimmy Smith too, sir,' the boy answered, handing my father an envelope.
'Mr Smith please read my letter. It's from my grandmother, Jane Ryan.'
Perplexed, my father opened the envelope and read the letter:
Dear Mr Smith,
My daughter Anna passed away one month ago from tuberculosis. Jimmy is sixteen years old now and her dying wish was that he should be raised by you, his father. I have contracted the disease and am unable to raise Jimmy. We live ten miles away.
Yours Jane Ryan
Looking back now from the vantage point of my seventh decade, that Sunday afternoon changed everything. Jimmy did come to live in our house. We hiked forest trails together and Papa brought us fishing to the river at the back of our house.
Papa was bewildered. Those carefree Sunday afternoons on the couch faded away. Mama seemed preoccupied. Soon, she too, fell victim to tuberculosis.
Years later, one afternoon when I returned home from College, Papa was alone with his books in the parlour.
'George,' he called, 'I've never had a girlfriend called Jane Ryan. I've had only one girlfriend in my lifetime, your deceased mother, Elizabeth.'
'Then why did you accept Jimmy as part of the family?'
'Your mother insisted upon it. She said it would help her cope with having lost a baby at birth, a baby she conceived with a man with whom she had a relationship before we met, a Mr John Ryan, brother of Jane Ryan.'
Papa's world crumbled that afternoon when Jimmy knocked.
Throwing my arms around him, I gave him a big bear hug.
Since my girlfriend was expecting our baby at the time, I gave thanks for growing up in a world where love was allowed to blossom.
**********************************************
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Writing Prompt *Read All Rules* Write a FICTIONAL story that involves a human family. The word length is minimum of 400 words with 600 words maximum. NO 'blood & guts" gory story, such as murder of people. Do NOT include time travel among characters, or 'Dear John' letters. This isn't a Thanksgiving story. Christmas may be mentioned, but it isn't a Christmas story. Do NOT have any music that automatically plays when story begins. You may use 1 picture that has no words, animation, or music, one color font with one color background, dedication line (optional) which doesn't count in word length, and author notes that may include 1 video (may have vocal sound/music). |
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