Motifs in the Passage of Time: An Anthology - Essays, Short Stories and Poetry

Copyright © 2022 by Anne Coltman.

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Rev. date: 07/14/2022

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Reflections

ESSAYS

Metamorphosis

In the Age of Innocence

The Summer of ’62

My Hero

The Beauty of Summer

Just Another Day

Experiencing Grandma’s Deja Vu in 2020

Acknowledgment

SHORT STORIES

In Black and White

The Ruby Brooch

Legend of A Shoemaker

The Incredible Crime

The Cure

A Little Gypsy Dancer

The Vision

POETRY

Looking Back

The Colony

A Simple Blessing

Buxton Spice!

A Heavenly Day

Bhojet

Artful Limbo

Never Alone

Tropical Girl

Poetic Musings

Fantasy—an Author’s World

Perfidious Games

A Universal Performance

The Silvery Moon

The Sound

Would You Dare

Of Motherhood

The Author’s Purpose

Liberty’s Torch

Shadows

In a World of Woes

Masked Faces

The Ides of March 2020

Hope for A Nation

A Time for Peace

Child of Bondage

It’s Objectionable

A Forgotten One

Why Prejudice?

Of Faith and Family

My Riley

My Jack

Our Little Mason

A Bountiful Harvest

An Advent Song

A Perfect Love

Vindication of A Thorn

My Sister, My Friend

Faith Justified

A Hint of Humor

If I Were a Bed!

Daisy’s Litter

The Handy Husband

Meditations in The Advent Season

The Old Lamplighter

The Miracle Light

Voices

Arrival of The New Year

Letter to The Author

The Bookcase

DEDICATION

To my family, I love you. Thanks for being on this journey with me, especially my husband, who is the sounding board for my ideas.

And to the memory of my parents, brother, sister, and grandmother.

REFLECTIONS

We never leave the past behind

For the past is always with us

Our very being, who we are, what we are

Was molded by those who were responsible

For our upbringing, our likes and dislikes

And like shadows of the past

We walk in the footsteps of those

Who have gone before us

We sing their songs, we use their names

We have their characteristics

We abide by their rules

And carry their sentiments

Theirs are the tears that we feel deep within

And when our hearts are light

It is their laughter that abounds in our joy

Let us not forget that we owe a great debt

To those whose struggles have made it possible

For us to be who we are, even if

Our most desirable dreams have eluded us

And like the drifting of sand on the shore

And the wind that blows through time

Those who come after

Will do the same, be the same

For as we carry those traditions that were

Handed down to us

Likewise they will be taken up

And handed down in our memory

In their memory

With the passage of time.

~~~Anne Coltman~~~

ESSAYS

Change is inevitable, not only

in tadpoles and butterflies

But in every bit of life that exists,

whether we see it or not.

—Anne Coltman

METAMORPHOSIS

I can’t believe Mom threw a fit when we told her we had been catching tadpoles in the rain filled drain that collected the street water, which emptied into the canals.

You what! I hope no tadpoles are in this house!

No, Mom. Our replies were synchronized and frightened.

Led by our older brother, we had been dipping up tadpoles that came swimming down the steady flow of dirty water and throwing them into an old jam jar filled with tap water.

These little creatures, round and shiny black with a tiny tail, would one day become frogs. We had been learning all about the process in our nature study class. We hated frogs. We were also mortally afraid of them. As kids, we would not be see within ten yards of a frog or crapaud as toads were called. Yet to collect these little critters seemed like a load of fun on a rainy day.

If we kept them locked up in the jar, we would see for ourselves this great metamorphosis! But where would we keep the jar? That was our biggest problem.

Mom glared at us. She had us wash our hands and faces and change our clothes.

Germs! Germs! You’ll all get a good dose of ringworm from playing in that dirty water. And to make sure we didn’t, we were wiped down with a solution of Dettol from head to toe. We smelled like walking hospitals, for Dettol was the antiseptic of the day. As if that was not enough, we were each given a dose of castor oil before going to bed. No honey or orange juice to wash it down. Oh boy, were we getting our dose of punishment for being disobedient!

We climbed into bed thinking of the little tadpoles. Somehow we were not afraid of them and didn’t wish them any harm. That is, of course, until they turned into ugly frogs. I remember my brother along with other boys in the neighborhood throwing rocks at them. Toads came out of hiding at dusk, and if one was seen about the yard, the boys would attack it while it desperately tried to get away. They threw rocks, sticks, empty soda bottles, and even salt, since that was said to burn its ugly thick wartlike skin. Those boys who were particularly daring would get close enough to poke it with a stick just to see how high and far it would jump.

We did not get out of bed very early the next morning as we usually did on Saturdays. We felt all queasy inside and took turns going to the bathroom. The castor oil was very harsh. It did a good job on us. By the end of the morning, we were tired, drawn, dehydrated, and not feeling much like playing outdoors. The usual weekend diet of delicious meals and custards, along with the proverbial homemade ice cream, did not even have its expected effect on us. The look of food only prolonged our desire to run to the bathroom even though we had nothing more to offer.

As the day wore on, we were having dainty little meals instead of gobbling up all that was on the table at mealtime. Mom was pleased that we ate. The castor oil not only affected our insatiable appetites for delicious food, it also taught us a good lesson in obedience and responsibility. This quelled our curiosity for tadpoles, and our desire to harness these little critters was further crushed when we found the empty jar lying broken by the front gate. In our haste to get out of the rain we carelessly left the jar behind the open gate, not paying any attention to the comings and goings of workmen who trampled on and off the premises. That day we learned a valuable lesson in accountability and responsibility, which guided us throughout our lives. That was our metamorphosis.

There is no greater joy

than to contemplate

The simplicity of sheltered childhood.

—Anne Coltman

IN THE AGE OF INNOCENCE

It was Monday, very early in the week. We got home from school, changed our clothes, freshened up, and got dressed for ballet class. While having our teatime afternoon meal, we wondered about Mom. She was not her usual self; she did not dress us for ballet class as she always did. Instead, we dressed ourselves with Granny’s supervision while Mom sat quietly at the table sipping hot tea.

When we were ready, cousin David placed my sister and me comfortably on the front bar of his bicycle and made the journey to Duke Street, Kingston. After dropping us off at our class, he headed to the Eve Leary parade ground for his drill with the Queen’s College Cadet Corp. Mom always took us to ballet class and sat in the gallery with other moms and waited for us, but she had not done so in a while. It was only when we saw her making baby clothes that we were aware of the coming event. Somehow we never noticed her waistline getting larger. Mom was plump, and we thought it normal.

Ballet must have been exhaustive that day because my sister and I got home in the early evening and fell fast asleep. We weren’t even aware that we were moved, at some point, from our beds to our grandmother’s bedroom. It was the wee hours of Tuesday morning on the 14th day of June in 1955, when we woke up to find ourselves—my older brother, my younger sister, and I—in our grandmother’s bed. The sound of talking and movements that filtered into the room from my parents’ nearby bedroom caused us to open our eyes and survey our surroundings.

Realizing we were in our grandmother’s room and she was nowhere to be seen, we jumped out of bed and rushed to the door, but it was locked. Panic-stricken, we started banging on the door. Granny quickly came by and commanded us to stay as quiet as possible. Shoo! You will frighten the stork away! The stork is bringing the baby tonight, and if you all stay very quiet, you will get to see the baby when it comes.

She stood in the doorway so we could not get out. We kept our eyes on her, hoping she would allow us to get a tiny glimpse beyond the door. But our hopes were shattered when she slipped out and locked the door behind her.

Nonetheless, we were very excited to hear this news. Granny’s double-sized bed was positioned right under a large Demerara window, which had a louvered timber shutter with a wide windowsill that extended outward to form a cooler tray. There were carved wooden upright sides at the bottom of the window. Gran kept a large earthenware jug filled with water in a corner of the cooler tray. My sister and I jumped onto the windowsill and propped our little bodies on the extended tray, forcing open the shutter as far as the stick could take it in an effort to gaze at the starry sky. In silence we waited for what seemed like hours. To catch a glimpse of that stork when it flew by with the baby would be our ultimate desire.

I was not yet nine years old, my sister was six, and my brother ten. We counted all the stars we could see and listened keenly to every little sound the night wind brought to our ears in