The Challenge: One

I desperately want to begin writing on a daily basis to hone my skills as one who enjoys the written art. Therefore, I put to myself the task of penning something, if even arduous and boring to my soul. A topic would be wonderful to achieve; a subject or matter I may not be learned in to the core, but would write about from my heart. Hmmm…food. Children. Marriage. How-to-not-get-into-business-with-a-woman-who-runs-the-company-to-the-ground-and-leaves-you-hanging-on-for-dear-life. Or maybe how-to-forgive-the-person-who-did-said-things-above.

The fort my husband built is made of pine lumber and halved power poles from his father. Half-inch bolts with locking nuts maintain the shape of the frame in a manner better than the construction on our own home. Things just aren’t made like they used to be.

Nothing is like it used to be.

My neighbor down the street recently received “The Challenge.” A quaint governmental title for “forced to serve.” No more volunteering. You simply have to wait your turn and sooner or later, they’ll knock on your door and slap a big “You owe us” paper into your hand and poof you’re the property of the US until they decide you have paid back your dues.

See, the President had the foresight, subsequent money and men to amend the term limit law. He is a tyrant. Lovely. And anyone who has used the government in the past, say for disability, medical insurance, unemployment, you name it—the US puts a big star in the books and keeps very close track of the number of dollar signs by your John Hancock.

What has this world come to? Where has it gone or better yet--where is it headed? The sun beats the earth as a boxer for the KO. No mercy. I stretch my legs onto the seat of the patio chair next to me. A small stream of sweat trails down my spine. My newly laundered shirt will have to wait until next Monday when the water ration commissioner says I can have my share.

I questioned even bringing children into this world. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.

“Mom! Look what we found!” Henry bounds toward me, the patio creaks like elder bones. “A flower mom—a genuine flower! What do you think?” From behind his back he pulls a purple thistle. Pretty—for weed.

“It’s beautiful, honey. What a find!”

And some days I can’t imagine life without kids. But it seems the rest of the world can with all the abortions and family capacity laws. Most people, like us, try to live off the grid and hope they just leave us alone—no matter how many kiddos we birth or take under our care.

This little starter blossomed from a story idea I still have percolating in my mind. And since no one really reads my blog, I pray it stays safe from the hands of the plagiarist :)