Tag: blogging

This is part of a writing challenge at {W}rite-Of-Passage, a community of bloggers who are looking to get back to the writing part of blogging and brainchild of my friend, Mrs. Flinger.  Today’s challenge was to take 15 minutes and write about your elementary school lunch.

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It was 1946 and Hungary, as nearly all of Europe, was devastated by World War II, including the small hamlet where my mother attended kindergarten.   My mother's earliest childhood memory, one of a very few that she will even speak of, is the day the Americans shipped a case of peanut butter to her school.

Each child was asked to line up and receive his, or her ration of peanut butter and then it was my mother's turn.

"Eva, where is your bread?"

My mother shyly whispered into her teacher's ear that she didn't have any; the local bakers ran out of their allotment of bread, earlier that morning.

"Well, what am I supposed to spread the peanut butter on, the palm of your hand?"

Growing up, we were used to hearing such stories at the dinner table — how, even in a big city like Budapest, my father was forced to steal to feed his younger siblings — still, I don't think that my twin brother and I ever really understood how difficult it was for my parents.

Thinking back on it now, I seemed to have developed a sort of school daze and I can't seem to remember where, or even what we ate for lunch. 

However, I can tell you this:  there was always plenty of peanut butter AND bread in our house.

Mine, too.

[Note:  A portion of this piece was originally written in 2008 for my Blogging Out Hunger post as a part of the We Can't Let This Bank Fail Campaign]

This is part of a writing challenge at {W}rite-Of-Passage, a community of bloggers who are looking to get back to the writing part of blogging and brainchild of my friend, Mrs. Flinger.  Today’s challenge was to find a person in public and write a story around them.

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"Where's your ticket?" the old woman croaked as she reached out her spotted hand and wiggled her boney fingers, filed razor-sharp and painted the color of congealed blood.

I nudged the children behind me, cleared my throat and replied, "We were told that we could buy tickets at the door."

Her thin lips quivered, as she let out a raspy sigh and replied, "Really?"  Her breath smelled heavily of stale cigarette smoke and, in my mind's eye, I pictured her as one of the flesh-eating trolls my grandmother warned would come after us in our sleep, whenever my twin brother and I refused to eat our vegetables. 

She raised one penciled-eyebrow and licked her lips; imagining me as her next meal, no doubt.

"Well, you were sadly misinformed."

She pushed back from the reception table and I swear, she made a rattling sort of sound, as if she were chained to the chair.  I started to back away, surprised to see that the woman looked MUCH taller than I had imagined and came to the realization that I was indeed terribly wrong — the woman WAS a very old dragon, trapped in human form.

"I'…uh…um…but…"

I bit my lower lip, knowing that, somehow, this was going to end badly and I scanned the room for an emergency exit.

"Do you have a ticket, or no?"

No, and no craft show was worth being dressed down by a fiery old dragon, right? 

"No, DAMMIT."

The drab gray pashmina fell from her thin shoulders and revealed her long swan-like neck.

"That's okay, Sweetie."

She reached into a pouch which hung from a beautiful gold chain-linked belt that was wrapped around her tiny little waist.

"There is no admittance fee."

She pulled out 4 lollipops and handed them to each of my kids.

"Uh…um…but…"

Then, she handed me a bunch of tickets.

"Also, everyone gets a free raffle ticket, today."

I was going to protest — there had to be at least a dozen tickets, or more — but, I stared blankly at her warm smiling eyes and, well, I was ashamed to admit that the old woman wasn't a troll, or dragon at all.

"Besides, I can tell that you're having a really bad day."

She must be a mom.

[Note:  Although, the conversation is a work of fiction, it is loosely based on an incident, IRL, that did indeed, go very badly.  It's all good, though.  She apologized.  I forgave her.  She WAS a mom.]