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Previous Challenge Entry (Level 1 – Beginner)
Topic: Purple (11/05/09)

TITLE: A Purple Reminder
By Neneng Masaya
11/10/09


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When I was a young kid, the aunties called me adorable. I didnít really know what that meant, but I associated that word with their hateful fussing. And I was always indignant whenever one of my uncles would rumple my hair. Didnít they know that Mom had had to make me go back to the bathroom for a full 5 minutes to get it done right, and that once satisfactory, they shouldn't have mussed it all up?? Upon reaching highschool, my grandparents solemnly called me a good-looking boy. That didnít sound as bad to me; at least it didnít include voluble demonstrations, and my uncles did have to admit I was getting too tall for a hair-rumpling.

Home was haven, really. My dad and mom rarely mentioned anything about our physical features. Itís not that they didnít think we were beautiful or handsome; besides, if we kids werenít, that means Dad and Mom werenít, right? Itís just that they were more concerned with helping us develop our spiritual lives and moral values, that mentioning much about outward features (apart from looking neat, clean, and respectable) didnít seem to linger long in their thoughts.

Upon finishing high school at home, I took a college correspondence course, sitting in the campus for a couple subjects. The workload was fine, but the girls at the campus were awful. Each time, I was bombarded on every side with comments on being ďcute,Ē ďgood-looking,Ē ďhandsome,Ē and ďPrince Charming.Ē Deep inside, I didnít mind the commendations that much. But still, I was always glad when it was time to escape.

None of them just could compare with Tamara. She was a family friend at church. Tamara to me was the picture of ideal girlhood, with a wealth of wisdom and understanding. And yet, despite my growing interest, she didnít seem to notice me at all. My stealthy glances across the aisle never seemed to be sensed. They were never reciprocated, thatís for sure. I felt she treated me the same way as she did the other young men in the church. Didnít she think that I was good-looking?

Well, one day, on a church picnic, I decided to prove to her a little that I was different from the rest. I swung that baseball bat, wacked that volleyball, and endured the sack race. While the other young men were busy discussing their various trades, I delighted the younger children with wrestling, and water fights. In the shade of a large golden elm Tamara sat, soothing to sleep one of the many babies at church, while she and the young mother quietly chatted. Her eyes didnít follow me, neither did any flash of admiration flicker across her expressive young face.

Toward late afternoon, the children all tugged at my hands, pulling me to the gigantic slide. One by one, or two by two the children tobogganed on their sacks. Timothy, Tamaraís four-year-old brother, was a rather timid little chap, but really wanted to go on the slide. So I sat him on my lap, and boy did he have the time of his life. After several runs, he decided heíd had enough, then ran off to his big sister, bursting with the exciting account of his feat. Happily he plunked himself on her lap, and watched the other children play.

Suddenly, some crazy notion got me. (Well, it didnít seem that crazy back then). Climbing up the long flight of steps, I kicked off my shoes, and stepped onto the slide with my socked feet. ďGo! Go! Go, Lyndon!Ē the children cheered. I slid upright, without a single mishap. My confidence grew, and I prepared for another run. The second wasnít as impressive to the kids. Third run. I glanced toward the shade of the golden elm. Ready, set, go! Down, down, down I coasted, and things seemed to be going good. But thenÖupon hitting the flat portion of the ride, I suddenly became all arms and legs in one huge, mysterious knot. With a heavy CRASH, I fell flat on my stomach, one arm pinned fast under me.

I sure hoped Tamara didnít see me that time. Actually, I didnít dare look to see if sheíd witnessed my pride fall. I think Iíll just wear long-sleeved tops until this gigantic purple bruise fades away.


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Member Comments
Member Date
Laury Hubrich 11/13/09
Good title. It fit well. In order to place higher on these topics, your entries need to be centered on a purple object. Fun memories:)
Barbara Lynn Culler11/14/09
A fun story, but did the MC ever get the girl?
Mary Knoll Santos11/17/09
I loved the story! Brings back fond memories of my "courtship" days with your dad :) His "head-over-heals" about his wife-to-be which I enjoy recalling most (grin):):). I loved Tamara's shamefaced countenance. Good writing! Keep it up.