Book excerpt:

Teach Yourself Grammar and Style in 24 Hours

Rhyme

Rhyme is a series of word endings that repeats the same, or similar, sounds.

Old Mother Hubbard went to her cupboard….

Rhymes can be used to add a whimsical, yet effective, touch to ad copy:

e.g.

You can always trust our milk, so buy some now.
The only stuff fresher is still in the cow.

If you’d enjoy playing a word game designed increase attention spans and improve the vocabulary in young children, take a look at “Task: Rhyme Time” from page 14 of Teach Yourself Grammar and Style in 24 Hours:

Task: Rhyme Time

Rhymes increase a child’s attention span because the child soon learns to listen for the repeated, familiar sound patterns. You can use this to your advantage if you have a youngster in the car with you during a long trip.

Example: Through the fog, the little green frog in a soggy wet bog jumped from log to log before the dog could hog all the grog.

Play a game to see how many rhyming words you can use in a sentence. This stuff is allowed to be fun, too. (Don’t forget to let the kid win!)

End note:

One of the sentences that survives from when I’d play that game with my daughter Lara is: Please don’t tease the fleas on my knees, you’ll make them sneeze and wheeze; just give them a cuddle, and give them a squeeze, and feed them some cheese.

Last week, I recited that sentence to my granddaughter — who just celebrated her fifth birthday in August. She listened to me say the sentence and remained silent for a minute, then said, “You left out trees.” So, we modified the sentence to: Please don’t tease the fleas on my knees, the breeze from the trees makes them sneeze and wheeze; just give them a cuddle, and give them a squeeze, and feed them some cheese.

Copyright © 2000 Pamela Rice Hahn
All Rights Reserved

You can read more about this book — expanded table of contents, introduction, author bio’s — on this Web site.

For more fun with rhymes, read The Ball That Started It All, also in The Blue Rose Bouquet.

Rhyme is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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I am a quilter. I do all of my work– piecing, bordering, the big seam on the back and quilting– entirely by hand. It’s a deliberate choice on my part.

Cora Peterson was my grandmother. When I was in high school in the ’70′s, she made me a quilt. It was a flannel extravaganza– pieced flannel blocks, flannel backing and even batted with a flannel sheet– tied with bits of pastel yarn. It was on my bed for many, many years without much thought– it was warm, it was from my dear gramma, and I loved it. But really, it was just a quilt.

My grandmother grew old and frail, a whisper of the energetic, lively woman she had been. She remembered 1940 far better than she recalled yesterday or what she’d had for lunch an hour before. And she didn’t quite recall who I was. I had always been kind of special to her, I think, as I was the only daughter of her only daughter (she’d had eight boys with Mom sandwiched right in the middle). I would say “I love you” and Cora would nod distantly, wary of expressing or giving her heart to one she wasn’t sure was a friend or foe. That hurt.

She died at 94. In the wake of her death, my old quilt was transformed.

The ancient woman who lived her days in a haze where years lost their meaning was not my grandmother. But the one who made that quilt– was. The busy woman who still chopped kindling wood well into her eighties and who could cook up a meal on the wood-burning stove when the electricity failed; the grandmother of my heart and memory was the one who had made me a quilt. She took time from her busy life to make me a gift– entirely by hand. Her needle went in and out of that thing a million times– for love of a granddaughter.

And then, it just didn’t matter that the frail, whisper-lady who died couldn’t recall my name or tell me that she loved me. That task was resumed by the quilt. Her time and her energy created it for me; her humor and whimsy continues to vibrate in the ties, blocks and fabrics but most of all, it continues to blanket me with her love. It has become a talisman, a forever hug and endearment from my grandmother. When I need a little extra attention, I pull out the quilt because it buzzes with her energy. The quilt is a tangible and viable expression of her love.

I decided then that I would quilt and do the work entirely by hand. I don’t have much to give to people– but I can share my love and energy. It may take a while for the intent of the gift to “take”– it took me almost twenty-five years to “get” the message of Cora’s Quilt– but when I am gone or can no longer say it, my quilts will be here to speak for me.

Copyright © 2000-2008 Lauri E. Klobas
All Rights Reserve

“iQUILT” Gifts

Cora’s Quilt is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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Eric turned off the single-side band radio. The White Freightliner didn’t like the downgrade; Eric didn’t like the “squirrelly” feel of her steering. 40,000 pounds of vegetables obeyed the insistent pull of gravity and refused to be jerked around the bends without a struggle.

Eric put his seat fully upright. He bumped the wipers one notch; peering intently, he could make out the white lines and double-yellow center stripes. Grabbing the gear shift, double-clutching, he shoved her “down in the hole.” A sign jumped up through the misty drizzle:

Escape Ramp Ahead 6/10ths Mile

“Anna Banana, we gots us a sit-chee-ashun,” Eric spoke to the truck. I’m down to my last granny gear, clocking thirty-eight miles per hour, and I ain’t seen the bottom of this gorge yet.”

Escape Ramp Ahead On Right

Eric noticed the sign at the same moment he heard the air line blow.

“Cripes, Anna–you had to do that now?”

He felt the brakes drop out as the air gushed from the pneumatic-hydraulic system. His attention focused on the feel of the steering wheel and the lines on the road. Then the mist deprived him of the lines. He fingered the “jake brake” knowing he had to make up his mind quickly. He was sitting in a runaway truck, gaining speed, and without air brakes.

If he “blew” the jake brake, all the wheels of the truck tractor and forty-foot trailer would lock up, sending the truck into an uncontrolled skid. If he didn’t, he stood a good chance of missing a turn.

Ice and fire ripped through his consciousness; icy, glacial calm guided his hands and feet as he smoothly turned the steering wheel from side to side. He ranged across the pavement, seeking clues. Lightning-quick, his brain fired burning fears; tongues terror licked at the edges of thought….

Eric fired the jake-brake at the instant he saw the silver ribbon of the traffic barrier. He marveled as the tractor brushed it aside; he saw the right front tire fly through it’s chrome and yellow fender. “I always wondered what flying was like,” he pondered. Eric decided there was nothing left to do, but sail over the evergreens.

* * * * *

“What’s your pleasure?”

“Huh?”

“‘Express,’ or ‘Just Browsing?’ C’mon. You’re holding up the line.”

Eric didn’t see a line. He saw an impatient bureaucrat. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Your choice of Deity, of course.” Programmed exasperation flooded the features of the tubby, squinted and pinched face. Eric was reminded of the Internal Revenue Service, for some reason. The petty official continued, “If you already have a religion you go into the Express Line. If you haven’t picked your form of afterlife, you’re Just Browsing.”

Eric pondered. “Well shoot. I dunno. I’ve always left that stuff to the Holy Joes.”

“Well, you must be a ‘Browser’ then. Go stand on the pearly line. When you know what you want to be, come back to this queue. Next!”

The whole episode was enough to make a man into an atheist, Eric thought. He was about to say he wasn’t going to budge until he understood the system, when he heard the rattle of a diesel engine in the distance. He turned toward the sound and was rewarded with the faintest smell of diesel smoke. A distant sign was visible:

Freighter’s Gravy Bowl
Free Coffee
Special Today: Chicken Fried Steak and Gravy
Free Parking For Long Haulers

“Say, I’ll go over there and think about this.” Eric began walking toward the sign. He continued, “I’ll be back after while….”

With an expression of smug satisfaction, the bureaucrat pronounced, “No you won’t…. Next! Express or Just Browsing?”

Copyright © 2000-2008 Robert Marcom
All Rights Reserved

Author’s 2000 Bio:

Robert Marcom is the moderator for Net Author Online Writers’ Community. He is the publisher of E2K – a Journal for the New Literary Paradigm. Robert has written for publication since 1989 and he is widely published on the Internet.

Freighter’s Gravy is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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I bet that Van Gogh guy cut off his ear by
accident and made up that “lost love” story
so he wouldn’t look stupid.

I bet Leonardo da Vinci was naked when he
painted the Mona Lisa ’cause that’s the same
smirk my wife has when she sees me naked.

I bet the Washington Monument would look
a lot different if ol’George had been
circumcised.

I bet if a guy could wag his penis the same way a
dog wags his tail, it would add a whole new
meaning to “I’m so happy to see you.”

I bet the exclamation mark was derived
from the shape of the excrement cavemen
left on the trail when something scared ‘em
real bad!

I wish that the leaves would fly south every
fall and the birds would die and fall to the
ground. That way I could get my cat to do
all the raking.

Snakes are God’s way of saying:
Hey, look! A snake!

I taught my parrot to say “Put the money in the
bag and no one gets hurt!” That way if I’m ever
collared, they can only try me as an accomplice.

Really good magicians leave church with a little
more money than they came in with.

I bet if I stick a FORK in someone’s eye, I
won’t have to eat at the kids’ table again next
year.

I bet there are little men in the walls that are in
charge of the electrical outlets. I see one is on a
smoke break right now.

I bet the reason that parents don’t name their
daughters “Mom” is because they’re afraid no
one would ask ‘em to the prom.

I bet stray cracks in the sidewalk are caused
by people stepping on their mother’s back.

We will never become a truly paper-less society
until the Palm Pilot folks come out with
“WipeMe 1.0.”

I have a lot in common with Mark Twain. I too
sit on the porch and smoke cigars. However, I
bet he didn’t think to jot down his ideas on the
heels of his sneakers.

I think I’ve got this figured out: If the woman
has a rose in her teeth, it’s a tango.

I bet fewer airplanes would crash into
buildings if we put signs on ‘em that said
“Actual Size.”

I am, I said. To no one there. And no one
turned at all, not even the chair. Which was
quite surprising, because the chair usually has
some wise-assed comeback for every little
thing I say.

I had to come up with a little trick because my
dog doesn’t like going to the Vet. I just say:
“Hey Bounder! The Vet just called, I think he
wants to give your testicles back.”

I bet Mr. T wouldn’t be such a tough guy, if he
were known as Mr. Tea.

Copyright © 2000-2008 Andy Pierson
All Rights Reserved

Author’s 2000 Bio:

Andy Pierson started out as a “Real Live Cowboy” from New Mexico. After four years in the U.S. Navy he moved to Maryland, and in 1981 became a Systems Analyst (“because the retirement plan was better than that cowboy gig”). He is currently touring southern Maryland as a “World Renowned Pub and Bar Magician.” Andy kept his day job because he is “a prisoner of that great retirement plan”. You can read more of Andy’s writing on his Web site or contact him by e-mail.

“I Bet” and Other Stuff is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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absquatulate
angina
bregma

bungalow
circumscribe
cockalorum
condiment
corkscrew
cucumber
cummerbund
cunctator
dictator
dictum
dinghy
dungarees
exacerbate
fallacy
fluctuate
fructose
futtock
gesticulate
heady
herpetology
jackhammer
jactation
jaculate
kumquat
lozenge
manhole
masticate
mensuration
nougat
nozzle
nuptial
oratory
organism
orogeny
paradiddle
penal
periwinkle
pianist
pistol
pod
pontoon
posse
prong
ramrod
rapier
rectify
rectory
sextant
Shiite
shuttlecock
snorkel
spelunker
sphygmomanometer
strudel
subpoena
succotash
succulent
thespian
titular
torque
truncate
turgid
Uranus
vacillate
wangle
woodpecker

Copyright © 2000-2008 Travis
All Rights Reserved

Author’s 2000 Bio:

Travis describes himself as someone who has a “love for banging my forehead on things, fishing, and good old fashioned liverwurst, but otherwise I’m pretty boring….”

Words that Sound Dirty, but Aren’t is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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They were all around. She couldn’t escape them.

Faces … voices speaking in garbled tones, the words impossible to understand.

The faces … the voices … inescapable. She drew her knees up to her chest, tears filling her eyes. The voices kept talking, the faces kept staring with blank, emotionless stares.

She swallowed. Heaven help me, she thought. Heaven save me.

It was dark, the room close and smothering. The voices kept droning on forever.

Oh, God, please, protect me.

The door opened. Light streamed in.

As strong hands took hold of her, she screamed, and the voices broke into laughter as the faces just stared.

Copyright © 2000-2008 Erin Klitzke
All Rights Reserved

Author’s 2000 Bio:

Erin “Indy” Klitzke is a freshman at Grand Valley State University who loves to read and write. Most of her work is speculative fiction pieces; you can learn more about her by visiting her  Web site.

Faces is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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