Eleven Things I Like That I Can Do

1. I like my knack for putting total strangers at ease, for creating a warm, welcoming atmosphere that people seem to trust right off the bat. I've been told repeatedly that I have the gift of a calm, open, and well-balanced personality and I think it's true. I have my darker moments, but this is something that I like about myself.

2. I've always had a natural talent for sports. Perhaps it was the tomboy gene that I got in spades, but no matter what sport I tried, I could always do it very well. I could hit a baseball, throw a pretty good spiral pass, run like the wind, swim like a fish with nary a lesson, do a decent one and a half of the high board at age 10, hit a mean ping-pong game, get right up on my first water-ski attempt, ice skate, roller skate, etc. All sport transported me into another world of sweat, exertion, accomplishment, and the joy of competition. I miss it, but the only thing that really appeals to me now would be tennis, which I miss horribly. Wrist horrors now prevent that. If I lost some weight, and got my breath back, I'm sure that if I attempted a new sport, even at 54, I could do well.

3. I like that I learned to french braid hair. I think it looks pretty and it brought me many fun hours with my daughter as she grew up, using it as an excuse for her to sit with me and allow me to play in her hair while she watched tv.

4. I will always be grateful that I took typing in school. Who knew that it would come in so handy in an undreamed of then, computer age. So many friends and colleagues hear me click-clacking away at work and moan that they wish they'd had the forethought to learn it when they could. I like that I know how to do it.

5. Learning to drive a stickshift is one of life's great pleasures. Before I could do it, I used to have many dreams where I was speeding down a long, straight highway, feeling that deeply satisfying answer from the engine as it is finally allowed to shift into third, then, aaaaaah fourth. I couldn't wait to learn, if only to feel that "aaaaah" of the engine as it relaxes from the scream at the top of third to the purr of fourth. I learned stick from my dad using my first car, a 1972 Chevy Nova with the stick in the steering column and a clutch about 2 miles from the floorboard that I had to practically stand on to operate. We went to a parking lot behind the Kinnard's building on 21st and Blair, practicing parking, shifting, and the dreaded uphill start. To this day, it is one of my favorite skills I possess and I think all people should know how to drive a stick shift. I hate owning an automatic car.

6. Apparently, I possess what's known as relative pitch, which means I think music would have come easy to me if I had stuck with some sort of lessons. I've always heard the right notes in my head and can find them on the piano, or can recreate a note if you played it hours before. I can hear it and be right on pitch. But I think my hearing loss has affected this because I notice now, when I sing along to stuff, I tend to be a bit off, flat I think, which makes me sad. Still, it's always something I enjoyed about myself.

7. I can make a mean soup, pretty much any description. I think I cook well in general. One of the best days I can have is to hole up in my kitchen on a rainy day, put on a book on tape, and cook all day, whipping up one recipe after another and freezing it in portions for future lunches or dinners. Add a glass of wine, and that's a perfect way to spend the day. I think I have good instincts about what's tasty food-wise. Except for boiled eggs, cilantro, beets, or liver. Those you can have.

8. Unfortunately, this doesn't apply now, but I was always thrilled that I could make my dad laugh. I made him laugh his whole life and he was always my best audience. I enjoy making other people laugh and am witty and quick (most of the time) but he was the one, and probably still is in my head, who I perform for. He had this deep chuckle that gently percussioned out of him like a timpani roll, and then I knew I had him.

9. I have an independent streak that, depending on who you talk to, has proven to be a life-saver time and time again. "Let me do it" has been a refrain of mine since childhood and my mother will tell many stories of my stubborn refusal to allow anyone to help me. "I want to do it myself" while trying for those who love me, has given me a lifetime of small triumphs. I know I'll never climb Everest or read every book I want, but I do like that I rely on myself to do what needs to be done to survive. More and more help is allowed now, particularly as I age, but my desire not to rely on others, or bother others, or to appear weak, or whatever any hidden motives might be, has brought me many hours of inner satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment.

10. I send out yearly Christmas cards. It makes me happy. I know I should spare the trees used to scratch this itch, but I am stubbornly hanging on to this tradition. People need to feel a little paper "hug" each year, even if I haven't seen them for years. I want them to know I think of them and want to at least check in. Emails just don't carry the same feeling for me. Just like reading books uses up trees too, I could just never read books on the computer. I have to feel the heft of the book in my hand, I have to turn the page, I have to write notes in the margins. (I know - gasp. I'm one of those.) The cards give me pleasure as I think what to write to each person in my own hand, addressing the envelope, putting them in the mailbox sending them on their way. I like that I do this.

11. I created and protect family traditions for my children as they grew up and it has made all the difference. They are 30 and 27 now and still want the traditions practiced as if they were back in their footed pajamas days. I know beyond a doubt that it cements us as a family to this day, and to see the traditions I started being carried on to my grandchild makes me happier than I can say. I am surprised at how many parents don't do traditions of any sort in their families and it always made me feel like a good parent for making sure they were an integral part of my children's experience.

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Quote of the day: Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck. Author unknown.
Chosen because I need this as a daily reminder and it helps.

Eleven Things I Wish I Could Do

1. No matter what I do, I have never gotten my laundry to have that wonderful laundry "smell." My clothes don't smell bad, they just have no smell at all when they come out of the dryer. I want the "smell." I have tried everything. I've thrown in 5 dryer sheets. I've used different detergent. I am flummoxed and all laundry commercials where family members smell the towels and make "aaahh" faces frustrate me.

2. I have never successfully fried chicken in my life. It either comes out too cooked, or not cooked enough; or if it's cooked, then it's not crispy. I've tried all tried and true, never failed before recipes handed down by many a grandmother, but alas. Fried chicken is beyond my culinary skill.

3. I cannot sing in choruses, even if I'm singing along with a CD in the car. I cry. Everytime. Something about singing in a group, hearing all the different parts coming together to form this wonderful harmonious fullness in my ears...I choke up everytime. The other night I was listening to Garrison Keiller lead his audience in a singalong of Silent Night. Just an impromptu, acapella singalong with hundreds of voices joining in. The combination of a group of people coming together in a shared goal, a beautiful haunting melody, and the quiet stillness of my evening sealed it. I was a goner before I made it to "round yon virgin..." But I'd love to be able to be a part of a large chorus, to create such a thing of beauty as to generate tears.

4. I wish I could play the piano well enough to entertain myself for an hour at a time like my dad could. Just sit and roll through Claire de Lune, or Joplin.

5. I wish I could play a decent set of tennis again. Since my wrist surgery a few years ago, all that's left me is Wii Tennis, which while satisfying in the sense that I get to hit shots that I rarely made as frequently in real life, I miss the solidity of the sweet spot, the oomph I felt in my stomach when I nailed a particularly sizzling backhand crosscourt.

6. I wish I could find a hairstyle that didn't leave me sighing everytime I pass a mirror. I've tried perms, straight, long, short, colored, uncolored. I simply have never really been satisfied and I'm not sure why. I'm not a bad looking sort. It's not like I need a bag over my head. But just once, I'd like to get an amazing cut and just go WOW, that's IT!

7. I wish I could do a series of back handsprings, like a gymnast. I thought that just looked like it would be so cool to be able to do. In the same vein, I always wanted to do that turn thing that dancers do, when they spot themselves and as they turn, their head flips around quick as a wink, around and around they twirl, with their head always catching up as it finds it focal point.

8. I wish I could dance; better yet, I wish I could let myself go and dance. I realized a long time ago, after taking a psychology profile as part of a Vanderbilt trial I did for money, that I am a controlled person. I don't control other's environments, but I apparently am in strict control of my internal environment. At first, when I heard them tell me this, I laughed and denied it emphatically. Me? Controlled? Ha! Well, after stewing and chewing on it for weeks, I had to admit that so many things just fell into place after that. Oh, so THAT'S why I don't dance.. That's why I can't let go in so many situations. I've never, ever been one to make noise, draw attention to myself, put myself out there for review, at least not that I could help. Control my environment - that's what keeps me feeling safe, but also boring and uninteresting. I'm a big snore with feet.

9. I wish I could reach the ceiling fan in my living room. It's up at the top of a vaulted ceiling and there's no hope, even with a ladder, of my reaching it to change the direction of air flow from season to season. This annoys me. Also, it will be a bitch to clean the blades. So I am going to pretend they will never need it.

10. I wish I could pick up my current house that I love, and magically relocate it to some small plot of land that is planted within an inch of its life with large, old trees. I miss my trees. I miss the birdsong that come with trees. I put up two pitiful little feeders outside my screened porch, but it's just not the same. I miss the lazy, breezy feeling of shade in summer. I want to feel like I live inside a park.

11. I wish I could remember my childhood in greater detail. I had an amazing family and grew up safe, secure, happy, and well loved. But so many memories are gone. I probably only remember the high points, and most of those are photograph-inspired by now. I can't remember "eight" for example, or eleven. What was I like? What did I do each day? What did I think about? I sometimes think about going to a hypnotist just to see what can be stirred up.

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Quote of the day: He thought like he danced, flailing rather more than was necessary and not accomplishing much. But he was genuine and passionate. - Vance - The Monk Downstairs.
Chosen because ohdeargod, this is how I feel about myself so much of the time. I think it's kind of endearing.

One Sill A Bull

Write something in one syllable words starting with "The bull..."

The bull stares, and his eyes shoot back and forth from the rope I hold in my hands, to my face, stern with the job I loathe, but must be done. Toad (don't ask where his name comes from. It's to do with his horns is all I know) was sold last week to a man with red cheeks and white hair whose prize bull died from mad cow and it is my job to see that Toad gets on the truck with truck and me still in one piece.

Toad backs up and drops his head as I start my long walk. My rope is in full swing as it keeps time with the swish of Toad's tail, each with the fear of what is to come. "Come boy," I soothed with a calm I did not feel. "Let's try this nice and slow." Toad still kept his eyes on me and showed no signs of ease, of calm, of he did not want to kill me. I was new to the ranch and so Toad and I had not had time to be friends. This did not bode well for all. "Tooooad" I coaxed. "This old rope is for show. Don't you mind it at all." Quick as a wink, Toad seemed to perk up, head raised, ears straight, and I thought I must be good at this bull stuff. The bull walked to me and I stepped back to let him pass. He gave no thought to me at all as he made his way to the truck. I turned to watch, proud of my man skills, which was when I saw why Toad had loped past me with no huff or puff. The white haired man, Jack Daws, an old hand at bulls, knew the best way to coax one where you want him to go was to use a girl. There, by the truck, was a cow in full heat, the smell of sex strong to Toad in the warm ranch air. He felt the pull of it and had to check it out. The rope hung still in my hands as the Toad made his way to Daws and his new home. I learned a thing or two that day. Sex beats the rope. Hands down.

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Quote of the day: There was Kato, his dear hands folded on his chest, his fingers twitching almost imperceptibly in his sleep, like a dog dreaming of Schubert. Patchett - Bel Canto.
Chosen because of the wonderful simile. Just gorgeous.

Memory Lane Prompts

I remember learning...to ride my bike. It was birds-egg blue, a bit too big for me, and represented a promised land of freedom and self reliance. I spent some long hours hoisting myself onto the seat and falling before I could get even get my feet on the pedals. Realizing part of my yard gently sloped, I cleverly made my starting point the upper corner by the redbud tree, facing down the slope which all of a sudden, loomed long and steep...but hey...automatic momentum! I was able to coast long enough to put feet to pedals, before falling. I did this all day. All Day. My mother says she remembers glancing out the kitchen window at my determined little face, body language in full motivation, fully intent on riding that bike out of the yard before twilight. I don't really remember much about all the falling, but oh. I remember the first exhilaration of flight, of speed that didn't end up with a mouthful of dirt. If only I'd kept that spirit to see me through so many of my heart's desires that now lie cobwebbed in the darkened rooms of a forgotten youth.

I remember biting...down on a loose front tooth, feeling the almost but not quite painful wiggle of it, amazed that my body was capable of dislodging one of its own. I tongue-worried it, moving it this way and that, feeling the wiggle grow wider and looser, with the occasional copper taste of blood proving the event progressing quite nicely. Thoughts of a fairy visit thrilled me more than any financial reward, although I never could stay awake to see her. Yes, it was a girl fairy. Weren't they all?

I remember the balloons...of the Macy's Thanksgiving parade. They were huge, and the people looked so cold. I never wanted to be there. I can't remember what the balloons were now. Was there a huge turkey? Was Snoopy there in the 1960's? I'll need to google.

I remember falling...into fall leaves. My dad would make these huge piles (our yard, particularly the back yard, was tree heaven) and I remember taking a flying leap into the piles, scattering the crunchy leaves as my father half-heartedly chastised me for messing up his neat piles. I remember the smell of them, the dry, woodsy, clean smell of them as I fell face first, inhaling their cool scent. Days must have been cooler then as I was always wearing a coat or sweater, never worrying about getting itchy or scratched. Here it is, mid-November, and almost 70. It would not be the same experience for children in the yards of today. One needs the red cheeks of a sweater day to properly do the Leaf Dive.

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Quote of the day: Perhaps there is an airborne spore in Vegas which enslaved Liberace and now has Siegfried and Roy by the boleros; they all end up with the hair of rash French poets and the jackets of Prussian limo drivers hewn out of sequins and semiprecious chandeliers. Wilson - A Massive Swelling. Chosen because it made me laugh. I love this kind of sarcastic, dry wit. There's a danger of coming across as rude or offensive with wit like this, but I can't help myself. I respond to it and if I didn't watch myself, could easily let fly with this kind of thing. In fact, I think I probably do from time to time, particularly with each passing year.

Okay. The writing genie is still on vacation, but there have been some, okay one, and you know who you are, who has been pestering me with guilt-inducing, whiny emails about the paucity of my blog entries. So to quieten the madding crowdette, I post a short journal entry I wrote while waiting for my flight in Laguardia, circa 2006.

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I just had a nice hour of people-watching. One very large woman made me hungry as I watched her wolf down a pretzel dog. Never having heard of a pretzel dog, much less eaten one, I was seduced by the warm soft look of the pretzel dough with just that touch of salt, wrapped enticingly around one of those fat juicy, bad-for-you dogs that one remembers from school sporting events or state fairs. I easily succumbed and bought one. Oh my. The trickle of mustard I added to the top of the bun lifted it from merely tasty to absolutely Divine. I blotted out the fact that my Ellen underwear was a bit snug as I savored every fatty, succulent, hot bite. Also to entertain while we waited for our plane to arrive was a real live mouse family scurrying and darting out from the wall directly under the large, plate glass tarmac windows, and 2 feet from my chair. I kept sprinkling the area with bun crumbs and they would zip out of the wall and back, quick as a snake's tongue. They must have been pretty hungry to come out around all those pairs of shoed human feet within easy stomping range. A few women who sat next to me saw them, shot their feet out as if they were on springs and, waiting for the beasts to disappear into the wall again, moved away to creature-free territory a few rows away. I thought the mice were cute and even took a few photos.

After boarding the plane, there was a full fifteen minutes of taxiing, and my eyes were drooping. I truly suffer from motion-sleepies. Better than pills. Just plop me down into a moving vehicle of any description and I'm drooling on my pillow in no time. Thank goodness there are no screaming children or chatty cathy's on this flight. Being a night flight, it's not very full and I do my usual scoping of those sitting around me. No one of real interest, just the typical couples, businessmen headed home, studying company papers and clicking on their laptops, face bluish in the monitor screen light. Am I the only person who takes in and studies everyone in my immediate vicinity thinking, "these could be the people I die with? These faces could be the last ones I see when we fall screaming to our fiery and horrible deaths?"

*****
Quote of the day: Life was, after all, like air. Seemed to be no way of keeping it out or at a distance and all he could do for the moment was live it and breathe it. How people managed to draw it down into their lungs without choking was a mystery to him. It was full of bits. This was air you could almost chew. Hornby - About a Boy.
Chosen for the wonderful last line. Who hasn't felt that occasional thick air that was hard to swallow for any variety of reasons; adrenaline of fear, indignation of rage, the heartpound of new love.

Naming names

Name the following things:

A desert town - Aridity
A race horse - Salty Dog
A literary magazine - The Proseiden Adventure
A new disease - Diabolicus
A football team - Omaha Omegas
A diner - Eats and Sweets
A new religion - Raptured Repugnants
A new planet - Flumbo
A rock band - The Banned
A summer cottage - Roses and Roaches
Triplets - Somer, Wynter, Faul
A liqueuer - Golden Rainbow
A beauty salon - Snippy
A new diet - Dough or Die
A soap opera - Tomorrow Will Tell
A polluted river - Richman Folly
A poetry collection - Tequila Torso
A chihuahua - Itty Bitty
A burglar - Burt Scrabble
A bar - Happiness Counts
A lipstick color - Does this make me look fat?
A yacht - Seas Control

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Quote of the day: It was a myth that people created their own children, the ball-of-clay business. The truth was, children made themselves in reaction to you. Hearon - "Ella in Bloom"
Chosen because it's true. I responded to the truth of this as any parent will and it's something you can't know unless you've experienced the maturation of your own child, guided by you, but somehow totally independent of you. Which is glorious and eternally sobering.

What would you buy?

If money was no object, what would you buy?

Easy. I would travel, travel, travel. I would visit a thousand travel websites, looking for out of the way places, as well as well known iconic places that have always beckoned, crooking a seducing finger to come....come....

Here's the SHORT list of immediate dream trips:

All major National Parks in the U.S.
Stand on the equator.
Climb to the top of a Mayan Temple
See temples at Angkor Wat
Go kayaking in Lake Louise, Canada
Visit the Rain Forest
Eiffel Tower
Taj Majal
Coliseum in Rome
Amsterdam
Canary Islands
San Juan Islands
Walk the Acropolis in Athens
Galapagos Islands
Great Barrier Reef
Ayers Rock
Perth, Australia
Ride a fan boat in Everglades
Visit 15 European capitals
Great Wall of China
Mount Rushmore
Costa Rica
Valley of Fire in Nevada
Flume Gorge in White Mountains
Canoe the Buffalo River in Arkansas
Milford Track in New Zealand
Hermitage in Russia
Patagonia
Desoto Caves in Alabama
Carlsbad Caverns
Niagra Falls
Madagascar
Meteor crater in Winslow, AZ
Venice
Vienna
Those are the well known places. I might come back to this list and add another section on the out of the way, hidden gems as yet undiscovered. A good friend found a place where you sleep up in the trees in Brazilian Rain Forest. That sounds pretty darn cool... Oh yes, if money were no object? I'd rarely be home. Wanderlust is my constant companion.

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Quote of the day: Old widowers in the back woods of the north shore got frog marched down the chapel aisle by the first woman quick enough to make eye contact with one of them over potato salad at a dead wife's wake. Harper - Worst Day of My Life So Far
Chosen because it made me laugh, this image of frantic spinsters leaping upon a brand new widower like bargain hunters at a fire sale.

What makes you sentimental?

Seeing elderly people still holding hands after a lifetime together, as if to say, "I'm still here, hold on to me."

Gruff, unemotional men reduced to goo-puddles when around small children.

A sacrificial act to help others.

Men totally enraptured by their family.

The general reaction by the driving public when an ambulance is passing...the unacknowledged agreement between dozens of strangers to forget for a moment all differences between them, and for that brief space in time, as one organism, unilaterally understand that nothing else matters but to allow the ambulance passage, respecting the solemn circumstance being faced by the faceless patient inside, wishing all godspeed. I get very moved by this silent rite of aquiescence. It's one of the few times I know of where everyone, everyone, is on the same page - all for someone they don't know and wishing well. One of my favorite moments of human interaction, when I feel a part of something bigger.

Childbirth

Watching two opposing forces find surprise in an unexpected affection and respect for each other.

Musicals

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Quote of the day: I don't believe Mr. Wodehouse knows where it comes from or how; wherever he is, in luxury or in prison, he is able to sequester himself and, as it were, take dictation from his demon. Donaldson - P.G. Wodehouse - A Biography
Chosen because I know exactly what this means.

Looking for prompts

I've hit a dry spell for creative output lately, and I miss it - so am resorting to asking myself direct questions to answer, just to force something out of me. For prompts, I will be stealing directly from the Q&A website of an actor I do a bit of work for. Over the past few years, I've been impressed with some of the insightful answers that he is able to mine from an apparent deep core, and always on the fly. I don't claim that kind of depth, and am not going to compete for wit or significance. I just want some words to flow.

What's better: old friends, or new friends, and why?

This is the kind of question that I hate, having to choose between choices that each have strong merit. I see pros and cons to both. Old friends know your stories, your battle and eventual victory over puberty perhaps, or the fears and tears you secretly confessed the day before a wedding, or the month before childbirth. They are the golden few who have chosen to love DESPITE, rather than BECAUSE. They are the loyal, the truthful, the kind.

New friends bring the joy of having someone discover your gifts anew; they bring the glorious tabula rasa, the new beginning, the thrill of starting over with someone whom you've not yet hurt, or betrayed, or annoyed. There's something cleansing in two people marking a fresh, new map that appears between them; a land mine here, a treasure buried there. I like the hope and promise new friends bring and I also like the solidity and freedom in my choice to continue to pursue the friendship or to gently acknowledge that it didn't work out, no hard feelings. I like feeling free from the agonies of teenage bonding rituals and the desperation of not belonging. I like the confidence that my age brings my inner security in knowing what is best for me.

I cherish my old friends and I adore meeting and learning new possibilities, new combinations of personality traits and daily interests. Life is good this way. But if I absolutely HAD to chose, it would be old friends. Cultivations of a lifetime bring a richness not available elsewhere and one would be foolish not to guard them constantly and nourish them often.

Quote of the day: The baby was in diapers that should have been changed two game shows ago. Anna Quinlan - "Blessings"
Chosen because what a perfect way to describe a certain type of mother in four words, "two game shows ago." In an instant, I see her, I know her, I see their future laid out before them if nothing changes. Brilliant.

Sunriiiiiise, Sunset... Sunriiiiiiise, Sunset....

I still haven't felt like writing, so am putting up this old chestnut written when my daughter's marriage was looming...

Looking back over the quicksilver years, it’s easy enough now to identify those many defining moments when my world as parent cracked open. “It’s a girl!”; “Hello? This is the principal calling - there’s been an accident”; “Mom, Nick asked me out on a date!”; “Guess what! I’ve got my own apartment!” “I hate you!”, “I love you” -- countless events, conversations, prayers and pleas - those emotional threads invisibly weaving the silken bond between parent and child. So fragile, so amazingly resilient, so immovably strong is this gossamer fabric woven in the unspoken, gentle dance of family life. We pull it tight around us, craving its comfort in the warm familiarity of a lifetime spent together when cold realities threaten at fate’s whim..

Today, a new moment to add, a new thread of color begins - “Mom, I’m getting married” One hears the songs, Sunrise Sunset, one watches the Kodak commercials, one acknowledges the facts of childhood’s swift passage without really absorbing it all, busy as we are with the day to day journey of family survival. As a single parent, the years of child rearing were always ones of hardship, heartache, a great roller coaster of up and down emotional wallops - time only seemed to stand still due to the sheer exhaustive nature of the task at hand. My independent streak silently screamed, "When will I get some time to read again? When can I sleep through the night again? When will I have any extra money for myself again? When will the worry stop?" My life loomed ahead as an endless string of unselfish responsibilities forced upon me and I looked forward to the time when I would have my life back. I loved my children fiercely, but their childhoods seemed, at the time, to be ignoring the “time passes so quickly” mantra of parenting. I felt heavy with the burden of them, with only my maternal love and their bright little spirits to buoy me during the process of getting through each day with my good humor intact. Yet, despite it all, I recall crying over the sentiments of the lyrics, “turn around and he’s 3, turn around and he’s 4, turn around and he’s a young man going out of the door”, yet not fully grasping the implications of truth found in the prophetic words. I grasp them now.

Time, that sly rascal, plays a tricky game with us. At the outset, with one’s entire parental experience ahead, time stretched out eternal in its hopes and possibilities. One sensed an endless road ahead, filled with all the time needed to right wrongs, reverse unfortunate judgment calls, and instill all of life’s goodness into the malleable clay of a child's spirit. Armed with immeasurable parental love, it seemed a cinch to carry forth and prosper at being the SuperSingleParent. Wrong. Somehow, and I can’t figure out how, time managed to maintain a false image of an endless tomorrow where we still had time to fix things, we still had time to savor the child’s presence. After all, look, he’s just ten, she’s just eight. Still plenty of time left. In fact, time seemed to slow, and they would stay small forever - I always had tomorrow. Then, of course, with the coming agony of teenagers, the sheer maddening chaos of it all, one wished for time to pass in an instant. The only thought of mother and child was to hang on by our collective fingernails until we reached the proverbial other shore of twenty years, a glorious number with nary a teen in it... But here’s where Time has his little laugh. While all are heaving massive sighs of relief, and giving ourselves hearty pats on the back for surviving this ancient battleground, we are slow to notice that in the last six years of crisis and turmoil, time noticeably sped up, somersaulting over itself in a rush to the finish line. In a blink, the end is in sight, the time for teaching, correcting past mistakes, for love’s touch has passed. It’s just not amusing at all.

So, I watch my second and last-born...twenty-four, blessedly human again, now marrying - with gusto. I find myself staring at her all the time, like when she was newborn. I drink her in, moonily mesmerized by the perfection of offspring, failing to quench a sudden and intense thirst for her face, her laughter, her company. “Mooom,” she wails, glancing at me sideways, catching my stare. “Quit staring at me! Why are you looking at me all the time?” We laugh, and silently acknowledge the need for this mother-child bond to Never Ever Stop.

As she begins her new life safely cocooned in the warmth and security of a man who loves her, I offer her up tentatively to the future that awaits her, hoping that the fates will be as kind to her as they've been to me in so many ways. I hope she knows that, as is the eventual way of all children, while Time may have moved her physically from my presence and Love has created a new, fledging family to which her attentions will be rightfully focused, that she and I are forever linked and blessed in a bond of shared histories, emotional and physical traits, and a love that goes bone deep.

I welcome Jeremy into this waltz of mother and daughter already in progress – he picked up on the steps pretty early for a guy, and I appreciate that he respects things enough to not want to change the music; just the order on the dance card, which is just right.

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Quote of the day: The martini tasted like John Coltrane sounds. Robert Parker. "Backstory"
Chosen because I love the brilliance of using one sense to describe another - Coltrane sets the tone..you just KNOW what the room looks like, the stage that's being set, the mood the martini is setting. So simple...wish I could think of things like this. I have shamelessly stolen this idea in a few things. Don't tell.

4-4 Writing Exercise - "Engagement Party"

Write two separate versions of the same event: An engagement party. First, with an "I" narrating from the point of view of the mother of the groom. Then use the third person, "she."

"I am by far the oldest woman at this table. When I first held Harry in my arms, little did I dream it would take him forty-eight years to find and marry the girl of his dreams. I don't exaggerate when I say "girl" either. Look at her, she's a baby - twenty-eight and her mother could be my own daughter for crying out loud. I'd drink myself into a stupor if I didn't have to worry about appearances. Oh..stop. Tonight is Harry and Bree's night (what kind of name is Bree anyway? Sounds like a underarm deodorant) and I'll ignore the fact that I'm the only one here who recalls Pearl Harbor as an actual memory, not a history lesson. God, I miss William. We would have had a field day with this bunch. God. It's time for me to toast my baby boy and his baby bride. I have no idea what to say. "

Martha couldn't believe her son Harry was marrying someone that could be her own granddaughter. She felt so terribly awkward, feeling as if the others might be staring at her, wondering what she thought of it all. In between sips of her Dom Perignon, she snuck peeks at some of her new in-laws. If only her husband, William, was still alive; he would have buffered the pangs of age in a room scented with the blooms of youth. The two of them, with the shared silent signals learned from a lifetime together, would have been winking and nodding wildly at each other over the plates of pate. With a sigh she stood, raising her glass while her son whispered in his new wife's ear.

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Quote of the day - We tiptoed through there like a fat boy through a wolf pack. Leif Enger "Peace Like a River"
Chosen because, come on...how fabulous is this simile? I really enjoyed this book and his colorful writing. I ended up with more than one quote out of it.

4-3 My first short story ever

I hadn't learned at this point to show and not tell. So this is a bit "telly" and not "showy." But I was so thrilled to have come up with something. Fiction is not my forte. Clive Mighty was a name of a person who left my place of employment before I got there. I heard someone say his name and loved it, stealing it shamelessly for a future story. I thought it was a fabulous character name and just crying for a story to live in.

Words of a Lifetime

Clive Mighty didn’t possess what you would call a complex nature. The fifteen square miles or so of Waterloo, Alabama contained all he ever would know about life and he grew into an old man never having slipped outside the county line. He was just fine with that. “I do all my traveling in my books” he often said. “A man can meet some fine folks in books, can go to some mighty far places.”

While not a scholar by any stretch, he loved to read more than anything else in the world. His momma, Irene, had started looking after the small Waterloo library after Miss Iris Holloway, who had been a quiet but effective librarian for 53 years, suffered a stroke right there at the check-out desk stamping little Peter Pinkney’s Jungle Book renewal. Young Peter recovered from the event; Miss Iris did not. With no qualified candidate on the horizon to replace her, which is to say, anyone with breath and limbs willing to tackle the job, a rotation of overwhelmed volunteers managed just well enough to keep the doors open, but it looked as if the library would close. Irene met her beloved husband at the library when she was seventeen and figured to repay her cosmic debt by rescuing the old place. Through her attentive, organized efforts, the library again thrived and little five-year old Clive discovered the sweet agony of anticipation inherent in a reader’s life. He was not without the maximum eight books a week for the next ten years of his life, which is when the library lost its appeal for Irene and he had the limited stacks just about read and memorized. Fortunately, by then fifteen, his book habit was buried bone deep and he invented ways to get rides to Bridgewater, the county seat, whose library enticed him with a much larger, more sophisticated collection and the librarian always assumed he was a college student which he liked.

Clive felt more at home in books than he did in his own life. Real people requiring real conversations made him a bit nervous; but book characters seeped into him slow and comforting, and he drank them in like dry ground after a soaking rain. Over the years, he stuffed his growing collection into every unused nook of his small but cozy house like a squirrel tucking away provisions for a long winter’s siege. Clive savored words, silently rolling them around on his tongue so as to suck all the flavor out of them - he didn’t read as much as absorb the page. He loved looking up new words that promised uncharted territory. He thrilled at how different authors could mix and match common everyday words all together in distinct and separate ways, how each could be telling a similar tale but with such different melodies in their sentences; an enchantment he often compared to the centuries of transcendent music that have sprung from the same twelve notes, a fact which never ceased to amaze and enthrall him. So it was the natural progression of things that Clive should take over as the Waterloo librarian after his graduation from Bridgewater City College. As he sat for the first time behind the massive oak desk that served as check-in/check-out and general information, he reached his hand underneath, groping for what he knew he would find among the ancient, hardened chewing gum mounds. Clive Mighty is here. The deep grooves and scratches tickled his fingers as he remembered that rainy Saturday afternoon when he had crawled under the desk on a private, personal dare. Irene had disappeared for a stack straightening, a perfect opportunity for him to claim the space as his own with a small knife recently given him for his eleventh birthday. Now, a matching eleven years later, Clive chuckled at the prophetic carved message. “I’m back” he whispered to the ghost-boy, whose muffled giggles, born of the innocent elation of new adventure, still echoed off the polished wood. Clive Mighty is here, alright. So began his career with books and he remained at the library, at that desk content, efficient, and well-liked for the next fifty years.

Other than the library, there wasn’t much else in life that caught Clive’s eye. He had liked girls well enough, but they never had taken to him and his shy ways. Most girls had been easily baited by the hook of his thick brown hair, twinkling eyes, and medium, stocky build, but his body language, along with a mind that inexplicably turned simple in female company, betrayed the helpless discomfort he felt circling in their bewildering orbits. They tittered and shimmered down the street in a pageant of hats and slender calves peeking out from the latest A-lines. His mouth simply dried up at the sight of them, watching as he usually did from the safe distance and easy separation provided by the large library windows. After a few disastrous attempts at dating a few of the quieter ones, he gave up all hope of finding married bliss and learned to live with a lower set of expectations. Truth be known, it came about a bit easier than he thought, helped along by the fact that cats were better company than he ever knew and he soon owned three fat, furry felines of varying and dubious genealogies which had the full run of his house and heart.

He had been orphaned at twenty-three, when his parents died within six months of each other; his father of a heart attack while watching an Alabama game, and his mother of sheer loneliness and grief, everyone reckoned. His small family home melded gradually into a comfortable blend of old and new as he replaced Irene’s twenty-year old curtains, added more and more bookshelves, and planted a few white peony bushes around the house. Books, cats, and peonies. This pretty much summed up Clive’s life, until now. Until Dolly.

“Excuse me, but I’m hoping you can help me find a copy of May Sarton’s Journal of a Solitude. Do you know it?” The voice resonated in normal tones; it possessed nothing out of the ordinary that would cause Clive’s seventy-two year-old heart to quicken in unfamiliar flutters. But there it was. Extraordinary. Clive turned around from helping a young patron discover the card catalog and faced the owner of the voice. She was, he guessed, approximately sixty-fiveish, all of five feet tall, and topped by a head full of thick, white hair, the kind of white that glows in its good health. Her face radiated good genes, calm intelligence and an agreeable humor. Clive had never seen her before and he was instantly curious before he could stop himself.

“Of course, I’ll be happy to get that for you, Mrs....?” His voice trailed off in the question he hoped would have an encouraging answer.

“Waycross. Dolly Waycross. I’m new to Waterloo, you see. My husband passed about two years ago, and I inherited a small house here belonging to his family that up to now has been tied up in probate. To me, a house doesn’t seem like a home until you get a few library books scattered around just begging to be read. Don’t you agree? I have always found Miss Sarton’s views on solitude to be of comfort, in a sad sort of way, if you know what I mean, and I’d love to be able to read it again, especially now that I am experiencing true solitude myself.”

Clive just gaped. Dolly snuck a quick glance at his nameplate on the desk. “Mr. Mighty?” she prompted gently. Clive smiled, recovered, and grasped his chin with a weathered hand in a lifelong gesture of contemplation, appearing to be gathering thoughts of great weight. “Ah yes, of course. Right this way, Mrs. Waycross. I know just where it is.” She’s alone, she’s lovely, and she’s new in town. Oh my. Oh my indeed.

He guided her toward the appropriate stack and Clive prayed that the book was in so he could prove his library was efficient, sufficient for every need, that he was able to grant her every wish. He conversely prayed it was not in, giving him a reason to perhaps call her when it was returned, and maybe he could even bring it to her house. It was in.

“Here you go," Clive murmured as he handed over the book to a pleased Dolly. “Will there be anything else?” Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “With your being new to town and all, I’d be honored, I mean, I’d be happy to show you around. If you like, that is. Being a stranger in town can be a little intimidating I would imagine. But I don’t want to appear forward, Mrs. Waycross, I just thought...” He stopped and looked at her helplessly, the old familiar freeze creeping in to lock up the knees, empty the brain, twist the tongue. He waited for the inevitable refusal. It wouldn’t be haughty, combined with a cruel laugh and a wave of the hand as with the girls of his youth; no, it would be kinder perhaps, with more consideration and respect that comes with age, but still a reminder of long forgotten pain.

She looked startled for only a minute. “Well, I think that’s a mighty good offer,” she said, smiling at her little pun on his name. “I really am just finding my way around and any help in learning the town’s shortcuts would be very much appreciated.” Lightly touching his arm she leaned in a little, allies in a private war, and quipped, “At our age, we should look for all the shortcuts we can get.” She beamed warmly at him, blissfully unaware of the thaw-effect her easy consent had produced in the man.

Finding his voice, he responded with a growing steadiness, “I think I know just the ticket - what are you doing??? - we’ll go on a walking tour of Waterloo -am I really saying this?- and I’ll be sure to include the all important Citizen Summary, just so you know who’s who and what’s what.”

“Citizen Summary?” Dolly asked, placing a hand over her chest in mock dismay. “You mean...”

“Yep,” conspired Clive, immensely enjoying the way this conversation was proceeding. “You will come to know all of Waterloo’s deepest and darkest; the surliest waitress at Margo’s Courthouse Cafe, the slowest bank teller, poor Shirley, at Fidelity Union, the friendliest and fastest check-out line at the Piggly Wiggly and the best days for sales at Winston and Waggler’s department store. There are certain nights when it’s best to avoid the teen-infested town square and there are certain glorious weeks when Lou’s Creek rushes with the fresh water of a new season.” Oh, there is so much, so much more. He paused, suddenly aware that he had been prattling like a town gossip, which also reminded him to add Winifred Snipps to Dolly’s need-to-know list. He felt glorious, he felt terrified; he felt - Alive.

Dolly, obviously pleased with both Clive and his suggestion, replied in an excited whisper, “ Sounds marvelous. When do we go?”

Clive winked and said, “Well, first we need to get you a library card so you can check out that book of yours.”

Looking down at the book in her hand, she chuckled. “Heavens, I almost forgot about that little bit of business. I’ll definitely be needing a card, seeing as how I’ll be a frequent patron of your fine library. Reading just fills one up to the brim with contentment, I’ve always said, and it brings me such happiness knowing I have a book waiting for me every day. I do believe, Mr. Mighty, that both your library and your kindly offered tour have made my welcome here a truly memorable one.” Dolly extended her unoccupied hand in thanks.

He grasped the hand as if it was a promise that might be broken at any moment and gently murmured a soft, “I’m so glad.” They walked back to the information desk so Dolly could fill out the paperwork and obtain her library card, sharing a companionable silence; each in private wonder at the slight, but definitely noticeable current zipping along their veins, the kind of current that new hope can bring.

Clive handed Dolly her new card, making sure he noted her address information before filing it away. He spoke first. “I don’t work at the library tomorrow. Would that be too soon for your Waterloo walk? It’s a Thursday and Thursdays are when Al puts all the meat on sale at the Piggly. I mean, we can’t miss that.” Clive smiled, relaxed and easy in her company.

“I think tomorrow would be perfect.” Dolly replied as they headed toward the front doors of the library. “And maybe after, you would consider coming over for some lemonade and a game of Scrabble. I’ve always loved Scrabble; it allows me to play with words, and I think words are just endlessly fascinating. Don’t you? ”

Clive held the front library door open for her as she prepared to step into the morning. “Why yes,” he replied warmly as she faced him for his answer. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

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Quote of the day: The floor was littered with crumpled carnations of drawing paper. Michael Chabon - "The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay.
Chosen for that perfect image of crumpled, tossed paper as carnations. I've crumpled up a pile of paper in my time - I love using carnations as a counterpoint to the frustration those crumpled pieces of paper represent.

4-1 Writing Exercise - Another Short-short

The Hat (first draft, needs work)

"Lawsy Lord," Odi sighed to herself as she pushed open the dressing room door. "Here we goes again." She felt the familiar resistance of something or someone behind the door and, with a final, urgent shove of her stronger-than-she-looks Olive Oyl frame, the door gave way, pushing a large pile of the days wardrobe to the side. Odi surveyed the remains of last night's revels. "Lordie, all them white movie folks. What a mess they done left for ol' Odi." As she began the thankless job of recreating order in the chaos of Fred Astaire's dressing room, she found her mind wandering to the same place it always did. She imagined her legs, bent by childhood polio, now strong and sure, moving to the rhythms of an orchestral swell, spinning and tapping her across a stage in a wild and joyful dance.

As she daydreamed, she spotted Mr. Astaire's famous top hat, normally stiff and shiny, on a chair near the dressing table where it probably spent the night crushed underneath used champagne bottles and drunken movie stars. Clsoing the door to any prying eyes of other maids who might pass by, Odi slowly reached for the famous hat, hardly believing her good luck at finding it here. Usually Mr. Astaire's wardrobe assistant, Estelle, was fanatical about her costume checklists, but she must have missed the hat under all the party debri.

Odi's curiosity and desire overwhelmed her better sense and after puffing out the hat back to it's proper shape, she placed it jauntily on her head. As if waiting for some mystical transference to take place, she gazed at herself in the large dressing table mirror, turned on the small rounded makeup lights surrounding the mirror, and willed herself to hear the distant music of her long imagined dance. Oh, to be taken in a man's arms and match him step for step on two strong legs with a life of their own, swirling in a delirious dance of grace and joy. Wearing the hat, she could almost, almost get there.

It was just one hat, all crumpled and ruined. Maybe Mr. Astaire wouldn't miss it. She reverently removed it and placed it in her large daybag she used for her change of clothes. For the first time in years at this studio, she couldn't wait for her bus ride home.

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Quote of the day: When I am an old woman, so that too much queerness will seem a natural thing, I mean to build a tower like it on my side of the lake, and I shall sit there on angry days and growl down at anyone who disturbs me. Marjorie K. Rawlings - "Cross Creek"
Chosen because I love the image and the sentiment it expresses. I, too, have felt this freeing sensation that growing older brings. And I also am familiar with the desire to "growl down" as well. Grin.

3-31 How to Write Good

A handout from my writing class. Words to write by.

1. Avoid aliteration. Always.
2. Prepositions are not words to end sentences with.
3. Avoid cliches like the plague. (They're old hat.)
4. Employ the vernacular.
5. Eschew ampersands & abbreviations, etc.
6. Parenthetical remarks (however relevant) are unnecessary.
7. It is wrong to ever split an infinitive.
8. Contractions aren't necessary.
9. Foreign words and phrases are not apropos.
10. One should never generalize.
11. Eliminate quotations. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "I hate quotations. Tell me what you know."
12. Comparisons are as bad as cliches.
13. Don't be redundant; don't use more words than necessary; it's highly superfluous.
14. Be more or less specific.
15. Understatement is always best.
16. One-word sentences? Eliminate.
17. Analogies in writing are like feathers on a snake.
18. The passive voice is to be avoided.
19. Go around the barn at high noon to avoid colloquaialisms.
20. Even if a mixed metaphor signs, it should be derailed.
21. Who needs rhetorical questions?
22. Exaggeration is a billion times worse than understatement.
23. Eschew obfuscation.

These made me smile, but also made me realize I'm guilty of just about all of them. Take them away and what's left? Newspaper articles? LOL. I can see the case for not relying on any or all of the above, but a lot of them, to me, represent how a person would flavor his/her own creation, throwing in a pinch of this, a dash of that. Maybe it's just me and I am feeling threatened to have so many of my "crutches" branded as bad writing. LOL.

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Quote of the day: I had come here with Darin, a highly unlikely infatuation kindled in the furnace of parental disapproval. Lost reference.
Chosen because I immediately thought of my first boyfriend, and how my parent's dislike of him made him all the more attractive. I loved how the author puts this.

3-30 Writing Exercise - Bringing the Abstract to Life

Think in concrete terms. Make the following abstractions come to life by rendering them in concrete specific details or images of one sentence.

Racism - Hiring an unqualified white over a qualified minority

Injustice - Letting a drunk driver back on the road after his third incident involving injuries or deaths of innocent victims.

Ambition - Skating five hours a day, starting at age five, for fifteen years.

Growing old - Suddenly finding yourself lost on an "unfamiliar" street one mile from your home of forty years.

Salvation - A five year old seeing her mother's face after spending a frantic few minutes lost in a large crowd at the amusement park.

Poverty - Going to bed for two nights in a row with a gnawing hunger that presses through to the backbone.

Growing up - Understanding for the first time that your parents are actual people.

Sexual deceit - Lying to a partner about birth control in hopes to have a baby.

Wealth - Living in a home where there are rooms you never, ever need or use.

Evil - Forcing a four year-old daughter into the basement for another game of "hide daddy's hot dog."

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Quote of the day: ...and then she made me swear not to tell which was like asking me to carry a bomb in my mouth. Kaye Gibbons - "A Cure For Dreams"
Chosen because who has not been told a secret that was screaming to be told, to feel the impossible pressure of it against the door of their clamped lips, pushing, pushing to be released to the nearest ear. I love the urgency and danger of "bomb in the mouth", perfectly describing the fine balance of wanting to tell, yet knowing the destruction it could wield. Bearing a secret forces one to combat inner forces and I love using the bomb metaphor to mark the tightrope walk of it.

3-29 Writing Exercise - Three Childhood Memories

Random memories from the house I grew up in:

1) The beloved attic fan, droning and rumbling me to sleep every spring, summer, and fall before the heat forced the windows shut. I'd lay in the dark, the two windows to the right of my double bed open, and cool breezes were sucked in right over my bed, as I lay snuggled under this spectacularly silky, pine green comforter we inherited from my grandmother. I loved this blanket and would give anything to still feel my toes under it again. A constant bedtime refrain would drift down the stairs to my mom, "Can we have the fan?" There'd be this brief silent anticipation of "granted? Or denied?" and then after a few moments, the metal slats of the fan opening in the tiny hall ceiling right outside my bedroom door would whoosh open and heaven breezed in. Sleep would follow in minutes. I never felt so cozy and safe as I did on "fan nights."

2) My upstairs bedroom had a dormer window that opened up to a small, flat area holding a flower container, usually filled with plastic red geraniums. It was just large enough for me to sit on quite comfortably and during the summers, I used to climb out there at night, after the neighborhood had shut down and all were tucked safely in their homes. I'd do it during the day too, but it was best at night, when the sound carried and I could hear the dragcar sounds drifting over from the fairground speedway on race nights. When I got older, I'd smoke out there, overlooking my "domain", thinking life thoughts, wondering where my life would take me. When friends would spend the night, we would climb on up to the roof peak, and straddle the top - a leg on either side of the roofline and we'd smoke, and laugh, and plan our lives. The attic fan gave me the sense of total safety and security; the roof visits gave me my sense of freedom and independence, leaning outward, but still attached to home. I felt lucky to have the only house on the street that I could have done this. All other homes were one story and we were in a palace.

3) Pet history - Captain Flabbit the rabbit, Laird the black lab, Fluffy the white persian, Tag the cocker spaniel, Tiger the orange tabby, myriad hamsters that always escaped and/or died, (they always bit me, but never mom) multi-colored Easter chicks - I never knew where they ended up. They would just be gone once they started growing. Snakes in the back yard, kittens by the millions (we always were just getting rid of one litter when another was born), the tiny, furless baby squirrel that fell out of the tree and I fed it for about a week with an eye dropper and warm milk until it died. I took it to school with me to keep it alive and I remember getting special privileges to leave the class to feed it. I kept it wrapped up in a little shoebox.

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Quote of the day: Her heart beat hard enough to dim her hearing in pulses. Barbara Kingsolver - "The Prodigal Summer"
Chosen simply for the uniquely description of intense emotion. I can't remember the context of the passage anymore to know if she is describing fear, or love, or anxiety. But it doesn't matter really. The passage speaks of the moment when adrenaline pumps the heart hard enough to resonate in your ears. I, too, have heard the heart pulses in my ear and she captures that moment well enough for me to relive them.

3-22 Writing Exercise - State of Grace - A Short Story

State of Grace

"So, ladies, I trust you found your meals satisfactory?" the dapper waiter purred, assured of our glowing review. He cleared away our plates and placed the bill on the table for my grandmother. Nanna peered over her reading glasses at his name tag, then stared straight up at him, snaring him in that steely gaze I know so well.
"Well, Erick with a 'k," she deadpanned. "Your food was unbearably bad. But at least it was expensive. Now run along and bring me my change. That's a good boy." She dismissed him with a sharp flick of her multi-braceleted wrist.

Erick wilted before my eyes and sighing a subdued "yes ma'am," slunk off to do her bidding. While embarrassed for him, I had long outgrown any embarrassment for myself. Besides, she was quieter than usual this time and her acid comment had escaped the other diners' notice for once. I watched Erick's retreat for a moment before returning my attention back to Nanna, my mother's mother, the proverbial bull in everyone's emotional china shop. How many years has it taken me to move beyond the numbing public embarrassment she used to cause me and arrive at the more manageable states of resigned acceptance and amused fascination for such a unique relative? Counting back, I realized this was my twelfth annual pilgrimage to Pensacola, beginning when my mother first shipped me down at age eight from our native Louisville for two weeks of what she euphemistically termed "bonding." Actually, that initial summer I now realize was when mom had finally gotten serious over her first dependable boyfriend since dad had died, and had needed some bonding time of her own. During my first few summers with Nanna, I think my youth had protected me from her harshest scrutiny, but puberty and the years following found me easing slowly but surely into her sight line. This year, my twentieth, I came prepared with a modest, yet effective battle plan that should serve me well. I would simply agree with her point of view, acquiesce to her wishes, and do my best to slide in just under her radar, which is forever blinking with little green dots of potential prey. And, to be honest, I wouldn't have it any other way. Life with Nanna is, how shall I say, always interesting and , while my work constraints permit me only one week a year with her, I still look forward to it with great delight.

"Thanks for the dinner, Nanna," I offered, coming back to the present, and bravely added, "I actually thought it was pretty good."
"Oh, pish posh, Lucy," she exclaimed with a wave of her polished red fingernails. "It was an absurd concoction of preposterous proportions and I simply long for the days when food was easy to order and simple to eat." She extended her "long" into the more dramatic "loooong" in what mom had always called the Tallulah Bankhead voice. "I mean really, darling, Greek Lamb Brochettes with Cucumber and Tomato Chutney," she intoned, reciting one of the menu items from memory. "What decent person would eat such a ridiculous thing?" She abruptly stood up, signaling the end of the conversation, and, leaving Erick a paltry tip as if to punish him for working at such a place, ushered me out into the warm Florida evening.

I am always astounded at how Nanna plows through life helter skelter, a madman's bullet released on an unsuspecting public. Her real name is Grace Bouchet, of the New Orleans Bouchets. If mothers bestow names upon their children in the hopes of one day defining their grown-up character, then Mrs. Bouchet would be sorely disappointed in how Grace actually turned out. She was about as graceful as a dump truck with its horn stuck. The Bouchet family's meager beginnings had changed drastically when Grace's father, Henry, a lawyer for the oil-hunting DuPont family, had waived his normal fee in lieu of a percentage of the oil profits if and when they ever struck, which they did when Grace was around ten. She never wanted for anything again.

"So, Lucy, do we brave the Friday night Baskin Robbins crowd? I'd do just about anything for a Daquiri Ice-slash-Pralines N' Cream double scooper," Nanna said as we walked toward her spotless, white Buick Skylark taking up the inevitable two parking spaces.
"I'm ready if you are," I said, nonchalantly pulling off another note from under the windshield wiper, written by some anonymous irate parker, and tossing it in the back seat with the countless others.

Nanna, noticing the note, laughed. "Well, what did that one say? My parking again? Honestly, Lucy, I simply don't' see what all the fuss is about. There's plenty of parking available that I can see, and I just can't be bothered by making sure I measure up against every single little white line. I mean, really, darling, who has the time or inclination? One day, I think I'll actually read all those little notes that people have so kindly left for me."

I smiled and nodded, remembering my battle plan to sidestep any possible disagreement, and also because really, there was just no point. We hopped in the car and I had just turned my thoughts to the Rocky Road-Mint Chocolate Chip combo in my future when I heard a loud banging on Nanna's rolled up window.
"Open the door, lady," a voice growled thickly. The dark figure leaned in close, his breath forming a tiny fog cloud on Nanna's window. "I need your car."

Nanna turned to me, perturbed. "Lucy, I think this juvenile is pointing something at me. It can't seriously be a gun, can it? For Pete's sake, how absolutely distracting. Young man!" she admonished as he began to bump us hard enough with his body to start the car rocking. "Stop that this instant! You'll throw a hip out. What could you possibly want with an old car like this? Why don't you run along and get yourself a nice, red sports car, suitable for your youth and sex. This is just an old lady's car. Now shoo!" She nodded at me satisfied that he, like all the others that had crossed her path, would obey without question.

I quickly looked around the car to see if he was alone. He was. "Nanna," I said quietly. "I have an idea. Just listen and do not question me. In a minute when I shout at you, gun the accelerator and get the hell out of here. Do not hesitate. Are you ready? Now, start the car."
"What? What are you going on about? Lucy, don't be silly. This boy isn't..."
"Start The Car..." I hissed in my most commanding tone. "Do it!" She did as I asked and the engine roared to life, startling the boy who aimed his gun at us. We could see it plainly now, pointing directly at Nanna's head through the pitiful, useless barrier of glass.
"OUT! NOW!" he shouted, motioning at us with his gun.

Suddenly, I jumped closer to Nanna, looking purposefully behind the nervous boy toward an imagined rescuer and shouted as loudly and as frantically as I could muster, "Officer! Help!" Just as I hoped, the gunman quickly turned away to look behind him. "GUN IT!" I screamed at my stupefied grandmother. "Go! Go! Go! Now!" Before she could question, and before the carjacker could react, Nanna flattened the gas pedal to the floor and the car responded with a furious squealing of tires, launching us out of harm's way. But as I looked behind me through the back window, I watched the frustrated thief train his gun on our retreating car and, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth in child-like concentration, fired. In cinematic slow motion, the bullet whistled towards us, penetrated the back windshield, and escaped out the front windshield into the dark night, leaving a cracked, hole in the glass as it traveled on in the darkness beyond. I heard, or imagined I heard, the boy's strained curses as we sped out of the solitude of the parking lot into the welcomed bustle of the street.

"Lucy?" Nanna's voice was smaller, hesitant, foreign. "Are you all right, darling?"
"I think so," I replied. "Just shaken up a bit." I inched myself over next to her in order to give us both the familiar comfort of warm bodily contact when I noticed the blood on Nanna's shirt pocket. Without drawing attention to what I was doing, I studied her, slowly backtracing up her neck and spotting the little drip, drip of blood from her earlobe down onto her big, silly earring, then further down to her purple cotton collar where it was forming a small stain.

"Nanna, why don't we pull over for a minute and catch our breath?" I suggested as calmly as I could under the circumstances. She was driving so I wasn't about to go into any details about possible bodily harm. She didn't seem to be feeling any pain yet, so I took that as a good sign.

"Oh darling, let's just keep going for the ice cream, " she answered with aplomb. "I think I need that double scooper more than anything right about now, don't you? I simply did not find that at ALL amusing." She ended with a forced chuckle, sounding the right note of bravado, but it fell flat, a sour tone in an otherwise melodious attempt and we both heard it. I knew to ignore it at the time, but I couldn't help but register the tiny, almost unrecognizable flicker of change in the air before it vanished away into memory. Nanna needed me to take charge, I was shocked to discover, but the feeling was so new to her, so strange and bewildering, that she had no idea how to proceed. Neither did I. All of this flashed through me in a few seconds and I realized she was waiting for me to answer.

"No, actually, if you don't mind, I think I really would like to pull over for a second wind. I need to figure out what to do next," I said, stalling for the inevitable conversation ahead. I don't think Nanna has ever been in the hospital other than to have my mother, and I wasn't looking forward arguing with her about getting her there to have her head looked at. From where I was sitting, it looked as if the bullet had only grazed her just above her right temple, which relieved me. Besides, I thought, the bright lights and busy activity of an emergency room would do me nicely. I wanted people to fuss over me and bring me coffee. I wanted to be out of this car.

"Well all right, darling, if you really, really, want me to," Nanna replied, slowing the car. I seem to be feeling a bit funny myself, if you must know. I have the strangest headache. You don't supposed I'm getting my first migraine, do you? I've heard stress can bring them on. I mean, I've never been one to let a silly headache stop me but I do think, under the circumstances, it would be best to take a few minutes to regroup. You're not going to faint, are you darling? Oh look, here's a perfect place."

She pulled into Shore Enough Liquors' well-lit parking lot. She found a spot and parked, leaving the car running while she turned and looked at me expectantly, the flush of excitement slowly draining from her face. Before she could say anything, I said gently, "Nanna, I think you've been hurt. You seem to be bleeding, here," I touched the right side of her hairline, "where the bullet may have scraped you. It doesn't look too bad."

As I knew she would, Nanna reacted immediately. "Oh, don't be absurd, Lucy. Don't you think I'd know if I'd been hit by a bullet for Pete's sake? Of all the ridiculous..." She paused and then said cautiously, "Did you say I'm bleeding?" She lifted her right hand and felt along the temple where I had pointed. Feeling the warm ooze, she looked at me for a few seconds in silent, amazed confusion. "Well, dammit all to hell," she murmured. "That boy shot me."

I took advantage of this brief Nanna-daze to press my point. "Why don't I drive us to the emergency room so they can take a look at you?" I encouraged. "From what I can see, it's nothing that can't be fixed up by a nice, young, handsome intern who's just yearning to practice what he's learned from all those expensive medical books." I could see a smile forming on Nanna's pale face. "You can't let him down, can you?" Besides, I could sure use some ER coffee that's been sitting on some forgotten warmer since 3 o'clock this afternoon. So how does that sound to you? A good looking intern for you and a cup of brown sludge for me...you interested?"

"Well," she demurred, showing a bit of her old spark, "I've never been one to turn down the possibilities found in the attentions of eager, young men. And Lord knows I could sure use a cup of their finest. Yes, now that I ponder it, I believe you've hit upon a splendid idea. You drive." She sounded so relieved to have the decision made, but that could have been my own relief flooding out for both of us.
"Great." For the first time since what would forever be called "the incident" in our family, I relaxed. "You can navigate me to the nearest hospital. I'm not sure where we are right now." We exchanged seats and, with no other conversation except Nanna's steady directions, we each spent the ride lost in our silent interpretations of what happened; categorizing and storing away the effects that the last thirty minutes have had and would continue to have on our lives. I understood that for whatever reason, Nanna had climbed down from a place of absolute control and impervious will that had served her comfortably throughout her passionate life. I also understood that it wasn't permanent; that soon, after the initial shock of vulnerability had worn away, her innate sense of personal balance and remarkable ability for inner damage control would win the day. But the fact that I had been witness to it, no matter how briefly the barriers had dropped, brought a new sense of closeness to our relationship. We had tried on the other's skin for a time and I knew we would never look at each other the same way again. The bonding Mom had envisioned so many years ago was complete.

We arrived at the hospital and I let her out at the emergency room door, and then parked in a temporary parking spot just outside the ER. Upon entering, I wondered where she might have gone, but didn't have to wait very long before I had my answer. Over the din of a busy night shift, I could hear her barking orders to anyone within earshot. I couldn't help smiling at the sweet normalcy that had returned to my life. I entered the trauma bay.

"Oh, Lucy, thank God!" she moaned. "This twelve-year old nurse thinks she's going to give me a shot! I mean, really, honey, " she glared at the admittedly young-looking nurse, "does your mother know where you are? Good Lord, leave me alone!" Nanna picked the hands of the nurse off of her like she was picking off fleas. "Don't you know what I've been through tonight? Lucy, where is that handsome intern you promised? Please, darling, go get me some coffee and send in a real doctor who isn't out past his curfew."

Seeing that she was in good hands, I said, "Nanna, you're doing fine. While you're being cleaned up and bandaged, I'm going to go on a short errand." I smiled at the nurse with what I hoped conveyed both sympathy and apology. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

Nanna turned to face me with a jerk. "What? You're going to leave me here?" And then to the nurse, "Ouch! Really, my dear, you're about a gentle as a jackhammer, and for Pete's sake, those icy hands! If you touch me one more time without warming them up, I shall take measures against you."

I interrupted her. "Nanna, behave. That nurse is only trying to help you. Now, I'll be right back, I promise." And with that, I slipped out to the car. The moonless night sky shimmered with summer stars, even through a cracked and bullet-holed windshield. I rolled down the window as I headed for the Baskin Robbins I had noticed just one block back. One Daquiri-Ice-slash-Pralines N' Cream double scooper coming up. Just for Nanna. Just for Grace.

****************
Quote of the day: Two whole days I dreamed with Swede about the things twenty-five dollars could buy. The bills were straight voltage, juicing all sorts of hallucinations." Leif Enger - "Peace Like a River"
This quote is being said by an eleven year old and I chose it because it brought back strong memories of what it was like to have sudden riches as a child and the delicious agony of how to spend it. One of those memories that I forget I have until an author writes something just so, and the memory gets sucked up out of obscurity for me to relive it happily, or unhappily, whatever the memory may be. Reading this quote jolted the memory of having Christmas money to spend, me sitting at the kitchen table with the huge Sears catalog open, pages upon pages of choice. Glorious torture - choices and power that money brings, the adult world opening up for a short time and letting me join. I'd forgotten how powerless it felt to be a child and why this was such a Big Deal.

3-20 Writing Exercise - Who's Next?

Another short story I wrote for a class.

Who's Next?

I can't believe I'm going to actually say it, I think to myself; the final insult, the words that surely strike horror into all middle-aged, how-did-I-get-here women, namely me. Facing the crumpled, elderly man before me with all the dignity I could muster, the words cringed out of me, "You want fries with that, sir?" God. I tried in vain to maintain the chirpy, frozen smile I'd painted on since ten this morning. It was now two hours into my virgin voyage as a Burger King employee and this gentleman was my first at the register. It's been the last humiliation in a string of humiliations that had begun when my darling husband decided my best friend Ruth looked better in his bed than I did. Jobs were scarce in this little town and until I could fix the Duster's transmission, I was stuck working at a place within biking distance. I hate men. Well, ok, not really, but I hate them right now. Seriously.

I looked again at the grizzled old guy who had been studying the colorful menu above my head as if he was choosing his last supper, carefully looking at each photographed menu item and studying each line of text with the seriousness of a scholar.
"Can you repeat that little lady?" he said, intently watching my mouth. "I'm afraid I left my hearing aids at home and I wasn't watching your lips. What was that you said?"
God. I have to say it again. With a trembly, false enthusiasm, I said clearly and with gusto, "Would you like some fries with your meal today, sir?" My face flamed with an instant heat. At least I'm not wearing a silly chicken hat like those kids at the Quick Chik across town. Their beaked hats were the final humiliation, and although it was out of my neighborhood and therefore my neighbor's gossipy tongues, I chose the closer Burger King with the sane uniform of maroon golf shirt and khakis. No way was I putting on a chicken hat.

A line was forming behind Mr. Indecision and the crowd was getting noticeably restless. Hungry people in an order line have a dance all their own and I was quickly learning the steps. They expected a lively pace, a happy face, and hot food. This old man had stopped the music cold.

"Sir?" I prompted the sweet-faced, white-haired codger. "Have you decided on your order?" My patience was slipping and it wouldn't be long before the nineteen year-old pimply-faced manager would pop out to see why the New Girl was holding things up. I urged again. "Sir?"

"Yep," he finally said. "Just the Whopper, whatever the hell that is. Looks like a plain old hamburger to me. Oh, and one of those Coca Cola's, too." As he ordered, he looked at me, seeming to take in the contours of my face for the first time. I saw him register that I was clearly older than the other fresh, young faces dotting the greasy landscape behind me. His eyes clouded with a raw grief that clearly strained him, but passed quick as a blink and I'm the only one who caught it.

Oblivious to the irritated crowd behind him, he put out a hand to mine saying, "Pardon me, but I had a daughter your age and you sure do remind me of her. She died of the cancer a few months back and I'm missing her awfully bad. She took real good care of me for these last ten years since her momma died, you know. I've been a bit lost without her, to tell you the truth. She always cooked for me and I've run out of the frozen meals she had left for me in the freezer. In fact, believe it or not, this is my first time in one of these hamburger places because I didn't know what else to do - I can't face the kitchen just yet. Anyway, you got a sweet smile and it went right to my heart on this lonely day. Now, what do I owe you for that hamburger?"

I smiled, warming up to my job. "That'll be $3.29 sir. And I sure am sorry about your daughter. I'm no stranger to the pain of loss myself. Why don't you come back again for lunch tomorrow and I"ll make sure we cook you up a Whopper all nice and hot."

"I just might do that, " he replied, taking three-fifty in loose change from a leather pouch he had pulled from his pants pocket and pushing it towards me across the counter. "I think a daily portion of Whopper and your sweet smile are just what the doctor ordered. Fix me up with both, little lady, and I'll be a new man." He grinned broadly, momentarily revealing a younger, more vibrant version of himself in the grip of new hope. He took his meal, nodded a thanks, and shuffled off to a sunlit corner, to the relief of the backed-up line behind him.

"Little lady," I smiled to myself, suddenly infused with ancient memories. "I haven't been called that since dad died. Sigh. I love men. Next?"

*******
Quote of the day: My mother went to the wedding anyway because she was fifteen and therefore slave to risk. Kaye Gibbons - "A Cure for Dreams."
Chosen because anyone who has been fifteen knows precisely what this means. Teenagers feel they have a personal letter from God stating that nothing will happen to them, meaning all risk takers are either ignorant of or exempt from any possible consequences. The "slave to risk" neatly states the implied imperative of those unsteady years when teens seem almost compelled to do It, whatever It might be. Shudder. How did we live through it?