Writing Exercise 3-05 How Did You Get That Scar?

Write as a newspaper article:

Three year-old P McNellie was found sprawled in a heap at her Woodmont Lane bungalow late yesterday afternoon after attempting to solve crime in her living room. With her magic red Mighty Mouse cape tied tightly around her shoulders (it was since discovered that this cape had been reported missing by her older brother, Theodore, also a renowned crime fighter) the little superheroine allegedly climbed on top of the piano in the living room, searching the corners for any and all evil villains . Her mother, D. McNellie, has been quoted as saying, "I don't know how it happened. One minute, I was in the kitchen washing dishes, the next minute, I hear a shrill little "here I come to save the DAAAY!" shout-sung from the next room, followed almost immediately by a loud WHAM. The poor little thing, determined to fly, she apparently missed the villain and hit the doorframe instead."

P seems none the worse for wear. After a tearful, fearful trip to the doctor's for a few stitches to her blond head, she was whisked off to the local Walgreens for a box of banana popsicles, her favorite. She is currently resting comfortably and plans to continue watching Mighty Mouse's every adventure. There are no reports of further criminal activity in the McNellie's living room, and the red cape, Mrs. McNellie assures us, will wash clean of all blood.

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Quote of the day: Ina felt a little ting of disappointment that was a mother's companion. Charles Dickinson - "The Widow's Adventure"
Chosen because this little ting has been part of my daily life since I first gave birth thirty years ago. Another passage wonderfully describing a shared human experience; this time an intricate part of motherhood, something any mother will instantly recognize.

A Favorite Long Quote

Some quotes I love are too lengthy to be appended to my regular entries, so I will be giving them their own space in which to stretch and preen...

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...and there was nothing in the world to do but wait for the mailman to come, and pray that he wouldn't. Mama said the postmen in Neely had never worn neckties until the war, had never worn their gray wool uniforms with stripes down the trouserlegs, had never worn their postal-issue caps, had never been so severe and proper until the war came along to make them extraordinarily significant. They would knock on doors and out would come mothers and wives and sisters already on the raw edge of agony, and the postman would extend the notice towards them...and mama said nobody who got one ever opened it right off, but clutched it and bent it and worked it through their fingers and never neglected to say "thank you." Kissing the axe, Daddy called it. T.R. Pearson - "A Short History of a Small Place"
Chosen because it affected me emotionally, how war can impact what would otherwise be a normal, everyday interaction we all experience - receiving mail from the mailman. I was touched by the small but significant gesture of how the postmen chose to dress themselves to reflect the gravity of their job. And "kissing the axe" is such a juicy final wallop to the end of the thought. This author captures so many wonderful moments of life in this book using long, luxurious, lazy sentences. I need to reread it.

Writing Exercise 3-5 First Job

Elaborate in an essay the trials and tribulations of your first real job. How has that experience shaped the person you have become?

My first real job was as a travel agent in the 70's. Most of the professional trials came from working with the music industry and their horrible travel schedules. Most of the personal tribulations came from learning how to work with the public in general, how to be patient, kind, long suffering, and polite in the face of a red faced stranger screaming at you about the lack of hotel parking and the fact that I had not informed him that (insert destination here) was so damned expensive.
The music industry presented a particularly difficult challenge when it came to booking their travel arrangements. This was back in the days before computers - when all tickets were written out by hand and all fares were worked out using a gargantuan set of constantly changing tariff sheets. This fare book was, I am not exaggerating, about 8 inches thick, with a daily influx of mailed updates to replace those that came in before. In other words, a nightmare. My own personal demon was Jimmy Buffet and his ladylove. This was before Jimmy became REAL famous and was playing the small venue circuit. A typical booking would go like this: Paducah, Kentucky on Friday, Walla Walla, Washington on Saturday, Happytown, Ohio, on Sunday, Hickville, Montana on Monday. Of course, none of these little towns had direct flights of any stretch of the imagination, so inbetween cities, there were several changes of planes. Sometimes, Jimmy’s ticket would be three or four stapled together to accomodate all of the stops. It would take a few days of arranging, rearranging, and gnashing of teeth to finally get all booked, and ticketed. Invariably, the next day, Jimmy or his manager would call to let me know that one of the gigs was cancelled (always the one in the middle of the trip) and that instead, they were going to some other God forsaken unheard of village. Oh, they would meekly add, we also need that ticket by tomorrow. I learned great patience and forbearance doing Jimmy’s tickets.
As for the public in general, let me just say that one has not truly worked until one has worked with the public at large. If you haven’t learned to hold your tongue after the first few weeks, you have either a) been fired b)gone mute or c) learned the art of seeing them all as 5 year olds.

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Quote of the day: A woman can wear stovepipe trousers and blue jeans or a farmer's bib or tails and a top hat and so what - she's just exercising her options as a consumer; but if a man puts on a skirt he'd better be ready to pick up a bagpipe and blow. Natalie Algier - "Woman"
Chosen because it made me laugh - one of those little eternal truths softened by humor.

Time's an odd thing

I remember how surprised I was when I found out that the 17th century was the 1600's, or the 18th century was the 1700's, etc. Even to this day, I have give myself a very slight, split second pause to remember to "subtract" a number when I hear "during the 15th century..." so that I know it's the 1400's they're talking about. Until I was old enough to know better, it made perfect sense to me that the 15th century would be the 1500's!

Similarly, when we celebrate our birthday, we are actually celebrating the END of that year, not the beginning. So when I turned 54, I was actually beginning my 55th year. I'm sure this is common sense to everyone else, but I was probably in my 30's before this dawned on me, or more truthfully, when I actually gave it thought for the first time ever. Not mind boggling stuff, but there it is - acknowledgement that I'm slow on historical time references.

Doris Lessing in "Love, Again" wrote of compression of historical time, allowing me to collapse all of time and its historical eras into more manageable time chunks. The passage:

"Somewhere about middle age, it occurs to most people that a century is only their own lifetime twice. On that thought, all of history rushes together, and now they live inside the story of time instead of looking at it from outside as observers. Only ten or twelve of their lifetimes ago, Shakespeare was alive. The French Revolution was just the other day. A hundred years ago, not much more, was the Civil War. It had seemed in another epoch, almost another dimension of time or of space. But once you have said, "a hundred years is my lifetime twice," you feel as if you could have been on those battlefields or nursing those soldiers. With Walt Whitman perhaps."

Reading those words I actually did experience that rushing of years, compacting themselves into something more reachable, more graspable. Just four "grandmothers" ago (assuming they all lived to be 90ish) Shakespeare walked the earth. He just comes whooshing forward out of the textbooks, out of the dark "way back then somewhen", and plops into someone I could almost reach out and touch. Fascinating. We're all closer than we realize and time is such an odd thing.

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Quote of the day: We stood out like three banjos at a funeral. Jenny Colgan - "Talking to Addison"
Chosen because it made me laugh out loud. '...three banjos at a funeral.' Can you imagine any two things so beautifully unmatchy? Fabulous.

Random thought

Josh Groban sings like Ronald Coleman speaks. Velvety honeyed goodness that vibrates the marrow.

Writing Exercise 3-3 - Traffic Stories

A long line of cars are at a standstill on a highway. Each car's occupants has a story. Describe six of them.

God, it was hot. Muggy hot. Shimmering wavy asphalt hot. The ’72 Chevy Impala had lost its air conditioning 2 days and 800 miles ago when Daryl, doing his macho bit, had urged and pushed the old motor up the California mountains on a prayer and some duct tape. Neither had held up their end of the bargain and ever since, the only air that blew was the thick, sticky breeze from the four open windows. “When are we gonna get to Granny’s, daddy?” whined Lily, her toothless grin long gone in the tiresome heat. “I wanna cold drink.” Soon, thought Daryl, soon as this damn traffic clears out. And the further from your momma we can get you the better. This will teach her to tell me I can’t see my own kid."

Sarah and Doug silently stared ahead at the long line of traffic. Doug held Sarah’s cool, slender fingers in his own, imagining what must be going through her head. I was only lost for a little while, he thought. It’s not like I couldn’t find my way back to our RV. Sure, I’ve been forgetful lately, but doesn’t that happen naturally when you get to be my age?” Doug knew Sarah had not wanted to come to the beach this year, worried about his “state of mind” as she called it. And now this. Three days into our trip and she wants to go home, just because I got a little lost.” Sarah’s grim face registers a sorrow that she dare not voice. “He doesn’t even know,” Sarah felt herself give way to tears. “He doesn’t even know.”

She snuggled up against his bronzed neck and inhaled the maleness of him…the sweetness of his skin too tempting, her longing too deep. On the beach, the sight of him lying stretched out on his stomach, eyes peacefully closed, his exuberant youth glistening on him like dew on a new rose. She ached for him as she lay beside him in the August sun, murmuring to him words only a newlywed could whisper. She stroked the small of his back, fingers stretched tantalizingly close to the dimples just under the bathing suit elastic, teasing, asking. Their hotel is just down the road. But this damn traffic. Maybe she should start a little early, she thought, nibbling his secret sweet spots in blind joy.

The beeper had gone off. It was coming. The baby was actually coming. Shelly had promised that it would be all right for Dave to take the afternoon for his latest watercolor masterpiece. He’d managed to conquer the mystery of the mountains, but had yet to capture the movement of water on the canvas and, although he had not asked, she could tell he itched to drive to the shore, paints in hand. She was a few weeks away from her due date which made her feel relatively sure nothing would happen and gave him a loving shove out the door. “Go!”, she had laughed. “Paint me the ocean.” Now, he sat in the car, traffic at a crawl, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in an unconscious admission of panic. He grabs for the cell phone.

The rolling thunder of the Harley in neutral purred in his ears. Damn, the traffic. Brooks peered up ahead, squinting in the brightness of the August morning sun, frantic to move ahead of the cars bumpered together in one long metal rope as far as the eye could see. Gauging correctly the widths of distance between the nearest lane of cars, he nervously eased out the bike as slowly snaked his way north, deftly maneuvering between the stranded cars. He had to get out of this mess before the sirens caught up to him. His Harley would make him easy to spot, especially from the air. How could Sonny have missed that alarm? “Easy street, man, “ Sonny had cooed. “You’ll be in and out of that beach house in minutes, man, I’m tellin’ ya. E–Z street…” Brooks made a mental note to burn Sonny if and when he ever got under cover.

“Oh God, not today,” Sam said to herself. “Of all days, please not today.” She could still smell Jim on her shirt, on her hands. He had been particularly loving today, as if he might actually say the words she had hoped to hear, “I’m divorcing Megan.” But after a session of lovemaking, the morning had ended with the usual platitudes and promises. What was she doing? Why couldn’t she stop? She had really taken a risk this time, leaving work like she did using the old “dentist appointment standby.” She was supposed to meet her husband Bob at their marriage counselor’s at 10:00 and she had left the beach house in plenty of time. When the speeding car had run into her, she was unhurt, but the car was undriveable. She looked at the long stretch of cars lining up behind her and silently apologized to each of the drivers whose morning she had just ruined. The imagined control she had had over her life drained slowly away. She no longer heard the highway sounds, felt the debilitating heat, or saw the motorcycle as it came barrelling blindly from around the rear of the van in the next lane.

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Quote of the day: Mrs. Purdon's fierce independence was a rock on which every attempt at sympathy or help shattered itself to atoms. Dorothy Canfield "Flint and Fire"
Chosen because it's another passage in which I can see myself, or at least the possibility of myself. I'm independent to a fault and this passage rang a bell of recognition and warning.

Public Transporation and Me

Every time I get on some means of public transportation, I always look around at the other passengers and imagine "what if this busload of passengers (or traincar load or airplane, etc) ended up as the last remaining humans on earth due to some catastophic world event and we are all responsible for rebuilding societal laws and repopulation of humanity?" Thus I begin first comparing the ratio of males to females, ages, levels of attraction and attractability, which races would be combined...I match up people, which female would be most likely the ones the males would fight over, who would I want/hate to have to sex with, or if anyone would even want to sleep with me. Your basic survivor scenario. Each bus ride brings a different scenario, different players, different ratios, different problems. That guy might be a plumber or carpenter, is anyone a hunter? Who would be the one to ensure we ate, who would become the leader, who would be the troublemaker? I can't seem to stop doing it and it has kept me entertained on many a journey, short or lengthy. I've been doing it for years. On a similar note, when I get on a plane, I always look at the people surrounding me, particularly my seat mate, and I think, "these coud be the last people I see if we go down. I will be holding this person's hand." I think it's sort of funny I do this, and it's only a brief thought. But I do always do it. I wonder if other people have little travel oddities of their own?

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Quote of the day: I always felt that way about the South, that beneath the smiles and southern hospitality and politeness were a lot of guns and liquor and secrets. James McBride "The Color of Water"
Chosen because, being from the South, I have certainly seen my share of those who love their guns, liquor and secrets and I liked such a simple way of evoking one of many possible readings of southern culture.