Hello everyone!!
Just a note to say hello and I haven't forgotten about the blog. I have been dealing with my moms depression. On August 24th she lost one sister then on October 24 she lost her last sister and sibling, then she had to have her little poodle put to sleep Dec 11th. So taking care of all the holiday chores, mom's depression, working full time, and all the other things that needed to be done, I just haven't had much time for sleep or anything else. I do hope that after the new year, things will settle down for me. I really do want to get back to writing. I have so much to say and it just might be interesting.
I pray that everyone had a good Christmas, and I also pray for a happy and safe new year for each an everyone.
Hope to be back soon.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
FENDR BENDER - Final copy
Roxy stared forlornly at Bugsy, her baby blue VW bug. The wheel turned in from her fender and she wouldn’t be able to drive it anywhere. The big green truck showed little damage, only the dirt falling off the bumper in a heap on the ground.
“Just what did you think you were doing?” The voice came from above her, as she stood
surveying the damage, not daring to look up into the angry eyes of the man.
“I was trying to change lanes.”
“How could you not see me? I’m twice as big as you are in this thing. Do you have a license? And what about insurance?”
“Of course I have them.” Roxy’s eyes flashed momentarily and she dug her wallet out of her purse. Holding her cards out to him, the man snatched them from her hand. Noticing the name, he quickly looked
up.
“Roxy?”
Startled, Roxy’s brown eyes connected with the deep, ocean blue eyes of Jake, her high school
sweetheart. His blond hair glinted in the sun and her heart flip-flopped with long forgotten secrets.
“Well, I’ll be. I never expected to run into you.” he laughed softly, “Sorry.”
“What are you doing here? I thought you joined the service.”
“I did. I‘m out now, it’s been six years. You won’t forgive me will you?”
“Why should I? You broke my heart prom night. It was supposed to be special to us. ” Bitterly, Roxy turned to drive away, but she couldn’t move her car.
“Can I take you home? I’ll have your car towed.”
“Now you’re mister nice guy? Will you ever stop jerking my heart around? I’ll find my own way home,
thank you.”
“
Roxy, I can’t leave you here with cars whizzing by.”
“Fine, have it your way.” Roxy clamored into the truck.
“Where to? I doubt you still live with your parents.”
“Of course not. I’m an adult now, living by myself, at the Court Apartments.”
Jake stared at her. “What are you doing out there?”
“It’s cheap. It’s my home. You don’t have to like it. Besides, it’s not so bad.”
“Not bad? Shootings every night, robberies, it’s the worst part of town. “
“What does it matter to you? You left, you never sent me so much as a note. I had to do something. Are you taking me home or not?”
“I’ll take you home.”
The red brick building stood, its cracks filled with ivy in crazy patterns up its side, and loose shutters banged against the wall in the breeze. “What happened?” Jake turned to her, touching her shoulder. “Look at me, Roxy. Come have lunch so we can talk. I really would like to know about your life over the past few years. We can go to the café’ on main street. Please?’
“Okay.”
Parking in front of the Main Street Café’, Jake guided Roxy in the front door. She took a deep breath, smelling the old familiar scent of wood, food, and worn leather. She spied their old seat, and was pleased when Jake requested the booth.
“I don’t get over this way often. Too busy at the factory, I guess.” Roxy said.
“Is that where you work? What happened to the big exec job you wanted?” Jake studied her for a moment. “It seems like not much has gone right for you.”
“No. After you left, I wandered around for a while, not knowing what to do. Then I found my job, but it doesn’t pay much.”
The waitress took their order, and Jake turned back to Roxy. “I thought you would have found some gorgeous guy, gotten married, and lived the fairy tale life we dreamed of.”
“That‘s the point, Jake, it was our fairy tale, not someone else‘s with me. My handsome prince left and I couldn’t find another one.” Roxy looked down, swiping at a tear trickling down her cheek.
Jake reached over and clasped her hand in his. ”I really hurt you, didn’t I? I never meant to. I’m really sorry, Roxy. I didn’t want you waiting until I got back.” He brushed his fingers across her arm. “I wanted you to feel free to see other guys and have a life of your own.”
The woman brought their food and they ate for a few minutes. Finally, Roxy looked at Jake. “You could have asked, not just tell me you were leaving in the morning. You could have given me a choice to wait, not
decide for me.”
“I know that now. “ Jake looked into the face he would always love. “I should have done a lot of things differently.”
“Is this what’s it come to? A life full of regrets?”
Jake pushed his plate away. “If that’s what you want.”
Roxy stood. “I’m not hungry.” Turning, she ran out the door.
Jake hastily placed money on the table and hurried after her. “Roxy!“ He sprinted to catch up with her. Spinning Roxy around, he drew her to himself. Roxy’s fists pounded on his chest, the sobs breaking and spilling over into a cascade of torrents. Jake‘s arms tightened around her, his hand gently stroking her brown curls.
“Roxy, please let’s work this out. Neither one of us can take this roller coaster ride. Come on. “
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
He drove to their old hangout at Riverside Park. Holding tightly to Roxy‘s hand, Jake followed the beaten path to an old bench. “Remember when we carved our initials here? “ He rubbed the soft wood. “We pledged our lives to each other.” Jake turned her toward him. “I know I made a big mistake. I came back because I wanted to say I’m sorry. I want another chance. “
Roxy buried her face in his shoulder. “I’m scared Jake.”
“I know you are sweetheart. So am I. But let’s start over. Please marry me, Roxy.”
She swallowed, quiet sobs shaking her. Nothing mattered anymore, her true love had come home. “Yes, Jake, oh, yes.”
“Just what did you think you were doing?” The voice came from above her, as she stood
surveying the damage, not daring to look up into the angry eyes of the man.
“I was trying to change lanes.”
“How could you not see me? I’m twice as big as you are in this thing. Do you have a license? And what about insurance?”
“Of course I have them.” Roxy’s eyes flashed momentarily and she dug her wallet out of her purse. Holding her cards out to him, the man snatched them from her hand. Noticing the name, he quickly looked
up.
“Roxy?”
Startled, Roxy’s brown eyes connected with the deep, ocean blue eyes of Jake, her high school
sweetheart. His blond hair glinted in the sun and her heart flip-flopped with long forgotten secrets.
“Well, I’ll be. I never expected to run into you.” he laughed softly, “Sorry.”
“What are you doing here? I thought you joined the service.”
“I did. I‘m out now, it’s been six years. You won’t forgive me will you?”
“Why should I? You broke my heart prom night. It was supposed to be special to us. ” Bitterly, Roxy turned to drive away, but she couldn’t move her car.
“Can I take you home? I’ll have your car towed.”
“Now you’re mister nice guy? Will you ever stop jerking my heart around? I’ll find my own way home,
thank you.”
“
Roxy, I can’t leave you here with cars whizzing by.”
“Fine, have it your way.” Roxy clamored into the truck.
“Where to? I doubt you still live with your parents.”
“Of course not. I’m an adult now, living by myself, at the Court Apartments.”
Jake stared at her. “What are you doing out there?”
“It’s cheap. It’s my home. You don’t have to like it. Besides, it’s not so bad.”
“Not bad? Shootings every night, robberies, it’s the worst part of town. “
“What does it matter to you? You left, you never sent me so much as a note. I had to do something. Are you taking me home or not?”
“I’ll take you home.”
The red brick building stood, its cracks filled with ivy in crazy patterns up its side, and loose shutters banged against the wall in the breeze. “What happened?” Jake turned to her, touching her shoulder. “Look at me, Roxy. Come have lunch so we can talk. I really would like to know about your life over the past few years. We can go to the café’ on main street. Please?’
“Okay.”
Parking in front of the Main Street Café’, Jake guided Roxy in the front door. She took a deep breath, smelling the old familiar scent of wood, food, and worn leather. She spied their old seat, and was pleased when Jake requested the booth.
“I don’t get over this way often. Too busy at the factory, I guess.” Roxy said.
“Is that where you work? What happened to the big exec job you wanted?” Jake studied her for a moment. “It seems like not much has gone right for you.”
“No. After you left, I wandered around for a while, not knowing what to do. Then I found my job, but it doesn’t pay much.”
The waitress took their order, and Jake turned back to Roxy. “I thought you would have found some gorgeous guy, gotten married, and lived the fairy tale life we dreamed of.”
“That‘s the point, Jake, it was our fairy tale, not someone else‘s with me. My handsome prince left and I couldn’t find another one.” Roxy looked down, swiping at a tear trickling down her cheek.
Jake reached over and clasped her hand in his. ”I really hurt you, didn’t I? I never meant to. I’m really sorry, Roxy. I didn’t want you waiting until I got back.” He brushed his fingers across her arm. “I wanted you to feel free to see other guys and have a life of your own.”
The woman brought their food and they ate for a few minutes. Finally, Roxy looked at Jake. “You could have asked, not just tell me you were leaving in the morning. You could have given me a choice to wait, not
decide for me.”
“I know that now. “ Jake looked into the face he would always love. “I should have done a lot of things differently.”
“Is this what’s it come to? A life full of regrets?”
Jake pushed his plate away. “If that’s what you want.”
Roxy stood. “I’m not hungry.” Turning, she ran out the door.
Jake hastily placed money on the table and hurried after her. “Roxy!“ He sprinted to catch up with her. Spinning Roxy around, he drew her to himself. Roxy’s fists pounded on his chest, the sobs breaking and spilling over into a cascade of torrents. Jake‘s arms tightened around her, his hand gently stroking her brown curls.
“Roxy, please let’s work this out. Neither one of us can take this roller coaster ride. Come on. “
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
He drove to their old hangout at Riverside Park. Holding tightly to Roxy‘s hand, Jake followed the beaten path to an old bench. “Remember when we carved our initials here? “ He rubbed the soft wood. “We pledged our lives to each other.” Jake turned her toward him. “I know I made a big mistake. I came back because I wanted to say I’m sorry. I want another chance. “
Roxy buried her face in his shoulder. “I’m scared Jake.”
“I know you are sweetheart. So am I. But let’s start over. Please marry me, Roxy.”
She swallowed, quiet sobs shaking her. Nothing mattered anymore, her true love had come home. “Yes, Jake, oh, yes.”
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Beyond the Front Line
(This is also posted on my personal blog http://n0my.blogspot.com)
by G.M. Underling
a tribute to a friend
Events transpire in every mature adult's life that we reflect on as being defining. The day you asked the woman you love to grow old with you. The day John Kennedy was murdered. The assaults on September 11, 2001. These events can change the path of your life forever, and some even change the future attitudes of a people.
Last night, November 4, 2008 was a night that many Americans will remember. Barack Hussein Obama became the first person of color to earn the office of President of the United States of America. Millions gathered in Chicago to witness one of the most monumental, moving and motivating addresses in American history.
As much of an impression as that made, it doesn't sit on top my list of defining moments. Before I left the office this evening, I was told a story. The words you read are on this paper because an energy from inside is compelling me to respond in some way.
September of 1969 was a year of high importance for me. Seventh grade was, like many other new teenagers, my first major bounce on the springboard to independence. Not quite ready to dive into the world, I felt prepared to move in that direction. No longer would I sit in the same classroom all day. Several teachers, elective subjects, extra-curriculars, girls, maybe even an after school job were in my future.
Other things were happening in the world at that time, however. Though I lived in a small town in rural Minnesota, which like the rest of the country was surrounded by news reports, headlines and personal tragedy, I was engrossed in my own life, virtually unaware and unaffected by these goings on.
Much has been written about the Second Indochina War in Vietnam. Battle stories have never impacted me in a personal way. I was lucky. I didn't have a father that served in the military. No father at home at all, actually. No brothers, cousins or uncles were drafted, either.
Tonight I heard the story of a man, we'll call him Frank. A seemingly common man, but one who in many ways has lived through things many men or women could not or would not endure – and I was truly awestruck.
Frank told of the events leading up to his arrival in Asaka, Japan in 1969. Because he may write his memoirs someday, and to respect and preserve his anonymity, I'm going to omit many of the details. The details I've chosen to leave out are inconsequential to the point of this writing, however. Suffice it to say this man found himself serving in an army hospital.
More frequently than anyone would be comfortable with, UH-1 “Hueys” and other aircraft would deliver injured soldiers from the battle front. Some walked in under their own volition, some were carried in on stretchers, some in wheelchairs, and some in body bags. Those that arrived, often left with their life forever changed by the injuries or trauma that brought them there.
A picture of a small building, brought detectable tearing to Frank's eyes, as did the image of a dining hall, and the memories the telling of his experiences conjured up.
He described a room he ventured into shortly after his arrival, and was confused by a huge mound of uniforms stacked up. I could sense the emotion as he told of the epiphany when he internalized that those were the uniforms of those that had been brought in for care. Although he didn't say, I got the feeling that many of those uniforms were never either worn, or suitable to be worn again.
Frank talked about going to the dining hall for his meals, and seeing and sometimes sharing meals with soldiers having everything from bandaged arms to missing limbs, eating their meals somewhere ... anywhere away from the depressing quarters they were forced to spend most of the rest of their time in.
I saw some pictures showing men who were missing a section of their head. There was a snapshot from behind of one who had a deep cavity in the flesh about a foot wide in spots. One man lay on a table with his leg gone and the doctors had not stepped through the triage process to that level of injury yet. And Frank told of escorting a new quadriplegic home to the states, after which he would be privileged to spend a few precious days with his family for the holiday.
My own eyes began to glaze over with a thin layer of moisture, though, when I heard him speak the following words. “So I never saw active duty...” and I missed most of the rest of what he said after that, because I was overcome with disbelief.
Words seem to be hiding from me now. How can anyone, especially this improbable rock I'm listening to, live through those times and circumstances, and say they never saw active duty? Maybe he meant active combat, I don't know. But I would venture to say he went through, and helped countless others through situations, scenes and circumstances that many of those on the battle lines would have been unable to withstand.
At times during Frank's telling of his story, he would apologize for choking up a little, or for being so overcome by memories that he was unable to finish a sentence without a moment to compose himself. It was disheartening to think that a soldier felt coerced to hide the lasting emotional impact that his service to his country holds.
Therefore, on this day, a little less than a week before Veteran's day 2008, I stand at attention the best I know how, and with the thumb side of a clenched right fist, I pound my chest over my heart as a Civilian Salute to Frank and others like him who served in vital but often unsung ways to protect our freedom, and to care for those who were injured on the battle front, in a place many may call beyond the front line. Further, I encourage you to do the same in your own way.
I'll close with small words speaking absolute truth. Your service is appreciated beyond measure, and will be remembered forever.Thank you, my friend, thank you.
by G.M. Underling
a tribute to a friend
Events transpire in every mature adult's life that we reflect on as being defining. The day you asked the woman you love to grow old with you. The day John Kennedy was murdered. The assaults on September 11, 2001. These events can change the path of your life forever, and some even change the future attitudes of a people.
Last night, November 4, 2008 was a night that many Americans will remember. Barack Hussein Obama became the first person of color to earn the office of President of the United States of America. Millions gathered in Chicago to witness one of the most monumental, moving and motivating addresses in American history.
As much of an impression as that made, it doesn't sit on top my list of defining moments. Before I left the office this evening, I was told a story. The words you read are on this paper because an energy from inside is compelling me to respond in some way.
September of 1969 was a year of high importance for me. Seventh grade was, like many other new teenagers, my first major bounce on the springboard to independence. Not quite ready to dive into the world, I felt prepared to move in that direction. No longer would I sit in the same classroom all day. Several teachers, elective subjects, extra-curriculars, girls, maybe even an after school job were in my future.
Other things were happening in the world at that time, however. Though I lived in a small town in rural Minnesota, which like the rest of the country was surrounded by news reports, headlines and personal tragedy, I was engrossed in my own life, virtually unaware and unaffected by these goings on.
Much has been written about the Second Indochina War in Vietnam. Battle stories have never impacted me in a personal way. I was lucky. I didn't have a father that served in the military. No father at home at all, actually. No brothers, cousins or uncles were drafted, either.
Tonight I heard the story of a man, we'll call him Frank. A seemingly common man, but one who in many ways has lived through things many men or women could not or would not endure – and I was truly awestruck.
Frank told of the events leading up to his arrival in Asaka, Japan in 1969. Because he may write his memoirs someday, and to respect and preserve his anonymity, I'm going to omit many of the details. The details I've chosen to leave out are inconsequential to the point of this writing, however. Suffice it to say this man found himself serving in an army hospital.
More frequently than anyone would be comfortable with, UH-1 “Hueys” and other aircraft would deliver injured soldiers from the battle front. Some walked in under their own volition, some were carried in on stretchers, some in wheelchairs, and some in body bags. Those that arrived, often left with their life forever changed by the injuries or trauma that brought them there.
A picture of a small building, brought detectable tearing to Frank's eyes, as did the image of a dining hall, and the memories the telling of his experiences conjured up.
He described a room he ventured into shortly after his arrival, and was confused by a huge mound of uniforms stacked up. I could sense the emotion as he told of the epiphany when he internalized that those were the uniforms of those that had been brought in for care. Although he didn't say, I got the feeling that many of those uniforms were never either worn, or suitable to be worn again.
Frank talked about going to the dining hall for his meals, and seeing and sometimes sharing meals with soldiers having everything from bandaged arms to missing limbs, eating their meals somewhere ... anywhere away from the depressing quarters they were forced to spend most of the rest of their time in.
I saw some pictures showing men who were missing a section of their head. There was a snapshot from behind of one who had a deep cavity in the flesh about a foot wide in spots. One man lay on a table with his leg gone and the doctors had not stepped through the triage process to that level of injury yet. And Frank told of escorting a new quadriplegic home to the states, after which he would be privileged to spend a few precious days with his family for the holiday.
My own eyes began to glaze over with a thin layer of moisture, though, when I heard him speak the following words. “So I never saw active duty...” and I missed most of the rest of what he said after that, because I was overcome with disbelief.
Words seem to be hiding from me now. How can anyone, especially this improbable rock I'm listening to, live through those times and circumstances, and say they never saw active duty? Maybe he meant active combat, I don't know. But I would venture to say he went through, and helped countless others through situations, scenes and circumstances that many of those on the battle lines would have been unable to withstand.
At times during Frank's telling of his story, he would apologize for choking up a little, or for being so overcome by memories that he was unable to finish a sentence without a moment to compose himself. It was disheartening to think that a soldier felt coerced to hide the lasting emotional impact that his service to his country holds.
Therefore, on this day, a little less than a week before Veteran's day 2008, I stand at attention the best I know how, and with the thumb side of a clenched right fist, I pound my chest over my heart as a Civilian Salute to Frank and others like him who served in vital but often unsung ways to protect our freedom, and to care for those who were injured on the battle front, in a place many may call beyond the front line. Further, I encourage you to do the same in your own way.
I'll close with small words speaking absolute truth. Your service is appreciated beyond measure, and will be remembered forever.Thank you, my friend, thank you.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Fender Bender
Hi I wrote this and would like some feedback. Thanks, Charlene
Fender Bender
Roxy stared forlornly at Bugsy, her baby blue VW bug. The wheel turned in from her fender and she wouldn’t be able to drive it anywhere. The big green tank of a truck showed little damage, only the dirt falling off the bumper in a heap on the ground.
“Just what did you think you were doing?” The voice came from somewhere above her, as she stood surveying the damage, not daring to look up into the angry eyes of the man.
“I was trying to change lanes.”
“How could you not see me? I’m twice as big as you are in this thing! Do you have a license? And what about insurance?”
“Of course I have them.” Roxy’s eyes flashed momentarily and she stomped off to get her wallet. She held her cards out to him.
Fuming, he snatched them out of her hand.
“Roxy?”
Startled, Roxy’s brown eyes connected with the deep ocean blue eyes of Jake, her high school sweetheart. His blond hair glinted in the sun and her heart flip-flopped with long forgotten secrets.
“Well I’ll be. I never expected to run into you.” he laughed softly, “Sorry.”
“What are you doing here? I thought you joined the service.”
“I did. I‘m out now, it’s been six years. You won’t forgive me will you?”
“Why should I? You broke my heart graduation night. It was supposed to be our special night.” Bitterly, Roxy turned to drive away, but she couldn’t go anywhere.
“Can I take you home? I’ll call a tow truck.”
“Now you’re mister nice guy? Will you ever stop jerking my heart around? I’ll find my own way home, thank you.”
“Roxy, I can’t leave you here with cars whizzing by.”
Fine, have it your way.” Roxy clamored in the truck.
“Where to? I doubt you still live with your parents.”
“Of course not. I’m an adult now, living by myself, at the Court Apartments.”
Jake stared at Roxy. “What are you doing out there?”
“It’s cheap. It’s my home and you don’t have to like it. Besides, it’s not so bad.”
“Not bad? Shootings every night, robberies, it’s the worst part of town. “
“What does it matter to you? You left, you never sent me so much as a note. I had to do something. Are you taking me home or not?”
“I’ll take you home.”
The red brick building stood, its cracks allowing ivy to grow in crazy patterns on its side, and loose shutters banged against the wall in the breeze. “What happened, Roxy?’
Jake turned to her, taking her hand. “Look at me, Roxy. Come have lunch so we can talk. I really would like to know about your life over the past few years. We can go to the café’ on main street. Please?’
“Okay.”
Parking in front of the Main Street Café’ Jake guided Roxy in the front door. She took a deep breath, smelling the old familiar scent of wood, food, and worn leather. She spied their old seat, and was pleased when Jake requested the booth.
“I don’t get over this way often. Too busy at the factory, I guess.” Roxy said.
“Is that where you work? I thought you would have some big exec job by now.” Jake studied Roxy for a moment. “It seems like not much has gone right for you.”
“It hasn’t. After you left, I wandered around for a while, not knowing what to do. I found my job at the factory, but it doesn’t pay much.”
The waitress took their order, and Jake turned back to Roxy. “I thought you would have found some gorgeous guy, gotten married, and live the fairy tale life we dreamed of.”
“That‘s the point Jake, it was our fairy tale, not someone else‘s with me. My handsome prince left and I couldn’t find another one.” Roxy looked down, feeling the sting of tears.
Jake reached over and took her hand, his expression compassionate. “I’m really sorry Roxy. I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t want you having to wait until I got back.” He brushed his fingers across her arm. “I wanted you to feel free to see other guys and have a life of your own.”
The woman brought their food and the two ate for a few minutes. Finally, Roxy looked at Jake. “You could have asked, not just tell me you were leaving on our big night. You could have given me a choice to wait, not decide for me.”
“I know that now. “ Jake looked into the face he would always love. “I should have done a lot of things.”
“Is this what’s it come to? A life full of regrets?”
Jake pushed his plate away. “If that’s what you want.”
Roxy stood. “I’m not hungry.” Turning, she ran out the door.
Jake hastily placed money on the table and hurried after her. “Roxy! Wait.” He ran to catch up with her. Spinning her around he drew her to him. Roxy’s fists pounded on his chest, the sobs breaking and spilling over into a cascade of torrents. Jake pulled Roxy into his arms, stroking her brown curls.
“Roxy, please let’s work this out. Neither one of us can take this roller coaster ride. Come with me. “
Jake took her to the park by the river. Leading Roxy along the path, he found their initials carved in the soft wood of the bench from long ago. “Remember when we did this? We pledged our lives to each other. I know I made a big mistake. I came back to find you because I wanted to say I’m sorry and I want a second chance.”
Roxy leaned against him, staring out at the river. “I’m scared Jake.”
“I know you are. So am I. But, let’s move forward, not back. Marry me, Roxy.”
Roxy swallowed hard, her heart melting. Nothing mattered anymore, her true love was back. “Yes, Jake, oh yes!”
Fender Bender
Roxy stared forlornly at Bugsy, her baby blue VW bug. The wheel turned in from her fender and she wouldn’t be able to drive it anywhere. The big green tank of a truck showed little damage, only the dirt falling off the bumper in a heap on the ground.
“Just what did you think you were doing?” The voice came from somewhere above her, as she stood surveying the damage, not daring to look up into the angry eyes of the man.
“I was trying to change lanes.”
“How could you not see me? I’m twice as big as you are in this thing! Do you have a license? And what about insurance?”
“Of course I have them.” Roxy’s eyes flashed momentarily and she stomped off to get her wallet. She held her cards out to him.
Fuming, he snatched them out of her hand.
“Roxy?”
Startled, Roxy’s brown eyes connected with the deep ocean blue eyes of Jake, her high school sweetheart. His blond hair glinted in the sun and her heart flip-flopped with long forgotten secrets.
“Well I’ll be. I never expected to run into you.” he laughed softly, “Sorry.”
“What are you doing here? I thought you joined the service.”
“I did. I‘m out now, it’s been six years. You won’t forgive me will you?”
“Why should I? You broke my heart graduation night. It was supposed to be our special night.” Bitterly, Roxy turned to drive away, but she couldn’t go anywhere.
“Can I take you home? I’ll call a tow truck.”
“Now you’re mister nice guy? Will you ever stop jerking my heart around? I’ll find my own way home, thank you.”
“Roxy, I can’t leave you here with cars whizzing by.”
Fine, have it your way.” Roxy clamored in the truck.
“Where to? I doubt you still live with your parents.”
“Of course not. I’m an adult now, living by myself, at the Court Apartments.”
Jake stared at Roxy. “What are you doing out there?”
“It’s cheap. It’s my home and you don’t have to like it. Besides, it’s not so bad.”
“Not bad? Shootings every night, robberies, it’s the worst part of town. “
“What does it matter to you? You left, you never sent me so much as a note. I had to do something. Are you taking me home or not?”
“I’ll take you home.”
The red brick building stood, its cracks allowing ivy to grow in crazy patterns on its side, and loose shutters banged against the wall in the breeze. “What happened, Roxy?’
Jake turned to her, taking her hand. “Look at me, Roxy. Come have lunch so we can talk. I really would like to know about your life over the past few years. We can go to the café’ on main street. Please?’
“Okay.”
Parking in front of the Main Street Café’ Jake guided Roxy in the front door. She took a deep breath, smelling the old familiar scent of wood, food, and worn leather. She spied their old seat, and was pleased when Jake requested the booth.
“I don’t get over this way often. Too busy at the factory, I guess.” Roxy said.
“Is that where you work? I thought you would have some big exec job by now.” Jake studied Roxy for a moment. “It seems like not much has gone right for you.”
“It hasn’t. After you left, I wandered around for a while, not knowing what to do. I found my job at the factory, but it doesn’t pay much.”
The waitress took their order, and Jake turned back to Roxy. “I thought you would have found some gorgeous guy, gotten married, and live the fairy tale life we dreamed of.”
“That‘s the point Jake, it was our fairy tale, not someone else‘s with me. My handsome prince left and I couldn’t find another one.” Roxy looked down, feeling the sting of tears.
Jake reached over and took her hand, his expression compassionate. “I’m really sorry Roxy. I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t want you having to wait until I got back.” He brushed his fingers across her arm. “I wanted you to feel free to see other guys and have a life of your own.”
The woman brought their food and the two ate for a few minutes. Finally, Roxy looked at Jake. “You could have asked, not just tell me you were leaving on our big night. You could have given me a choice to wait, not decide for me.”
“I know that now. “ Jake looked into the face he would always love. “I should have done a lot of things.”
“Is this what’s it come to? A life full of regrets?”
Jake pushed his plate away. “If that’s what you want.”
Roxy stood. “I’m not hungry.” Turning, she ran out the door.
Jake hastily placed money on the table and hurried after her. “Roxy! Wait.” He ran to catch up with her. Spinning her around he drew her to him. Roxy’s fists pounded on his chest, the sobs breaking and spilling over into a cascade of torrents. Jake pulled Roxy into his arms, stroking her brown curls.
“Roxy, please let’s work this out. Neither one of us can take this roller coaster ride. Come with me. “
Jake took her to the park by the river. Leading Roxy along the path, he found their initials carved in the soft wood of the bench from long ago. “Remember when we did this? We pledged our lives to each other. I know I made a big mistake. I came back to find you because I wanted to say I’m sorry and I want a second chance.”
Roxy leaned against him, staring out at the river. “I’m scared Jake.”
“I know you are. So am I. But, let’s move forward, not back. Marry me, Roxy.”
Roxy swallowed hard, her heart melting. Nothing mattered anymore, her true love was back. “Yes, Jake, oh yes!”
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Has everyone been busy with other classes?
I've been busy taking Writeriffic the last several weeks. It's been a supportive class much like Beginning Writing. Has everyone else been enjoying the class they took? If so, what class did you take and what have you liked about it?
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Saving Alyson
Rough draft- The initial scene was from a dream I had. I think there was a man in the room with me, but I couldn't clarify who he would be. I am still fleshing this one out. I do have an idea for the rest of the story.
The rain softly tapped on the window, streaming down the slick surface, beads of water gathering and separating almost like they were dancing on the glass. Alyson’s forehead pressed against the glass, her fingers tracing the water beads; barely 3 ft tall, she stands looking down 15 stories to the street below. Barely visible she strains to see the people scurrying around below.
Her captor or rather her savior gently places her hand on her shoulders, guiding her away from the window.
I too strain my eyes looking down 15 stories, hoping she is no longer standing on the sidewalk below.
“Would you like something to eat?” I softly ask Alyson.
She’s so small, so frail. I look at her small frame and think to myself how tiny she is for being six. Her long strands of hair are matted together, the shimmer long gone from years of neglect. The dirty smudges on her face are resemblances of the smudges that I know are on her soul and heart. So frail; yet so strong. I am always amazed at what the human spirit can survive. Her dark eyes are lifeless. I don’t think I will ever get used to looking into eyes whose light has been extinguished by the cruelty of man.
A knock on the door makes both of us jump. I scurry her off to the back bedroom and remind her that she needs to be very quiet. I apologize to her one more time as I slip her into the closet and close the door behind me. My heart hurts that she is left alone in the dark one more time but it can’t be helped. If they find her here she will undoubtedly be taken back to her home and I carted off to jail. This is not my brightest moment by far. I must have lost my mind just long enough to turn my world upside down.
“Who is it?” I ask.
My heart is trying to pound its way out of my chest. I’m shaking, inhale, exhale, come on breathe Angela. God please, steady me Lord.
“Angela it’s me again.”
“Susan? I thought we were done.”
“Open up Angela, this isn’t CPS Susan, this is friend Susan. You’ve got to hear me out.”
“Yea, of course, come in. Please have a seat.”
“No need to be so formal. What are doing Angela?”
“What do mean?”“You will lose your job and you will go to jail.”
“That’s assuming I’ve done something worthy of losing my job and going to jail. I’ve already told you, I know nothing about Alyson. I am worried sick about her, but part of me can’t help but wonder if she isn’t better off lost somewhere than in her own home.”
“Now you see, you do know something, because the Angela I know wouldn’t be okay with her lost somewhere. Angela damn it, let me help you. It’s not too late to fix it, I can fix this still, but tomorrow, when my boss and the news gets a hold of this, there will be no turning back. Right now her father only cares about having her back. He is so damn guilty he isn’t making waves. As a matter of fact he wants all of this to just go away, her back and all this forgotten."
“And you don’t find that strange? Look I already told you, I don’t know anything. I’m sorry but you’re going to have to leave. I have a lot to do this afternoon. Goodbye Susan.”I walk over to the door and gesture for her to leave.
Giving my arm a reassuring squeeze Susan declares, “You really have a friend here Angela. I thought you knew that.”
I close the door behind her and run into my bedroom closet where I find Alyson curled up on the floor sound asleep. I read in a book once that when children experience fear to great for them to handle they go to sleep. I scooped her up in my arms and laid her on my bed, surrounding her with stuffed animals and billowy pillows. I lay a pallet on the floor next to her. I wanted to stay close in case she woke up in the middle of the night. I knew I had to take her somewhere tomorrow. I couldn’t keep stowing her away in my closet every time someone knocked on the door.
Alyson? It was dark. What time is it? I wondered. I groped the covers of the bed hoping to feel her body snuggled underneath but I couldn’t feel her. I had to get her out of my apartment tonight. I didn’t know why, but something was urging me to leave. I got up, turned on the light, only to find an empty bed. My heart sank, where could she have gone?
“Alyson, honey where are you?” I whispered.
I opened the closet and there she was curled up just as I had found her earlier. Bless her heart, she must feel safe there. I wondered how many nights she slept in her own closet instead of in her own bed in hopes of finding solace.I gently close the door leaving her there while I pack a bag for me and gather her few belongings. At least I had the presence of mind to make a cash withdrawal before I did this, this gosh how stupid. What was I thinking? Mom. I’ll take her to mom. If I drive all night I can get her there and get back ready for work as if none of this ever happened.
The rain softly tapped on the window, streaming down the slick surface, beads of water gathering and separating almost like they were dancing on the glass. Alyson’s forehead pressed against the glass, her fingers tracing the water beads; barely 3 ft tall, she stands looking down 15 stories to the street below. Barely visible she strains to see the people scurrying around below.
Her captor or rather her savior gently places her hand on her shoulders, guiding her away from the window.
I too strain my eyes looking down 15 stories, hoping she is no longer standing on the sidewalk below.
“Would you like something to eat?” I softly ask Alyson.
She’s so small, so frail. I look at her small frame and think to myself how tiny she is for being six. Her long strands of hair are matted together, the shimmer long gone from years of neglect. The dirty smudges on her face are resemblances of the smudges that I know are on her soul and heart. So frail; yet so strong. I am always amazed at what the human spirit can survive. Her dark eyes are lifeless. I don’t think I will ever get used to looking into eyes whose light has been extinguished by the cruelty of man.
A knock on the door makes both of us jump. I scurry her off to the back bedroom and remind her that she needs to be very quiet. I apologize to her one more time as I slip her into the closet and close the door behind me. My heart hurts that she is left alone in the dark one more time but it can’t be helped. If they find her here she will undoubtedly be taken back to her home and I carted off to jail. This is not my brightest moment by far. I must have lost my mind just long enough to turn my world upside down.
“Who is it?” I ask.
My heart is trying to pound its way out of my chest. I’m shaking, inhale, exhale, come on breathe Angela. God please, steady me Lord.
“Angela it’s me again.”
“Susan? I thought we were done.”
“Open up Angela, this isn’t CPS Susan, this is friend Susan. You’ve got to hear me out.”
“Yea, of course, come in. Please have a seat.”
“No need to be so formal. What are doing Angela?”
“What do mean?”“You will lose your job and you will go to jail.”
“That’s assuming I’ve done something worthy of losing my job and going to jail. I’ve already told you, I know nothing about Alyson. I am worried sick about her, but part of me can’t help but wonder if she isn’t better off lost somewhere than in her own home.”
“Now you see, you do know something, because the Angela I know wouldn’t be okay with her lost somewhere. Angela damn it, let me help you. It’s not too late to fix it, I can fix this still, but tomorrow, when my boss and the news gets a hold of this, there will be no turning back. Right now her father only cares about having her back. He is so damn guilty he isn’t making waves. As a matter of fact he wants all of this to just go away, her back and all this forgotten."
“And you don’t find that strange? Look I already told you, I don’t know anything. I’m sorry but you’re going to have to leave. I have a lot to do this afternoon. Goodbye Susan.”I walk over to the door and gesture for her to leave.
Giving my arm a reassuring squeeze Susan declares, “You really have a friend here Angela. I thought you knew that.”
I close the door behind her and run into my bedroom closet where I find Alyson curled up on the floor sound asleep. I read in a book once that when children experience fear to great for them to handle they go to sleep. I scooped her up in my arms and laid her on my bed, surrounding her with stuffed animals and billowy pillows. I lay a pallet on the floor next to her. I wanted to stay close in case she woke up in the middle of the night. I knew I had to take her somewhere tomorrow. I couldn’t keep stowing her away in my closet every time someone knocked on the door.
Alyson? It was dark. What time is it? I wondered. I groped the covers of the bed hoping to feel her body snuggled underneath but I couldn’t feel her. I had to get her out of my apartment tonight. I didn’t know why, but something was urging me to leave. I got up, turned on the light, only to find an empty bed. My heart sank, where could she have gone?
“Alyson, honey where are you?” I whispered.
I opened the closet and there she was curled up just as I had found her earlier. Bless her heart, she must feel safe there. I wondered how many nights she slept in her own closet instead of in her own bed in hopes of finding solace.I gently close the door leaving her there while I pack a bag for me and gather her few belongings. At least I had the presence of mind to make a cash withdrawal before I did this, this gosh how stupid. What was I thinking? Mom. I’ll take her to mom. If I drive all night I can get her there and get back ready for work as if none of this ever happened.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
The Dad I Really Never Knew
Edward Ila Permenter was born, one in a set of twin boys, on a hot July day in 1932. He and his brother John joined elder brother Kenny. Growing up on a farm didn’t leave him much time for family or friends. He rode ponies as a kid, and went off to serve in the air force as a young man of twenty.
He met Jacki Stoneburg in San Antonio, Texas when she visited her sister, serving in the Women’s Air Force Band. She was the opposite of him, her dark tresses and brown eyes contrasting with his blond hair and blue eyes, she was from the north, he from the south. Nevertheless it was total, mesmerized love at a moment’s glance. They dated and then he spent hours on the phone talking to her after she went home. Before he could think, the words “Will you marry me?” slipped out and he was on a plane bound for Seattle.
Married in 1955, he tried to make a go of his sales career, and was hardly home. He and Jacki became new parents and he felt like a juggler , traveling, being a husband, and a new dad. Because of struggling times, he moved his young family to Montana, hoping to find new pastures for his business. One day, coming home from a long, discouraging pharmaceutical sales trip, he met his in-laws and bride of five years at the front door. Jacki was departing, taking their young daughter with her and leaving Ila holding loose pieces to a complicated puzzle.
Wandering between his job, visitations with his daughter, and trying to put his life together again, Ila gave up and went back home to the south. He heard whispers of Jacki marrying again and let her new man adopt his child, hoping to give her a life with a Dad close to home. Then he met Bess, a sweet southern girl, and was wed again, determined not to let his past mistakes haunt him. They were happy, joyfully raising two children of their own, another girl, who often reminded him of his first born, and a son whom he was proud of.
After the death of an adopted father, the eldest child wondered if the rumors she heard were true. Was her birth father an angry man full of rage? Did he truly beat her when she was only two? The words flew around her, swirling into ever morphing accusations,, until no one knew for sure what was truth and what was fantasy. She had to find out. His name and area of the country he lived in were never kept secret from her. She knew he belonged to the south. With a determination, the decision to locate her biological father was made. Looking through old pictures of a bygone wedding, a page appeared, the guest list for the big announcement so many years ago. Finding names that were related to the father, phone numbers were attained through a city phone book. With apprehension and speculation, the digits finally located.
Questions assailed her, making decisions complicated and confusing. Did he remember her? Did he want to hear from her? Was he married? Did he ever tell his present wife about his first marriage and a daughter he only knew by name? Agonizing, heart pounding, she dialed a number and waited.
A voice, young like her own answered, saying he wasn’t home and could she take a message? “No.” the now adult child replied. She bided her time. Dialing again, a second female, the intonations soft and quietly spoken, telling her to wait. A man’s voice, full of wonder at the passage of time. A father and daughter, separated by decades and distance, broken and now united.
Wings of a plane send the daughter flying across the country to faces strange, yet familiar. A sister rejects her, a brother opens his arms and his heart to her, a father, a woman, a family.
More choices made, lives changed forever, shattered dreams unfulfilled. Vows broken and a father who chose to ignore. A daughter who grieved for broken promises and had to choose a different way. A love distant and rejected, a life full of mourning.
October 10, 2008, a father dies, a brother calls. Two people thrown together by blood of long ago. Feeling their way, unsure of a direction, a silent phone call away.
In memory of Edward Ila Permenter 1932 - 2008
He met Jacki Stoneburg in San Antonio, Texas when she visited her sister, serving in the Women’s Air Force Band. She was the opposite of him, her dark tresses and brown eyes contrasting with his blond hair and blue eyes, she was from the north, he from the south. Nevertheless it was total, mesmerized love at a moment’s glance. They dated and then he spent hours on the phone talking to her after she went home. Before he could think, the words “Will you marry me?” slipped out and he was on a plane bound for Seattle.
Married in 1955, he tried to make a go of his sales career, and was hardly home. He and Jacki became new parents and he felt like a juggler , traveling, being a husband, and a new dad. Because of struggling times, he moved his young family to Montana, hoping to find new pastures for his business. One day, coming home from a long, discouraging pharmaceutical sales trip, he met his in-laws and bride of five years at the front door. Jacki was departing, taking their young daughter with her and leaving Ila holding loose pieces to a complicated puzzle.
Wandering between his job, visitations with his daughter, and trying to put his life together again, Ila gave up and went back home to the south. He heard whispers of Jacki marrying again and let her new man adopt his child, hoping to give her a life with a Dad close to home. Then he met Bess, a sweet southern girl, and was wed again, determined not to let his past mistakes haunt him. They were happy, joyfully raising two children of their own, another girl, who often reminded him of his first born, and a son whom he was proud of.
After the death of an adopted father, the eldest child wondered if the rumors she heard were true. Was her birth father an angry man full of rage? Did he truly beat her when she was only two? The words flew around her, swirling into ever morphing accusations,, until no one knew for sure what was truth and what was fantasy. She had to find out. His name and area of the country he lived in were never kept secret from her. She knew he belonged to the south. With a determination, the decision to locate her biological father was made. Looking through old pictures of a bygone wedding, a page appeared, the guest list for the big announcement so many years ago. Finding names that were related to the father, phone numbers were attained through a city phone book. With apprehension and speculation, the digits finally located.
Questions assailed her, making decisions complicated and confusing. Did he remember her? Did he want to hear from her? Was he married? Did he ever tell his present wife about his first marriage and a daughter he only knew by name? Agonizing, heart pounding, she dialed a number and waited.
A voice, young like her own answered, saying he wasn’t home and could she take a message? “No.” the now adult child replied. She bided her time. Dialing again, a second female, the intonations soft and quietly spoken, telling her to wait. A man’s voice, full of wonder at the passage of time. A father and daughter, separated by decades and distance, broken and now united.
Wings of a plane send the daughter flying across the country to faces strange, yet familiar. A sister rejects her, a brother opens his arms and his heart to her, a father, a woman, a family.
More choices made, lives changed forever, shattered dreams unfulfilled. Vows broken and a father who chose to ignore. A daughter who grieved for broken promises and had to choose a different way. A love distant and rejected, a life full of mourning.
October 10, 2008, a father dies, a brother calls. Two people thrown together by blood of long ago. Feeling their way, unsure of a direction, a silent phone call away.
In memory of Edward Ila Permenter 1932 - 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
New Classes
I'm missing hearing from everyone. Several are taking new classes, others may be vacationing or having other things going on. Drop us a note to let you know how you are doing. Is your chair glue still holding, are you in need of more catalyst for the mixture, are there threads from your socks wrapped around and choking your second-to-the-smallest toe?
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Back and Welcoming Another Author
Hi all! First, thank you for the thoughts and prayers. In the midst of everything, two of my family members in poor health had some major health issues arise in the wake of my Grandma's death. So, I'm afraid I had to be away a bit longer that I thought I would be. I FINALLY got caught up in the new writing class and am now trying to get caught up here. And GU, I LOVED the challenge...I have an idea in its barest written form right now (although I'm not sure it really has the "mystery solved" element strong enough) and have plans to add it to the comments in the next couple of days.
Okay, we have a new author to welcome. Dibbs should be getting an email invite and joining us here soon. Welcome, Dibbs! And, Lulu=Katie...sorry, Katie, I should have asked you what name you wanted to use here.
Also, from a comment in another post: many of us seem to be creating other blogs to give us an outlet for other creative expression that we're not able to post here. Someone asked if it would be okay to let the people here know about our other blogs and I don't see that being a problem. So, if you have another blog you want to let us know about, feel free to post it in the comments. Thanks!
Okay, we have a new author to welcome. Dibbs should be getting an email invite and joining us here soon. Welcome, Dibbs! And, Lulu=Katie...sorry, Katie, I should have asked you what name you wanted to use here.
Also, from a comment in another post: many of us seem to be creating other blogs to give us an outlet for other creative expression that we're not able to post here. Someone asked if it would be okay to let the people here know about our other blogs and I don't see that being a problem. So, if you have another blog you want to let us know about, feel free to post it in the comments. Thanks!
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Frustrated and in Tears
I planned to take GU’s torch challenge. But I ended up with a challenge of my own. As you more or less know I was going to a Women’s Retreat last weekend. Let me tell you what happened and the week I have endured. Sorry if this gets a little long and its unedited for the most part.
I work as a caregiver and absolutely love it. I have worked for the same company for 23 years this November. I have one handicapped client and her family at present. I love working for them. It keeps me very busy. She is in a wheelchair, her partner is mobile except he needs crutches sometimes and has back and balance problems. They have his two sons and a little girl between them that makes up their family. I have worked 2 ½ years for her and the family is like part of my own.
Ten minutes before I’m to leave on retreat, I stood sorting through my mail. A letter from my employer was in there as well as a letter from my union. I opened one letter and stared in shocked silence at the words, “It is with regret that the executive board has decided to close the homecare division of our agency due to budget cutbacks. The department will close December 31, st ” I tried to make sense of the words, but my world all of a sudden tilted at a funny angle on its axis. Then I whisked away on our church van to spend the weekend thinking, wondering, and trying to cope. Alternately I cried and thought and got angry at the whole stupid thing.
On Monday I talked with my supervisor to learn that the company wanted to do one of two things. One would send us to different agencies where we loose our seniority and our pay. The other choice is to remain with the company and take a $1.50 - $2.00/ hr. pay cut to save the program. Not only does this jeopardize my family but it makes me feel my skills aren’t worth much.
Then there is the issue of our clients. The hope upper management wants us to believe is that all of us would transfer to a different agency and continue working with our same clients. But my shop steward does not seem to be so sure that other agencies want an influx of new employees when they have their own staff.
As far as my direct client, here is where it hurts the most. She has a team that oversees her care. The team does not want to wait until December before they have a plan. They don’t seem to want to wait a few weeks while this all gets worked out. On Thursday I was asked to leave early so they could all have a teleconference. Then today her team leader wanted to talk, but wanted my client to call back after I left. Personally this aggravates me and I feel unimportant and used. No one will talk to me and let me know what they’re thinking. My client just keeps saying they are looking out for her best interest and she does what they tell her to.
I wonder when I will be important to someone and someone will be concerned about what happens to me. My family is in full support of whatever happens and what I decide, but I guess its my employees and the clients I work with that cause the most suffering. I pour my life blood into my work. I always get close to them and their families. I know I shouldn’t, but It is who I am. I can not do any less than to cut my own throat. My husband tells me this caring is what makes me me, and makes me such a great caregiver.
I’ve had a week to think about all of this. I oscillate like a fan, between hope and despair. I toss around ideas and throw them away again. I cry and get angry and grieve and have hope. I feel like I am on a giant roller coaster of emotion and its only by a strong determination that I do not fall off. I feel so sick at heart and wonder where its all going to end. I try to keep busy and not think about it, but that’s hard when I don’t know any answers. This is why I asked GU to pray. I sure could use it. Thanks for listening, or reading in your case.
I work as a caregiver and absolutely love it. I have worked for the same company for 23 years this November. I have one handicapped client and her family at present. I love working for them. It keeps me very busy. She is in a wheelchair, her partner is mobile except he needs crutches sometimes and has back and balance problems. They have his two sons and a little girl between them that makes up their family. I have worked 2 ½ years for her and the family is like part of my own.
Ten minutes before I’m to leave on retreat, I stood sorting through my mail. A letter from my employer was in there as well as a letter from my union. I opened one letter and stared in shocked silence at the words, “It is with regret that the executive board has decided to close the homecare division of our agency due to budget cutbacks. The department will close December 31, st ” I tried to make sense of the words, but my world all of a sudden tilted at a funny angle on its axis. Then I whisked away on our church van to spend the weekend thinking, wondering, and trying to cope. Alternately I cried and thought and got angry at the whole stupid thing.
On Monday I talked with my supervisor to learn that the company wanted to do one of two things. One would send us to different agencies where we loose our seniority and our pay. The other choice is to remain with the company and take a $1.50 - $2.00/ hr. pay cut to save the program. Not only does this jeopardize my family but it makes me feel my skills aren’t worth much.
Then there is the issue of our clients. The hope upper management wants us to believe is that all of us would transfer to a different agency and continue working with our same clients. But my shop steward does not seem to be so sure that other agencies want an influx of new employees when they have their own staff.
As far as my direct client, here is where it hurts the most. She has a team that oversees her care. The team does not want to wait until December before they have a plan. They don’t seem to want to wait a few weeks while this all gets worked out. On Thursday I was asked to leave early so they could all have a teleconference. Then today her team leader wanted to talk, but wanted my client to call back after I left. Personally this aggravates me and I feel unimportant and used. No one will talk to me and let me know what they’re thinking. My client just keeps saying they are looking out for her best interest and she does what they tell her to.
I wonder when I will be important to someone and someone will be concerned about what happens to me. My family is in full support of whatever happens and what I decide, but I guess its my employees and the clients I work with that cause the most suffering. I pour my life blood into my work. I always get close to them and their families. I know I shouldn’t, but It is who I am. I can not do any less than to cut my own throat. My husband tells me this caring is what makes me me, and makes me such a great caregiver.
I’ve had a week to think about all of this. I oscillate like a fan, between hope and despair. I toss around ideas and throw them away again. I cry and get angry and grieve and have hope. I feel like I am on a giant roller coaster of emotion and its only by a strong determination that I do not fall off. I feel so sick at heart and wonder where its all going to end. I try to keep busy and not think about it, but that’s hard when I don’t know any answers. This is why I asked GU to pray. I sure could use it. Thanks for listening, or reading in your case.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Counting Bricks
Folks, I was disappointed that no one had responded to my challenge, and so to get some discussion going, I thought I'd offer a piece hinted to during the class. Not so long ago, I imagined what a meeting with my birth father, who left when I was 4.5 years old, would be like. This is how it turned out...
Flight 88 landed as smoothly as it had taken off an hour ago. Mike parked the rental car and made his way into Spring Haven Hospital to finally confront his birth father.
Having just learned of Al’s hearing and sight deficiencies, Mike felt invisible as he stared at what he’d waited his whole adult life to see. In the full-length mirror on the front of the closet door, he could see his wheelchair-bound dad’s eyes fixed in a gaze out the window. The on-duty nurse had explained Al’s terminal prognosis.
Al was nearing the end, his liver liquor-pickled and his lungs ravaged by a lifetime of nearly everything able to be smoked. His reflection revealed eyes wilted to a squint by the sun, and a face creased by years spent contemplating the events that contributed to his present condition. Through his father’s raspy-sounding breathing, he couldn’t help noticing those eyes. Deep brown with whites hidden by an alcoholic’s roadmap of bloodlines, it was impossible to ignore the fixed stare.
Mike couldn’t help feeling sympathy for the old man. However, a lifetime of anger and planning these moments gave way to an internal conflict he couldn’t contain. Still, how should he approach him? Should he live out his recurring dream of planting a laser-guided fist to the nose of the son-of-a-bitch and say ‘hello, Daddy’? Maybe he should just grab the folding chair from the corner of the room and sit waiting for him to notice him and see what he said. Or maybe he should just leave and forget the whole thing. No…he’d waited too long, and he wouldn’t have another chance.
“Hello, Asshole!” he said, walking toward the folding chair. Relieved that, judging from an unchanged expression, his dad hadn’t heard him, he switched on the fly to a different approach. Mike unfolded the chair and sat beside Al. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and mimicked his father gaze.
After what seemed like hours of silence, he realized there was nothing to look at. A small eight-stall parking lot, a dumpster and the brick of another wing without windows. Quiet was broken by the rustling of the occupant of the chair next to him.
“3,946.” Mike said.
“What the sam-hell are you talking about?” Al asked, irritated at this space invading stranger.
“Bricks. 3,946 bricks, isn’t that what you were doing? Counting bricks? Nothing else worth looking at.” The number was random, just a feeble ice-breaker. All he had detected was his father’s Bostonian taint, and ignorance of Mike’s identity.
Al turned as fast as an 84-year-old could and wheeled away from the window. “I don’t know why you quacks don’t just leave me alone. Every day it seems some self-proclaimed genius is invading my space thinking he’s going to get inside my head. Can’t I just be left alone?” He reconvened his staring into the hall, since his window had been violated.
“I’m not a shrink.” Mike said.
“Whatever, I’m just as tired of doctors. Will you please leave…now??”
“I’m not a doctor either, Dad” Mike replied, wondering if his father was paying attention.
With no reduction in anger, he continued his tirade. “Look, if you aren’t a doctor you have no reason to be here. So, take your sorry ass out of…” he stopped mid-sentence and turned his chair around 180 degrees. Mike saw the same gaze he saw in the mirror, only this time it was fixed on him. “What did you say?”
“I said I wasn’t a doctor.”
“No you didn’t. You said you weren’t a doctor, DAD! What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Al slowly rolled closer to Mike, never once breaking the stare into his eyes. While the two faces moved closer together, they both began noticing the similarities in features. Mike could tell his father was putting it all together.
“My…good…God!” Al was not only out of breath from the most contracted verbal exchange he’d had in years, but stunned by what was in front of him. “Reuben Michael? Ruby? Is that you?”
“Mike…my name is Mike now. I changed it when I was adopted. But yes, it’s me.” The years of frustration were suddenly replaced by an overwhelming feeling of connection between a boy and his father. “Al…Dad, I can’t believe I’m talking to you. I’ve waited so long.”
“My…good…God,” Al repeated, “every single hour of every passing day since I ended up in this place I’ve contemplated how I could find you, face you and tell you how sorry I was for everything. And now, looking at you, seeing some of me in your eyes, I feel like you know.”
“I do know, Dad, and I’m sorry, too. Sorry I waited so long, sorry I’ve held these feelings of anger, sorry for…” his words were broken by his father’s interruption.
“Ruby, enough of that. Know that I love you, and I would have given anything to have undone everything I did that caused all this pain. But it’s over now, Ruby, its over.”
Before Mike could say any more he saw his father inhale deeply, and exhale a long, final breath. Words were unreachable as he watched his father’s eyes close for one last time. As they closed, a single tear emerged and traveled down Al’s cheek, eventually converging with a perceptible upward wrinkle in the corners of his dad’s mouth. He was gone. Even so, he passed with a settled spirit.
On the flight back Mike felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted. Gone was the anger, the resentment, the rage that had brought him. In its place was the satisfaction of reuniting with his father and knowing that despite everything, he loved his father – and his father loved him.
Back in his home town, Mike stopped at the courthouse and asked the clerk for the forms he needed to officially change his name. In the required box for the name being requested, he proudly spelled out…Reuben Michael...and then his last name.
Flight 88 landed as smoothly as it had taken off an hour ago. Mike parked the rental car and made his way into Spring Haven Hospital to finally confront his birth father.
Having just learned of Al’s hearing and sight deficiencies, Mike felt invisible as he stared at what he’d waited his whole adult life to see. In the full-length mirror on the front of the closet door, he could see his wheelchair-bound dad’s eyes fixed in a gaze out the window. The on-duty nurse had explained Al’s terminal prognosis.
Al was nearing the end, his liver liquor-pickled and his lungs ravaged by a lifetime of nearly everything able to be smoked. His reflection revealed eyes wilted to a squint by the sun, and a face creased by years spent contemplating the events that contributed to his present condition. Through his father’s raspy-sounding breathing, he couldn’t help noticing those eyes. Deep brown with whites hidden by an alcoholic’s roadmap of bloodlines, it was impossible to ignore the fixed stare.
Mike couldn’t help feeling sympathy for the old man. However, a lifetime of anger and planning these moments gave way to an internal conflict he couldn’t contain. Still, how should he approach him? Should he live out his recurring dream of planting a laser-guided fist to the nose of the son-of-a-bitch and say ‘hello, Daddy’? Maybe he should just grab the folding chair from the corner of the room and sit waiting for him to notice him and see what he said. Or maybe he should just leave and forget the whole thing. No…he’d waited too long, and he wouldn’t have another chance.
“Hello, Asshole!” he said, walking toward the folding chair. Relieved that, judging from an unchanged expression, his dad hadn’t heard him, he switched on the fly to a different approach. Mike unfolded the chair and sat beside Al. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and mimicked his father gaze.
After what seemed like hours of silence, he realized there was nothing to look at. A small eight-stall parking lot, a dumpster and the brick of another wing without windows. Quiet was broken by the rustling of the occupant of the chair next to him.
“3,946.” Mike said.
“What the sam-hell are you talking about?” Al asked, irritated at this space invading stranger.
“Bricks. 3,946 bricks, isn’t that what you were doing? Counting bricks? Nothing else worth looking at.” The number was random, just a feeble ice-breaker. All he had detected was his father’s Bostonian taint, and ignorance of Mike’s identity.
Al turned as fast as an 84-year-old could and wheeled away from the window. “I don’t know why you quacks don’t just leave me alone. Every day it seems some self-proclaimed genius is invading my space thinking he’s going to get inside my head. Can’t I just be left alone?” He reconvened his staring into the hall, since his window had been violated.
“I’m not a shrink.” Mike said.
“Whatever, I’m just as tired of doctors. Will you please leave…now??”
“I’m not a doctor either, Dad” Mike replied, wondering if his father was paying attention.
With no reduction in anger, he continued his tirade. “Look, if you aren’t a doctor you have no reason to be here. So, take your sorry ass out of…” he stopped mid-sentence and turned his chair around 180 degrees. Mike saw the same gaze he saw in the mirror, only this time it was fixed on him. “What did you say?”
“I said I wasn’t a doctor.”
“No you didn’t. You said you weren’t a doctor, DAD! What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Al slowly rolled closer to Mike, never once breaking the stare into his eyes. While the two faces moved closer together, they both began noticing the similarities in features. Mike could tell his father was putting it all together.
“My…good…God!” Al was not only out of breath from the most contracted verbal exchange he’d had in years, but stunned by what was in front of him. “Reuben Michael? Ruby? Is that you?”
“Mike…my name is Mike now. I changed it when I was adopted. But yes, it’s me.” The years of frustration were suddenly replaced by an overwhelming feeling of connection between a boy and his father. “Al…Dad, I can’t believe I’m talking to you. I’ve waited so long.”
“My…good…God,” Al repeated, “every single hour of every passing day since I ended up in this place I’ve contemplated how I could find you, face you and tell you how sorry I was for everything. And now, looking at you, seeing some of me in your eyes, I feel like you know.”
“I do know, Dad, and I’m sorry, too. Sorry I waited so long, sorry I’ve held these feelings of anger, sorry for…” his words were broken by his father’s interruption.
“Ruby, enough of that. Know that I love you, and I would have given anything to have undone everything I did that caused all this pain. But it’s over now, Ruby, its over.”
Before Mike could say any more he saw his father inhale deeply, and exhale a long, final breath. Words were unreachable as he watched his father’s eyes close for one last time. As they closed, a single tear emerged and traveled down Al’s cheek, eventually converging with a perceptible upward wrinkle in the corners of his dad’s mouth. He was gone. Even so, he passed with a settled spirit.
On the flight back Mike felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted. Gone was the anger, the resentment, the rage that had brought him. In its place was the satisfaction of reuniting with his father and knowing that despite everything, he loved his father – and his father loved him.
Back in his home town, Mike stopped at the courthouse and asked the clerk for the forms he needed to officially change his name. In the required box for the name being requested, he proudly spelled out…Reuben Michael...and then his last name.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Ann Garci please respond!
AG please respond to this as soon as you can so that we know you are ok. We've been thinking of you and praying for you. God bless.
GU
GU
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Class
I signed up for the next class on the 17th. Also I'm going to be gone this weekend to a Women's Retreat. I'm going to take along plenty of paper and my pen. Maybe I'll get an idea for your challange, GU. Bye for now
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Time for a torch challenge!
Okay, before the next class starts, I'm laying down a challenge...although I don't get to compete because I'm starting it. So I'll just judge and pass the virtual torch to the winner.
Here is the challenge.
A piece of cheddar cheese
A nickel
A magician
Around 500 words (give or take what you want to give or take), deliver a mystery, solved, using these three elements and a touch of humor.
No prizes but the torch, and you get to make the next challenge! So who's first?
Here is the challenge.
A piece of cheddar cheese
A nickel
A magician
Around 500 words (give or take what you want to give or take), deliver a mystery, solved, using these three elements and a touch of humor.
No prizes but the torch, and you get to make the next challenge! So who's first?
Hi to another new author and a little business
Peglova just sent me an email asking to join us here. We should be seeing her name in our author's list shortly. Welcome, Peglova!
Also, if there are authors who haven't received an email invite from Blogger, please email me again and let me know. I have three invites in the queue and, as I've found out, I have accidently typed in email address incorrectly and people didn't get their invites. Just want to make sure I haven't left anyone out.
FYI... I'll probably be offline starting tomorrow and at least through Saturday. My grandma, who was battling late stage Alzheimer's, passed away late Monday evening. It may sound strange but it was truly a blessing. The world had become such a scary place for her in these last months and she was unable to do even the most basic things for herself. I know that everything she lost in this world has now been restored. Her funeral is Friday, so I'm travelling home to be with my family and especially my grandpa who is having such a hard time losing his wife of 68 years.
Also, if there are authors who haven't received an email invite from Blogger, please email me again and let me know. I have three invites in the queue and, as I've found out, I have accidently typed in email address incorrectly and people didn't get their invites. Just want to make sure I haven't left anyone out.
FYI... I'll probably be offline starting tomorrow and at least through Saturday. My grandma, who was battling late stage Alzheimer's, passed away late Monday evening. It may sound strange but it was truly a blessing. The world had become such a scary place for her in these last months and she was unable to do even the most basic things for herself. I know that everything she lost in this world has now been restored. Her funeral is Friday, so I'm travelling home to be with my family and especially my grandpa who is having such a hard time losing his wife of 68 years.
Ike
Ike is heading our way. I live approximately 40 minutes from Port Lavace and 1hour 45 minutes from Rockport and Corpus. So I am boarding up, grabbing my dog, photos, favorite books and my computers and heading to Austin.
Keep our Southern Lands in ya'lls prayers. I have insurance on my home and a place to find shelter so I am good. Pray for those that do not.
Be Blessed!
Keep our Southern Lands in ya'lls prayers. I have insurance on my home and a place to find shelter so I am good. Pray for those that do not.
Be Blessed!
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
my piece for the class
Okay, weird. I'm new to blogging. I guess you cannot cut and paste your Word docs into the blog. I dont have time to retype it now but maybe I will later.
My piece for the class
Hi everybody,
The instructor still hasn't reviewed my piece which is a bit worrisome...maybe she hates it!! Yikes. I've received a few nice comments on it from all of you but thought I'd post it here too. This was edited down from about 2,600 words. I should have saved some of the original but I didn't.
Author time!
Just sent an email invite to Lulu...you should be seeing her name added to the author's list soon.
Welcome, Lulu! Glad you're joining us here!
Welcome, Lulu! Glad you're joining us here!
Friday, September 5, 2008
More new authors!
I just sent email invites to Nita and Maej from class. You should be seeing their names in the authors' list soon.
Welcome to both and we're so glad you're here!
Welcome to both and we're so glad you're here!
Freewrite
I am struggling with what to write but I am burning to write something. So I am starting a freewrite exercise to see where this might take me. I have so much to write about but cannot seem to organize my thoughts long enough to get them to make any kind of sense. The written word is quite tricky. It swirls around in my head but getting it on paper can be quite challenging.
I have had this feeling throughout my life not knowing what it was. I would at times do something simple like rearrange the furniture in my house, sometimes only one room other times every room or something more drastic like move to a new house or apartment or even better, start a new business. I wish I were exaggerating.
In 23 years I have moved 19 times. Yikes that’s almost one move a year; of course I went through a divorce within that time frame which accounted for some of those moves. As I write this I find myself getting a little freaked out, thinking, I was nuts! Nine of those moves were from boredom. Moving and decorating became a change that helped satisfy this feeling inside.
It seems like a simple resolution but I know now, that some of that was my creative side not being fulfilled. It was burning to get out. I didn’t know I had a creative side. I had buried my desire to write deep down due to childhood circumstances that I don’t care to get into at this time and had convinced myself that my bookkeeping mind didn’t have room to be creative anyway. I know now that isn’t true.
There is nothing more satisfying than writing something that pleases me, no clue if it is actually any good or if anyone else will like it, but I feel good. If I still smoked I might pull a cigarette from the package and take a satisfying drag after writing something I deem terrific, but alas I no longer smoke, which gives me one more opportunity to thank God for delivering me from yet another thing that held me captive.
I smoked 3 packs a day. I couldn’t breathe without a cigarette; I know that sounds like an utter contradiction, but I believed it to be allegorically true, that belief was very powerful.
Also when I was experiencing excruciating insecurities associated with my depression, cigarettes were a very good excuse to pull me from a room full of people to go outside to smoke, “alone.”
Standing outside alone could make me look unsociable; standing outside alone with a cigarette simply implied I was a smoker which didn’t require an explanation as I drug myself back into the mix of society. Those were very difficult times for me.
That’s it today. That is where this freewrite took me.
I review what I have written and sadly this isn’t one of those times I would pull a cigarette from the package, (sigh) if I still smoked of course, but it’s what evolved, so I will accept it and post it as it is. Maybe I’ll have something brilliant to write tomorrow.
I have had this feeling throughout my life not knowing what it was. I would at times do something simple like rearrange the furniture in my house, sometimes only one room other times every room or something more drastic like move to a new house or apartment or even better, start a new business. I wish I were exaggerating.
In 23 years I have moved 19 times. Yikes that’s almost one move a year; of course I went through a divorce within that time frame which accounted for some of those moves. As I write this I find myself getting a little freaked out, thinking, I was nuts! Nine of those moves were from boredom. Moving and decorating became a change that helped satisfy this feeling inside.
It seems like a simple resolution but I know now, that some of that was my creative side not being fulfilled. It was burning to get out. I didn’t know I had a creative side. I had buried my desire to write deep down due to childhood circumstances that I don’t care to get into at this time and had convinced myself that my bookkeeping mind didn’t have room to be creative anyway. I know now that isn’t true.
There is nothing more satisfying than writing something that pleases me, no clue if it is actually any good or if anyone else will like it, but I feel good. If I still smoked I might pull a cigarette from the package and take a satisfying drag after writing something I deem terrific, but alas I no longer smoke, which gives me one more opportunity to thank God for delivering me from yet another thing that held me captive.
I smoked 3 packs a day. I couldn’t breathe without a cigarette; I know that sounds like an utter contradiction, but I believed it to be allegorically true, that belief was very powerful.
Also when I was experiencing excruciating insecurities associated with my depression, cigarettes were a very good excuse to pull me from a room full of people to go outside to smoke, “alone.”
Standing outside alone could make me look unsociable; standing outside alone with a cigarette simply implied I was a smoker which didn’t require an explanation as I drug myself back into the mix of society. Those were very difficult times for me.
That’s it today. That is where this freewrite took me.
I review what I have written and sadly this isn’t one of those times I would pull a cigarette from the package, (sigh) if I still smoked of course, but it’s what evolved, so I will accept it and post it as it is. Maybe I’ll have something brilliant to write tomorrow.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Heading to the Oregon Coast with my Pen and Paper
Hello All,
I will be leaving for the Oregon Coast (never been there) this Saturday for a week. I have planned to take a pad of paper and a pen just in case I come up with some great story ideas. Plus, I hurt my knee, so I will be taking it easy. The doctor said that I have a torn ACL (one of the tendons that holds your knee in place).
Bruised Bone ( which takes 3 months to heal and is painful)
Bruised Meniscus ( the cushion that in the joint of the knee)
He gave me a cortisone shot for the pain and inflammation (since I am going on vacation this Saturday to the Coast).
If still having problems in two weeks to call. And then if still having problems by Halloween, may need to have surgery to fix the torn ACL.
FUN FUN
So, I will miss you all while I am gone.....but hope to return with some good stories to write about.
Denise (NeiserDawn)
I will be leaving for the Oregon Coast (never been there) this Saturday for a week. I have planned to take a pad of paper and a pen just in case I come up with some great story ideas. Plus, I hurt my knee, so I will be taking it easy. The doctor said that I have a torn ACL (one of the tendons that holds your knee in place).
Bruised Bone ( which takes 3 months to heal and is painful)
Bruised Meniscus ( the cushion that in the joint of the knee)
He gave me a cortisone shot for the pain and inflammation (since I am going on vacation this Saturday to the Coast).
If still having problems in two weeks to call. And then if still having problems by Halloween, may need to have surgery to fix the torn ACL.
FUN FUN
So, I will miss you all while I am gone.....but hope to return with some good stories to write about.
Denise (NeiserDawn)
New author
Just sent an email invite to another new author, Marita! You should be seeing her name on the right soon. Welcome, Marita!
Question about writing classes
I know a few of you mentioned on the class discussion boards that you were going to take more writing classes. I thought it might be interesting to hear which classes people are taking and why. Or what about classes you've taken in the past...is there any class out there you've taken that you would recommend (or not recommend)?
Starting September 17th, I'll be in "Writeriffic: Creativity Training for Writers." I decided on another, more beginning-type class because I feel I still have a lot more work to do regarding discipline in writing and also editing. I'm taking baby steps here in hopes that I'm building a strong foundation for good writing in the future.
Starting September 17th, I'll be in "Writeriffic: Creativity Training for Writers." I decided on another, more beginning-type class because I feel I still have a lot more work to do regarding discipline in writing and also editing. I'm taking baby steps here in hopes that I'm building a strong foundation for good writing in the future.
New Author update
Jessica just got her email invite and should be joining us soon. Welcome, Jessica!
Monday, September 1, 2008
HP contest
In July the Leaky Cauldron (a Harry Potter fan site) had a contest to write about a story about a character that wasn't one of the main characters. I submitted the following story and thought it wasn't too bad. Of course I didn't win anything....too bad Ann's point of view lesson didn't occur prior to this. As I reread it I see can see some mistakes (changing POV, adverbs in explaining description). I thought I would go ahead and post it in case many of your are interested in HP like me. Here you are:
Arthur’s Question
“Isn’t it lovely, Arthur?”
“Ummm,” he replied distractedly to his beloved young Molly.
Standing near the edge of the lake along the stony beach, Molly looked at the breathtaking view. The flowers were in full bloom and the grass was lush and deeply green from the recent rains. She bent down to reach for a blossom. The fragrant air filled her nose as she inhaled.
Beside her Arthur’s hand fidgeted constantly in the pockets of his black trousers hidden beneath the rumpled well-worn cloak. Perspiration beads at his brow trickled down to his nose causing his glasses to slip. He reached up to loosen the tie around his throat that began to feel like a noose.
“I can’t believe the term is almost over,” Molly sighed standing up. “I’m going to miss this place. Things are going to change now that we won’t be returning to Hogwarts.”
“Yes,” agreed Arthur looking off into the distance. “The times are changing but not in the way you think.” He continued, “There are rumors that terrible things are beginning to happen. People are whispering and are scared. You’ve got to be careful.”
“I know,” Molly replied casually watching a barn owl fly to the owlery. A small parcel was clenched in its claws.
“No, Molly. I mean you really need to be careful. Extremely careful,” stressed Arthur. Turning towards Molly his eyes widened with fear. He pulled a clammy hand out of his pocket and took one of Molly’s hands in his own. “I’m worried.”
Not noticing Arthur’s concern, Molly said, “Arthur… why is your hand so sweaty? You’re not getting ill are you?” She continued to watch the owl fly overhead.
“No Molly,” replied Arthur, “I am not sick. I’m concerned about your safety.”
Molly turned to look directly into Arthur’s green eyes. “What are you saying Arthur?”
“Molly, I’m saying that with all the things that are going on, dark times are coming. I can feel it; some say a war is coming. And that means…” he paused to run his fingers through his red hair, “I wouldn’t want to lose you.”
“I wouldn’t want to lose you either, darling. I love you.”
“No, I mean I really don’t want to lose you. I can’t image my life without you. You’re everything to me.”
Arthur let go of Molly’s hand. Moving his robe aside, Arthur reached slowly into his pocket and pulled out cause of his nervousness. It was a beautiful antique ring. It had been in the Weasley family for generations. The diamond was small but adequate. He held it up for Molly to see.
His throat tightened and felt parched. With a large swallow Arthur’s voice choked out, “My dearest Molly Prewett, will you marry me?”
Molly didn’t know what to say. She was flabbergasted with the turn of events. She knew in her
heart that Arthur was the only one for her but she didn’t know that marriage was so close in their future. Standing there her legs began to become weak and shaky. She looked out at the sky becoming tints of red and purple.
Arthur waited several moments before questioning once again, “Molly?” There was a hint of anxiety in his voice. Was Molly not ready for this? Was she going to say no to his proposal? Maybe the timing was all wrong?
“Yes.” Tears sprang to Molly’s eyes. The emotion felt inside was bubbling to the surface.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’ll marry you.” Molly said looking back to Arthur.
“Oh Molly….” He grabbed her around the waist and swung her around in a circle. There was joy and relief in his face.
“Arthur. Arthur!” she said the second time a little louder, “Put me down. Please.”
Carefully setting her feet down back on the rocks Arthur felt Molly’s legs wobble as she touched down. She was trembling. Arthur hoped it was from the exhilaration of the moment.
Holding her face gingerly in his well-worn hands Arthur asked one more time. “Are you sure Molly? Are you sure… Mollywobbles… that you want to marry me, Arthur Weasley? I can’t offer you much but I can offer you my heart. It’s everything I have.”
Molly shook her head yes.
Tenderly Arthur slipped the well-worn ring onto Molly’s left third finger where it would stay forever as a representation of their devotion to one another.
As the sun began to fade and the bats flew above the Forbidden Forest, Molly and Arthur turned to walk hand-in-hand back up the hill to the Gryffindor Tower at Hogwarts castle.
Arthur’s Question
“Isn’t it lovely, Arthur?”
“Ummm,” he replied distractedly to his beloved young Molly.
Standing near the edge of the lake along the stony beach, Molly looked at the breathtaking view. The flowers were in full bloom and the grass was lush and deeply green from the recent rains. She bent down to reach for a blossom. The fragrant air filled her nose as she inhaled.
Beside her Arthur’s hand fidgeted constantly in the pockets of his black trousers hidden beneath the rumpled well-worn cloak. Perspiration beads at his brow trickled down to his nose causing his glasses to slip. He reached up to loosen the tie around his throat that began to feel like a noose.
“I can’t believe the term is almost over,” Molly sighed standing up. “I’m going to miss this place. Things are going to change now that we won’t be returning to Hogwarts.”
“Yes,” agreed Arthur looking off into the distance. “The times are changing but not in the way you think.” He continued, “There are rumors that terrible things are beginning to happen. People are whispering and are scared. You’ve got to be careful.”
“I know,” Molly replied casually watching a barn owl fly to the owlery. A small parcel was clenched in its claws.
“No, Molly. I mean you really need to be careful. Extremely careful,” stressed Arthur. Turning towards Molly his eyes widened with fear. He pulled a clammy hand out of his pocket and took one of Molly’s hands in his own. “I’m worried.”
Not noticing Arthur’s concern, Molly said, “Arthur… why is your hand so sweaty? You’re not getting ill are you?” She continued to watch the owl fly overhead.
“No Molly,” replied Arthur, “I am not sick. I’m concerned about your safety.”
Molly turned to look directly into Arthur’s green eyes. “What are you saying Arthur?”
“Molly, I’m saying that with all the things that are going on, dark times are coming. I can feel it; some say a war is coming. And that means…” he paused to run his fingers through his red hair, “I wouldn’t want to lose you.”
“I wouldn’t want to lose you either, darling. I love you.”
“No, I mean I really don’t want to lose you. I can’t image my life without you. You’re everything to me.”
Arthur let go of Molly’s hand. Moving his robe aside, Arthur reached slowly into his pocket and pulled out cause of his nervousness. It was a beautiful antique ring. It had been in the Weasley family for generations. The diamond was small but adequate. He held it up for Molly to see.
His throat tightened and felt parched. With a large swallow Arthur’s voice choked out, “My dearest Molly Prewett, will you marry me?”
Molly didn’t know what to say. She was flabbergasted with the turn of events. She knew in her
heart that Arthur was the only one for her but she didn’t know that marriage was so close in their future. Standing there her legs began to become weak and shaky. She looked out at the sky becoming tints of red and purple.
Arthur waited several moments before questioning once again, “Molly?” There was a hint of anxiety in his voice. Was Molly not ready for this? Was she going to say no to his proposal? Maybe the timing was all wrong?
“Yes.” Tears sprang to Molly’s eyes. The emotion felt inside was bubbling to the surface.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’ll marry you.” Molly said looking back to Arthur.
“Oh Molly….” He grabbed her around the waist and swung her around in a circle. There was joy and relief in his face.
“Arthur. Arthur!” she said the second time a little louder, “Put me down. Please.”
Carefully setting her feet down back on the rocks Arthur felt Molly’s legs wobble as she touched down. She was trembling. Arthur hoped it was from the exhilaration of the moment.
Holding her face gingerly in his well-worn hands Arthur asked one more time. “Are you sure Molly? Are you sure… Mollywobbles… that you want to marry me, Arthur Weasley? I can’t offer you much but I can offer you my heart. It’s everything I have.”
Molly shook her head yes.
Tenderly Arthur slipped the well-worn ring onto Molly’s left third finger where it would stay forever as a representation of their devotion to one another.
As the sun began to fade and the bats flew above the Forbidden Forest, Molly and Arthur turned to walk hand-in-hand back up the hill to the Gryffindor Tower at Hogwarts castle.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
The Least Influential Teacher
A random writing prompt from the WritingFix website (no editing):
"Who taught you close to nothing? Write about the teacher who had the least impact on you."
In 8th grade, I was the ultimate nerd. I loved school and, since I was inept at sports, my competitive nature was fueled by grades. How well I did on quizzes, was I the highest scorer on the test, and did I get straight A’s were my benchmarks in the world as I knew it. I wasn’t that great in technical subjects, like math, but ones which demanded my own thoughts and opinions were the classes where I excelled.
History was my favorite because it was the closest to meeting that criteria. Yes, I had to memorize dates and places, but the wonderful thing about history was the fact that you had to analyze why certain events happened. And then, you could wonder if certain events, which seemed small at the time, hadn’t happened, what would the world be like today? And were bad events almost necessary to get us to where we are now? Wonderful, philosophical questions came from the study of history and I was an ardent student.
So, imagine my disgust when, on my first day of 8th grade, in walked Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith was the new wrestling coach and was “made” to also teach. And he got history as his subject. I spent the year horrified as he put the Battle of Normandy in Britain, insisted FDR served two terms, and only wanted the basics of dates and places. There were no philosophical discussions in Mr. Smith’s class, except in his discussion of the previous night’s wrestling meet.
He was even worse in classroom management. He seemed like he wanted to be our peer instead of teacher. So dealing with him was exactly like dealing with a friend you would have in junior high. One day, you were his best friend and could do no wrong. The next, you had committed some unknown grievance and were made to sit in the hallway.
The final straw for me was the class trip we were supposed to take. I was told one day before I wouldn’t be able to go because my name was on the board. Earlier in the year, Mr. Smith had decided a “Lord of the Flies” approach to teaching was needed and told students that if anyone bothered them, they could write that student’s name on the board and said student would be punished. I pointed out that the date my name was written on the board was on a day I wasn’t even in class but was at a band competition. He thought for a minute and then said, “Well, that doesn’t matter. Your name was on the board and you can’t go.”
I wished horrible things for Mr. Smith on that day, or at least as horrible as a twelve-year old’s mind can go. Mainly, I just wished he wasn’t my teacher anymore, or anyone else’s teacher for that matter. He was young, athletic, loved wrestling, and obviously didn’t want to be in the classroom. Why couldn’t he just go away?
Fast forward fifteen years and I was an assistant administrator of a nursing home. Our facility had been advertising for a housekeeper and we hadn’t received any good applicants. I had gotten back from a short vacation and went to the administrator’s office. She told me she had finally found a new housekeeper and he was in my office filling out paperwork and would be ready for me to give him an orientation to the facility policies and rules. I walked into my office and my stomach hit the floor. There, sitting in one of the chairs and obviously struggling with the paperwork, was Mr. Smith. The years had not been kind. When he looked up at me, I didn’t see any kind of recognition in his eyes and thought maybe I got it wrong. We started talking and it was obvious that drug use had taken most his faculties and even simple sentences were difficult. I kept glancing at his paperwork and there was his name all over it. It had to be him. Finally, I looked at his resume; there it was, the schooling and degree needed for him to have the past I remembered.
We both ignored the elephant in the room and I took care of his paperwork and orientation. It was strange to tell Mr. Smith, now called by his first name, to clean up the various messes of a nursing home. My twelve-year old heart would have loved to be in the position to order Mr. Smith around, but my twenty-seven year old heart wondered how did he become like this?
Finally, one day, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I saw Mr. Smith in the hallway and started to say, “You probably don’t remember me, but I was a student of yours…” He interrupted me and stated that he did remember. He realized it on the first day. He didn’t give a lot of details of his life since then. But, at one point, he did put his head down and quietly said, “Well, I wasn’t that good of a teacher anyway.”
There was a long silence. I didn’t know what to say. I know a part of him needed to hear that, yes, you were good back then; at one point in your life, you were good at something, Mr. Smith. But, I couldn’t do it. He wasn’t a good teacher because he didn’t have any interest in it. I just mumbled something about needing to get back to my office and the paperwork.
I still wonder what I should have said.
"Who taught you close to nothing? Write about the teacher who had the least impact on you."
In 8th grade, I was the ultimate nerd. I loved school and, since I was inept at sports, my competitive nature was fueled by grades. How well I did on quizzes, was I the highest scorer on the test, and did I get straight A’s were my benchmarks in the world as I knew it. I wasn’t that great in technical subjects, like math, but ones which demanded my own thoughts and opinions were the classes where I excelled.
History was my favorite because it was the closest to meeting that criteria. Yes, I had to memorize dates and places, but the wonderful thing about history was the fact that you had to analyze why certain events happened. And then, you could wonder if certain events, which seemed small at the time, hadn’t happened, what would the world be like today? And were bad events almost necessary to get us to where we are now? Wonderful, philosophical questions came from the study of history and I was an ardent student.
So, imagine my disgust when, on my first day of 8th grade, in walked Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith was the new wrestling coach and was “made” to also teach. And he got history as his subject. I spent the year horrified as he put the Battle of Normandy in Britain, insisted FDR served two terms, and only wanted the basics of dates and places. There were no philosophical discussions in Mr. Smith’s class, except in his discussion of the previous night’s wrestling meet.
He was even worse in classroom management. He seemed like he wanted to be our peer instead of teacher. So dealing with him was exactly like dealing with a friend you would have in junior high. One day, you were his best friend and could do no wrong. The next, you had committed some unknown grievance and were made to sit in the hallway.
The final straw for me was the class trip we were supposed to take. I was told one day before I wouldn’t be able to go because my name was on the board. Earlier in the year, Mr. Smith had decided a “Lord of the Flies” approach to teaching was needed and told students that if anyone bothered them, they could write that student’s name on the board and said student would be punished. I pointed out that the date my name was written on the board was on a day I wasn’t even in class but was at a band competition. He thought for a minute and then said, “Well, that doesn’t matter. Your name was on the board and you can’t go.”
I wished horrible things for Mr. Smith on that day, or at least as horrible as a twelve-year old’s mind can go. Mainly, I just wished he wasn’t my teacher anymore, or anyone else’s teacher for that matter. He was young, athletic, loved wrestling, and obviously didn’t want to be in the classroom. Why couldn’t he just go away?
Fast forward fifteen years and I was an assistant administrator of a nursing home. Our facility had been advertising for a housekeeper and we hadn’t received any good applicants. I had gotten back from a short vacation and went to the administrator’s office. She told me she had finally found a new housekeeper and he was in my office filling out paperwork and would be ready for me to give him an orientation to the facility policies and rules. I walked into my office and my stomach hit the floor. There, sitting in one of the chairs and obviously struggling with the paperwork, was Mr. Smith. The years had not been kind. When he looked up at me, I didn’t see any kind of recognition in his eyes and thought maybe I got it wrong. We started talking and it was obvious that drug use had taken most his faculties and even simple sentences were difficult. I kept glancing at his paperwork and there was his name all over it. It had to be him. Finally, I looked at his resume; there it was, the schooling and degree needed for him to have the past I remembered.
We both ignored the elephant in the room and I took care of his paperwork and orientation. It was strange to tell Mr. Smith, now called by his first name, to clean up the various messes of a nursing home. My twelve-year old heart would have loved to be in the position to order Mr. Smith around, but my twenty-seven year old heart wondered how did he become like this?
Finally, one day, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I saw Mr. Smith in the hallway and started to say, “You probably don’t remember me, but I was a student of yours…” He interrupted me and stated that he did remember. He realized it on the first day. He didn’t give a lot of details of his life since then. But, at one point, he did put his head down and quietly said, “Well, I wasn’t that good of a teacher anyway.”
There was a long silence. I didn’t know what to say. I know a part of him needed to hear that, yes, you were good back then; at one point in your life, you were good at something, Mr. Smith. But, I couldn’t do it. He wasn’t a good teacher because he didn’t have any interest in it. I just mumbled something about needing to get back to my office and the paperwork.
I still wonder what I should have said.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Welcome
I just sent an email invite to Nikki from the class, so we should be seeing her join the author's list soon. Hi, Nikki, and welcome!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
I thought about...
Seeking submissions!!!
I want to put together a compendium of really funny one-liners because I love them and I can never remember them. To get the group started...here are a couple:
1. I thought about being a pessimist, but I figured it wouldn't work out.
2. If everything is coming your way, get in the other lane!
I'm sure you know some too...maybe we can even write some new ones!
I want to put together a compendium of really funny one-liners because I love them and I can never remember them. To get the group started...here are a couple:
1. I thought about being a pessimist, but I figured it wouldn't work out.
2. If everything is coming your way, get in the other lane!
I'm sure you know some too...maybe we can even write some new ones!
Another author!!!
Hey everyone. NeiserDawn from the class has joined us. You'll see her as Denise in the author's list. Welcome!
Welcome to another author
Just sent an email invite to Rachel from our class. Hi, Rachel...hope to see you on the author's list soon.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Personal Ad
I went to the Writing Fix website and got the following prompt: "What would be an interesting personal ad to read in the newspaper? Imagine who might send it, then write the ad." Here's my story based on that prompt:
As she sat on the couch eating Ben and Jerry’s Americone Dream straight out of the carton, she thought to herself maybe she should make some changes in her life.
It had been awhile since she had been in the dating scene. She smirked as she realized saying “awhile” was the same as saying the Atlantic Ocean was “wet.” When she was young, she concentrated on other things; her career and education. There would always be time for romance later. But later came sooner than she expected and now she realized there had to be more.
She was always the person everyone came to for answers. She had always been a methodical thinker and could analyze a problem from its big picture down the details needed to solve it. But she honestly had no idea how to approach this.
The modern world seemed so different than the love stories she heard growing up. In the past, meetings at structured social functions had led to true love while dancing to big bands. But, the world today wasn’t accommodating enough to provide structure to its social functions and seem to actually enjoy letting its inhabitants randomly crash into each other without a thought of everlasting love.
She had heard about personal ads and had taken a look many times. But the ads seemed almost like comedy writings. If that many people were interested in soul mates, walks along the beach, and sunsets, where had all the romance in the real world gone? She decided she would buck the trend and write a completely honest personal ad. An ad that described the “real” her. Surely, the masses would appreciate someone finally presenting an honest evaluation of self.
“Single, 41 year-old female. Has absolutely no idea how romance works. Has really let herself go over the years. Tends to be cranky, especially in the mornings. Grew up an only child and has always had a problem with sharing. Thinks sarcasm is an appropriate response for most anything, including deeply personal stories. Isn’t really much into doing things outside the comfort of her own home except for eating out. Doesn’t really like people around “hovering” all the time. Very picky about everything.”
She reviewed the ad and plopped back down on the sofa, grabbing the Ben and Jerry’s ice cream before her behind hit the sofa cushions. Maybe the world isn’t ready for that kind of honesty, she thought. Maybe she could at least pretend to like the occasional sunset.
As she sat on the couch eating Ben and Jerry’s Americone Dream straight out of the carton, she thought to herself maybe she should make some changes in her life.
It had been awhile since she had been in the dating scene. She smirked as she realized saying “awhile” was the same as saying the Atlantic Ocean was “wet.” When she was young, she concentrated on other things; her career and education. There would always be time for romance later. But later came sooner than she expected and now she realized there had to be more.
She was always the person everyone came to for answers. She had always been a methodical thinker and could analyze a problem from its big picture down the details needed to solve it. But she honestly had no idea how to approach this.
The modern world seemed so different than the love stories she heard growing up. In the past, meetings at structured social functions had led to true love while dancing to big bands. But, the world today wasn’t accommodating enough to provide structure to its social functions and seem to actually enjoy letting its inhabitants randomly crash into each other without a thought of everlasting love.
She had heard about personal ads and had taken a look many times. But the ads seemed almost like comedy writings. If that many people were interested in soul mates, walks along the beach, and sunsets, where had all the romance in the real world gone? She decided she would buck the trend and write a completely honest personal ad. An ad that described the “real” her. Surely, the masses would appreciate someone finally presenting an honest evaluation of self.
“Single, 41 year-old female. Has absolutely no idea how romance works. Has really let herself go over the years. Tends to be cranky, especially in the mornings. Grew up an only child and has always had a problem with sharing. Thinks sarcasm is an appropriate response for most anything, including deeply personal stories. Isn’t really much into doing things outside the comfort of her own home except for eating out. Doesn’t really like people around “hovering” all the time. Very picky about everything.”
She reviewed the ad and plopped back down on the sofa, grabbing the Ben and Jerry’s ice cream before her behind hit the sofa cushions. Maybe the world isn’t ready for that kind of honesty, she thought. Maybe she could at least pretend to like the occasional sunset.
Our authors' list continues to grow....
As I said in a previous post, I had sent an email invite to Robyn Kim and there she is in our list of authors as Robyn K. And, an email invite was just sent to Emerald Eyes.
Welcome to both!!!!
Welcome to both!!!!
Overview of things to come
This might not be a good idea, but in order to answer the questions in response to my creative piece in the class, I'm going to try to answer with a minimum amount of details.
The piece was actually chronologically the 7th of 25 chapters in my story of stories, but is the first chapter in my book. Although this was submitted as a creative piece, the creativity is only in the telling. The stories themselves are as true as the breath you are taking. No..not the one you are exhaling..the one you are about to take..no..wait..okay, you need to keep up with me here! :-)
After telling us we were adopted, Mom told us about our dad being a crooked man, threatening my mother to the point she got scared and left - but left my sister and I with him. We traversed the country avoiding capture by the authorities, "hooking up" with his new girlfriend and our now believed-to-be-mother, and eventually he was arrested by the FBI and removed from our lives. This was a traumatic event for me (age 4+ at the time), which caused me to lose memory of everything prior to the day he was taken away by train. The rest of the story deals with discovering the whereabouts of my birth mother, discovering a brother, losing that brother again, our decision, disappointments and whole process of adoption of our children and much, much more.
The piece was actually chronologically the 7th of 25 chapters in my story of stories, but is the first chapter in my book. Although this was submitted as a creative piece, the creativity is only in the telling. The stories themselves are as true as the breath you are taking. No..not the one you are exhaling..the one you are about to take..no..wait..okay, you need to keep up with me here! :-)
After telling us we were adopted, Mom told us about our dad being a crooked man, threatening my mother to the point she got scared and left - but left my sister and I with him. We traversed the country avoiding capture by the authorities, "hooking up" with his new girlfriend and our now believed-to-be-mother, and eventually he was arrested by the FBI and removed from our lives. This was a traumatic event for me (age 4+ at the time), which caused me to lose memory of everything prior to the day he was taken away by train. The rest of the story deals with discovering the whereabouts of my birth mother, discovering a brother, losing that brother again, our decision, disappointments and whole process of adoption of our children and much, much more.
More good news!
We have another author joining us...just got an email from Val and she should be showing up on the author's list soon. Welcome, Val!
Saturday, August 23, 2008
I'm finally back!
Oh dear! Work exploded all over the place with writing of grants, mission-driven strategic plans (I know all of you are jealous over that one), and a couple of unexpected twists including starting to outline and lead a task force which will present a analysis/report to the governor about the impact of Alzheimer's Disease on our state. Mmm-hmm, lots of creativity : )
Anyway, I've scrambled trying to catch up with class and get my assignments posted. I've started to leave some comments on classmates' final pieces and everyone did such an amazing job! I'm a bit upset, to be honest. I really didn't spend enough time on my 500 words but I went ahead and posted what I had. But, I'm also a bit excited as I know there's a lot of work for me to do, but I really feel like I have the tools now to keep improving it and, with our blog, I'll have the perfect place to post and get critiques.
I hope to spend so more time tomorrow catching up on comments here on the wonderful works everyone is posting and catching up in the discussion area for class. Also, I'm going to finish adding the links Ann provided for our class so we'll have them for our use as we continue writing.
And, in the best news, somehow my email stopped being crabby and let Robyn Kim in, so we should have her added as one of our authors soon. Welcome, Robyn!
Anyway, I've scrambled trying to catch up with class and get my assignments posted. I've started to leave some comments on classmates' final pieces and everyone did such an amazing job! I'm a bit upset, to be honest. I really didn't spend enough time on my 500 words but I went ahead and posted what I had. But, I'm also a bit excited as I know there's a lot of work for me to do, but I really feel like I have the tools now to keep improving it and, with our blog, I'll have the perfect place to post and get critiques.
I hope to spend so more time tomorrow catching up on comments here on the wonderful works everyone is posting and catching up in the discussion area for class. Also, I'm going to finish adding the links Ann provided for our class so we'll have them for our use as we continue writing.
And, in the best news, somehow my email stopped being crabby and let Robyn Kim in, so we should have her added as one of our authors soon. Welcome, Robyn!
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
On Blogging
This is an essay I wrote in my personal blog on LiveJournal a couple years ago. It seemed relevant to this endeavor on Blogger, so I thought I'd re-post it here.
By my estimation, this coming week will mark my second anniversary as a "blogger." By happy coincidence, I came across an excellent article in The Economist yesterday that deals with the blogging phenomenon and what it might mean for society.
Although I have a lot of thoughts on the article, I don't really want to elaborate on them here. I will say that it's interesting to think that simply writing essays about domestic life, pet peeves, and the odd opinion on current events somehow makes me and many of the people reading this foot soldiers in the new media revolution. What I would like to do with this post is to lay out a list of things that the past two years of keeping an online journal have taught me about writing. (That's not to say I will always apply the lessons. But when you see me violate one of them, you can rest assured that I know better.) So without further adieu, here is my personal manifesto on blogging:
By my estimation, this coming week will mark my second anniversary as a "blogger." By happy coincidence, I came across an excellent article in The Economist yesterday that deals with the blogging phenomenon and what it might mean for society.
Although I have a lot of thoughts on the article, I don't really want to elaborate on them here. I will say that it's interesting to think that simply writing essays about domestic life, pet peeves, and the odd opinion on current events somehow makes me and many of the people reading this foot soldiers in the new media revolution. What I would like to do with this post is to lay out a list of things that the past two years of keeping an online journal have taught me about writing. (That's not to say I will always apply the lessons. But when you see me violate one of them, you can rest assured that I know better.) So without further adieu, here is my personal manifesto on blogging:
- When I started doing this, I laid down a rule for myself that I would only write about topics that interested me, and I would never force myself to write about something just because it was the hot topic du jour. If I'm not interested in something, I can't write about it in an interesting way.
- There are no boring topics, only boring writers. I sincerely believe that any subject matter can be brought to life by someone who approaches it with enthusiasm, originality and some sense of writing craft. Note that I'm not saying that I am capable of taking on any topic. There are some things I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, simply because I'm not a good enough writer to pull them off.
- Related to point #2, a good thing to remember is that the less inherent drama or comedy a situation has, the harder you'll have to work to make a decent post out of it. Someone writing about how they were trapped in a burning building, were being chased by the police for a crime they didn't commit, or got locked out of their house while dressed only in their underwear doesn't have to put many flourishes or stylistic tricks into the essay to make it work. Writing about what one had for dinner, or the small details on ones daily routine requires a bit more heavy lifting. In grad school, I took a class on copywriting that was taught by a wonderfully vulgar and blunt instructor. When one of us wrote an ad that had a lackluster concept behind it, he would often say, "You could use that approach, but the end result had better be one (bleeping) charming piece of writing!" I hear that guy's voice ringing in my head every time I'm tempted to write a laundry list of my daily activities a la, "I woke up today, took a shower, got ready for work, etc., etc."
- Sports radio host Jim Rome likes to tell his callers, "Have a take and don't suck." That is a great piece of advice for people trying to communicate in any medium. The "don't suck" part goes without saying and was more or less the point of #3 above. The "have a take" part is equally important. I try not to write about something unless I have an opinion or an attitude about it. The degree to which a certain post succeeds or fails is largely a function of how well that opinion comes across by the end of the essay. That's not to say that I can or even want to change the reader's mind about anything. My goal is simply to explain what I feel and why at any given point in time.
- I'm not interested in stock observations, canned arguments, toeing an absolutely consistent ideological line or taking a run at easy targets. There is way too much writing along those lines out there, and some of it is produced by very intelligent people who are capable of much more. I don't enjoy reading the products of intellectual laziness and I certainly don't want to produce any for others to read. A general rule of thumb is that if I find myself writing something that sounds like it came off a bumper sticker, that means I need to dig a little deeper and put some more thought into it. Real people living in the real world have complex and ambivalent reactions, hold inconsistent attitudes, divided loyalties and are constantly confronted with cognitive dissonance. I don't think acknowledging those things while making a point is a sign of weakness.
- I am sometimes accused of writing War and Peace length posts. My only reaction in the face of that criticism is to shrug and say, "I yam what I yam." I rarely come away from a piece of writing feeling like I wrote more or less than I wanted to. I write as long as I think there's still a point to be developed. Once I don't feel like there's anything left to say, I stop. Of course the reader is the ultimate arbiter of "too long" or "too short." If you notice the word count one way or the other, then the writer has failed on some level. If that's the case here, you get what you pay for.
- The very act of keeping an online journal is supremely presumptuous and narcissistic. It is based on the assumption that anyone in the entire world with Internet access might be interested in your life and thoughts. That's a mighty big assumption. I try not to compound the inherent hubris of this medium by taking myself too seriously. I think it's important to post something every so often that assures readers that I know I am full of shit.
- There's no substitute for honesty. I always strive to tell the truth as I see it, while at the same time understanding that neither I nor anyone else has a monopoly on THE TRUTH. Hemingway once said, "All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know." I can't improve on that sentiment, other than perhaps to refrain from blowing my head off with a shotgun after invoking it.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Walking With Miss Gracie
Walkikng With Miss Gracie
I went for a walk today with Miss Gracie, an energetic chatterbox of a girl. She’s two and the world is a wonderful place to explore. After I cleaned out imaginary sticks and rocks in her pink boots and she slipped them on and zipped them up, we set out on our adventure.
I intended to go around the block in a somewhat formal manner and get back to my tasks of the afternoon. But Miss Gracie had other ideas. She had to decide which direction to go first and what side of the street to walk on. We smelled pink button flowers in boxes along the sidewalk and then crossed over to the green and white broad leaves of a bush. We delighted in purple posies and decided that daises were pretty to look at and not to smell. Miss Gracie smiled back at the faces of pansies, tried a balancing act on the rocks, and meandered over grass and brush, reminding me of a river that could not make a straight path along its banks. We stopped to pet the pretty lion statues in a yard and I laughed as she had to stop to ‘rest her eggs ‘ on the bus stop bench.
Miss Gracie and I rounded the corner to climb a mountain of dirt and jump over stumps, all the while keeping a constant commentary on the importance of trees and rocks and pinecones. We stopped to say hello to her friend’s slide and finally arrived back at Miss Gracie’s house ready to explore another day; walking with Miss Gracie.
I went for a walk today with Miss Gracie, an energetic chatterbox of a girl. She’s two and the world is a wonderful place to explore. After I cleaned out imaginary sticks and rocks in her pink boots and she slipped them on and zipped them up, we set out on our adventure.
I intended to go around the block in a somewhat formal manner and get back to my tasks of the afternoon. But Miss Gracie had other ideas. She had to decide which direction to go first and what side of the street to walk on. We smelled pink button flowers in boxes along the sidewalk and then crossed over to the green and white broad leaves of a bush. We delighted in purple posies and decided that daises were pretty to look at and not to smell. Miss Gracie smiled back at the faces of pansies, tried a balancing act on the rocks, and meandered over grass and brush, reminding me of a river that could not make a straight path along its banks. We stopped to pet the pretty lion statues in a yard and I laughed as she had to stop to ‘rest her eggs ‘ on the bus stop bench.
Miss Gracie and I rounded the corner to climb a mountain of dirt and jump over stumps, all the while keeping a constant commentary on the importance of trees and rocks and pinecones. We stopped to say hello to her friend’s slide and finally arrived back at Miss Gracie’s house ready to explore another day; walking with Miss Gracie.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
For Robyn Kim plus some blog bizness
I'm so sorry you're having problems trying to sign up for the site!!! Maybe this is the issue: I have my email listed as jkcase_1999(at)yahoo.com. I spelled out the word "at" to stop companies who "fish" for emails and send you spam. So make sure, when you're when you're typing my email address to replace the word "at" with the actual "at symbol" located on the #2 on your keyboard. Also, don't forget the underscore (the line) between jkcase and 1999. Hope this makes sense and solves the problem.
And for everyone else....I'll be away from the blog for a few days. Work is crazy again/still and I'm writing a huge strategic plan PLUS yet another grant....both of which are due Friday. So, if there are any authors needing to be added or any other business-related issues, I'll be back in force Friday afternoon or evening. Thanks guys...I hope all of you know how much I'm enjoying reading, commenting, and being inspired by what everyone is doing here!
And for everyone else....I'll be away from the blog for a few days. Work is crazy again/still and I'm writing a huge strategic plan PLUS yet another grant....both of which are due Friday. So, if there are any authors needing to be added or any other business-related issues, I'll be back in force Friday afternoon or evening. Thanks guys...I hope all of you know how much I'm enjoying reading, commenting, and being inspired by what everyone is doing here!
Writer's are like redwood trees!
Weak analogies here we come!
Beginning Writers are like redwood trees. Individually, our roots are shallow, and we can be pulled from our foundation rather easily. However, when we cluster together, we grow together. Our roots will inter-twine, and provide each of us the support we need to grow tall in our endeavors and shade our communities of influence with leaves of creativity and enlightenment.
Beginning Writers are like redwood trees. Individually, our roots are shallow, and we can be pulled from our foundation rather easily. However, when we cluster together, we grow together. Our roots will inter-twine, and provide each of us the support we need to grow tall in our endeavors and shade our communities of influence with leaves of creativity and enlightenment.
Rejoicing at life.
(No quality writing here...simply a rant!)
Sometimes when we think about issues, we take a very narrow perspective based solely on our own experiences and understanding. Is it helpful to take an opposite approach in our minds, if not on paper, to find flaws in our thinking? Personally, it is helpful for moral issues. The following is an example that can be loaded with emotions on all sides.
Do you think that if there is a higher power, however it is embodied, that higher power cherishes little children? Are those little children that are so young they don't have the capacity to think and decide for themselves bound for Hell before they make their own decision which will lead them elsewhere? I've always held them "Heaven-bound" until they make the conscious human decision to "bite the apple". Certainly infants and younger would be covered in the protective hands of that higher power, which I know to be, and will heretofore call, God.
If a woman dies while pregnant in a car accident, and the baby also dies, won't that child go to Heaven? I believe so...we don't know about the mother...but God does...and the decision will be made based on her life and decisions.
If a baby of a pregnant mother dies in an accident, will the baby go to Heaven? Will the mother? What if the mother took steps to cause the accident to happen knowing the baby would die and she wouldn't, and no one else would be the wiser. Will the baby go to heaven? Again, I believe so. Would the mother? Depends on the events that would follow. Would she be "judged" by God? Yes, but she can also find forgiveness, right.
Whether the rest of the world knows about such a thing or not...the baby will go to Heaven, and the mother (and father if involved) will be judged by God appropriately...and possibly eternally. Left to humans, the mother and father might not receive the appropriate judgement and penalty. In any case...the baby who dies, is safe for eternity.
This makes we wonder, and I've not yet cemented in my mind, whether the amount of money, energy and effort that we as a people put forth trying to permit, outlaw, control things such as abortion really have an eternal payoff - or are they strictly to make US feel better about US.
If "Susie, Sally, or Jane, and Fred, John or Marty" make a decision to abort a child before it is born, and no one in the world knows but them...the baby will go to Heaven. Whether WE think it is right, wrong or indifferent makes no eternal difference! God will judge each and everyone of us based on the lives we've lived.
One additional question that plagues me is...what if 'we the people' decide the baby can not be aborted and we force them to give it birth to this world. There are no guarantees that the child will be safe and secure for eternity, for the parents and the child's eventual choices and decisions will play a major role.
So my point is not that abortion should be legal or not, or that any other moral issue should be left to my discretion. Simply stated, let God decide what God should decide...and let the rest of us concentrate on living a life worthy of the judgement we hope He'll make about how we lived - NOT how our neighbors lived.
Did I just open a can of worms?
Sometimes when we think about issues, we take a very narrow perspective based solely on our own experiences and understanding. Is it helpful to take an opposite approach in our minds, if not on paper, to find flaws in our thinking? Personally, it is helpful for moral issues. The following is an example that can be loaded with emotions on all sides.
Do you think that if there is a higher power, however it is embodied, that higher power cherishes little children? Are those little children that are so young they don't have the capacity to think and decide for themselves bound for Hell before they make their own decision which will lead them elsewhere? I've always held them "Heaven-bound" until they make the conscious human decision to "bite the apple". Certainly infants and younger would be covered in the protective hands of that higher power, which I know to be, and will heretofore call, God.
If a woman dies while pregnant in a car accident, and the baby also dies, won't that child go to Heaven? I believe so...we don't know about the mother...but God does...and the decision will be made based on her life and decisions.
If a baby of a pregnant mother dies in an accident, will the baby go to Heaven? Will the mother? What if the mother took steps to cause the accident to happen knowing the baby would die and she wouldn't, and no one else would be the wiser. Will the baby go to heaven? Again, I believe so. Would the mother? Depends on the events that would follow. Would she be "judged" by God? Yes, but she can also find forgiveness, right.
Whether the rest of the world knows about such a thing or not...the baby will go to Heaven, and the mother (and father if involved) will be judged by God appropriately...and possibly eternally. Left to humans, the mother and father might not receive the appropriate judgement and penalty. In any case...the baby who dies, is safe for eternity.
This makes we wonder, and I've not yet cemented in my mind, whether the amount of money, energy and effort that we as a people put forth trying to permit, outlaw, control things such as abortion really have an eternal payoff - or are they strictly to make US feel better about US.
If "Susie, Sally, or Jane, and Fred, John or Marty" make a decision to abort a child before it is born, and no one in the world knows but them...the baby will go to Heaven. Whether WE think it is right, wrong or indifferent makes no eternal difference! God will judge each and everyone of us based on the lives we've lived.
One additional question that plagues me is...what if 'we the people' decide the baby can not be aborted and we force them to give it birth to this world. There are no guarantees that the child will be safe and secure for eternity, for the parents and the child's eventual choices and decisions will play a major role.
So my point is not that abortion should be legal or not, or that any other moral issue should be left to my discretion. Simply stated, let God decide what God should decide...and let the rest of us concentrate on living a life worthy of the judgement we hope He'll make about how we lived - NOT how our neighbors lived.
Did I just open a can of worms?
Monday, August 11, 2008
Doodlings
So I'm a little frustrated and tried my hand at this:
The Weeds in My Garden
Why is it that the weeds grow better than your plants? Why is it that weeds don’t need water or fertilizer or any other tender loving care? They are always growing.
I went out into my garden tonight to see what I could do in a half hour span. To my dismay, I found my hanging baskets dead because no one has watered them. They were so pretty. Ever since Mark lost his job and was under employed, I went without my baskets for several years. Now that he has a better job, I look forward to resurrecting that part of my garden. Now here they are dead and I want to cry.
Everywhere I look, things need trimming, clearing, and mowing. All except the weeds! Those bundles of greenery have enough energy to overcome any gardener’s nightmare. They refuse to be pulled out by the roots and stubbornly remain in my front yard. I think I will have to leave them there and pull at them another day. By the way, can someone find me a watering can?
The Weeds in My Garden
Why is it that the weeds grow better than your plants? Why is it that weeds don’t need water or fertilizer or any other tender loving care? They are always growing.
I went out into my garden tonight to see what I could do in a half hour span. To my dismay, I found my hanging baskets dead because no one has watered them. They were so pretty. Ever since Mark lost his job and was under employed, I went without my baskets for several years. Now that he has a better job, I look forward to resurrecting that part of my garden. Now here they are dead and I want to cry.
Everywhere I look, things need trimming, clearing, and mowing. All except the weeds! Those bundles of greenery have enough energy to overcome any gardener’s nightmare. They refuse to be pulled out by the roots and stubbornly remain in my front yard. I think I will have to leave them there and pull at them another day. By the way, can someone find me a watering can?
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Hi
Hi Everyone, Thank you so much for getting this started. As we read each other's writings and comment, we get to know each other and I was not looking forward to class ending. Now I don't have too! Like the rest of you I'm finding this editing stuff hard! Talk to you later, Charlene
My Brain Hurts
Oh my goodness. I am pulling my hair out with this short story. SF your killing me here. lol. Is this a payback for my last post to you not wanting to make the changes Ann had suggested? If it were, then I wouldn't have to look so hard at my writing. So you see that would give me an out.
I think I am getting way off track. I need to go back to when this all came to me and make it better instead of changing it all up. It was truly a gut wrenching piece that brought some healing to me about some things. I think I am losing the power of it in the revisions. I don't know anything anymore, except this is hard work, but I am up for it, as long as I know if I am doing it right or am I all wrong. I don't know. Everyone has an opionion of what they like, no one person can gear their writing for everyone to like it, that just isn't possible. I just want to know I am writing it in the best form it could possibly be. Does any of this make any sense to anybody? I am trying to cram 40 years into 500 words. I think its a good start for that book, but I can't help rememeber the words in our last lesson, " All writers love the sound of their own words. This is natural. Wow, I read that and thought, well that explains it, its not like my singing, I know I sound bad singing, so the measuring bar is different. How will I know if I suck at this or not? Because honestly the first 50 reads I usually like what I write very much, a day or two later maybe not so much. Well, that's all I wanted to say. I am going to bed now. My brain hurts....
I think I am getting way off track. I need to go back to when this all came to me and make it better instead of changing it all up. It was truly a gut wrenching piece that brought some healing to me about some things. I think I am losing the power of it in the revisions. I don't know anything anymore, except this is hard work, but I am up for it, as long as I know if I am doing it right or am I all wrong. I don't know. Everyone has an opionion of what they like, no one person can gear their writing for everyone to like it, that just isn't possible. I just want to know I am writing it in the best form it could possibly be. Does any of this make any sense to anybody? I am trying to cram 40 years into 500 words. I think its a good start for that book, but I can't help rememeber the words in our last lesson, " All writers love the sound of their own words. This is natural. Wow, I read that and thought, well that explains it, its not like my singing, I know I sound bad singing, so the measuring bar is different. How will I know if I suck at this or not? Because honestly the first 50 reads I usually like what I write very much, a day or two later maybe not so much. Well, that's all I wanted to say. I am going to bed now. My brain hurts....
Surgery
Thought I'd let you all know how my surgery went.
On Wednesday I had septoplasty surgery, to fix my deviated septum in hope that I can sleep better. It is now Sunday and I am still in pain but the worst part is that I cannot blow my nose. I am so stuffed up that I sound like a pug walking around breathing. I'm wondering if I would have this done again, well I guess I'll have to wait a week or so before I can answer that. If I can breathe out of my nose and sleep better then it will have been worth it.
I missed an assignment that we could post more writing on. I know that we could have posted our sentences but what fun is that? No telling what drug induced stories I would have come up with anyway, lol.
On Wednesday I had septoplasty surgery, to fix my deviated septum in hope that I can sleep better. It is now Sunday and I am still in pain but the worst part is that I cannot blow my nose. I am so stuffed up that I sound like a pug walking around breathing. I'm wondering if I would have this done again, well I guess I'll have to wait a week or so before I can answer that. If I can breathe out of my nose and sleep better then it will have been worth it.
I missed an assignment that we could post more writing on. I know that we could have posted our sentences but what fun is that? No telling what drug induced stories I would have come up with anyway, lol.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Welcome
A big hi and welcome to our latest author, eunice. Everyone's so glad you joined us here and we're looking forward to your contributions!
The Lighter Side "Deception"-Revised thanks jkc
A month ago I saw an ad for a short story contest. The short story was to be on the topic "Deception" max 2000 words. This was my first attempt at writing something other than my own rambling thoughts. Of course I didn't submit this into the contest, but would like to put it here for your critique. Please I am not easily offended, so your bad review is welcome. I would prefer honest bad feedback than nothing or worse a nice gloss over that will keep me writing badly.
_______________
Its 3:50 pm, almost time for my daughter to get off of work. I lazily rise from bed and walk over to the vanity to begin the monotonous task of applying my makeup.
“I better change my clothes; I wouldn't want to be caught with my pajamas on when she walks through the door.” I thought to myself.
I had been considering all day on what I was going to write regarding the topic of deception, and as I sat in front of the mirror, I realized at that very moment I was perpetrating the very act of it. “How ironic”, I thought, as I applied my lipstick.
How far will I carry this out? Will I make up a story about my day? Will I expound on events that never happened? That was never my intention.
The familiar sound of rain softly beats against the windows and slowly rises in intensity. The now heavy rain beating upon my roof was somewhat symbolic of the monsoon of guilt filling my heart. A mother's instincts begin to take over; I begin to worry about her picking up my grandson in this weather. I should have at the very least picked him up for her. I call her cell phone to see if she was caught in this downpour, but to my relief, she was just leaving work. We talk briefly, and I mention that I made fresh pinto beans for dinner. Immediately, I begin the dubious task of forming my alibi.
“Beans, they take hours to cook!” I thought to myself. Of all the ways to construct my tale, to be rooted into a story by the simple line: “When I got home, I made beans”. Why did I just say that? I shook my head, disappointed in myself.
It all began innocently enough; I didn't lie when I told her I had a training session I wanted to participate in. I wasn't trying to get out of watching my grandson today, so why the deception? I woke up tired, I was awake until nearly 3:00 a.m., obsessed with a writing project that demanded my attention. I don't do very well without a full night's sleep and knew I would regret it come morning. I woke up on time with every intention of attending the training session, even though I felt I was suffering from a hangover. In retrospect, I guess I knew deep down I wasn't going, but I didn't make the final decision until they had left the house.
Why does it matter so much, that she had to wake up a little earlier this morning, get her 3 year old son up and dressed and drive him approximately 20 miles to his great grandparent's house? Most parents have to drive their children to daycare every day. Truthfully, I concede, it does matter; I love that I am in a place in my life that I can make her life easier. She has a full time job, goes to school and still manages to do a splendid job raising my grandson; however, sometimes her attitude is more out of expectancy than of appreciation. For instance, when I told her she had to make arrangements for him on these particular days the look on her face alone made me feel guilty. So, now I battled with telling her that I decided to just stay at home today.
Why should I say anything at all? My initial intent was to look like I hadn't been home all day. Nothing needed to be said to the contrary, that's not really lying, is it? Even so, that one statement earlier dug me even deeper. She walks through the door,
“How was your day?”
“Good” I say, thinking, "just don't ask specifics and everything will be fine."
If she does ask more questions, will I continue to deceive her, or will I simply tell her the truth? Did she catch my earlier statement about getting home?
This is really not looking good for me.
"Ah the webs we weave", my mother used to say. As a child I didn't really understand what that meant, but if you have ever tried to pull down a spider web you know it sticks to your fingers and can get entangled in your hair. I guess that's what mother meant; deception is like a web, you have to pull it down to get to the truth but no matter how well you believe you've removed it the remnant of it will be left behind.
Could I lose her trust? What kind of message am I sending her? Even if she could never find out, I don't like how this is making me feel.
I preach honesty all of the time. Growing up in our home, my girls knew that the lie was always worse than the crime. Then I think, would I have been so convicted had I not had this writing assignment on my mind? What does that say about me? It might be time to take a personal inventory.
What drives us to tell a lie? Different things I presume, but mine was simple; I did not want to deal with the possibility that my daughter might have a bad attitude. I would have been right, and she would have been wrong, but now I have spent most of today feeling guilty, as if I was stealing this day.
If she does say something now, who am I to lecture? Reminding myself that it was me who made sure she understood the weight of deception. Besides, the moment of truth is inevitable, my daughter reads everything I write, she is my hardest critic and plays the role of my editor, so I guess the gig is up as they say. I can only hope she likes the way I put it on paper.
--The End--
_______________
Its 3:50 pm, almost time for my daughter to get off of work. I lazily rise from bed and walk over to the vanity to begin the monotonous task of applying my makeup.
“I better change my clothes; I wouldn't want to be caught with my pajamas on when she walks through the door.” I thought to myself.
I had been considering all day on what I was going to write regarding the topic of deception, and as I sat in front of the mirror, I realized at that very moment I was perpetrating the very act of it. “How ironic”, I thought, as I applied my lipstick.
How far will I carry this out? Will I make up a story about my day? Will I expound on events that never happened? That was never my intention.
The familiar sound of rain softly beats against the windows and slowly rises in intensity. The now heavy rain beating upon my roof was somewhat symbolic of the monsoon of guilt filling my heart. A mother's instincts begin to take over; I begin to worry about her picking up my grandson in this weather. I should have at the very least picked him up for her. I call her cell phone to see if she was caught in this downpour, but to my relief, she was just leaving work. We talk briefly, and I mention that I made fresh pinto beans for dinner. Immediately, I begin the dubious task of forming my alibi.
“Beans, they take hours to cook!” I thought to myself. Of all the ways to construct my tale, to be rooted into a story by the simple line: “When I got home, I made beans”. Why did I just say that? I shook my head, disappointed in myself.
It all began innocently enough; I didn't lie when I told her I had a training session I wanted to participate in. I wasn't trying to get out of watching my grandson today, so why the deception? I woke up tired, I was awake until nearly 3:00 a.m., obsessed with a writing project that demanded my attention. I don't do very well without a full night's sleep and knew I would regret it come morning. I woke up on time with every intention of attending the training session, even though I felt I was suffering from a hangover. In retrospect, I guess I knew deep down I wasn't going, but I didn't make the final decision until they had left the house.
Why does it matter so much, that she had to wake up a little earlier this morning, get her 3 year old son up and dressed and drive him approximately 20 miles to his great grandparent's house? Most parents have to drive their children to daycare every day. Truthfully, I concede, it does matter; I love that I am in a place in my life that I can make her life easier. She has a full time job, goes to school and still manages to do a splendid job raising my grandson; however, sometimes her attitude is more out of expectancy than of appreciation. For instance, when I told her she had to make arrangements for him on these particular days the look on her face alone made me feel guilty. So, now I battled with telling her that I decided to just stay at home today.
Why should I say anything at all? My initial intent was to look like I hadn't been home all day. Nothing needed to be said to the contrary, that's not really lying, is it? Even so, that one statement earlier dug me even deeper. She walks through the door,
“How was your day?”
“Good” I say, thinking, "just don't ask specifics and everything will be fine."
If she does ask more questions, will I continue to deceive her, or will I simply tell her the truth? Did she catch my earlier statement about getting home?
This is really not looking good for me.
"Ah the webs we weave", my mother used to say. As a child I didn't really understand what that meant, but if you have ever tried to pull down a spider web you know it sticks to your fingers and can get entangled in your hair. I guess that's what mother meant; deception is like a web, you have to pull it down to get to the truth but no matter how well you believe you've removed it the remnant of it will be left behind.
Could I lose her trust? What kind of message am I sending her? Even if she could never find out, I don't like how this is making me feel.
I preach honesty all of the time. Growing up in our home, my girls knew that the lie was always worse than the crime. Then I think, would I have been so convicted had I not had this writing assignment on my mind? What does that say about me? It might be time to take a personal inventory.
What drives us to tell a lie? Different things I presume, but mine was simple; I did not want to deal with the possibility that my daughter might have a bad attitude. I would have been right, and she would have been wrong, but now I have spent most of today feeling guilty, as if I was stealing this day.
If she does say something now, who am I to lecture? Reminding myself that it was me who made sure she understood the weight of deception. Besides, the moment of truth is inevitable, my daughter reads everything I write, she is my hardest critic and plays the role of my editor, so I guess the gig is up as they say. I can only hope she likes the way I put it on paper.
--The End--
Friday, August 8, 2008
Reactionary Syntax
I've been a little out of the loop for a few days. I just got a new computer and have been spending some time transferring my old files over and such. Hence my general lack of commentary here and elsewhere.
Anyway, Beijing's current status as the most talked about city in the world reminded me about a piece I wrote a couple years ago. I decided to dust it off, edit it a little bit, and post it here:
My parents used to talk funny. I'm not describing their individual dialects of English. Neither of them had speech impediments. I'm talking about the strange names they had for things - names from the past. You see, my parents were both old enough to have been my grandparents, especially my father, who was 46 when I was born. They spoke the language of the Great Depression and World War II, and what a strange tongue it was for a child of the '70s and '80s! In my house, there was no such thing as margarine, we used "oleo." The Woolworth's we had in town, which was already an anachronism by the time I was born, was the "Five and Dime" or the "Five and Ten." Imagine my dismay when all my friends spent the Ford-Carter years in cool blue jeans, while I wore "dungarees." There are plenty of other things I could mention if I thought about it, but you get the idea. In the broad scheme of things, it's a pretty silly thing to hold over my folks, but it always did strike me as funny. It was a perfect example of willful un-hipness. A stubborn refusal to get with the times. They knew all the modern nomenclature, they just refused to play along. Typical old farts.
Well, now that I am getting up there in years, I am starting to find a similar reluctance to change my language to fit with the times. It's not so much that I want to spit in the eye of younger generations (although sometimes I wouldn't mind doing so), it just seems that society likes to change the names of things for no good reason. Oh sure, there are usually reasons stated or apparent to anyone with a brain, it's just that those reasons tend to strike me as stupid, or not worth the trouble of me re-learning any vocabulary. Here are a few examples of slight language changes and naming protocols that I absolutely refuse to adopt:
1. I like history. In fact I love history. I love reading about it. When I started studying history, there was a very simple dividing line for everything: B.C. and A.D. Everyone knows this. Except now, the political correctness fascists have determined that we can't use them any more. Why, they stand for "Before Christ" and the Latin term for "In the year of our Lord!" Sheesh, if we keep using language like that, next thing you know we'll be living in a theocracy. So now, if you look at history texts written in the last decade or so, B.C. has morphed into "B.C.E." or "Before the Common Era." That means that the past 2008 years are "the Common Era." Ah, pure poetry I tell you! What bugs me about this change more than anything is that the sniveling academics responsible for it didn't even have the courage of their convictions. If you want to de-Christianize history, then why does the so-called "Common Era" coincide exactly with the traditional year assigned to the birth of Christ? What else happened that year that we're using as our historical milestone? I propose that if we are going to stop using B.C. and A.D. then we need to change the dividing line between eras. I propose we use the year formally known as 1946 A.D. as the starting point and we use B.B.B. and A.B.B. as our terms: Before the Baby Boom and After the Baby Boom. I figure that's when most of the people responsible for this kind of nonsense assume that history really started anyway - as soon as they were born.
2. If you're my age or older, you remember that when you were in school and were learning about China, the names of things were memorable, easy to pronounce and spell. The capital was Peking. Their most important political figure in the past 100 years was Mao Tse Tung. David Caradine used Kung Fu, which of course he mastered using chi. It's all different now. Somewhere along the line, somebody decided that the letters used to replicate the sounds of Chinese weren't confusing enough for the average American. Now the capital is Beijing. The homicidal maniac with the peaceful smile was named Mao Zedong. It turns out Caradine was beating up people with Gongfu and commanding the mysterious force of qi. Never mind the fact that Chinese doesn't even use our alphabet, so there's no "correct" spelling. Forget about the fact that even if there was a correct spelling the average American can't even speak European languages closely related to English without totally butchering them, much less mastering the intricacies of Mandarin Chinese. Someone (probably the reprehensible Communist government of the PRC) decided that we needed to change everything. To heck with that. Next time I'm in the mood to eat a waterfowl I'm going to order Peking Duck, and if the folks in "Beijing" don't like it, I'll take my chances that they will be unable to come over here and run over me with a tank.
3. Sticking with geography, when exactly did Hawaii officially become Hawai'i? Oh I know, you're supposed to make a distinct stop and say something like "huh-wah------ee." We all do that, right? Uh huh. Maybe if I ever go there, I'll see the light, but until then, everything I know about those islands I learned from Jack Lord, and I'll stick with the unenlightened pronunciation, and the spelling to match thank you very much.
4. I refuse to call any sports stadium by the name of its corporate sponsor - even the new ones. It was bad enough when we were told that "Candlestick Park" had become "3-Com Park" or that monstrosity in Cincinnati got even uglier when it changed its name to "Cinergy Field." Now the new stadiums start out with the corporate names and I still can't keep up with them. They change about every other year. I know that the Baltimore Ravens used to play in something called "PSI Net Stadium" or some such. The stadium is still there, but it's had three or four names. Screw that. I used to know the name of all the MLB parks and NFL stadiums. Now all I need to know is that a game is in Pittsburgh or Seattle or Atlanta. If they want me to say the name of the corporate sponsor, they can pay me for my advertising services.
I could go on and on, but I've probably worn every one out with my stick-in-the-mud, old man crustiness by now. I'm done kavetching about it. For the time being, I'll be happy to just bide my time until I can start making my kids roll their eyes at all my verbal anachronisms the way my parents did. I'll still be "taping" shows with the DVR; talking on my "cordless phone" well after the last corded phone has taken its place in the Smithsonian; and posting things on the "Internet" years after they've given this a new name or it's morphed into something barely recognizable by today's technology. And then, just to really confuse them, some morning I'll ask if they want oleo on their toast.
Anyway, Beijing's current status as the most talked about city in the world reminded me about a piece I wrote a couple years ago. I decided to dust it off, edit it a little bit, and post it here:
My parents used to talk funny. I'm not describing their individual dialects of English. Neither of them had speech impediments. I'm talking about the strange names they had for things - names from the past. You see, my parents were both old enough to have been my grandparents, especially my father, who was 46 when I was born. They spoke the language of the Great Depression and World War II, and what a strange tongue it was for a child of the '70s and '80s! In my house, there was no such thing as margarine, we used "oleo." The Woolworth's we had in town, which was already an anachronism by the time I was born, was the "Five and Dime" or the "Five and Ten." Imagine my dismay when all my friends spent the Ford-Carter years in cool blue jeans, while I wore "dungarees." There are plenty of other things I could mention if I thought about it, but you get the idea. In the broad scheme of things, it's a pretty silly thing to hold over my folks, but it always did strike me as funny. It was a perfect example of willful un-hipness. A stubborn refusal to get with the times. They knew all the modern nomenclature, they just refused to play along. Typical old farts.
Well, now that I am getting up there in years, I am starting to find a similar reluctance to change my language to fit with the times. It's not so much that I want to spit in the eye of younger generations (although sometimes I wouldn't mind doing so), it just seems that society likes to change the names of things for no good reason. Oh sure, there are usually reasons stated or apparent to anyone with a brain, it's just that those reasons tend to strike me as stupid, or not worth the trouble of me re-learning any vocabulary. Here are a few examples of slight language changes and naming protocols that I absolutely refuse to adopt:
1. I like history. In fact I love history. I love reading about it. When I started studying history, there was a very simple dividing line for everything: B.C. and A.D. Everyone knows this. Except now, the political correctness fascists have determined that we can't use them any more. Why, they stand for "Before Christ" and the Latin term for "In the year of our Lord!" Sheesh, if we keep using language like that, next thing you know we'll be living in a theocracy. So now, if you look at history texts written in the last decade or so, B.C. has morphed into "B.C.E." or "Before the Common Era." That means that the past 2008 years are "the Common Era." Ah, pure poetry I tell you! What bugs me about this change more than anything is that the sniveling academics responsible for it didn't even have the courage of their convictions. If you want to de-Christianize history, then why does the so-called "Common Era" coincide exactly with the traditional year assigned to the birth of Christ? What else happened that year that we're using as our historical milestone? I propose that if we are going to stop using B.C. and A.D. then we need to change the dividing line between eras. I propose we use the year formally known as 1946 A.D. as the starting point and we use B.B.B. and A.B.B. as our terms: Before the Baby Boom and After the Baby Boom. I figure that's when most of the people responsible for this kind of nonsense assume that history really started anyway - as soon as they were born.
2. If you're my age or older, you remember that when you were in school and were learning about China, the names of things were memorable, easy to pronounce and spell. The capital was Peking. Their most important political figure in the past 100 years was Mao Tse Tung. David Caradine used Kung Fu, which of course he mastered using chi. It's all different now. Somewhere along the line, somebody decided that the letters used to replicate the sounds of Chinese weren't confusing enough for the average American. Now the capital is Beijing. The homicidal maniac with the peaceful smile was named Mao Zedong. It turns out Caradine was beating up people with Gongfu and commanding the mysterious force of qi. Never mind the fact that Chinese doesn't even use our alphabet, so there's no "correct" spelling. Forget about the fact that even if there was a correct spelling the average American can't even speak European languages closely related to English without totally butchering them, much less mastering the intricacies of Mandarin Chinese. Someone (probably the reprehensible Communist government of the PRC) decided that we needed to change everything. To heck with that. Next time I'm in the mood to eat a waterfowl I'm going to order Peking Duck, and if the folks in "Beijing" don't like it, I'll take my chances that they will be unable to come over here and run over me with a tank.
3. Sticking with geography, when exactly did Hawaii officially become Hawai'i? Oh I know, you're supposed to make a distinct stop and say something like "huh-wah------ee." We all do that, right? Uh huh. Maybe if I ever go there, I'll see the light, but until then, everything I know about those islands I learned from Jack Lord, and I'll stick with the unenlightened pronunciation, and the spelling to match thank you very much.
4. I refuse to call any sports stadium by the name of its corporate sponsor - even the new ones. It was bad enough when we were told that "Candlestick Park" had become "3-Com Park" or that monstrosity in Cincinnati got even uglier when it changed its name to "Cinergy Field." Now the new stadiums start out with the corporate names and I still can't keep up with them. They change about every other year. I know that the Baltimore Ravens used to play in something called "PSI Net Stadium" or some such. The stadium is still there, but it's had three or four names. Screw that. I used to know the name of all the MLB parks and NFL stadiums. Now all I need to know is that a game is in Pittsburgh or Seattle or Atlanta. If they want me to say the name of the corporate sponsor, they can pay me for my advertising services.
I could go on and on, but I've probably worn every one out with my stick-in-the-mud, old man crustiness by now. I'm done kavetching about it. For the time being, I'll be happy to just bide my time until I can start making my kids roll their eyes at all my verbal anachronisms the way my parents did. I'll still be "taping" shows with the DVR; talking on my "cordless phone" well after the last corded phone has taken its place in the Smithsonian; and posting things on the "Internet" years after they've given this a new name or it's morphed into something barely recognizable by today's technology. And then, just to really confuse them, some morning I'll ask if they want oleo on their toast.
New Blog Labels
If you'll look at the bottom of the postings so far and in the middle of the right-hand side of the blog, you'll see new labels. I added them thinking that, as much as we're hopefully going to post, it would be nice to be able to search by your name or by a category. Listed are the labels which seem to fit so far including all of the blog authors' names.
Adding a label(s) is easy. When you're on the page typing out your new post, look at the bottom right of the box you're typing in and you'll see "Labels for this post." You can click on "Show all" in the right corner for a list of labels that have already been used, click on the label(s) you want to have added to your post, and you're done (like your author name). Or, let's say none of the labels listed really fit....you can always type in the new word you want to use as a label and, when you publish the post, your word will be added to the labels' list. The list is in alphabetical order, which should help with ease of use.
I also wanted to let you guys know that anyone (or everyone) can be a blog administrator. I've just done it so far to get the blog started...didn't want anyone to think I HAD to be the blog admin. If you want to also be an admin for the blog (we can easily have multiple ones), just let me know and it's a simple click of a button to have admin privileges added for you.
Adding a label(s) is easy. When you're on the page typing out your new post, look at the bottom right of the box you're typing in and you'll see "Labels for this post." You can click on "Show all" in the right corner for a list of labels that have already been used, click on the label(s) you want to have added to your post, and you're done (like your author name). Or, let's say none of the labels listed really fit....you can always type in the new word you want to use as a label and, when you publish the post, your word will be added to the labels' list. The list is in alphabetical order, which should help with ease of use.
I also wanted to let you guys know that anyone (or everyone) can be a blog administrator. I've just done it so far to get the blog started...didn't want anyone to think I HAD to be the blog admin. If you want to also be an admin for the blog (we can easily have multiple ones), just let me know and it's a simple click of a button to have admin privileges added for you.
Olympics essay from 2004
In honor of the Summer Olympics (I'm watching the amazing Opening Ceremony right now), I'm posting a personal essay I wrote for an online blog for the last summer games in 2004.
*****************************************************************
Forget about the upcoming presidential election, I'm all about the Olympics right now.
I can't even wrap my brain around what these people are able to do. I could never be a high-level athlete. From puking every minute to stopping competition every two minutes so I could go to the bathroom from nerves, I don't think I would be in medal contention.
Never mind the fact I can't seem to tell my left from my right ("go to your left, JKC. Okay, now go to your other left.") and my gross motor skills are sadly lacking. People used to argue over who's team had to take me. Plus, just now one of my coworkers brought me my purse, which she found on the roof of my car, so apparently I don't have that "focus thing" in my favor either.
The ages of the athletes always blow me away. Michael Phelps, the swimmer going for eight medals, is nineteen. NINETEEN! Look, I partied so much I don't even remember nineteen. Those little girl gymnasts...fifteen, y'all. At fifteen, I figured out that if I took drama and band, I wouldn't have to be in gym anymore.
I don't watch a lot of sports, but for these next couple of weeks I become an expert on all things from tae kwon do to badminton. I start rating everything from entrances into the water to dismounts from the pommel horse. A perfect example is synchronized diving. My first reaction was, "What?" But, after only a minute of watching, I was like "oh, the girl on the right entered the water WAY before the girl on the left. The judges are SO gonna deduct for that."
The sacrifices these kids make for those few seconds are incredible. There was an interview with an American gymnast who described how expensive training is and went for a full week eating only Power Bars because she couldn't afford food from the training costs. Understand, in my world, ANYTHING that keeps me away from complete meals plus snacks would be immediately cut out of my life.
So, hope everyone is enjoying the Olympics. Please be amazed and in awe of the sacrifices all of these kids have made to be there. Be as happy for a fifth place finish that was that athlete's personal best as you are for a gold medal performance. Plus, I think the men's team has a good shot at a medal in badminton.
*****************************************************************
Forget about the upcoming presidential election, I'm all about the Olympics right now.
I can't even wrap my brain around what these people are able to do. I could never be a high-level athlete. From puking every minute to stopping competition every two minutes so I could go to the bathroom from nerves, I don't think I would be in medal contention.
Never mind the fact I can't seem to tell my left from my right ("go to your left, JKC. Okay, now go to your other left.") and my gross motor skills are sadly lacking. People used to argue over who's team had to take me. Plus, just now one of my coworkers brought me my purse, which she found on the roof of my car, so apparently I don't have that "focus thing" in my favor either.
The ages of the athletes always blow me away. Michael Phelps, the swimmer going for eight medals, is nineteen. NINETEEN! Look, I partied so much I don't even remember nineteen. Those little girl gymnasts...fifteen, y'all. At fifteen, I figured out that if I took drama and band, I wouldn't have to be in gym anymore.
I don't watch a lot of sports, but for these next couple of weeks I become an expert on all things from tae kwon do to badminton. I start rating everything from entrances into the water to dismounts from the pommel horse. A perfect example is synchronized diving. My first reaction was, "What?" But, after only a minute of watching, I was like "oh, the girl on the right entered the water WAY before the girl on the left. The judges are SO gonna deduct for that."
The sacrifices these kids make for those few seconds are incredible. There was an interview with an American gymnast who described how expensive training is and went for a full week eating only Power Bars because she couldn't afford food from the training costs. Understand, in my world, ANYTHING that keeps me away from complete meals plus snacks would be immediately cut out of my life.
So, hope everyone is enjoying the Olympics. Please be amazed and in awe of the sacrifices all of these kids have made to be there. Be as happy for a fifth place finish that was that athlete's personal best as you are for a gold medal performance. Plus, I think the men's team has a good shot at a medal in badminton.
Poetry Contest
I hope you don't mind if I post this. I found it in our local newspaper today and thought some of you might be interested.
Poetry Contest
$100,000 in Prizes Awarded Annually!
We are now accepting poetry for the Open Amateur Poetry Contest. The contest is open to everyone and entry is free. However, you must hurry, the deadline for entering your poem is September 30, 2008.
All of those who enter will receive a personal critique of their poem. Most of the prize money will be awarded to new and unpublished poets, many of whom have never entered a poetry competition before. To enter, mail one original poem, 24 lines or less, on any subject and in any style, to:
Poetry Contest
Editor 246-1
305 Madison Avenue
Suite 449
New York, NY 10165
There is a picture of a ribbon that says -- Reader's Choice Ranked #1
I don't know anything about this other than it was in our local newpaper. Try it if you like. Who knows, you might actually get paid.. :)
Anyway, good luck to any of you that try...
Poetry Contest
$100,000 in Prizes Awarded Annually!
We are now accepting poetry for the Open Amateur Poetry Contest. The contest is open to everyone and entry is free. However, you must hurry, the deadline for entering your poem is September 30, 2008.
All of those who enter will receive a personal critique of their poem. Most of the prize money will be awarded to new and unpublished poets, many of whom have never entered a poetry competition before. To enter, mail one original poem, 24 lines or less, on any subject and in any style, to:
Poetry Contest
Editor 246-1
305 Madison Avenue
Suite 449
New York, NY 10165
There is a picture of a ribbon that says -- Reader's Choice Ranked #1
I don't know anything about this other than it was in our local newpaper. Try it if you like. Who knows, you might actually get paid.. :)
Anyway, good luck to any of you that try...
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