If you happened to be wandering past my classroom at Generic Middle School this afternoon, let’s say around 2:00, you would have seen me at the overhead projector discussing the merits and drawbacks of various narrative leads. Using a vignette concerning a boy named Scott whose tranquil camp breakfast was interrupted by his father’s announcement that a car was in the lake, I showed my students multiple ways to draw a reader into the action, while avoiding the drab, “ho-hum” style opening plaguing many a student essay.
One opening featured Scott abandoning his breakfast and running at breakneck speed to the lake. Another began with Scott’s father frantically calling him to the shoreline. A different lead took us straight into Scott’s thoughts as he wondered what caused his dad to disrupt breakfast with a lot of shouting.
Throughout the lesson, I remained in close proximity to one of my more, um, spirited students who did not appear to be engaged in the material. When I asked the students to try the different leads out on their own stories, I wasn’t surprised that this particular student wasn’t eager to participate. What did surprise me was the reason he cited for not wanting to go proceed.
“What happened at the lake?” he demanded.
The lake. What lake? Oh. Until that moment, I hadn’t thought of the paragraph leads as anything more than a curriculum-supplied exercise—a means to an end. But here, my student was looking for a story. And why shouldn’t he? We’re studying narratives, after all.
Not missing a beat, I answered, “Well, I guess the writer really did his job,” explaining that the paragraphs were just examples of how a writer might begin a story. “He drew you right in, didn’t he?”
“Did his job? Did his job?” my student sputtered. “How can you say the guy did his job if he didn’t even finish the story?”
Good question.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Just Another Cake-on-the-Head Day; or Flashback Fridays, Week 3
The following piece was woven together from 2 similarly-themed articles than ran in the religion column I used to write for the Daily Press. I plan to include some incarnation of the following in my upcoming book.
It was not a cake a rookie should have ever attempted, that much was clear. Three made from scratch layers sandwiching mounds of freshly whipped filling and covered in frosting hand whisked over ice, it required seventeen different ingredients, an intimidating array of kitchen appliances, and, as the recipe title ironically indicated, a “perfect” result.
In a tactical error, I had decided to bake my daughter’s first birthday cake in the kitchen of my grandfather, the master chef, as we were in the middle of a move and I didn’t have any of the aforementioned fancy gadgets, anyway.
The trouble started while layers one, two, and three were in the cooling stages and I began to whip the filling. It was a warm day, and the cream was a bit touchy. I managed to curdle the first two attempts, and I believe that the third carton of heavy cream that the corner market sold me was probably their last. Grandfather, the master chef, desperately wanted to get involved. I desperately wanted to do it myself. My grandfather dissolved into a stream of rapid-fire Italian. I muddled on, wondering how Perfect Chocolate Cake had gone so horribly wrong.
It’s hard to pin down exactly how it happened. It may have had something to do with the cream, but I think more likely it was the icing. A miscalculated gesture brought the entire process to a screeching halt as one of the cooling layers tumbled from the counter and on top of my daughter’s head.
Metaphorically speaking, cake-on-the-head days are pretty much status quo. It’s the chaos in which we spend the majority of our lives: the deadlines, the unfinished projects, the clutter, what we have to do, the things that didn’t turn out the way we expected, all that might turn out later.
We’re working toward some sense of accomplishment and we end up surrounded by the flotsam of unread memos, looming deadlines, the pressure of balancing work and family, and a sneaking suspicion that we’re further from our dreams than we were just yesterday.
The truth is we all want to rise to the top of whatever heap in which we’ve found ourselves. We’re all looking for the fast track out of the trenches.
Looking for the short cut that would deliver my manuscripts from the slush pile to to polished desk tops in the Big Apple, I turned to the successful format of Fox's American Idol for inspiration. Wondering if the successful format of the show could do for writers what it has for music industry hopefuls, I hatched the idea for a spin-off I like to call American Author. A panel including blockbuster authors Dean Koontz and David Baldacci along with a representative from a large New York publishing house would preside as budding wordsmiths make weekly forays into various literary genres. Horror week with Stephen King. Legal thrillers with John Grisham. Romance novellas with Danielle Steele.
I thought the idea was entirely original until I learned about the show my father created called American Programmer. Here, Bill Gates and a panel of high-ranking Microsoft representatives critique the work of a bespectacled cast of young hackers...
Face it, twelve kids or not, real life easily looks more like a scene from Cheaper By The Dozen than anything commanding an agent and a six-figure contract. Too much of our time is spent anticipating the future to have a real strategy for today. We go through the day treading water, convinced that there's an amazing utopia somewhere at the end of a long to-do list--if we can stay afloat to get there. Life spirals into a scene from the pilot of American Programmer: a series of if/then statements: if I can get through this, this and this, then I’ll be able to do something important.
If you’re anything like me, the list of stuff to “get through” just keeps growing. We’re so busy striving for Perfect Chocolate Cake, we forget the joy of the baking process: the nibbled chocolate chunks, the snitched sugar, the beaters waiting to be licked clean.
Life, then, must not be the the end result of the recipe. It must be found on the list of ingredients—in each and every item. Every day the most incredible things pass right through our lives, and too often we don’t recognize their significance until they live only in our memories. Magic moments fly by unannounced. Life just keeps moving, carrying with it the people and opportunities that inhabit our todays. I am reminded of this fact every time I look at my beautiful daughter, who is no longer a baby with cake on her head, or when I feel a pang of longing for my Grandfather, who is in heaven. Babies and grandfathers, and other precious ingredients in life, are to be savored for their role in each today with which we are we are blessed.
Most days aren’t “Perfect Chocolate Cake.” They’re just crumbs from an exotic recipe concocted by The Master Chef. And each one is good.
It was not a cake a rookie should have ever attempted, that much was clear. Three made from scratch layers sandwiching mounds of freshly whipped filling and covered in frosting hand whisked over ice, it required seventeen different ingredients, an intimidating array of kitchen appliances, and, as the recipe title ironically indicated, a “perfect” result.
In a tactical error, I had decided to bake my daughter’s first birthday cake in the kitchen of my grandfather, the master chef, as we were in the middle of a move and I didn’t have any of the aforementioned fancy gadgets, anyway.
The trouble started while layers one, two, and three were in the cooling stages and I began to whip the filling. It was a warm day, and the cream was a bit touchy. I managed to curdle the first two attempts, and I believe that the third carton of heavy cream that the corner market sold me was probably their last. Grandfather, the master chef, desperately wanted to get involved. I desperately wanted to do it myself. My grandfather dissolved into a stream of rapid-fire Italian. I muddled on, wondering how Perfect Chocolate Cake had gone so horribly wrong.
It’s hard to pin down exactly how it happened. It may have had something to do with the cream, but I think more likely it was the icing. A miscalculated gesture brought the entire process to a screeching halt as one of the cooling layers tumbled from the counter and on top of my daughter’s head.
Metaphorically speaking, cake-on-the-head days are pretty much status quo. It’s the chaos in which we spend the majority of our lives: the deadlines, the unfinished projects, the clutter, what we have to do, the things that didn’t turn out the way we expected, all that might turn out later.
We’re working toward some sense of accomplishment and we end up surrounded by the flotsam of unread memos, looming deadlines, the pressure of balancing work and family, and a sneaking suspicion that we’re further from our dreams than we were just yesterday.
The truth is we all want to rise to the top of whatever heap in which we’ve found ourselves. We’re all looking for the fast track out of the trenches.
Looking for the short cut that would deliver my manuscripts from the slush pile to to polished desk tops in the Big Apple, I turned to the successful format of Fox's American Idol for inspiration. Wondering if the successful format of the show could do for writers what it has for music industry hopefuls, I hatched the idea for a spin-off I like to call American Author. A panel including blockbuster authors Dean Koontz and David Baldacci along with a representative from a large New York publishing house would preside as budding wordsmiths make weekly forays into various literary genres. Horror week with Stephen King. Legal thrillers with John Grisham. Romance novellas with Danielle Steele.
I thought the idea was entirely original until I learned about the show my father created called American Programmer. Here, Bill Gates and a panel of high-ranking Microsoft representatives critique the work of a bespectacled cast of young hackers...
Face it, twelve kids or not, real life easily looks more like a scene from Cheaper By The Dozen than anything commanding an agent and a six-figure contract. Too much of our time is spent anticipating the future to have a real strategy for today. We go through the day treading water, convinced that there's an amazing utopia somewhere at the end of a long to-do list--if we can stay afloat to get there. Life spirals into a scene from the pilot of American Programmer: a series of if/then statements: if I can get through this, this and this, then I’ll be able to do something important.
If you’re anything like me, the list of stuff to “get through” just keeps growing. We’re so busy striving for Perfect Chocolate Cake, we forget the joy of the baking process: the nibbled chocolate chunks, the snitched sugar, the beaters waiting to be licked clean.
Life, then, must not be the the end result of the recipe. It must be found on the list of ingredients—in each and every item. Every day the most incredible things pass right through our lives, and too often we don’t recognize their significance until they live only in our memories. Magic moments fly by unannounced. Life just keeps moving, carrying with it the people and opportunities that inhabit our todays. I am reminded of this fact every time I look at my beautiful daughter, who is no longer a baby with cake on her head, or when I feel a pang of longing for my Grandfather, who is in heaven. Babies and grandfathers, and other precious ingredients in life, are to be savored for their role in each today with which we are we are blessed.
Most days aren’t “Perfect Chocolate Cake.” They’re just crumbs from an exotic recipe concocted by The Master Chef. And each one is good.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Sniffing Out a Story
“So what you’re saying is, you can actually smell a story?” Bubble Boy leaned back in his seat, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
“Well, I suppose in way you could,” I said, pleased that my lesson on sensory details was making such an impact. We’d just concluded a reading of Amy Tan’s Fish Cheeks, a narrative detailing the particulars of a decidedly alarming culinary episode involving gutted prawn, bulging eyeballs, and dried fungus—a veritable feast of sensory stimuli which I was now using to encourage my seventh graders to “enter” the story. “Can you see those black veins being pulled from the prawn?” I asked. “How about that slimy cod? Can you hear it squish?” The students were eating it up—figuratively, so I thought, until Bubble Boy followed up his query with: “Well that’s good, because I just caught a whiff of something.” He waved a hand vaguely through the air, giving several curious sniffs.
“Good! Good!” I encouraged, really impressed to see him engaging in the literature.
“No, not good,” he replied. “It’s burning.”
“Burning?” I turned my gaze back to the text, scanning for any mention of flame.
“Yes, it seems sort of—rubbery.”
“That’s not the story,” another student piped up. “It’s tar. They’re working on the roof.”
“Well, I suppose in way you could,” I said, pleased that my lesson on sensory details was making such an impact. We’d just concluded a reading of Amy Tan’s Fish Cheeks, a narrative detailing the particulars of a decidedly alarming culinary episode involving gutted prawn, bulging eyeballs, and dried fungus—a veritable feast of sensory stimuli which I was now using to encourage my seventh graders to “enter” the story. “Can you see those black veins being pulled from the prawn?” I asked. “How about that slimy cod? Can you hear it squish?” The students were eating it up—figuratively, so I thought, until Bubble Boy followed up his query with: “Well that’s good, because I just caught a whiff of something.” He waved a hand vaguely through the air, giving several curious sniffs.
“Good! Good!” I encouraged, really impressed to see him engaging in the literature.
“No, not good,” he replied. “It’s burning.”
“Burning?” I turned my gaze back to the text, scanning for any mention of flame.
“Yes, it seems sort of—rubbery.”
“That’s not the story,” another student piped up. “It’s tar. They’re working on the roof.”
Friday, March 13, 2009
Like Cheese and Wine; or Flashback Fridays, Week 2
Today's Flashback Friday post is a much-maligned piece I originally wrote as a contest entry. My hopes for a contest win, however, were crushed by a snarky judge who suggested the article would be truer to its theme if it were to "simply dissolve into nonsense" at its conclusion. Bouncing back from the setback, I retooled the piece as an introductory chapter for the aforementioned abandoned book project I plan to resurrect upon graduation.
Like Cheese and Wine
From an early age, I understood the second law of Thermodynamics. I may not have known it by that name, but I did notice that my music would last longer if I dubbed my record albums onto cassette, and even then, the ones I liked most would need to be taped again after the cassette succumbed to repeated rewinds. I noticed that Barbie’s best gowns would become frayed and wrinkled and pop their seams, until eventually they became castoffs for the Cinderella scenes. I noticed that even my most fantastic cardboard forts could not withstand more than three days of serious play or a single cloudburst.
It wasn’t long before I began to apply my dire observations of entropy to life itself. Hit a certain age, somewhere around thirty by all appearances, and it seems people begin to buckle under repeated use. Creases form, seams pop, and after a long day at work, some folks lack the fortitude to withstand any recreation at all. A cloudburst called time seemed destined to drown the spirit of youth. As I catapulted into my thirties with little more than a windblown umbrella of optimism to shield me from the forecasted deluge, my grandfather and my aged dog departed in the same year, passing me a torch that leaves me completely at odds with Newton.
As any grade school science text will tell you, Newton’s entropy promises nothing short of a total downward spiral. The Second Law confidently assures us that all things eventually return to baseline, leaving no impression, creating no change. Confronting my third decade, I was running scared from Newton and his empirical absolutes. Left to reflect on two radically different lives that each touched mine in seemingly incomparable ways, I discovered common denominator. Within the lives of my grandfather and my pet, I found an affront to Newton, a rejection of his Second Law, and a call to live my story rather than count its pages.
An American-born son of Italian immigrants, my grandfather was a high spirited boy of mischief, who dipped pigtails into inkwells and played pranks along with his trusty steed, Mr. Don, who was both his ride to school and his best friend. As a young newlywed, he cooked his way through World War II on a Navy ship, and when the war ended, he helped his father run the family spinning mill. I’ll never know if his adventurous tales peopled with shady Italian businessmen and ancestors with names like Uncle Icy were more family history or product of his well-honed affinity for spinning another type of yarn.
What I do know is that faster, quicker, sooner were the words by which my grandfather worked and lived. The mill was typically abuzz with excitement as Gramps single-handedly battled stray shipments, overdue accounts, or botched dye lots with an army’s arsenal. His visits to our house were frequent, brief, and sudden in nature. He’d blow through the front door, stir things up a bit with guessing games, cash prizes, and a few rash promises about purchasing ponies, then jingle his pocket change to signal his imminent departure.
Trips to the movies followed a strict blueprint. Waiting—either in line or in theatrical suspense—was not an option. We’d arrive at the theater while our chosen feature was already in progress, secure tickets for the next screening and then proceed directly into the darkened theater to view the final twenty minutes of the movie. After a brief intermission while the crowd and the reel changed, we’d watch the beginning straight though to the first familiar image that flashed across the screen. At that point the soundtrack would invariably shift to the subtle jingling of pocket change and we’d slip out the back. Sure, we had to piece the story together like a patchwork quilt on the way home, but we avoided the crowds.
With Gramps, everything was done both in bulk and with gusto. If a little was good, then a lot was far better. Food in general and whipped cream in particular best illustrated this point. A particularly memorable stomachache in the late seventies was traced to a piece of cake slightly smaller than a breadbox and topped off with a quart or two of cream. He bought in gross, cooked in surplus, and shared in abundance. A local food distributor promoted him to caterer status and gave him a corporate account. To this day, after visits with my grandmother I still return home with several of his industrial sized cans of tomatoes. Never mind the can is four times the size that my family of four really needs—in their excess, the tomatoes are a reminder of the largeness of my grandfather’s generous heart.
A man of adventure, travel, and action, Gramps would leave for his Florida house or a western dude ranch at the mere mention of snow. Things would quiet down a bit. My father needed the winter months to repair relations with the folks at the Dye Works. At home, we kept busy with the ill-behaved ponies Gramps purchased before one of his departures.
As he grew older, doctors worked to stay one step ahead of his failing heart. His adventures changed. Considering his history, I can do nothing but marvel at the things that captured his focus in his later years. Canvases transformed by color and life with scores of brushes and dozens of techniques. Carved furniture protected by coats of varnish totaling in the double digits and each needing a full day to dry. Carefully strung beadwork.
When he could no longer make car trips west to visit his beloved dude ranches, he learned to surf there instead. The Internet took him where he could no longer drive, and he took his zest for life into those journeys as well. An entire forest was sacrificed as he began a campaign to print out every page of every website west of the Mississippi. I smile now at the card on my dresser, reminding me of the trees that were planted in a great western forest, a touching memorial from a dear friend who had no way of knowing the irony of the tribute. In his honor, may they grow tall, strong—and quickly.
In his later years, Gramps learned to put his energies into fighting only chosen battles. He forgave old grievances and let go of past hurts. I think even the Dye Works received a full pardon. Gramps mellowed as maturity gave him the courage to expand and adapt his adventures.
Disease weakens muscle, but time strengthens the spirit.
Surprisingly, my pet’s life followed a similar pattern. An abandoned husky wandering busy streets, Kelly was a high spirited dog of mischief, boasting a long rap sheet on any one of her carefree days of puppyhood. She’d snatched sandwiches from the hands of innocent children. She chased mailmen. She chewed furniture and ate college textbooks. One romp of reckless abandon through my parent’s living room was mistaken for a burglary and the police were nearly summoned.
Like other dogs with a penchant for trouble, Kelly was expected to bide her time in a crate while the family was away. Mistress of Escape, Kelly chose instead to baffle us with her Houdini-like ability to elude confinement. We’d come home to find her crate completely intact while she lounged on some forbidden piece of furniture.
Thoroughly stubborn, Kelly was quite possibly Italian also, preferring to sup in the ancient Roman tradition of reclining on something soft. She’d transfer her meals in large mouthfuls, scatter the pieces across her favorite carpet and delicately pluck and consume each savory morsel without so much as raising her head. Today, stray dog food bits scattered by her offspring, two ill-mannered, genetically improbable Labradors, remind me that some things aren’t meant to be changed.
A dog of intellect, she reveled in new experiences. An unfamiliar walking route, visitors, car trips: things needed to be barked at, sniffed, investigated. As a pup, those traits amused and at times frustrated me. She required supervision, guidance, and discipline.
When she surprised us with a litter of labs halfway through her ninth year, her history made us fear that she would be a disastrous mother. Despite the one groggy moment when she got up after her emergency C-section and scattered her formerly nursing pups across the bathroom floor, she was a great mom.
Her life took on new dimensions as she became an old dog rediscovering the thrill of senseless puppy play. When a new walking route took us to the beach, she found out that the ocean is really a big game of tag, and that the best romps were ones that ended with sand and sea salt between her paw pads.
Maturity transformed my furry menace into a perfect companion. She wanted my company through thunderstorms, reveled in long brushings, and wedged herself in the doorframe to prevent me from leaving her behind when it was time to pick up the children each afternoon. But I didn’t want to leave her, anyway. She had mellowed. Time with her was pure pleasure. Even as veterinarians worked to stay one step ahead of the deterioration of her health in her advancing age, nothing could lift her spirits as high as an adventure. Our last years together are the ones I treasure most and have mourned the hardest.
Years wear the body, but experience makes us whole.
Learn new skills. Discover new games. Extend forbearance. The best times are together times. Grow. Mature. Improve. These are the lessons embodied in the stories of two adventurous souls who taught me that time is to be cherished, not feared. Their legacy is mine now, to nurture as my own story refines.
A high-spirited girl, familiar with mischief, I choose to remain at odds with Sir Isaac as the chapters of my life unfold. Wrinkles will mark the pages where rough edges have been softened. Wear and tear will tell of lessons learned and challenges conquered. I need not fear the evidence time will etch on my body, I must, instead, choreograph its signature on my soul.
It may seem tempting to buy into Newton’s law. One look in the mirror may convince you to accept the notion that the creases, wrinkles, and popped seams revealed therein are the grim but inevitable work of entropy. If you’ve read the right fairy tales, though, you already know that mirrors don’t always tell the truth. Science books don’t either.
Like Cheese and Wine
From an early age, I understood the second law of Thermodynamics. I may not have known it by that name, but I did notice that my music would last longer if I dubbed my record albums onto cassette, and even then, the ones I liked most would need to be taped again after the cassette succumbed to repeated rewinds. I noticed that Barbie’s best gowns would become frayed and wrinkled and pop their seams, until eventually they became castoffs for the Cinderella scenes. I noticed that even my most fantastic cardboard forts could not withstand more than three days of serious play or a single cloudburst.
It wasn’t long before I began to apply my dire observations of entropy to life itself. Hit a certain age, somewhere around thirty by all appearances, and it seems people begin to buckle under repeated use. Creases form, seams pop, and after a long day at work, some folks lack the fortitude to withstand any recreation at all. A cloudburst called time seemed destined to drown the spirit of youth. As I catapulted into my thirties with little more than a windblown umbrella of optimism to shield me from the forecasted deluge, my grandfather and my aged dog departed in the same year, passing me a torch that leaves me completely at odds with Newton.
As any grade school science text will tell you, Newton’s entropy promises nothing short of a total downward spiral. The Second Law confidently assures us that all things eventually return to baseline, leaving no impression, creating no change. Confronting my third decade, I was running scared from Newton and his empirical absolutes. Left to reflect on two radically different lives that each touched mine in seemingly incomparable ways, I discovered common denominator. Within the lives of my grandfather and my pet, I found an affront to Newton, a rejection of his Second Law, and a call to live my story rather than count its pages.
An American-born son of Italian immigrants, my grandfather was a high spirited boy of mischief, who dipped pigtails into inkwells and played pranks along with his trusty steed, Mr. Don, who was both his ride to school and his best friend. As a young newlywed, he cooked his way through World War II on a Navy ship, and when the war ended, he helped his father run the family spinning mill. I’ll never know if his adventurous tales peopled with shady Italian businessmen and ancestors with names like Uncle Icy were more family history or product of his well-honed affinity for spinning another type of yarn.
What I do know is that faster, quicker, sooner were the words by which my grandfather worked and lived. The mill was typically abuzz with excitement as Gramps single-handedly battled stray shipments, overdue accounts, or botched dye lots with an army’s arsenal. His visits to our house were frequent, brief, and sudden in nature. He’d blow through the front door, stir things up a bit with guessing games, cash prizes, and a few rash promises about purchasing ponies, then jingle his pocket change to signal his imminent departure.
Trips to the movies followed a strict blueprint. Waiting—either in line or in theatrical suspense—was not an option. We’d arrive at the theater while our chosen feature was already in progress, secure tickets for the next screening and then proceed directly into the darkened theater to view the final twenty minutes of the movie. After a brief intermission while the crowd and the reel changed, we’d watch the beginning straight though to the first familiar image that flashed across the screen. At that point the soundtrack would invariably shift to the subtle jingling of pocket change and we’d slip out the back. Sure, we had to piece the story together like a patchwork quilt on the way home, but we avoided the crowds.
With Gramps, everything was done both in bulk and with gusto. If a little was good, then a lot was far better. Food in general and whipped cream in particular best illustrated this point. A particularly memorable stomachache in the late seventies was traced to a piece of cake slightly smaller than a breadbox and topped off with a quart or two of cream. He bought in gross, cooked in surplus, and shared in abundance. A local food distributor promoted him to caterer status and gave him a corporate account. To this day, after visits with my grandmother I still return home with several of his industrial sized cans of tomatoes. Never mind the can is four times the size that my family of four really needs—in their excess, the tomatoes are a reminder of the largeness of my grandfather’s generous heart.
A man of adventure, travel, and action, Gramps would leave for his Florida house or a western dude ranch at the mere mention of snow. Things would quiet down a bit. My father needed the winter months to repair relations with the folks at the Dye Works. At home, we kept busy with the ill-behaved ponies Gramps purchased before one of his departures.
As he grew older, doctors worked to stay one step ahead of his failing heart. His adventures changed. Considering his history, I can do nothing but marvel at the things that captured his focus in his later years. Canvases transformed by color and life with scores of brushes and dozens of techniques. Carved furniture protected by coats of varnish totaling in the double digits and each needing a full day to dry. Carefully strung beadwork.
When he could no longer make car trips west to visit his beloved dude ranches, he learned to surf there instead. The Internet took him where he could no longer drive, and he took his zest for life into those journeys as well. An entire forest was sacrificed as he began a campaign to print out every page of every website west of the Mississippi. I smile now at the card on my dresser, reminding me of the trees that were planted in a great western forest, a touching memorial from a dear friend who had no way of knowing the irony of the tribute. In his honor, may they grow tall, strong—and quickly.
In his later years, Gramps learned to put his energies into fighting only chosen battles. He forgave old grievances and let go of past hurts. I think even the Dye Works received a full pardon. Gramps mellowed as maturity gave him the courage to expand and adapt his adventures.
Disease weakens muscle, but time strengthens the spirit.
Surprisingly, my pet’s life followed a similar pattern. An abandoned husky wandering busy streets, Kelly was a high spirited dog of mischief, boasting a long rap sheet on any one of her carefree days of puppyhood. She’d snatched sandwiches from the hands of innocent children. She chased mailmen. She chewed furniture and ate college textbooks. One romp of reckless abandon through my parent’s living room was mistaken for a burglary and the police were nearly summoned.
Like other dogs with a penchant for trouble, Kelly was expected to bide her time in a crate while the family was away. Mistress of Escape, Kelly chose instead to baffle us with her Houdini-like ability to elude confinement. We’d come home to find her crate completely intact while she lounged on some forbidden piece of furniture.
Thoroughly stubborn, Kelly was quite possibly Italian also, preferring to sup in the ancient Roman tradition of reclining on something soft. She’d transfer her meals in large mouthfuls, scatter the pieces across her favorite carpet and delicately pluck and consume each savory morsel without so much as raising her head. Today, stray dog food bits scattered by her offspring, two ill-mannered, genetically improbable Labradors, remind me that some things aren’t meant to be changed.
A dog of intellect, she reveled in new experiences. An unfamiliar walking route, visitors, car trips: things needed to be barked at, sniffed, investigated. As a pup, those traits amused and at times frustrated me. She required supervision, guidance, and discipline.
When she surprised us with a litter of labs halfway through her ninth year, her history made us fear that she would be a disastrous mother. Despite the one groggy moment when she got up after her emergency C-section and scattered her formerly nursing pups across the bathroom floor, she was a great mom.
Her life took on new dimensions as she became an old dog rediscovering the thrill of senseless puppy play. When a new walking route took us to the beach, she found out that the ocean is really a big game of tag, and that the best romps were ones that ended with sand and sea salt between her paw pads.
Maturity transformed my furry menace into a perfect companion. She wanted my company through thunderstorms, reveled in long brushings, and wedged herself in the doorframe to prevent me from leaving her behind when it was time to pick up the children each afternoon. But I didn’t want to leave her, anyway. She had mellowed. Time with her was pure pleasure. Even as veterinarians worked to stay one step ahead of the deterioration of her health in her advancing age, nothing could lift her spirits as high as an adventure. Our last years together are the ones I treasure most and have mourned the hardest.
Years wear the body, but experience makes us whole.
Learn new skills. Discover new games. Extend forbearance. The best times are together times. Grow. Mature. Improve. These are the lessons embodied in the stories of two adventurous souls who taught me that time is to be cherished, not feared. Their legacy is mine now, to nurture as my own story refines.
A high-spirited girl, familiar with mischief, I choose to remain at odds with Sir Isaac as the chapters of my life unfold. Wrinkles will mark the pages where rough edges have been softened. Wear and tear will tell of lessons learned and challenges conquered. I need not fear the evidence time will etch on my body, I must, instead, choreograph its signature on my soul.
It may seem tempting to buy into Newton’s law. One look in the mirror may convince you to accept the notion that the creases, wrinkles, and popped seams revealed therein are the grim but inevitable work of entropy. If you’ve read the right fairy tales, though, you already know that mirrors don’t always tell the truth. Science books don’t either.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Flashback Fridays
Inspired by last month’s foray into the archives in search of contest entry material, I’ve decided to feature a few weeks worth of Flashback Fridays—previously unposted oldies I’m pulling put, dusting off, and potentially re-working into an upcoming project. Today’s piece is from a proposal for a book that got prematurely abandoned. (The project was entitled Defying Physics: What Newton didn’t tell you about stuffed animals, deep dark fears, and women over 30—by way of explanation for the later reference to the book’s title.)
Biff and Alice
Circumstances forced us to spell out the raw facts of life to our eight-year-old son.
In support of a family-fundraising-slash-spring-cleaning event, Brandon had obediently collected his outgrown assets. The process had been thoroughly uneventful until it became time to price his wares.
There was some back and forth. Things lost their value, my husband was explaining, citing specific items from the gathered assemblage as evidence. Then the conversation turned to Biff and Alice.
I was curious how my husband might handle the query. A refresher look at the title of the book you’re reading should soundly argue my qualifications for tackling the sticky issue of depreciation with the younger generation. The concept has eluded me since my own youth.
In grade school, two classmates and I assembled some odds and ends in front of Sunshine Flagg’s house in a mildly successful attempt to fund an evening at the traveling carnival that had set up down the road. As Sunshine’s mother described it to mine later, managerial conflict was largely limited to disagreement over the pricing of merchandise. I wanted way too much coin for too little bauble, while Sunshine, on the other hand, seemed content to haul our treasures to the curb and simply give them away. (The third party, a neighborhood ruffian named Rob, was a late arrival to the venture and had to be included due to a distant relational affiliation with Sunshine. He somehow wound up taking a cut of the carnival goods in spite of the fact that his sole contribution to the venture was siding with whatever position was more controversial.)
The summer of the yard sale, when I learned the necessity of driving a hard bargain against the ravages of depreciation was the same summer I found out that, unlike my classmates, I did not care for Shawn Cassidy. It was also the summer Sunshine’s aunt Joan taught us the maxim “every cloud has a silver lining.” (My mother thought the observation to be sage, hard wrought advice from the voice of experience, but in truth was merely Aunt Joan’s response to getting to spend time with her boyfriend while supervising us at the aforementioned carnival.)
Thus, I have spent the intervening years in blissful rebellion against the laws of nature, the silver lining here that I can write witty, tongue in cheek prose about my aberrant tendencies. I am, however, tentative about inflicting my own children with such wanton disregard for what I’ve heard others describe as the way things are.
I was, therefore, relieved to hear my husband’s response from the other room. “Biff might be an exception,” he conceded. “What did I pay for Biff? Seven dollars?”
Yes, I agreed, seven dollars.
“I’ll bet you could still get seven dollars for Biff.”
Biff is an old, working class bike that my husband picked up at the thrift store after our daughter Allison’s fifth birthday when she was having difficulty learning to ride her birthday present—a shiny pink model she christened Alice.
We tried, with limited success, to create the scrapbook moment oft used as fodder for life insurance commercials where the father of a young rider runs down the road grasping the back seat of a shiny new two-wheeler. In the ads, the smiling dad slowly relinquishes his grip as the small rider gains speed and confidence and breaks into a toothless grin upon realization that she’s flying solo.
Dozens of such attempts had failed. My husband fatigued. Allison remained stiff, uncertain, afraid to tumble.
“She’s not afraid to crash,” my husband wheezed, “she’s afraid to crash Alice.”
Allison, my husband explained, did not need a support father to learn to ride. This was something she’d have to conquer head on, by herself and for herself –girl vs. front walk, the hard way. It made sense. That was, after all, how I’ve learned just about everything I know.
“You don’t need an Alice right now,” he explained to Allison after returning from the thrift store. Biff, my husband explained, was tough. Well aquatinted with pavement scrapes, Biff could handle the bumps and bangs of the learning experience. Biff, the heavy-duty pick up of the cycling world, wasn’t around to look pretty. Having spent his rust-free youth, Biff had moved on to a higher calling.
Biff’s tough-stuff, no nonsense reputation was never questioned, despite shades of pink and purple still visible beneath myriad scuffs and blemishes-- not even when he was deployed for Brandon’s own training days.
With the aid of Biff and several months’ growth, Allison became a top-notch cyclist. Astride Alice, she pedaled many happy miles, grew even taller, and is now tooling around on Slice, a hefty mountain bike. Brandon eventually grew into his own sleek ride.
Alice, having served her time parading around in streamers sporting little woven baskets and flashy wheel jewelry, is ready to get down to business. There’s a little girl out there somewhere who’s ready to take her scrapes and lumps and conquer the open road. A little shiny around the edges, Alice is still a rookie. She’ll go to a new home at the entry-level rate of $7.
Biff, however, is a seasoned veteran, having gone head to head with both my children’s most spectacular road wars. Survivor of training missions, tested on asphalt, gravel and forest floor, Biff has weathered wind, rain, ice and mud. It’s a wealth of experience he’ll take into his next assignment.
Biff’s not going anywhere for a penny less than $8.
Biff and Alice
Circumstances forced us to spell out the raw facts of life to our eight-year-old son.
In support of a family-fundraising-slash-spring-cleaning event, Brandon had obediently collected his outgrown assets. The process had been thoroughly uneventful until it became time to price his wares.
There was some back and forth. Things lost their value, my husband was explaining, citing specific items from the gathered assemblage as evidence. Then the conversation turned to Biff and Alice.
I was curious how my husband might handle the query. A refresher look at the title of the book you’re reading should soundly argue my qualifications for tackling the sticky issue of depreciation with the younger generation. The concept has eluded me since my own youth.
In grade school, two classmates and I assembled some odds and ends in front of Sunshine Flagg’s house in a mildly successful attempt to fund an evening at the traveling carnival that had set up down the road. As Sunshine’s mother described it to mine later, managerial conflict was largely limited to disagreement over the pricing of merchandise. I wanted way too much coin for too little bauble, while Sunshine, on the other hand, seemed content to haul our treasures to the curb and simply give them away. (The third party, a neighborhood ruffian named Rob, was a late arrival to the venture and had to be included due to a distant relational affiliation with Sunshine. He somehow wound up taking a cut of the carnival goods in spite of the fact that his sole contribution to the venture was siding with whatever position was more controversial.)
The summer of the yard sale, when I learned the necessity of driving a hard bargain against the ravages of depreciation was the same summer I found out that, unlike my classmates, I did not care for Shawn Cassidy. It was also the summer Sunshine’s aunt Joan taught us the maxim “every cloud has a silver lining.” (My mother thought the observation to be sage, hard wrought advice from the voice of experience, but in truth was merely Aunt Joan’s response to getting to spend time with her boyfriend while supervising us at the aforementioned carnival.)
Thus, I have spent the intervening years in blissful rebellion against the laws of nature, the silver lining here that I can write witty, tongue in cheek prose about my aberrant tendencies. I am, however, tentative about inflicting my own children with such wanton disregard for what I’ve heard others describe as the way things are.
I was, therefore, relieved to hear my husband’s response from the other room. “Biff might be an exception,” he conceded. “What did I pay for Biff? Seven dollars?”
Yes, I agreed, seven dollars.
“I’ll bet you could still get seven dollars for Biff.”
Biff is an old, working class bike that my husband picked up at the thrift store after our daughter Allison’s fifth birthday when she was having difficulty learning to ride her birthday present—a shiny pink model she christened Alice.
We tried, with limited success, to create the scrapbook moment oft used as fodder for life insurance commercials where the father of a young rider runs down the road grasping the back seat of a shiny new two-wheeler. In the ads, the smiling dad slowly relinquishes his grip as the small rider gains speed and confidence and breaks into a toothless grin upon realization that she’s flying solo.
Dozens of such attempts had failed. My husband fatigued. Allison remained stiff, uncertain, afraid to tumble.
“She’s not afraid to crash,” my husband wheezed, “she’s afraid to crash Alice.”
Allison, my husband explained, did not need a support father to learn to ride. This was something she’d have to conquer head on, by herself and for herself –girl vs. front walk, the hard way. It made sense. That was, after all, how I’ve learned just about everything I know.
“You don’t need an Alice right now,” he explained to Allison after returning from the thrift store. Biff, my husband explained, was tough. Well aquatinted with pavement scrapes, Biff could handle the bumps and bangs of the learning experience. Biff, the heavy-duty pick up of the cycling world, wasn’t around to look pretty. Having spent his rust-free youth, Biff had moved on to a higher calling.
Biff’s tough-stuff, no nonsense reputation was never questioned, despite shades of pink and purple still visible beneath myriad scuffs and blemishes-- not even when he was deployed for Brandon’s own training days.
With the aid of Biff and several months’ growth, Allison became a top-notch cyclist. Astride Alice, she pedaled many happy miles, grew even taller, and is now tooling around on Slice, a hefty mountain bike. Brandon eventually grew into his own sleek ride.
Alice, having served her time parading around in streamers sporting little woven baskets and flashy wheel jewelry, is ready to get down to business. There’s a little girl out there somewhere who’s ready to take her scrapes and lumps and conquer the open road. A little shiny around the edges, Alice is still a rookie. She’ll go to a new home at the entry-level rate of $7.
Biff, however, is a seasoned veteran, having gone head to head with both my children’s most spectacular road wars. Survivor of training missions, tested on asphalt, gravel and forest floor, Biff has weathered wind, rain, ice and mud. It’s a wealth of experience he’ll take into his next assignment.
Biff’s not going anywhere for a penny less than $8.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Double Not Latte
"It’s the city that’s always asleep,” my husband said in disbelief. We’d covered the east end straight through to the heart of city center only to be greeted by shuttered store fronts and darkened lobbies.
“It’s Saturday night, for crying out loud,” my husband lamented, “What’s wrong with this place?”
It’s not like we were looking for a wild night on the town. We just wanted a cup of coffee. But just because I happen to live in one of the top 40 metropolitan areas in the United States doesn’t mean it’s possible to get a fresh cup of decent coffee on a whim. Especially after 8 PM.
Not so very long ago, I took a fresh brewed cup of joe as a given. There may have been a time before I could pull up to my local Dunkin' Donut in any vehicle in our family fleet and receive a knowing nod from Bob the Arabic Vendor along with a "large coffee, cream," in his rich Middle Eastern tones, a hand off of a steaming foam cup, and a cheery, “see you tomorrow,” but I don’t remember it.
It was simply The Norm until what came to be known as The December 26th Blackout, when I saw, through the car window on an otherwise routine drive down the main drag, a big black hole where the Pink and Orange Beacon normally illuminated our city with rays of Cheer and Goodwill.
“Something’s wrong, something’s wrong,” I shrieked from the passenger’s seat.
Not one to be rattled, my husband assured me that that I was witnessing nothing more than extended holiday cheer. “Bob’s home for Christmas,” my husband said, in vaguely nervous tones.
“Bob doesn’t celebrate Christmas,” I countered grimly.
In a desperate attempt to delay the inevitable, my husband insisted that we “check it out in the morning,” when things would undoubtedly “look better.”
Far from better, the situation at first light spoke of nothing short of scandal, bankruptcy, or, failing that, Bob’s deportation. Reduced to a shell, the building was little more than a canvas for the word “closed,” scrawled in so much shoe polish across the glass storefront. No sign indicating a new location. No “excuse our mess while we’re remodeling.” No “thank you for your patronage” farewell. Just, simply, nothing.
Fellow coffee aficionados assure me that I did not overact when I curled up into the fetal position and threatened to call to my realtor. A grown man admitted that the closure of his local Dunkin' would reduce him to tears. Friends sent condolences. Others openly suggested the need for a move.
Armed with a couple bags of Dunkin’ beans, my aging home pot, and a plan to “fill in” with fare from secondary establishments, I stoically pressed on. To date, the only jolt this endeavor has yielded is a series of aftershocks which have served to underscore the harsh realities of our city's coffee-deprived state. A passable cup of coffee remains elusive. If you can catch the local shops open, it seems that the daily grind is nothing more than lackluster, overpriced swill. And home brew? That's taken on an inexplicable but definite pallor of rancid distaste.
Now, as it happens the coffee drought coincides nicely with my 10-week tenure at Generic Middle School. It seems that maintaining an iron bladder is a prerequisite to any serious school employ. Evidently, arriving to school coffee in hand is the exclusive domain of the private school teacher. Educators in the public sector keep a strict watch over their fluid intake, as I’m told even a momentary absence in the lavatory could end, best case, in a lawsuit, if not outright tragedy.
Having passed the halfway point, however, I’m anticipating a return to my Actual Life and my Usual Ways. Those ways invariably include 24-hour access to fragrant, freshly brewed coffee. In these hard economic times it should be good news for someone, somewhere that there’s a sleepy metropolitan city with an immediate opening for a new Bob. Serious inquiries taken at the Big Black Hole. Must be available nights and weekends.
“It’s Saturday night, for crying out loud,” my husband lamented, “What’s wrong with this place?”
It’s not like we were looking for a wild night on the town. We just wanted a cup of coffee. But just because I happen to live in one of the top 40 metropolitan areas in the United States doesn’t mean it’s possible to get a fresh cup of decent coffee on a whim. Especially after 8 PM.
Not so very long ago, I took a fresh brewed cup of joe as a given. There may have been a time before I could pull up to my local Dunkin' Donut in any vehicle in our family fleet and receive a knowing nod from Bob the Arabic Vendor along with a "large coffee, cream," in his rich Middle Eastern tones, a hand off of a steaming foam cup, and a cheery, “see you tomorrow,” but I don’t remember it.
It was simply The Norm until what came to be known as The December 26th Blackout, when I saw, through the car window on an otherwise routine drive down the main drag, a big black hole where the Pink and Orange Beacon normally illuminated our city with rays of Cheer and Goodwill.
“Something’s wrong, something’s wrong,” I shrieked from the passenger’s seat.
Not one to be rattled, my husband assured me that that I was witnessing nothing more than extended holiday cheer. “Bob’s home for Christmas,” my husband said, in vaguely nervous tones.
“Bob doesn’t celebrate Christmas,” I countered grimly.
In a desperate attempt to delay the inevitable, my husband insisted that we “check it out in the morning,” when things would undoubtedly “look better.”
Far from better, the situation at first light spoke of nothing short of scandal, bankruptcy, or, failing that, Bob’s deportation. Reduced to a shell, the building was little more than a canvas for the word “closed,” scrawled in so much shoe polish across the glass storefront. No sign indicating a new location. No “excuse our mess while we’re remodeling.” No “thank you for your patronage” farewell. Just, simply, nothing.
Fellow coffee aficionados assure me that I did not overact when I curled up into the fetal position and threatened to call to my realtor. A grown man admitted that the closure of his local Dunkin' would reduce him to tears. Friends sent condolences. Others openly suggested the need for a move.
Armed with a couple bags of Dunkin’ beans, my aging home pot, and a plan to “fill in” with fare from secondary establishments, I stoically pressed on. To date, the only jolt this endeavor has yielded is a series of aftershocks which have served to underscore the harsh realities of our city's coffee-deprived state. A passable cup of coffee remains elusive. If you can catch the local shops open, it seems that the daily grind is nothing more than lackluster, overpriced swill. And home brew? That's taken on an inexplicable but definite pallor of rancid distaste.
Now, as it happens the coffee drought coincides nicely with my 10-week tenure at Generic Middle School. It seems that maintaining an iron bladder is a prerequisite to any serious school employ. Evidently, arriving to school coffee in hand is the exclusive domain of the private school teacher. Educators in the public sector keep a strict watch over their fluid intake, as I’m told even a momentary absence in the lavatory could end, best case, in a lawsuit, if not outright tragedy.
Having passed the halfway point, however, I’m anticipating a return to my Actual Life and my Usual Ways. Those ways invariably include 24-hour access to fragrant, freshly brewed coffee. In these hard economic times it should be good news for someone, somewhere that there’s a sleepy metropolitan city with an immediate opening for a new Bob. Serious inquiries taken at the Big Black Hole. Must be available nights and weekends.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Waking Up Beneath Two Blankets
I woke up, pre-dawn beneath my warm comforter—week 5, day 1, already mentally stumbling through the now-familiar getting-ready-for-work routine: rummaging through leftovers in the fridge, bypassing my jeans drawer in route to the career clothes, and ticking off the list of things I need to throw in my bag.
However, before I even left the warmth of my covers, I discovered that I was also beneath a blanket of a different kind. Although this second layer was a frigid sheet of icy snow, it turned out to be no less comforting than my toasty bedspread.
I can’t think of anything more nourishing to my spirit than an unexpected day off. Right smack at the mid-point of my 10-week teaching experience, a few hours of unexpected downtime is truly a gift. My artistic spirit requires a lot of time to process, reflect, think, and distill. If I don’t get enough of it, I start feeling a bit robotic. Even though my need for non-structured time is admittedly excessive—I’m not remotely employable, in the traditional sense of the word—I still don’t think I have the market cornered on the desire for occasional solitude. Everyone needs time just to be.
So here’s to snow days, and rain delays, and other deviations from the norm. Here’s to little pockets of time to think about where we’ve been and where we’re heading--and to little detours that enrich the journey.
However, before I even left the warmth of my covers, I discovered that I was also beneath a blanket of a different kind. Although this second layer was a frigid sheet of icy snow, it turned out to be no less comforting than my toasty bedspread.
I can’t think of anything more nourishing to my spirit than an unexpected day off. Right smack at the mid-point of my 10-week teaching experience, a few hours of unexpected downtime is truly a gift. My artistic spirit requires a lot of time to process, reflect, think, and distill. If I don’t get enough of it, I start feeling a bit robotic. Even though my need for non-structured time is admittedly excessive—I’m not remotely employable, in the traditional sense of the word—I still don’t think I have the market cornered on the desire for occasional solitude. Everyone needs time just to be.
So here’s to snow days, and rain delays, and other deviations from the norm. Here’s to little pockets of time to think about where we’ve been and where we’re heading--and to little detours that enrich the journey.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Evaluations
Throughout my 10 week tenure at Generic Middle School, it is my lot to reside under a collective microscope of scrutiny and evaluation, a state of affairs that is not as unpleasant as it may seem. I actually find it refreshing to have an ongoing log of what all the Key Players are thinking about me. It’s nice to know where you stand. Besides, the feedback has been helpful, and overwhelmingly favorable to boot.
As much as I like the continuous stream of documentation about my progress,
my favorite evaluations have been neither written nor formal. I love hearing what the kids think about me.
It turns out I’m pretty “cool,” a rumor that began circulating shortly after a perpetual gum-chewer discovered that a Bubblicious crack-down wasn’t high on my list of priorities. It seems that overlooking a little wad of chew here and there buys you a whole lot of hallway cred—-which comes in handy when you need cooperation during an Actual Incident. In the choose-your-battles department, this one’s a no-brainer.
Although coolness is certainly a coveted attribute, I was even more elated to learn of my tactical prowess. Waking up utterly mute one morning, I scrambled to devise a voiceless teaching method that would allow some crucial instruction to continue unimpeded. Communicating with my students via large screen Smart Board and some color coded paper squares, I managed an entire grammar lesson.
“How did she loose her voice?” one student asked another.
“I don’t know. She doesn’t even yell.”
“Yell?” chimed in Bubble Boy, “Mrs. Davis doesn’t need to yell. She’s got strategy.”
And just in case my status as a cool strategist isn’t enough for the resume, I just got another bit of good news. Readers, forget that milestone birthday I told you about. I’ve received word that I’m young. Very, very young. Too young to be married; way too green for children.
Conservative estimates place me somewhere around 22. If only I could get official documentation on that!
As much as I like the continuous stream of documentation about my progress,
my favorite evaluations have been neither written nor formal. I love hearing what the kids think about me.
It turns out I’m pretty “cool,” a rumor that began circulating shortly after a perpetual gum-chewer discovered that a Bubblicious crack-down wasn’t high on my list of priorities. It seems that overlooking a little wad of chew here and there buys you a whole lot of hallway cred—-which comes in handy when you need cooperation during an Actual Incident. In the choose-your-battles department, this one’s a no-brainer.
Although coolness is certainly a coveted attribute, I was even more elated to learn of my tactical prowess. Waking up utterly mute one morning, I scrambled to devise a voiceless teaching method that would allow some crucial instruction to continue unimpeded. Communicating with my students via large screen Smart Board and some color coded paper squares, I managed an entire grammar lesson.
“How did she loose her voice?” one student asked another.
“I don’t know. She doesn’t even yell.”
“Yell?” chimed in Bubble Boy, “Mrs. Davis doesn’t need to yell. She’s got strategy.”
And just in case my status as a cool strategist isn’t enough for the resume, I just got another bit of good news. Readers, forget that milestone birthday I told you about. I’ve received word that I’m young. Very, very young. Too young to be married; way too green for children.
Conservative estimates place me somewhere around 22. If only I could get official documentation on that!
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Blog Imitates Art
Things have been a bit crazy lately, and I haven't done a very good job keeping this forum stocked with fresh, literary art for the past week or so. But thanks to the creative minds at http://www.wordle.net/ I'm pleased to bring you a remix of all the latest action here at Running With Letters in visual art form.
I'll be back later in the week, but in the meantime, why not turn all of your favorite online forums (including this one!) into printable art, suitable for framing,notebook ornamentation, or just good, old-fashioned chuckles. Just click on over to wordle with a handful of urls and check it out.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
8 to 3
“I’m burned out,” I confided to my husband. “Day in, day out, it just never stops.”
“It’s Wednesday!” my husband exclaimed. “You’ve been at this, what? Three days?”
Last week marked the first full-time work week I’ve logged since 1990. And it’s true: I was ready to call it a week by hump day.
Now, I’m no slouch. I can put in 12 hours on a newspaper article and turn right back around looking for an angle on my next assignment. I love deadlines, quick turn-around pieces, and nailing the closing line—even if it takes all day. I love caring for children and pets, and, hey, I’m even up for teaching a class or two—provided no one’s expecting me show up more than three days a week, and certainly not before noon.
But this all-day-every-day teaching gig? I’m just not wired for it.
In my three days on the job, I learned that the “daily grind” isn’t about sipping those first two cups of coffee over email with the cats. Turns out “punching the clock” isn’t a reference to silencing your spouse’s alarm after he’s hit snooze one too many times. And “working for the weekend” is more about holding on to a distant hope than it is about writing up advance blog posts on a rainy Saturday morning.
I’ve always suspected that I wasn’t quite cut out for the gritty world of the workforce. After my part-time, private school art program fell victim to a round of budget cuts a couple years back, I flirted a bit with the classified section, but lost interest quickly upon learning that a “canvasser” doesn’t deal in art, and that job involving an invigorating “office” in the great outdoors was with the sanitation department. And then there was the firm that bolded their big selling point-- two weeks of annual leave, the implication being that they actually expect you to show all the other weeks —51 of them, by my estimate. I broke into a cold sweat and tossed the paper into the recycling bin.
Frankly, I was relieved to find an opportunity to bolster my skills through academics rather than hard labor—but it seems even academia can’t shield one from the harsh realities of the work-a-day world, as my “culminating experience” requires 10 weeks of actual, on-the-job performance.
My Catholic friends tell me that this sort of thing is really good for the soul; that discomfort and even misery are strict yet wise instructors. I’m buoyed by this thought as I ready myself each morning under the cloak of darkness and wane prematurely each evening. But these thoughts of stalwart strength and fortitude are treasured most at the end of the week as I sadly contemplate the one working man’s maxim of which I still can’t relate: “another day, another dollar.”
I may be burned out from the daily grind, but pay day for this gig is something I’ll never see on anything but my graduate transcripts.
“It’s Wednesday!” my husband exclaimed. “You’ve been at this, what? Three days?”
Last week marked the first full-time work week I’ve logged since 1990. And it’s true: I was ready to call it a week by hump day.
Now, I’m no slouch. I can put in 12 hours on a newspaper article and turn right back around looking for an angle on my next assignment. I love deadlines, quick turn-around pieces, and nailing the closing line—even if it takes all day. I love caring for children and pets, and, hey, I’m even up for teaching a class or two—provided no one’s expecting me show up more than three days a week, and certainly not before noon.
But this all-day-every-day teaching gig? I’m just not wired for it.
In my three days on the job, I learned that the “daily grind” isn’t about sipping those first two cups of coffee over email with the cats. Turns out “punching the clock” isn’t a reference to silencing your spouse’s alarm after he’s hit snooze one too many times. And “working for the weekend” is more about holding on to a distant hope than it is about writing up advance blog posts on a rainy Saturday morning.
I’ve always suspected that I wasn’t quite cut out for the gritty world of the workforce. After my part-time, private school art program fell victim to a round of budget cuts a couple years back, I flirted a bit with the classified section, but lost interest quickly upon learning that a “canvasser” doesn’t deal in art, and that job involving an invigorating “office” in the great outdoors was with the sanitation department. And then there was the firm that bolded their big selling point-- two weeks of annual leave, the implication being that they actually expect you to show all the other weeks —51 of them, by my estimate. I broke into a cold sweat and tossed the paper into the recycling bin.
Frankly, I was relieved to find an opportunity to bolster my skills through academics rather than hard labor—but it seems even academia can’t shield one from the harsh realities of the work-a-day world, as my “culminating experience” requires 10 weeks of actual, on-the-job performance.
My Catholic friends tell me that this sort of thing is really good for the soul; that discomfort and even misery are strict yet wise instructors. I’m buoyed by this thought as I ready myself each morning under the cloak of darkness and wane prematurely each evening. But these thoughts of stalwart strength and fortitude are treasured most at the end of the week as I sadly contemplate the one working man’s maxim of which I still can’t relate: “another day, another dollar.”
I may be burned out from the daily grind, but pay day for this gig is something I’ll never see on anything but my graduate transcripts.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Punxsutawney Who?
Earlier this week, word came down from Punxsutawney, PA that winter intends to loom large for another six weeks. I’m sure of this because my family considers Groundhog Day a viable holiday, doubtless because we’ve lost all hope that there’s anything else to look forward to. We sit around the living room, watching the returns come in from Punxsutawney with a fervor most Americans reserve exclusively for Election Night. We regard the Bill Murray/Andie McDowell flick celebrating same as a holiday special, anticipating the screening with the same enthusiasm bestowed on Frosty and Rudolph weeks earlier. This year, we even made three kinds of soup to insulate us against the lingering chill.
Today, these events seemed nothing but a distant memory, as temperatures soared into the 70s and it suddenly became easy to pretend that someone found the fast forward button on a calendar somewhere.
I’m solar powered entity-- any length of time without the sun, and I slip into a lethargic stupor. I’ve spent the past several days artificially propped up by nothing but caffeine and chocolate, so today’s sunburst was especially timely.
I raked away the patina of death enveloping my yard--bagged it right up and tossed it to the curb. I planted two raspberry plants, drinking in the smell of freshly overturned earth. I poked around flowerbeds and found new growth bursting through dry leaves. Cars were washed. Sidewalks weeded. I even got bug bites—-bug bites!—on my exposed feet.
I went along wholeheartedly with the ruse—because, of course, that’s all it really was. Tomorrow’s forecast calls for the mercury to hover around the 40s, which only goes to show the importance of savoring little pockets of spring wherever they can be found: a splash of color on a drab outfit, a dollop of sherbet after dinner, or a few minutes with a travel magazine in a patch of filtered sunlight, if that’s all you can manage.
Tomorrow I may wake up in the cold grip of winter, but my yard will look a little brighter, my skin will be a shade browner, and my spirits will be a bit stronger, because I’ve glimpsed the future, and it’s just below the surface, five weeks, now, around the corner.
Today, these events seemed nothing but a distant memory, as temperatures soared into the 70s and it suddenly became easy to pretend that someone found the fast forward button on a calendar somewhere.
I’m solar powered entity-- any length of time without the sun, and I slip into a lethargic stupor. I’ve spent the past several days artificially propped up by nothing but caffeine and chocolate, so today’s sunburst was especially timely.
I raked away the patina of death enveloping my yard--bagged it right up and tossed it to the curb. I planted two raspberry plants, drinking in the smell of freshly overturned earth. I poked around flowerbeds and found new growth bursting through dry leaves. Cars were washed. Sidewalks weeded. I even got bug bites—-bug bites!—on my exposed feet.
I went along wholeheartedly with the ruse—because, of course, that’s all it really was. Tomorrow’s forecast calls for the mercury to hover around the 40s, which only goes to show the importance of savoring little pockets of spring wherever they can be found: a splash of color on a drab outfit, a dollop of sherbet after dinner, or a few minutes with a travel magazine in a patch of filtered sunlight, if that’s all you can manage.
Tomorrow I may wake up in the cold grip of winter, but my yard will look a little brighter, my skin will be a shade browner, and my spirits will be a bit stronger, because I’ve glimpsed the future, and it’s just below the surface, five weeks, now, around the corner.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Ten Weeks in 7th Grade
I’m spending the next ten weeks in middle school, and I’ll just be honest: I’m in it for the stories.
Admittedly, the stint is a required element in my masters program, but I’m not sure if that reason would be enough, all by itself, to keep me heading out the door each morning before I’m typically out of bed.
See, I am a writer to the core. Although I plan to gather data, teach lessons, and complete all the requisite paperwork required for my sheepskin, I’ve stumbled upon a far more compelling reason to head into the classroom everyday: it’s a goldmine of material, particularly for a writer of YA fiction.
Although I was aware, in a general sort of way, that I could view the whole experience as an opportunity to go deep undercover on a writing research assignment, I didn’t quite realize the wealth of material to which I’ll be exposed until I was tasked with filing some student essays a few days ago.
I hadn’t even officially started my rotation yet (today is my first official day) but was logging some general get-to-know-you hours at the school when I was handed several hundred essays that needed to be placed in student folders. Regular readers know that clerical tasks aren’t exactly my strong suit, so I cheered my lagging spirits by perusing the essays as I filed them.
These kids may not be stellar writers, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t have stories to tell. These were no shallow sentences riddled with crushes, BFF drama, txt lingo, or any other stereotypical middle school affectations. On the contrary, their writings told tales of the extraordinary responsibilities some of them shoulder as young adults in single parent homes; of caring for siblings, and pangs of guilt when things go wrong. They wrote of death and loss and fear and gunshots.
But the news wasn’t all grim. They confessed to a litany of minor crimes with a honesty I found thoroughly heartwarming and utterly hilarious. Who could resist reading the tell-all of a kid who lopped off a sibling’s locks, Delilah-style, by cover of night? This was good stuff—material I could never invent sipping coffee at my keyboard.
So I’m diving straight into middle school, pen poised over a little writer’s notebook. I’m going to take it all in, write it all down, and let it all settle. By the time I return to my keyboard, I expect the whole experience to have distilled into a deep well of intermingled tales, events, and details. Over time, these individual stories will inform greater stories of growing, and searching, and finding one’s way. Which makes me kind of excited at the prospect of being part of the tale.
Admittedly, the stint is a required element in my masters program, but I’m not sure if that reason would be enough, all by itself, to keep me heading out the door each morning before I’m typically out of bed.
See, I am a writer to the core. Although I plan to gather data, teach lessons, and complete all the requisite paperwork required for my sheepskin, I’ve stumbled upon a far more compelling reason to head into the classroom everyday: it’s a goldmine of material, particularly for a writer of YA fiction.
Although I was aware, in a general sort of way, that I could view the whole experience as an opportunity to go deep undercover on a writing research assignment, I didn’t quite realize the wealth of material to which I’ll be exposed until I was tasked with filing some student essays a few days ago.
I hadn’t even officially started my rotation yet (today is my first official day) but was logging some general get-to-know-you hours at the school when I was handed several hundred essays that needed to be placed in student folders. Regular readers know that clerical tasks aren’t exactly my strong suit, so I cheered my lagging spirits by perusing the essays as I filed them.
These kids may not be stellar writers, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t have stories to tell. These were no shallow sentences riddled with crushes, BFF drama, txt lingo, or any other stereotypical middle school affectations. On the contrary, their writings told tales of the extraordinary responsibilities some of them shoulder as young adults in single parent homes; of caring for siblings, and pangs of guilt when things go wrong. They wrote of death and loss and fear and gunshots.
But the news wasn’t all grim. They confessed to a litany of minor crimes with a honesty I found thoroughly heartwarming and utterly hilarious. Who could resist reading the tell-all of a kid who lopped off a sibling’s locks, Delilah-style, by cover of night? This was good stuff—material I could never invent sipping coffee at my keyboard.
So I’m diving straight into middle school, pen poised over a little writer’s notebook. I’m going to take it all in, write it all down, and let it all settle. By the time I return to my keyboard, I expect the whole experience to have distilled into a deep well of intermingled tales, events, and details. Over time, these individual stories will inform greater stories of growing, and searching, and finding one’s way. Which makes me kind of excited at the prospect of being part of the tale.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Trotting With Scissors or Submissions, Day Five
5 PM Deadline!
Trotting With Scissors
Caution was a valued rule of thumb growing up in my house.
My newscaster father had a not-so-subtle method of instilling the ‘think twice’ maxim. “Girls,” he’d begin somberly when my sister and I sought permission to do some seemingly routine activity like say, make toast. “I know it seems that there isn’t much that can go wrong making toast, but I’m sure that’s exactly what Bill Doe thought last week when he went to the corner market to pick up a loaf of bread.”
We’d listen in grave silence as dad recounted Bill Doe’s sad fate, typically a mugging, decapitation or comparable act of wanton violence. We responded with the dichotomy of emotions that is trademark adolescence—first we’d scoff, then wonder: what if he’s right? What if the world really is a place of limitless danger and senseless violence?
My mother, the embodiment of goodness, is also cautious by nature. Some things, particularly anything involving unmentionables (we know them as underwear) are just too provocative to discuss. On a grocery store trip in the late seventies when pantyhose were still packaged in those irresistible oversized Easter eggs, I asked hopefully if they were on the grocery list, and, by the way, what color if they were?
“Shhh…we’ll talk about this in the car,” my mother said nervously. No plastic egg found its way into the cart, but I’d obviously hit on something. Curiosity mounted.
“Nude,” my mother explained later in hushed tones. “Unfortunately, they’ve named the color of my hose nude. So unpleasant, why if anyone in the grocery store had overheard us using that word! Who knows what they might have thought?”
In defense of my parents, I was certainly not known for caution.
In fourth grade, I was so careless with one of my unmentionable garments that it wound up in a lost and found box. A pair of seniors carried the box from classroom to classroom on a show and tell mission designed to eradicate the eyesore of said box from the hallway. My unmentionable, a full slip, was held aloft and gleefully received for its full entertainment value. Several boys even modeled it for the class. I’m sure you’ll be as shocked as I was to learn that my mother wondered aloud why I didn’t claim it. She actually made me go back and ask for it, but I think I was instructed to ask female PE coach for help because my teacher was a man.
My childhood was consistently punctuated by events that invariably shocked my mother and decreased the hairs on my father’s balding head. When local citizens (read: my father and the neighbor on our party line) reported sketchy bobcat sightings, I spent the better part of a week blazing deep woods trails with the neighbor boys, Lee and Keith, on an expedition of National Geographic proportions. Home play wasn’t any safer. In hot pursuit of a wayward marble, I got my head stuck between the banisters requiring the concentrated efforts of both parental units to extricate me. The marble was never found.
When I was thirteen, I pestered relentlessly for permission to take a solo trip to do charity work with street people in an inner city Chicago subdivision known as Cabrini Green. I gathered that it must be a pretty rough place, because when my parents would relate this story to other family members, the response was an invariable: “What? You’re kidding! Cabrini Green? You’re not letting her do this, are you?” You and I both know I never learned from personal experience what evils dwell in this apparent blot on the good name of our country. I wasn’t allowed to go.
I went to college briefly in Philadelphia and didn’t sleep for several months. Instead, I wandered aimlessly through the city during periods of time my parents referred to as “all hours.” I was, indeed, out all of the hours at one point or another, I’m quite sure. A friendly policeman once asked me, very nicely, to return to my dorm after I wandered into the projects at three a.m. He said I might be a lot safer. At the dorm, I’d stargaze at two a.m. while lying in the middle of the road with my Adventure Friend, a wild boy we called Block.
In my twenties, I became a mother and suddenly I feared everything. I struggled between my desire to embrace the world and my fear of it. There were so many things that could go wrong. Just look at the newspaper! It’s a mixed bag of horror out there. Accidents, cancer, poverty, crime, even bread muggings. There’s no end to the combinations of potential disaster that could be lurking under the surface of so called normal living.
I fear less now, in my thirties—partly because I got bored of it, but also because some of the things I feared have already happened. Amazingly, none of them were gruesome enough for me to wind up in the newspaper. Especially not in my unmentionables.
Trotting With Scissors
Caution was a valued rule of thumb growing up in my house.
My newscaster father had a not-so-subtle method of instilling the ‘think twice’ maxim. “Girls,” he’d begin somberly when my sister and I sought permission to do some seemingly routine activity like say, make toast. “I know it seems that there isn’t much that can go wrong making toast, but I’m sure that’s exactly what Bill Doe thought last week when he went to the corner market to pick up a loaf of bread.”
We’d listen in grave silence as dad recounted Bill Doe’s sad fate, typically a mugging, decapitation or comparable act of wanton violence. We responded with the dichotomy of emotions that is trademark adolescence—first we’d scoff, then wonder: what if he’s right? What if the world really is a place of limitless danger and senseless violence?
My mother, the embodiment of goodness, is also cautious by nature. Some things, particularly anything involving unmentionables (we know them as underwear) are just too provocative to discuss. On a grocery store trip in the late seventies when pantyhose were still packaged in those irresistible oversized Easter eggs, I asked hopefully if they were on the grocery list, and, by the way, what color if they were?
“Shhh…we’ll talk about this in the car,” my mother said nervously. No plastic egg found its way into the cart, but I’d obviously hit on something. Curiosity mounted.
“Nude,” my mother explained later in hushed tones. “Unfortunately, they’ve named the color of my hose nude. So unpleasant, why if anyone in the grocery store had overheard us using that word! Who knows what they might have thought?”
In defense of my parents, I was certainly not known for caution.
In fourth grade, I was so careless with one of my unmentionable garments that it wound up in a lost and found box. A pair of seniors carried the box from classroom to classroom on a show and tell mission designed to eradicate the eyesore of said box from the hallway. My unmentionable, a full slip, was held aloft and gleefully received for its full entertainment value. Several boys even modeled it for the class. I’m sure you’ll be as shocked as I was to learn that my mother wondered aloud why I didn’t claim it. She actually made me go back and ask for it, but I think I was instructed to ask female PE coach for help because my teacher was a man.
My childhood was consistently punctuated by events that invariably shocked my mother and decreased the hairs on my father’s balding head. When local citizens (read: my father and the neighbor on our party line) reported sketchy bobcat sightings, I spent the better part of a week blazing deep woods trails with the neighbor boys, Lee and Keith, on an expedition of National Geographic proportions. Home play wasn’t any safer. In hot pursuit of a wayward marble, I got my head stuck between the banisters requiring the concentrated efforts of both parental units to extricate me. The marble was never found.
When I was thirteen, I pestered relentlessly for permission to take a solo trip to do charity work with street people in an inner city Chicago subdivision known as Cabrini Green. I gathered that it must be a pretty rough place, because when my parents would relate this story to other family members, the response was an invariable: “What? You’re kidding! Cabrini Green? You’re not letting her do this, are you?” You and I both know I never learned from personal experience what evils dwell in this apparent blot on the good name of our country. I wasn’t allowed to go.
I went to college briefly in Philadelphia and didn’t sleep for several months. Instead, I wandered aimlessly through the city during periods of time my parents referred to as “all hours.” I was, indeed, out all of the hours at one point or another, I’m quite sure. A friendly policeman once asked me, very nicely, to return to my dorm after I wandered into the projects at three a.m. He said I might be a lot safer. At the dorm, I’d stargaze at two a.m. while lying in the middle of the road with my Adventure Friend, a wild boy we called Block.
In my twenties, I became a mother and suddenly I feared everything. I struggled between my desire to embrace the world and my fear of it. There were so many things that could go wrong. Just look at the newspaper! It’s a mixed bag of horror out there. Accidents, cancer, poverty, crime, even bread muggings. There’s no end to the combinations of potential disaster that could be lurking under the surface of so called normal living.
I fear less now, in my thirties—partly because I got bored of it, but also because some of the things I feared have already happened. Amazingly, none of them were gruesome enough for me to wind up in the newspaper. Especially not in my unmentionables.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Ripped From My Resume: The Making of a Snake Handler or Submissions, Day Four
We're dipping into the archives this week in search of material to submit to a contest with a 5 PM Friday deadline. Comments appreciated!
Ripped From My Resume: The Making of a Snake Handler
A couple years back, I volunteered to serve as a snake handler for my city’s public library program. Although this was just a one-time gig, not ongoing employment, it is noteworthy on my life resume none the less.
Snakes were pretty high on my childhood list of dreaded creepy crawlies. I grew up in the country, where sightings were common and the Snake Scream—a very specific ululation, uniform in pitch and intensity, would summon one of two sources of help. By day, such shrieks would bring Lee, the neighbor boy. At his discretion, the vermin would be either housed or tortured. If the sighting and resultant scream occurred in the evening, my father would come running with the shovel.
Mulling over a Sunday School lesson one afternoon, I was thrilled when the Biblical basis of snake loathing hit me. Cursed eternally, the Serpent in the Garden of Eden was put on notice that his kind would forever have difficulty with women. My childhood was a swift and just payday for the entire species.
Not under Biblical mandate, little boys’ fears seem to manifest themselves in a different form. Most of the little boys I know live in a constant state of combat with a seedy cast of Bad Guys. At any given moment my 8-year-old son could be engaged in battle with Onion-Onion Early Head -- a car crunching vegetable that debuted in a nightmare-- or Bubkis, a shady villain of whom we can’t extract much in the way of concrete information.
Real or imaginary, creepy crawlies embody our childhood fears, eliciting bloodcurdling screams, sweats, and other sundry manifestations of the fight or flight adrenaline rush of Psychology 101 fame. Watching my mom didn’t give me much hope for the future, either. I vividly recall a laundry room battle with a Big, Furry Spider in which my mother engaged during the summer of ’77. The struggle left her so emotionally drained she had to lie down for a large portion of the afternoon.
Indeed, my fear of creepy crawlies followed me to college. One afternoon, I was run out of my dorm by a particularly menacing red spider. I arrived, shaken, at the door of a friend on a higher floor. “D-d--don’t—need-- much space,” I gasped. Really. I was confident that I could pare things down to just a sleeping bag and little pile of essential texts. Any corner would do. Before I had a chance to compile and submit official room change request forms, my roommate came to visit me. She delivered a triumphant account of the relentless stalking and subsequent death of the menacing red spider. Would I please come home?
I wasn’t brave enough or, as it turned out, smart enough, to demand to see the carcass. Months later, when I was moving out of the dorm for real, Jill confessed that she’d never seen the red spider again, let alone killed it. She missed me. She knew I’d never come back as long as the spider was still at large. I was sufficiently touched, and didn’t hold it against her. I did, however, pay special attention when I unpacked at my new destination.
Perhaps in part because the killing was a hoax, any non-cuddly creature with a suspect number of legs or an ancestral history tainted by the Bubonic Plague still wielded power. I left the dorm to live in the insect infested state of Texas with my new husband, Brad. Texas roaches are big enough to eat The Big Furry of 77, all my childhood snakes, and the menacing red spider for dinner. They swarmed and festered on the sidewalks that surrounded our apartment building. Coming and going at night, I’d hold my breath and walk as if wearing blinders. I took comfort in the thought that our apartment was too clean to invite such a dreadful creature.
But, alas, these predators invade without invitation, as I discovered to my horror one evening as I lifted a cast iron skillet and revealed the great grand daddy of all the Big Roaches. I am quite sure he was Guinness book large, but who’s measuring at a time like this anyway? I did what any sensible woman would. I violently threw that cast iron skillet and screamed the snake scream.
Brad, sadly, was unfamiliar with the signal. Confused, as new husbands often are, he didn’t know whether to comfort me or kill the vermin. In the confusion, the roach got away, and things went downhill from there.
Unnerved and drenched in sweat, I wouldn’t stay alone in the apartment—for a week. This meant I had to go to my day job as well as Brad’s night job with the eleven o’clock news team. It was a tiring schedule, and, eventually, I had to give it up. Subsequent roach sightings were less dramatic. I became more like my mother, who, in ’84, was forced to single-handedly exterminate a mole from my bedroom. I don’t even think she had to lie down.
Bugs and bad guys, I think, stay with us until we’ve learned what we can from them. They’re our friends actually, appearing every so often to give us the opportunity to be brave and to conquer. Each sighting offers the possibility of a small victory to savor, until, eventually, we’ve outgrown our bad guys and they’ve empowered us.
I like to think, then, that my multi-legged victims were finally avenged the day I met Penelope. Six-feet in length and likely twice that in girth, the python requires the assistance of ten brave volunteers to greet children during her annual visits to the public library. I’m proud to report that I was the first to volunteer.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Brain Tumors and Other Boogiemen or Submissions, Day Three
We're dipping into the archives this week in search of material to submit to a contest with a 5 PM Friday deadline. Comments appreciated!
Brain Tumors and Other Boogiemen
“I have a brain tumor,” I confided to my friend as we arranged our dinner selections on our plates.
“So do I,” she said. We carried our plates to our chairs and sat down. “In fact, Peter really doesn’t like it when I get on the Internet anymore.” Kathy lowered her voice as her husband came within earshot.
“Brad feels the same,” I nodded, knowingly, thinking of all the medical sites my husband would love to block.
The conversation wasn’t really headed the direction I expected. I had no idea Kathy had a brain tumor, and she stole my thunder. No sign of concern, no follow-up questions, my tumor obviously wasn’t being taken seriously. This wasn’t the same, intermittent brain tumor that’s been known to flare up since grade school. This time, the world wide web was solidly backing my hypochondria.
I had realized earlier in the day that the fact that my right ear had been blocked for several years might be a problem. Once, I had a doctor check for wax, but none found, I accepted it as a one of life’s little quirks and forgot about it. Every now and then (although web research now indicates this was a mistake) I’d shove a q-tip as deep as I dared and wiggle it around a bit, or while showering, press my palm over top of my ear to create a bit of plunging action, but that was about it.
I attempted to explain to my husband and the ENT I later consulted why, after all these years, I had chosen now to investigate the problem. The truth, if you must know, is that I blame it on The Auto Mall, a mechanical group who has, at the time of this writing, taken over twelve weeks to perform a standard repair on my jeep. I no longer care, as I have long since given up hope that they can complete this maintenance before my young children graduate. The fate of the jeep is now left for the courts to determine and I wanted a new car anyway. But this was in the early days of the problem, when my husband still had to take the children and I to and from school in shifts in his two-seater pick up. I was subsequently left on the front step of the school building with absolutely nothing to do but think.
Now, I realize that I could have used the time to think about anything. The world was my palette. I had characters in works of fiction that I’d abandoned in grave peril weeks earlier. There was the stimulating article I’d read about the Irish potato famine. Doubtless, I had no dinner plans. But, no, none of those topics crossed my mind as I sat on the steps and wondered: Why is my ear is plugged?
As with all things I wonder, I decided to consult the Internet when I got home. The results were alarming.
A well-documented symptom, “fullness of the ear” could signal any of a widely varied range of dysfunction, some of which, I read with fascinated horror, had nothing to do with the ear at all. Fullness of the ear was obviously an overlooked malady. All these years I thought I was living in relative health, I actually had the dreaded fullness of the ear, harbinger of disorders ranging from ear wax and chronic infection on the tame end, capping off with MS, brain, and nasal tumors on the other.
“The symptoms you report are pretty common,” the ENT told me, just before I asked about two specific and especially insidious tumors I’d read about. Seeing no evidence of either, he quickly sapped me of any relief I was tempted to feel.
“Who knows? Could be a tumor, cancer, or worse. Could be absolutely anything or nothing at all. People worry about all kinds of things.” He gave me an order for a CT and a hearing test, and sent me on my way.
Worse than brain cancer? No web page anywhere had mentioned possibilities that could stack up against such a prognosis. This was exactly the kind of situation I feared: an ongoing investigation in search of unknown and potentially terrifying horrors.
Without a doubt, I’d end up like the faceless patients I’d read about in a recent newspaper article on new advancements in facial reconstruction. I would be hideous, if I even lived, and would I want to, anyway? My husband, the poor man, isn’t a lot of help at times like this. Having seen me through other tumors, gynecological uncertainties, and numerous suspicious moles, he’s become a bit hardened to medical drama.
“Your symptoms aren’t any different from the 20,000 other patients he’s seen,” said Brad, resorting to factual statistics to back up his unnerving calm. “How many people have you seen walking around Hampton without a face?” my husband demanded.
“Maybe one,” I said, determined not to lose ground. There was the facial reconstruction article. Truthfully, I didn’t know where the woman featured in the piece actually lived, but she was in my local paper and that was certainly good enough for the purposes of this argument.
“One?” my husband raised his eyebrows in challenge. “And the newspaper doesn’t count.”
Transactional Analysis, I remembered from my undergraduate psychology studies, purports the idea that we all live by a set of life scripts, or predetermined ways of responding to life events. TA- based therapy focuses on examining the predictable patterns, the scripts, by which we live by and changing or erasing those that are destructive or that we’ve outgrown.
As the author of scripts, director of productions, and small time actor, the concept of living by a psychological script intrigues me. On one hand, I don’t like the idea that I might interact with the world according to a limited range of predetermined responses. On the other hand, I am the author of the script, so the responses are mine.
There’s a very Dark Place I go when confronted with any type of medical uncertainty. After leaving the ENT, the Dark Place beckoned as if on cue.
In the Dark Place, I shuffle around listlessly. With a host of disfiguring treatments and the grim reaper looming, clearly, there was no point in working on my novel. Ditto for working out. Instead, I wonder if Brad and the kids will decorate for Christmas, and if they know the recipe for pasta fagoli. I burst into tears at the mere sight of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, because I’m certain I can’t hold on for enough family readings to see Frodo through to Mordor.
I could go on, but you get the picture. Images of the Dark Place don’t quickly fade and I don’t want to burden you with them. But somehow, this particular trip took an unexpected turn. A voice of reason—my husband will tell you it was his—somehow made a Hollywood-style plunge through the thick blanket of cloud that enveloped me. All it said was “you don’t have to behave this way.”
“Duh,” I answered the voice (it really was my husband.) Even as I scoffed, though, I understood for the first time that the Dark Place is nothing but a setting I’ve scripted for myself in which to worry and brood.
More importantly, in a flood of realization, I knew why I went there.
In one of those flip-of-the-switch discoveries, I knew it was the promise of euphoria drives me to the Dark Place. I totally get off on the moment when the whole tawdry affair is laid to rest by whatever negative x-ray, lab result or simple a reassuring office visit the situation requires.
I’d get the good news and realize that I was going to live. After which the sky would seem bluer, the air would smell cleaner and life’s little trials would roll off my shoulders with ease. After all, I just last week I was dying. Reveling in life, I called it. It was a tremendous high that can only be achieved by going very, very low.
Kathy’s response made me realize that we all have brain tumors. Some of us even refer to them as such. Other people have different names for their boogiemen. Fear of failure, fear of commitment, monsters under the bed—we all have something that sends us scurrying into our own personal hell. My “therapy moment” made me realize that growing up is not only about finding better ways to confront our ghouls, it’s discovering why we’re hanging out with them in the first place.
Evidently, I’ve been playing mine for cheap thrills.
Will all my new found wisdom keep me from running to the Internet the next time unusual symptoms crop up? I don’t know—I threw out my script.
Brain Tumors and Other Boogiemen
“I have a brain tumor,” I confided to my friend as we arranged our dinner selections on our plates.
“So do I,” she said. We carried our plates to our chairs and sat down. “In fact, Peter really doesn’t like it when I get on the Internet anymore.” Kathy lowered her voice as her husband came within earshot.
“Brad feels the same,” I nodded, knowingly, thinking of all the medical sites my husband would love to block.
The conversation wasn’t really headed the direction I expected. I had no idea Kathy had a brain tumor, and she stole my thunder. No sign of concern, no follow-up questions, my tumor obviously wasn’t being taken seriously. This wasn’t the same, intermittent brain tumor that’s been known to flare up since grade school. This time, the world wide web was solidly backing my hypochondria.
I had realized earlier in the day that the fact that my right ear had been blocked for several years might be a problem. Once, I had a doctor check for wax, but none found, I accepted it as a one of life’s little quirks and forgot about it. Every now and then (although web research now indicates this was a mistake) I’d shove a q-tip as deep as I dared and wiggle it around a bit, or while showering, press my palm over top of my ear to create a bit of plunging action, but that was about it.
I attempted to explain to my husband and the ENT I later consulted why, after all these years, I had chosen now to investigate the problem. The truth, if you must know, is that I blame it on The Auto Mall, a mechanical group who has, at the time of this writing, taken over twelve weeks to perform a standard repair on my jeep. I no longer care, as I have long since given up hope that they can complete this maintenance before my young children graduate. The fate of the jeep is now left for the courts to determine and I wanted a new car anyway. But this was in the early days of the problem, when my husband still had to take the children and I to and from school in shifts in his two-seater pick up. I was subsequently left on the front step of the school building with absolutely nothing to do but think.
Now, I realize that I could have used the time to think about anything. The world was my palette. I had characters in works of fiction that I’d abandoned in grave peril weeks earlier. There was the stimulating article I’d read about the Irish potato famine. Doubtless, I had no dinner plans. But, no, none of those topics crossed my mind as I sat on the steps and wondered: Why is my ear is plugged?
As with all things I wonder, I decided to consult the Internet when I got home. The results were alarming.
A well-documented symptom, “fullness of the ear” could signal any of a widely varied range of dysfunction, some of which, I read with fascinated horror, had nothing to do with the ear at all. Fullness of the ear was obviously an overlooked malady. All these years I thought I was living in relative health, I actually had the dreaded fullness of the ear, harbinger of disorders ranging from ear wax and chronic infection on the tame end, capping off with MS, brain, and nasal tumors on the other.
“The symptoms you report are pretty common,” the ENT told me, just before I asked about two specific and especially insidious tumors I’d read about. Seeing no evidence of either, he quickly sapped me of any relief I was tempted to feel.
“Who knows? Could be a tumor, cancer, or worse. Could be absolutely anything or nothing at all. People worry about all kinds of things.” He gave me an order for a CT and a hearing test, and sent me on my way.
Worse than brain cancer? No web page anywhere had mentioned possibilities that could stack up against such a prognosis. This was exactly the kind of situation I feared: an ongoing investigation in search of unknown and potentially terrifying horrors.
Without a doubt, I’d end up like the faceless patients I’d read about in a recent newspaper article on new advancements in facial reconstruction. I would be hideous, if I even lived, and would I want to, anyway? My husband, the poor man, isn’t a lot of help at times like this. Having seen me through other tumors, gynecological uncertainties, and numerous suspicious moles, he’s become a bit hardened to medical drama.
“Your symptoms aren’t any different from the 20,000 other patients he’s seen,” said Brad, resorting to factual statistics to back up his unnerving calm. “How many people have you seen walking around Hampton without a face?” my husband demanded.
“Maybe one,” I said, determined not to lose ground. There was the facial reconstruction article. Truthfully, I didn’t know where the woman featured in the piece actually lived, but she was in my local paper and that was certainly good enough for the purposes of this argument.
“One?” my husband raised his eyebrows in challenge. “And the newspaper doesn’t count.”
Transactional Analysis, I remembered from my undergraduate psychology studies, purports the idea that we all live by a set of life scripts, or predetermined ways of responding to life events. TA- based therapy focuses on examining the predictable patterns, the scripts, by which we live by and changing or erasing those that are destructive or that we’ve outgrown.
As the author of scripts, director of productions, and small time actor, the concept of living by a psychological script intrigues me. On one hand, I don’t like the idea that I might interact with the world according to a limited range of predetermined responses. On the other hand, I am the author of the script, so the responses are mine.
There’s a very Dark Place I go when confronted with any type of medical uncertainty. After leaving the ENT, the Dark Place beckoned as if on cue.
In the Dark Place, I shuffle around listlessly. With a host of disfiguring treatments and the grim reaper looming, clearly, there was no point in working on my novel. Ditto for working out. Instead, I wonder if Brad and the kids will decorate for Christmas, and if they know the recipe for pasta fagoli. I burst into tears at the mere sight of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, because I’m certain I can’t hold on for enough family readings to see Frodo through to Mordor.
I could go on, but you get the picture. Images of the Dark Place don’t quickly fade and I don’t want to burden you with them. But somehow, this particular trip took an unexpected turn. A voice of reason—my husband will tell you it was his—somehow made a Hollywood-style plunge through the thick blanket of cloud that enveloped me. All it said was “you don’t have to behave this way.”
“Duh,” I answered the voice (it really was my husband.) Even as I scoffed, though, I understood for the first time that the Dark Place is nothing but a setting I’ve scripted for myself in which to worry and brood.
More importantly, in a flood of realization, I knew why I went there.
In one of those flip-of-the-switch discoveries, I knew it was the promise of euphoria drives me to the Dark Place. I totally get off on the moment when the whole tawdry affair is laid to rest by whatever negative x-ray, lab result or simple a reassuring office visit the situation requires.
I’d get the good news and realize that I was going to live. After which the sky would seem bluer, the air would smell cleaner and life’s little trials would roll off my shoulders with ease. After all, I just last week I was dying. Reveling in life, I called it. It was a tremendous high that can only be achieved by going very, very low.
Kathy’s response made me realize that we all have brain tumors. Some of us even refer to them as such. Other people have different names for their boogiemen. Fear of failure, fear of commitment, monsters under the bed—we all have something that sends us scurrying into our own personal hell. My “therapy moment” made me realize that growing up is not only about finding better ways to confront our ghouls, it’s discovering why we’re hanging out with them in the first place.
Evidently, I’ve been playing mine for cheap thrills.
Will all my new found wisdom keep me from running to the Internet the next time unusual symptoms crop up? I don’t know—I threw out my script.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Submissions, Day Two
If this is your first tune-in to the blog this week, we’re dipping into the archives in search of material for a writing contest with a 5 PM Friday deadline. Today’s contender is actually a continuation of yesterday’s offering: I thought it only fair to give you the rest of the story, although it would need a new intro to work as a stand-alone piece.The Second Career of a Breakfast Icon
My 30-year old-stuffed tiger has a new face.
The episode with the vacuum cleaner left me so inspired that I immediately sat down and typed out the previous chapter, shut down the computer and sighed contentedly. Clearly, now, I could put the entire matter behind me and send Tony off to his Happy Hunting Grounds in good conscience. Somewhere between garbage can and closure, however, former CIA agent Robert Barron added the rescue of a famous breakfast icon to his resume.
A newspaper write-up on Barron’s post-CIA career had grabbed my attention the previous week. Already, the piece had secured his status as my new favorite twenty-first century artist, but it was his choice of canvas that became the inspiration behind the biggest comeback in the history of elderly stuffed tigers.
By trade, Barron had been a disguise specialist. Our government paid him to render operatives unrecognizable to anyone in their family, circle of acquaintances, or, if the assignment required, race or gender, either. Accordingly, Barron’s palette consisted of the startlingly lifelike ears, eyes, and noses he expertly crafted. His canvas was the human face.
When he retired, Hollywood came calling, but, like many true artists, Barron isn’t following the money trail. His chosen work is too important.
Today Barron painstakingly rebuilds faces lost to accidents, fire, and cancer. Neither his palette nor his canvas has changed since his CIA days, but his mission has taken a 180. Barron used to work to conceal identities, but now he rescues them. His masterpieces are the salvaged dreams behind the illusions of flesh that he designs.
Art, I tell my students, communicates.
Barron’s work is about loss, but says more about hope. It’s born out of endings, but paves the way for new beginnings. His art is about using your gifts and talents for something a little bigger than yourself. It’s about living the adventure you were put here for, even if it means coming out of retirement to do it. It’s about preserving life and dignity and grace. It’s about resurrecting dreams. It’s about having the courage to confront the dreadful and transform it.
Like all good art it is very, very beautiful. And, for some reason, in the moments after I disposed of Tony, Barron’s work was all I could think about.
I pulled Tony from the trash for the second time in a week, rounded up as much spongy burnt orange stuffing as I could, and carefully matched the jagged edges of his facial tear. I slapped a sturdy piece of clear packing tape across the seam and, viola! Tony’s not only back in the game with his back-alley plastic surgery, he’s got a new gig. Of late, he’s been tooling around town with his head poking out of the top of my writer’s bag as a poster tiger for my latest book project—a cheerful rebuttal to the utter downward spiral Sir Isaac Newton promised us in our grade school science texts.
Tony’s brush with mortality is a reminder that anything at all can survive if you put a new face on it.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Of Submissions and a Mission
Welcome to one of my good ideas that showed up just south of Timely. Regular readers know that the path toward my nearly-completed master’s degree has been strewn with so much lost writing time: blog posts that never made it to cyperspace, articles that were never pitched, an entire novel’s worth of characters with fates hanging in the balance—the literary causalities are as numerous as they are grim.
Still, in the midst of the academic frenzy in which I’ve been embroiled, I’ve never forgotten that I’m a writer. And four months from now, I plan to delve deep back into my chosen profession. In the meantime, I’ve signed up for a writer’s conference to get back into the game (and take advantage of free student admission!). Like many good conferences, this one includes a contest. Not having the aforementioned writing time to craft new material especially for the event, I’ve decided to dip into the archives and submit some unreleased material that’s been distilling for a couple years. Which bring me to my slightly tardy idea.
For the rest of the week, I’ll be posting prospective contest entries here on the site—partly because this gives us a week of guaranteed posts, but also because I’d like some feedback about what piece to enter. So what makes me wish I had this otherwise win-win idea two weeks ago? The deadline is 5 PM Friday. So let’s get busy and don’t be shy—let me know what I should submit or just let sit!
Here's our first contender:
A Tiger on a (Suicide) Mission
What is it about stuffed animals? Little more than wadded cotton encased in plush and adorned with thread and buttons, these faux friends find their way onto the guest list of life’s meaningful moments. They show up at baby showers and hospital visits, on Valentine’s Day and at graduations. And they are always welcome. So why the perennial welcome mat for these cloth clones? My husband blames Sesame Street. Spending our formative years in the presence of friendly bath toys, charismatic letters, and well-spoken pieces of home furniture, it’s no wonder our society is predisposed to animate the inanimate.
PBS or not, I am a grown woman with a collection of stuffed animals dating back to the Carter administration. Parting with them would seem too much like betrayal. Yes, I realize that I’m the stuffed-PETA equivalent of those crazed animal hoarders occasionally exposed on the 11:00 news, but I’m also willing to bet there’s trusty plush friend or two in your personal archives.
In general, we’re loyal to our childhood stuffed animals because they’ve always done their job. They share our secrets. When squeezed, they don’t scratch, bite, or offer unsolicited advice. They are for us whatever-- and whenever--we need them to be.
My home, then, became a safe haven for stuffed animals, not unlike a no-kill animal shelter.
At least until my two ill-behaved Labradors assigned themselves the task of tackling the nasty business of the overpopulated stuffed species. It began with some isolated outbreaks, most notably the rabbit winnowing of Y2K. Mocha, the brown one, went on a rampage one morning and bit the faces off every stuffed rabbit in the house. Just rabbits and just faces, executed with frightening precision.
Hippos were targeted next, although more out of fond fascination than menace. As a training gift, my daughter, Allison, had given Mocha his own green hippo, which he apparently adored. He carried it everywhere, including muddy romps. Finally, the hippo was nothing more than a mass of filthy threads and had to be disposed. The next day Mocha went into Allison’s room, plucked a blue hippo from her collection and carried it around with a lone green sock. Time passed without further incident, and we began experimenting with tentative indoor privileges for the dogs when we’d leave for short periods of time.
Then came a Bad Day for elderly tigers.
A box top mail in prize from when I was three, Tony of cereal fame had come out of semi-retirement in my storage loft and had spent the night in the family room. Rain prompted a spur of the moment decision to leave the dogs inside alone while I took the kids to school—a decision I never considered being of consequence to Tony, until I returned to a horrific sight. Tony’s face was split and his innards had been strewn in what I pictured as a gleeful romp.
No doubt our cockatiel, Casey, had squawked in warning: “Dangerous! Dangerous predators!” as he’s prone to do at the sight of canines or wanton destruction. With no one home to hear his pleas, however, the labs put some snap, crackle and pop into their morning and left Tony not looking so g-r-r-r-eat.
Tony spent a week with his tail tentatively sticking out of the wicker trash basket in my bathroom, but when push came to shove on garbage day, I hastily pulled him out and transferred him to a laundry basket. In an effort of be helpful, my husband later dumped a freshly laundered load into the basket. And then another. And, possibly, another. Many days passed.
One morning, on a Bad Writing day, the computer wouldn’t work. Frustrated, but determined to accomplish something, I decided to exercise, but, for want of a hairclip, my workout simply didn’t. So I took a shower only to discover that I couldn’t find a pair of what my saintly mother would call "unmentionables." Even in the triple load basket where Tony, sole witness to my subsequent rantings, lay forgotten at the bottom.
Flinging clothes across the bed, I suddenly hit a pocket of spongy, burnt orange stuffing. Tony stuff began to fly around the room.
“Dangerous! Dangerous!” Casey squawked as I pulled out the vacuum and aimed the hose at airborne bits. Hurriedly, I jammed the hose into the laundry basket in an attempt to stop the spread of Tony bits at the source when: whoosh!--something from the basket shot up the hose and into the canister.
My vacuum gives one the benefit of viewing the captured dirt swirling inside the canister as it accumulates, so I quickly looked to see what had been sucked into the wind tunnel. Amidst the general sea of compressed dust and in stark contrast with the occasional wad of crumpled white tissue were flashes of silky black fabric. Although my mother will be mortified to learn that I’ve found it necessary to mention the unmentionable twice already—there they were, orbiting the eye of what my vacuum’s literature proudly references as the "whirlwind."
I quickly turned off the vacuum and noticed Tony staring up at me from his unseemly state at the bottom of the basket. Disapproval. I definitely saw it on both sides of his split countenance. I suddenly realized how unfortunate it was that Tony, whose only mission in his artificial life was to provide me joy and comfort should come to such a miserable end, insides spewing forth into my laundry and listening to me say things I can’t mortify my mother by writing.
Then I finally understood. Life is too brief to lose sleep over bad writing or not to be outrageously thankful that I even have hair. And what a terrible waste it would be to miss the humor in seeing my unmentionables swirling around in the vacuum canister.
I popped the canister open, shook out the offending fabric and laughed uncontrollably.
Tony’s expression changed. It was admittedly imperceptible, but I caught it. After all, who can crack a half smile better than a tiger with a fissured cranium?
Tony left me on a high note, stoically keeping my secrets, gently exposing my childishness, and reminding me that it was time to grow up.
He did his job well.
Still, in the midst of the academic frenzy in which I’ve been embroiled, I’ve never forgotten that I’m a writer. And four months from now, I plan to delve deep back into my chosen profession. In the meantime, I’ve signed up for a writer’s conference to get back into the game (and take advantage of free student admission!). Like many good conferences, this one includes a contest. Not having the aforementioned writing time to craft new material especially for the event, I’ve decided to dip into the archives and submit some unreleased material that’s been distilling for a couple years. Which bring me to my slightly tardy idea.
For the rest of the week, I’ll be posting prospective contest entries here on the site—partly because this gives us a week of guaranteed posts, but also because I’d like some feedback about what piece to enter. So what makes me wish I had this otherwise win-win idea two weeks ago? The deadline is 5 PM Friday. So let’s get busy and don’t be shy—let me know what I should submit or just let sit!
Here's our first contender:
A Tiger on a (Suicide) Mission
What is it about stuffed animals? Little more than wadded cotton encased in plush and adorned with thread and buttons, these faux friends find their way onto the guest list of life’s meaningful moments. They show up at baby showers and hospital visits, on Valentine’s Day and at graduations. And they are always welcome. So why the perennial welcome mat for these cloth clones? My husband blames Sesame Street. Spending our formative years in the presence of friendly bath toys, charismatic letters, and well-spoken pieces of home furniture, it’s no wonder our society is predisposed to animate the inanimate.
PBS or not, I am a grown woman with a collection of stuffed animals dating back to the Carter administration. Parting with them would seem too much like betrayal. Yes, I realize that I’m the stuffed-PETA equivalent of those crazed animal hoarders occasionally exposed on the 11:00 news, but I’m also willing to bet there’s trusty plush friend or two in your personal archives.
In general, we’re loyal to our childhood stuffed animals because they’ve always done their job. They share our secrets. When squeezed, they don’t scratch, bite, or offer unsolicited advice. They are for us whatever-- and whenever--we need them to be.
My home, then, became a safe haven for stuffed animals, not unlike a no-kill animal shelter.
At least until my two ill-behaved Labradors assigned themselves the task of tackling the nasty business of the overpopulated stuffed species. It began with some isolated outbreaks, most notably the rabbit winnowing of Y2K. Mocha, the brown one, went on a rampage one morning and bit the faces off every stuffed rabbit in the house. Just rabbits and just faces, executed with frightening precision.
Hippos were targeted next, although more out of fond fascination than menace. As a training gift, my daughter, Allison, had given Mocha his own green hippo, which he apparently adored. He carried it everywhere, including muddy romps. Finally, the hippo was nothing more than a mass of filthy threads and had to be disposed. The next day Mocha went into Allison’s room, plucked a blue hippo from her collection and carried it around with a lone green sock. Time passed without further incident, and we began experimenting with tentative indoor privileges for the dogs when we’d leave for short periods of time.
Then came a Bad Day for elderly tigers.
A box top mail in prize from when I was three, Tony of cereal fame had come out of semi-retirement in my storage loft and had spent the night in the family room. Rain prompted a spur of the moment decision to leave the dogs inside alone while I took the kids to school—a decision I never considered being of consequence to Tony, until I returned to a horrific sight. Tony’s face was split and his innards had been strewn in what I pictured as a gleeful romp.
No doubt our cockatiel, Casey, had squawked in warning: “Dangerous! Dangerous predators!” as he’s prone to do at the sight of canines or wanton destruction. With no one home to hear his pleas, however, the labs put some snap, crackle and pop into their morning and left Tony not looking so g-r-r-r-eat.
Tony spent a week with his tail tentatively sticking out of the wicker trash basket in my bathroom, but when push came to shove on garbage day, I hastily pulled him out and transferred him to a laundry basket. In an effort of be helpful, my husband later dumped a freshly laundered load into the basket. And then another. And, possibly, another. Many days passed.
One morning, on a Bad Writing day, the computer wouldn’t work. Frustrated, but determined to accomplish something, I decided to exercise, but, for want of a hairclip, my workout simply didn’t. So I took a shower only to discover that I couldn’t find a pair of what my saintly mother would call "unmentionables." Even in the triple load basket where Tony, sole witness to my subsequent rantings, lay forgotten at the bottom.
Flinging clothes across the bed, I suddenly hit a pocket of spongy, burnt orange stuffing. Tony stuff began to fly around the room.
“Dangerous! Dangerous!” Casey squawked as I pulled out the vacuum and aimed the hose at airborne bits. Hurriedly, I jammed the hose into the laundry basket in an attempt to stop the spread of Tony bits at the source when: whoosh!--something from the basket shot up the hose and into the canister.
My vacuum gives one the benefit of viewing the captured dirt swirling inside the canister as it accumulates, so I quickly looked to see what had been sucked into the wind tunnel. Amidst the general sea of compressed dust and in stark contrast with the occasional wad of crumpled white tissue were flashes of silky black fabric. Although my mother will be mortified to learn that I’ve found it necessary to mention the unmentionable twice already—there they were, orbiting the eye of what my vacuum’s literature proudly references as the "whirlwind."
I quickly turned off the vacuum and noticed Tony staring up at me from his unseemly state at the bottom of the basket. Disapproval. I definitely saw it on both sides of his split countenance. I suddenly realized how unfortunate it was that Tony, whose only mission in his artificial life was to provide me joy and comfort should come to such a miserable end, insides spewing forth into my laundry and listening to me say things I can’t mortify my mother by writing.
Then I finally understood. Life is too brief to lose sleep over bad writing or not to be outrageously thankful that I even have hair. And what a terrible waste it would be to miss the humor in seeing my unmentionables swirling around in the vacuum canister.
I popped the canister open, shook out the offending fabric and laughed uncontrollably.
Tony’s expression changed. It was admittedly imperceptible, but I caught it. After all, who can crack a half smile better than a tiger with a fissured cranium?
Tony left me on a high note, stoically keeping my secrets, gently exposing my childishness, and reminding me that it was time to grow up.
He did his job well.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Parenting, Today
“I’m about to get ornery,” my daughter announced gleefully, popping the first of five prescribed pills into her mouth.
I sighed. It had been one of those parenting days which require more stamina and fortitude than most. Although it was true that the doctor mentioned orneriness as a possible side effect of the medicine he prescribed for my daughter’s stubborn congestion and ear infection, he also indicated that the opposite was an equally viable option-- but that prospect apparently fell on clogged ears. My daughter was embracing ornery.
Following the office visit and the requisite trip to the drug store, I drove the Ornery One to a distant neighborhood in search of a favorite security item that had evidently slipped from her clutches during an outing the previous evening. I maneuvered the van through the neighborhood at single-digit speeds, scanning the pavement for the tell tale flash of sleek blue that would identify the wayward widget. When car surveillance proved fruitless, I launched a ground-level search that quickly paid off when my daughter’s hand dove across a patch of lawn, her eyes sparking as she reinstated the recovered relic back into her firm grasp.
Things looking up, I decided to take my daughter to local eatery for lunch. The restaurant was still dotted with holiday-themed advertisements, suggesting their goods as viable gift options for service providers and civil servants.
I braced myself as I noticed my daughter staring a bit too long at one of the placards. Something was coming.
“Mailmen!” my daughter scoffed. “Who would buy a gift card for their mailman?”
I cringed, my eyes darting toward the pair of uniformed postal workers enjoying lunch mere feet from our table.
“Shh..” I hissed, shooting a stern gaze toward the oblivious child.
“Who really gives presents to the mailman,” my daughter continued, no doubt recalling any number of unfortunate encounters with our unusually stern postman. It was clear that she was gearing up for a full-scale reproof against goodwill toward mailmen when she caught my eye. We headed home without further incident, my daughter casting nervous glances at the mail truck that trailed us out of the parking lot.
At home, we narrowly averted skinned knees when my daughter tripped and fell on the sidewalk. By the time her brother came home from school, ornery took a sharp turn toward feisty, and by the time dinner was over, we were at full-blown hyper—another option on the medicinal side-effect smorgasbord. The commotion that ensued when my daughter threatened to stuff her brother into a large burlap bag was so great as to rouse my husband from his laptop--where among other things, he was viewing an online tutorial on time travel—long enough to ask: “Has it been like this all day?”
You and I both know the answer to that question, but you might be surprised to find out that I’m not as distressed by the fact as you might think.
I’ll be the first to admit that parenting can be a bumpy ride, but I’m also aware that it’s a shockingly brief one. I often find myself mourning the passing of various phases of my kids’ development. Likewise, I derive a certain amount of joy when, occasionally, an aspect of childhood I thought forever gone makes an unexpected encore—like the time my son presented me with what he confidently stated was his last fallen baby tooth, only to turn around a month later with the news that two more of his teeth had gone wiggly. Even though I’d bagged, labeled, and wept over the final fallen incisor and eulogized my role as the Tooth Fairy in my journal--going so far as to write the kid a sappy letter and to leave him a parting payoff five times his normal cut for my farewell performance-- I was nothing short of elated by the opportunity to get into character and do it all again.
And as for my daughter? I’m not altogether sure that my husband didn’t conduct his online time travel experiment because even though her lost security item was a cell phone and her ear infection just might turn out to be mono doesn’t change the fact that parenting her today felt an awful lot like it did when she was 4…thirteen years ago.
Note to readers: I am grateful to have not only my daughter’s permission, but also her encouragement in posting this piece—to put it in her words “It was great humor, why waste it?” Thanks, Allison, for being a good sport—I hope you are better soon, but if not, we’ll go back to the doctor and see what fun medicine we get next!
I sighed. It had been one of those parenting days which require more stamina and fortitude than most. Although it was true that the doctor mentioned orneriness as a possible side effect of the medicine he prescribed for my daughter’s stubborn congestion and ear infection, he also indicated that the opposite was an equally viable option-- but that prospect apparently fell on clogged ears. My daughter was embracing ornery.
Following the office visit and the requisite trip to the drug store, I drove the Ornery One to a distant neighborhood in search of a favorite security item that had evidently slipped from her clutches during an outing the previous evening. I maneuvered the van through the neighborhood at single-digit speeds, scanning the pavement for the tell tale flash of sleek blue that would identify the wayward widget. When car surveillance proved fruitless, I launched a ground-level search that quickly paid off when my daughter’s hand dove across a patch of lawn, her eyes sparking as she reinstated the recovered relic back into her firm grasp.
Things looking up, I decided to take my daughter to local eatery for lunch. The restaurant was still dotted with holiday-themed advertisements, suggesting their goods as viable gift options for service providers and civil servants.
I braced myself as I noticed my daughter staring a bit too long at one of the placards. Something was coming.
“Mailmen!” my daughter scoffed. “Who would buy a gift card for their mailman?”
I cringed, my eyes darting toward the pair of uniformed postal workers enjoying lunch mere feet from our table.
“Shh..” I hissed, shooting a stern gaze toward the oblivious child.
“Who really gives presents to the mailman,” my daughter continued, no doubt recalling any number of unfortunate encounters with our unusually stern postman. It was clear that she was gearing up for a full-scale reproof against goodwill toward mailmen when she caught my eye. We headed home without further incident, my daughter casting nervous glances at the mail truck that trailed us out of the parking lot.
At home, we narrowly averted skinned knees when my daughter tripped and fell on the sidewalk. By the time her brother came home from school, ornery took a sharp turn toward feisty, and by the time dinner was over, we were at full-blown hyper—another option on the medicinal side-effect smorgasbord. The commotion that ensued when my daughter threatened to stuff her brother into a large burlap bag was so great as to rouse my husband from his laptop--where among other things, he was viewing an online tutorial on time travel—long enough to ask: “Has it been like this all day?”
You and I both know the answer to that question, but you might be surprised to find out that I’m not as distressed by the fact as you might think.
I’ll be the first to admit that parenting can be a bumpy ride, but I’m also aware that it’s a shockingly brief one. I often find myself mourning the passing of various phases of my kids’ development. Likewise, I derive a certain amount of joy when, occasionally, an aspect of childhood I thought forever gone makes an unexpected encore—like the time my son presented me with what he confidently stated was his last fallen baby tooth, only to turn around a month later with the news that two more of his teeth had gone wiggly. Even though I’d bagged, labeled, and wept over the final fallen incisor and eulogized my role as the Tooth Fairy in my journal--going so far as to write the kid a sappy letter and to leave him a parting payoff five times his normal cut for my farewell performance-- I was nothing short of elated by the opportunity to get into character and do it all again.
And as for my daughter? I’m not altogether sure that my husband didn’t conduct his online time travel experiment because even though her lost security item was a cell phone and her ear infection just might turn out to be mono doesn’t change the fact that parenting her today felt an awful lot like it did when she was 4…thirteen years ago.
Note to readers: I am grateful to have not only my daughter’s permission, but also her encouragement in posting this piece—to put it in her words “It was great humor, why waste it?” Thanks, Allison, for being a good sport—I hope you are better soon, but if not, we’ll go back to the doctor and see what fun medicine we get next!
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Long and Short of It
“We can take it another step in that direction,” my stylist said cautiously.
I’d just outlined a fairly ambitious plan to excise all evidence of what’s simply referenced around here as The Incident. “I’m prepared to take it all the way up to the chin,” I offered.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “there’s just not quite enough to work with yet.” She picked up her scissors and began taking conservative little snips in strategic places while she outlined a plan that sounded an awful lot like those multi-stage reconstructive surgeries one sees disfigured accident victims undergo on Lifetime or The Learning Channel.
“It’s growing quite quickly,” my stylist said encouragingly. She tugged on my top most layers. “All this used to be here,” she said, pointing to an area several inches above my ears.
The fact that I’ve retained my ability to grow hair really is good news, considering that my last visit to this salon ended badly at the scissors of a Substitute Stylist days before my milestone birthday, forcing me to confess to my sister my belief that all those short, compact, helmet-like hair-dos sported by mature women were the result of a single haircut gone wrong. “Then it just stops growing,” I sobbed. “They never recover.”
“Who told you that?” my sister demanded.
My husband did, actually. He’s been telling me this since my mid-twenties, every time I go to the hair salon.
“Don’t let them take too much off,” he says gravely. “Hair stops growing as you get older. Don’t forget.”
“Ulterior motives,” my sister scoffed. “The man likes long hair. That’s all he knows.”
Recalling my bicep-length tresses, I dissolved into a fresh round of despair.
“We’ll work with it,” my sister said, her voice evaporating into a shaky warble as she examined the carnage.
I flipped the hood of my sweatshirt over the jagged, ill-shaped tufts. “I just wanted to be pretty on my birthday,” I sobbed.
I knew it was bad, but little did I know the horror my sister was enduring, as I was blissfully unaware of the surprise party the family was planning two days hence. I was thinking I didn’t want to look bad in a few commemorative snapshots; she knew a limelight appearance before friends and extended family in my present state could result in years of therapy. Although it thankfully didn’t slip in the heat of turmoil, later the word “mullet” would be uttered.
Knowing the full ramifications of my shorn state, my sister didn’t mess around. Pictures were pulled from archives; the Real Stylist was summoned from a color job to perform some “blending” with a razor; products were purchased. At home, my sister demonstrated all manner of blow drying techniques, quoting liberally from James, the expensive stylist she employed before the economy went south.
Somewhere between the mousse and a product labeled “pomade,” a sassy style emerged. My sister wrote the whole episode off as a blessing in disguise, and even hinted that I might want to keep the new look.
While I admit to having a little fun with the new style, I found all the washing, blowing, lifting, and shaping to be rather daunting, and about two weeks ago, I discovered that it no longer rendered the same results, anyway, so I figured an appointment with the Real Stylist was my ticket back to a shorter version of my Regular Hair.
My prognosis looks good for a chin-length regular look in about two months, although we can take another “baby step” toward it in about four weeks. Until then, I’ve got a layered two-tiered style that’s just going to have to suffice.
Oh, and the original haircut that I went in for back in November? That’s a good 5 months down the road.
In light of all that’s transpired, my daughter thinks perhaps it’s best if we all guard against general deterioration by growing out some good, solid hair and storing it up for the future—a good foot or so of fresh growth should do, on top of what we want to keep attached.
I don’t know what kind of a plan I’d be looking at to get there, but I think for now I’m just happy I didn’t have to show up at my party in a mullet, and from here it seems unlikely that I’ll be showing up next year in a helmet.
I’d just outlined a fairly ambitious plan to excise all evidence of what’s simply referenced around here as The Incident. “I’m prepared to take it all the way up to the chin,” I offered.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “there’s just not quite enough to work with yet.” She picked up her scissors and began taking conservative little snips in strategic places while she outlined a plan that sounded an awful lot like those multi-stage reconstructive surgeries one sees disfigured accident victims undergo on Lifetime or The Learning Channel.
“It’s growing quite quickly,” my stylist said encouragingly. She tugged on my top most layers. “All this used to be here,” she said, pointing to an area several inches above my ears.
The fact that I’ve retained my ability to grow hair really is good news, considering that my last visit to this salon ended badly at the scissors of a Substitute Stylist days before my milestone birthday, forcing me to confess to my sister my belief that all those short, compact, helmet-like hair-dos sported by mature women were the result of a single haircut gone wrong. “Then it just stops growing,” I sobbed. “They never recover.”
“Who told you that?” my sister demanded.
My husband did, actually. He’s been telling me this since my mid-twenties, every time I go to the hair salon.
“Don’t let them take too much off,” he says gravely. “Hair stops growing as you get older. Don’t forget.”
“Ulterior motives,” my sister scoffed. “The man likes long hair. That’s all he knows.”
Recalling my bicep-length tresses, I dissolved into a fresh round of despair.
“We’ll work with it,” my sister said, her voice evaporating into a shaky warble as she examined the carnage.
I flipped the hood of my sweatshirt over the jagged, ill-shaped tufts. “I just wanted to be pretty on my birthday,” I sobbed.
I knew it was bad, but little did I know the horror my sister was enduring, as I was blissfully unaware of the surprise party the family was planning two days hence. I was thinking I didn’t want to look bad in a few commemorative snapshots; she knew a limelight appearance before friends and extended family in my present state could result in years of therapy. Although it thankfully didn’t slip in the heat of turmoil, later the word “mullet” would be uttered.
Knowing the full ramifications of my shorn state, my sister didn’t mess around. Pictures were pulled from archives; the Real Stylist was summoned from a color job to perform some “blending” with a razor; products were purchased. At home, my sister demonstrated all manner of blow drying techniques, quoting liberally from James, the expensive stylist she employed before the economy went south.
Somewhere between the mousse and a product labeled “pomade,” a sassy style emerged. My sister wrote the whole episode off as a blessing in disguise, and even hinted that I might want to keep the new look.
While I admit to having a little fun with the new style, I found all the washing, blowing, lifting, and shaping to be rather daunting, and about two weeks ago, I discovered that it no longer rendered the same results, anyway, so I figured an appointment with the Real Stylist was my ticket back to a shorter version of my Regular Hair.
My prognosis looks good for a chin-length regular look in about two months, although we can take another “baby step” toward it in about four weeks. Until then, I’ve got a layered two-tiered style that’s just going to have to suffice.
Oh, and the original haircut that I went in for back in November? That’s a good 5 months down the road.
In light of all that’s transpired, my daughter thinks perhaps it’s best if we all guard against general deterioration by growing out some good, solid hair and storing it up for the future—a good foot or so of fresh growth should do, on top of what we want to keep attached.
I don’t know what kind of a plan I’d be looking at to get there, but I think for now I’m just happy I didn’t have to show up at my party in a mullet, and from here it seems unlikely that I’ll be showing up next year in a helmet.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
On and Off the Radar
Beep.
Do you hear that faint, electronic beat? Beep…there it is again. Readers, I think cyberspace radar has just detected a faint pulse from this stone cold forum.
We were coding here, folks. We’re two weeks into a postless January on the heels of a blog-free December and I’m frankly speechless. Part of me wants to blame my oft-mentioned milestone birthday, as I’m told time hightails it toward the fast track right alongside fleeing youth. Although time has passed rather quickly, I refuse to lean on the shopworn“time flies” bit, especially as clichés are avoided as a matter of policy here at RunningWithLetters.
The truth is I’ve been wantonly going on and off the radar in an alarming number of arenas, and there’s no telling when it will end. In late November—just prior to going dark on the blog—I disappeared from the academic scene to revel in pumpkin cheesecake, pots of coffee, and a houseful of general family fun. I skipped classes and shimmied around deadlines, effectively extending my Thanksgiving break into a full ten day binge of frivolity.
Turns out ten days is a long time to go rogue at the tail end of a masters-level semester. Even as my sister’s hand was still waving sadly out the window of her departing car, I began what turned out to be a non-stop, two week program of educational penance.
Grades safely secured—all A’s and a P, thank you very much—I was stunned to find myself catapulting toward mid-December thoroughly ill-prepared for the season. At that point, the only radar detecting any activity from me was operated by elves in the North Pole as I swiftly switched into an all-Yuletide, all the time format.
Oh—and that treadmill routine I was so jazzed about? I fell off the radar there, too, as soon as we got a wii fit (actually, we had 2 of them at one point, but that’s a long, sad, O’Henry-esque story for another post). See, the wii fit virtual trainers get really upset if you go missing from their program, and they’ve kept my Daytimer pretty full of late, requiring all manner of balance maneuvers, poses, and feats of strength. Over the past three weeks, I’ve logged an impressive track record of physical fitness. But alas, I’m hearing something that signals an impending fade off the fitness radar, too.
Did you hear that?
It’s still a bit faint, but it’s the unmistakable toll of the school bell.
Do you hear that faint, electronic beat? Beep…there it is again. Readers, I think cyberspace radar has just detected a faint pulse from this stone cold forum.
We were coding here, folks. We’re two weeks into a postless January on the heels of a blog-free December and I’m frankly speechless. Part of me wants to blame my oft-mentioned milestone birthday, as I’m told time hightails it toward the fast track right alongside fleeing youth. Although time has passed rather quickly, I refuse to lean on the shopworn“time flies” bit, especially as clichés are avoided as a matter of policy here at RunningWithLetters.
The truth is I’ve been wantonly going on and off the radar in an alarming number of arenas, and there’s no telling when it will end. In late November—just prior to going dark on the blog—I disappeared from the academic scene to revel in pumpkin cheesecake, pots of coffee, and a houseful of general family fun. I skipped classes and shimmied around deadlines, effectively extending my Thanksgiving break into a full ten day binge of frivolity.
Turns out ten days is a long time to go rogue at the tail end of a masters-level semester. Even as my sister’s hand was still waving sadly out the window of her departing car, I began what turned out to be a non-stop, two week program of educational penance.
Grades safely secured—all A’s and a P, thank you very much—I was stunned to find myself catapulting toward mid-December thoroughly ill-prepared for the season. At that point, the only radar detecting any activity from me was operated by elves in the North Pole as I swiftly switched into an all-Yuletide, all the time format.
Oh—and that treadmill routine I was so jazzed about? I fell off the radar there, too, as soon as we got a wii fit (actually, we had 2 of them at one point, but that’s a long, sad, O’Henry-esque story for another post). See, the wii fit virtual trainers get really upset if you go missing from their program, and they’ve kept my Daytimer pretty full of late, requiring all manner of balance maneuvers, poses, and feats of strength. Over the past three weeks, I’ve logged an impressive track record of physical fitness. But alas, I’m hearing something that signals an impending fade off the fitness radar, too.
Did you hear that?
It’s still a bit faint, but it’s the unmistakable toll of the school bell.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Bloom
Against all odds, it bloomed.Sort of.
Readers may remember the experimental sunflower I planted in October. With a milestone birthday looming two days after Thanksgiving, I wanted a living reminder that new growth can sprout and beauty can blossom in all seasons. So I planted the seed with a view toward a flower that would become an eye-catching focal point on my Thanksgiving table as a kind of late-bloomer’s success story.
Despite several episodes of early frost, drear weather, and--I must confess-- resulting neglect, I was encouraged by the little speck of yellow cheer I spotted from my sunroom window a week or two ago. Since then, I’ve focused on the little flower as a backyard sun burst in the midst of an unexpected patch of cloudy conditions, even as I anticipated it’s burst into full-on Thanksgiving bloom.
Closer inspection, however, revealed that this garden specimen did not emerge unscathed from the harsh conditions of it’s off-season development. It became apparent that perhaps this isn't a flower of centerpiece quality. At first brush, this fact might seem to validate the notion that growth is a springtime proposition—that color, strength and vitality are the domain of the early months.I choose to remain encouraged by the little spark of life my experiment produced. In a sea of withering decay, my little flower stands--a rugged beauty capable of weathering the elements and blooming anyway, alone and alive.
I’m thankful.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Whittling
Strictly by choice, I’ve been spending nine minutes every day in complete misery, and I’m absolutely loving the results.
About three weeks ago, I adopted the “Speedy Waist Whittler,” a treadmill-based exercise routine I discovered in a random magazine that showed up in my mailbox. I was skeptical of the ability of this 20-minute regimen to deliver on its claim to carve a full inch of belly flab from my figure in a mere month. After all, I’ve invested over twice that time into efforts which have yielded nothing more than negligible results.
The Whittler rests upon the theory that the kind of measurable success I’m seeking can only come from short spurts of intense effort sandwiched between stretches of moderate momentum. Accordingly, The Whittler doesn’t get uncomfortable until around Minute Five, and by Minute 14, we’re closing in on the cool down. But those roughly nine minutes in between? Let’s just say, I feel lucky every time I make it to the quarter hour mark without paramedic involvement.
My narrowing midsection tells me that the time I’m spending in the upper register of my endurance range is critical—that what happens in those nine interminable minutes is the difference between where I am and where I want to be. It seems that even a small amount of time spent just beyond what I think possible delivers a far greater payoff than an extended effort in a mid-range zone.
What’s more, the standard changes as I go. The workout I’m calling challenging this week isn’t the same one I barely wheezed through last week. My definition of difficult is changing; expanding; evolving as I become stronger.
This all makes me wonder where else should I be stretching my endurance. What other extraneous flab could I excise from my life by upping my game for a moment or two every day? I’m inspired, really.
At least I was, before Thanksgiving week hit and my sister showed up at my door with our traditional pumpkin cheesecake. Now the only whittling in which I seem to be able to sustain interest involves altering the circumference of said dessert.
At the moment, I’m in the throes of decision. I’m completely committed to whittling—I just don’t know which soft circle to target--the one that I can reduce in about three minutes of sheer bliss, or the one requiring nine minutes of utter misery.
About three weeks ago, I adopted the “Speedy Waist Whittler,” a treadmill-based exercise routine I discovered in a random magazine that showed up in my mailbox. I was skeptical of the ability of this 20-minute regimen to deliver on its claim to carve a full inch of belly flab from my figure in a mere month. After all, I’ve invested over twice that time into efforts which have yielded nothing more than negligible results.
The Whittler rests upon the theory that the kind of measurable success I’m seeking can only come from short spurts of intense effort sandwiched between stretches of moderate momentum. Accordingly, The Whittler doesn’t get uncomfortable until around Minute Five, and by Minute 14, we’re closing in on the cool down. But those roughly nine minutes in between? Let’s just say, I feel lucky every time I make it to the quarter hour mark without paramedic involvement.
My narrowing midsection tells me that the time I’m spending in the upper register of my endurance range is critical—that what happens in those nine interminable minutes is the difference between where I am and where I want to be. It seems that even a small amount of time spent just beyond what I think possible delivers a far greater payoff than an extended effort in a mid-range zone.
What’s more, the standard changes as I go. The workout I’m calling challenging this week isn’t the same one I barely wheezed through last week. My definition of difficult is changing; expanding; evolving as I become stronger.
This all makes me wonder where else should I be stretching my endurance. What other extraneous flab could I excise from my life by upping my game for a moment or two every day? I’m inspired, really.
At least I was, before Thanksgiving week hit and my sister showed up at my door with our traditional pumpkin cheesecake. Now the only whittling in which I seem to be able to sustain interest involves altering the circumference of said dessert.
At the moment, I’m in the throes of decision. I’m completely committed to whittling—I just don’t know which soft circle to target--the one that I can reduce in about three minutes of sheer bliss, or the one requiring nine minutes of utter misery.
Monday, November 10, 2008
A Seasonal Tale
There's a lot of seasonal action underway these days, and I'm not just referring to the hasty pounce retailers have made on the Christmas season.
Stray jack-o'-lanterns and the occasional roadside dum-dum serve as daily reminders that Halloween hasn't even fully exited the social arena--and with Thanksgiving waiting a mere two weeks in the wings, one can stand on virtually any street corner in America and witness pilgrims cavorting recklessly with elves and reindeer under the watchful gaze of a tardy grim reaper.
It's unsettling, really, this wanton intermingling of frivolity. Personally, I'm for strict regulation of inter-holiday commerce. Costumes and candies should enjoy a grace period into early November, handing the show over to the pilgrims and Indians around mid-month. As suggested by the format of the traditional Macy's parade, the North Pole should be ushered in on Tom Turkey's tail feathers.
This brings me to a dilemma. I've got a little something for my readers that it just doesn't seem right to withhold. Sort of like the Santa socks you receive on New Year's Eve, or the ornament you open on January 1st, this is the kind of thing you should be enjoying all season long. And I want you to share it, too, and I know that it can take awhile sometimes for things to circulate around cyberspace.
So I offer the following link to a short story I wrote as a Christmas gift to my readers. Set in the world of my two Young Adult novels, it also works as a little stand alone story that should get your thoughts moving in the right direction this holiday season--no matter which one you're currently celebrating.
http://www.greenroombooks.com/ACampEdsonChristmas.html
Stray jack-o'-lanterns and the occasional roadside dum-dum serve as daily reminders that Halloween hasn't even fully exited the social arena--and with Thanksgiving waiting a mere two weeks in the wings, one can stand on virtually any street corner in America and witness pilgrims cavorting recklessly with elves and reindeer under the watchful gaze of a tardy grim reaper.
It's unsettling, really, this wanton intermingling of frivolity. Personally, I'm for strict regulation of inter-holiday commerce. Costumes and candies should enjoy a grace period into early November, handing the show over to the pilgrims and Indians around mid-month. As suggested by the format of the traditional Macy's parade, the North Pole should be ushered in on Tom Turkey's tail feathers.
This brings me to a dilemma. I've got a little something for my readers that it just doesn't seem right to withhold. Sort of like the Santa socks you receive on New Year's Eve, or the ornament you open on January 1st, this is the kind of thing you should be enjoying all season long. And I want you to share it, too, and I know that it can take awhile sometimes for things to circulate around cyberspace.
So I offer the following link to a short story I wrote as a Christmas gift to my readers. Set in the world of my two Young Adult novels, it also works as a little stand alone story that should get your thoughts moving in the right direction this holiday season--no matter which one you're currently celebrating.
http://www.greenroombooks.com/ACampEdsonChristmas.html
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Crunch Time
It's crunch time, and I'm not talking chips and salsa.
I haven't really had too much to complain about this semester--my weekends have been pretty much my own, and I haven't logged too many hours with my nose in a text book. In fact, most of what I have to look forward to in my masters program is my internship--ten weeks in a 7th grade classroom. Sounds like heaven, compared to sitting through three hour lectures.
But merging my syllabi with my calendar over the past few days, I've come to the realization that I'm actually going to have to engage in some authentic collegiate activity over the next two weeks.
I'll be in and out here, between now and Thanksgiving. Posts will likely be short--maybe even pictorial--but don't count me absent. I've got some good stories that I'll share in spurts over chips and salsa snack breaks. In the meantime, stock up on some tortillas and I'll meet you back here in a few days.
I haven't really had too much to complain about this semester--my weekends have been pretty much my own, and I haven't logged too many hours with my nose in a text book. In fact, most of what I have to look forward to in my masters program is my internship--ten weeks in a 7th grade classroom. Sounds like heaven, compared to sitting through three hour lectures.
But merging my syllabi with my calendar over the past few days, I've come to the realization that I'm actually going to have to engage in some authentic collegiate activity over the next two weeks.
I'll be in and out here, between now and Thanksgiving. Posts will likely be short--maybe even pictorial--but don't count me absent. I've got some good stories that I'll share in spurts over chips and salsa snack breaks. In the meantime, stock up on some tortillas and I'll meet you back here in a few days.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Finding the Rainbows
For about 10 mid-morning minutes every reasonably sunny day, the sunlight streams through a window in the back of my house at just the right angle to catch a little glass ornament that bends the light into mini-rainbows that scatter themselves across my bedroom.Most mornings I miss the show-- I’m too late, my attention is elsewhere, or I just plain forget.
That’s kind of the way it is with rainbows: you have to look for them.
How many times have you seen a ray of sun emerge at the back end of a fierce storm and immediately heard someone say, “There’s got to be a rainbow out there somewhere,” prompting everyone to crowd the window, craning their necks in owl-esque circles in an effort to catch a fleeting glimpse of dissected light fanned in seven colors across the sky.
Most times we miss the show: we’re too late, our attention is elsewhere, or we just plain forget to look.
I’ve thought a lot about rainbows this week, as I’ve been tracking the weather with a devotion rivaling that of a retiree with the Weather Channel tuned to HD. See, I have plans to go on a thrice-scheduled camping trip this weekend. I’ve been working on making an annual pilgrimage to a favorite camping location since August. Poor campsite availability, rain, and the usual plethora or family commitments have rendered this trip particularly elusive. Considering this much-loved locale is on a lake in the mountains, I don’t need to tell you that it’s now or never, what with the calendar stating we’re a week away from Halloween, and the 10-day mountain forecast hinting at conditions like snow showers.
And a lot of rain, depending on which of the hundreds of forecasts I refreshed my weather.com screen proves most accurate. The conversation went back and forth all week: could it really be any worse than Maine? Should we get a refund, and book early for next year? What if the forecast was wrong? Wasn’t there a sunshine icon next to the name of one weekend day just ten minutes ago?
Which, when you think about it, is a dialogue that pretty much mirrors our real-life musings. Oh, sure, we're pretty good at recognizing a sunny day when it comes along, and we can certainly spot a storm brewing on the horizion--but most of life really plays out somewhere between the extremes: it's a partly cloudy (or mostly-sunny, if you happen to be a glass-half-full type) mix of showers and sun, cool and warm, arid and humid. And, frankly, we don't always know what to do with a forecast like that.
But as for the camping trip? We finally just decided that with the hodgepodge of sun and rain they keep showing us, there’s got to be a rainbow in there somewhere—so we’re leaving tomorrow at first light to find it. We don’t want to miss the show.
Monday, October 13, 2008
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