Veronica Randolph Batterson's Blog, page 3
June 12, 2014
And A Hummingbird Hovered
Decompress. Restore. Relax. Recover. Anyone who has been part of the wedding planning process for a daughter understands how fully these words are felt once the special day is over. When months, oftentimes years, are spent preparing for the nuptials, it’s sometimes difficult to remember how living (or even breathing), sans wedding discussions, ever was.
This past weekend, my younger daughter walked down the aisle. It was beautiful and ran smoothly, but it took a lot of work to make it so. Now I’m feeling that sense of “what to do with myself” quandary, which followed the foggy numbness post-ceremony. A glass of wine or two helped clear that haze and made relaxing a little easier at the reception, but Monday rolled around and I felt lost.
I can’t say enough positive things about the location of the wedding, which helped us keep cool heads and our sanity. Starved Rock State Park in Oglesby, Illinois made the bride and groom’s weekend one of memories they’ll always cherish. Situated on over 2600 acres, the park is known for its many canyons and hiking trails, along with fishing and boating opportunities and overnight accommodations in cabins and the lodge. It’s also a premiere wedding venue, hosting most ceremonies outdoors with the capability of moving everything inside due to inclement weather conditions. And we just missed the rain.
With a 5 p.m. outdoor ceremony, small droplets started dotting the sidewalk at approximately 4:20 (just as I exited the lodge). As the weather had been perfect for the past two days until that point, my first thought was, “Are you kidding me?” Braced and ready for what was to come, I went back to my hotel room and grabbed two shawls I’d thought to bring (to throw over someone if necessary in an attempt to salvage dresses and hair) and my husband brought our only umbrella from the car. Groomsmen were buying umbrellas from the gift shop. Ultimately, none of it was necessary.
Throughout the ceremony and photographs afterward, the rain stayed at bay, and everyone enjoyed the lovely setting Starved Rock has to offer. But one of the most special moments of that time, in my opinion, wasn’t planned. As the bride and groom said their vows, a hummingbird appeared above the wedding party, hovering for several seconds, dipping, darting and hovering a little more. Then it was gone as suddenly as it appeared. I’m one to believe things like this have some sort of meaning and given the Native American history of the park, I readily accept the symbolism of a hummingbird’s appearance at such a time.
In general Native Americans viewed hummingbirds positively, but it depended on the tribe as to the legends and symbols they represented. Hummingbirds are often associated with beauty, harmony and integrity, but they’re also seen as healers or spirits helping those in need…or the spirit of a departed loved one (something even more special given the timing). Some think seeing a hummingbird is a sign of good luck, but it has special meaning for different people and cultures…symbols of joy, life and a savor of life, tirelessness, eternity and everlasting life. For myself, I’ll take any of these. It was a very special moment I’ll always remember.
As for the rest of the evening…reception, dinner and dancing occurred without a hitch indoors, which is a good thing as the skies opened and it poured the rest of the night. The timing was perfect and everyone had a wonderful time. I couldn’t be more pleased with Starved Rock State Park…thank you, Margie and Tiffany.
Now, let the recovery continue (perhaps a vacation will help, then seeing book three reach publication). Onward.
To read more of my blog, please visit http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com.
This past weekend, my younger daughter walked down the aisle. It was beautiful and ran smoothly, but it took a lot of work to make it so. Now I’m feeling that sense of “what to do with myself” quandary, which followed the foggy numbness post-ceremony. A glass of wine or two helped clear that haze and made relaxing a little easier at the reception, but Monday rolled around and I felt lost.
I can’t say enough positive things about the location of the wedding, which helped us keep cool heads and our sanity. Starved Rock State Park in Oglesby, Illinois made the bride and groom’s weekend one of memories they’ll always cherish. Situated on over 2600 acres, the park is known for its many canyons and hiking trails, along with fishing and boating opportunities and overnight accommodations in cabins and the lodge. It’s also a premiere wedding venue, hosting most ceremonies outdoors with the capability of moving everything inside due to inclement weather conditions. And we just missed the rain.
With a 5 p.m. outdoor ceremony, small droplets started dotting the sidewalk at approximately 4:20 (just as I exited the lodge). As the weather had been perfect for the past two days until that point, my first thought was, “Are you kidding me?” Braced and ready for what was to come, I went back to my hotel room and grabbed two shawls I’d thought to bring (to throw over someone if necessary in an attempt to salvage dresses and hair) and my husband brought our only umbrella from the car. Groomsmen were buying umbrellas from the gift shop. Ultimately, none of it was necessary.
Throughout the ceremony and photographs afterward, the rain stayed at bay, and everyone enjoyed the lovely setting Starved Rock has to offer. But one of the most special moments of that time, in my opinion, wasn’t planned. As the bride and groom said their vows, a hummingbird appeared above the wedding party, hovering for several seconds, dipping, darting and hovering a little more. Then it was gone as suddenly as it appeared. I’m one to believe things like this have some sort of meaning and given the Native American history of the park, I readily accept the symbolism of a hummingbird’s appearance at such a time.
In general Native Americans viewed hummingbirds positively, but it depended on the tribe as to the legends and symbols they represented. Hummingbirds are often associated with beauty, harmony and integrity, but they’re also seen as healers or spirits helping those in need…or the spirit of a departed loved one (something even more special given the timing). Some think seeing a hummingbird is a sign of good luck, but it has special meaning for different people and cultures…symbols of joy, life and a savor of life, tirelessness, eternity and everlasting life. For myself, I’ll take any of these. It was a very special moment I’ll always remember.
As for the rest of the evening…reception, dinner and dancing occurred without a hitch indoors, which is a good thing as the skies opened and it poured the rest of the night. The timing was perfect and everyone had a wonderful time. I couldn’t be more pleased with Starved Rock State Park…thank you, Margie and Tiffany.
Now, let the recovery continue (perhaps a vacation will help, then seeing book three reach publication). Onward.
To read more of my blog, please visit http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com.
April 29, 2014
Simply An Incubator
My two daughters are young women now and when I look at where they are in their lives, I wonder how I was any part of their talents and accomplishments. Of course, I’ve owned many titles over their lifetimes: nurturer, caregiver, homework enforcer, cab driver, lunch maker, bad guy who made rules and curfews and the volunteer-for-any-job-in-elementary-school-just-because role. But I look for things they might have inherited from me, something genetic that could have contributed to what they do now. And I struggle to find it.
My younger child has been offered a special opportunity to work toward her Master’s degree this fall. Tuition free. Her undergrad scholarships covered all of her tuition during those years. She was a member of seven honor societies, graduated summa cum laude and her resumé reads as if she’s been in the work force for decades. How is she my child?
She is a visual artist, as well. Her artistic abilities amaze me and while I love all of her work, my favorites will always be her cartoons. She can create on paper, bringing to life all of these wonderful characters. It’s certainly not anything I can do.
My older daughter is a musician. She began playing the violin in first grade and took lessons until she graduated from high school. The violin was chosen for two reasons: 1) we didn’t own a piano at the time and, 2) we had a neighbor who rented string instruments to schools for their orchestra programs. We rented a tiny violin for our daughter and she took off, never looking back.
Lessons via The Suzuki Method started and lasted for a few years. By the way, if you don’t think it’s possible for young children to perform music by the classical composers such as Bach, Handel and Mozart, then find a Suzuki School recital and go to it. You’ll be amazed.
Traditional lessons followed, as did concerts, youth orchestras, ensemble groups and fiddle instruction. One of my fondest memories is when she played the role of “The Fiddler” in Fiddler on the Roof during her high school years. She didn’t play from the orchestra pit; she was up on the rooftop on stage, dressed like a man (including beard). And I loved it. Today, she continues to play gigs around the Chicago area and I continue to marvel at her musical abilities, as she didn’t inherit them from me.
So I wonder. I was a good student, but I had to study, and I was far from brilliant. I started out as an art major in college and abandoned that career path due to an unfortunate experience. Looking back, it was probably a sound decision, as I see the talent my youngest possesses…talent that eluded me. As for the musical inability...I took classical guitar lessons for a while, regretting much later that I didn’t continue. I felt it important that my daughter play an instrument, thus the music lessons. But I have no talent for it.
Perhaps I’ve been pursuing dreams through my kids…some people do it. Although, my daughters have never been forced to do these things. They continued along their paths because they chose to do so and they felt good about what they were doing. And I continue along my own, wondering how in the world either one of them are a part of me. The incubator idea is strong during these times.
To read more of my blog, please visit http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com.
My younger child has been offered a special opportunity to work toward her Master’s degree this fall. Tuition free. Her undergrad scholarships covered all of her tuition during those years. She was a member of seven honor societies, graduated summa cum laude and her resumé reads as if she’s been in the work force for decades. How is she my child?
She is a visual artist, as well. Her artistic abilities amaze me and while I love all of her work, my favorites will always be her cartoons. She can create on paper, bringing to life all of these wonderful characters. It’s certainly not anything I can do.
My older daughter is a musician. She began playing the violin in first grade and took lessons until she graduated from high school. The violin was chosen for two reasons: 1) we didn’t own a piano at the time and, 2) we had a neighbor who rented string instruments to schools for their orchestra programs. We rented a tiny violin for our daughter and she took off, never looking back.
Lessons via The Suzuki Method started and lasted for a few years. By the way, if you don’t think it’s possible for young children to perform music by the classical composers such as Bach, Handel and Mozart, then find a Suzuki School recital and go to it. You’ll be amazed.
Traditional lessons followed, as did concerts, youth orchestras, ensemble groups and fiddle instruction. One of my fondest memories is when she played the role of “The Fiddler” in Fiddler on the Roof during her high school years. She didn’t play from the orchestra pit; she was up on the rooftop on stage, dressed like a man (including beard). And I loved it. Today, she continues to play gigs around the Chicago area and I continue to marvel at her musical abilities, as she didn’t inherit them from me.
So I wonder. I was a good student, but I had to study, and I was far from brilliant. I started out as an art major in college and abandoned that career path due to an unfortunate experience. Looking back, it was probably a sound decision, as I see the talent my youngest possesses…talent that eluded me. As for the musical inability...I took classical guitar lessons for a while, regretting much later that I didn’t continue. I felt it important that my daughter play an instrument, thus the music lessons. But I have no talent for it.
Perhaps I’ve been pursuing dreams through my kids…some people do it. Although, my daughters have never been forced to do these things. They continued along their paths because they chose to do so and they felt good about what they were doing. And I continue along my own, wondering how in the world either one of them are a part of me. The incubator idea is strong during these times.
To read more of my blog, please visit http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com.
March 27, 2014
She Heard Her Heart
The cover design for my third book, Daniel's Esperanza, is underway and the launch date is tentatively set for June 1, 2014. This whole process has been long and convoluted, so nothing is definite. It wouldn't surprise me if there were some more hitches along the way before it's published. I hope not.
For now, I'd like to share a flash fiction piece I just finished. "She Heard Her Heart" is short, short, short. Perhaps it resonates with someone, somewhere. Thank you to all who read my blog and copyright applies, as usual. (©Veronica Randolph Batterson)
She Heard Her Heart
By Veronica Randolph Batterson
She heard her heart. The steady, rhythmic beat reached her ears and the sound reverberated around the room. Its resonance was clear but distant; a channel tuned to a remote place reserved only for hearing, the airwaves charged with static and hollow noise. Its otherworldliness a guarantee her lifeline worked, yet a small fluctuation could signal worry. She listened closely.
Listening brought memories. She recalled the feeling when hearing the first heartbeats of her children. Relief, disbelief and wonderment fueled thoughts of an uncertain but promising future. The ultrasounds provided proof life grew inside her. The unfamiliar pulse meant joy and promise.
She remembered her grandmother’s life as it ended. When the heart had grown old and tired, plagued with disease and slowing until it could no longer function. The last beat was made as she was transported to intensive care, the final heart surgery a failure. Would that be her fate?
Yet the heart was even more. At times her own had soared. And broke and cried. It had loved and anguished and worried. Her heart had been full and empty and angry. It had mourned and been hopeful. This pulsing promise of life, symbolic of what made life bearable and worth living; what allowed a soul to survive and become strong, when all else appeared hopeless.
The core of existence continued to beat. She marveled at how unassuming the sound was. And welcome. The center of life was steady and reliable; it was blue-collar, the engine and the manual laborer. It was taken for granted unless something went wrong. Then our own mortality grabbed us by the collar, forcing a hard look at what might be, what will be eventually.
She closed her eyes and remembered. The instincts that were ignored and not followed; the love that could have been but wasn’t; the overlooked kindness and the compassion lacking to make a difference. Times she hadn’t followed her heart and listened.
The steadiness continued. It filled her mind with things she must do and accomplish. She didn’t bargain, bribe or ask for more time as her heartbeat filled her ears. She just knew how it needed to be. And she had to listen.
©Veronica Randolph Batterson
To read more of my blog, please visit http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com
For now, I'd like to share a flash fiction piece I just finished. "She Heard Her Heart" is short, short, short. Perhaps it resonates with someone, somewhere. Thank you to all who read my blog and copyright applies, as usual. (©Veronica Randolph Batterson)
She Heard Her Heart
By Veronica Randolph Batterson
She heard her heart. The steady, rhythmic beat reached her ears and the sound reverberated around the room. Its resonance was clear but distant; a channel tuned to a remote place reserved only for hearing, the airwaves charged with static and hollow noise. Its otherworldliness a guarantee her lifeline worked, yet a small fluctuation could signal worry. She listened closely.
Listening brought memories. She recalled the feeling when hearing the first heartbeats of her children. Relief, disbelief and wonderment fueled thoughts of an uncertain but promising future. The ultrasounds provided proof life grew inside her. The unfamiliar pulse meant joy and promise.
She remembered her grandmother’s life as it ended. When the heart had grown old and tired, plagued with disease and slowing until it could no longer function. The last beat was made as she was transported to intensive care, the final heart surgery a failure. Would that be her fate?
Yet the heart was even more. At times her own had soared. And broke and cried. It had loved and anguished and worried. Her heart had been full and empty and angry. It had mourned and been hopeful. This pulsing promise of life, symbolic of what made life bearable and worth living; what allowed a soul to survive and become strong, when all else appeared hopeless.
The core of existence continued to beat. She marveled at how unassuming the sound was. And welcome. The center of life was steady and reliable; it was blue-collar, the engine and the manual laborer. It was taken for granted unless something went wrong. Then our own mortality grabbed us by the collar, forcing a hard look at what might be, what will be eventually.
She closed her eyes and remembered. The instincts that were ignored and not followed; the love that could have been but wasn’t; the overlooked kindness and the compassion lacking to make a difference. Times she hadn’t followed her heart and listened.
The steadiness continued. It filled her mind with things she must do and accomplish. She didn’t bargain, bribe or ask for more time as her heartbeat filled her ears. She just knew how it needed to be. And she had to listen.
©Veronica Randolph Batterson
To read more of my blog, please visit http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com
February 14, 2014
Living with Cato
Just before Lily entered my life, I wasn’t sure I wanted another dog. We had recently lost our previous pet to illness and it took a lot out of me. I was drained emotionally. Something about bringing another dog into our home so soon after a loss seemed wrong, too. And disloyal. I felt as if we were betraying our beloved dog’s memory and it just hurt too much.
But my husband was insistent. A Sunday afternoon drive in the country was in order. He knew of a place that had some golden retriever puppies for sale and he was determined to change my mind. I grabbed some old towels as an afterthought, but forgot the small dog crate in the basement. Then we hit the road.
I should say that our last dog was a golden retriever, too, and our family loves the breed. It doesn’t mean we aren’t willing to adopt a rescue or look at other breeds. We just know the golden well. It is an obvious choice for us at this point in our lives.
Lily was born on a farm. When my husband and I drove up the long drive to the farmhouse, I knew we were going home with a puppy. I had no more doubts. All it took was to see a large litter of pups lounging and playing under a huge tree to change my mind. And she stood out from the rest. All were friendly and exuberant, but Lily was fearless and curious, too. We knew she was the one.
On the drive home, she sat on my lap on top of the towels I’d brought. I realize this isn’t the smartest way to travel with a pet (she should have been secured in the dog crate that we forgot), but my husband was driving and I held her closely. I’m glad I remembered the towels, however. She piddled on me a couple of times during her first car ride. The towels saved my jeans and the car seat.
The first year with Lily was an adventure. It had been a long time since a puppy lived with our family and she kept me moving. Puppy classes were important to us for the conditioning, so we enrolled her (and us) to refresh us on the beginning basics. She was easy to train but a terror on a leash. Housebreaking? No problem. I think she had one accident in the house, otherwise, she knew right away to go outdoors. But walking with her on a leash? I liken it to walking the Tasmanian Devil, that Looney Toons character. Pulling, jerking, stopping, dragging. She was all over the place. It made no sense to her. Being outdoors meant adventure and freedom to that farm dog. And she didn’t want it any other way. Commands didn’t faze her when on a leash, and she knows and obeys commands very well, otherwise. Even the instructor was at a loss, murmuring, “I’ve never seen such a thing.” I knew then walking with her might never be a pleasant thing.
Home life was an experience, too. Lily has earned many nicknames over the years, but one that perfectly describes her personality is “Stealth”. Or “Cato” (Kato Fong from the Pink Panther movies), as my husband affectionately calls her. The manservant and martial arts expert hired to keep Inspector Clouseau on his toes had nothing on our hound. She’s the master stalker and while her toys are often the target, we are always her prey. The little girl is always lurking, ready to pounce. Think she’s sleeping in the other room? Just turn around and she’s at your feet staring you down, standing very still and eyes narrowed with that stalking face. We rarely hear her coming, that’s how quiet she is. What she chooses to do next depends on her mood, but it’s always playfulness. Another personality trait.
The hound feigns hearing loss when it’s to her advantage. She absolutely hates being brushed, which usually means I have to wrestle with her to do a little grooming. So if she’s resting in another room and hears the word “brush”, then she remains very still, pretending to sleep. But if a piece of food hits the kitchen floor, Stealth is suddenly there from two rooms away in search of an unexpected treat. The word “groomer” is in her unspoken vocabulary. She attempts to hide when hearing it. She’d be the ragamuffin of goldens if we allowed it and just as happy. But anyone who has a golden knows the importance of brushing because of the breed’s tendency to shed. A lot. So she’s out of luck with that one. And I continue to wrestle.
Lily’s “business”…where to start? I think she views it as a necessary inconvenience. She would much rather explore, chase tennis balls, sniff the air, look at the birds, bark and roll in the grass or snow. So she waits until she can’t put it off any longer; until she’s checked out every single shrub and chased every leaf that’s blown in her path. Then it’s as if she’s thinking, “Okay, gotta take care of this.” I’m sure she would sigh if she could. And most dogs chase their tails. I’m not sure why, but I know what’s about to happen when Lily chases her own. Because she pushes the “business taking” to the limit, her tail chasing is an indication. It’s usually a few chases and she stops, ears up and alert, eyes wide and staring at us, as if to say, “THIS HAS TO HAPPEN NOW!” We get the message and out she goes. It’s funny how our dogs communicate with us.
I do believe we have the only dog that suffers “business attacks” as a result of car rides. That old story comes to mind of getting a cranky baby to sleep by taking it for a ride around the block. You have a dog that needs to do its business? Take it on a car ride. That’s our hound. And she’s turned into a difficult traveling companion because of the incessant stopping we have to make for her. We usually visit family in Iowa on Thanksgiving and take Lily with us. We’ve stopped more for our dog along I-88 over the years than we’ve ever stopped for ourselves.
As with all dogs, her barks have meaning. I’ve learned what’s going on with all I hear. Ceaseless barking, while looking out the window, usually means she sees something…squirrel, rabbit, neighbor. Barks will end once target is out of sight, but I’ve had to shoo off a squirrel or two that dared the dog through the window, driving Lily (and me) crazy. Announcement barks are reserved for the doorbell ringing, the UPS delivery truck, the mail carrier and any variety of noisy vehicles (trash and recycling trucks, snow plows, etc). The one lone “RUFF” bark means she’s saying to one of us, “Now, wait a minute. Look at me”. Then there’s the single “Whoop”. This happens when she’s lounging in a semi-sleep state, snoring happily. A loud noise induces one of these when it brings her back to consciousness. I’ll just say I’ve been startled senseless when she does it.
There’s so much I could share about this wonderful creature. She loves the camera, probably because I’ve trained her by taking endless photos from the moment we brought her home. She’s confident she can catch anything that wanders in her yard (squirrels, birds, rabbits, ducks) even though she never has. Her beautiful instincts came into play last spring when she bugged a poor nesting duck under some shrubs by our house. Tracking, flushing and chasing continued every time Lily went outside until we had to build a temporary fence around the shrubs so she’d leave the duck alone. The two coexisted until it was time for the new mama duck and her babies to vacate.
She loves snow, still thinks she can sit on my lap (even though she weighs about eighty pounds), sometimes uses her toys as pacifiers and has an internal clock for when it’s time to eat. I’ve never forgotten to feed Lily because she won’t let me. She has me trained well.
Age is catching up to our sweet girl, as it does with all of us. She’s much whiter in the face but just as beautiful. Her agility isn’t what it used to be and due to a leg injury she suffered a few years ago because she was so physically active, her retrieving days are over. She plays with tennis balls now, instead of chasing them. I’m her retriever as she’s happy to hide her favorite toy for me to find. But most importantly, she makes me happy. She’s loving and nurturing; a companion to have around and she makes me laugh everyday.
As for those walks we never thought would happen as a puppy…I’m happy to say she did learn how to walk on a leash. She does have an aversion for small dogs, however, as a couple of times she was bitten (once on her ear and once on her belly) as these dogs became aggressive with her while we walked. Why is it that most folks think “small” can’t hurt “large”? Now if some pet owners could learn dog etiquette, those walks with my sweet hound would be much nicer (but that might be another blog post).
To read more of my blog, that includes some original short stories, please visit http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com. As always, thanks for reading.
But my husband was insistent. A Sunday afternoon drive in the country was in order. He knew of a place that had some golden retriever puppies for sale and he was determined to change my mind. I grabbed some old towels as an afterthought, but forgot the small dog crate in the basement. Then we hit the road.
I should say that our last dog was a golden retriever, too, and our family loves the breed. It doesn’t mean we aren’t willing to adopt a rescue or look at other breeds. We just know the golden well. It is an obvious choice for us at this point in our lives.
Lily was born on a farm. When my husband and I drove up the long drive to the farmhouse, I knew we were going home with a puppy. I had no more doubts. All it took was to see a large litter of pups lounging and playing under a huge tree to change my mind. And she stood out from the rest. All were friendly and exuberant, but Lily was fearless and curious, too. We knew she was the one.
On the drive home, she sat on my lap on top of the towels I’d brought. I realize this isn’t the smartest way to travel with a pet (she should have been secured in the dog crate that we forgot), but my husband was driving and I held her closely. I’m glad I remembered the towels, however. She piddled on me a couple of times during her first car ride. The towels saved my jeans and the car seat.
The first year with Lily was an adventure. It had been a long time since a puppy lived with our family and she kept me moving. Puppy classes were important to us for the conditioning, so we enrolled her (and us) to refresh us on the beginning basics. She was easy to train but a terror on a leash. Housebreaking? No problem. I think she had one accident in the house, otherwise, she knew right away to go outdoors. But walking with her on a leash? I liken it to walking the Tasmanian Devil, that Looney Toons character. Pulling, jerking, stopping, dragging. She was all over the place. It made no sense to her. Being outdoors meant adventure and freedom to that farm dog. And she didn’t want it any other way. Commands didn’t faze her when on a leash, and she knows and obeys commands very well, otherwise. Even the instructor was at a loss, murmuring, “I’ve never seen such a thing.” I knew then walking with her might never be a pleasant thing.
Home life was an experience, too. Lily has earned many nicknames over the years, but one that perfectly describes her personality is “Stealth”. Or “Cato” (Kato Fong from the Pink Panther movies), as my husband affectionately calls her. The manservant and martial arts expert hired to keep Inspector Clouseau on his toes had nothing on our hound. She’s the master stalker and while her toys are often the target, we are always her prey. The little girl is always lurking, ready to pounce. Think she’s sleeping in the other room? Just turn around and she’s at your feet staring you down, standing very still and eyes narrowed with that stalking face. We rarely hear her coming, that’s how quiet she is. What she chooses to do next depends on her mood, but it’s always playfulness. Another personality trait.
The hound feigns hearing loss when it’s to her advantage. She absolutely hates being brushed, which usually means I have to wrestle with her to do a little grooming. So if she’s resting in another room and hears the word “brush”, then she remains very still, pretending to sleep. But if a piece of food hits the kitchen floor, Stealth is suddenly there from two rooms away in search of an unexpected treat. The word “groomer” is in her unspoken vocabulary. She attempts to hide when hearing it. She’d be the ragamuffin of goldens if we allowed it and just as happy. But anyone who has a golden knows the importance of brushing because of the breed’s tendency to shed. A lot. So she’s out of luck with that one. And I continue to wrestle.
Lily’s “business”…where to start? I think she views it as a necessary inconvenience. She would much rather explore, chase tennis balls, sniff the air, look at the birds, bark and roll in the grass or snow. So she waits until she can’t put it off any longer; until she’s checked out every single shrub and chased every leaf that’s blown in her path. Then it’s as if she’s thinking, “Okay, gotta take care of this.” I’m sure she would sigh if she could. And most dogs chase their tails. I’m not sure why, but I know what’s about to happen when Lily chases her own. Because she pushes the “business taking” to the limit, her tail chasing is an indication. It’s usually a few chases and she stops, ears up and alert, eyes wide and staring at us, as if to say, “THIS HAS TO HAPPEN NOW!” We get the message and out she goes. It’s funny how our dogs communicate with us.
I do believe we have the only dog that suffers “business attacks” as a result of car rides. That old story comes to mind of getting a cranky baby to sleep by taking it for a ride around the block. You have a dog that needs to do its business? Take it on a car ride. That’s our hound. And she’s turned into a difficult traveling companion because of the incessant stopping we have to make for her. We usually visit family in Iowa on Thanksgiving and take Lily with us. We’ve stopped more for our dog along I-88 over the years than we’ve ever stopped for ourselves.
As with all dogs, her barks have meaning. I’ve learned what’s going on with all I hear. Ceaseless barking, while looking out the window, usually means she sees something…squirrel, rabbit, neighbor. Barks will end once target is out of sight, but I’ve had to shoo off a squirrel or two that dared the dog through the window, driving Lily (and me) crazy. Announcement barks are reserved for the doorbell ringing, the UPS delivery truck, the mail carrier and any variety of noisy vehicles (trash and recycling trucks, snow plows, etc). The one lone “RUFF” bark means she’s saying to one of us, “Now, wait a minute. Look at me”. Then there’s the single “Whoop”. This happens when she’s lounging in a semi-sleep state, snoring happily. A loud noise induces one of these when it brings her back to consciousness. I’ll just say I’ve been startled senseless when she does it.
There’s so much I could share about this wonderful creature. She loves the camera, probably because I’ve trained her by taking endless photos from the moment we brought her home. She’s confident she can catch anything that wanders in her yard (squirrels, birds, rabbits, ducks) even though she never has. Her beautiful instincts came into play last spring when she bugged a poor nesting duck under some shrubs by our house. Tracking, flushing and chasing continued every time Lily went outside until we had to build a temporary fence around the shrubs so she’d leave the duck alone. The two coexisted until it was time for the new mama duck and her babies to vacate.
She loves snow, still thinks she can sit on my lap (even though she weighs about eighty pounds), sometimes uses her toys as pacifiers and has an internal clock for when it’s time to eat. I’ve never forgotten to feed Lily because she won’t let me. She has me trained well.
Age is catching up to our sweet girl, as it does with all of us. She’s much whiter in the face but just as beautiful. Her agility isn’t what it used to be and due to a leg injury she suffered a few years ago because she was so physically active, her retrieving days are over. She plays with tennis balls now, instead of chasing them. I’m her retriever as she’s happy to hide her favorite toy for me to find. But most importantly, she makes me happy. She’s loving and nurturing; a companion to have around and she makes me laugh everyday.
As for those walks we never thought would happen as a puppy…I’m happy to say she did learn how to walk on a leash. She does have an aversion for small dogs, however, as a couple of times she was bitten (once on her ear and once on her belly) as these dogs became aggressive with her while we walked. Why is it that most folks think “small” can’t hurt “large”? Now if some pet owners could learn dog etiquette, those walks with my sweet hound would be much nicer (but that might be another blog post).
To read more of my blog, that includes some original short stories, please visit http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com. As always, thanks for reading.
January 28, 2014
Invisible
I've been thinking of people lately. Not a particular person, necessarily, but in general ways. Maybe it's due to this frigid weather we're enduring and how it can isolate everyone and intensify that feeling of loneliness some feel more than others. Winter can do that sometimes. We wish to hole up and nest until spring, emerging when warmth and color say hello after a long rest. Everyone we know has something going on in their lives, good and bad. We just aren't always aware of it and I'm guilty of forgetting that possibility at times, often wondering why a person acts a certain way. Too often, it's dismissed as nothing but a mood, but there are reasons in some.
I wrote this little poem recently and would like to share it here. I'm not the greatest at attempting poetry but I think it says a lot about life. Anyone's life, really. At the risk of sounding preachy...kindness, thoughtfulness and taking the time with someone go a long way. It doesn't always work with everyone, but "thank you", "please" and the polite exchanges make the world a little more pleasant. As does tolerance. Just my opinion. As always, thanks for reading my blog and copyright applies (©Veronica Randolph Batterson). Stay warm.
Invisible
By Veronica Randolph Batterson
The child was born a lifetime ago,
Making her entrance with little fanfare.
No one took notice.
She cried when hungry,
And when she was wet.
She longed to be held.
The child wanted comforting arms around her,
But she was invisible.
The baby grew into a little girl,
With ragged pigtails and mismatched socks.
No one took notice.
She cried when the bad dreams came,
And when she was slapped.
She longed to be held.
The little girl wanted comforting arms around her,
But she was invisible.
The little girl became a teenager,
With awkward movements and moodiness.
No one took notice.
She cried when she didn’t understand,
And when she was slapped.
She longed to be held.
The teenager wanted comforting arms around her,
But she was invisible.
The teen blossomed into a young woman,
Marrying a man who told her what to do.
No one took notice.
Living in his shadow, she cried silently,
And over unrequited love.
She longed to be held.
The woman wanted comforting arms around her,
But she was invisible.
The young woman matured into old age,
Spending most of her days and nights alone.
No one took notice.
She cried when her children no longer called,
And over lost youth.
She longed to be held when dying.
The woman was laid to rest in the cold ground,
Forever invisible.
©Veronica Randolph Batterson
To read more of my blog, including short stories, please visit http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com.
I wrote this little poem recently and would like to share it here. I'm not the greatest at attempting poetry but I think it says a lot about life. Anyone's life, really. At the risk of sounding preachy...kindness, thoughtfulness and taking the time with someone go a long way. It doesn't always work with everyone, but "thank you", "please" and the polite exchanges make the world a little more pleasant. As does tolerance. Just my opinion. As always, thanks for reading my blog and copyright applies (©Veronica Randolph Batterson). Stay warm.
Invisible
By Veronica Randolph Batterson
The child was born a lifetime ago,
Making her entrance with little fanfare.
No one took notice.
She cried when hungry,
And when she was wet.
She longed to be held.
The child wanted comforting arms around her,
But she was invisible.
The baby grew into a little girl,
With ragged pigtails and mismatched socks.
No one took notice.
She cried when the bad dreams came,
And when she was slapped.
She longed to be held.
The little girl wanted comforting arms around her,
But she was invisible.
The little girl became a teenager,
With awkward movements and moodiness.
No one took notice.
She cried when she didn’t understand,
And when she was slapped.
She longed to be held.
The teenager wanted comforting arms around her,
But she was invisible.
The teen blossomed into a young woman,
Marrying a man who told her what to do.
No one took notice.
Living in his shadow, she cried silently,
And over unrequited love.
She longed to be held.
The woman wanted comforting arms around her,
But she was invisible.
The young woman matured into old age,
Spending most of her days and nights alone.
No one took notice.
She cried when her children no longer called,
And over lost youth.
She longed to be held when dying.
The woman was laid to rest in the cold ground,
Forever invisible.
©Veronica Randolph Batterson
To read more of my blog, including short stories, please visit http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com.
January 14, 2014
Next Summer, You Will Dance to a Different Beat
It has been two years. They went by quickly as all years seem to do once you reach a certain age, but my own self-imposed obligation made time appear "quick as lightning". "Already?" I'd mutter when the calendar jumped to a new month. Then it was time to search notes and decide on the subject of the next post. A few months I shared short stories I'd written. Yes, blogging is difficult for me, but I'm rather proud of the fact I met last year's resolution to at least post a new entry per month. I've been doing this for two years, which is a big accomplishment as I never thought I'd be able to continue with it. My goal is to carry on and if I blog more, all the better, but I'm not promising anything.
While keeping this blogging commitment, other things happened in my life. I finished the manuscript of my third book and one particular literary agent, who asked to "read a full", still has it. It has been with the agent quite some time and while I try to remain positive about the situation, realistically the odds are it will be rejected. I'm almost to the point of wishing it would happen just so I could move on to the next step and publish it myself. Those who have submitted manuscripts to agents and publishers probably know what I mean. The wait and unknown are brutal, the end result the same. I won't get into specifics now but maybe it'll be the subject of a new post this year.
The year 2013 was good to my family. My youngest daughter graduated from college summa cum laude (I can boast). My husband and I traveled to Hawaii, visited with old friends in Philadelphia, met a new one in Sedona, Arizona. I saw the Grand Canyon for the first time in my life and it was as emotional as I thought it would be. The vastness and beauty are breathtaking. Las Vegas and seeing the Hoover Dam rounded out that trip and I must admit Vegas wasn't my cup of tea (but I didn't expect it to be).
A lifetime "to do" list included seeing the Eagles in concert and I crossed that off as an accomplishment last year. I saw them perform at the United Center in Chicago...a great three and a half hour show. It was wonderful and I was happy for days afterwards.
My Fine Art America account proved a little profitable in its first year of existence. I made some sales of my photography prints and if anyone is interested in checking out some of the photos, here is the link: http://www.veronica-batterson.artistw.... I attended some local author fairs throughout the year and also accomplished: the start of a new manuscript for the next book. Short stories continue.
A few months ago, after a nice dinner of Chinese food, I opened the obligatory fortune cookie. It read, "Next Summer, You Will Dance to a Different Beat". The only thing at this point that I know will happen in the summer is my daughter's wedding. I liked the prediction so much that I chose to make it the title of this post because of its quirkiness. Something to potentially write about, I guess, but an exciting expectation for the new year...along with all of those resolutions to keep.
While I didn't mean for this post to be a recap of what happened to me or "a year in the life of...", that's how it developed, unfortunately. It reminds me of those letters people used to send with their Christmas cards, explaining everything that happened to them that year. Sorry, everyone.
In closing, a toast: I hope all of you have a wonderful 2014, full of promise and good health. May your expectations be hopeful, your outlook bright and may you all dance to a different beat.
To read more of my blog, including short stories I've written, please visit http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo....
While keeping this blogging commitment, other things happened in my life. I finished the manuscript of my third book and one particular literary agent, who asked to "read a full", still has it. It has been with the agent quite some time and while I try to remain positive about the situation, realistically the odds are it will be rejected. I'm almost to the point of wishing it would happen just so I could move on to the next step and publish it myself. Those who have submitted manuscripts to agents and publishers probably know what I mean. The wait and unknown are brutal, the end result the same. I won't get into specifics now but maybe it'll be the subject of a new post this year.
The year 2013 was good to my family. My youngest daughter graduated from college summa cum laude (I can boast). My husband and I traveled to Hawaii, visited with old friends in Philadelphia, met a new one in Sedona, Arizona. I saw the Grand Canyon for the first time in my life and it was as emotional as I thought it would be. The vastness and beauty are breathtaking. Las Vegas and seeing the Hoover Dam rounded out that trip and I must admit Vegas wasn't my cup of tea (but I didn't expect it to be).
A lifetime "to do" list included seeing the Eagles in concert and I crossed that off as an accomplishment last year. I saw them perform at the United Center in Chicago...a great three and a half hour show. It was wonderful and I was happy for days afterwards.
My Fine Art America account proved a little profitable in its first year of existence. I made some sales of my photography prints and if anyone is interested in checking out some of the photos, here is the link: http://www.veronica-batterson.artistw.... I attended some local author fairs throughout the year and also accomplished: the start of a new manuscript for the next book. Short stories continue.
A few months ago, after a nice dinner of Chinese food, I opened the obligatory fortune cookie. It read, "Next Summer, You Will Dance to a Different Beat". The only thing at this point that I know will happen in the summer is my daughter's wedding. I liked the prediction so much that I chose to make it the title of this post because of its quirkiness. Something to potentially write about, I guess, but an exciting expectation for the new year...along with all of those resolutions to keep.
While I didn't mean for this post to be a recap of what happened to me or "a year in the life of...", that's how it developed, unfortunately. It reminds me of those letters people used to send with their Christmas cards, explaining everything that happened to them that year. Sorry, everyone.
In closing, a toast: I hope all of you have a wonderful 2014, full of promise and good health. May your expectations be hopeful, your outlook bright and may you all dance to a different beat.
To read more of my blog, including short stories I've written, please visit http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo....
December 20, 2013
Peace
May you have warmth in your igloo, oil in your lamp and peace in your heart. - Eskimo Proverb
This weekend, I saw the movie, The Book Thief , and my thoughts have been with it ever since...similar to how it is for me when I've finished a great book and can't get it out of my mind (of course, the movie was based on the book). While I've seen many films set during the Holocaust and World War II era, this movie's message has stayed with me, perhaps for the meaning of hope, the importance of peace and how words factored into survival for the characters.
As a writer and someone who loves to read, I enjoy words that give me peace and make me think. I especially appreciate poetry and lyrics which paint a picture of contemplation and expressiveness (think paint to canvas). In my opinion, one of the great lyricists was the late Dan Fogelberg. Ironically, today marks the anniversary of his passing six years ago and, while this post isn't meant as an homage to the late artist, I think it warrants a mention of how great a poet he was. It's something special when lyrics read as poetry and have meaning. While the music adds to the beauty, the words stand alone. Dan Fogelberg had that gift of creativity. Some of his lyrics follow this entry...forget why or how he wrote them and, for the time being, silence the music that accompanies them. Just read the words.
As I write this post, the snow is falling outside and my dog is resting at my feet...a peaceful scene. In closing, I wish all a relaxing Christmas and holiday season. Share with all you love and find meaning and purpose in what you do with your lives. Do well and be kind. Peace to all.
"Shallow rivers run between us where a stone may never sink
Though we taste, we are left thirsty for a deep and soulful drink
Narrow channels, barely open, fraught with dangers out of view
In the current, we are helpless - still I cling to you..." - Shallow Rivers, Dan Fogelberg
"Stood out in the rain
Let it soak me down
Before I called you...I called you
Didn't see me there
Hidden by the rain beneath your window...but I saw you
Putting on your face before the mirror on the wall
Dreaming that the looking glass was me..." - Stars, Dan Fogelberg
"I was born by a river rolling past a town
Given no direction...just told to keep my head down
As I took my position, a man fired a gun
I was so steeped in tradition I could not run
I was raised by a river weaned upon the sky
And in the mirror of the waters I saw myself learn to cry
As the tears hit the surface I saw what had been done
I gave feet to my freedom and I did run..." - The River, Dan Fogelberg
"I saw you running
Ahead of the crowd
I chased but never thought
I'd catch you.
You said you loved me
But you had to be free
And I let you.
Why did I let you?
We walked together
Through the gardens and graves
I watched you grow
To be a woman.
Living on promises
That nobody gave
To no one.
They were given to no one..." - The Last Nail, Dan Fogelberg
To read more of my work, short stories and such, please visit my blog at http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo.... Thanks for reading.
This weekend, I saw the movie, The Book Thief , and my thoughts have been with it ever since...similar to how it is for me when I've finished a great book and can't get it out of my mind (of course, the movie was based on the book). While I've seen many films set during the Holocaust and World War II era, this movie's message has stayed with me, perhaps for the meaning of hope, the importance of peace and how words factored into survival for the characters.
As a writer and someone who loves to read, I enjoy words that give me peace and make me think. I especially appreciate poetry and lyrics which paint a picture of contemplation and expressiveness (think paint to canvas). In my opinion, one of the great lyricists was the late Dan Fogelberg. Ironically, today marks the anniversary of his passing six years ago and, while this post isn't meant as an homage to the late artist, I think it warrants a mention of how great a poet he was. It's something special when lyrics read as poetry and have meaning. While the music adds to the beauty, the words stand alone. Dan Fogelberg had that gift of creativity. Some of his lyrics follow this entry...forget why or how he wrote them and, for the time being, silence the music that accompanies them. Just read the words.
As I write this post, the snow is falling outside and my dog is resting at my feet...a peaceful scene. In closing, I wish all a relaxing Christmas and holiday season. Share with all you love and find meaning and purpose in what you do with your lives. Do well and be kind. Peace to all.
"Shallow rivers run between us where a stone may never sink
Though we taste, we are left thirsty for a deep and soulful drink
Narrow channels, barely open, fraught with dangers out of view
In the current, we are helpless - still I cling to you..." - Shallow Rivers, Dan Fogelberg
"Stood out in the rain
Let it soak me down
Before I called you...I called you
Didn't see me there
Hidden by the rain beneath your window...but I saw you
Putting on your face before the mirror on the wall
Dreaming that the looking glass was me..." - Stars, Dan Fogelberg
"I was born by a river rolling past a town
Given no direction...just told to keep my head down
As I took my position, a man fired a gun
I was so steeped in tradition I could not run
I was raised by a river weaned upon the sky
And in the mirror of the waters I saw myself learn to cry
As the tears hit the surface I saw what had been done
I gave feet to my freedom and I did run..." - The River, Dan Fogelberg
"I saw you running
Ahead of the crowd
I chased but never thought
I'd catch you.
You said you loved me
But you had to be free
And I let you.
Why did I let you?
We walked together
Through the gardens and graves
I watched you grow
To be a woman.
Living on promises
That nobody gave
To no one.
They were given to no one..." - The Last Nail, Dan Fogelberg
To read more of my work, short stories and such, please visit my blog at http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo.... Thanks for reading.
November 20, 2013
Dance of the Blessed Spirits
I'm not sure where I was going with this short story, but it ended up as a dream sequence. It's a strange, little flash fiction piece I wrote that I'd like to share. As always, copyright applies. ©Veronica Randolph Batterson
Dance of the Blessed Spirits
By Veronica Randolph Batterson
The man took the path. He had three from which to choose and selected the one closest to him. The rays from the sun slanted through the tree branches and made natural spotlights, lighting his way in the beginning. Birds chirped and leaves rustled. The breeze touched his skin. Glancing at his bare arms, he noticed the gooseflesh appearing but didn’t feel cold.
He began to walk. His natural gait was off and he felt his body gliding along the footpath. He saw his legs take steps, but couldn’t feel the ground under his feet. Images started moving before his eyes, as if being controlled by a slide projector. Image. Click. Image. Click. He could even hear it. There he was as a child, with his first pony. Then a sour-faced teenaged him replaced it. A still of his wedding appeared. He was happy, but she was there in the background, smiling at him with his new bride. The sight of her made him catch his breath. His heart ached.
The photos ended and he found himself in a forest. It had grown darker and quieter. A stained glass window suddenly appeared, blocking his path, but he couldn’t stop himself from moving toward it. Rays of light broke through the trees and played upon the panes of red, yellow and green. The shafts of colored light danced across his face, making it difficult to see, but he knew he was heading right for the glass. He braced himself for the impact, but felt nothing. The glass shattered all around him, never cutting his skin but shards covered his body.
Suddenly the forest parted before him and the path opened to a meadow. The shards of colored glass rose from his skin and flickered in the sky, painting the arch of a rainbow over the blue. Flowers appeared, dotting the green landscape as if being applied by an artist on canvas. He watched the scenery come to life then he heard a breath being given to what he saw. The rush of a brook as the water skimmed the rocks, the screech of a hawk spotting its prey and the doleful howls of a pack of wolves.
Movement near a copse of trees made him jump. She was pale, her body translucent as she stepped forward. A crown of flowers rested on her head; the gold of her hair played down her back and over her shoulders, covering the white dress she wore. She stared for a moment as if he looked familiar to her and then turned away. He cried out but made no sound. Oh, how he remembered her.
The woman then turned and walked toward him. She was close and he could remember the attraction and love. Her blue eyes were inviting as he leaned close to kiss the spirit, to recall what he missed. But the trusting eyes saddened as she stepped away. Her form became smaller but other spirits appeared in his vision. People he knew. Some he’d forgotten.
The sight of them caused a conflict of emotions. Sadness, remorse, shame, yearning, happiness. These souls had been part of his life. Some he’d treated well, others he hadn’t. Why were they here now?
The woman looked over her shoulder at him. He wanted her to come closer again, but she raised her arms toward the sky, swaying to music only she could hear. The others followed her and slowly they disappeared from sight. He tried calling out again, but his voice failed. The blessed spirits of his life were gone.
Darkness replaced the bright colors. He couldn’t see anything but felt his body moving, then dropping suddenly as if in a freefall. He became dizzy and closed his eyes, fearing what might appear before them. Abruptly, he stopped and the only sound he heard was his own breathing. Steady and calm. Over and over. Then he slept.
Please visit my blog to read more of my short stories: http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com
Dance of the Blessed Spirits
By Veronica Randolph Batterson
The man took the path. He had three from which to choose and selected the one closest to him. The rays from the sun slanted through the tree branches and made natural spotlights, lighting his way in the beginning. Birds chirped and leaves rustled. The breeze touched his skin. Glancing at his bare arms, he noticed the gooseflesh appearing but didn’t feel cold.
He began to walk. His natural gait was off and he felt his body gliding along the footpath. He saw his legs take steps, but couldn’t feel the ground under his feet. Images started moving before his eyes, as if being controlled by a slide projector. Image. Click. Image. Click. He could even hear it. There he was as a child, with his first pony. Then a sour-faced teenaged him replaced it. A still of his wedding appeared. He was happy, but she was there in the background, smiling at him with his new bride. The sight of her made him catch his breath. His heart ached.
The photos ended and he found himself in a forest. It had grown darker and quieter. A stained glass window suddenly appeared, blocking his path, but he couldn’t stop himself from moving toward it. Rays of light broke through the trees and played upon the panes of red, yellow and green. The shafts of colored light danced across his face, making it difficult to see, but he knew he was heading right for the glass. He braced himself for the impact, but felt nothing. The glass shattered all around him, never cutting his skin but shards covered his body.
Suddenly the forest parted before him and the path opened to a meadow. The shards of colored glass rose from his skin and flickered in the sky, painting the arch of a rainbow over the blue. Flowers appeared, dotting the green landscape as if being applied by an artist on canvas. He watched the scenery come to life then he heard a breath being given to what he saw. The rush of a brook as the water skimmed the rocks, the screech of a hawk spotting its prey and the doleful howls of a pack of wolves.
Movement near a copse of trees made him jump. She was pale, her body translucent as she stepped forward. A crown of flowers rested on her head; the gold of her hair played down her back and over her shoulders, covering the white dress she wore. She stared for a moment as if he looked familiar to her and then turned away. He cried out but made no sound. Oh, how he remembered her.
The woman then turned and walked toward him. She was close and he could remember the attraction and love. Her blue eyes were inviting as he leaned close to kiss the spirit, to recall what he missed. But the trusting eyes saddened as she stepped away. Her form became smaller but other spirits appeared in his vision. People he knew. Some he’d forgotten.
The sight of them caused a conflict of emotions. Sadness, remorse, shame, yearning, happiness. These souls had been part of his life. Some he’d treated well, others he hadn’t. Why were they here now?
The woman looked over her shoulder at him. He wanted her to come closer again, but she raised her arms toward the sky, swaying to music only she could hear. The others followed her and slowly they disappeared from sight. He tried calling out again, but his voice failed. The blessed spirits of his life were gone.
Darkness replaced the bright colors. He couldn’t see anything but felt his body moving, then dropping suddenly as if in a freefall. He became dizzy and closed his eyes, fearing what might appear before them. Abruptly, he stopped and the only sound he heard was his own breathing. Steady and calm. Over and over. Then he slept.
Please visit my blog to read more of my short stories: http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com
September 27, 2013
La Folie
I'm sharing a short story in its entirety here (not quite flash fiction, but still a very short story). I wrote La Folie for women, really, but there's a message for everyone...never be afraid to get help; never turn your back on someone who needs it. To read other short stories, please visit http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com.
La Folie
©Veronica Randolph Batterson
The woman danced. She clutched the baby to her breast and let the sound of the music carry her feet across the room.
Gracefully she moved and as light as a feather, her toes touched the floor for a split second before the next step continued the motion. Hips swaying, she arched her back, feeling the song in her heart as it traveled through her body. Her movements were effortless and sensual. Those who watched were entranced, unable to take their eyes from her form.
It had been her life. Dance. The dream, the classes, auditions and rehearsals. The hard work paid off and she’d performed across the finest stages in New York and Europe. Everyone came to see her.
“Yes, they all came to see,” she whispered.
Pivoting sharply, the woman shifted the child to one arm while grasping the folds of her skirt with the opposite hand. The silk, organza and tulle made soft swooshing sounds as the fabric brushed against her calves. She danced with abandon, eyes closed as if in a trance, never loosening her hold on the baby.
Paris had been her favorite, she remembered. The city was alive with people; bistros and outdoor cafés bustled with business and artists flocked to the area to work. It was the one place she fit in and it was the city in which he’d found her.
That memory caused her to stumble, shaking her from the trance and causing her to grip the child protectively. She refused to remember, focusing on her movements to help erase all thoughts from her mind. It was the only way. But her thoughts kept interrupting. It was an annoyance that wouldn’t allow her any solitude.
“What is wrong with her? Do you think she’s ill?” the voice whispered. Her mind recalled the questions but it seemed she was just hearing them for the first time. Just dance, she insisted, pushing the voices from her head.
But her movements became erratic. No longer fluid and graceful, the woman‘s motions were shaky and she faltered, all confidence broken. Her feet felt heavy and she was suddenly clumsy. Memories did that to her and she became frustrated. He had no right creeping into her brain again. She was safe now, they told her. Just not safe from those horrid thoughts.
“Poor woman,” the voice said in English.
“Oui. La folie,” came the French response.
Madness. She spoke enough French to recognize what they meant. They thought her insane. Sometimes she wondered it herself. At other times, her thoughts were clear and she could rationalize and process her life and where it had led her. It was in those times that she knew he had been responsible for her escape into the folds of lunacy.
She no longer heard the music. Slowly opening her eyes, reality returned in a rush, causing her to catch her breath at the ugliness. Looking down, her baby stared back with blank button eyes, its vinyl arms extended in a frozen form. Her feet were bare and dirty, the cotton of her dress hung limply on her thin body. She touched her face and felt the swollen jaw. If she had a mirror, her reflection would reveal a cut lip and black eye and years of faded bruises that never completely healed, instead marking her face with the shame she’d endured.
The sting of a tear fell on her injured lip. A fist to her face and a stillborn child were images that played through her head like a movie reel on repeat. Black and white, over and over. She pressed her hands to her temples and willed it to stop, but other thoughts took over, filling her mind with sadness. Her memories were real now, lucid.
She had met him in New York, a rich man with powerful connections. She was young and naïve, looking for that big break as a dancer, but struggling to make ends meet. He came in for coffee where she worked. Before she knew it, he was wooing her with money, expensive gifts and promises of introductions to famous Broadway producers. She no longer had to worry about rent or food. He moved her into her own apartment and, for a while, she was dazzled by his charm and attention. But things began to change after a few months. He started coming up with excuses when he couldn’t see her. And those promises of business introductions never materialized.
Finding herself alone one evening, she called a friend and they met for drinks. When she came home, he’d been waiting for her, angry. That was the first time he ever hit her and if she’d had the courage, it would’ve been the only time. Instead, she stayed. Months turned to years and all she did was get older. The control and abuse extinguished her ambition and will to live, until she discovered she was pregnant. Knowing if she stayed, the child could be harmed, she fled to France with the help of a friend.
She lived in Paris for six months, slowly looking at life a little more brightly, until she saw him one day, waiting for her outside her little flat. There was no time to scream, as he grabbed her and barely waited until they were inside before the beatings started. An intervening neighbor saved her life. He fled before authorities could get there.
Her child did not survive. The despair made her unable to cope and she retreated into the fantasies her mind provided her. There, she danced and her baby lived. It was a safe place for her to be. It was happy.
She clutched the doll tightly. Her head hurt and she wished the memories would stop. If she started screaming, the nurses would give her a sedative to calm her. But she’d learned that while drugs removed the pain, they also prevented the descent to her other world. She didn’t like the soulless state those narcotics put her in.
Closing her eyes, she thought she heard music. Yes, there it was. Returning to her like a long lost friend. She embraced it and gave in to it, relaxing as she moved. Once again mother and dancer; once again on the finest stages where everyone came to see.
La Folie
©Veronica Randolph Batterson
The woman danced. She clutched the baby to her breast and let the sound of the music carry her feet across the room.
Gracefully she moved and as light as a feather, her toes touched the floor for a split second before the next step continued the motion. Hips swaying, she arched her back, feeling the song in her heart as it traveled through her body. Her movements were effortless and sensual. Those who watched were entranced, unable to take their eyes from her form.
It had been her life. Dance. The dream, the classes, auditions and rehearsals. The hard work paid off and she’d performed across the finest stages in New York and Europe. Everyone came to see her.
“Yes, they all came to see,” she whispered.
Pivoting sharply, the woman shifted the child to one arm while grasping the folds of her skirt with the opposite hand. The silk, organza and tulle made soft swooshing sounds as the fabric brushed against her calves. She danced with abandon, eyes closed as if in a trance, never loosening her hold on the baby.
Paris had been her favorite, she remembered. The city was alive with people; bistros and outdoor cafés bustled with business and artists flocked to the area to work. It was the one place she fit in and it was the city in which he’d found her.
That memory caused her to stumble, shaking her from the trance and causing her to grip the child protectively. She refused to remember, focusing on her movements to help erase all thoughts from her mind. It was the only way. But her thoughts kept interrupting. It was an annoyance that wouldn’t allow her any solitude.
“What is wrong with her? Do you think she’s ill?” the voice whispered. Her mind recalled the questions but it seemed she was just hearing them for the first time. Just dance, she insisted, pushing the voices from her head.
But her movements became erratic. No longer fluid and graceful, the woman‘s motions were shaky and she faltered, all confidence broken. Her feet felt heavy and she was suddenly clumsy. Memories did that to her and she became frustrated. He had no right creeping into her brain again. She was safe now, they told her. Just not safe from those horrid thoughts.
“Poor woman,” the voice said in English.
“Oui. La folie,” came the French response.
Madness. She spoke enough French to recognize what they meant. They thought her insane. Sometimes she wondered it herself. At other times, her thoughts were clear and she could rationalize and process her life and where it had led her. It was in those times that she knew he had been responsible for her escape into the folds of lunacy.
She no longer heard the music. Slowly opening her eyes, reality returned in a rush, causing her to catch her breath at the ugliness. Looking down, her baby stared back with blank button eyes, its vinyl arms extended in a frozen form. Her feet were bare and dirty, the cotton of her dress hung limply on her thin body. She touched her face and felt the swollen jaw. If she had a mirror, her reflection would reveal a cut lip and black eye and years of faded bruises that never completely healed, instead marking her face with the shame she’d endured.
The sting of a tear fell on her injured lip. A fist to her face and a stillborn child were images that played through her head like a movie reel on repeat. Black and white, over and over. She pressed her hands to her temples and willed it to stop, but other thoughts took over, filling her mind with sadness. Her memories were real now, lucid.
She had met him in New York, a rich man with powerful connections. She was young and naïve, looking for that big break as a dancer, but struggling to make ends meet. He came in for coffee where she worked. Before she knew it, he was wooing her with money, expensive gifts and promises of introductions to famous Broadway producers. She no longer had to worry about rent or food. He moved her into her own apartment and, for a while, she was dazzled by his charm and attention. But things began to change after a few months. He started coming up with excuses when he couldn’t see her. And those promises of business introductions never materialized.
Finding herself alone one evening, she called a friend and they met for drinks. When she came home, he’d been waiting for her, angry. That was the first time he ever hit her and if she’d had the courage, it would’ve been the only time. Instead, she stayed. Months turned to years and all she did was get older. The control and abuse extinguished her ambition and will to live, until she discovered she was pregnant. Knowing if she stayed, the child could be harmed, she fled to France with the help of a friend.
She lived in Paris for six months, slowly looking at life a little more brightly, until she saw him one day, waiting for her outside her little flat. There was no time to scream, as he grabbed her and barely waited until they were inside before the beatings started. An intervening neighbor saved her life. He fled before authorities could get there.
Her child did not survive. The despair made her unable to cope and she retreated into the fantasies her mind provided her. There, she danced and her baby lived. It was a safe place for her to be. It was happy.
She clutched the doll tightly. Her head hurt and she wished the memories would stop. If she started screaming, the nurses would give her a sedative to calm her. But she’d learned that while drugs removed the pain, they also prevented the descent to her other world. She didn’t like the soulless state those narcotics put her in.
Closing her eyes, she thought she heard music. Yes, there it was. Returning to her like a long lost friend. She embraced it and gave in to it, relaxing as she moved. Once again mother and dancer; once again on the finest stages where everyone came to see.
September 3, 2013
Pen Pal Era and the International Youth Service
I'm revealing my generation and age in this post but both are needed to explain the topic and why it makes me feel a little nostalgic.
It was the late 1970s. I learned to type, not "keyboard" as my children did, in a typing class using a manual typewriter. Eventually, I upgraded to an electric typewriter and thought it pretty advanced at the time. There were no personal computers or cell phones, so text messaging and instant anything were things of the future. Our world wide web was found in libraries that offered reference books and encyclopedias. Anyone remember the Dewey Decimal System? What about pen pals?
In 1977...please read the rest of this blog at http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo....
As always, thanks for reading.
It was the late 1970s. I learned to type, not "keyboard" as my children did, in a typing class using a manual typewriter. Eventually, I upgraded to an electric typewriter and thought it pretty advanced at the time. There were no personal computers or cell phones, so text messaging and instant anything were things of the future. Our world wide web was found in libraries that offered reference books and encyclopedias. Anyone remember the Dewey Decimal System? What about pen pals?
In 1977...please read the rest of this blog at http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo....
As always, thanks for reading.
