Trixie Archer's Blog, page 11

Grandma tRuth

Today I’m posting the final chapter in a three part short written specifically for my blog.  I often consider a variety of perspectives…the voices of each character and what exactly makes them tick.  I sketch a picture with words.  With each layer more details are revealed with the ultimate goal being richness and depth.

Have you ever met up with someone that trouble seems to follow?  As they vent, your heart probably breaks for their plight.  I know I’ve had this experience more times than not…until I speak with the other people involved and learn the flip side of events.  At that point, my sympathy meter often tilts in an opposite direction.  The idea of “tilt” was the motivation behind this blog piece.

We first hear from Millie…in a nursing home, lonely and depressed…looking for her daughter Carla to visit.  I feel her pain as she peers out the window in anticipation of something that may never happen. 

In the second short, we see a much clearer picture about her daughter Carla.  Her life is complicated and overflowing with stress.  We also learn that Millie is not who she seems to be after all…as that sympathy meter begins to slide away from her.

Finally, we travel back in time to catch a glimpse of truth from Millie’s mother Ruth.  Millie mentions in the first story that “back in her day” children did not abandon their parents.  Maybe so, but we better understand the dynamics of Millie and her family life as we consider physical abandonment versus emotional abandonment.

I really enjoy writing and the exploration that character development enables.  It’s all about relationships…and the tie that binds.   

As for here, I’m back on the trail with my current project at hand.  There certainly is a lot involved in producing a story for self-publication…but I’ll keep my wagon moving ahead.  Time to book.

Until next week….

Trixie~


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Ruth Hess stood at the kitchen window gazing out towards the long and twisting driveway.  She thought of her husband Pete and the painstaking hours he spent laying brick after brick so as to construct quality.  “Well bless his soul,” she would say every time she thought of him with fondness. 

The house was still and had been for the past several years, ever since he walked to gather the afternoon mail and his heart told him no. 

Pete was a gentle sort of man who doted on his wife and daughter.  “You certainly spoil us…” Ruth told him on more than one occasion.  He sometimes showed up after a long day of work offering her flowers and a candy bar for Minnie, “just because.”

The cat appeared circling around Ruth’s ankles bringing her thoughts back to the present.  “Minnie’s running late,” she mentioned to her tabby named “Menace.”  Her focus trailed to her hands, as she ran tepid water to scrub the garden from beneath her nails.  She took to the yard at dawn with a mission of weeding the carrot patch.  Today while she plucked the stubborn away, she hummed with joy every time her grandchildren came to mind. 

There was Frannie the meticulous…who preferred to dress proper at all times and to carry herself in a dignified manner at the ripe old age of six, Carla who was never seen without a rag doll in hand and a thumb in her mouth…and then there was baby Maxine…the perfect little angel who everyone adored. 

“A blessing to me,” she announced as she wiped the table down in preparation for the unbreakable plastic settings she ordered from a catalog.  The advertisement read: “a perfect way for grandma to say I love you.”   There were yellow daisies at the center with green pedals in the surround…the tableware was cheerful and festive as Ruth told the postman when he rang the bell to deliver, how “it was worth every penny.” 

She gazed at the calendar that was kept on the refrigerator door.  It was a courtesy from Dale’s Garage with a variety of muscle cars illustrated throughout the 1978 landscape for the seasons.  The current day was circled in red with tiny hearts that revealed a burst of love that lay in promise.  Her grandchildren were sure to give mention for they seemed to carry a great appreciation for the little things in life.  They would have been taken with Grandpa Pete if he had lived long enough to meet them for they all shared a generous portion of the same mindset.  “It’s all in the details,” he often declared.  It warmed her heart to see so much of him live on through the next generation of their family tree.

The beef stew that Ruth prepared was Minnie’s favorite.  Ruth combined everything the day before so as to allow the flavors to mingle in the refrigerator overnight.  It was always better the second day…with a bit of reheating and adding two tablespoons of Worcestershire sauce in the final fifteen minutes just before serving…it’s what most in her quilting group deemed, “good eating.”

Although this visit was short, there was so much she wanted to share with her daughter Minnie.   She dreamed of having a mother-daughter night…with facials, popcorn, lemonade and plenty of lighthearted conversation.  They’d speak about Pete with great fondness and reminisce about the many milestones of Minnie’s life in the land of “way back when.”

Maybe she’d pull out the scrapbooks she had been keeping with everything from Minnie’s first haircut clippings to the formal invitation she sent when her daughter married Chuck for the second time. 

Ruth didn’t hear the car, just the doors as they slammed.  A smile fell onto her face as she shuffled to the side entrance.  She felt a loving fullness for it had been a few months since they had last visited.

“Run for the hills Menace,” she warned her cat.  “The kids are here!”  The feline responded with wide eyes and an expression of “I know what that means” as he sprinted from the room.  Ruth imagined he would probably curl up under a bed somewhere or climb through the crack in the closet to perch himself on an upper shelf.  Safe haven.

The oldest grand-daughter Frannie was pointing her finger towards Carla as Carla appeared upset.  “Tell her mom…she has to listen to me, I’m in charge after all…”

Minnie shifted her gaze from child to child as she looked towards Ruth with embarrassment. 

“We’ll settle this later…now you both, knock it off!”  Minnie pasted on a smile as she grasped the hand of Maxine who was still waddling due to inexperience and a lack of muscle coordination.

“Hi mom!”  Minnie said as she hurried past and into the kitchen.  “I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble for us…something does smell delicious…ooh-e!”

“I made your favorite beef stew, with the home-made rivals and soda bread.”  Ruth announced with hope that her daughter would appreciate the effort.

“Well the kids’ll love it.  I thought you’d gather from our phone conversation that I’m not staying….I’ve made plans with my friends…I’m sure you understand since I rarely make it home anymore.”

“Oh?”  Ruth said feeling the slow release of truth from the balloon of wishful thinking. 

“You don’t mind watching the kids do you mom?” 

“Mind?  No, they’re family…but I was so looking forward to…well,” Ruth sighed trying to control her upset.

“Maybe the next trip in.  You know it’s been ages since I’ve last seen Charlene and Deb.  We’ve got so much catching up to do!  Did you know Char is on her sixth husband?  Can you imagine?  …and ol’ Deb is just as sarcastic as ever…she hasn’t changed one bit!”

“Yeah, next visit maybe…”  Ruth said knowing full well there would never be a next time around for Minnie followed the same “me, myself and I” script played in a constant re-run. 

“Well, I’d better go.  They’re waiting for me at the cafe and I’m running late,” Minnie explained.

“Have fun and don’t you worry about your girls…we’ll get along fine.”  Ruth managed as she bit her lower lip to conceal the emotions that were sure to spill from her disappointment.

A moment later, Minnie stepped back to the door.  “Hey ma, leave me a key under the mat ‘cause I’ll probably be late.  We’re planning to go dancing with the old gang.”

Ruth nodded as her daughter rushed to her sedan and sped away.  She plastered a smile on her face as her attention fell onto her beautiful grandchildren.  “Now girls, what would you like to do after lunch?  Might I suggest we take a walk down to the park and play on the swings?”

All three began to squeal with excitement for Ruth suspected between her daughter working full time and the manner for which she socialized that her grandchildren were missing the simple pleasures of playing outside with the undivided attention of an adoring grown up.

“I can’t ruin my new dress with dirt grandma,” Frannie voiced with distaste. 

“I think we can scrounge up some play clothes so there’ll be no need to worry.  It’ll be fun Fran…we can even play in the sand box.  In fact, I think I have a sand pail or two in the garage that we’ll bring along for making deluxe sandcastles.  Won’t that be something?”

Carla spoke up, “you’ll need to keep your eye on baby Maxie.  She eats everything….right Frannie?”

Frannie’s eyes opened wide as she nodded in agreement.


“Thanks for having us over mom.  I’m sorry about this being a short visit but I have a banquet later today.  There’s a new man in my life…Duane…  His company’s celebrating a record in sales.  He’s a pool salesman…and he’s had the top numbers for the past nine weeks.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.  I’m sure my girls had fun with ol’ granny though!  You’re such a peach.  Maybe next time, we’ll spend a couple of days, who knows?  My friends were talking about driving up to the lake next month…you wouldn’t mind the kids hanging out with you, right ma?”

“My grand-babies are always welcome…but you know it sure would be nice to see a little bit more of you.”  Ruth admitted.

“Oh well…you know mom, I’m busy, busy, busy…I’m not one to let grass grow under my feet.”

Ruth simply nodded as her daughter stepped through the door.  She stood at her kitchen window gazing at the captive faces peering back at her from the back of the car.  Their tiny hands all waved farewell in unison.  She blew them kisses as the roll of distance began to separate them.

“Menace?  You can come out now…the girls have gone home…Menace?”  A moment later the cat appeared as it wildly shook its head from side to side in an attempt to toss the doll’s bonnet that one of the kids decided was fashionable. 

“You poor thing, they caught you, huh?” Ruth mumbled as she bent forward to offer freedom to her tabby once again.

Later, much later, Ruth plopped herself at the table and dreamt of better days…of when Pete was still around and how they’d talk at length about the promising future that was just ahead for Minnie.  If he was with her now, she’d voice her disappointment surrounding their daughter’s selfishness.  She wondered what Pete would say if he knew what sort of person she grew into.  He’d probably find some encouraging words pointing out how there’s always hope…for he was always the eternal optimist.  Ruth shook her head in agreement, as if from the great beyond she heard him loud and clear.    

“Time passes and things change,” Ruth said to herself as the drum roll of life beat in a swift tempo forward… “Yes and there’s plenty of hope that goes along with the change that time brings on as we all learn better with experience.” 

A Mother's Day

Hi all~  As promised I'm posting story 2 of a 3 part short sequence that I've written.   Last week you heard Minnie's story, this week the perspective is from Minnie's daughter Carla...and next week through the power of writing time travel, we'll go back and see the dynamics between Millie and her mother.  Was she the devoted daughter that she painted herself out to be in the first story?  Was Millie the "all giving" parent to her children?  
On a side note:  I've been in a writing frenzy and I'm quite pleased with the progress of my next book.  Hopefully it'll have the proper amount of contrast and color balance to make for a good story.  Anyway, enjoy!~  See you next week.


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Carla Whitman was jolted awake.  On the second round of noise she realized the telephone was ringing.  Although most would believe a fifteen minute nap at two o’clock in the afternoon was frivolous, Carla needed rest.  While her son was in school it was the only opportunity she had to recharge.  As she peeled the quilt to extend her arm to answer, she wondered what her son Trevor had done this time.  The mid afternoon phone call meant one thing…to schedule a meeting at school to figure out how to help her son.  She lived in a constant state of driving between school and home, home and school.  For as much as she loved her boy, he presented a great challenge.  Trevor was simply being Trevor and who most would consider a bushel full of defiant and a crate full of stubborn. 

During his first three years of school, he was evaluated, diagnosed and labeled which followed him every academic year whether he was causing trouble or not.  Carla wondered if knowing the “why” for his behaviors made any difference at all.  It still “was what it was and he did what he did.”  The positive side of his diagnosis was in learning different strategies to help him towards better.  Despite many drawbacks, she refused to give up on him. 

Everything about her son was set in opposite.  To take him to the store often meant tantrums, begging, bartering and great frustration.  No matter how patient she was, no matter how she sugar coated things, how softly she spoke, he tended to react with an aggressive need for confrontation.  He had a will of his own with no want to bend.  Carla often rewarded him for good behavior with added privileges.  She tried music therapy, art therapy, behavioral counseling…all with similar results, a hair better or a hair worst depending on which way the wind was blowing.

The medications his doctor’s prescribed toned him down a notch, but his underlying tendencies continued to resurface.  Unfortunately, when those mediations wore off he became more extreme than before.  As long as everyone catered to his wants, all was fine…set some rules and he dug his feet into the sand with a mule’s determination against.

Carla was so overburdened she often didn’t know the day of the week or the time of the day.  She operated “off the cuff.”  Planning, scheduling, and holding “a nine to five job,” were all outside of the realm of possibility.

In addition to caring for her son, she worked from home transcribing medical records so as to keep a roof over their heads.  She juggled work around her son’s needs which often meant the coffee set on a constant brew so she could stay awake long enough to meet deadlines.  She could not survive without her 2 o’clock siesta.

Trevor always seeming to be on hyper-drive, never felt tired enough to calm down at night.  Carla would literally chase him around from nine to eleven thirty doing her absolute best so that he could have enough rest.  Everything was tried: chamomile tea, a warm bath, reading to him, a ride in the car, soft music, but all with great failure.  The boy often countered with hiding, needing a snack, forgetting he had homework due, and refusing to brush his teeth.  The end result was always the same with him up later than he should be.  Exhaustion arrived before his head would hit the soft of his pillow.  This meant she was following him until collapse and instead of her being able to sleep too; she had work to do so as to earn a living.

There was nothing simple in regards to Carla’s day to day.  She had little support because of harsh judgment.  Most had an opinion about what she should be doing to help Trevor and as a result, she received many “self help” books mailed to her anonymously.  There was a growing stack of paperbacks she used as a widow prop… from The Bee-hive Diet” to “Consistent Discipline for Mummies.”  Regardless of being on her own, she kept going the extra mile on behalf of her son and his future.  Giving up was not an option…and every time that he smiled instead of frowned, hugged instead of screamed, sang instead of cried, said “I love you mom” instead of pitching a fit…it fueled her with an unwavering hope that “better” was just around the corner.

Carla was a single parent.  Her ex-husband Russell could not handle the many ups and downs of raising Trevor, so he opted to take a different path.  His “different” had a name, Tiffany:  blonde hair, perfectly manicured nails; the sort who worked out at the gym and who sported the most fashionable clothes.  Tiffany…who had no children and no responsibility…  After eight years and three months of marriage, Russ left for the dream of “happy” and never looked back.

Aside from the one hour of “pizza” visitation from Russell every Wednesday from 6 to 7 p.m., it was just Trevor and Carla, Carla and Trevor.  She adapted.  She did everything that she could possibly do with the belief that tomorrow would be better than today, except it seldom was for the phone would slap her back mercilessly.

Carla dreamed about a vacation somewhere warm, with massages, food served to her, an ocean of calm lulling all cares away…she even tacked pictures from travel magazines above her desk to visualize a better life…and then Trevor would arrive home from school screaming about the unfairness of teachers and the harsh comments his classmates made to him.  He’d toss his book bag towards her face and sometimes when she wasn’t quick enough, he’d pelt her as if to say, “Make way, I’m home!”

Most of what Carla did went unnoticed.  Nurturing, overseeing that he did his homework…cleaning up the messes in his path…keeping him safe from himself…making sure he ate proper, a clean house and clean clothes, full time without a break and without a pause.

As Carla lifted the phone positioned on her nightstand, she braced herself for what she assumed was yet another call from Principal Dixon at Trevor’s school.  What happened this time?

Tears filled her eyes as she realized her mother was on the other end calling her from the retirement home.  Her emotional sigh was a mixture of gratitude that Mr. Dixon was not phoning her and guilt for neglecting her mom.  What sort of daughter would dump a parent off like she did?

“Mom!” Carla said while projecting a pleasant tone.  “I’m so glad you called.  I’ve been thinking of you a lot…it’s great to hear from you!”

“So did you forget about me or what?”  Minnie expressed with a sour tone.
“I didn’t forget, things have just been a bit difficult on my end.  You know, Trevor’s a real challenge sometimes.”

“I’ve told you before Carla, there’s nothing wrong with that boy that a good ol’ fashioned spanking wouldn’t cure.”

“Mom, while I appreciate your opinion, I’m handling everything with the help of professionals.  I believe that he’ll outgrow his quirks someday and that all will be fine.  It just takes patience, time and the right approach.”

“I think you’re handling it poorly…of course I’ve told you that countless times before.”

“I know,” Carla said.

“Why…Russ would still be there had you listened to reason…him running off like he did with someone else, well… it’s your own fault…you dropped the ball.  You allowed Trevor and his issues take over your life.  You need to say enough is enough.”

What I really need is to check caller ID next time I answer the phone.

“So when can I expect you to visit?  It’s been many months…did you know that?  I can’t believe you’d dump me in this awful place and forget about me!  I’m outraged.  I don’t care how bad you think you have it, what’s two hours from your schedule to drive out once in a while?”

“I’m sorry mom; I’ll try to do better.”  Carla mumbled feeling embarrassed that so much time had passed she’d last seen her mom.  What kind of daughter am I? 

Carla noticed the familiar “tsk” as her mom exhaled and she braced herself for what was sure to come.

“Are you still fighting to keep that weight off or did you give up again?  You don’t want to be unsightly Carla.  If you ever want to date again, you’ve got to take control of your diet.”

“I hear you mom.”  Yep, check caller ID next time for sure.

“You know a girdle does help.  Your gut wouldn’t be so noticeable.  The last time I saw you…you were dressed s-o sloppy.  Did you ever replace those frumpy clothes with a more flattering style?”

Clothes…she’s worrying about my clothes and my weight?  Overload…emotional overload…if I was a pinball machine, the word “tilt” would be on my display and then I’d simply shut down.

“I’m doing my best mom and I have my hands full with Trevor.”

“Oh Carla…you’re letting that boy rule your life.  Now, drive out to see me and I’ll tell you exactly what you need to do!”

“Mom, there’s someone at the door.  I really must go.”

“I haven’t spoken to you in such a long time and this is how you’re treating me…making excuses so as to hang up?  I expected better from you Carla Sue….I did.  You’re the biggest disappointment.”

“I’ll see you soon mom.  Maybe when Trevor’s on vacation over spring break we’ll both take a drive out.  I do apologize because yes, it’s been a while…I know.  I’ll do better…I really need to go…for now.  Thanks for calling.”

As Carla hung up the phone, she sat for a moment staring at her reflection at the base of her chrome desk lamp.  Her lips were twisted with her nose and her eyes spaced far apart in a contorted kind of crazy.  It suddenly struck her that the image before her was akin with how she was feeling.  Tears began to well up and she wondered how much more she could take before she reached her absolute breaking point…and then as if on cue, the phone began to ring.  

  

   

A Minnie Mom

Hi everyone!  This week’s blog is part one in a series of short stories that tie together. 

I was thinking about Minnie…not the mouse, but Minnie the mom.  It’s a glimpse into her life and the circumstances surrounding her golden years.  After all the laundry has been folded, meals prepared, and children raised, her estate has been sold off and she ends up residing in a nursing home.    

The objective while writing this piece was to simply gain empathy for each character in all segments.  This week we spend some time with Minnie, next week her daughter Carla and then finally we go back in time a bit, to catch a glimpse into the relationship between Minnie and her mother.  So, sit back and enjoy this short and check in next week, same time~ same channel for the next installment in the series.  Have a great week….
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This morning was an exact duplicate of every morning for the past two years as Minnie sat in her wheelchair after breakfast.  Remembering her daughter Carla’s promise to visit often as she left her at the Springdale Retirement Home nearly 24 months ago, filled her with great disappointment.  Minnie had yet to see the “whites” of her eyes.  Sure there was an occasional letter in the mail…and a greeting card for Christmas, yellow roses on her birthday, but the in person “face-to-face” was lacking.

Carla was the middle daughter.  Frannie was the eldest and lived all the way across the country in California.  Fran was really going places too with a career that demanded all of her time.  Even after many years of college, she was still taking classes to better herself on her journey up the corporate ladder.  No one really heard much from the eldest, except an occasional post card from exotic places that she was either traveling to for work or vacationing at during her down time.

The youngest daughter, Maxine…well, she had become so angry with everyone that she kept her distance.  Maxine made it perfectly clear that she no longer wanted any part of their family.  It was no coincidence that her leaving the past behind coincided with the new friends she surrounded herself with.  The only daughter that Minnie knew she could count on for a visit was Carla, but it seemed as if that notion was but a mere dream.

Some of the other residents had visitors on a daily or weekly basis, but not Minnie.  She thought of the many sacrifices she made throughout her life on behalf of her daughters and to be quite honest, the neglect made her judge her children as ungrateful.

Minnie thought of her own mother and how during her golden years she took many road trips with her children so as to visit her.  “It’s what family did for each other”…and back in the day elders were respected and valued, unlike how the world operates now.  The country has become “youth” obsessed and the older a person is the more invisible they seem to be.  The “over the hill and out to pasture mentality” is tragic. 

Springdale Retirement home ended up being a dumping ground to many.  The screams in the night echo throughout the hallways.  It isn’t physical pain so much as it is loneliness…the knowing that tomorrow will be the same as today, over and over until it is over.

Bingo, birthday parties with stale clowns, diaper changes, a condescending staff and of course the magical cart that rolls about with a smorgasbord of pharmaceuticals adds to the normal of the establishment.  The pusher offers a pill for happy, a pill to sleep, a pill to counteract other medications, a pill, a pill, a pill…many pills in a line that all leads to the birdbath in the side yard to where everything is contorted and skewed.  It’s all designed to carry away the simple concept of time and for that the rainfall of drugs surely works well.

What Minnie knew that the rest of the world didn’t was how every resident there was bursting with enormous wealth.  When they sat down to dinner and if all of the medications were adjusted properly there were colorful words exchanged…rich stories, past histories that once lined up portrayed a more realistic glimpse as to what yesterday was all about.  Their perspectives were more accurate than what the history books suggested.

There was no sugar coating the facts, there were no fancy words detouring around the truth as they told what really happened.  For example, Gracie Patterson from two hallways over spoke of how she managed the room service staff for a swank hotel in the city.  There were many celebrity guests including a former conservative president that met up with women for private meetings that had nothing to do with running the government.

Troy Vanderbilt recalled the time he found a suitcase of “lost” gems in the local park under a maple tree.  When he turned them in, the jeweler handed him a two dollar reward but never seemed to report the missing jewelry as “found.” Troy chuckled as he pointed his fork, “It was his way of having his cake and eating it too.”  Rumor was, the insurance mailed the jeweler a fat check and he quietly sold the bounty in small parts for many years to come.

Everyone there had something they could contribute, but it seemed as if they no longer fit in to the “instant” of today’s world.  It was as if the city bus that had been carrying them to and from their working life each day had suddenly changed route.  Many stood at the bus stop after, believing that tomorrow it may just swing around once again, but of course it never did and never will.  Springdale was all but a closet to where the old people were stored until they were buried away. 

Sure there were a few years of independent living during retirement, but as the golden years moved forward…the slowing it down, the taking it easy…landed them closer towards their final stop…Springdale Retirement Home.  Unfortunately, most could no longer care for themselves so there were no other options, but for those who were still healthy enough, the want of their family to simply drop them off siphoned the better days away.

Minnie sighed as she gazed at the door…would she ever see her daughter Carla again?  There was so much she wanted to tell her, so much that she wanted to share, but all that she observed was an endless flow of traffic driving past.  “I’m going to phone my daughter.”  She announced to herself as she began wheeling her chair back to her room to retrieve the number and find some pocket change for the antiquated pay phone in the lobby.  Minnie was set to call, but she wondered if her daughter would ever be ready to answer.

The Wagon Tale

Next week marks the anniversary of my father’s passing.  Like most, I think of him this time each year while trying to make sense of who he was and the impact he had on me throughout my life.  He was a complicated sort of man, a real life “character” filled with goofiness, pleasantness, anger and many elements of indifference.

Without dredging up the negative, all I will say is that no matter…all of it, what he gave of himself, what he didn’t, how he related to or avoided…his hopes, dreams and fears helped me to become who I am today.  I learned a lot from him by what he did, by what he didn’t do and applied it to my own style of parenting.  I think sometimes that’s all any of us can do.  We take the lumps, add an ice pack, learn from the experience and move on…we cherish the good days, holding them close in our hearts and try to forget about those that were a bit unfavorable.  On the other side of time and evolving, we live better, we love better and we gain the momentum to rise above.

It is my hope that I have instilled this fortitude in my own children…it is my hope.

With that said, this week I’ve been writing gold….literally.  I shifted back to a story I began several years ago surrounding the mid 1800’s, the gold rush, the Oregon Trail and the unimaginable journey many faced at that time.  I’ve been continuing on with the premise of the original story, with a new romantic twist as per a very clever suggestion from my daughter.  (Thanks kid, I owe you one!)

Anyway, the beauty of writing is that I’m in the driver’s seat and the vehicle takes me places where I would never have considered traveling before.  I can explore a different era; I can immerse myself into a variety of personalities and contemplate what makes people tick.  I can use those in my world today; to rebuild or strip away certain elements and bring them to life through my own design.  I really enjoy this process for I am only limited by my own imagination.

One interesting discovery, I researched the slang used in the mid 1800’s and to my surprise, many of the sayings listed were very familiar.  How accurate is this account?   Well, I’ll never know because there is no possible way to travel back in time and speak to anyone in person. 

On the other hand, my mother is still around…she was born in the early 1920’s and her mother was born in the later 1800’s.  I know it seems a bit unreal for me to say that my grandma was born in 1880, but it’s true.  My mother had me when she was in her 40’s and my grandma birthed my mother when she was in her 40’s…which of course explains the spread of years.  (It sounds like an algebra word problem in the making.  Smile.)  So maybe the slang from a few decades sooner than grandma’s arrival did gain mention in my world while growing up.  I dare to consider the possibility.  With that said, it seems that although much time has passed, some things haven’t been forgotten…our choice of words…from the mouths of our ancestors to ours, through years of repetition we remain connected.

My dad was a great fan of the old west and maybe that is why I resurrected this particular storyline.  One thing is certain, I’m not sure I would have the gumption to pack 1500 to 2000 pounds of supplies onto a wagon covered in canvas and set out on a trip from here to the west coast.  It would be a long and perilous journey.  I imagine my camera in hand and the amazing photographs that one would be privy to.  (If only digital camera’s were available back then.)  The people, the scenery, the documentation of the misfortunes and the miraculous accomplishments…it would be life, it would be real.

I can’t help but think about how sometime in the future when our children’s, children’s, children will be speaking about the time when we traveled by air and how primitive it all was.  Where will technology lead them?  Will someone be sitting behind a keyboard imagining what it was like in the year 2015 with similar intent and purpose?

Well I’d love to share more with you this week but it’s three in the morning and I must find the supplies to pack onto the wagon that will soon be traveling westwards.  There are some rather huge obstacles standing in the way, mostly a lack of funds for the main characters.  It’s time for them to use their skills to accommodate the great challenges ahead.  Ready, set, go!~

Perhaps I’ll write from wherever my keyboard lands me next week.  Fortunately in that world it’s all ready early spring for one would not wish to take on such an excursion during the harsh winter months.  All I can say is thank goodness for the railroad and those who sacrificed so very much to make travel a less dangerous experience.  A few decades later, my grandpa helped lay new tracks out west. (as you can see by the image at the top of this blog posting) 

Keep warm!  I’ll be signing off for now…  

Bee-cause I Said Hello

When my son was little, he’d lift up the receiver on the phone and say, “hello bees.”  I think he borrowed the idea from “The Rugrats,” but none the less his tiny voice speaking to the dial tone was rather endearing. 

In remembering him and what used to be, I lifted up the phone and said through a chuckle, “hello bees.” Of course at the fold just before morning this was to acknowledge my own sentiment.  HHHHUUUUMMMMM….monotonous din, blank sound, bees…

I know my fingers should have been flying across the keyboard sculpting an amazing tale regarding the current project I’m working on…but for some reason I had nothing.  The cursor blinked, surrounded by the great white of an empty page.  Huge teeth were biting me as I swam in an endless sea of brain fog.

I suspected writer’s block was similar to lifting the phone with no one on the other end.  I called, “hello bees” in jest, but the most disturbing reality at least in that moment…was how someone on the other side answered me.

In the still between night and day, it remains my favorite time to write.  With the house at rest, the dog upstairs on her pillow fast asleep…no cats, no kids, no kidding...  It stands as my official hour to stir the martini of all tales, except on this occasion…blank screen…a flat line of creativity.  The clock movement whispered tick-taunt, tick-taunt; the central heat whomed near my office, the low level of sound was what I craved…and there it was.  “Hello bees,” I’d said into the din and in response there was a cavern full of insects bellowing “hello” in return.

My first inclination was to slam the receiver down and flee for my life.  What if they flew through the line and attacked?  Chicken.  No, I needed to be brave.  I took a quick breath, shifted my weight in the chair and repositioned my footing.

“What do you want?”  The bees asked me with great volume.

“Nothing, absolutely nothing!”  I announced as I gently placed the receiver back onto the cradle. 

At that particular moment, the insanity of bee-talk didn’t quite register.  It reminded me of my sister Mary and the many times I’d pick up the extension phone while she was knee deep in conversation with her boyfriend back in high school.  I’d interrupt their lovey-dovey banter.  “Lovey-dovey” to someone five years her junior was the sappy-sweet elixir of romance that was laced with the poisonous venom of yuck.  “You hang up first,” she’d say.  On the other end he’d reply, “no you…”  Over and over, round and round, seconds, minutes, twenty minutes…and then of course she noticed the click from my end on the extension.

“What do you want?”  She snipped, except she followed up by calling me a “brat.”  By the way, I probably was a brat from her perspective, for Mary picked on me and I picked on Mary in equal portions.  There always seemed to be a bell ringing that announced the next round of our twisted version of family feud.

The voice present day was NOT Mary.

“Hey,” I said as I lifted the receiver.  “Who are you and why are you on the other end of my phone?”

“Trixie Archer right?” 

“Who is this?”  I answered with a question.

“You are Trixie Archer yes?”

“Who wants to know?”

“YOU called me remember?  You asked for the bees and I answered.”

“I um…”  I said hanging up.  Who exactly was on the other side?  I thought the bee-phone line was all just a “kid thing,” a private joke shared between children, but all of a sudden there was a lot more to it.  Fear rising.  I’ll be honest with you; I felt a surge of panic with sweat beading on my forehead; my pulse racing and my throat meter leaning towards desert-dry empty.  This was an absolute mind twist.  What the heck?

I gazed about.  The clock on my desk had stopped.  The time was cryptic, 3:33. 

“This can’t be good,” I mumbled half anticipating eerie music to fill the air followed by a startling boom of abrupt just as someone rushed me from behind.

I decided to turn off my computer abandoning the white screen of doom…I was after all experiencing a zero score for writing.   I needed to find Monkeyshine.  I knew she’d alert me to anything out of the ordinary.  (Check out her picture on my blog…notice the rather large ears on her head?  She has radar hearing…so it was my turn to pester the dog for something…a complete role reversal.)

I moved to the stairway except the direction of the stairs had changed somehow.  It now only led down instead of up.  “Huh?”  I was on the lowest level but somehow I became disorientated.  This was NOT a stairway to heaven…great song but not here, not now.

Was it the tea I was drinking?  The language was foreign and I had no idea what the ingredients were.  There was a picture of a llama wearing pajamas on the packaging and I believed the mixture was a relaxing sort of concoction based solely on the illustration.   It had been a gift from my daughter for Christmas. 

“Try this,” she explained, “its herbal…it’ll fix you right up!”  Tripping, that’s what it was; a tea trip to the land where all midnight writers go as they skip, skip, skip to my Lou…but there was no darling…there was only the blasted phone and a swarm that seemed to be stalking me.

As if on cue, the phone began to ring.  I hurried back to my office for the kids upstairs needed to sleep uninterrupted.  “Hello?”  I called to the bees on the other end of the line. 

“Trixie Archer?”  The peculiar voice asked once again.

“Yes,” I finally admitted.

“You may wish to awaken right now, that is if you have the courage…”

“If I ha-have the courage?  What the heck are you talking about?”

Laughter…deep…sinister bursts of laughter.  Goosebumps up and down my arms and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

“WHO is this?”  I demanded as my zone of understanding became deflated.

“Mom.”

“This isn’t my mother.  I know her voice and you sound as if you swallowed a frog on croak or something.”

“No, I’m calling you…mom.”

“I’m not your mother!”  I replied with upset into the phone.

“Mom, you need to wake up.  You fell asleep on your keyboard again and I could hear the beeping from my room above.”

“Huh?”  I asked squinting as my eyes adjusted to the light my son had clicked on above me.

“Did you hear the phone ring a few minutes ago?”  I wondered.

“No, you must’ve been dreaming.”

“Okay, off to bed mister…”  I said with authority while accepting his explanation.

I watched him head up the stairs that were now leading in the proper direction.  When my attention returned to the screen I stopped dead in my tracks.  I couldn’t believe what was before my eyes.  With my pillow being the keyboard, I somehow landed in a place between dream and reality, reality and dream.  Before me were words typed clear as day, perfectly spaced and spelled correctly.  It read:

BRAT BRAT BRAT BRAT BRAT BRAT BRAT BRAT BRAT BRAT BRAT BRAT…ten pages, over and over and over again…an obvious message from that in-between place known as dreamland.

“Now it all makes perfect sense,” I whispered with great relief.  “I’ll need to phone Mary tomorrow and wish her a happy birthday.  Of course!”

As I clicked off the overhead light, I paused for a moment, lifted the receiver and said into the dial tone.  “Thanks for the reminder bees.  I almost forgot my sister’s birthday.”

Just as I was entering my bedroom the phone began to ring…at that point, it was one call that I decided not to answer. 

Writing flat-line, maybe-maybe not…this blog however has been brought to you from the great land of bees.  There’s either too much honey in my tea or crazy in my disposition, you decide.

The Wind of Change

During 2014 I tried a new recipe.  I pulled out a rather large mixing bowl and tossed many spicy ingredients into the concoction.  Jalapeño peppers, Louisiana hot sauce, red hot candies and a pinch of cocoa to name a few.  I stirred and then folded some honey into who I was before, positioned it on a medium flame and then presented the “new and improved” version to the many guests I had invited to my table through Amazon. 

I was told at the tail end of 2013 that it was likely that I had cancer.  Cancer.  If ever there was a “snap awake” sort of word to motivate a person that would have to be the one.  After the white coat announced the horrible possibility, life swirled about in an immediate “reality check.”  Even though the logical thing would be not to worry until worry was due, the human reaction is to consider what if.

That particular scare really helped me to understand the value of good health and what really matters.  For one thing, I was struck by the true deception of time.  In the back of my mind I always believed that I’d go for it tomorrow.  The lollipop of procrastination was always a staple of my diet.  I know I’ve mentioned the movement of the clock several times in my past blogs, but the tick-tock “after” became very strong for me.  How much time did I have left?  Was I up for the fight of my life to gain more?  I thought about the past…all that time I had wasted…yes wasted just merely existing…should have, could have, but didn’t. 

There are some huge questions that one asks surrounding life.  I wondered how I fit into the larger scheme of things.  Was the world a better place for my existence and did I ever really make a difference…at least once?

It became a personal “round and round” of many thoughts, feelings and emotions.  The stress surrounding the cancer word is unimaginable.  Cancer perpetuates change.  Not only would there be a fight against a villain that has taken residence within the body but a fight to earn more time while maintaining the integrity of spirit. 

There were many positives too.  I know that sounds a bit out there but yes, positives.  It helped me to understand the many blessings in my life, the people who I hold as precious in my everyday, my extended family, my friends…the life that I had been given…and the great benefit of savoring the moment.  It made me better appreciate the freezing of time through photographic magic…the wonders of taking a walk while being surrounded by nature.  I was suddenly noticing the details.   The dew at first light kissing a simple blade of grass, the gentle fog rising up off the lake…it had been there all along, but I had slept through it for most of my life.  I listened with a greater appreciation to the richness of music too, applauded the many talents of others, joined in the laughter and cherished on an entirely deeper level the greatest gift of all, love…     

I felt so much, as if someone had finally jumpstarted my heart.  Yes, I told many people that I loved them and just what they meant to me.  Words that had escaped me in the past…I embraced tears, pain, joy and the simple things.  I abandoned the anger of others…yep, packed it up and set it on the curb for the garbage man to haul away.  “Keep it,” I’d say to myself if someone used me as a verbal punching bag… “That negative energy is yours to carry, not mine.”

I realized that I needed to forgive myself, to forgive those who had hurt me in the past…but I also gained some perspective on how important it was to filter out people who had been draining me emotionally…using me in a way that taxed my spirit.  Sure I’d still listen and offer friendship, but with some reasonable limits. 

The word cancer thrown into my personal recipe was bitter at first, but the biggest sweet to come from it was when I decided I would finally place one of my stories on Amazon to see where it went.  You see, it was a huge leap of faith for me.  Truth or dare, it was the biggest dare of my life.

….and so I did.  I must say I was pleasantly surprised by the outcome.  At one point, for about three months, I was in the top 100 in sales.  Not bad for a person who was just flying by the seat of her pants.

As it turned out, the biopsy revealed that I did NOT have cancer after all.  While enduring six months of symptoms and a month or so between the test and the appointment to learn the results…well, during that time, with that dark cloud lingering overhead, I evolved because of the experience. 

The wind of change had carried me through. 

Yes, I kissed the ground when I returned home from the appointment to where the truth was revealed.  I was thankful, but I also felt a deeper compassion for those who were not so fortunate.  Having a doctor say the “c” word is an earthquake that all anyone can do is stand in a doorway at an in-between place and hope they land on the right side after their world stops shaking.

The good news after learning everything was okay is that I’m no longer set in believing that “someday” I’ll follow my dream; instead I better understand that today is all any of us have.  So I write…to you, for me…I push submit, close my eyes and hope that my words land with a positive impact to make the day a bit brighter or to warm a heart or two.  I feel that spinning tales is my true calling and so I must answer.

The new recipe I tried over the past year was surprisingly delicious…change always is.   I raise my tea cup to the past and look forward to the New Year with the many possibilities it may bring!  Happy 2015 everyone…be safe and while planning for tomorrow, remember to appreciate the wonders of living for today.   

A Uniform Christmas

Christmas 1971 was homemade macaroni and cheese served without the cheese.  This particular holiday was different; the noodles…yes, most of the noodles were lumped together except we were missing an important element.  My brother Tom wasn’t with us that year and we did our best to carry on, but it wasn’t the same.  He had been drafted and was on a tour of duty in Vietnam. 

I was barely tall enough to reach things on the kitchen countertop and yet my level of understanding was elevated.  Even though I was young, I knew what was happening for my father never missed the evening news.  I stood in shock as Walter Cronkite spoke of the grim reality facing our troops.  There was plenty of footage too, as the camera panned in on the unimaginable.  He reported more bombs, more death, more destruction, more troops sent in…more, more, more…gaining us less and less.    

I prayed and prayed hard for my brother.  Flame throwers, bullets that drew actual blood, air strikes, mines…and the sea of many bodies.  It was a frightening reality…and then there was Tom’s empty place at our dinner table. 

Christmas 1971, we carried on, but it wasn’t the same…we were one person shy and the green my brother was wearing was not that of an elf, but instead a young man who had been drafted into the army. 

Drafted…  As I was walking along the street one day, a truck approached, cruising slowly and this huge mechanical arm plucked me out of the crowd and tossed me into the fold.  There were others there, others who seemed equally as confused and worried as I was.  That truck transported me to a holding bin.  I was assigned a uniform and was taught to march in a straight line.  They shaved away all common sense as they placed a gun in my hand and demanded I fight…I was taught to follow a leader with blind abandon…don’t think, just shoot… become a robot on demand…charge!

Drafted.  No choice, no dinner at home, no warmth or song or cheer…drafted and my brother was gone…he was scooped up and simply disappeared from our lives.

What he experienced was real.  Yes at such a young age I had seen a few war movies and believed the distorted perception that what I was fed.  On film, the bullets never ran out, the main characters were spared and there was always a heroic song.  “When Johnny comes marching home again…” Even still that tune echoes through my mind. 

I imagined my brother as a war hero, climbing the towers to repair communications as snipers took aim at him.  His time there was dangerous; to live or die was a coin toss every single day…and then I faced the harsh reality of the evening news.  It became obvious; this was not a WWII movie, this was my brother…over there.

There was much uncertainty and worry and fear and yes, the air was thick.  Drafted…a horrible word for families, a methodical choice for those who sat behind a desk drawing straws so as to decide who should stay and who should go.   Mousetrap.

Christmas 1971, I was handed a package.  There was nothing fancy about the brown wrapping.  I peered about as my family watched with curiosity as I unlaced the string and opened the paper.  Green, there was a lot of green.  A miniature uniform for me to wear, compliments of my brother Tom from Vietnam.  I was drafted…drafted to be a sister waiting at home for my brother’s safe return, for his safe return from the place that Walter spoke of regarding the unimaginable horrors our troops faced.  He mentioned this frightening reality each and every night, as he became our very own agent of orange spreading the herbicide of truth to the American people.

There was a green baseball hat, my size.  An adjustable belt with a metal buckle, miniature pants and a jacket, with U.S. Army on one pocket, my last name on the other and it was identical to what my brother was wearing.  I had seen a picture of Tom in uniform.  I immediately changed my clothes.  I imagined myself with my brother…guarding him, keeping him safe.  The distance was bridged and that far away land was suddenly within reach.  Tom would return home safely, I would see to it…I had an edge now; I had been drafted to protect him.

I know that my imagination took over and I refused to take off that uniform.  My mother literally had to throw it in the washer at the same time I was taking my evening bath.  I lived in that uniform, I was at war and the enemy was everywhere.

I’d crawl through our back yard, tucked low so as to keep imaginary bullets from ripping me apart.  I’d spy on our neighbors.  I just knew they were sending messages to a foreign government and I had to be one step ahead.  Except I only observed them doing everyday things.  Washing the car, lighting charcoal on the grill, mowing their lawns, feeding their dogs…and then they’d see me and wave.  I’d smile and return pleasantries.  That crazy Archer girl!

Mom bought me red sneakers for kindergarten.  I’d never had canvas sneakers before.  They pinched my toes a little but they were bright and cheerful.  I was excited about school as I was to begin in the second semester.  I wanted to sport my military uniform but that’s where my mother drew a firm line. 

“No.”  She simply said.  “Wear this.”  A dress?  Are you kidding me?  You want me to go from army fatigues to wearing a girly-fru-fru dress?  Didn’t my mom realize that I had been drafted? 

Despite argument, I wore the dress that mom set out.  My legs were cold against the wooden chair.  How could a person ever be comfortable with so much air hitting them in such a way?  I just knew I should have worn army green.  I could have used that opportunity to report on the teacher and learn the secrets of the school.  Interrogation.  Why were we there anyway?  Was there some plot surrounding the mind control of innocent children?

Oh the paperwork.  Shapes to be identified, things to be colored…and there were easels with odorous paint lined up in small containers.  My mother sent an old shirt for me to use as a smock.  It was a dress shirt that had once belonged to my dad.  The thing was huge! 

What the heck was I supposed to paint?  Red and blue were the only real options for green and yellow had dried out.  There were no bristles left on the paint brush.  No one could possibly create art under such primitive conditions.  There was always finger painting except the teacher instructed us not to.

There was a thin girl with ginger hair that sat behind me.  I believe she was starving.   I noticed early on that she had a penchant for eating paste.  Did she believe it was vanilla ice cream?  I turned around as she was chomping away.  Imagine my shock many years into the future to turn about on the first day of algebra class and there she was once again, minus the white paste.

It’s strange how life works.  The lines drawn between then and now…looping back, shifting forward and then we land many years ahead only to remember.

I made it through kindergarten except I didn’t do very well in school.  I didn’t want to be there.  In fact, I would have preferred to be anywhere but school.  Outside.  I loved the sun on my face, the feel of earth beneath my feet.  I would climb trees, heck I would climb onto the roof…I’d dangle from the ledge and then I’d release my grip.  In that moment between up and down, I was free.  I’d hit the ground and roll only surviving to do it all over again.  School in a dress, school to where I had to march in sequence with those around me…to conform, to become educated in the same way as everyone there…why?  I guess because I’d been drafted.  The large truck pulled up and scooped me away just the same as they did when they took my brother Tom. 

“Your daughter is deliberate,” my kindergarten teacher explained to my mom.  It took me a few years to understand exactly what the fancy term “deliberate” meant.  Slow.  I wasn’t slow; I just didn’t want to be there.  There was adventure at home.  There were neighbors to spy on and roofs to conquer.  I needed to have my brother Tom’s back.  He was in danger, didn’t my kindergarten teacher understand?  I was his only hope.  I had the uniform after all and I was supposed to protect him.

Summer school for kindergarten, was that even possible?  Yes, it was.  I know because I had to attend.  While my sister’s Katie and Mary were sound asleep, mom walked with me to the end of the street to meet the school bus. 

The driver reeked of sour…he was drinking something out of a paper bag and it wasn’t coffee.  This was during a time that no one realized the many pitfalls of drunk driving.  It’s amazing that all of us who rode that bus lived to tell about it…about the swerving and the abrupt stops.  Even though I learned to brace myself, my head was often pounded into the seat before me.  We’d scream and he’d yell.     

I was shipped to a school in the city.  We marched in.  I’m not sure exactly what a child is supposed to learn in summer school for kindergarten.  We sang songs; we played games as the other kids were friendly.  The heat was rather unpleasant though, the windows were open but there was no breeze.  The classroom was an oven mirroring the temperature outside.  It was summer after all, summer in school.

After, the bus driver dumped us in the parking lot of a local school so our mothers could pick us up.  I guess it was too much of an inconvenience for the driver to return us to our streets…or maybe by the afternoon, he was too inebriated to find them.  My mom was there that day and many days after…until my sister Lydia’s Camaro was parked in the lot.  I was thrilled that sis was in town for a surprise visit.  As I stepped off the bus, she was no where to be seen.  I was certain I’d soon be entertained by her antics for her car was there, the yellow car with a black racing stripe, a muscle car.

I felt the air escape my lungs…it wasn’t Lydia standing there waiting for me, it was Tom and he was home!   Tears…happiness, joy, gratitude…relief.  I don’t believe I’ve ever hugged anyone tighter in my life.  My big brother had made it through…he was home safe; he had his life back…his life with us.  It was Christmas in June and there would never be a greater present ever.

I didn’t wear my uniform much after that.  There was no point.  My tour of duty was over.  If only I could have said the same about school.  That was one draft I couldn’t dodge and there were many, many challenges ahead.  Drill sergeants who were disguised as nuns and mess halls that should have been closed because of unsanitary conditions, but those stories I’ll save for another time.

Christmas 1971;  the year I found myself surrounded by a war I knew nothing about…a war that led me to the greatest gift ever…when my brother Tommy came marching home again.

 

Green Bean Therapy

I’m guessing many of us, especially those with children, have experienced the whining voice that announces out of nowhere, “I’m bored.”  Mind you, Suzie has bins overflowing with toys in her room.  The latest electronics…building blocks, metal disks, toys, toys, toys with things to do in the rain, things to do when it’s sunny, things to do when it’s in-between…plastic oh the plastic…with a ton of money invested, a boatload of energy it took to assemble and all of a sudden they’re bored, really?  Inconceivable.

I’d rattle off twenty five suggestions including an offer to play a game or take a walk with her, all of which were typically met with a crinkled nose and a distasteful response. 

I’m bored.

When I was a girl, such an announcement was actually an invitation for my mother to put me to work.  “Take that large bag over there, run out to the garden and pick the green beans for me…all six rows.”  There was no argument because I had after all, complained.  Early on, I learned not to pester my mother with such trivial things. Nope.  I became self sufficient by finding a book to read or creating something new.  The truth is my parents did not supply me with many toys.  I was expected to play with the hand-me-downs from my brother’s and sister’s which meant cars without wheels, dolls with ink marks on their faces and most everything was chipped, scratched and torn.

I’m not complaining.  I could spend hours re-inventing and finding purpose for just about anything.  Give me a roll of tape, a pad of paper, some markers and an entire world was opened up to me.  I once built a fleet of submarines beneath the coffee and end tables in my parent’s living room.  Everything was drawn, taped, glued and tucked up beneath.  I attached clothes buttons on the control panel and neatly labeled what each did.  It was quite impressive too…I even figured out how to roll paper so that I had a working periscope that lowered so as to peer above the surface.  It was all pretend with everything fueled by a nuclear imagination.  Having less meant I had to become more inventive. 

The submarines were designed to last and my mother was surprisingly tolerant of such things.  I believe that as long as I didn’t bother her, all was good.   Years later it amused me when the next generation went on explorations in those submarines I built.  I believe some of my nieces and nephews had changed the game and those tables became spacecraft.  “Beam me up Scotty!”

Who has time for boredom?  I really don’t, even still.  I always seem to have something simmering on low…writing, drawing, Photoshop alterations…then there are greeting cards to design…and in between, my phone is ringing.  I’ll place the project on hold so as to offer my undivided attention to whoever is calling.  With so many interruptions it’s amazing that I manage to accomplish as much as I do.  Seriously, there is no peace, not here, not ever.  The list of what I aim for is quite lengthy…and everyday I’m a day older…tick-tock. 

Add to this, I have two cats who follow me around nagging me to keep their food bowl full and a dog that wants to be let out in the back yard and then in again and then out again.  Of course when Monkeyshine sees me put on my coat she expects a walk or starts acting all cute so that I’ll offer her a carrot.  The dog loves carrots.  There is no down time, not really…just a plan to awaken at three to where no one will interrupt my ability to finish a sentence or to consider a new plot.

Standing in line is a pleasure.  Silence.  Where else can I stand idle with others who are not demanding anything of me?  It’s a simple moment, a mini-vacation away from home.  I often find myself taking a few quick cleansing breaths to embrace tranquility. 

I’ll glance about often noticing the shoes of those around me.  You can tell a lot about a person by their choice of footwear in a grocery store.  Someone who has just left the office to someone who has just hiked ten miles…the clues are all right there at my feet.  Posture tells a story too.  Tired, disciplined, invigorated, feeling pain, full of apprehension, projecting confidence or having a bad day…add eye contact or lack of eye contact, friendly or unfriendly… patient or impatient and I have many stories told without a single word conveyed.  Toss in a screaming child and all is right in the universe. 

My eyes often scan the variety of magazines that scream “buy me” in hope that on impulse one of their many outrageous headlines will draw a person in.  “Baby Born Wearing Ancient Egyptian Bracelet,” oh my…and who buys that sensationalism anyway?  Someone must, although it often appears as if not a single copy has been sold in ten years or better.  Retouched faces, sex scandals, lose weight, wear better clothes, look younger…read this, use the new cleansing diet and believe that you can too!  Why would I want to?  Why can’t I simply be happy with who I am, “as is” in the life, body, age and attitude that I all ready carry?  Oh yeah, being happy with “self” doesn’t sell magazines or support an industry.  Sorry, I forgot… I’m supposed to feel inadequate so that others can gain from my insecurity.  Well, okay then…how much for one of those magazines? 

Boredom, no…I can’t say that I find myself in that predicament very often.  I enjoy trying new recipes.  I adore Indian food, Italian pesto dishes, making Sushi, home-made pizza, (and heaven help my waistline) desserts.  I do okay and appreciate a five star “yum” review from those who share the dinner table with me.

Gardening, yard upkeep, painting and repairs… I once took apart the garage door opener and replaced the gears.  It was a challenge and I used my digital camera step by step to be certain I could replace all of the parts correctly.  It worked too and it still is working!  Why not try something different?

What about exercise?  It is so important to me and I try to schedule the time each day.  It cleans out the cobwebs in my brain and offers me clarity.  I keep a few note cards on my treadmill for the light bulb goes off and I must jot it down or else I’ll forget.  I often begin walking with the intention of only going two miles but must force myself to stop at three because of time constraints.  The endorphin rush is really addictive…and it makes me feel on top of the world!

How about tea time?  My favorite “me” time everyday includes a nice glass of tea.  The best is green, chai and lemon ginger, yum!  I’ll sip away as I re-read and edit whatever I’ve been working on.

  

I think the biggest challenge in regards to boredom was when I needed to keep my daughter entertained many years ago.  When my dad was alive, I was asked to drive him into the city to be evaluated at the university hospital for an experimental treatment for his cancer.  My daughter was a toddler and I had no baby sitter, so we took her along with us.  The appointment was scheduled for nine in the morning.  The plan was after I dropped dad off I would take my daughter for a walk around the campus so we could play in the park together.  We were only thinking it would be an hour or so…no worries.  I didn’t bring any toys along…BIG mistake.  The doctor was called in for surgery and we were forced to wait.  The clock was set on extra slow…six hours…we sat there with my dad for six hours and all I had to keep my daughter amused was a small notebook and a pen.  We wrote a few children’s stories together and I illustrated them to her liking.  We played “guess what this is,” as I drew many shapes and animals. 

Other patients who were also waiting commented in disbelief at how remarkable it was that my daughter maintained a positive attitude while waiting so very long for this doctor.  There was no possibility for rescheduling since my father had traveled ninety miles for that appointment as he met up with me to drive him the last leg of the journey.  So we did what we had to do.  There was no boredom that day…just a challenge to be a bit more creative.

With that said, I suspect that by giving our kids more things we are actually giving them less…less of an opportunity to use their own creativity to entertain themselves, less means to express, create or to design a submarine under the coffee table in the living room.  In the mean time we are working harder to provide, to give, to keep them up to date in the latest gadgetry.  I wonder, someday if they’ll end up being the person standing in line at the grocery store who buys those outrageous magazines?  Will they feel inadequate or will they be suckered in simply because we gave them too much and they have no way to handle a simple moment of alone time?  Bored…maybe I should have handed Suzie a grocery bag to pick our green beans years ago…yes, green bean therapy; the miracle cure for boredom thereafter.

 

Shadows of Treasure

A few years ago my son JD purchased a wooden shadow box at a flea market.  The box contained many compartments that would be ideal for his "Star Wars" collection.  He had hundreds of action figures...too many to narrow down as far as which to showcase and the unit ended up in the corner of his room unused.  Recently, he asked if I could find a use for it...could I find a use for it?  (Smile) Of course I could.  I had plenty of things in miniature and it was a perfect way to further express myself through displaying a variety of treasures.  

In no time, I drilled holes into the wall above my desk.  Level in hand, I did my best to position the rectangle just-so.  I hurried about gathering the mementos that I had accumulated throughout my life.  Most items would be considered junk, but to me they were much more than that.  My plan was to counteract writer's block.  I was hoping to gain a visual focus so as to tap into my creative energy...full steam ahead!  

Frogs, bring on the frogs!  I adore those slimy creatures and it seemed reasonable to position a few scattered throughout.  At one time Fred, Edith, Clyde and little Patty belonged to my daughter.  She was very well known in our neighborhood as being "nature girl."  Daughter was often seen walking down to the pond with her net in hand always looking to invite a frog or two into our home for a mini-vacation.  

The plastic frogs...with a bit of "just add water" and imagination transformed into a pair of barking tree frogs, a toad and the fourth...I believe followed me home from vacation last summer.  Croaking Clyde has the deepest "mmm-hmmm-hmmm" voice pattern that conjures the many wonders of July in my heart.  Windows open, crickets, frogs and an occasional splash in the channel near our bedroom window and I'm back at the lake once again, abandoning the chill of this unforgiving December air.  

On the two opposing corners of the display are clowns.  Mind you some clowns are downright creepy, (Penny Wise for example) but the clowns I have represent the great irony of human emotion.  One is happy with makeup that correlates with his facial expression, the other is painted as happy but is actually weeping.  

The truth is, we all are dressed in a similar disguise.  From "hello, how are you doing?" as we are asked during a polite greeting...followed by the automatic response; "fine, thank you."  I believe that "automatic" is the everyday clown outfit we all wear.  We paint our truths, we hide away our emotions from the world.  Imagine standing in line at the grocery store and the clerk asks, "How're you doing?"  Without wearing clown makeup one would answer:  "My dog ran away, I forgot to pay the water bill and it was disconnected, my car has a flat tire and I can't seem to find my left shoe."  Too much information, right?  So yes, we're all clowns, red nose, polka dotted clothing... emotional paint to project what we want the world to believe about us.  Everything's fine, when it really isn't.  

There's a diver positioned on an empty sewing spool at the center of the shadow box.  He's there to remind me how easy it is to escape stress...not through writing but through "real life" adventure.  I absolutely loved snorkeling.  Zero gravity, fins on my feet, mask pinching my nose...I would fly through the water just inches from the bottom of the lake.  Fish often glanced at me then scattered away.  I could sense their facial expression was that of "oh my gosh...am I lunch to her?" (or maybe they were saying) "What was that creature anyway?  That isn't like any fish I've ever seen in this lake before."  

There's a tiny clock that is stopped at 3:20, the perfect time to write a story.  Not too late and not too early.  House silent, muse in place. When I glance at the face, the words, "do tell" come to mind.  

There's a compartment that contains antique dice.  It's simple really...luck or chance, courage or apprehension...we roll the dice and see where we land.  Fate...without it you wouldn't be reading this, without chance I wouldn't be here...seriously.  I know this for I was the "oops" baby born to folks who were both 42 years old and overwhelmed with six children before me.  

Another spot contains an old bicycle mileage meter.  It shows the many miles that I've traveled and the many wonderful stories that I carry from every pedal through.  I enjoy the trails in the Chicago/Northwest Indiana region.  Sunshine, rain, wind and flat tires...it's all good.  

....and then there's a rock.  It contains several layers and the color is a muted red.  The stone is the perfect compliment.  It's earth, a part of where we belong.  It can be thrown out of frustration, carried for comfort, polished for beauty and used as a reminder that no matter how difficult today can be we must remain solid and steadfast.  A red rockin' rock...a keeper.  

I have two Snoopy figurines.  One has a wind up and he walks stiff and mechanical.  The other is dressed in college attire.  They tell me to never take life too seriously...to remember the child within.  Joe Cool...dark glasses and a sly expression.  Years ago, I actually named my first dog Snoopy as a tribute to my favorite "Peanuts" character.  

In compartment three there's a convertible.  The car is a painted metal and primitive.  A boy named Timmy offered that car to me when I was in the second grade.  I'm not sure why I kept it.  Maybe it's the feeling that riding in a convertible with the top down conjures.  Instant good mood...wind, hair flying, grin on face.  I believe the answer to melancholy is a sunny day, a classic convertible and a great stereo system.  Someday I plan on cruising down Lake Shore Drive in my dream car...a classic VW Convertible painted cherry red.  Lake Michigan on one side of me, the wonderful skyline of Chicago on the other...no worries, just the thrill of the ride.  

Then of course, Yoda lives next door to Snoopy...the wise, all-knowing teacher.  We all need a powerful source that we can rely on to teach us about our inner strengths and special powers.  Yoda keeps me grounded, he helps me to remember I have a lot to learn...and he encourages me to ask many questions for which I do.  

Then of course there's an Oscar Meyer Wiener Whistle.   (Wow, say that five times really fast...) Doesn't everyone own one?  I recall a sales representative at our local grocery store handing them out when my kids were little.  I kept the toy to remind me that an ability to be whimsical and spontaneous is of great benefit to the spirit within.  

There's a Coleman miniature lantern that ran out of batteries a decade ago.  It's a great toy with a tiny globe keychain attached.  Also included is an upside down Gallador head.  My son JD had a massive collection of plastic figurines that contained interchangeable parts.  He spent many hours with those characters bringing them to life, fighting battles and inventing scenarios.  I came across that piece not long ago when I was repairing my treadmill.  How it ended up inside the sealed motor casing is still a great mystery to me.  I invited it into my collection so as to remind me that just the same as where that piece had landed, anything is possible.  I'm guessing my son placed his toys on the treadmill and turned the thing on.  It seems like something JD would have tried.  

Finally, there's a bell...a teeny-tiny bell.  It reminds me that once in a while we all must make a bit of noise in order to be heard.  Sometimes the greatest impact is best accomplished through the use of subtle expression...hence the size of that miniature bell. 

There's a turtle that indicates how slow and sure is often better than fast and sloppy.  Let's not forget Bertha the antique staple puller....but the one thing that stands out above most is the metal embossing tool.  It was given to me a few years back along with golden wax...my very own "seal" of approval; not "approval" really but a way to close envelopes in a stylish manner.  

A red buffalo is perched in slot number two.  It's there to convey that for better or worse, life changes and we all must adapt or not.  The buffalo carries a hint of sad to counterbalance the optimism that I normally project.  

Honorable mention goes to the very tiny dragon, the snow creature from the first "Star Wars" movie and a moose.  I was in Maine many years ago, balanced at the center of a canoe, my old Minolta with a zoom lens in hand photographing the moose along the Kennebago River.   We happened across an enormous bull that was standing near the shoreline, face down while feeding on seaweed.  I was thrilled and began click, click, clicking away.  The bull unexpectedly lifted it's head and through my lens it appeared as if he was within reach.  His eyes were piercing and I just knew that he was onto us.  I believed the monstrous creature was about to charge, so I gasped.  Hearing my response, the moose REALLY did know that we were there...and it lunged.  Fear...it's real...and I don't believe I've ever seen a canoe move faster as those who were in control of the paddles took off full throttle.  We escaped peril that day, and I accomplished some rather wonderful photographs, but for some odd reason I was never invited on such an excursion with that particular group ever again.  Imagine that.  

So there's this weeks blog!  I'm spreading my shadowbox treasures to everyone on the internet.  Everything has a story...a collection of moments that make us who we are.  Treasure or junk, junk or treasures...it's all carried in the great shadow box within me...within all of us.  Now, I'm left with a simple question:  what ever happened to my left shoe?    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Picture the Story

First, I'd like to mention that we are approaching the final countdown for the Great Bottle Give-away.  I'm willing to mail an autographed page from my original manuscript housed in a designer bottle to one lucky recipient.  All that I need is a creative idea as to where Carmen's bottle landed in the real world. 

Did it become one with the sand on a distant shoreline somewhere?  Was it scooped up in a fishing net?  Did the tides swoop Carmen's ramblings to the mainland?  Where oh where did the bottle go...oh where oh where can it be?  Go to my Facebook author page for more details and please give it a spin.  

Also, this week beginning on December 4th and leading to December 8, I've arranged for a discount book promotion on Amazon.  From 99 cents for the first couple of days to 1.99.  Perhaps this love story would be an ideal gift for the holiday season.  Do you know of someone who may appreciate a downloadable copy?  Send "Falling Whispers."  Just go to Amazon, click "send as a gift" on the "Falling Whisper's" page and mark the recipient off your gift list!  

Enough of business though, let's get on with this week's blog, shall we?

Today I want to share something rather personal, I want to discuss the great passion I hold for photography. 

It all began as I clicked my first picture back in the early 1970's.  In a frantic moment, I gazed out my bedroom window.  Car tires were squealing, my adrenaline pumping as a whole lot of insanity began to play out before me.  In an instant I made a decision, to document the events as they were presented.  I took hold of my sister K's 110 camera while rushing towards the window to record an accident just as it was about to happen. 

What I witnessed were two cars speeding towards each other in what appeared to be a game of chicken.  Although they swerved last minute to avoid a head on collision, there was something that struck me in that moment...with a single click, a story was told...not only told, but preserved for as long as the negative and paper would allow. Although my sister K was not exactly thrilled that I had claimed a photo on her roll of film, I was hooked. 

As K studied photography through a basic class in high school, I watched with great interest as her technique evolved.  An entire world was unveiled to me...how an image could travel through a shutter, land invisibly onto film, undergo chemical development, and be projected from an enlarger onto paper was nothing short of a miracle.  I needed to learn more, I needed to explore the many creative secrets of the entire photographic process.

Years later as I was able to take an introduction photography class, I borrowed the same camera my sister had used...an old 126 Kodak that my dad had purposed for capturing slides.  Although there was nothing fancy about the plastic camera, the same basic principles applied.  Light, shutter, film speed...image...wa-la! 

Of course there were more affluent classmates who sported their 35mm Pentax', Cannon's and Nikon's with interchangeable lenses and filters.  It was then and only then I developed what I can best describe as "lens envy." 

Throughout my life I've never carried much jealousy towards other people.  I've always seen everyone as comrades along the great journey of life.  No matter who a person is or how much they have there is always going to be something missing...some element whether it be wealth, health or happiness...there is always going to be someone more fortunate or more talented...so I decided long ago it was best to hold appreciation for those that have more and use them as inspiration to strive for better.  There is no perfect life, never-ever for the missing element is part of the human condition we all share.

Except lens envy was the one flaw that I carried.  Those photographs of my classmates were nothing short of amazing.  There is an entirely different perspective that one can gain access to only through lens variety.  Micro, wide-angle, zoom...and the million dollar shot at least for me always seemed just beyond the horizon...if only I had a better lens.  It was all part of the tools needed for properly capturing a moment, for telling a story for future generations to appreciate.

Those stories were never limited to pictures that I snapped, but in truth, there are many out there (good or bad or indifferent) that can be told from photographs others have taken.

For example, while I was working in a camera store years ago, a co-worker asked that I restore a photograph of her recently departed mother.  The image was taken during the 1950's; apparent by her hair style and clothing.  When I agreed, I had not studied the image too closely.  As I began to retouch a copy of the picture it became apparent that the woman  in the black and white photo was concealing bruises.  I did my best to fix the image, to mask what I could, so that my co-worker might carry away a different reality.  As I handed back the finished product, my friend began to weep...she said it was exactly the life that she had always wanted for her mother.  She explained how her dad was not a good person to her mom or to any of them.

Although a painful experience, her story was "real."  Life is not always "Carmen and Dora" running off into the sunset to live happily ever after.  Although as it may seem how some stories are better off forgotten, the truth is, like it or not they become a part of who we are. 

During the 1990's an aunt of mine passed away.  Two of my immediate family members and I were remembered in her last will and testament.  She had bequeathed us her household items to split and to share.  Another Auntie oversaw the distribution of those items.  As we began to sort through the many things my aunt had left us, I made it perfectly clear that if there were any photographs that I would be interested.  Although Auntie agreed, I learned after the fact that she had located a small box of old photographs.  Because the pictures were from my uncle's side of the family, Auntie decided that I would not want such "clutter" and she placed the entire box onto the brush fire she had set to clear the yard.

In an instant many stories were destroyed.  Pictures, negatives....smiles, memories, hopes and dreams all transformed into the nothingness of ash.  It took a long while to forgive my Auntie for making that decision.  However, I used that opportunity to sit down with her and explain what photography means to me and the importance of the story.

Many years later,  my mother was left a huge box of albums and loose photographs from her family.  With her being the youngest and nearly the last survivor, it was logical that she hold onto the family albums to pass down.  There were all sorts of amazing glimpses into the past, into our past through faces, styles and background.  There were even a few tintypes at the bottom of that box.  I was literally in photo heaven.

Every time I would return to my mom's for a visit, I'd ask to see that box of albums, but mom voiced discouragement.  "What do you want to see that old box of pictures for, we have no idea who any of those people are?"

"It's too heavy...I'm not sure if it was placed in the living room closet or if it's in one of the bedrooms...there's not enough time this visit, maybe next time...maybe next time."   

I dreamed of copying each and every image...of studying them more closely, of placing those copies in my own personal collection...of being inspired...of inventing stories from the many interesting faces of the past. 

Originally my mom offered me one of the photographs for the woman from the late 1800's (obviously family) held a similar facial structure.  I was thrilled!

I pushed and pushed and pushed to go through those photographs once again until mom finally admitted that not long after they arrived, she had sold the albums to someone named Diamond Sal for $50.00.  She had answered an advertisement in the paper for the "picker" to go through their home and purchase their antiques or collectables.  Granted it was her box of photo's to do with as she pleased but man-oh-man...the frustration.  Even still I shake my head in disbelief at the tremendous loss. 

For many years after, while attending flea markets and coming across old photographs for sale I have been left to wonder if any of those people are my family.  I became the orphan child as my family history has been bought and sold many times over.

I still have the solitary photograph though...the image of a mystery woman offered to me from that box of albums my mom was given.  I named her "Sarah," which seemed to be a good fit.  She rests upon the shelf above me in my office, overseeing my everyday life, whispering stories to me as only she knows how to tell them.  My muse, my friend, my past, her past...all for the great art of the story. 

With just one click, you have me...with just one click we are all frozen in time.  Yes I carry a love of photography, for hidden deep within every picture there is always an interesting story...to have and to hold unless of course fate, fire or person tosses those stories away.