Trixie Archer's Blog, page 6

About the Weather

Yesterday my dog Happy created a mess in the family room downstairs.  Normally she'll laze around half the day without worry, but not this time.  Someone had left a glass of orange pop on the coffee table and with the simple wag of her tail, ker-plunk. 
 
As I was cleaning the space along the raised flooring I noticed a few tiles had buckled from the moisture.  The more I scrubbed, the looser they became.  I finally surrendered and pulled them off entirely.  My idea was to make a trip to the hardware store for some tile adhesive to fix the flooring once and for all.
 
The thing is, I discovered a hinge.  A hinge.  The corroded metal had been tucked beneath the tile all along.  Curiosity got the better of me as I proceeded to remove both good and bad flooring to figure out the "why" a hinge was there.  Soon the purpose became obvious.
 
What on earth?  A door.  I couldn't help but think that sometimes most everything happens for a reason.  Mischief, malice and Happy for without, I would have never known...
 
The more I worked, the larger the door became. 
 
Who would place a doorway along the floor of our basement?  Where could it possibly lead?  Was this an entrance to a cold war bomb shelter or was it an ingenious hiding spot for valuables?  The possibilities were endless.
 
The people who owned the home before us, the Sullivan's, were the only residents prior to our moving in.  My guess, the doorway was constructed at the same time the house was built.  I didn't recall anything of the sort on the original blueprints.  So, what did this mean? 
 
We lived in a non-descript 1950's ranch style dwelling at the middle of the block just outside of the city.  There was nothing remarkable about the structure or any homes in our neighborhood for that matter.  Most were a carbon copy of the next except this one apparently had a secret doorway below.
 
After two hours the marble pattern had been removed.  The plank didn't lift, but then again, I didn't give it my all.  I needed a crowbar...did we have one?   
 
I wondered if I should wait for my son to return home from school, I mean what if there was tunnel or something...I could disappear and no one would ever know what happened.  What if it turned out to be the mouth of the home and once inside, the jaw would simply close.  I'd then remain trapped on the other side as an observer to the life of my family from then on.  Mom who? 
 
It suddenly occurred to me, there was never any mention on what had happened to the former owner.  Was Mr. Sullivan down there somehow?  Did he find the doorway and follow it to the great expanse of the unknown?
 
Part of me leaned towards opening the door right then and there...the other, the more cautious side was telling me to think carefully on this.
 
I did my best for the next few hours to keep busy.  I cleaned my kitchen...a most dreaded task, thankless and continuous...scrub this, put away that, unload the dishwasher...toss old food from the week before.  Gunk, goo, mess, crumbs...over and over and over again, day in and day out with no escape...but then I thought of the doorway...maybe I was wrong on that count...maybe there was an escape after all.  What if that doorway was meant for me and me alone? 
 
To calm my nerves I moved on to the front room.  The vacuum carried a most annoying high pitched sound.  The motor was a referee whistle, a stereo set without bass, clatter-clank and a cat wail all in one.  I needed to find a better vacuum someday but to spare my mom's feelings, the unit became part of our family.  I'll always remember how proud my mom was when she arrived with the gift in hand.  I didn't have the heart to tell her that her bargain was not so much of a deal after all.  So I used the beast sparingly...only when an old fashioned broom and dust pan would not do the trick.
 
No matter what I aimed to accomplish, my mind swung back to the curiosity tucked in the flooring at the far corner of our basement.  Knock, knock, who's there?  Imagine.  Imagine who?  I imagine the truth just below the surface as it always was. 
 
What if all of our homes in the neighborhood were connected or led to an underground city?  My mind raced on with countless possibilities.  Once it was opened though, everything would become apparent.  I could then put my mind to rest.  On the other hand, I would no longer have the means to consider.  It was then I decided it was not in my best interest to share my discovery with anyone just yet.  I needed time to figure out what to do and who to tell, if anyone.
 
With only twenty minutes until my son would return home from school, I took some wood glue (the only adhesive I had on hand) and worked to fix the tiles in a hurried fashion.  I squeezed the tube and paste splattered everywhere.  There was no time to be careful.  Stick, stuck, sticky.  I worked those tiles in a hurried fashion, placing each piece as if I were in a great puzzle competition...except with flooring.  I could feel cool bursts of air from the surrounding edges of the hatch.  I had shivers go up and down my spine as I believed my house to be gasping.
 
When my son arrived home I told him to stay out of the family room since the dog had a mishap with a glass of orange pop and the floor was drying.  After a frustrated groan, he hurried off to his room to complete his homework for the day.
 
After returning to the basement, I placed my ear to the floor to see if I could hear anything from below.  Aside from my own stomach growling, I heard nothing what-so-ever.    
 
At ten o'clock with Jimmy in bed for the day and since Brian was out of town for the week, I returned to the family room floor.  I took a putty knife and pulled everything up once again.  There was no way to grip the door so I took hold of a large screw driver and wedged it into the side.  I stepped on the handle and the large planking moved up.  A few spiders made their way from the crevice and I suddenly didn't feel so sure of my discovery.  I hated spiders.  Did I say I hated spiders?  Well, that was an understatement.  If there was a million dollars tucked away and an army of spiders were layered for protection, I would leave the money behind.  Yes, that is the full scope of my dislike for spiders.
 
Be strong...spiders or not, you need to know what's down there.
 
A moment later I lifted the door as far as it would go.  Of course there were more creepy-crawlies and a web layered as a second barrier.  The thickness was so dense that I could see nothing through the spinning and dirt.  My eyes began to water from the dampness and mildew.  The stench was awful.  I was reminded of my old Aunt Clara's basement in the months after it flooded many years ago.  Even with fans running for countless days the pungency lingered on.
 
At first I thought maybe I should simply replace the door and give up.  Allergies.  I felt a sinus headache forming that was the mother of all headaches.
 
You can't turn back now.
 
I grabbed the shop vac from the garage and proceeded to clear the doorway below.  In a snap the dark expanse became obvious.  A few nasty spiders became casualties of suction.  I couldn't see much so I went on a hunt for a working flashlight.  Why was it there was never one around when I needed it most?  I located a pink crank up light with Teddy Bear Sal on the front.  She only had one eye for the pattern had been worn away.  I began to crank the lever so as to power the beam up.  It was a habit to count the rotations.  One, two, three.....forty nine, fifty...  I clicked the power button and the light led the way.
 
The cutout below our home was not very deep.  Four foot at most.  It appeared to be a place to store things.  Maybe it was used to keep supplies in case of an emergency.  What a disappointment.  As I was ready to close the door, I caught sight of a small square.  It was no larger than a shoe box.  I hated the thought of stepping down into the pit, so I grabbed a shovel from the garage and worked to lift the thing accordingly.
 
The box was metal and painted an army green.  It appeared to be weather tight and very, very durable.  There was lettering on top written in German and the year 1943 was apparent. 
 
There were emblems with more words that I didn't understand.  An umbrella, the sun, snowflakes, wind, clouds...curious.
 
I unlatched the top and peered inside.  There were many wires twisted and tangled that all connected to a half disintegrated control panel.  The rubber buttons had flaked with age.  At first I believed my find was worthless junk but then, upon further scrutiny I realized it was a relic from WWII. 
 
I left the thing on the family room floor.  I closed the door and replaced the tiles using wood glue once again. 
 
After Jimmy went to school the following morning, I carried the box to the kitchen table upstairs.  When the morning sun fell onto the box, the thing powered on.  A slight hum became apparent and I suddenly felt concern as to what I had unleashed before me.  Nothing good would come from this...which probably explained why it was hidden below my house for many years...in the dark, far and away...untouched and forgotten.
 
I felt like crying.  What did I do? 
 
I began clicking buttons in hope that I would figure out how to power the thing off.  The rubber began to dissolve so I decided to be a bit more careful.  What I didn't notice at first was that with each click, the weather outside took on a sudden change.  Overcast, snow flakes, clear, rain, wind...it was all right before me coinciding with the dial.
 
I sat there a moment stupefied.  Weather control?  Impossible.  There was no controlling the weather, there was no controlling much where nature was concerned...and yet, as I clicked away, it all registered as true.
 
I wasn't exactly sure what to do with my find.  The responsible thing would be to phone the authorities.  I doubted technology from the 1940's was exactly safe for home use.  I questioned how such a thing was even possible?
 
What to do, what to do, what to do?
 
Just then the doorbell rang.  I gazed at the clock above.  "Who could it be at such an early hour?"
 
I think I answered the door...but as I opened my eyes, I wasn't sure.  I noticed how the kitchen ceramics could use a good scrubbing.  From my position on the floor, every crumb and crack became noticeable.  Happy towered above me, licking my face.  Did I pass out?  Everything seemed clouded with a haze.  Slowly-carefully with deep breaths, I crawled towards the kitchen table.  With one hand in front of the other I lifted myself into the chair.  Something was missing, something important...but what that something was, I had no recollection.
 
It was now lunch time and I began to consider what would be quick and simple.  Tuna salad, a cheese sandwich?  I felt weak as if someone had drained all of my energy away.  Was I coming down with the flu?
 
With great care I stood from the chair, moved to the sink to use the wash cloth to sanitize the table.  For some odd reason there were tiny bits of black scattered on the surface.  "That darned Jimmy..." I said to myself.
 
Yes, it was just another day without much to talk about, except of course, the weather.
 
 
 
    
 
 

Inventory 2015

I could begin today's blog with the statement that you'll probably not hear from me again until next year, but considering that notion has been used so much on the 31st of December, I'll opt for a more original approach. 
 
So here we are standing on the threshold of another year.  It's time to take inventory, to list the many blessings that we have and consider what we might wish to change in the next twelve months.  Ten, nine, eight, seven....
 
At the top of my list is the submission of "A Love for the Taking." On this end I'm scratching my head.  Maybe I'm too much of a perfectionist but I'd rather be certain every word is what I intend, instead of throwing a novel out there in quick and feeling an instant writer's regret. 
 
Writer's regret:  running out into the yard to close the barn door only to realize all of the farm animals have all ready gone.  Words; if used with the proper consideration they are known to have a most positive effect on the reader...the want for more.  My goal is to tell a decent story with bells and whistles, sparkles and shimmers from elbow grease and ten coats of polish.  I'd love to be seen as a classic Camaro in pristine condition speeding down the highway, not a care in the world as I swing to the curb to invite you along for the ride.  I want to share that feeling of escape with all who read my stories...the joy of the experience...with music, great conversations and maybe a stop somewhere for an ice cream float. 
 
If I manage everything in the right sequence, with the proper timing, we can have that, if not, I'll be the clunky old rust bucket with the suspension off balance, exhaust fumes radiating from the muffler which will leaves everyone in the car feeling ill.  "Pull over, pull over!"  While my passengers jump out, I'll realize the plot was lacking.  Death trap.
 
With that said, I fell back into schedule this week surrounding my next book.  I think I'll ask one more friend to give it a read-through and then I'll feel more confident.  Maybe I'm over-thinking this process, maybe I should just leap without considering where I might land. The story is long, the longest I've written, so I feel a bit more care is necessary.  Detail Nettie will say "tsk, tsk," as she shakes her head and crinkles her nose if I move forward in haste.
 
Anyway, back to the list...  Resolutions:  I think I should stop smoking...that's simple enough because I don't smoke.  Okay, I'll give up drinking..again, I don't touch the stuff...   Here's one, seriously...I will try to do my absolute best surrounding time management and to not over extend myself during the following year.  I sometimes feel that I live in a double time rotation, meaning that the second hand moves extra slow for me and that I can fit more into a day than others.  During the "crunch time" I'm literally running around in a circle saying "I think I can, I think I can" with great fail.  This type of  chasing my tail is no way to live, trust me.
 
More walks, less contact with people who are nasty to me, less sitting, more doing...all good things for sure.  Setting stronger boundaries that include saying "no" when something doesn't work for me.  To stop being such a push-over.
 
Listening more and talking less...yes, that's an important goal.   Asking more questions so as to gather and collect.  To take more pictures and to simply breathe with a greater appreciation for life.
 
There it is, on to 2016...it will be the best year ever because I am choosing it to be.   Happy New Year everyone!  Be safe.
 
six, five, four, three...
 
~Trixie Archer

Okay Christmas

I believe I heard something on the roof.  If the dog lifting her ears while tilting her head from side to side was an indicator, I know I did.  Pooch exhaled, replacing her snout to her front paws before dismissing the sound all together.  Maybe it was nothing after all...maybe it was all but a dream. 
 
When I was a girl I vowed never to allow my dog to sleep with me.  My best friend Laura had a curly haired mutt who shared her bed and would often awaken with ticks burrowed deep into her scalp.  Watching her dad pull them out with tweezers turned my stomach in such a way that overpowered any need for sharing a blanket thereafter.  I would never consider the notion until forty years later when I met the pup named "Kitten." It was only then I made an exception.
 
It's not great living alone.  I worry.  The area has changed.  My neighbors have mentioned in passing who has been robbed during the past cluster of months.  Last week someone broke into the house next door in the dead of night and there were shots fired.  When Ken and I built our home years ago, the area was quiet, but that changed soon after  Merlin's Supermarket built their new store on our street.  After Ken passed I decided to stay.  There are memories here...a lifetime of memories here.
 
Fear is not a good thing, fear can taint the soul with a constant restlessness.  I've done my best to put the worst out of my mind but sometimes there is no avoiding the truth of what's out there.  The channel 8 news reminds me of this every night.  The newscaster announces tragedy with an expression of indifference.  Her words play on my mind as I close my eyes to invite sleep soon after.  It is no surprise that I hear everything that goes bump in the night but at least I have Kitten.
 
Kitten isn't exactly intimidating.  She's a toy breed, a rescue dog who believes she is of the Doberman persuasion.  I haven't the heart to inform her otherwise.  Her growl comes from deep within but resembles a buzz saw with the volume turned all the way down to one.  It's okay though, I count on her ears and her "woof" to let me know if I should do a perimeter check.  Until now there was nothing to worry about, until now.
 
I never realized retirement would be like this.  My kids are grown and they do their best to visit when they can...when they take a couple of weeks to drive out or have saved enough flight miles to cash in.  They've invited me to live with them on the other side of the country, but my life is here, my friends are here and so I would never consider...
 
Boom!  Kitten jumped before she darted beneath the blanket.  The dog has hunkered close and I feel her trembling.  I have no doubt, there is someone in the house.  The dog knows it too and the intruder has frightened the bark right out of her.  My hero is now looking for me to save her.
 
I swallowed hard.  Fear is not a good thing, it can taint the air with unpleasantness...  My heart began to race and my motivation for knowing has become cemented in place.
 
Where's my cell phone?  I remember, it's in the kitchen, down the hall, on the counter, plugged into the wall recharging.
 
"Curses," I whisper under my breath.  "Merry Christmas, I'm being robbed." 
 
I worked hard to control my breathing.  Maybe what I heard was the neighbors coming home from the night shift....the houses are very close together after all...so just maybe...
 
Slam...thud.  No, that was definitely in the kitchen, in my kitchen, at two in the morning, in the middle of the street in Anytown, U.S.A..
 
Footsteps.  Shuffle step, shuffle step...  Whoever it is will soon be at my door...slowly, carefully, the creaking resounds on the hardwood floor along the middle of the hallway.  I've heard that sound so many times before but always under better circumstances...Ken, Pat, Kayla, Frank...years ago or did that all happen moments ago?  Time has shifted and meshed in what will probably be my final moment.  I can only imagine who or rather what was on the other side of that door. Oh my, oh no!   
 
My heart is thudding in a sudden dread.
 
I should have figured out some way to protect myself in case this ever happened.  I trusted it wouldn't...  After all, I haven't got much.  I believed I'd always be safe in my own home.  Kitten released a growl under her breath...I'm reminded of a battery operated pencil sharpener that is nearly out of power.  I've lived a good life.
 
The roof is leaking as rain drops begin to pelt my pajamas except rain it is not, tears, my tears are the culprit.  The door handle begins to turn.  The person on the other side is NOT Santa Claus.
 
"Mom are you asleep?"  Kayla asked.
 
"Kay?  Baby Kay, you're here in town for Christmas?"  I said jumping from the bed and rushing forward to offer the warmest embrace to my daughter.  Relief has transformed all fear, joy has snapped away hopelessness.
 
"Yeah ma, surprise!  I'm so sorry for arriving late.  My flight was delayed seven times, there's a horrible snowstorm out east you know?"

"Oh my goodness!  I'm so happy, you can't imagine!  I thought I'd be spending the holiday alone this year."
 
"I'm shocked that you didn't put up your tree.  It just looks like any other day here.  It's Christmas ma...how sad."
 
"I didn't see any reason to bother.  I did manage to hang Kitten's stocking though.  I think Santa Paws left her a few things."
 
"Oh you and that dog!"  Kay laughed as she stepped back a moment. "Well at first light we'll do something to change that, okay?"
 
"You bet," I replied.
 
"I should get some rest then, we have a big day ahead.  It's Christmas after all...and the rest of our family will arrive for dinner at two, that is, if their flights make it on time,"  Kay announced.
 
"Really Kay, everyone's coming home?"
 
"Yeah ma...I've taken care of everything.  Surprise!"
 
....and what a wonderful surprise it was!  A Merry Christmas from Anytown, U.S.A...
 
 
 

At First Light

The sun rises each day.  An intense beam of light spreads warmth and color onto the somber landscape.  Birds awaken as they chatter "hey, it's morning, wake up, wake up!"   Did I ever really notice before?  I can't recall the last time I had taken pause long enough to truly appreciate. 
 
Maybe on occasion I'd snap a few pictures especially if the hues were vibrant...or if the light folded in casting shadows "just so" throughout the great forest of life.  In that moment of awareness I might have brushed on a deeper gratitude at being connected...or maybe not.  Often I am content sleeping in, surrendering to the exhaustion from navigating a hectic schedule the day before.  My emotions are softened by the dream of an alternate reality.  Sometimes the pleasantness keeps me away longer than it should and I push snooze until the lettering on the button is unreadable.
 
...but then the eye doctor informs me that I'm losing my vision and in that moment I realize how magnificent the sunrise is each morning.  I think about how many times I missed seeing what was right before me all along.  Such a reckoning is how I feel this week.  Last Thursday, my mom suffered a small stroke and it has been a very emotional up-down-all around experience.
 
Mom is rather fortunate that the stroke was "small" and that she maintains a razor sharp memory...that she still recognizes us with an awareness to the present.  Her speech, however, has been effected.  There is a slur and her vocal pace has gone from speeding down the expressway to using the local lanes with flashers on while traveling in the far right lane.
 
My mother has been my blog-person ever since I began this endeavor.  She has always been tremendously supportive of my writing and still treasures my first book.  I wrote "The Magic Cat" when I was in the second grade.  Mom has even complimented me on the primitive illustrations with a fondness that only a doting mother is known to have.   
 
Mom would lug out her memory box every once in a while during our visit.  "Remember when..." she had often said. 
 
Now so as to engage her in speaking, I am on the "remember when" side of our conversations.  "Yes," she says, "I do..." and then she does her absolute best to form words and sentences with a remarkable line drawn from past to present.
 
The sunrise is there, it always has been...but I perceive it in greater detail now and with a whole new level of appreciation.  There is a conscious effort to see and carry each moment of the experience as a remarkable gift for it is...in the now with my mom a week after her stroke. 

~Trixie Archer
 
 

Thursday Morning Read-through

Each Thursday morning after I pen this blog, I punch some numbers on the phone and give my post a test drive.  On the receiving end is my mother.  She's 92 years young and the Betty White of our family. 
 
When I grow up, I sure hope that I'll have a "cinnamon disposition" similar to hers...pleasant with pinch of zing.  One thing is for certain, mom has always kept us on our toes.  If loose lips sinks ships, we'd have all been sunk a long time ago.  There is no guess work on where my mom stands, she is known to say what's on her mind...politically correct or not...like it or not, ready or not...
 
This morning, however, as I was booting up my computer, my daughter phoned.  (She is attending college in the town where I grew up.)  She asked, "did you hear anything about grandma, is she okay?"
 
I was speechless...I felt as if I'd been sucker-punched.
 
"What?" I whispered. 
 
At this moment, I know nothing other than my brother and his wife were spending the night (we all take turns) and they found mom in her chair unable to form words in response to their questions.  Nods and mumbles with yes and no...word chips minus actual sentences. 
 
At 92 a person is fragile and the "why" could be just about anything.  From a stroke to dehydration.  Needless to say, fear is what I'm carrying now...fear from the darkest corner of the great unknown. 
 
My mind has been all over the place ever since my daughter's call this morning. 
 
I thought of my phone conversation with my mom yesterday.  Ol' mom was full of life, full of chattiness, full of mischief, as always.  She kept talking about Monkeyshine and how amazing it is that my dog knows to stay away from her and senses that she is not an animal lover.  "I don't like to touch animals," my mom said, "I think it all happened when I was a girl and the cat delivered a litter of kittens on my pillow."
 
"Yeah, I suppose that would do it," I replied.
 
The odd thing is, there is no denying that I wouldn't be standing here in this spot right here, right now, without my mother.  No matter what, we are who we are because of our parents...or maybe for some, despite them.  We were tossed into a cement mixer with everything that they are, everyone that they knew, their parents, their grandparents...the bad, the good and the ugly....turning over and over and over until we spill out to form our own road forward with our own life experiences that pave the way.  Follow the yellow brick road.
 
So as I sit here dealing with the whirlwind of emotions at not knowing what is happening with my mom, I'm thinking about this blog and what my ma said each week..."that's pretty good Trix...I can't wait to see what you have up your sleeve for next time."
 
"Same back at you mom.  I just hope that you'll return as my first willing audience for a read through as always." 
 
I hope and pray for a quick recovery, cinnamon and sugar with the right kind of attitude.   This blog just isn't the same without a Thursday morning read-through with mom...but here it is anyway. 
 
~Trixie Archer
 
 

Byte Out Conversation

This morning as I was sitting at my computer, a rant came to mind.  Are you ready?  Here it goes.  Sometimes I'm really miffed at technology.  For what we have gained all in the want of convenience, we have lost in great portions as well.  With that said, I recognize technology as bitter-sweet.
 
Mind you, the ability to read my words twenty minutes from now is all based on technology.  Paperless letters illuminated dim or bright are suspended before you and they are raining onto the screen as I type.  Magic.  I'm a hypocrite in a way for I remain dependent on this innovation.  I hate technology and yet I love it all at the same time.  Confused?  Well, give me a chance to explain...my simple rant...in opposition of technology.
 
Dinner.  It is the one meal where we all sit down and connect.  It doesn't matter if we are discussing the complexities of space travel, dinner is family time.  I work hard to prepare a hot meal aiming for 6 o'clock.  Admittedly, some recipes are more elaborate than others.  Last week I made pork chops with a cilantro pesto that would knock your socks off...other times I am all for convenience.  A simple burger with potato wedges and a fresh garden salad...no matter, I do my best to provide nourishment and mom conversation.
 
My son will step away from his computer and with an apparent grumpiness he arrives a few minutes late to the dinner table.  There is a glazed look in his eyes, an electronic hang-over for he is still thinking about the battle (game) that he was winning.  I can feel the anger spewing from him, the resentment that mom called him back for a reality break. 
 
You've got to eat son, after all, you're as thin as a rail.
 
So I do my best to invite conversation.  What we discuss all varies depending on current events.  For the purpose of this blog, let's imagine I bring up the finer qualities of pocket lint. 
 
"Do you know there are several different types of pocket lint?  Did you know that it is the perfect medium for sculptures if one is of a creative nature?  If given an opportunity for an art show what sort of pieces would you include using such an interesting recyclable expression?"
 
"Ah-hem," is all that is offered in response.  Really?  I'm speaking about pocket lint and no one seems to hear me.  Pocket lint is cool, is stackable, is moldable and no one seems to comprehend the great importance of this topic.
 
The response is a flat line.  I might as well be dining at a local restaurant surrounded by a hundred strangers.  At least I'd have a server asking if I would like a refill on my coffee...at least I'd have that crumb of polite conversation.
 
I know my family would prefer to be sitting in front of the television zoned out by the mind rot on the screen before them.  Without shouting, "hey I'm here, see me?  I'm not the invisible person who cooks your meals, I'm real and I care."  I'm not sure how to undo the spell that technology has placed over our existence.  We have become emotionally disconnected by dots, pixels and pre-recorded audience laughter.
 
I'm thinking about hiding my plant sprayer under my chair.  The next time I bring up pocket lint without any response, I'll let loose with a few squirts aimed just-so.  Except knowing my family, they would counter with an umbrella to thwart such attempts.  Imagine dinner with one person misting water and everyone else holding an umbrella shield while shoveling down their food.  What we have here is a failure to communicate, what we have is a failure to connect.
 
Smart phones are not allowed at dinner, no tv, text messages, beeps, buzzes or system crashes...look up, ...from six to six thirty let's hang out...and darn it, ask me questions...offer your own pocket lint conversation.  Are you still in there somewhere?  Knock, knock... hello?
 
The silence at dinner time has become deafening.  Please pass the rolls and the butter...thirty minutes is all I ask to surrender the internet, thirty minutes or you'll hear the loudest scream as I pull the plug once and for all...yours.  Power off.  Maybe a disconnect will allow us to reconnect...to reboot our family. 
 
In protest of technology, next week's blog will be seven sentences hand written with a line of ink pens taped together so that I can make about five hundred copies in half the time.  I'll need everyone's address so that I can mail every word directly to you...um, no, not really.  Like I said, technology for me is bitter-sweet, I love-hate it. 
 
Until next time...dinner is at six, with plenty of conversation to follow.  Umbrella is optional.
 
~Trixie Archer 
 
 
 
 
 

Low Key

n the spirit of being random, I've placed several words into a hat and will now draw on one.  Those topic were collected weeks ago from the people in my life.  I was keeping those folds in an envelope as a make-shift emergency kit just in case.  Sometimes worry on the "what" clouds my mind on Thursday morning.  Well, here it goes...
 
May I have a drum roll please?   "The winner is "low key," now what do you make of that?  Low key.
 
In photography low key simply means in the tonal range of gray to jet black.  I shot a picture once as an exercise in low key...my choice was that of an old projector.  I used a gray background with a few spotlights positioned just so.  
 
When writing how could I translate the definition of low key into a storyline?  Subtle?  Dark emotions?  Okay, well...in a writing "free-fall," let's see where this takes me...
 
Greta Marks stood for a moment of pause as she turned the key locking her house for the final time.  There was something in the mechanism clicking that seemed to be akin with her life in transition.  She had sold everything...her home, her car, all of her furniture...even the electric push mower that she deemed "old reliable."
 
All that she had left were a few mementos from a life well lived.  Matchbook covers, bottle caps and three photo albums were crammed inside her Samsonite with a "close with all your might" force. 
 
Her feet carried her from Maple Lane to Main Street through an adjoining path near the rail road tracks.  The day was sunny and the air rather crisp.  The season was leaning from autumn towards winter as the Midwestern chill was sure to invite worse.
 
There were several nods as she passed, all familiar faces, but their names seemed to land just out of reach.  Greta had been experiencing a decline in memory.  When she began to find her clothes in the dishwasher and the milk in the cereal cabinet she knew the time had come.
 
Her home sold quick for it had been maintained with vigilance.   Of course selling it for ten thousand below the appraisal was icing on the cake.  A young couple in search of a starter home nabbed the place in a record breaking two days after the initial listing.  "We'll take good care of it," Mary Sanders assured her as she clasped the hand of her life partner Hanna.  
 
As Greta lugged her bag onto the bus, she whispered, "well, that's that."  Many glances fell her way from the others as she reached the first available seat.  She was running away from home, running away from her past, running away from her declining memory.  "Soon," as the doctor said, "you will not recall much or recognize those in your life...it's all down hill from here."  It wasn't Alzheimer's, but instead a degenerative condition from an inoperable tumor.  If Greta wasn't mistaken, she had heard it all somewhere before.
 
The proceeds from the sale of her home and her belongings were placed into bank accounts for her children.  A gift for you...was written as-a-matter-of fact on the final note to her family.  The letters would arrive in a few short days as she hoped her words made logical sense.  
 
Greta kept enough to reach her final destination.   In fact, that was how she lived most of her life...with just enough to carry her through.  It was a practical mindset and one that did not impose much burden on those around her.
 
As the bus pulled away a smile pursed her lips.  She made a choice for the final chapter of her life story...she visualized what was before her as crossing the bridge towards a new beginning.
 
Greta slept for most of the trip and as the bus halted to a stop at the end of the line, she yawned and stretched.   "So, this is it..."  Lifting her bag from the carrier, she extended the handle to roll it along with her .  Clip, clop, clip, clop...her footsteps echoed through the stillness of the countryside.  The day had shifted to evening and the sunset was a brilliant shade of copper.  At the far end of the path, a tune from long ago filled the air.  A movement of hope transformed her glum to a more favorable disposition as the ticket taker extended his hand to offer her entry.
 
She chose a majestic white steed on the far corner of the merry-go-round.  The saddle was the most vibrant lavender that Greta had ever seen.  "Carry me off into the wild blue yonder...carry me away into the great ocean of possibilities..."  Greta knew the words from memory and the chant shifted her into a carnival state of mind.   Clowns, silliness, curiosity...the magic of youth...it was all simmering within.
 
It took some effort to swing her leg over the saddle but she managed.  In no time there was movement as her hand grasped the golden bar that rose up into the vortex of time.  Greta shifted from 78 to 7 in the blink of an eye.  Her children and grand children both great and precious dissolved into the dust from yesterday's life.  With every turn around the years fell into reverse.
 
She had been living this pattern for as long as she could remember.  Orphan child to orphan grandmother, orphan grandmother to orphan child.  The only ticket she ever needed was in her ability to imagine.   Tumor or not, ready or not, she simply did.  The end or a new beginning was all for Greta to decide.  

Left Overs Please

Oh the fragrance...coffee.  There is nothing more inviting to a growling stomach than the aroma of fresh coffee brewing.  Add to this, the combination of turkey roasting in the oven, fresh rolls baking, garlic, onions, and many herbs combined.  Yum!
 
I've had people comment about my discernible sense of smell.  I can find things based on my nose and my best friend will sometimes challenge me with this...by hiding things.  As long as the item is within reach, I'll nail it too!  I'm proud of this strength.  Bing, bang, boom...there it is.  I collect the aromas and I'm rewarded handsomely.
 
I just wish those around me were a bit more generous at times.  To be near so much food and not invited to the main table is a bit annoying.  I tend to hang out at the kiddie table.  Those littles are a bit kinder with the crumbs and tend to slide things to me when no one else is looking.  Mom and dad overfill their plates which is all good for me! 
 
The turkey is the best, the darker meat...tender and juicy.  I'll curl up near their feet on the floor, watching and waiting.  Soon it'll be raining, raining crumbs...gorgeous, wonderful crumbs.  It's Thanksgiving and I'm thankful, thankful to be a dog in a rather large house full of guests.  
 
Oh the chatter, the laughter, the silverware clanking, and the morsels of food, I live for the morsels.  I'm so Thankful too...what a holiday!
 
It's the dogs life for me, my life...sniff, sniff....
 
By the way, Trixie Archer was busy making pumpkin pies this week so I volunteered to write her blog.  She of course had to interpret because not too many people understand the tail wagging, dog drooling, sign language of the canine persuasion, but she does. 
 
Happy Thanksgiving!  Wuf, wuf...no bones, just meat...now hand it over! 
 
-Monkeyshine
   

Walk On...

Today's blog is about standing up, pushing my chair in and walking away.  As the door closes in my wake, I feel a great anticipation.  I'm walking...everyday, no matter where I am or what I am doing...I'm dedicated.  I'm taking the time for fitness, for my health and for my sanity.  My feet and a comfy pair of shoes are all that I need for such an undertaking. 
 
I've been finding myself outdoors, a lot.  Rain, cold, sunshine, clouds....I'm walking.  I'm connecting to nature and have embraced the feeling of grit beneath my stride.  Sand, grass, forest floor, street; the walls no longer confine. 
 
My treadmill is now a magnet for dust.  There's something about being outdoors like that, I've been feeling so much better after, electrified.
 
There are a variety of sounds that I've collected with every walking endeavor.  Car engines, relentless crows, an approaching train or just the great whisper from the wind itself.  After thirty minutes I fall into a trance.  One foot in front of the other, shuffle step, shuffle step. 
 
I've been met with some interesting sites along the way.  Families playing in the park, laughing, giving chase, tumbling as the bounty of love is apparent.  Just from the sight, I feel full.  Such a connection is beautiful...such a moment is beautiful.  Life is happening in real time all around us and I feel a great honor to be an observer.
 
Of course there are lovers walking hand-in-hand, intimate glances, warmth and smiles.  When I see them, I can't help but smile too.  Oh that magnificent spark.
 
Yesterday, I happened across a yellow tail hawk soaring overhead.  The creature was majestic.  My biggest regret about walking for fitness is that my Nikon is left at home.  The bird was riding the currents straight above and well, could have, should have, but didn't...  I absorbed the image into memory regardless.
 
Unfortunately, there have been occasions of fright during my walk.  Ruff the dog approached or was Ruff a horse?  Huge, barking, gnarling teeth...  "Nice doggie..." I said.  Under such circumstance, I'll hold my breath and keep walking.  I pray that Ruff is all bark and no bite.  Thank goodness that's been the case thus far and I hope such luck continues.
 
If I play my music I try not to have it blaring so that I can hear around me.  Approaching busses, footsteps, an out of control soccer ball with the kicker yelling, "heads up," are all important.
 
Sometimes with every step forward, my mind shuffles back.  Past occasions are conjured, sentiment, pain, pleasure, happiness, people who are no longer with me...my tears are not particular...they flow freely and without reservation.  "Allergies," I'll say if anyone takes notice. 
 
Many perceive tears as a weakness, I've always seen them as a great strength.  I'm alive, I feel, I'm connected to my thoughts, connected to my emotions.  Feeling is so very important, filtering the mind clutter is so very important.
 
Sometimes as I begin my walk I'll set a time limit of 20 minutes.  It's an Archer mind trick, it's my way of stepping away from what I'm working on.  Is it laziness that places an unmovable roadblock in my way?  I'm not sure but sometimes I feel like doing fifty tubs of dishes or sorting the laundry would be easier than to take a walk.  I'll tell myself 20 minutes on those occasions, but once I set my pace and the world falls away...twenty minutes comes and goes...30 minutes and then I must force myself to stop.  Just one more time around...just one more step.
 
I have yet to regret the effort.  When I return to my desk and continue with the task at hand, I have so much more to offer.  The clarity of a walker...heart pumping, feeling alive...walking for a richer variety of words on my page and so I do.
 
Until next week,
Trixie Archer
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Polka Dot Gaudy

​I've been thinking about the "right words."  If by miracle a person can assemble creative ideas into a story that is presented just so, it'll be an instant success.   Many sparks will fly off the page, magic words, instant notoriety...if only.
 
A number one best seller is the dream of all dreams or is it?  Does life become a pressure cooker after that point?  They say an author is only as good as their last work.  So if one manages such a great accomplishment, what then?  I wonder, do they sit staring at a screen at three in the morning stranded in a world of white nothingness?  Blizzard alert, no streets open, travel is strongly discouraged until the blanket of snow passes, but does it ever?  The cursor blinks its heartless curse. 
 
The white is soiled by a pouring of blood that happens when the key ingredient is soul.  An author hangs everything on the line secured with clothes pins and punctuation.  Bed sheets, pajamas, socks, undergarments, feelings, life experiences...they sway from this way to that, vulnerable to all who pass.  Some readers are gracious, others extremely judgmental who comment with bite on the author's choice of displaying a polka dotted pattern mid winter.  Gaudy.    
 
Writing is a process and all who live for the story have their own way of telling it.  A tall glass of vodka and a box of chocolates or countless days of self deprivation.  Celery sticks and water without any lemon, phone unplugged...no noise what-so-ever, just the keeper of the story and James as he goes door to door knocking in a desperate search for help. 
 
James the poor chap, locked his keys in the car with the engine running and he's late for work.  That is the moment he happens upon the wrong neighbor.  Every block has a "wrong neighbor," he's the man who lurks in his back yard digging at odd hours.  He emits sinister and as James realizes a breath too late, sinister has no regard for the adage to have good neighbors one must be a good neighbor.  Sinister has a name listed in the phone directory, Scute...not Scott, but Scute as most notice the moment he sees anyone watching, he scoots away.  Poof he's gone. 
 
Scute's was the only house with the porch light on at such an early hour.  The only house open to an unexpected intrusion.  The spread of beam from that simple fixture appears as a dim star casting shadows of doubt.  James could have used more light to encourage his way but one star was all that was given.
 
Once the door closes behind James, he realizes that all of his struggles would have been solved long ago if he had managed the right words.   His life, his story, his existence would have ended up in a better light, a best seller garnished with positive reviews. 
 
His sister Erin found his sedan an hour after it had run out of gas.  The hood was warm, the doors were locked with the keys still in the ignition.  James never showed up for the early shift and she was listed as his emergency contact.   At five fifteen her phone rang.  "I'm sorry to bother you at such an early hour but it's James...he never clocked in for his shift and he hasn't called, something must be wrong."
 
I suppose everyone at one point or another ends up as mulch in a garden somewhere.  James and his words was no exception.  If only he had found the right sequence, long ago, at three in the morning when he was telling his story...if only Scutes had scooted far away...but neither did.