I have a tiny piece of it – The Wall. The wall whose demolition I thought signaled hope and the end of division. The wall that came down in Berlin on November 9, 1989. Unlike other days that are seared into memory with feelings of foreboding, like J.F. Kennedy’s assassination, Elvis’ death, M.L. King’s assassination, Bobby Kennedy’s assassination, 9-11, this was a day of global celebration. I very clearly remember where I was the day when hundreds of people smashed that wall to pieces. I watched the event on TV in a hotel while at a business conference with my husband, feeling a sense of gratitude and relief that the symbol of oppression was destroyed. A friend was in Berlin when it came down and brought a piece of it to me. I can’t recall who he was. His face and name are lost in the labyrinths of my mind. But I still have that remnant of the wall in a small, bejeweled keepsake box in the top drawer of my dresser. It used to sit in a tray on top of the dresser where I could see it every day, but my cats taught me that anything visible could easily become invisible if they decided to swipe it; especially a small thing even if it represents a much bigger thing.
The Berlin Wall separated families physically by only a few feet but by deep canyons of ideology. We are still in that place. Walls are taken down only to have other walls built. Walls have been built forever – to keep people in as the Berlin wall, and to keep people out as the wall being built on our southern border, and the Great Wall of China that was designed in the 7th century BCE to keep out the invading Mongol hordes. People crash through walls at their own peril when what is on the other side is perceived to be more enticing than what is on their side. The world has been crashing our borders to get into a country that is labeled by some as racist, homophobic, oppressive, and discriminatory. The rapidly eroding American Dream. It is a country many still believe is better than what they left. Some European countries are attacked with the same fervor.
Humans build walls. That’s what we do. It is a conundrum. We build walls but we don’t like walls, so we tear them down. We surround our property, farms, ranches, and suburban plots with walls or fences. Office spaces are defined by boundaries. Even the homeless mark out their plots to squat. What is that all about?
I am not naïve as I once was, believing we could all live together in peace and harmony if we would only try. Seventy-odd years of life swept that dream away. Sorry Martin Luther King. In the timeless myth of King Arthur, the king explained that when Merlin, the wizard, turned him into a bird, he flew high above the land and could not see where one county ended and another began because the earth doesn’t designate boundaries, only people do. John Lennon wrote about a world without boundaries in the song Imagine. “Imagine no countries, it isn’t hard to do. Nothing to kill or die for and no religion too.” A world to wish for but, despite our rhetoric, that is not what human beings do. It’s sad but it is human nature. In the words of another King, Rodney, who in 1992 survived a brutal police beating and subsequent riots in his name, “Can’t we all just get along?”
I can only do what I can do to make others feel welcome and accepted provided they do not threaten me with harm. Their religion, nationality, sexual proclivities, or political beliefs are of no interest to me if they are friendly and interesting to talk with. I confess I have a wall around my backyard too. It keeps out the deer, javelina, and coyotes who have not yet figured out how to open the gate. The bobcats and quail, however, jump the wall and the bunnies squeeze through the weepholes. I’m okay with that. We live in harmony.
Happy Thanksgiving to All! This has always been my favorite holiday – all about food, friends, and family. A time to be with those we love with no obligation for gift-giving. Once upon a time our family had a very memorable Thanksgiving – not in the usual way.
The Thanksgiving tradition in our family developed over a number of years. As young marrieds, my husband’s two sisters, their husbands and the two of us went to his parents’ home for Thanksgiving. His single brother came along with the girlfriend of the month. None of us had the room or wherewithal to deal with a crowd for the holiday. We all lived in and around the greater Seattle area.
When children were born to each household, we found it easier to have the feast at one of two houses, ours and Ken’s sister Arlene’s. At one point our two families lived only a block from each other. We had large homes and each had three children of similar ages. The kids attended the same schools. Ken’s dad suffered with medical problems and his mom was getting older, so it was harder for her to prepare a big meal, even with help. We divided up the holidays. One year Ken and I would host Thanksgiving and Arlene and Charles hosted Christmas. The next year we switched. That went on for most of the years our children were small through their teens.
The last year for our big family gathering was the most memorable. Arlene and Charles had moved to a home on a few acres at Offut Lake, south of Seattle. Ken and I moved even further south to Arizona. All our children were adults living in the Seattle area. Ken’s parents had passed away. Charles’ mother, Maude, lived in her own little trailer home on their property so they could care for her as her health declined. A few days before this particular Thanksgiving, we were told she had been moved into the house because she needed twenty-four-hour attention. We expected to spend time with Maude during the day.
We flew to Seattle from Tucson and drove out to the lake. Upon arrival, our arms loaded with gifts and treats for the family, we were greeted on the front porch by Charles with, “Happy Thanksgiving. We’re glad you could make it. Come on in. Mom just died. She’s lying in her room. You can visit with her if you like. We’ve called the coroner.”
Shocking, to say the least. We had no cell phones at that time, so could not receive a heads-up that she was near the end. Momentary confusion rattled us. Should we postpone Thanksgiving dinner? The family no longer all lived in close proximity and everyone traveled a distance to be together. Was it proper to have a celebration with a deceased loved one in the bedroom? Not a common question at Thanksgiving. The whole family was gathered, and we took in the reality each in our own way. There were no tears, just a collection of faces in varying degrees of disbelief. Now wasn’t that just like Maude. She certainly grabbed the center of interest for this family event. We finished preparing the meal reminiscing about past Thanksgivings. Laughter and memories of Maude were shared. We took time, individually, to go to her room and wish her Godspeed toward Heaven.
Dinner was served. We sat down to the feast, Charles said a prayer of Thanksgiving, and we enjoyed the traditional assortment of foods as in past years. Death was an unexpected specter at our table. Just as we finished, a knock came on the door. The coroner with two assistants arrived between dinner and dessert, as if scripted. Maude’s body was removed and we continued our meal with pies and cakes. It was odd but felt completely appropriate and comforting for everyone to be together.
In later years as our family spread out to various states, we gathered friends together who also had far-flung relatives and created a friend/family to celebrate Thanksgiving. It is still my favorite holiday. Has your family or friend/family had an unusual Thanksgiving? I’d love to hear about them.
Our writers’ group published a book a year ago, Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets, about the fun and challenges of being a writers’ group. It is a collaborative memoir that spans two-plus decades of friendship and writing. Besides being a memoir, our book includes prompt ideas, tips to keep a group together, stories, poems, and essays by the three of us. This coming Saturday, November 25, Sally and I will be at the Society of Southwest Authors Book Fair to meet and greet, sell, and autograph books. Previously we were invited to participate in the Tucson Festival of Books last March 2023. It was fun talking with folks who read our book, learning how they used our tips with their groups. We get a big kick out of sharing our story and encouraging other writers to start support groups like ours that will further their writing goals. The third member of our writing trio lives in Colorado and is not able to be with us this time. If you are in the Tucson vicinity, please come join us at Desert Hills Lutheran Church in Green Valley between 9 am and noon. There will be other local writers with a variety of books to sell. Below is a link to our book on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. It can be purchased digitally or in paperback.
Odyssey: A long and adventurous journey or experience.
Homer wrote the epic poem The Odyssey 700 years before Christ was born. Poor Odysseus is beset by many challenges as he wends his way home after the Trojan Wars. The theme of a hero’s homeward journey of discovery has been reimagined many times since Homer. James Joyce echoed the themes as his hero Ulysses negotiated life in Dublin at the turn of the 20th Century. The Cohen Brothers rewrote the story in their film O Brother Where Art Thou? in the year 2000. Themes from the story have been reworked many times.
Our family experienced an odyssey for fourteen months, driving across the U.S. in 1984-1985, an adventure of a lifetime. I wrote a little about that trip in my blog post Technology for the Baby Boomer. Our grandson, born twenty-three years later, led me into another Odyssey. He came home from kindergarten one day and told his mother he wanted to join a group called Odyssey of the Mind. She asked what it was, and he told her there was a meeting of parents to learn about it that he wanted her to attend. She enlisted Ken and I to go along. A teacher from school explained the program which is an annual international problem-solving tournament for kids from kindergarten through college. They compete according to grade level. At last count, twenty-five countries participate.
The motto of OM is that for every problem, there is a solution. They believe learning should be fun and that there are always new uses for old items. The idea is to encourage creative problem-solving. The simplest explanation of the program is that each year, there are five categories of challenges issued by the International Odyssey of the Mind Association. Within each category are six problems to be solved. A team of five to seven kids chooses their problem and they work from October to February to come up with a solution that is presented to judges in late February at the first of three competitions. Teams are created by an Odyssey coordinator at the school. Team meetings are as often as the coach and kids decide, generally starting at once a week and becoming almost daily toward the end of the five months. In that time the kids conceive a solution to the problem they choose, create a script/story to explain their solution, each team member assumes a role, makes their own costumes and props, create a set that can be constructed on stage within perimeters set by the rules, and present the solution to the judges in an eight-minute skit. Easy? Not so much.
Power tools
Adults are not allowed to assist in ANY portion of the process. Teams are penalized if a mom or coach even brushes someone’s hair before the performance. Any suggestion is automatically discarded if it comes from someone outside the team. The team takes great pride in not sharing their story or their work with anyone until the dress rehearsal when families are invited to preview their performance. In elementary school, the costumes were cobbled together with items found at Goodwill or in the back of closets. Tape, glue, and staples were used in the construction of costumes since none of the kids could sew. An adult is allowed to show the team how to use certain tools. Ken helped them learn how to use power tools safely, but we could only watch as they used them.
A coach’s job is to guide the kids, not with ideas, but with questions such as “what if…? How would you make or do that? How could you tell that story? How can you adapt an item or make something to do that job? How can you make that funny or more interesting?” The adult coach may NOT offer solutions during the creative process, only guidance in following the rules of the program. There is a whole book of rules aimed at keeping competition fair. As the team starts developing their solution, the coach asks if they are on track to answer the problem and if the plan can be performed on a stage twelve feet by fifteen feet. As I said, this is an international competition. It is judged at a world final in March of each year. Each team enters a local competition, then if they are chosen first or second place, they enter a state competition and finally, if they win, they are invited to the world competition where they meet teams from all over the globe who have won their divisions. A spontaneous competition is held on the same day as the skit competition. Each team is taken into a room without their coach and given a problem they must solve in ten minutes. That instant problem-solving skill is practiced throughout the year as the team works on their big presentation. Creative thinking, team building, and cooperative problem solving are skills that people need throughout their lives. Odyssey of the Mind builds great problem solvers.
Since our daughter was a single mom and full-time breadwinner, she did not have time to be a coach. Henry turned to me. “Grandma”, says he, “will you be a coach?” Can I turn down any request by my grandson? So I became a coach. I jumped in with both feet, having no idea what I was doing or what I would learn along the way. I fell in love with the competition and with each one of my team members. I coached four different teams in four years through four very different problems. It was a true odyssey – a journey of discovery. One year, Henry did not participate so I volunteered as a judge at the local competition. I learned how very inventive young minds are. If adults are not directing them, the sky is the limit. Adult minds can put brakes on imagination. The kids come up with amazing, creative solutions, costumes, props, and backdrops on their own – beyond anything I could imagine.
A month before competition each year I was sure my team would not be able to complete their task because something was missing in their presentation. I felt they were sailing their ship right off the edge of the earth. I racked my brain for strategies to help them find their way from the brink and stood helplessly watching the disaster unfold. I read and reread the rules to them, asking them to reevaluate their presentation. Each year they continued to work diligently toward the goal. They didn’t seem to feel the pressure. I didn’t sleep the whole week before the competition, knowing how disappointed they would be to not complete their task after all the time spent on it. I was riddled with anxiety, reevaluating each step in their progress. Each year, they proved me wrong. They found a way to make it happen every time. They always surprised me. At the end of each competition, I was in awe of my team’s abilities. By the fourth year, I learned to relax and have complete confidence in the team.
In 2018 the team, Team Wonder, did a presentation taking the Alice in Wonderland story in a new direction. They created a newscast that included an interview with the White Rabbit and the Cheshire Cat. The question was who stole the Queen’s tarts with the flamingo as the hidden camera. They had a news anchor, an interviewer, the White Rabbit and Cheshire Cat, a flamingo, and a commercial pitchman selling Wonka bars. It was hilarious.
Team Wonder
Back: Coach Diana, Bethany Papajohn (Principal) Front: Emmy, Steven, Henry, Sierra, Zaylei and Peter
One year the team came in third in the OM local competition and didn’t get to go on to state. Their problem was to recreate Leonardo Da Vinci’s workshop and conceive a new invention Leonardo may have devised. Their story took place in two time periods, modern daand the 1400’s. They had so much fun with their skit they begged me to ask if they could present it to the school at an assembly. I asked the principal who said she would consider it. The auditorium had many uses. It was occupied most of each day. Assemblies were carefully scheduled, and it was near the end of the school year. Finally. the last week of school the principal agreed to let the team make the presentation. She said it would not be a mandatory assembly, so each teacher had discretion about bringing their classes. My team was over-the-moon excited. Ken and I hauled all the costumes, props, and set fixtures (mostly made of cardboard) to school. It had been two months since the OM competition, and they had not had a practice. We did one practice session before the assembly. I told them they might have only a few in the audience. As the auditorium began to fill we realized that most of the school came. I sat in the audience to watch not knowing how it would go after so much time passed. The team got on stage and recognized they were not bound by the eight-minute time limit. They began to riff and improvise on their skit. I looked at Ken in astonishment. They were having so much fun. The applause was loud, and the kids were in their glory. They may have been third in the official competition, but they won the hearts of their schoolmates.
Team Time Twister: Leonardo’s Workshop Emmy, Sierra, Zaylei, Steven, Henry, Oliver
Improv – creating the script
The Thinkerton Detective Agency
The last year that I coached, the team chose to solve the heretofore unsolved mystery of the Mary Celeste, a ship that was found in 1872 abandoned in the Atlantic without its crew, but otherwise intact with its cargo. What happened to the crew? They created the Thinkerton Detective Agency to investigate and find an answer. At the end of five months of hard work, the team presentation was timed at nine minutes. They tried and tried to do it faster, to get it shorter. No amount of magical thinking could change the clock. Teams are penalized for each second over eight minutes and it will generally take a team score out of contention. Dress rehearsal the night before competition was a calamity. My cousin, a school teacher, was visiting and watched the preview. She shook her head and looked at me. “How are they going to get this together?” I just smiled knowing that somehow they’d pull it off. I won’t say there weren’t tremors in my gut, but I had learned to ignore them. Early on the morning of competition, we gathered at the high school where judging took place, and they went over their skit in the parking lot – still over time. Right then and there they decided what to take out. They improvised a new script, they practiced twice, and it came in under eight minutes. They presented their improvised story at the competition. Of course, the judges would never know it was not the original script. At the beginning of their skit, a part of the backdrop/scenery broke, and they had to repair it on the fly. I caught my breath. They prepared in advance for mishaps by having extra parts, tape, scissors, and wire available on set. It was a true example of preparation and situational spontaneous problem solving just like MacGyver– exactly what Odyssey of the Mind teaches. Seamlessly, repairs were made and the skit continued without pause. They won the competition.
Our team was invited to the state competition. It was the beginning of covid and the tournament was in chaos because it is a hands-on, in-person event. Rules changed, everything changed, and the judging was to be by video. The team chose not to participate. They took their win and trophy for the school.
I am forever grateful for the time I spent with all the children I coached in Odyssey of the Mind, they were my teachers. I know each of them will be better equipped for their future after participating in OM, learning the tools of creative problem-solving.
I think of life as my soul’s odyssey through this earthly existence on its way home. We all have adventures and challenges along the way. At this point I can look back and see how very fortunate I am. My life has been fulfilling and good times are abundant, but I’ve come to realize that it is during the tumultuous times that the most valuable lessons are learned. No one gets out alive so enjoy the voyage and pay attention to the lighthouses along the way that guide you through rough seas and through the shoals.
Here I am after more than three-quarters of a century looking back at some of the changes that occurred during that lifetime. The biggest technical change is the explosion of personal data devices. I did not get a cell phone until about twenty years ago. I was one of those people who said, “I’ll NEVER have a cell phone!!” I considered them an intrusion. I resisted and resisted. Then it became obvious that a cell phone was a necessary accompaniment to my daily lifestyle.
At the time my mother had moved to Tucson and was in need of close attention. She lived on her own but was in her 80s and had moved from the town where she lived for most of her life, away from lifelong friends and familiar places. She needed contact not only for personal needs and information about how to get around a new town, but also for company. My work took me out of the office, so I was not always available by landline. I believed she would find friends fairly quickly but, in the meantime, I was her social link, her sounding board, her complaint department, her connection to the world.
I discovered I needed a cell phone for business. Ken and I had just started a property management and real estate company and the need for quick exchanges of information became evident. So there I was, a new and reluctant cell phone user.
Looking way back…In the mid-1980s my family of three teenagers, two dogs, my husband and I, left our home in Bellevue Washington to travel the country. We journeyed through the forty-eight contiguous states plus a couple of Canadian Provinces and Mexican states for fourteen months. We took two of our kids out of high school (the third had just graduated). They wanted to keep up their studies while traveling so they could stay up in grade with their friends when we returned. That was accomplished with a study program coordinated by the University of Missouri and Bellevue High School. Correspondence courses were mailed (years before email) to us by the University and then back to the University as they completed each section and results were reported to their high school. All communication was by public phone in phone booths across the country and by mail, snail mail. Lots of postage. We had no cell phone and no computer. We were off the grid so to speak. Amazingly they were able to complete their studies in English, History, Math, and Social Studies – the basics, while learning firsthand about our beautiful country, its regions, its national parks, its varied cultures and languages (English has many nuances), history and geography. We took advantage of public libraries and museums along the way. Being teenagers imprisoned with their parents 24/7 for fourteen months, traveling in a van, living in a travel trailer, was indeed a sentence few would volunteer for. The only “device” they had for entertainment were Walkman cassette players with earphones. Those were revolutionary in that time. It was their means of escape into personal head space. I must give them all credit for their stalwart determination to survive. I’m sure it felt to them akin to traveling by covered wagon across the country. We crisscrossed the country from sea to shining sea four times in our quest to visit every state. How did we manage without a cell phone, GPS, the internet?
My how times have changed. Now the idea of leaving my house without a fully charged cell phone makes me quake with anxiety. What if something breaks down, what if my (fill in the blank) _________, husband, friend, daughter, grandson, needs to talk to me, an emergency, what if I get lost and need direction? What if, what if, what if? I can hardly believe the intense change from being a NEVER-CELLPHONER to being a NEVER-BE- WITHOUT-A-CELLPHONER.
Technology has certainly changed my life. For better?
I am the ONLY person I know who does not sing the praises of Autumn. All my friends look forward to the cessation of our desert heat when the humidity drops to single digits. They express endless gratitude for the crisp cool air and colors of fall. Me – not so much. Each season does have good points, but for me the darkening of days, the cooling air, the descent into winter does not herald a positive trend.
Along with this is the churning of time. I don’t mean the minutes that ebb from my life, a steady drip into the bucket of forever. I’m talking about the changing of clocks. One reason I love Arizona is that this state did not get sucked into the folly of daylight “savings” time. Our clocks remain the same through all the months of the year. However, because everyone else in the U.S. changes time, I must remember which time zone they have switched to. Annoying. I’m sure someone sometime had a savvy presentation with charts and graphs to justify the idea. But as a wise old Native American was once credited with saying: “Only a white man would cut two inches off the bottom of his blanket and sew it to the top and think the blanket is longer”. That sums up the ridiculousness of daylight-saving time. What are we saving? Which bank is it in? Can we spend it when we really need it? Daylight is one of nature’s gifts and follows the tilt of the sun and earth according to seasons, not a man-made device. No matter how you slice it we have the same amount of daylight. It is shorter in the winter in the northern hemisphere and longer in the summer, but the number of hours can’t be expanded by moving the hands of a clock.
I am a warm-weather sunshine person. My husband agreed to move to Tucson so I could warm up after living forty years in the Pacific Northwest in a constant state of chill and I don’t mean the trendy kind. We’ve lived here twenty-seven years so I’m beginning to thaw. However, when temperatures dip below 80°, I put on long underwear. No kidding, even in Tucson – you can ask my husband. I get frosty to the bone very easily. No, it is not a medical condition, it is a mental condition. Thankfully the sun shines here most of the time in all seasons thus providing us, the cold-blooded creatures, with a modicum of warmth during each day. Darkness does not overtake us as it did in Seattle.
In the Pacific Northwest, fall and winter are not only colder and wetter than summer, they are also darker. Daylight is barely nine hours. We got up in the dark and came home from work in the dark. Dull skies muffled in blankets of gray clouds during what was said to be daylight hours did not allow a smidge of sun to peek through. Sunshine was as rare as a Corbin Carroll home run in the 2023 World Series. Depression – your name is Seattle winter.
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday so that is the plus for Autumn. In Tucson, we serve our big Thanksgiving meal about 4:00 on the patio. We usually have twelve or more family and friends join us. The doors stay open and people go in and out. Turkey is cooked on the barbeque and all the trimmings are set out on the counter so the hungry can help themselves. They choose to sit inside in the dining room or out on the patio tables. Most often outside is favored. After dinner (when the sun retires leaving a beautiful sunset) we put on a sweater or light jacket to sit outside with a glass of wine and good conversation and watch the stars blink on. We build a fire in the chimenea for atmosphere. It is a beautiful celebration with friends. The weather doesn’t cooperate one out of four years. Then we serve dinner inside just like those unfortunate people who don’t live in the Sonoran Desert.
Sometimes a place will promote feelings that need to be written and poetry is the way I can best express feelings whether it is joy or melancholy. Walking a lonely beach in the Pacific Northwest, I imagined a woman with regrets trying to find her way to forgiveness.
Salt Kisses
I walk the stony beach As day fades Thoughts of you grow ever stronger. Aching heart and leaden feet Move me forward.
Sorrow clutches my heart. I look back with longing To better days. Briny breezes fill my lungs Leaden with a murky future.
I can do nothing But walk barefoot, Kicking up the sand, Stumbling with swollen eyes raised To red-stained sunset skies
I can do nothing But breathe the snatching wind, Enfolded by pastel clouds. Air as prayer, A gossamer thread to forever.
I can do nothing But swing a bare leg into the surf, Glide my feet over slick rocks At the edge of the world, Stand with arms outstretched to the rising moon.
In the presence of this beauty Regret and grief begin to ebb The water knows me Waves leap to brush my lips With salty kisses
The water calls me To wade in luminous moonlight. My legs sting with salt As your tears stung my lips When I left.
I watch water’s foam-tipped strokes Fade from the sand, Then reappear. With the next curling wave I sense resurgence.
You are my water. As I fade you replenish me. Your curling waves caress and revive me. I am sorry for my future transgressions. I know how much you love me
By how fast you forgive me.
This poem was published last year in a slightly different version in the book Telling Tales and Sharing Secretswritten by Jackie Collins, Sally Showalter, and me. The book is a collaborative memoir and compilation of stories, essays, and poems written during our twenty-five years as a writers group. It is available in paperback and digital versions through Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
When writing, to clear your mind, it is sometimes fun to find a prompt that stretches your imagination, gets you out of a rut, and lets your brain breathe. This story is what came to me instantly from a prompt to write a one-page story, poem, or essay about a trinket, a twenty-minute write. Now there are endless possibilities in that direction. What is a trinket? Is it a treasured bobble given you by your grandmother? Is it a fun reminder of a trip to the fair? or to Italy? Sometimes I need to be flexible about the one-page directive. Many stories are handwritten so the “one-page” doesn’t count because I transcribe them to computer. Then one–page can be fiddled by changing margins and font size unless otherwise restricted. The idea though is to be free, unloose your imagination. Let yourself go.
Effie’s Trinket
“Euphemia. Euphemia. Come in for supper,” her mother called from the screen door into the backyard.
Effie scrunched down so she couldn’t be seen from the back porch. Old Elmer’s giant arms embraced her, fanning his huge green-gold and orange leaves to conceal the girl’s hideaway. Effie’s stomach gurgled. It had been hours since she ran away from home and maybe she was a bit hungry. She held Trinket in her two hands, cooing to him. “We don’t need food, Trinkie. We’ll live on moonlight and magic.” Trinket nuzzled his spikey head under her chin, his grey-blue eyes blinking as he stared up at her.
Effie’s mom went back into the kitchen, the screen door slamming behind her. “Go ahead, sit down. I’ll give her another five minutes and then we’ll eat,” she said to her husband Eustis and son Micah. The round oak kitchen table was set for four. Food waited on the stove top to be served. Glasses of honey mead, diluted by water for the children, were in place.
“Ma, I’ll go find her,” said Micah.
“You’ll stay just where you are,” Eustis proclaimed. “You’re the reason she walked out this afternoon. Why did you have to tease her again about her dragon?”
“Aww, Dad. She’s nine and too old to be carrying around a baby dragon. I’m embarrassed when my friends see her.”
“Well, son, you may be a mature fourteen-year-old now but it wasn’t all that long ago you rode your unicorn, Cool Whip, up and down the county road. I think you were about Effie’s age when you told us he took you over the moon one cloudless full-moon night.”
“Euphemia Jane. It’s time to eat. I made chicken pizza and mashed potatoes with butter and bacon bits.” Dorothy called again from the back door.
She scanned the yard for a sign of her daughter. Effie had a habit of running away when she was mad. She had never wandered beyond the boundaries of their two-acre property but there was always a first time. Dorothy looked at the shed, a common retreat. Blackberry vines that covered the building didn’t look disturbed. In summer, Effie would come in with scratches on her arms and legs from reaching for the ripest fattest berries. Her fingers, her mouth and tongue would be stained royal purple. But it was autumn, not the season for blackberries. She glanced up at Old Elmer. The tree sat halfway between the shed and the vegetable garden. There, about a quarter of the way up the seventy-foot colossus, she saw a glimmer of pink. Effie’s pale gold hair glowed pink in red rays of sunset.
“Euphemia Jane Charles, come down this instant. Bring Trinket with you. Your brother will leave him alone.”
The empty feeling in Effie’s tummy and her aching legs from being crouched for so long as well as her mother’s promise that Micah would leave Trinket alone persuaded her to shimmy down the tree with the baby dragon secured under her arm. “Thanks Elmer,” she said as her toes touched the soft cushion of fallen leaves beneath the tree and she set Trinket on the ground. She started to walk toward the house but the golden cord that tethered Trinket to her ankle became taut. Trinket cocked his head, lavender wings folded tightly against his body, refusing to follow her.
“Com’on, Trinkie, let’s give Micah one more chance. He didn’t really mean it when he said he would take you away and drop you at the end of the earth. I won’t let that happen even if I have to carry you always. You’ll be getting bigger and pretty soon he won’t be able to bully you. Your wings are almost strong enough to carry you where he can’t reach you. One of these days your fire starter will work and it will serve him right if you give him a little scorch. She bent down and picked Trinket up cuddling him close to her chest. He gave a little snort, a happy snort, waggled his pink and purple scales, and settled in her arms.
They went in for supper.
The End
I gave this story to a friend for comment, not about grammer but about the flow of the story. He is a serious writer/researcher. His comment was, “So, is Trinket a stuffed animal? Or a cat?” “What do you mean? Trinket is a dragon,” I replied. “It says it pretty clearly.” “Oh,” says he, and that was the end of his comments. It is useful to remember that a reader filters your stories through their experience. They may have a completely different interpretation of it than was your intent.
The whole idea of writing from a quick prompt is to exercise a separate part of your brain and give yourself the freedom to explore topics from different, hopefully, fresh angles. You may find a nugget of something useful to your main project in those musings.
I am blessed with dozens of people who live in my head. They are generally unobtrusive unless called upon to inhabit a story. I also don’t know where their names come from. I don’t recall ever hearing the name Euphemia or Effie before. Once these people have been let out, they become a part of my mind-family. I’m never lonely. I know them all so well. For instance, Eustis, in this story is a very real character to me. He has tomato-soup-red, short, curly hair, black-framed glasses, and is a scientist who works for a small chemical company in the mid-west. He always has a slight grin on his face as though he is observing life through bubble glass. He hums a little song frequently with part of the chorus “I got Memphis blues, right down to my shoes.” I don’t know if that is a real song or not. It just popped into his head. Although he is a minor character in this story, he may reappear in a different story at a different time with his unusual family. That is unless they all expire from his wife’s cooking. I cannot imagine serving such a meal to my family.
Another person I wrote a story about is Hannah, a black woman born in the late 1890s who is a baker in Wickenberg Arizona in the 1920s – 30s. I know all about her childhood and her family who were sharecroppers in Mississippi, and slaves, a generation before that. I know her journey to independence as a businesswoman. I’ve seen (in my imagination) the headstones of the family in the county cemetery. She has an amazing story to tell. One day I may put it on the blog. These people are very real to me but they are all born from my imagination. Sometimes I think I should put a disclaimer on my stories like the old TV shows that says, “Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental”.
I have volumes of stories about my children and some of their friends as they encountered life in their first years. One of my favorites is about our middle child, our second daughter, the quiet one.
Shari attended morning kindergarten at the elementary school around the corner from our house. Our backyard abutted the playfield. After school she would come home for lunch and tell about her day. Several times a week my husband came home for lunch also. His office was not far from our house and he liked to spend lunchtime with Shari, our three-year-old son Casey, and me. On this particular day in October, Shari’s class went to a pumpkin patch. Each child was to bring a quarter to buy a pumpkin to bring home. Shari arrived home without a pumpkin. Ken arrived at the same time, and this was their exchange.
“Hey Shar, did you have fun at the pumpkin patch?”
“Yes Daddy, I saw lots and lots of biiiiiig punkins.”
“Did you bring one home?”
“Nope. I didn’t have my quarter.”
Ken made sure she had a quarter before he left for work that morning.
“You lost your quarter?”
“No. I didn’t have it.”
“I gave you a quarter this morning.”
“I know Daddy, but I didn’t have it to buy the punkin.”
“You lost your quarter,” he said.
“No.”
“If I gave you a quarter and you didn’t have it, you lost it.”
“No, I DIDN’T lose it.” she said with emphasis.
“Do you still have it?”
“No.”
“Then it is lost.”
“It isn’t lost. I know ‘xactly where it is. It fell between the bus seat and the bus wall. I know where it is, but I can’t get it. It ISN’T lost.”
Case closed. No quarter, no pumpkin but the quarter is NOT lost. I was sure she would grow up to be Clarence Darrow. Her logic was flawless; her argument, decisive. Even her daddy could not shake her. She knew what lost meant and she didn’t waiver.
I am entranced by little people. Any child between birth and eight years old, I find enchanting. I can spend hours watching and talking with them. At one time I wanted to be a second-grade teacher like Miss Jones, with whom I felt a special rapport. Instead, I became a mother. Although those years between birth and eight didn’t last as long with my own children as they would have with year after year of new students in school, I thoroughly enjoyed those times. After the age of eight, children are lured into our larger social structure through school and activities, and they lose that innocent view of the world. Much of the awe is exchanged for a comfort with the reality around them.
I am so privileged to have been a stay-at-home mom. I was able to experience the day-to-day wonder as each child began their journey. Now I think it is a rare privilege. It seems that mothers these days are required to work outside the home for financial reasons or choose to do so because of career choices.
My own mother was a working mom, through choice as much as necessity. I resented that for many years even though I know what she sacrificed to keep both sides of her life humming along. I wanted her to be home with me as all the other kids had their moms at home. My parents did their very best to provide in-home daycare for me. I never went to an outside babysitter or daycare center. Even though I had terrific nannies who I remember with fondness, it still wasn’t Mom. My husband and I agreed that when we had children, I would be home with them. He often worked two jobs to make sure we could provide that lifestyle. Thus, I was able to be a part of those special moments in each child’s life. Many I recorded in journals and many more I have probably forgotten but the echo of that special time remains.
I find a three-year-old to be the most interesting companion. They are full of curiosity and have learned the art of conversation. One morning my son and I were running errands around town, we passed through a construction zone with a crew of men digging a trench on the side of the road.
Casey asked, “What are those men doing?”
We had been through several areas with large machines and workers, and I had gone through explanations about making a ditch to put in sewage pipes, and preparing a new place to build houses for people. Each answer elicited another barrage of questions. What is sewage? Why do we need sewers? Why do people poop? Why do roads need to be fixed? How many houses are going to be built? Who will live in them? Can we meet them sometime? Do those men put their machines in their garage at night? Can we live in one of the new houses? Can Glenny and Johnny come live next door? Each question led to another. Most I could answer easily. We passed a new high-rise being constructed and a bridge being reinforced. Now we were detoured through lanes as a road was under repair.
“Mommy, when will the world be finished?” That question put a pause on the talk, talk, talk.
What a concept – a finished world, a static world, a world without change. This was not a throwaway answer. I always welcomed his curiosity as he learned about the world around him. This question required more thought. Never – is the easy answer. But to a three-year-old that doesn’t cut it. Why? Why? Why? Are the follow-ups. As we paused in our journey delayed by the construction, we discussed how things like roads have a purpose and, when they are used, they wear out just like his beloved blanket that was now in shreds, even after many rebindings, but still a constant companion at bedtime. Sometimes buildings are made and then need to be changed for bigger or better buildings. We discussed the nature of change as the seasons change. How flowers bloom sometimes but not always, and leaves change colors. He was only old enough at that time to really have memory of one complete year of seasons. We talked about how he changed, learning to walk, learning to use the toilet, learning new songs and words. As a person he will change as he gets older. Someday he will be big like Daddy and have his own family. Because of all those things, the world will never be finished. It is always evolving/revolving.
I can liken that to my writing. When is a story finished? I spend hours writing only to find, after review, it needs to be changed. Even a short essay requires review and editing. I usually write something then put it away for a day or two and revisit. I wake from sleep with a brand new line for a story that was born in my unconscious. Many of my stories remain in my computer or, if handwritten, in my file cabinet. If they are to be published, they will be revised and revised before other eyes see them. I always think of different ways of saying something or other words to use to reveal a character or action. I don’t believe I have ever reread a piece of my writing that I haven’t wanted to change something. Even in the book we published last year, I go back and find so many lines that need to be rewritten. I’ve talked to other writers who feel the same. There is a point when “it is good enough” is the only way to actually produce a “finished” story or poem.
Just like the world, my stories are never really finished. What you read is just the latest iteration.
wonkagranny 