At a recent writing workshop, I heard the term time blindness for the first time. The facilitator set alarms on her phone at intervals to remind her to move the topics forward. She said she tended to get absorbed in a discussion and lose track of the limited time we had.
Time Blindness
I have had this chronic condition my entire life, but didn’t know it had a name. It is being lost in time. My sense of time is limitless. Time as shown on clocks and calendars doesn’t mean much to me. This condition leads to chronic lateness and procrastination. It also leads to constant nagging on the part of people who live with or around me. I’m a champ at ignoring nagging. My mother handed the job over to Ken when we married, and he’s taken the challenge seriously.
I managed as an adult and a parent to overcome some of the effects of time blindness because of other lives involved. But it creeps up on me, like a first cocktail after a year of sobriety. If left on my own, I’d be lost down the rabbit hole of time. Fortunately, I have a life partner, my husband, who is acutely aware of time. He can pull me back onto the boat in the river of time if I get too lost on a far shore.
On one hand, I like being lost in time. I write for hours without sensing the passage of time. It’s heaven on earth. On the other hand, it can be damned inconvenient when I have to make a sudden return to reality and rush to meet a deadline or an appointment or even make dinner before 10:00 pm. I have a cat who wants her dinner at 2:00 and attempts to get my attention starting around 1:30. She doesn’t persist for more than a few minutes, so when I don’t respond, she finds my husband to ask for dinner. He always accedes promptly to her request.
Time blindness has a sibling affliction. I am also directionally challenged or topographically disoriented. If I walk out my front door, there is a distinct possibility I will get lost. I can assert vehemently that something is to the right when everyone but me knows it is to the left. It happened once in Paris, when my friends and I left a restaurant after lunch to go to the Eiffel Tower and I turned left. I knew it was only a few blocks away – on the left. They stopped me. “We turn right,” they insisted. I was adamant that it was the opposite until they told me to look up and sure enough the Eiffel Tower loomed above the buildings on the right. My immediate response was, “When did they move it?”
On a different trip I was to meet up with friends at the Musée D’Orsay for lunch at the cafe. They were going to spend the morning at the Rodin museum, but I wanted to go to a workshop at the Fragonard Perfumery to learn how perfumes were made. I took the Metro from our apartment to the Perfumery in the Opera District and spent a couple of hours there. Then I decided to take a train back across town to the Left Bank, a really short ride, I thought. Well, you can guess what happened. I read the train route completely wrong. It didn’t go anywhere near the Left Bank, and when I realized my error, I was halfway to Versailles, about twenty minutes in the wrong direction. I got back to Musée D’Orsay just as they finished lunch. It is a good thing that being lost in a foreign city is one of my favorite things to do.
Even in my hometown, I frequently go off in a direction I am certain is correct, only to find I’ve traveled a few miles out of my way and must reverse course. This is a topic of amusement for my friends. Whenever I am the designated driver, there needs to be a designated navigator. I never know where I am. I can usually picture my destination if it is a place I travel to routinely, but how to get there is a mystery no matter how many times I’ve done it. Thank goodness for GPS. If we get to talking and my navigator is not paying close attention, it is a crap shoot where we end up – but it always ends in laughter. With my phone at the ready, I can stay relatively on course or at least arrive in the vicinity of my destination and eventually reach the goal.
My husband, as luck would have it, is the opposite. He can go somewhere once, and a map to that place is etched forever on his brain. He never makes a wrong turn. Even if we are in a faraway state that we once traveled through, he can find the restaurant we stopped at or the hotel we stayed in without a second’s hesitation. He can find my cousin’s farm in the middle of nowhere Kansas, without prompting. I’m always amazed. He is on time wherever he goes. That takes a special commitment when he is going somewhere with ‘always tardy’ me.
As they say, opposites attract. I would be floating in an ethereal void without Ken to tether me to the earth, a gentle but firm tether.
Now, I must stop writing, because I have to be at a meeting in thirty minutes and I need to get ready.
It is funny how memories pop into your head at the weirdest times, sometimes beckoned by music, a photo, or sometimes by nothing at all. Those thoughts strung together create a story. This story is constructed of such random memories. They didn’t come in chronological order, so dates are added to create a logical thread.
Fall, 1964. (age 10) The minute I walked into class at Rock Ridge Elementary School and laid eyes on Elizabeth, I knew I wanted to be her friend. She was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen – a sunshine bright blonde with green eyes, a real beanpole with an angel face. I was new in the school, and it was my first day in fifth grade. We spoke a little bit each day, but both of us were shy. After nearly two weeks, I found out she lived only a few blocks from me. I got up the courage to ask her to come to my house after school. My mom fixed us cocoa in big white mugs, and we talked for hours until she had to go home for dinner. That’s when I found out she was new to the school, too. She moved from Oregon, and we moved from Washington. Both of our fathers had been transferred to Tucson by the same company. Our parents became friends, and we were inseparable. She was the tallest one in class, even taller than the boys, and I was the shortest. Mutt and Jeff, my father dubbed us after the cartoon characters. Elizabeth became Lizzie to me.
Spring, 1991 (age 37)
We sat on the shaded patio of Liz’s house, listening to our kids laughing in the family room as we shared a bottle of summer wine. Our children had grown up like brother and sisters, and whenever they got together, it was a party. Liz’s son, Greg, was 17, and so was my daughter, Ellen. They had been born only two weeks apart. Sara, my other child, was nearly 15. Our family lived in a different part of town from Liz’s. Even so, we spent so much time at each other’s homes that the kids met each other’s friends and felt comfortable in the neighborhood. Raleigh (Liz’s husband) and Brent (my husband) were playing golf and coming back for barbecue.
“Mom, can we go get ice cream?” Greg called. Typical teens, finding any excuse to leave the ‘growns’ behind and drive a car.
“What do you think?” Liz turned to me. “Do you trust his driving?”
“He’s your son. You’ve been driving with him. What do you think? Can he be trusted?”
“Yeah. He’s pretty good, and it’s a short way.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, Greg. Be careful and come straight back. We’re barbecuing burgers when your dad gets home.”
“Got it. Thanks.” Off they scrambled, taking Liz’s extended-cab truck.
“Em, have you ever cheated on Brent?” Liz’s question was completely out of the blue.
“In my heart or in the flesh?” I retorted, laughing.
“I mean, really, have you ever been to bed with anyone else since you’ve been married?”
“Liz, you would have been the first to know if I did. Nothing that big would have happened without me calling you immediately and blabbing. You’ve heard every secret I’ve had since fifth grade.”
“Have you wanted to?”
“Yeah, I guess it crossed my mind on a few occasions, but it didn’t seem worth all the problems. I don’t keep secrets very well, and I certainly don’t want to end my marriage. I love my husband. Brent is the only guy I’ve bedded. Sometimes I feel like a semi-virgin. He was the first, and I’ll probably die with him as the only. I’ve definitely been curious about what could be out there.”
“What if you really fell in love?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Well, sometimes it happens.”
“Who would want this middle-aged body, saggy boobs and ass?”
“Emma, you’re in better shape now than when you were twenty-five.”
“You have a point, but that’s because I was pregnant for eighteen months out of three years.”
“We do yoga twice a week, and you’re on that running kick two or three times a week. You’re in great shape.”
“I’d still have to keep up a lie, and I don’t have that kind of memory or willpower. I’m not looking for trouble. Things like that can get out of hand quickly.”
“What if it came to you… unintended, when you least expected it?”
“Liz, are you trying to tell me something?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Are you having an affair?”
“No, don’t be silly. I’m talking midlife crisis stuff. Didn’t you watch Oprah last week? It was all about what happens to people in their 40s when their lives are static. She recommended some books. I remember one about surviving a mismatched marriage, but I don’t remember the name.”
“Do you think you and Raleigh are mismatched?”
“Well, it was a rebound marriage after Ben dumped me. Raleigh doesn’t want to travel and see the world like I do. He’s stuck in Tucson forever.”
“I thought the ‘Ben thing’ was mutual. Your breakup. You knew Raleigh wasn’t an adventurer when you married him. We even talked about it. He’s always been clear about that as long as I’ve known him. You two have been married as long as we have. Nobody’s ever 100% compatible. Look at me and Brent. He’s a golf-clubbing, high-maintenance, extroverted salesman, and I’m a book-reading, earth-hugging hippy, but we manage. He has to buy a whole new, bigger house every time a light bulb needs to be changed, and I simply want to plant a garden and stay to reap the results.”
“Oh, never mind. Let’s not get on this subject. It’s depressing. When are the guys supposed to get here?” Liz got up from the patio chair and walked across the flagstone toward the back door. “Brent said they’d be through golfing about 4:30. Shall we start fixing the salad? Have some more wine. Have you started getting Ellen’s stuff together for college in the fall?”
A nagging feeling fell over me. I couldn’t imagine Liz with a stranger, not Raleigh. The guys were great friends. Liz and I had never been closer. Our friendship as couples and families was a fundamental part of my life, but it felt like she was trying to tell me something.
Late Summer, 1972 (age 18)
“I can’t believe you’re going to be so far away,” I said. We were at her house, taking a break from packing her trunk for college. Lizzie was leaving the next morning for Pennsylvania. We sipped iced tea in her parents’ sunny kitchen while her mom made lunch.
“We will write, and I’ll be home on school breaks.”
“It won’t be the same,” I said.
“I know. I’ll miss you too.”
“Bucknell is another world, another universe from Tucson. You’ll end up all east coasty and I’ll be left southwesty.”
“Emma, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to change; I just have different experiences. I’ll make sure we share some of them.”
“Why did you have to be so smart?”
“I’m not smarter than you, silly. I want different things, and leaving Tucson is one of them. I want out of here. The world is big, and I want to see all of it.”
“I know. You’ve been saying that since fifth grade. So now is your chance. Go for it. I’m proud of you, and I’m happy to be staying here close to home at the U. of A. I love Tucson.”
As we finished packing, I took a pocket-sized book of Eighteenth Century English Love Poetry from her trunk and slipped it into my purse without her seeing. I wanted to have something of hers after she left. I told myself I’d make something up about finding it and give it back when she came home for Christmas break.
Lizzie came home for Christmas that year, but I clung to the book. I knew I’d return it someday and we’d laugh about it.
January 1977 (age 23)
“Guess what?” Liz’s voice was clear and excited on the long-distance call.
“What?” I sat in my apartment on campus, drinking warmed-over sludgy black coffee that I had made the night before.
“We’re engaged.” Liz’s voice bubbled.
“Is it Ben?”
“Of course, who else have I dated for two years? He gave me a ring last night before we had dinner with his parents. They came over from New York for the weekend. Ben told them he was going to ask me.”
“Great. Congratulations. Does that mean you’ll live in Philadelphia the rest of your life?” I really longed for her to be closer than two thousand miles away.
“Or New York or Geneva or Rome,” she sang.
“Wow. At least I’ll have cool places to visit on vacation. So, are things going better with his mom?”
“She’s still on my case to convert. They aren’t thrilled to have a Catholic daughter-in-law, old family traditions and all. They want me to study Judaism and think about converting before the wedding.”
“How are your folks with that?”
“They’re pretty much Easter and Christmas Catholics themselves, but I do think they are leery of my converting to Judaism.”
“When is the date?”
“We’re planning next November, before Ben leaves for his assignment in Switzerland. I’ll get to go with him.” Her excitement was palpable.
“You’re still coming back home to be my maid of honor in September, right?”
“Yes. I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it. I’ll be there for your graduation too.”
“And I’ll be at Bucknell for yours, Miss Cum Laud. Can you believe it? We’ve done four years of college. It really went fast.”
“I’m sure Brent had a lot to do with making the time go faster for you. How are things between you two? Any signs of strain with your wedding coming up?”
“Not really. My mom took on most of the planning. I need to concentrate on finals first, then the wedding.”
Summer 1992 (age 38)
I felt under my bed for the barrette that had dropped and bounced from the nightstand. I felt something else and pulled out a diamond tennis bracelet. I don’t have much jewelry, and certainly not a tennis bracelet. Then I recognized it. It was Liz’s. She must have dropped it when she was here changing after our hike last week. I wondered why she hadn’t mentioned it. The diamond bracelet had a heart-shaped pendant engraved with “R + E “. I remembered when Raleigh gave the bracelet to Liz on their thirteenth anniversary. Liz loved jewelry, and Raleigh, a successful homebuilder, worked hard to give her the things she treasured. I called her.
“Hey, Lizzie. I have something of yours.”
“What?”
“Your tennis bracelet. Haven’t you missed it? You must have dropped it when you changed after our hike last week. I found it under the bed. Why did you wear it hiking?” Liz was quiet at the other end of the line.
“Liz?”
“Maybe,” she said.
“What d’you mean maybe?”
“Maybe it’s mine.”
“It has the inscription from Raleigh, and you’re the only one who’s been in my room except me and Brent.”
“Then it must be mine. I hadn’t missed it. Bring it with you to yoga class. I’ve got to run. See you tomorrow.”
The next morning, as I began my day, I received her call. “Em, could you do me a huge favor?” Liz sounded breathless on the phone.
“Sure, shoot.”
“Could you not let on to Raleigh that I missed yoga tonight?”
“Why aren’t you coming to yoga? What’s going on, Liz? This is the third time you’ve bailed. “
“I’ve met someone, and I’m going to see him.”
“I can’t lie to Raleigh.”
“Don’t lie. Just don’t say anything next time we’re all together. He’ll assume I am with you, and unless you tell him otherwise, it won’t come up.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Liz had been talking more and more about how unhappy her marriage was, but nothing concrete. Raleigh seemed unaware of any problems.
“No, but I’m doing it anyway. Raleigh’s probably sleeping around, too.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute. He adores you. Liz, Raleigh is my friend, too. I don’t want to be in the middle of this.”
“Emma, I’m begging you. This is important. I’ll tell you all about the stuff with Raleigh later. It hasn’t been good with us for a long time. Please?”
“Okay, this time, but you’re buying trouble you don’t really want. You have to promise we’ll talk soon.”
“Fine. Thanks, Em.”
“Liz”, I paused, “Is he married?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Is he?”
“Yes.”
“You’re really messing up, girl.”
“We’ll talk.” She hung up.
October 2001 (age 47)
I curled up on my sofa at eight o’clock on a cool autumn night, a steaming mug of chamomile tea in hand. In the background, a mix of my favorite country songs pulsed from the CD player. My brass floor lamp shed a warm glow over the book I was reading for book club. All was well in my little world. The phone rang. It was Liz. Eight years had passed since we last spoke, eight years of tumult, recrimination, resolution, and recovery. Now she wanted to come over to see me. ‘Why?’ I wondered.
Once upon a time, Elizabeth and I were best friends with all that could mean in a thirty-plus-year relationship that began as children. We knew each secret of our formative souls and the giddy girlish highs of women-to-be. For years, every moment of the day was discussed and examined in detail. She was my diary and I hers. We shared our experiences of the first blood of puberty, the angst, the disgust, the wonder. We shared the excitement of our first boyfriend’s kiss, the first love of each heart. Plundering the mysteries of religion, we sought to understand who we were in the world and what we really believed. As mad Anglophiles, we planned a trip to London, a city we both yearned to see. Our post-college ambition was to live in Europe, either as diplomatic interpreters or high-class escorts.
Those teen daydreams were never realized, as our lives trended toward traditional roles. We settled into suburban married lives as friends. We were counselors to each other through marriage, husbands, and children. We encouraged each other through pregnancies, experienced the miracle of giving birth, and faced the challenges of raising children. I kept her secret and went with her when she had an abortion and didn’t want Raleigh to know about it.
There were no taboo subjects. We were closer than sisters with no sibling rivalry. We never had a fight. We understood and tolerated the bitchy days, allowed space for moods that demanded solitude or, at least, unconditional love. I knew everything about her. I knew when she started cheating on her husband. Our paths began like parallel trails through the woods; side by side, then diverged as the undergrowth of other relationships grew denser in between us, so we did not see each other with the same clarity. But the knowing was there. Until it wasn’t.
Why did she want to see me now? A wise therapist, years ago, reminded me that even though you don’t forget, you can forgive. Forgiveness takes the burden from your soul, not necessarily the memory from your heart. Heart wounds heal, leaving scars. Maybe I’ll return her book of old English love poetry.
September 1977 (age 23)
We both came home from college with a young man in tow, feet firmly set on paths to happily ever after. We spent the last night before my marriage together. Our last slumber party as maids at my parents’ home. We giggled, drank cocoa my mom made like old times, and talked about the import of being a wife and not losing ourselves in the transition.
“I have something to tell you before tomorrow, but I don’t want it to screw up your day, so please tell me it won’t,” Liz said, putting down the white mug.
“What’s the matter?”
“Ben left this morning to go back to Pennsylvania. We called off our wedding.”
“For good or for a while?”
“It’s over. I think watching you and Brent, we both realized that our relationship is not right. He really wants a Jewish princess in his life, and I can never be that. There was pressure from his folks and I…”
“I’m so sorry. I know you were looking forward to all the world travel, being part of Ben’s lifestyle. You must be devastated.” I put my arms around her.
“Actually, I’m not,” she said, patting me on the back and pulling away. “Maybe it’s not set in yet, but I think it’s the right decision. I’m going to get a job here in Tucson for the time being and rethink my options.”
September 1977, 10 days later (age 23)
“Welcome back. How was the honeymoon?” Liz walked into the living room of our tiny apartment.
“Lovely. I’ll show you pictures from Butchart Gardens. Some of them still need to be developed. Canada was beautiful.”
“I have something to tell you.” Her voice vibrated with suppressed exhilaration.
“Sit down, have a cup of tea, and give me the news. Brent will be home in a little while from work.” I had my new tea set from one of the wedding showers sitting on the coffee table. “I’m married,” she blurted out.
“You’re what?” I sat down hard on the sofa.
“Raleigh and I got married while you were gone. We went to Vegas.”
“Are you crazy? You met him at our wedding, just ten days ago. Don’t get me wrong, I think he’s a great guy, but that was pretty sudden. You just broke up with Ben.”
“I know. I know. I know. It was a whirlwind, but I’m happy, really happy.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself as well as me.
“Raleigh’s not the kind of guy who’s going to take you to live in foreign capitals. He’s a local boy, he works construction, and he likes it. What happened to all those big dreams?”
“They melted along with my heart. He’s terrific. I’m in the kind of love I didn’t know could happen. He’s so good to me.” Liz gushed.
“What did your parents say?”
“We haven’t broken the news. We went to Vegas for a quickie wedding and came right back. I’m still living at home. I’ve got a line on a job. I’ll move out, and then we’ll tell them and Raleigh’s folks when I move into his apartment.”
“They’re going to be mad, especially your mom. You cheated her out of her only daughter’s wedding. She’s like my mom, really looking forward to the experience.”
“Dad will probably be glad, less expense. He went on and on about how much your dad shelled out for your wedding.”
“Well, I’m mad. I was supposed to be your maid of honor. Remember that was a promise we made a long, long time ago. I kept my part.”
“Don’t be bitchy. Be happy for me.”
“I’m stunned, that’s all. It’s hard to believe you went from breaking up with Ben to being married to Raleigh in only a few days, and you didn’t even let me know.”
“Hey, you were on your honeymoon. I’m not putting my life on hold until I can clear things with you.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. I’m happy if you’re happy. Call him up. We’ll have dinner together. He and Brent were buddies in college. Brent will like the idea. I don’t think he was all that crazy about Ben. This is super. We won’t have a long-distance friendship, after all, like the last four years. You’ll be right here at home.”
September 1993 (age 39)
“Let’s move the party outside. It’s cooled down now, and the night is beautiful. We can play cards on the patio,” Brent suggested.
“I’ll go out and light the patio lanterns,” said Raleigh, going to the kitchen to get the long-handled Bic lighter. He felt as much at home in our house as in his own.
I placed the handmade ceramic wine goblets that I purchased at Pier One earlier that day on a wooden tray. As I started out of the French doors to our patio, I looked up. The lights in the room turned the French door windows into mirrors, reflecting the dining room. In slow motion behind my back, I saw Brent put his fingertips to his lips, pass by Liz, touching her face and mouthing the words, “I love you”.
The goblets crashed to the floor, and with quaking knees, I walked through the kitchen, down the hall, and into my bathroom, slamming and locking the door. I crumpled to the floor, my world collapsing around me, the debris of infidelity.
“Em, Em, what happened?” Liz’s voice called from the hall.
“Emma, are you okay?” The voice of my husband from outside the bathroom door. He tried to open it.
In that slow-motion second, I realized Liz’s married lover was Brent. The lies were double-edged. Liz hadn’t lied to Raleigh. She didn’t have to. I had been the perfect foil. She lied to me. Brent lied to me without words. I didn’t cry, I couldn’t. I struggled to take a breath. How do I navigate through the waves of pain that accost me, moment by protracted moment? How do I survive the tsunami of torment that overwhelms me, sweeping away the foundation of who I am? l was paralyzed on the shifting sands of my identity. Unsteady, bereft. What I always believed to be true is not. Who am I?
Brent pounded on the door. “Emma, what’s the matter? Are you hurt? Are you sick?”
Through clenched teeth, suffering the knot in my throat, I whispered, “Tell them to go home. Tell them to leave. Now.”
“What in God’s name has come over you? Come out here or let me in.” Brent sounded panicked.
“Just do what I said. I saw you. I saw you and Liz. I know what’s going on. Your late-night business meetings. Her tennis bracelet under our bed. I returned it to her, never thinking she’d been in my bed with you. Her – missing yoga class, not wanting me to mention it. It’s you, it’s you, and her. Now get them out of here.” My throat tightened with each word.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about…”
“Don’t lie anymore. I know what I saw. I can’t believe you would do this to us – to all of us.”
“Emma. Open the door now. Let me talk to you.”
“Tell them to go.”
“I’ll be right back. Please calm down. We need to talk.”
I listened to the sounds of Raleigh and Liz leaving, the thudding end of friendship.
The origin of this story was a prompt to write a short story that reveals the plot by alternating present and past scenes. I read a book recently, Broken Country by Clare Leslie Hall. She used that device to write a mystery, going back and forth in time. It was a good story that kept you guessing who was guilty until the end.
Sheila didn’t remember why she took the drink offered by the bartender at Pirate’s Cove. She didn’t normally drink alcohol. She was out with co-workers who indulged in cocktails with names like Fuzzy Navel, Cannon Ball Express, Fluffy Duck, and Margara-Mai Tai. Sheila typically steered clear of the social scene. However, she was becoming friends with a new hire at the library, Twyla, the children’s librarian. On two other occasions, Twyla had urged her to join the lively group at the bar. Somewhat reluctantly, she was getting to know Jon from IT, Sandy the media specialist, James the archivist, and Twyla. They were a friendly group of coworkers. Sheila always ordered a Coke. She decided to take a sip of the drink offered to see what it tasted like. Roman was his name, the bartender.
Next thing she knew, she was at her desk in the library. The book in front of her was a copy of the Odyssey by Homer, in GREEK. She looked around. Everyone and everything seemed to be as usual. She turned several pages in the book, and sure enough, she could read it. She called her colleague, Sandy, over to her desk and read aloud a few paragraphs from the book – in Greek. Sandy looked stunned and went back to her office, shaking her head. Sheila searched WebMD for the answer to “sudden ability to read ancient Greek”. It was not helpful. She slammed the book closed and took it to James.
The Odyssey
“Did I ask for this book?” she questioned.
“Yes, early this morning. You were the first here today, and when I came in, you asked me to find a copy of the Odyssey in Greek in our archives. You looked a little out of it. Maybe a bit of a hangover from last night?”
“Okay. Well…”
“Are you doing research for something in Greece?”
“Not exactly.” Sheila paused, bewildered. “You can reshelve it now. Thanks.”
A tourist stopped her outside the library as she left for the day. He asked for directions – in Mandarin. Sheila answered in Mandarin. The words escaped her mouth like a ribbon of sound. It was like she could see it float through the air.
I’ve got to see somebody about this, she thought. I wonder if HR can help?
On the subway across town after work, she heard conversations in multiple languages as usual. What wasn’t usual, she could understand them. She heard a couple wrangling away in Portuguese, another woman oversharing with her seatmate about her boyfriend in vivid and unnecessary detail – in Japanese, and a man mumbled to himself in Russian as he analyzed other passengers on the subway – he was not very complimentary, she thought, although she agreed with most of his assessments. His reaction to the thirty-something lady with tattoos covering all her exposed skin except her face was spot on. He grumbled that she looked like a walking billboard for Dharma’s Eightfold Path. Sheila giggled but turned quickly away.
She thought, I really don’t want to know all this stuff. I can’t ignore them anymore. I can’t look people in the face when they think I don’t understand them. It’s almost like reading minds. Maybe this is a gift.I don’t want to seem ungrateful. Maybe it will lead to other job opportunities.But, she argued with herself, I don’t want other jobs, I like working in the quiet atmosphere of the library. It is what I was made for.
The next day, Twyla asked Sheila if she wanted to go to the racetrack. She said she knew one of the grooms, and they could get entrance into the paddock before one of the races. Twyla had been trying to interest Sheila in the races for months. Never one to challenge the odds, Sheila preferred to stay home and read books. Her occasional attempts at social interaction had fallen flat. She didn’t fit in. It risked her peaceful equanimity and anonymity to try.
With her new powers of language, she was now curious about the outside world. She was uncomfortable being home alone. Her mind kept spinning, trying to reason how she could understand other languages. She needed company to take her mind off her problem. The racetrack seemed to be as good a place as any. She promised to go on Saturday.
That night, Sheila flipped through TV channels, searching for foreign language movies. She challenged herself to find out what languages she could understand. She found a French-language film that she enjoyed. She came across a German-language gameshow and she couldn’t understand it. Wow, good. I’m poly-lingual, but not a pantoglot. THAT would be scary, she thought, somewhat relieved.
In the morning, she watched the news as she got ready for work. There was a major shakeup in the stock market. That was the big news of the day. She glanced at the TV and, lo and behold, all the stocks listed were in technicolor! The stocks the analysts said were “buys” blossomed on the screen as various shades of green, from bright to pale. The stocks he claimed were on the downslide showed in browns from tan to deep chocolate. Other stocks mentioned were in a variety of colors. She didn’t see any dollar amounts, just colors. She was mesmerized by the rainbow of stocks.
Sheila heard the analyst name one corporation as a “dump this” stock, but she saw it in brilliant green. When she went to work, she asked Clarence in HR about stock options through the library savings plan. He said it was one of the benefits. She was beginning to appreciate the craziness in her head. What if?
“I want to put all my 401K into Salton Claremont Industries.”
“We can’t do that, Sheila. You are limited to moving only 20% of your savings at any one time. I can put 20% of your savings into that stock if you like, but not the whole thing.”
“Okay, do that.”
“Did you get a hot tip?”
“No, it sounded good this morning on the stock review part of the news.”
“In the ten years you’ve worked for the library, you’ve never seemed interested in the savings plans, but I’m happy to make the buy for you through our investment plan supervisor.”
On Friday morning, Sheila attentively watched the stock market review on TV. Sure enough, Salton Claremont Industries made an unheard of gain – up 50% overnight. The analyst was gobsmacked. There was no sound reason for the uptick. But there it was. Sheila appreciated the intense green aura around the stock name.
She went to Clarence and told him to sell the stock right away. Again, he was puzzled by her seeming expertise. He looked up the price of the stock on the internet and was in total surprise at the change in it.
“What did you know?”
“It just looked good to me. No insider info. Can you sell immediately? I want to take the win.” Sheila surprised herself with her certainty.
“Sure, I’ll do it now. The gain will be locked up at today’s price. Funds clear Monday. That’s a tidy sum you just banked – $15,000.”
“Great!”
She went to see Twyla at her break. “I’d love to go to the races tomorrow.”
“I’ll meet you there about 11:00. We’ll watch the races and have lunch. Bring $100 if you can, so you can bet ten bucks on each race,” Twyla said.
“Do you ever bet more?”
“No. I bet for fun and rarely win. I choose the winners by the color of the jockey silks or by their name, not by what shows in the racing form. It’s just a fun way to spend the afternoon.”
“I recently came into a little money. I might bring a bit more and see how it goes.”
“Your money, your chances. Gotta go. I have kiddies coming for story time in fifteen minutes. See you tomorrow.”
Saturday morning dawned bright, but there was a chance of rain in the afternoon. Sheila went down to the newsstand to get a copy of the racing form. She studied it while she ate breakfast, without understanding much of it. She decided she would bet on names. Papa’s Hunch was in the sixth race and sounded good.
Sheila met Twyla at the track, and they went to their seats.
“Herm said we could go down to the paddock just before the fifth race. That’s the one his horse is in.”
“Does he own it?”
“No, he works for the trainer. He thinks it’s a good horse, though. Its name is Butter Buster.”
“Is that the one you’re betting on? I saw one called Papa’s Hunch in the sixth. I like that name.”
“As good a way to bet as any,” Twyla said. “Let’s order lunch.”
The horses came onto the track for the first race. Sheila noticed right away that one of them had a bright aura around it.
“I’m betting ten dollars on number three,” she told Twyla.
“Ah, you like the name?”
“What is its name? I like how it looks.”
“It’s Camel Ott. I’m going for number two, Simpleman”.
They went to bet.
Camel Ott came in first, Simpleman came in fourth.
For the next three races, Sheila bet on the horse with the aura and won. After her first win, Sheila bet more than the ten dollars per race – considerably more.
“First time luck, I guess,” Twyla said. “You have a knack. What are you betting next? I think I’ll do what you do.”
Before the fifth race, they went down to the paddock and met Herm. He let them in but told them to stay way back from the horses because the high-strung beasts were sensitive to strangers. They stayed in the center of the circular paddock parade path, away from the stable area. Again, Sheila noticed one of the horses had a special light around it.
“I’m choosing that one,” she said, pointing to the dappled grey horse.
“They say, bet a grey horse on a grey day,” Twyla said, looking at clouds gathering overhead. “Herm’s horse is the one next to it. I’m betting his horse, number six.”
After riders up and the paddock parade, the women placed their bets at the betting windows.
Sure enough, number seven won the race – the grey horse with the aura. Twyla’s horse came in second.
“You’re making a killing. How are you doing it?” Twyla asked.
“Don’t know. Lucky, I guess.”
Then came the sixth, and Papa’s Hunch was warming up on the track.
“There’s your horse,” Twyla said, pointing to the big bay sporting purple and yellow jockey colors.
Sheila didn’t see any aura around Papa, but she did see a glow around Sissy’s Crime.
Sissy’s Crime – a long shot wins easily
“I changed my mind. I’m betting on Sissy instead.”
“He’s a long shot, but whatever you do, I’ll follow.”
Sissy’s Crime won. Papa’s Hunch came in last.
“Let’s go,” Sheila said. By that time, she was ahead by $4,000.
“You’re doing so good, why don’t you stay for the last four races?”
“It’s just getting a bit much for me.” Sheila was beginning to be uncomfortable. At first the winning was a heady experience, but she feared being swallowed by expectation, following the signs, no longer in control.
“I never considered winning to be exhausting,” Twyla said.
“I know it sounds strange, but I’m getting a headache. I’m leaving.”
“Okay, see you Monday. Thanks for the wins.”
On Monday, Jon showed up at Sheila’s desk with a legal pad and hungry eyes asking for advice on stock picks. Clarence had told him about her lucky strike. Her supervisor called her into the office to ask about a biotech stock. James asked her to help him organize some unpublished Polish documents pertaining to WWII in the archives. Word had gotten out. A fellow named Ted, who said he worked in IT with Jon, wanted a tip on the next big race coming up. She was no longer the quiet research librarian whose name nobody could remember; she was now the most interesting person in the library. She was pushed beyond her comfort zone. It had stopped being a gift and felt more like a curse. Was this what it was like to win the lottery? All the expectations from other people?
That evening, Sheila went to Pirate’s Cove. Roman was behind the bar and managing the boisterous crowd. In the bustling swarm, he noticed Sheila and immediately went to her.
“What was in that drink you gave me last week?” Sheila asked
“Hmmm. Don’t know what you mean. When were you in here?” He asked, but she could see a knowing twinkle in his dark eyes.
“I came with my friends from the library. I know they are regulars. You called them by name. I’ve come a time or two, but never had a cocktail before. You offered me a special drink. I want to know what you gave me. Why me?”
Roman smiled, a deep dimple creasing the left cheek in his deeply tanned face. “Did you like it? Want another? A good bartender knows what his customers require.”
“No, I want the antidote. I want to go back to my old quiet life. I’m afraid of the next thing that might happen to me. I don’t want that much responsibility. Just give me my old life back, please. I’ve climbed to the top of the roller coaster, and the ride ahead looks terrifying – probably more than I can handle.”
Roman tipped his head in mild acquiescence and put two glasses on the bar in front of her. In one, he poured a blue-tinted concoction; in the other, he poured a clear beverage.
“Are you sure? It’s up to you now,” he said. “Choose carefully. It is your destiny.”
Two choices in Roman’s bar
The pictures in this story are generated by AI through WordPress.
I know empirically that the days are not getting shorter. Twenty-four hours are still twenty-four hours, no matter what time zone you are in or daylight you are saving. The weeks still contain seven days, although every Friday seems like it happened only two days ago. And don’t get me started on Christmas. I remember when it seemed like decades between Christmas’, hence the old saying, “as slow as Christmas”. Now it seems like just a month or two separates this Christmas from last Christmas and next Christmas. Has the Earth sped up? Or is it something else?
I don’t feel older, but if I look at the date of my birth, it becomes more and more like ancient history. I’m remembering agonizing years of struggle for women’s rights, civil rights and wars that nowadays may get one or two paragraphs in a high school textbook (are there such things as textbooks?). I remember a time when I could not have a bank account, a credit card, or make a major purchase without my husband’s accompanying signature. My name was Mrs., instead of my given name. If I hadn’t been married, it meant that my father would have had to sign for me. I don’t know what happened to the females who had neither a father nor husband. As late as the 1950s, women could involutarily be committed to mental institutions by fathers or husbands without medical or legal requirements.
For a time in the 1940s, women were a major factor in the workforce because so many men were fighting overseas, and military production was ramped up. After WWII, when the men returned, women lost their jobs. It was more important that a man, who was considered the head of the household, have a job. Women were sent back home to be homemakers to support their men and nurture their children. I remember even into the 1960s, when I worked in offices, I was considered like part of the furnishings or a minion to be ordered about at the behest of any male in the company. I did all the step-and-fetch-it jobs as well as my own as a purchasing agent in one company and a secretary in another. A male colleague could pat my butt or throw an arm around me at will. There was no HR to run to. I learned to negotiate my autonomy with humor and strategy so as not to offend but let men know I was neither property nor servant. It worked.
I remember a time when people of color, then called “coloreds”, not blacks or Hispanics, were relegated to the back of the bus and entered and exited through the back door only – no questions asked. I remember a time when there were “separate but equal” schools, swimming pools, public washrooms, and water fountains. The signs said “Whites” and “Coloreds,” so there was no question. They lived on their side of town, we lived on ours. The only time we went to their side was for barbecue. Daddy took me with him to get barbecued smoked ribs from a man in colored town. The memory of those ribs lingers on my tongue, and I’ve never since had any as good as they were.
In 1948, the idea that a black man would be President or that a black woman would be Vice President or sit on the Supreme Court was as foreign a thought as man landing on the moon. Yes, there was a time when a moon landing was science FICTION. At that time, there were no black or female CEOs in major corporations in the U.S. The United States was run by white males.
As a small child, racism was just the way things were. I didn’t know any different. One quick story is about a time when my mother and I were going into downtown Wichita. I think I was about three. My mother told this story to me countless times. To her, it represented a time when I publicly humiliated her. Of course, I see it differently. We lived in the small community of Riverside in Wichita. We only had one car that my father used to go to work, so when Mom wanted to go to town, she and I took a short bus ride. We waited for the bus at the corner of 18th and Burns. When it arrived, Mom helped me up the steps into the bus. She claims that as soon as I got on, I ran toward the back of the bus with my arms open wide yelling, “Grandpa, grandpa.” The back of the bus was for coloreds only. Evidently, an elderly gray-haired black man was sitting back there, whom I found appealing. He had a big smile on his face. He seemed like a grandpa to me. All the bus riders, including the unlucky black man I targeted, held their collective breaths. This was NOT accepted behavior, and I’m sure it caused no end of consternation. Mom grabbed me by the arm and yanked me back up the aisle and out the door as fast as she could. The bus doors were closed, and it continued its route. Heaven only knows what the “grandpa” on the bus thought or what those around him said. I wish I could have been there to witness. The point is, I didn’t see color. I saw a grandpa. I needed to be taught that those people were different – not our kind.
Mom clung to her nebulous racism her entire life. It was how she was raised. She didn’t openly criticize, disparage, or mock people who were not white, but the subtext in her body language was discernible – especially by me, because I was aware of her prejudices. I remember mom as a gracious, kind, but critical woman. She maintained friendships with people from her high school days and later, all of her workplaces. She was a generous friend to all. And yet, under the surface was an inability to accept people of other races as equals. I really blew her mind when, in 1960, I told her my social studies teacher was black, and I thought he was so cute I’d consider marrying a black man – cuteness being the major criteria for marriage at that point in my life.
I wrote a short story about my encounter with a black woman who lived in our neighborhood, yet was totally isolated. It was one of my ah-ha moments. It happened when I was seven and could form an opinion about it. I’ll post that story at a later date. To this day, I don’t know how or why she was in a segregated white neighborhood.
The bottom line is that I lived that dynamic history, including civil and military violence. I was a witness, a participant, as our country moved through huge social changes. Today it seems we are regressing back to some of those old disputes. As a country, we are not perfect, but we have genuinely progressed. I hope progression can continue without more violence and with respect for what has been accomplished.
According to statistics (which I don’t go according to very much), forty years ago, 80% of US citizens were white, and it is expected that by the middle of this century, white citizens will be a minority. I maintain that color will be less and less an issue as the world shrinks and people have children with people from other places, other ethnicities. Someday, we’ll all be the same lovely tan color, and discrimination will no longer be a factor based on color. I’m sure as flawed human beings, we’ll find other ways to discriminate.
Ho-hum. The cycle will be unbroken – just under new management and rules. So maybe that is why my days are getting shorter. I’ve seen it all before, and my soul is ready to move on to whatever is next. My mind and body, though, are not ready, so I will continue to observe the revolutionary evolution of our species with curiosity.
Last Friday, I took a little excursion to the Life Under the Oaks Lavender Farm in Oracle with two of my gal-pals who walk with me every Saturday. It is about thirty minutes north of us and a delightful way to spend a morning. The nine-acre mini farm has an Alice-in-Wonderland vibe, a trip to a fairyland.
A tour of the farm along dirt paths through lavender fields takes about thirty minutes. That is, if you are not sidetracked by all the interesting things along the way. The critters: donkeys, goats, sheep, and Thor, the resident dog – all love attention. The barn has artwork throughout, and from the walls and ceiling, big bunches of lavender hang to dry.
The entrance fee is a whopping $5.00. It is impossible to find entertainment at that price these days. It is easy to get caught up in the magic. There are giant oak trees that are over 100 years old. Rows upon rows of lavender are accessorized by whimsical art. We were there just before the “blooming season” that starts in June, so only a few plants were actually in bloom. That did not diminish our enjoyment of the entire farm as it is.
A storybook Cinderella carriage and a carousel horse that could have come out of Mary Poppins prompted several photos. A stack of teapots and a variety of lampshades that hang from trees were a sweet detail. Every few steps along the path, there is something that delights the eye and would tempt a fairy to stay like an artistic pink teacup chandelier. Small enchantments like carrot, strawberry and watermelon-shaped seats invite you to sit and rest on your tour.
At the end of our wanderings, we had a refreshing pint jar of lavender lemonade and a box of lavender scones to eat as we sat at one of the tables under the trees. You can order a box lunch to eat there if you want a meal.
There is an amphitheater where you can envision sprites and fairies creating entertainments. A small shop that features products from insect repellent to goat milk soap, all scented with lavender, is at the end of the trail. The owners, Carolyn and John, informed us that this venue is used for plays, parties, weddings, and celebrations of all kinds. It is a summons for the imagination.
They also have a tea shop, Lavender Mansion, in downtown Tucson on North 4th St near 4th Avenue. I’m planning a trip there in the near future.
What have I been doing? That is the refrain from many of my blog readers? I’m sorry I was MIA for a while. It wasn’t planned, it just happened. It’s not because I wasn’t writing. I am always writing.
There were many distractions, including my dearly beloved. Spending time with him has been important. He’s learning to play mahjong! That isn’t what took most of our time, but it is a challenge he accepted and has worked hard to master. Oops. Master is NOT a word that goes with mahjong. Understand is a better word. He beat me numerous times, so I think he’s got it now. Maj is a good exercise for cognition. It helps with memory, visual and spatial processing, strategizing, and has been shown to slow the rate of cognitive decline.
Beyond that, he works hard to maintain his body and spirit with exercise – at the gym and at home. Age is a factor, but Parkinson’s magnifies the efforts. His diligence has paid off in slowing some of the devastating effects of PD. I’m his cheerleader and companion in those endeavors.
I took a class at Pima Community College for three months. My beautiful life is circumscribed for the most part by people over sixty. I love my friends and family…and they are all getting older. I felt that I needed to talk with younger people. College is the place to do that. It was good to be among people who are “becoming” something, not just “have been” something.
It was an eye-opening experience to share ideas with people who are five to six decades younger. We had very few points of reference in common. Their memories are limited to a couple of decades on the planet. They were gracious enough to update me on what is current in the social sphere and the digital world. And I gave them a glimpse of the past beyond what they read in books. My lived experiences after WWII through the 80s in terms of social changes are real in my memory, but to them, merely paragraphs in a book. They think they are in revolutionary times. So much of what we thought we conquered has returned in a different way – a revolving door of change. I had so much fun, I’m going to do it again in the fall, maybe a history class – heck, I lived eighty years of it.
Our grandson’s enthusiasm for competing in cycling has increased – Tour de France stuff. We’ve spent time with him learning about that world and encouraging his interest. Competitive cycling is so much more than riding a bike; the strategy, the stress, the nutrition, the equipment, on and on. Training is an everyday discipline. He has met people from all over the world in his competitions. He has competed and done well as a junior in races in several states now and looks forward to a race in Milwaukee and then three weeks of training in Belgium this summer. He has only been competing for two years and has been on the podium many times. He’ll be a senior in high school next year. That’s a milestone we look forward to witnessing.
I will post more regularly again. Regular and consistent are not words that occur often in my vocabulary or my habits, but I’ll try. I have lots of stories and ideas to share.
Mr. Gambel-Quail, we call him Dan, struts along the sidewalk outside my office window. His copper crown and long black tail feathers that barely drag the ground make him look like royalty. His gray suit is carefully trimmed with brown and white wings. Of course, he sports the signature bobbing topknot. His white vest and the reddish-brown circular belt buckle at his belly complete his costume. He wears a black mask as if going to a masquerade.
Dan and his family have lived in or near our yard for generations. This year, he and his wife, we call Marilyn (not terribly original on our part) had fifteen babies. My husband calls them “eggs on legs”. They begin life so tiny it is hard to believe they can strut and run just like their parents.
Marilyn is dressed more conservatively. Her brown and white ensemble is topped with a simple waving top feather on her head. I cannot figure out how that little body can produce so many offspring in one season. It is fun to watch the pair of adults shepherd their tiny brood across the yard, into the nature preserve, or occasionally across the street; mom in the front and dad follows to make sure all stay in line. Inevitably, there is a stray that he has to corral back into the group.
Sadly, during the time the babies are growing their number decreases rapidly. When we first see fifteen of them, by the end of a couple of weeks only five or six are still toddling after their parents. Predators like snakes, hawks, coyotes, and rodents raid their nest. Within three months, the remaining two or three chicks are fully grown and, on their own.
Early in the morning, I put bird seed on the top of our stone fence pillars. We sit with our coffee on the back patio and watch quails vie with doves, desert wrens and smaller birds for seeds. The quail usually prevail because they are the biggest. Smaller birds move on to other pillars or to the block wall when the quail arrive. Fortunately, we have lots of space to accommodate the hordes.
When the young quail are too small to fly up to the top of the pillars, the adults go up and scratch seeds down to them. Day by day, we witness the little ones gain in size and skill until they can fly up to the top of the four-foot posts. We enjoy watching flight school practice. Standing in the yard, eyeing the top of the pillar, they observe their parents. Then they take turns flaring their tiny wings and hopping up in an attempt to fly. In only a couple of weeks, one makes it, then another, and soon all get to the top, sharing space on the pillar, like angels on a pinhead. So many of them crowd together on one pillar.
By the end of June, all the babies are grown, and we can’t tell the parents from the kids. When next year rolls around, the cycle begins again, and we are entertained for three months by the Quail Family saga. Occasionally, more than one family shares our yard, but with the Preserve so close, most families find their own territory.
From the dictionary: a strong inclination to do, use, or indulge in something repeatedly.
Hello. My name is Diana, and I am an addict. My addiction is writing.
I don’t in any way mean to diminish the pain and chaos caused by harmful addictions to drugs, alcohol, and other evils in the world. I know too many people who have struggled and some still are struggling with those. However, I realize that I do have a powerful need, like an addiction, to write, to put words together, to rearrange words. Only in the past few years have I shared my scribbling with anyone, not even my family.
I can spend hours writing and rewriting a single paragraph until I feel like it conveys what I want to say. My husband will attest to the fact that when a notion grabs me, I will excuse myself from his company and say, “I’ll be back in a second. I just have to write something down.” Then I will disappear for two or three hours. Time has no relevance when I’m writing. He usually needs to bring me back to earth with a reminder of an appointment, dinnertime, or something real-world that needs attending. I don’t know how long I could disappear into my head without a guide to help me find my way back.
I write even when I don’t have paper and pencil. I take long walks and compose stories that sometimes get written and sometimes disappear into the ether. I write in my dreams. Lucky for me, writing can be done without great expense. Unlike addictions that require copious amounts of ingredients, legal and illegal, writing only requires my own company with a pencil and paper. Of course, a computer and printer are wonderful assets to have, but they are not necessary. In fact, I cannot write poetry on the computer. It requires handwriting. I met a woman who handwrote her entire biography (over sixty years) on lined notebook paper – stacks and stacks of paper. She didn’t have access to a computer, nor did she even know how to type. It didn’t stop her from writing.
When I finally came out of the writing closet, about twenty years ago, I gradually began to honor my desire to write. It was slow go. I have written stories since I was seven, but it was always in secret. I wrote for English class throughout school of course, but not in a specific writing class. I had stacks of notebooks and journals accumulated over decades as my children grew. All were written when no one was around, then stuck in closets or drawers. When we moved from Seattle to Tucson, I threw them out, thinking they were excess baggage. Now I wish to heaven I had them because they were full of wonderful observations of my children as they grew, and the world around us at that time. Memories of those times have faded, occasionally to be resurrected by photos or conversations with my husband or one of the kids..
In Tucson, on a whim, I took a creative writing class and met many wonderful writers. A few of us who lived near each other formed a writing group. It lasted twenty-five years. It was a revelation to me. We took classes together, traveled to conferences, seminars, and retreats in the US and internationally, and learned the craft of writing. We encouraged each other to improve with thoughtful critiques. We all had families, jobs, and friends who required our attention, but we managed to make our writing life fit into those priorities. None of us wrote as professionals. I have never expected my writing to be a source of income. In fact, I wouldn’t want it to be because then it would change and be subject to other people’s requirements and timeframes. It would no longer be mine.
When my group co-authored our book about our writing experiences, it was my assignment to build a blog for marketing purposes. It took months, but I did get a blog started. I was surprised that I liked the feedback from a wider group of readers. Until then, I wrote only for my own pleasure and to a small audience. The blog brought in readers with different voices, different opinions. I loved it. After a few months contributing to that blog, I found writing on a schedule and marketing to a specific audience to be confining. I wanted to include all my writing, fiction, non-fiction, and wild observations in my communications, so I started my own blog, which is sporadic and definitely does not follow a specific line of topics or thought. I value the people who follow me and especially those who choose to comment. It began to feel like I was writing to friends, but a much larger group of friends than before. One woman’s comment that I treasure said, and I paraphrase for brevity, “I love to sit with my morning coffee and your blog post to start my day.” Now, when I write, I have a softly undefined picture of her sitting in her kitchen or out on her patio (depending on the weather), reading and sipping her coffee, and it makes me smile.
Stories and characters swirl in my head day and night. Some wake me at 2:00am demanding to be put on paper. There are two elderly gentlemen in Paris who come to me often. They were in love with the same woman for many years. I wrote a bit of their story, and they want me to expand on it. There is a very wealthy lady who sees fairies in her garden and wants more time on the page. A man who committed murder and may have gotten away with it asks for time to tell his story, his motive, more completely. The little girl with a pet dragon would like me to follow her family through a complete day. The family may be a bit eccentric…but maybe not. I wrote about a sorceress who enchanted an entire town with her magic. She has more to tell me. A young woman wants to find her father, whom she assumed died in a foreign country, but enigmatic clues have made her unsure of his whereabouts. There is a ghost involved. She asks me to spend some time following her lead. On and on, these characters in my head ask for page time.
I have some professional writer friends – you know, people who make a living writing books, magazine articles, and such. Most of them say they don’t like to go back to read what they have already published. I can totally understand that. To me, a piece of writing is always unfinished, even after I’ve put it out in public. If I go back to read it, I find new ways of saying something or a more appropriate word to fit a sentence. It is torture. I have, on occasion, gone back to my blog and rewritten a post – not entirely, but rearranged words, clarified a point or made a new observation on the topic. One of my writer friends, who has written several books, told me not to do that. If I want to expand on something I’ve written, I should rewrite it entirely as a new essay or story. He said to think of each post as a painter does a painting. Once it is finished, it is finished – leave it alone, no touch-ups, hang it on the wall, and enjoy it. Thank you, Wes. I think he is right. Each time I write something, it is composed at that particular time with what I know or imagine then. It is complete. I can amend, expand, and revise the concept/story, but then it is a different story unto itself. I have a myriad of unfinished stories and essays sitting in files in my desk or on the computer. Like half-dressed friends, I don’t want them to be seen in public. They would be embarrassed. So, they languish behind a filmy shoji screen in my mind until I find the right clothes to complete their outfits.
Thank you for reading my confession. I don’t expect the addiction to go away, but it is nice to be able to talk about it.
It is Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s 93rd birthday. The Ides of March, 2026. In honor of one of the most iconic women in American history, I want to pass along some of her wisdom. She claims it came from her mother-in-law and pertained to the marital relationship. She broadened the sagacious advice to use during her life as a prestigious and honored member of the highest court in the United States.
I paraphrase here: “In every relationship in life, it helps to be a little deaf. This is not meant to be demeaning, belittling, or dismissive of the other person. It is a self-affirming way to achieve meaningful dialogue. Choose to be a little deaf towards thoughtless or unkind remarks. The type of remarks that are not backed by thought, but are rather reactive, emotional, and lacking reason or fact. Comments that do not serve the higher purpose of advancing an argument but rather attack the person and are derogatory or unkind in nature should fall on deaf ears. Reacting in anger will not advance your ability to persuade. Don’t raise your voice. Improve your argument. If the argument is sound and backed with logic, it should not have to be screamed. Its integrity should stand on its own.”
As it pertains to marriage, it is important to confront disrespectful, thoughtless words and behavior. No one should be a doormat to a partner’s demeaning, thoughtless words or actions. Sometimes the intention is to knock you off-balance, to make you give way. Don’t give anyone control over you. Even in the most loving relationship, emotion can overcome reason. As a long-term strategy, it is important to stay clear of an emotional, reactive response to make a counterpoint in a reasoned way and get to the heart of the matter that can be resolved without invective. Step away to clear your mind, then address the issue. Frame your response with the concept of strengthening your relationship. Speak with honesty, not hostility. Turn tensions to understanding. One way to do this is to write it down. Clarity comes with looking at your own words rather than trying to capture them in a swirling thought process.
As RBG would say, “get it right and keep it tight.”
While I may not agree with all of RBG’s views on the law and the Constitution, I do respect her thoughtful reasoning for her positions.
How the deep bond between a man and a boy, grandfather and grandson taught me about poetry.
Walter, my father-in-law suffered for five long years from Alzheimer’s disease. His dependency over that time became the elephant in our midst. He lurched from anger, to sadness to confusion and back to anger at his cognitive losses. During ever decreasing lucid moments, he would smile in fleeting recognition even though he forgot our names only to plunge again into no mans land where we couldn’t reach him. Day in and day out, he spent in front of the television even though he couldn’t understand what was going on. He dozed and nibbled snacks. He wouldn’t eat a full meal and forgot how to use a fork, so ate with his fingers. He became a dependant baby animal and lost touch with everything that made him human. Lost in the maze of a home in which he lived for over 20 years, his tortuous days and nights were filled with endless hours of not knowing who shared his world. At times he wept because he was frightened by his image who he called the man in the mirror.
Walt, always an active man, was still well built and muscular into his late-60’s. He initiated arm wrestling contests with his sons and grandsons and nearly always won. In his youth he mined copper in the rough and tumble town of Butte, Montana. He was proud of where he came from and what he achieved not only by his physical hardiness but also his strength of mind and character. He built a two story home for his family from the ground up in Butte. He built the family’s summer cabin at Georgetown Lake. He was carpenter, plumber and electrician all in one. As a true Finn, Walt felt it was necessary to add a sauna to every house they lived in as he moved his family from Butte to Anchorage to Seattle searching for a better life. With less than a high school education he pulled himself up out of the mines and into the business community. He always laughed when he said he went to the best university life had to offer, the school of hard knocks. By the age of 35 he was a city councilman and owned a grocery store uptown in Butte. He and his wife, Pearl, raised and college educated three children and delighted in their seven grandchildren.
The effects of his illness devastated our family. His physical death came three years later than the death of his soul. Walt, the man we loved, disappeared long before he was buried. The disease not only looted his mind, it took his spirit and left behind an infantile creature with dull eyes. Physically he withered to barely 100 pounds. Pearl, his wife of over 50 years, insisted on keeping him home to take care of him herself. The last few months of feeding, bathing, changing diapers and being on constant call wore through even her relentless patience. Her dejected face revealed the pain of watching her husband, lover, and companion grow ever more distant and helpless under her care. Family members took turns spending three or four hours at a time with him to give her a break. During those times he cried or snarled and mumbled incoherently because it took longer and longer to remember words to make phrases. When he finally put a few words together he demanded, “Where did mommy go?”
When he was hospitalized after a slight heart attack, we took turns staying with him at the hospital because the strange surroundings terrified him. He wouldn’t stay in bed unless he was occupied or distracted by someone. I took photograph albums and showed him pictures of his life in Butte, the only past he could recall. Occasionally a glimmer of recollection came, and he would struggle to name a name or describe a place. Since nurses couldn’t spend all their time with him my husband, Ken, stayed in his room all night every night because he awakened so often.
When Walt died, Casey, our son, was 18, a freshman at Washington State University, and a typical teen. Being both gregarious and shy, a charming, contradictory combination, made him popular with his peers. Casey’s best friend in 7th grade was still his best friend twenty years later, even though they chose different colleges and paths in life. He has a whole raft of friends who used our home and refrigerator as their own. In self-defense, I learned to dress immediately upon arising when Casey was home because often I stumbled over sleeping bodies when I went downstairs to let the dog out. I got caught a couple of times in my nighty by strangers who said Casey told them they could crash on our couch or family room floor after a late night or disagreement with parents. Casey spent hours on the phone. I believe he was the social secretary for his group since nothing was planned without his direct contact with each and every friend. When he was away from home, the telephone was his only means of communication with us, most commonly, a request for money. I was never totally positive that he even learned how to write.
Casey’s room resembled Nagasaki after the bomb. Momentos from rock concerts and Japan were strewn among dirty clothes, heaps of clean clothes lay scattered on the floor among school papers, matchbox cars, and stuffed animals. His walls were a collage of rock posters, sports souvenirs, photos of friends, and lists of the current top 100 rock tunes. The built-in desk, which went the length of one wall, had an assortment of unusual beer bottles, more stuffed animals and games lying on it and no room for studying, which was generally done in front of the TV in the kitchen. From his door to his stereo to his waterbed, there was a small, barely visible path amongst the rubble.
Casey had a reverence for ear-splitting heavy metal music along with an appreciation of such classics as the Beach Boys and the Beatles. He taught himself to play the piano, then learned guitar, which he refined daily in his room, hooked to his amplifier with his headphones so we couldn’t hear it.
In his 15th year, Casey grew from five feet to six feet and added an inch each year for the next two years. His weight never caught up. He was unbelievably thin at eighteen, weighing only one hundred twenty-five pounds. His shadow scrambled to stay visible when he turned sideways. He liked his hair long, but his brown locks curled so that, even when grown well below his shoulders, they kinked up tightly at the base of his neck, natural dreads. He wore a diamond stud in his ear, a personal affectation which gave his conservative father apoplexy. They negotiated. Casey didn’t wear his earring in his father’s presence. That changed over time as Ken learned to accept Casey’s personal sense of style.
Casey’s main passion, other than a current girlfriend, was and still is the University of Washington Husky football. Actually, I believe Husky football has, on occasion, come first. He played football and loved it at a younger age, but had the good sense to quit when his teammates got beefy while he stayed reedy. He is probably the only kid to sit in the enemy student section at Washington State University during the Apple Cup rivalry game, cheering for his beloved Huskys to beat WSU …and live to tell about it.
Casey’s second love was Japan, which he visited twice as a teen. It was the focus of his degree program in International Studies. Another of his diversions was magic. His blue eyes gleamed when he mastered yet another illusion to baffle his poor mom. All in all, Casey was a standard model for his generation, delightful and contrary.
Fishing with Walt was a highlight of Casey’s youth. He looked forward to annual trips to Westport with his dad and grandpa. Casey enjoyed Walt’s company and would sometimes get off his school bus at an earlier stop to visit his grandparents. Grandma fed him cookies, and then he’d go outside to help Grandpa in the yard or in his workshop. We lived only 10 blocks away, and his grandpa would give him a ride the rest of the way home after their visit.
During most of Walt’s final year, Casey was away at college. We kept him informed of Grandpa’s condition. The bond between Casey and his grandfather was long ago established in the mystical way that small boys and old men see themselves in each other. When Walt’s health began to wane, their connection was apparent in the way Casey watched out for grandpa when we took him somewhere. Before we were aware of his incipient illness, Walt and Pearl traveled to a Rose Bowl Game in Pasadena with us. After the Rose Parade, we walked toward the stadium for the game. In the mass of people at an intersection, Walt was somehow separated from us. He stood in the middle of the intersection, confused about which way to go. The traffic began to move and honk but he couldn’t find a direction. We were several yards ahead along the sidewalk when we realized he wasn’t beside us and focused on the commotion behind. Casey, then 12 years old, immediately ran to his side and didn’t let go of him for the rest of the day. Walt laughed it off, but it was the first real indication that his problem was more than mere forgetfulness. Casey appointed himself Grandpa’s guardian and protector for the remainder of that trip.
As Walt’s condition worsened, Casey was less and less comfortable being around him for very long. He refused to visit his grandparents. When Casey’s presence was required for family celebrations he glued himself to the TV and wouldn’t get involved when we had to help Walt eat or go the bathroom. The changes disturbed him. It was obvious he didn’t want to see his grandfather in that helpless condition.
What we didn’t know was that while away at school, Casey wrote poetry and sent it to his grandfather. We were shown the letters after Walt’s death. To say we were surprised is an understatement. Casey, who never wrote so much as a postcard to us. Casey’s phone bills were a testament to his inability to put pen to paper. Casey was always so caught up in sports and social activities that we couldn’t imagine his spending enough quiet reflective time or sitting still long enough to put poetic phrases together. But there was the proof. One rhymed and clever composition was sent to wish his grandparents a happy Halloween. It was an “over-the-river-and-through-the-woods” kind of poem about ghosts, goblins, and grandparents.
When we called with the news of Walt’s death, Casey made immediate arrangements to leave school. He took an overnight bus for 15 hours to get home. Pearl asked Casey to write a poem for the minister to read as part of the eulogy. Casey readily agreed. We were surprised because Casey didn’t like being put on the spot to perform, not even his music that he practiced day and night.
The day before the funeral, while everyone dithered about making arrangements and finding accommodations for visiting relatives, Casey slept. He slept on the couch. He slept on the floor. He slept anywhere there was a level surface. I begged him over and over to get busy writing his poem. He told me not to worry, it would be ready for the funeral.
The next morning, again I asked him if he had written his poem. He said no with a “don’t bug me” look and returned to his room, where he strummed his guitar and listened to AC/DC blasting on his stereo. I knew that he was going to disappoint his grandmother and add another sadness to the day, but the more I harassed him the more firmly he resisted. Finally, about an hour before we planned to leave for church, Casey came into the kitchen. As I prepared food for the reception to follow the funeral, Casey slumped his 6′ 2″ frame into a chair at the kitchen table. He tore a scrap from an envelope and started writing in his tiny cramped printing. When he finished he handed me two scraps of paper. On them was the poem. It was beautiful. He hadn’t labored over the words or created draft after draft. He slept and dreamed and played music and let the poem form in his heart. When it was ready, it flowed onto the paper complete and perfect. The poem recalled Walt’s strength, hard work, and devotion to his family. Casey urged us to be inspired by the kind of man his grandpa was. He acknowledged that grandpa was quick to see the good things in him and bloated his head with praise. He urged us to never forget what Walt tried to teach each of his grandkids – to try to be their best. He recalled a float in the 1982 Rose Parade with an old man and boy on it fishing. The float said “Gramps and Me”. When it passed by he and Walt looked at each other and smiled. He asked us all “to take some care and say a prayer and remember what’s been said”.
At the funeral, Casey chose to read the poem to his grandfather himself instead of giving it to the minister. All eyes welled with tears as he recited the love and respect that he felt for Grandpa. It was a simple poem, not rooted in rules of cadence and meter but brimming with a spirit and eloquence from deep within his human soul. In those moments, as Casey stood at the pulpit of the church, our son changed forever in my eyes. He grew from a lively, loving boy to a thoughtful man with the ability and willingness to share his deepest feelings in his own words. It was then, from our son, that I learned what poetry really was, not as I learned in school, but the unknowable stuff of Muses and spirit.
wonkagranny 