Tag Archives: writing

Creativity – Finding the Sublime in the Ordinary

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The first day of English class on my very first day of college in September,1964, I arrived at Thompson Hall, the ancient brick edifice that housed the English Department. Built in the 1890’s, it was the oldest building on campus. Everything about the building was massive and was intended to remain a steadfast educational guidepost through generations of students.

I took my seat in anticipation of learning brilliant new insights into Chaucer, Shakespeare, Austin, and Hemingway. In high school, Mrs. Lupton instilled in me an almost fanatic love of literature. I teetered on the brink of becoming an English literature maven or a primary school teacher. Neither came true since I retired after my freshman year from academia, fueled by hormones, romance, and a super stud boyfriend, to become a wife and mother –but that is a whole different Oprah for a later time. The boyfriend, now husband, lasted much longer than my academic career would have – we are still together.

The teacher arrived, a youngish handsome man in a sport coat, open-collar white shirt, and gray slacks. Ahh, thought I. He will be a pleasure to spend a semester with. He adjusted his black-rimmed glasses and addressed the class, giving his name and academic status. I have forgotten both in the intervening sixty-five years.

In an authoritative voice, he gave the class one abrupt directive. “Look at that door and spend the next forty minutes writing about it.” He pointed to a door that took up space in a wall at the front of the classroom next to the huge blackboard. “Place your essays on my desk as you leave class. I will see you Wednesday at this same time, and we will discuss your essays.”

Then he left. There was a murmur in the room, but the students, freshmen all, eager to begin their academic career with a win, began writing. Me, not so much. I spent at least fifteen of those precious minutes glaring at the oversized – at least ten feet high, heavy door meant to convey authority. It wasn’t the door out of the room, the exit. It was a door to who knows what: a closet, another room, a stairway, a secret cavern? This is when imagination, figurative language such as simile and metaphor, and sensory details became the most important part of learning. We were thrown into the deep end of the pool without practice or instruction. It was very deep and extremely cold. Staring at the grain of the wood, the dark stain which became variegated as I observed it, and the ancient hardware of knob and lock, I finally mind-merged with the door so it would give up its secrets.

Sad to say, I don’t know what became of that essay. I do remember I managed to write a few unworthy pages. However, it was the beginning of my love of prompts – words, sentences, or pictures untethered to anything in particular that lead your mind and pen into labyrinths of imagination. Prompts can blow out even the most stubborn writer’s block. When you get the right side of the brain humming with the magic of ‘what if’, you can then employ the left side to organize those ideas.

The door remained an object of fascination every time I entered that classroom.  I can conjure that door in my mind to this day. Is it the end to an event or idea, a door slammed closed; or is it the beginning, an invitation to a new adventure, a new concept?

What did Dorothy see in OZ? How did Wart learn to see the world in The Sword and The Stone? What did Alice see in Wonderland? What did Milo observe through the Phantom Tollbooth? Employ the kind of vision that a writer uses when creating a poem or a story. Look with the eyes of a stranger. It is possibly the most difficult part of writing, the most challenging and ultimately the most satisfying.

My recent prompt for our writers’ group was to discover something sublime in something ordinary. Look around the meeting room and find an object, then describe the object in an interesting way. Write continuously without taking the pen from the paper for ten minutes.

This is my contribution:

The Library Clock

If popularity were judged by how many times a day someone is watched, I win the library popularity contest hands down – pun intended. I could not count how many times a day I am glanced at and outright stared at. I keep my hands in front of my face, an attempt at modesty (false though it may be since I am rather handsome) – but the stares continue. I am the library meeting room clock, a simple white-faced, wood-framed, battery-operated clock.

My batteries are changed on January 5th every year like clockwork (another pun intended-I’m full of them), so I never slow down. I am not dependent on electricity during storms. I am faithful to my duties regardless of external circumstances. Being an Arizona clock, I am thankfully relieved of the whole Daylight Saving Time fiasco. I cannot understand what geniuses concocted that stupidity. Technically, I am here to measure time, but I covertly measure aspiration and reality – without comment. There are occasions when I wish I had a chime, a buzzer, or something I could employ to register my approval or disapproval. Through it all, I remain calm, reliable, and only slightly smug.

In contradiction, I am always running in a room that I cannot escape. My room is in almost constant use. It has the largest capacity in the library, holding up to seventy-five people for a gathering.

Time management can be an issue for the humans that use my room. I am the professional witness to the gap between what people schedule and what people do. I’ve seen a writers’ group go beyond their two-hour limit on a number of occasions. Once, the librarian needed to come in and shoo them out so the staff could prepare the room for the Mystery Club book discussion group.

What I love about being a clock high on the wall is what I observe in my room. It runs the gamut from serious to ridiculous. For instance, a few weeks ago I watched citizens voting in local elections. For twelve hours, people flowed in and out of my room, making decisions for their city that would resonate for years. A big deal.

On the other hand, I watched as an HOA group spent at least one of my hours haggling over where trash bins should be located at or near curbside. I must say, during that hour I was stared at continuously. My ticking may have sounded a bit more judgmental.

I receive the most attention when a teen group gathers for a math tutoring session. Last week, one young man looked at me every 15 seconds for two hours. If I could blush from all the attention, I certainly would have. I pride myself on not being conceited. 

                ~end of ten minutes.

I will probably complete, edit, and revise this for a longer essay.

Twenty Plus

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One summer evening, our writers’ group meeting took place at Sally’s. She is a gourmet cook, as well as a published author, and her husband, Allen, is a master in the kitchen himself. He often prepares part of the meal served at our meetings in their home. He makes a heavenly guacamole and is willing to share his recipes. He is a real treasure for our little group. On this early evening, Allen prepared a grilled salad with his own recipe for homemade Caesar dressing. Sally made sourdough bread and a luscious three-tiered strawberry and cream dessert. Sally’s presentation of food is an art form. We look forward to her creations. She had stopped by the store for fresh strawberries and lettuce on her way home from work.

Linda and I arrived, plopped our notebooks and purses on the sofa, and went to the table. Jackie was already there.

While Allen and Sally put the finishing touches on the meal, we all chatted about our day. Then Sally told us she had a prompt for us. She and Allen exchanged amused looks, and she told us the story of the bag of lettuce she picked up at the market. Yes, the very lettuce that was part of our salad. Their story went like this:

Before Allen opened the package, he noticed money inside the bag.

“Sally”, he said, holding the bagged lettuce in the air. “Did you look at this lettuce before you bought it?”

“Duh, of course,” was her exasperated reply. “I always check for the freshest. Why? Are there brown leaves in it?”

“Not exactly, but there are some strange green things in it.”

“Bugs?” she asked as she stopped measuring the cream for whipping.

“No, more like dollars.”

“What are you talking about?” Sally turned to look closely at the bag. Sure enough, there were dollar bills in the sealed package of lettuce.

A squeal and “What the heck?” escaped her as she noticed in the sealed package of organic lettuce a twenty-dollar bill and six ones.

Thus, a prompt was born – Tell how the dollars got into the bag. After dinner, we grabbed our notebooks and began to write. (Needless to say, Sally washed the lettuce before making the salad.)

The story of Harmon Pettigrew developed as I wrote. During dessert, we shared our theories about the placement of the money. Harmon only had a couple of pages, and I knew he would need more to tell his whole story, so I continued to write after I got home. At the next meeting, I read Harmon’s story to the group.

The Almost True Story of Harmon Pettigrew and His Crop of “Lettuce”

You’ve heard of money being called lettuce.  Well, here is a true story validating the claim.

Once upon a time, around 2008, in a small town in California called Salinas, the salad bowl of America, a lettuce grower named Harmon Pettigrew decided to diversify. After the E. coli scare took his business down to practically nothing, he went into his basement and began to develop the seeds of a new enterprise. He retrieved the savings from the family bank account and worked day and night diligently for nearly two years to produce a new kind of lettuce seed, one that would ensure future profit no matter what blight might come upon the lettuce crop.

Harmon grew up on a small farm on the outskirts of Salinas. He worked in the fields harvesting lettuce from the time he was a sprout of five. His daddy taught him the fine points of how to plant Romaine and Butter lettuce from seed in shallow holes 8 inches apart in rows ten inches wide with twenty-four inches between rows. They used organic fungicides and fertilizers. Both his mother, Claudia, and his father, Earl, were flower children of the 60s. They believed world peace would eventually come about if the whole world ate organic. Harmon’s legal name was Harmony Light-of-the-World Pettigrew, but for obvious reasons, he shortened it when he was in high school. He had every intention of getting out of Salinas after high school graduation, but his father died from a heart attack the week after graduation, and his mom, who was losing her sight to a genetic disorder, needed him to keep the farm going.

Claudia prided herself on being self-sufficient but quickly realized some limitations as her eyesight made it harder to carry on the business side of the farm. That had been Earl’s job. Reading contracts and doing the accounting became challenging. She was still very capable of tending the gardens as well as house chores.

“I know you’ve been waiting to get out on your own and explore the world, Harmony, but I do need you to stay, if only for a year or two, and help stabilize the business and find a good manager for me. Dear boy, I want you to employ all your talents in ways that make you successful in life. If you could please delay for a short while, I promise I’ll save enough to give you a stake in your future.”

Harmon acquiesced to his mother’s plea.

Harmon Pettigrew was not a genius in the sense of book learning, although he went to Hartnell Community College in downtown Salinas, where he took introduction to business and introduction to computer classes. He found complex theory taxing, so he quit after the first semester and enrolled in night classes at Wayne’s College of Beauty just a few blocks from Hartnell. He figured he would acquire a backup skill in the event that a lettuce crop failed. Harmon was more of a hands-on type of learner. It was at Wayne’s where he discovered the concept of mixing chemicals and transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary.

Mrs. Haven was one of his biggest achievements. A transformation from a seventy-year-old grieving widow to a seventy-year-old go-go girl took Harmon only a few months. He created unique hair and makeup applications with the help of chemistry and science that wowed not only the salon but the entire town. Mrs. Haven acquired a whole new outlook on life and was beset with proposals. Harmon became the favorite of the over-sixty crowd even though he only worked at Wayne’s part-time while maintaining and improving the farm. He was offered several opportunities to open his own salon, but he knew his true calling was agriculture, where he adapted his peculiar brand of genius.

After ten years of farming just as his father taught him, he decided to change the crop and grow money. He knew printing counterfeit money was illegal and would land him in jail. Using his beginning computer skills, he went online to research state and federal penalties attached to growing money and found there was no restriction, no penalty and, in fact, the concept was not even mentioned in law. He read about sheep being made in petri dishes from seed and even human babies being made in test tubes. He reasoned that if something as complicated as a baby could be made, why not money? Money is made from organic materials, so all he needed to do was take it down to basic elements and formulate a seed from which it could be reproduced.

Harmon had the perfect laboratory to work out his experiment in the basement of the family farmhouse. Earl, the hippy lettuce farmer, had grown pot as a side business. The basement was set up for growing plants.  The walls were lined with sixteen seventy-five-gallon aquariums and grow lights for each. When Earl passed away, the pot-growing business fell off. Claudia lost interest in the plants, and Harmon had never been a part of the operation. Now he had a use for the abandoned equipment.

With the aid of a few simple chemical compounds purchased at the local feed store and beauty supply and his community church teaching “…faith is the assurance of things hoped for, a conviction of things not seen” (Heb.11:1), Harmon labored to develop a seed that grew into money. He practiced with one-dollar bills, going through nearly four thousand dollars in ones, trying to reduce the money to its most basic form and then to seed.

One morning in early February, after trial and error, when he was near the end of his family fortune, he went down into the basement to check his plants. There, in the third aquarium from the east wall, he found a tightly curled one-dollar bill poking out of the soil. He almost fainted from surprise.  He was a man of faith, but it had been tested for so many months. He didn’t want to pluck it before its full growth, and he wasn’t sure if it was a single or if the seed would develop into a branched plant with many singles. He packed up twelve PB & J sandwiches and told his mom not to disturb him for the next few days while he stayed in the basement working on his new project. Claudia surmised he was starting up pot production again.

For five more days, he waited and watched, giving small amounts of plant food and water to the incubating plant as it grew and unfurled. In the early evening of the sixth day, Harmon noticed the dollar bill was beginning to wither, so he plucked it and laid it out under a clear glass plate. With a magnifying glass, he examined it both front and back, checking for any imperfections. The only thing he found was a tiny soil stain on the bottom left corner of the bill.  Other than that, it looked exactly like the one-dollar bill he had in his wallet.

For the next several months, he worked on developing five, ten and twenty-dollar bills, all the while planting and growing the lettuce crop in the field. He was able to recreate his success with one-dollar bills, but the fives and tens withered before they completely formed. The twenty-dollar bill seemed hardier but not as prolific as the ones. He successfully grew two thousand dollars within ten months and decided to take it to the bank for a final test.

Shifting his balance discretely from one leg to the other and twisting his clammy clasped fingers, Harmon asked, “Ms Hempshaw, could you please check one of the twenty-dollar bills? I have a feeling they may be counterfeit.” He breathed deeply to calm his rapid heart rate.

The teller called the bank manager from his office to support her findings. “No, Harmon, it doesn’t appear to be counterfeit. Why did you suspect it?” asked Mr. Withers.

“It was part of a cash transaction for a truckload of cabbages. I’d never done business with the guy, and I wasn’t comfortable with him. I don’t often do cash transactions.”

“It’s fine. We will accept it for deposit,” Mr. Withers nodded.

Harmon exhaled a sigh of relief. His crop was now ready for planting.

His next hurdle was to plant his seeds outside to see how they would grow in his lettuce field. He picked a small field he could manage all by himself and told his mom he was planting a prototype new lettuce, and he didn’t want her or any of their seasonal crew to work in that field.  He placed a row of money between two rows of Romaine and watched it carefully. He planted the money seeds after the lettuce was nearly ready for harvest because money grew much faster, and he wanted it to be hidden by rows of fully leafed lettuce.

The day he was to harvest his crop, he fell very ill with a twenty-four-hour flu and had to stay in bed. His mother, to be helpful and without telling him, went to his private little field to harvest the lettuce for him. Claudia, now in her early sixties, was legally blind from the degenerative eye disease but still had enough sight to do basic farm chores and keep house. Because of her diminished sight, she didn’t notice the difference between green lettuce and green dollar bills. She picked all the rows, took the lettuce to the bagging shed, washed it, bagged and sealed it for shipping with the label – Pettigrew’s Organic Lettuce – Grown the Old-Fashioned Way.

          Mystery solved.

Sally’s comment: I would never have thought of the extent of detail, background, locations, and science that would go into using the money found in a lettuce bag as Diana. Diana took this unusual ‘find’ to a level that becomes almost, almost, believable.

•             This story is in our book, Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets.

Addiction

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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.

A Most Memorable Christmas

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Time to read: 5-7 minutes.

When Ken and I moved to southern Arizona to be full-time residents in 1997, we left behind our three kids, all adults, our two mothers, two brothers, and a sister, plus all their families. Throughout our forty years in Bellevue WA, as we established our family, we always spent the holidays with all of them, sharing meals and family traditions. Our first Christmas alone had a daunting, hollow feeling of abandonment, even though it was Ken and me who left the family for our Arizona life.

When we were first married, we spent Christmases just we two, and we didn’t miss anyone because we were so focused on each other and being together. However, after our first child arrived, we were always in the midst of our two families during the holiday season. I decided to find a way to shake the Arizona Christmas blues. I found an ad in the Arizona Star for volunteers to help make Christmas memories for children in Nogales. We signed up.

The patron of the volunteer operation was Jose Canchola, who owned several McDonald’s franchise restaurants. The volunteers all met at one in Nogales. Every year for thirty-one years until his death in 2008, Mr. Canchola hosted a Christmas party for underprivileged children from Nogales, Sonora, Mexico. Jose was born in Chicago to immigrant parents and rose by hard work and persistence to become a business and political leader in Southern Arizona. Besides owning restaurants, he was a part-owner of the Arizona Diamondbacks major league baseball team, and served as mayor in Nogales for a time. His philanthropy was legendary.

On Christmas day, we left for Nogales in the dark morning hours, arriving about 7:00 am. We loaded our backseat with toys and some clothing to add to the contributions of other volunteers and businesses. We were taught a few rudimentary sentences in Spanish to use to help guide them. We learned what our jobs were and waited for the first busload of kids to arrive at about 8:00. We were told the children were from the very poorest part of Nogales and the mountains around it. Buses went into Mexico, collected children in and around Nogales, Sonora, and brought them across the border to Nogales, Arizona, to Mr. Canchola’s McDonald’s restaurant. Bus load after bus load of kids were dropped off to be fed a McDonald’s lunch and receive gifts of clothes and toys.

One large room of the restaurant was heaped with gifts for kids. Toys on one side and clothing on the other side. Each child was greeted at the bus by a volunteer and either taken into the dining room for lunch or brought into the big room to choose clothing, a backpack, and a toy. Then they switched, and the lunch group went into the big room, and the other group went for lunch.

I worked in the toy/clothes room, and Ken worked in the restaurant serving lunch. It was timed perfectly and, as one bus load finished choosing gifts and eating lunch, another bus pulled in with another group of kids. There were about thirty minutes between buses.  One group was loaded back onto their bus, returning to Mexico as the next bus was greeted. It was rapid fire with no time between bus loads. I cannot tell you how many children were served that day, but we didn’t stop until after dark, at least nine hours, probably fifteen busloads of kids.

I marveled at the fact that the parents of all the children had faith to put their kids on a bus headed to the U.S., knowing they would be cared for by strangers and returned with gifts and a full tummy. The children were as young as two, on up to ten or twelve. Some kids came in family groups with the eldest looking after one, two or three siblings. A few of the children asked if they could take a gift to a sibling who wasn’t able to come on the bus. Some took a sack lunch of a hamburger and fries back with them to siblings who were left behind. The kindness and generosity of everyone involved was a heart-lifting experience. We were all there for the kids.

Very few of the children spoke English well, but most understood it a bit. My job was to take a child to the clothing area and find for them a shirt, jacket, pants, or coat that fit and that they liked. Shoes were available if they wanted a pair. Most picked out one item of clothing, but a few chose two or three items. Then I took the child to the toy side of the room, and they picked out a toy for themselves or sometimes one to take back to a sibling. Each child expressed their happiness at receiving the bounty they took home, some with words, most with their smiling, happy faces.

Ken told me about little ones with drippy noses that he had to wipe before they had their meals. None were obviously sick, but they were not in the best condition either. All were eager to dive into their yummy Mickey D’s. Hamburgers and fries disappeared in minutes.

One small boy sticks out in my mind. While several of the kids had been part of this gift program for a year or two, many were there for the first time. Their bright eyes grew enormous when they took in the stacks of toys and clothes. One little fellow named Luis was about six. He went into the restaurant first, and when he finished his lunch, he came to the big room. I took his hand and welcomed him, and asked what he wanted for clothes. I’ve since forgotten it all. He picked out a jacket, tried it on, and decided to keep it. Then we went to select a toy. I don’t remember what he chose, but his little arms were full. I walked him out to the bus, he got on, turning to smile at me. I watched other kids load and was about to go back inside when a bundle of love tackled me around the waist. It was Luis. He left his gifts on the bus and jumped off to give me a goodbye hug. He looked up at me with the most gorgeous, sweet smile and said, “Gracias, amable dama.” My heart melted. Tears come into my eyes now as I write this, nearly thirty years later, because I can still feel his hug and the look in his big brown eyes. Another volunteer translated his words, “Thank you, kind lady.”

Ken and I drove back to Oro Valley that night, exhausted but with full hearts. We experienced the essence of Christmas. GIVING and SERVICE to others. Our family now included all the children we met that day, even though we will never see them again. It was and is the very best Christmas I ever had.

A Dilly of a Dilemma

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I love to write to prompts. Quick stories, handwritten in a limited amount of time, jump-start the right side of my brain. The windows to my imagination are flung open and words fly freely onto the page. They are untethered to logic, only conforming to the guidelines of the prompt. Often, I am taken by surprise at the words that leave my pencil and show up on the page. Most of the time, they are zany musings, sometimes the beginning of a story to develop later, and sometimes a dark force compels a tragedy. Occasionally, nonsense dribbles out, and I find it hard to follow the labyrinth of thoughts. I am always in awe of the process and its revelations. The following story popped up when given ten minutes to write a scene from three different points of view.

The Scene: A female hitchhiker is dropped off at an emergency room with a problem. Tell the scene from the POV of the nurse, the patient, and a hospital administrator.

Nurse POV:

A young miss came into the ER early this morning with a problem. One I haven’t seen in my twenty-four years of nursing. She had been hitchhiking along Highway I-10 from Mobile on her way to Jacksonville, Florida. Her thumb was the size and color of a pickle, not dill, more like a large sweet. She didn’t appear to be in pain, and the rest of her hand looked quite normal and pink, but she complained that since the weather had turned cold, it had been impossible to put on her gloves. I took her vitals, then sent for Dr. Shambala, who was on call. He came in and examined the majestic, inflated digit with no discernible dismay.

His only question to her was, “Is it easy to get rides with that thing?”

To which she replied, “Actually, it comes in handy.”

“Well then, no surgery,” he said. “I think the answer is to buy larger stretchy gloves. I wouldn’t want to inhibit your travels or your gardening.”

I discreetly took a photo of her thumb. I wanted to show it to Hiram, our hospital admin. We had a meeting just last week about the anomalies of the human body and how to address those issues.

Patient POV:

My thumb had been bothering me for several days. Snow and sleet had become an everyday occurrence, even though I had consciously chosen a southern route for my winter journeys. My gloves just didn’t fit anymore. My thumb was getting larger and was really, really cold. I hitched a ride on a pig wagon to the nearest ER. It was a twenty-mile ride, but the farmer was swell. He asked me about my thumb, and I told him it was the reason I needed to see a doctor.

“Going to have it cut off?” he asked.

“Heavens no,” I replied, “just wonder if it could be made a little smaller for my gloves.”

In the emergency room, the doctor asked the obvious question. “How did it happen?”

It’s not the first time that question has come up. I get tired of the same old answer, “I was born this way”, so I told him I was picking crops in Mexico and got a cut, and the juice from the pickles I was picking dripped in, and lo and behold, I woke up with a pickle-sized green thumb.

The nurse at the ER looked a little disconcerted, but kept her cool, and the doctor suggested I get larger gloves for my travels.

“We wouldn’t want to impede your traveling abilities. It clearly is a significant benefit to your lifestyle.

As I was leaving, a sour-looking gentleman, round as a wine keg, came up and asked that I go with him to his office. I did, thinking he might have a suggestion for my thumb. I found out he was a pervert with a title and a fancy office. He wanted to suck my pickle. I left without “goodbye.”

Hospital Administrator POV:

Nurse Nancy came to my office this morning with a photo she took of one of our ER patients. That’s strictly forbidden, but when I saw the photo, I understood her motivation. The girl had a thumb the size of a juicy green pickle. I had given a mini-seminar to the staff about physical anomalies and injuries they could encounter in a rural hospital; everything from nails in the head or hand, to animal parts embedded in human parts – enough said. The thumb picture triggered something in me, and I had to go down to see it in person. The young lady was just leaving the ER.  I asked her to come up to my office for a chat. She obliged, but when the door closed, a powerful urge overcame me. I just had to taste that thumb. I had been a thumb sucker up to the age of fifteen when the shame heaped upon me by my peers finally inhibited the craving, and I quit cold turkey. The girl was offended by my request to suck her thumb and left in a huff. I wished her well on her journey and hope she has a dilly of a life.

AI generated picture

Writing – It is Never Finished

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Writing IS rewriting and rewriting and rewriting…ad nauseum.  When I have put a story on paper, I put it away for a day or two, even a year or two, then go back to reread it to see if it makes sense.   I inevitably find a different word or phrase I think works better in a sentence, a description that can be sharpened. It is a never-ending process. I have spoken to real authors, writers of dozens of books, and they say the same thing.  At some point you have to STOP writing. It is hard to say it is finished because you know there is something that could be illustrated better or you change your mind on the purpose of the story, even the plot. A new character pops up and works their way into the story. On and on it goes.

I recently read a book, Writing with the Master, by Anthony Vanderwarker, in which he described how he wrote his novel under the gentle and not-so-gentle guidance of his friend John Grisham. He worked for years writing his novel, Sleeping Dogs. During that time, John Grisham pointed out the weaknesses and gave him tips to make the story better. It took a full year for him just to get his outline right. Then he outlined each chapter and finally started the novel. The process was arduous, and he never gave up. After writing five or six novels over a period of time and shoving them into the back drawers of file folders, he finally had a novel that was worthy of publication.

Not since I was thirty have I thought of writing a novel. I just don’t have the patience for a long storyline. I love writing short stories and poems. They may be shorter, but it does take the same kind of effort to make a story coherent and interesting – just not the same amount of time. I have too many stories to tell to spend that much time on just one.

Characters develop from people I know or hear about. Sometimes a character in my head wants to have their story told. Often, from observation, I see or hear something that catches my attention and wants to become a story. Inspiration is all around. I live in an inspiration stew.

Finding time to write is always the challenge. I can go to my writing room, sit in a chair with pencil and paper, or at my computer, and be lost in a different world, consumed by a character, for hours on end. At least until my husband comes in to see if I’m still breathing. The cats, Sadie and Oliver, find me to remind me when it is dinnertime. Thank heaven I have them. Without my family, I can imagine I’d be a shrunken mummy sitting in a chair, poised with pencil in hand after leaving this earth without notice. Time totally disappears. Ahhh – I just thought of a story. A woman starts to write and disappears into her story, never to be found again. Well, I’ll work on it. 

Have a nice day.

My Secret Life

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Standing on the brink of eighty, I have so much past and a diminished amount of future. I must keep reminding myself of that because I don’t feel a day over thirty-five, and my tomorrows still seem endless. I’m listening to friends and colleagues about all they are doing to prepare for their inevitable end. Things like clearing out closets and storage so their heirs are not overwhelmed with the detritus of their lives.


That’s a good idea even if you are not anticipating the Grim Reaper. It cleanses the mind to get rid of stuff instead of stuffing it in nooks and crannies. The same can be said of ideas and memories. They can be aired out, shared with the world, or discarded entirely.


I have so many wonderful remembrances to look back on, I don’t dwell on woes. Among my very happiest memories, besides my relationships, are my stories. I have written countless stories, character sketches, and poems over the years. Only in the last twenty years have I shared any of them. I wrote for myself. As a matter of fact, no one in my family even knew I was a writer. Of course, I didn’t call myself a writer then because to me that was an exalted status far above my humble reach. You know Hemingway, Huxley, du Maurier, Woolf, Rowling, Fitzgerald, Austin, Dickens, and so many more I admire. When I took my first writing class, I was told that if I write, even in secret, I AM a writer. Hallelujah! Now I can say it out loud.


When we moved from the Pacific Northwest to Southern Arizona, I tossed out volumes of diaries, journals, and notebooks of my writing. I figured I’d never have any reason to revisit them. It was my secret life. By chance, some were overlooked, so I have dribs and drabs of my early reflections on life, including my senior year of high school. I would love to look through all those old notebooks again to see how my perspective may have changed.


I started blogging as a marketing tool for a book I co-authored three years ago. It was fun. I was hooked. I started asking my husband to read stories I write for my critique group and blog. He was surprised that I wrote. Fortunately, he likes my writing. At least he says he does. He is not a literary critic, only a reader. He has never liked reading books, so my short essays or reminiscences are just the ticket. Longer projects I have written require an editorial type of review. For now, I’m enjoying the interaction I receive from readers at the Oro Valley Writers’ Forum, my critique group, and my online blog.


I encourage EVERYONE who likes to put pen to paper or tap away on a computer to consider themselves A WRITER. Find a writers’ group that agrees to read and critique your stories. It is a way of strengthening your skills and receiving feedback for your ideas. Writer groups are formed in writing classes given through Pima or the U. of A. The Oro Valley Writers’ Forum at the Oro Valley Library is another place to meet writers and share ideas. It is never too late to share your perspectives with the world. Everyone has a story. Every day is a story. Don’t live in a secret world. Clear out your closet of ideas and reveal your insights through fiction stories, non-fiction, memoir, or poetry. Your voice is an important thread in the fabric of humanity. We have so much more in common than in opposition.

I apologize to anyone who was misled by the title of this piece, thinking there might be some delicious salacious tidbits in the offing. Eighty years have been filled with a myriad of highs and lows, disappointments, and missteps. My deepest, darkest secrets are still locked away in my journals. Some are delicious in retrospect. They may see the light of day at some point.

What Is Happiness?

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I had a discussion recently with friends at the Oro Valley Writers’ Forum (OVWF) about happiness. Then I read a blog post by Anthony Robert (tonysbalogna).  Do You Suffer From The Curse of Comfort – tonysbologna : Honest. Satirical. Observations

The discussion and blog post seemed to be synchronized. What is happiness? What brings comfort? Does it come with achieving your goals? Is it when you have acquired everything you ever wanted? Is it a daily ritual or habit?  How do we keep that carrot dangling before us, so we continue to reach for our future, our happiness, and contentment?

I believe Anthony has a good hold on it.

I believe that happiness is all in the pursuit of…

Happiness cannot be the end game. No matter what you think, you will find that happiness is just beyond what you thought it was. Comfort is also an elusive concept. What is comfort? There are levels that can only be defined by the individual. Can too much comfort lead to laziness, slack thought, unhappiness? It is the striving that brings satisfaction.

This of course is, as they say, a first- world-problem. People in depressed, exploited, or poverty-ridden areas of the planet have a totally different view of happiness and comfort. Their comfort is taken in small bits, as is happiness. Having a full belly brings comfort and leads to happiness if a full belly is a rare thing not taken for granted.  Food has always been in the immediate reach for me, so comfort is easily achieved. Sometimes food is happiness when an exceptional meal is planned and served.

I was blessed with a happy disposition, not something I work at, just a gift. My husband says it is because I have a very poor memory. I admit I do live without regret or longing for the past. I’m incapable of worrying about the future. That leads to an inability to plan ahead which can be very annoying to a spouse. I’m pretty much a today kind of girl.

Once when our marriage hit a bad patch, we were swirling down the drain headed for divorce after thirteen years. We went to my mother to tell her the news and prepare her for a different relationship with our family. We weren’t mad at each other – it was the times, the circumstances, and the expectations that caused a wedge. It was a matter of having achieved goals – a nice house in a beautiful neighborhood, two cars, three kids, two dogs, a great career – then looking around and saying, “Why am I not satisfied?”  My mother in her misguided effort at support declared, “Ken, I know she is hard to live with, but you’ll never meet a happier person.” A backhanded endorsement of me if I’ve ever heard one. The divorce failed, we reconciled, and the rest is history. My happy disposition must have helped win the day. I’m certainly not any easier to live with.

The things that bring joy in my life are my relationships with my family and friends and even strangers. I love to meet people and hear their stories. Lives lived in many different ways, yet with so much in common as human beings. I never tire of learning about other people, other cultures, other places. My life is enriched by those discoveries. That is the carrot that keeps me moving forward.

Writing is another joy in my life. There are infinite ideas to explore, infinite memories to share, infinite stories to conjure.  Words paint pictures. Words spark conversations. Words are a never-ending source of revelation.

What about you? What does happiness mean to you? What brings comfort?

This Old House

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My family moved into our home on Burns Avenue in the Riverside District of Wichita Kansas when I was three years old. It was an area between two rivers, the Little Arkansas and the Big Arkansas. The rivers were just a few blocks from us, one to the East and one to the West of our house. To the south, in the fork of the two rivers, is Riverside Park, less than two miles from our house. Our neighborhood was built prior to WWII.  Our house, built in 1940, had grey asbestos shakes and white trim. It was about 900 sq. ft. with two bedrooms, one bathroom, and an unfinished basement.  The detached garage was a few feet behind and to the side of the house. The entire neighborhood of homes had a tree-lined street with sidewalks.  Behind our house was an alley and across the alley was a church.  Sunday morning delivered raucous music, loud singing, and righteous preaching that we could hear from our backyard. Around the corner and down the block on another corner was an IGA grocery store. Across 18th Street from the IGA was a drugstore with a lunch counter where we could get ice cream sodas, a rare but delightful treat. In the other direction around the corner in the middle of the block was a tiny mom-and-pop grocery. The old man would soak toothpicks in cinnamon oil and keep them near the cash register. He gave them to neighborhood kids who stopped by on the way to or from school. We chewed on them as we walked. He also stocked the best penny candy.

One of my best friends moved into the house next door within a few months of our arrival. His name was Billy. He was my age and we hit it off, playing cowboys, hide and seek, and climbing my big backyard tree.  My very best friend, Lois, lived two blocks away on Woodland Avenue. When we were five we all attended Woodland Elementary which was two blocks in the other direction from my house on Salina Avenue. John Marshall Jr. High was three blocks further south. I left after sixth grade and didn’t get to attend John Marshall.

My room was at the back of the house and had two windows. The wallpaper on my wall was white with bouquets of lavender posies and yellow ribbons. My bed resided between the windows and I could see the backyard and my tree. It was an enormous maple tree. I sometimes made a tent over my bed with the open side toward the window and would pretend I was camping.

As soon as I was big enough, I climbed into Old Maple’s comforting branches to spend hours daydreaming or reading. It was well over thirty feet tall and, for a couple of years, I needed help to get up to the fork in the trunk that enabled me to climb higher. I could go far out on the limber bottom branch where I straddled it and bounced, pretending I was riding a horse. Dad built a swing attached to the side of the garage – another place to think and dream.

Our house had arched doorways between rooms except the two bedrooms and the bathroom. In the hall that led to the bedrooms and bathroom was a niche in the wall for the telephone. The living room had a fireplace with a floor-to-ceiling bookcase notched in beside it. The dining room had French doors out to the back porch. The kitchen was long and narrow, and my mother painted it Chinese Red. A window over the sink looked out to the backyard. At the end of the kitchen was an alcove where stairs led to the basement. It also had a side door leading out to the driveway where a honeysuckle vine grew on a tall white trellis.

A story I remember about the phone in the hallway was when I was four, I went swimming with the fishes. My mother ran my bath with nice warm water and bubbles and, before I got in, the phone rang. She went into the hall to answer it and began a conversation with someone. I was buck naked, running around the house. I decided to have company in the tub so I climbed on my little red chair, I got my goldfish bowl from the top of my dresser and dumped the fish with their castle, green ceramic mermaid and algae figures, and shiny rocks into the tub and climbed in. I began chasing the fish around in the tub and Mom heard the commotion. She was not amused. The fish were removed along with their paraphernalia to their bowl with clean water. The tub was emptied and washed out. Then I was tubbed, and scrubbed, and put to bed. I don’t believe the fish lasted through the night.

Another story that involved the phone was when I was six. I refused to clean my room. I put up a tantrum about something that was important to me at the time. My mother was at her wit’s end to get me to comply or at least calm down. She tried threatening and yelling at the same level I did with no positive result. Finally, she became very very quiet. She went to the phone in the hall. She dialed a number. I watched from around the corner to see who she was calling – the police? my Dad?  No, she called the Indians. She put her hand over the receiver and told me she was going to send me back to them since I was acting like them and wouldn’t mind her. I begged her to let me stay and promised to try to be a better girl. She relented and told them over the phone I wouldn’t be going to live with them, at least not that day.

The basement was where Mom’s washing machine resided. We had clotheslines in the backyard to hang clothes to dry.  The brown and white hide of my Dad’s horse Knobby was slung over the top of a folding roll-away bed. I sometimes climbed atop it and with a broom stuck in the crevice for a horse head, I pretended to ride the range on my paint pony. To this day I don’t know why my dad had his old horse pelt at our house. I do remember Mom did not appreciate its sentimental value and when we moved from that house it was left behind – who knows where?

I remember a year when the waters of the rivers rose above flood stage. All the neighbors went to the riverbanks to put sandbags along the edges. Even with that precaution, our basement held a few feet of water. The heartbreaking loss for my mom was the letters she received from my dad when he was overseas in the war. He wrote daily and she saved them in bundles with ribbons around them stored in the basement – until the flood when all were lost.

I loved my house, my neighborhood, and my school. The kids played kick the can, hide and seek, cowboys and Indians, a form of baseball across the front yards and into the street all through the year. In summer we’d roller skate from one end of our block to the other. Of course, in the winter we had snowball fights. The neighbor across the street raised chickens and when he decided to make one or two into their dinner he would let us know. The kids would line up to watch him catch a chicken from the coop, lay its head on an old stump in his backyard, and chop its head off with one mighty blow of a sharp axe. Then he let it go and the body would run around the yard and eventually flop over. A bloodthirsty gang we were.

I was eleven when Dad announced he received a promotion, and we were packing up and moving to Seattle Washington. It meant that when fall rolled around I wouldn’t be able to go to John Marshall Jr. High with all my cronies. The promotion I ached for – to be in Junior High. I was devastated. Mom was elated. She did not like living in Wichita. She was from Denver, a big fashionable city. To her eyes, Wichita was a cow town in the midst of the prairie. She yearned for the more cosmopolitan environs of Seattle. I remember trying to strike a deal with them to stay with my great-grandparents on High Street instead of going to Seattle. They reminded me that even if I did stay behind, I wouldn’t be able to go to school with my friends because my great-grandparents lived across the river about two and a half miles away in a different district. I went with them and met my destiny in Seattle.

Age Appropriate

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It has been said to me several times in the last year, “Wow, publishing your first book at the age of seventy-seven. That’s a big deal.”  I beg to differ. My age has nothing to do with writing other than I hope I have improved over the years. It’s as if my life culminated in this book. No, it hasn’t. If truth be told I have written enough over the years to compile as many volumes as the Encyclopedia Britannica. Publishing was never a priority or even a thought. I have written for seventy-eight years, no actually seventy-one years because my first novel was at the age of seven.

When we moved from Bellevue, Washington to Tucson in 1993, I jettisoned my journals, notebooks, and pages of writing to lighten the load. Boy, how I wish I had some of that back to fill in memories that are hazy now. Teen diaries with social events prominent, newlywed adventures, then pages of notes on my children as they grew up. Some pages were complaints, some were gratitude, some were hopes, some were sorrows – most were filled with the joy I felt watching my kids grow.

Of course, as writers do, I accumulated more journals, notebooks, and loose pages of writing in the intervening twenty-six years. They are not systematic or categorizable. I grab a notebook or journal when the spirit urges and start writing not caring what came before. I have journals with entries from 1997, 2005 and 2020. They are not in order because I start writing on whatever blank page I open to, so a 2017 entry may be before a 2005 one and heaven forbid if there is any theme articulated. This unstructured whimsy pattern is my life. My brain cannot do linear for more than a few minutes at a time.

Is there a right and wrong to writing? Absolutely not. Writers have to write. It is like breathing. It is an imperative to living. Age is not a factor in writing. There is nothing that says you can’t write after you are fifty or seventy or one-hundred. You don’t need an MFA or be on the best-seller list to write. Until I moved to Tucson the only writing class I had was a Freshman 102 class at WSU. A young professor tried to introduce newbie English majors to the idea of creative writing.

After we were settled in Tucson, I saw an ad for a writing class that sounded interesting and I thought it would also be a way of meeting people in my new town. I had no idea that class would introduce me to many other adults who loved to write “just because”. Indeed, I thought I’d be the only one there who wrote just for myself because “writer” meant a higher level of achievement than what I felt I had. Thankfully, I was wrong.

I met several people who love words and love putting them in some kind of order to tell stories. Our writers’ critique group was formed from a few people in that class and four of us stayed together for over twenty-five years. The book we wrote is to encourage other writers to create and maintain critique groups as a way of expanding and enhancing their writing experience. Creativity stays with you throughout your life.

Getting back to the age issue, I once knew a woman who dressed “inappropriately” for her age. She was in her late sixties, then early seventies when I knew her. She wore medium-heeled shoes with lacey bobby socks, fancy dresses that barely touched her knees and her long grey hair was done in braids, ponytail, or pigtails with ribbons and delicate butterfly clips depending on her whim and the time she took to get ready in the morning. She was petite, with a trim figure and her clothes looked good on her body, but they would have been more “appropriate” on her granddaughter. She was the hostess at a high-end restaurant in the town where we lived. She was courteous, on the ball, and did her job with confidence. She was NOT a nutcase. She was an individual. She loved people and it showed in her manner, her care with customers. I’m sure the first time people saw her, they were taken aback. I know I was. But after observing her over several years I knew she was authentic, not an act. I moved from that town so I’m not sure how long she remained in her job. I do know she had plenty of energy and enthusiasm for it and did it better than women who were in their twenties.

My point is people age differently, some are old at forty while others maintain their lust for life well into their eighties, even nineties. My grandmother was an example of someone who never let age determine her life trajectory. She was widowed at fifty-eight. She had no pension and social security was minimal. She went to live with and care for her elderly parents who lived into their nineties. When her parents passed away, two of her sisters (a widow and a divorcee) and a brother (a widower) moved in to share the family home and expenses. Four siblings in their seventies and eighties acted like four siblings in their teens. They teased, argued, hassled each other, and laughed in equal amounts. It was hilarious to visit them. If you overheard their conversations, you would never believe they were senior citizens. They all sounded like fourteen-year-olds.

Grandma developed congestive heart failure later in life, but it didn’t hold her back. She was a woman of boundless faith. The day she died she had been out helping her “old people”, those friends in their sixties and seventies (ten to twenty years younger than she) who relied on her to drive them to appointments and shopping. She went home after a busy day and said she didn’t feel well enough for dinner. She was taken to the hospital later and died of heart failure that night. Not once in my life did I ever hear her say anything about her age or infirmities. They were just not significant factors in her life. She created the best of each day she was given without excuses. I adored her for many reasons, her kindness, her generosity, her “get on with it” spirit, and aspire to be like her. She embraced the gift of each day. Age is a number not a state of being. A spirit cannot be defined by age.