Sometimes it is fun to rewrite history. Lots of my freinds live in Rhinebeck and they are students of its history. I have heard lots of their stories so I decided to write one of my own. It is a blend of history and fiction that fooled some of them at the time. Try this for fun.
Rhinebeck, NY
In the late 1600’s immigrants came to the area and formed a settlement, pushing aside the Indians of the gentle Sepasco tribe, but it was not till 1834 that the village was incorporated. Life was rough as they carved their farms from the forest and planted their fields. It was like a new frontier and the first crime came in 1836 when Carl VanMusen set fire to the barn of his neighbor John Reilly after Reilly had poisoned four of his sheep. John Reilly died as he rushed into the burning building trying to free his livestock and was struck by a falling beam. The rumor was that VanMusen was sleeping with Reilly’s beautiful red headed wife. Carl VanMusen was pilloried in the town for four days and then sent away for four years for arson. When released he returned to the area and took Reilly’s widow for his wife. Together they raised three fine red headed sons who became highly successful farmers developing many new and profitable concepts of farming. It is said that the village of Red Hook was named after Randy “Red” VanMusen who had a crippled left hand from a haying accident and for his lifetime of community service in the area.
As the Robber Barons moved up the Hudson building their mansions many of the sons and daughters of the early farmers were drawn into their employ. Working in the kitchens, living spaces and fields they learned of a totally different style of life from their own. They met European craftsmen, artists, furniture dealers, and were taught the social patterns of the rich and famous. A small tavern in the village of Rhinebeck “The Workman’s Arms“ became a gathering point for all the workers on these grand estates. This was the start of the cosmopolitanization of the area, a character that remains strongly a part of the town to this day.
In the thirties a lay poet wrote a poem about Rhinebeck. Emily Russell was a beautiful secretary who worked in a liquor warehouse in Hoboken, NJ. A friend of the Genovese family she was invited many times to their 100 acre estate in the area. She watched them turn the rich soil as they planted flowers over their old enemies and learned to love the simple scenic beauty of the area as she frolicked naked in the fields with their guests. Her piece was a lyrical ode to the bucolic nature of the village. It was originally written with each line on a separate Cuban cigar wrapper that were arranged on a green velvet background in a daisy pattern around a china plate with a Hudson River scene and placed under glass in a gold brushed wooden Rococo frame andt was presented to Bufano Genovese (uncle of “Fat Tony” Salerno) as a gift. By some stroke of luck, influence and kindness the “New Yorker” published her piece bringing much attention to the area. A picture of the original appeared in Life magazine after proper vetting. Emily Russell was not included in the picture.
In the middle 40’s Helen Turner, the Rhinebeck librarian started a book reading group called the “Page Turners”. They began to focus on the architecture of the area and were not pleased by the look of their village. As a couple of the elders had invested wisely from tips they heard around the tables at the estates as they did their jobs, they had money they wanted to give for the purpose of improving the village. They hired the renowned architect Charles Beekman. A highly arrogant man and a poseur he refused to sit at the table with the elders, but paced the room as he spoke. He demanded that “The Workman Arms” be sold to him for one dollar and that it was to be destroyed and replaced by a magnificent inn that he would own. He went on to proclaim a set of standards for store fronts and house renovation and demanded that they comply “No matter the cost.” The elders were stunned by the amounts of money necessary to do the job and the size of the commission he demanded. Totally swayed by his authority and reputation they agreed and the village was shaped into the beautiful image that we see today.
In the fifties Jerome Depew, a Vassar Geology professor, wrote a paper on the geology of the Hudson Valley. The paper was picked up by the National Graphic and then abstracted in the New York Times. It reinvestigated work by Prof. Chadwick in the early 1900’s which showed New York on the edge of an old quake line, “Logan’s Line” and predicted the possibility of further quakes along the Hudson River. The line was named after Sir William E. Logan, Director of the Canadian Geological Survey, and was applied to a belt of old earthquake activity that ran through the lower St. Lawrence Valley to Central Alabama by way of the Champlain and middle Hudson Valleys. It ran through Rhinebeck’s current position. The geology of the area was defined as: “The land to the east of the Hudson River steadily rises to the highlands of the Taconic Mountains, a region noted for its great decollements (allochthonous masses of rock associated with great thrust faults formed during the Taconic Orogeny, and later reactivated during the Acadian Orogeny. Outcrops along the New York Thruway provide many tantalizing views of folded Paleozoic formations which, unfortunately like all interstate road cuts, are off limits for casual examination”. This report caused quite a stir and brought many tourists to the area.
All the changes made to the village pressed the coffers and many who had made their money from overheard stock tips had died off so their funds were no longer available. In need of funds they considered building a fairground on the outskirts of the village. The possible advent of the fairground was fought by the elders for years for fear that it was plebian and would lower the real estate values, but the presentations made for the concept so glowingly described the revenue that it would provide that they were soon swayed. The first few years were difficult and they decried the traffic and noise that filled the middle of summer, but as the treasury filled they came to love this annual invasion. This is proof that even in the most enlightened communities concepts and ethics can be adjusted to meet practical needs.
And thus this small village has grown to be a golden medallion on the landscape of the state of New York. It is well thought of throughout the country and around the world. This is truly a highly successful story of city planning and architectural standards!
Editor’s note:
This article, originally printed in the Gazette-Advertiser of Rhinebeck, was picked up by “Architectural Digest” and then made into a brochure by Urban Insights Press that can be found in the Library of Congress under the ISBN of: 0-941580-20-X. Nominated for the history division of the Pulitzer in 2008 it came in behind a collection of erudite essays collected from members of “Writing is Our Nature”.
I must repeat this is largely fiction including the Editor's note so take it as tongue in cheek and go along for the ride. I enjoyed it.
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Five Bucks - fiction
This a fictional piece which is like the movie "La Ronde" in its circular path. Another interesting approach to try.
“Five bucks”
The alarm buzzed on at 5:45 in the dank still dark room, stale with smells of cigarettes, old beer and piles of yesterday’s clothes. The dog stirred when he rolled to slap the radio quiet. His head throbbed from the night with the guys at that new place, “Bandits”, Two college football games and a dozen beers had sent his body into revolt and the four hours sleep hadn’t been enough for the repair. Somewhere through the haze he flashed back to a few images: Larry stuffing his wallet with bills from his perfect picks and that looker of a waitress who had not just a body but a mouth. She told some stupid joke about a monkey and a giraffe that blew the guys away. Her name was Kay or Kristy or something like that. He had gotten her phone number and written it somewhere. Just then he couldn’t remember where. By now the damn digital read 6:04 and he had to be downtown at 6:45 to meet Larry to head out to that apartment complex and the job they had just booked.
He’d gotten “Drifter” at the pound four years ago after he split from Sally. A moth eaten golden with a loyal, easy going temperament, they became a team. He took him each day to whatever site and everybody knew “Drifter”. They made it to the pick-up with Drifter in the passenger seat, eyes scanning the road, the passing cars, clearly the most alert of the two of them.
First stop, Dunkin Doughnuts for black coffee and a couple of doughnuts. He stood in line, got out enough words for the order, slapped some bills on the counter and made it back to the pick-up. It was only then he realized he’d used that damn five with the phone number. “Damn”, he thought, “but I know she’ll be at Bandit’s. No sweat.”
The girl at the counter dropped the bills into the register and watched him walk out. She sized him up as cute, good job, nice dog and thought: “Why can’t I find someone like that.” Since high school she’d had one lousy job after another. This was such a slow morning so far, she was bored and just wanted out of there. “Yes, Ma’am, What can I get for you?” It was that nurse who worked at the nursing home and came in every morning before her shift. Nice person, but that seemed like an even more depressing job than this one. She gave her her order, took her twenty and gave her the guy’s five and more change and a polite “Have a nice day.”
“Oh yeah, you too” said the nurse, but her mind was on the day ahead and the day behind. It had been a tough week, one of the long term patients had died, a new admission had dementia and was a real handful and one of her ward patients had taken a turn for the worse which had left her weak and depressed. Though she’d been an LPN for ten years it still was an emotional coaster ride. She couldn’t help but get attached. Single, with the type of family background you’d see on the Jerry Springer show and a series of unstable relationships (she always seemed to pick losers) so her patients were her family.
Today she had Lydia on her mind. Lydia had been on her ward for four and a half years, weak and in her eighties, with her only living relative her sister who was five states away in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s. She had bonded with her, heard her stories from her flapper period, her married years, of her travels and her losses. She wondered what she could do for her and thought that a present might work. She parked her car at the card shop, walked in and cruised the aisles waiting for inspiration. There it was in the shape of a small plaster rabbit with floppy ears, a silly grin and “Have a nice day” written on a heart shaped card hanging around its neck. “Perfect”, she thought so and pulled a five and a ten out of her purse for the sales clerk. She had it wrapped in colored tissue and bought one of those gift bags with daisys on it to add to it. “That ought to bring a smile” was her thought.
It was slow in the shop but the early hours of the day were always quiet. The sales clerk sort of liked it that way as it gave her time to straighten things up and dust a bit for she was the type that liked order. Things out of place made her uneasy. In her home everything had its place and she had taught her husband how it was to be. The smaller magazines on top of the bigger ones, edges parallel, lower left corners aligned, then placed in the center of the left side of the coffee table. On the right on a doily, a small fine china plate of non-pareilles. There was comfort in this. The store door bell jingled as a teen came in and started looking around. The clerk was irritated at having been interrupted at what was sure to be a small sale and continued arranging the bills in the register by denomination, president’s face up, heads to the right.
The young girl was looking for a birthday present for her younger sister. Their Mom was a working Mom and didn’t always remember important dates. Through the years she had learned to fill in for her, to keep the calendar and bring up gentle reminders. This was a sort of extra responsibility that she really didn’t mind as it generally made things easier and her Mom didn’t seem to mind or even notice. When she found a little Scottish doll with a tartan skirt and flowers in her hair it just felt like the right choice. She picked it up and looked at all sides of it, took it over to the clerk and put it on the counter with a twenty dollar bill saying that this was to be a birthday present. She had come here as the store offered gift wrapping for free. The clerk made a face but neatly cut and folded the paper to just cover the doll and tied a perfect bows with each loop the same and the ribbon ends cut at forty five degrees. In the change was a five dollar bill which she decided to put in her drawer at home to start saving for a blue top she had seen at the Gap.
Later that day, the mother was putting away laundry and saw a fiver that had fallen on the floor by her daughter’s bureau and wondered how that had gotten there. Was it hers or her daughters? If it was her daughters, what was she being so secretive about? She thought back to her teen years and damn, but she had given her parent’s fits. It had been a wild part of her life and she sure didn’t want her daughter to go down that path. She was around most days, but worked the cocktail hour and nights for the tips. Things were tight raising two teen daughters alone without alimony. She hadn’t been able to get a cent out of that bastard, but that was another sad story. But what’s with this. They always talked over what clothes she bought and she knew just what her allowance was. “I don’t know and I’m not taking any chances.” She said to herself as she put the five bucks in her pocket and left for work.
At work she eyed the tables to see if the regulars were there, “Yeah, the usual.” But she wondered about that new guy who had been in last night. “Bet he doesn’t realize I’ve got two grown kids.” She walked over to the bar to buy a pack of Kents. When she pulled out the five she noticed the “K 695-0684”. “That son of a bitch”, were the words that came to her. She had seen him write it and thought he might call, but she had been through that before. This was less than 24 hours and he sure had blown this one. Pissed, she took the bill back, paid with another and kept it as a reminder. She went back to working the tables and the tips were going good tonight.
It was around seven when he got to Bandits. It had been a long day and they had had a lot of heavy stuff to do. Drifter looked beat so he rolled down the window and let him stretch out in the pick-up. He was planning to have a drink and then head home to the showers.
She saw him take a seat at the bar and pretended not to notice, but her peripheral vision was good enough to see he was scoping her. “OK, what’s next?” she thought. Was she pissed or was she interested? She knew she was holding a wild card in her hand. How would she play it? She liked that feeling of excitement, challenge. This could lead to fun or disaster. It would be a good ride either way, she was ready.
This was a great deal of fun to write as I wove in some local locations, but all the people were totally make up.
“Five bucks”
The alarm buzzed on at 5:45 in the dank still dark room, stale with smells of cigarettes, old beer and piles of yesterday’s clothes. The dog stirred when he rolled to slap the radio quiet. His head throbbed from the night with the guys at that new place, “Bandits”, Two college football games and a dozen beers had sent his body into revolt and the four hours sleep hadn’t been enough for the repair. Somewhere through the haze he flashed back to a few images: Larry stuffing his wallet with bills from his perfect picks and that looker of a waitress who had not just a body but a mouth. She told some stupid joke about a monkey and a giraffe that blew the guys away. Her name was Kay or Kristy or something like that. He had gotten her phone number and written it somewhere. Just then he couldn’t remember where. By now the damn digital read 6:04 and he had to be downtown at 6:45 to meet Larry to head out to that apartment complex and the job they had just booked.
He pushed “Drifter” off the bed, pulled himself into yesterday’s clothes, picked his wallet, his keys and then a wad of loose bills off the bureau. One of the crumpled bills, a fiver, had “K 695-0684” written in his handwriting. What a break; maybe he’d call her later.
First stop, Dunkin Doughnuts for black coffee and a couple of doughnuts. He stood in line, got out enough words for the order, slapped some bills on the counter and made it back to the pick-up. It was only then he realized he’d used that damn five with the phone number. “Damn”, he thought, “but I know she’ll be at Bandit’s. No sweat.”
The girl at the counter dropped the bills into the register and watched him walk out. She sized him up as cute, good job, nice dog and thought: “Why can’t I find someone like that.” Since high school she’d had one lousy job after another. This was such a slow morning so far, she was bored and just wanted out of there. “Yes, Ma’am, What can I get for you?” It was that nurse who worked at the nursing home and came in every morning before her shift. Nice person, but that seemed like an even more depressing job than this one. She gave her her order, took her twenty and gave her the guy’s five and more change and a polite “Have a nice day.”
“Oh yeah, you too” said the nurse, but her mind was on the day ahead and the day behind. It had been a tough week, one of the long term patients had died, a new admission had dementia and was a real handful and one of her ward patients had taken a turn for the worse which had left her weak and depressed. Though she’d been an LPN for ten years it still was an emotional coaster ride. She couldn’t help but get attached. Single, with the type of family background you’d see on the Jerry Springer show and a series of unstable relationships (she always seemed to pick losers) so her patients were her family.
Today she had Lydia on her mind. Lydia had been on her ward for four and a half years, weak and in her eighties, with her only living relative her sister who was five states away in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s. She had bonded with her, heard her stories from her flapper period, her married years, of her travels and her losses. She wondered what she could do for her and thought that a present might work. She parked her car at the card shop, walked in and cruised the aisles waiting for inspiration. There it was in the shape of a small plaster rabbit with floppy ears, a silly grin and “Have a nice day” written on a heart shaped card hanging around its neck. “Perfect”, she thought so and pulled a five and a ten out of her purse for the sales clerk. She had it wrapped in colored tissue and bought one of those gift bags with daisys on it to add to it. “That ought to bring a smile” was her thought.
It was slow in the shop but the early hours of the day were always quiet. The sales clerk sort of liked it that way as it gave her time to straighten things up and dust a bit for she was the type that liked order. Things out of place made her uneasy. In her home everything had its place and she had taught her husband how it was to be. The smaller magazines on top of the bigger ones, edges parallel, lower left corners aligned, then placed in the center of the left side of the coffee table. On the right on a doily, a small fine china plate of non-pareilles. There was comfort in this. The store door bell jingled as a teen came in and started looking around. The clerk was irritated at having been interrupted at what was sure to be a small sale and continued arranging the bills in the register by denomination, president’s face up, heads to the right.
The young girl was looking for a birthday present for her younger sister. Their Mom was a working Mom and didn’t always remember important dates. Through the years she had learned to fill in for her, to keep the calendar and bring up gentle reminders. This was a sort of extra responsibility that she really didn’t mind as it generally made things easier and her Mom didn’t seem to mind or even notice. When she found a little Scottish doll with a tartan skirt and flowers in her hair it just felt like the right choice. She picked it up and looked at all sides of it, took it over to the clerk and put it on the counter with a twenty dollar bill saying that this was to be a birthday present. She had come here as the store offered gift wrapping for free. The clerk made a face but neatly cut and folded the paper to just cover the doll and tied a perfect bows with each loop the same and the ribbon ends cut at forty five degrees. In the change was a five dollar bill which she decided to put in her drawer at home to start saving for a blue top she had seen at the Gap.
Later that day, the mother was putting away laundry and saw a fiver that had fallen on the floor by her daughter’s bureau and wondered how that had gotten there. Was it hers or her daughters? If it was her daughters, what was she being so secretive about? She thought back to her teen years and damn, but she had given her parent’s fits. It had been a wild part of her life and she sure didn’t want her daughter to go down that path. She was around most days, but worked the cocktail hour and nights for the tips. Things were tight raising two teen daughters alone without alimony. She hadn’t been able to get a cent out of that bastard, but that was another sad story. But what’s with this. They always talked over what clothes she bought and she knew just what her allowance was. “I don’t know and I’m not taking any chances.” She said to herself as she put the five bucks in her pocket and left for work.
At work she eyed the tables to see if the regulars were there, “Yeah, the usual.” But she wondered about that new guy who had been in last night. “Bet he doesn’t realize I’ve got two grown kids.” She walked over to the bar to buy a pack of Kents. When she pulled out the five she noticed the “K 695-0684”. “That son of a bitch”, were the words that came to her. She had seen him write it and thought he might call, but she had been through that before. This was less than 24 hours and he sure had blown this one. Pissed, she took the bill back, paid with another and kept it as a reminder. She went back to working the tables and the tips were going good tonight.
It was around seven when he got to Bandits. It had been a long day and they had had a lot of heavy stuff to do. Drifter looked beat so he rolled down the window and let him stretch out in the pick-up. He was planning to have a drink and then head home to the showers.
She saw him take a seat at the bar and pretended not to notice, but her peripheral vision was good enough to see he was scoping her. “OK, what’s next?” she thought. Was she pissed or was she interested? She knew she was holding a wild card in her hand. How would she play it? She liked that feeling of excitement, challenge. This could lead to fun or disaster. It would be a good ride either way, she was ready.
This was a great deal of fun to write as I wove in some local locations, but all the people were totally make up.
Monday, January 18, 2010
The Restaurant - Fast Fiction
Well, earlier I spoke of my favorite "Free Write". It is real short, only 92 words, but I feel it caught a certain feeling in that short time. Anyway I loved the way it came out. Enjoy.
The Restaurant – (92 Words)
The restaurant is still, only subdued conversations, the occasional scrape of a fork or knife on a plate or spoon on a cup and the soft thud of the kitchen door as the waiters come and go, then the child starts to cry. Is it tired, ill, being asked to eat something it does not like, confused, bored, ignored? The crying crescendos to sobbing. A layer of irritation and expectation settles as all expect something should be done. Through the sobbing, a child’s voice: “I’m sorry” and then the wrenching sobs continue.
This is not the best picture for this story, but it does show a vulnerable small child (in this case me in 1934). I know this story is sort of melodramatic and trite, but I like it and had fun writing it. Think the next post will be a travel piece.
The Restaurant – (92 Words)
The restaurant is still, only subdued conversations, the occasional scrape of a fork or knife on a plate or spoon on a cup and the soft thud of the kitchen door as the waiters come and go, then the child starts to cry. Is it tired, ill, being asked to eat something it does not like, confused, bored, ignored? The crying crescendos to sobbing. A layer of irritation and expectation settles as all expect something should be done. Through the sobbing, a child’s voice: “I’m sorry” and then the wrenching sobs continue.
This is not the best picture for this story, but it does show a vulnerable small child (in this case me in 1934). I know this story is sort of melodramatic and trite, but I like it and had fun writing it. Think the next post will be a travel piece.
Friday, January 15, 2010
"Squirt" a children's story
Sometimes trying another voice can be a fun challenge. One way to do that is to write a children's story and try to pick up that voice. Here is a children's story I wrote which had me try a child's voice with spark and energy.
“Squirt” –
My name is Dorothy Ann, but most people call me “Squirt”. You know when you are growing up and parents call you personal names that just sort of pop up out of their heads like “Pumpkin, Pussy Cat, Cutie, Hummer, Weasel or Tiger”. Well, my father called me “Squirt”. It was a sort of coded message from him that said, “You are small, wiry, full of energy, with great spirit and I just love what you are!” There are some people that you know love you without saying it right out; you can see it in their eyes. Then, I have found, that there are others that say it to you everyday and you just never quite can believe it.
My father had a CB radio in his car to talk with his friends while he was commuting. He added a loud speaker behind the grill so he could joke with people. One day he dropped me off at school and thru the loud speaker came “Have a good one, Squirt”. Embarrassing! I could have killed him. The other kids picked up on it and it was “Squirt” this and “Squirt” that. I knew some of them were just getting on my case, but I carried it proud and soon the mean ones got bored and my friends started to say it like something special. So “Squirt” I became and “Squirt” I am.
We live in Ridgeway. It’s a small town in Connecticut where most of the houses have gardeners and multiple car garages. My Dad had some sort of fancy job, but one day the light kind of went out of his eyes. His walk changed and his shoulders rounded so we moved to this house which has a carport and I do the lawn. He seemed to have less and less to say so he’d give me hugs rather that conversation. It was sort of like looking at a big lighthouse where they had turned off the light. He started to work for the town and my Mom did real estate and their friends changed.
For me it was kind of like watching a show on TV and someone was making everything run slower and a bit darker. I got out of middle school. Yeah, I was always pretty smart and found learning stuff interesting. Figuring things out and hearing about other countries just upped my curiosity. I got the right sized breasts and boys started saying I was “cute”, but they still called me “Squirt”.
My Dad got quieter and quieter and the lines around his eyes grew deeper. There just wasn’t much any of us could do. It was sad for me as each day we lost touch just a little bit more. There was nothing there to blame. There was just a growing sense of loss. There came a day when my father just wasn’t there. He had gradually faded as a person, but each day there had been some glimpse of what had been, a head nod, a smell, a magazine, keys where he always dropped them and then there was nothing. Mom said, “He went to Hawaii” and I didn’t know what that meant. My friend’s parents went to Hawaii to play golf, to get a suntan, to go to luaus, to wear leis and then they came back. But my Dad never came back. There was not even a tacky Hula girl postcard, no credit card bills just silence. We coped. Mom seemed resigned, perhaps she knew more of the whys, but we fell into acceptance and the edges of our feelings softened.
Life went on and the regular things happened. I made the honor roll, ran for class president and almost won, but Sally Anderson from the two car garage set edged me out on dazzle. I made the cheerleading team. Now you can stick your nose up about that if you like, but we were really good. Took all state three times and being “Squirt” paid off. I was top of the stack, the light one for all the big tricks and point for the big ending. I had lots of good friends, worked hard, we had a good coach and we were all together on this.
It had been five years after he left when we heard that the cheerleading team was invited to be in some big event at the convention center at the Marriott in Kauai. It took a while but when the details got worked out, well, the team would be going to Kauai, Hawaii.
I knew there were a couple of islands, but my Mom had no idea where Dad was or even if he might have moved. I am pretty good at the internet and had put his name in “Search” a couple of times, but nothing came up. I couldn’t think of anything more I could do, but I was still hoping (yes I was!) for something.
It was exciting and my first trip out of the US of A. The team got new uniforms with “Ridgeway High” on the front. On the back I put, “Hey! I’m Squirt. Yeah, it’s me!” Well, amongst the cheerleading crowd I am pretty well known. But, I even put my name on the college applications as “Dorothy Ann ‘Squirt’ Williamson”. The bus took us to the airport and we flew forever, stopping in LA. Yeah, I kept imagining movie stars everywhere, but we never saw a single one. Then on to Lihue on Kauai where another bus took us to the Marriott.
I mean it was different from Connecticut. Palm trees, orchids, water the brightest blue in the world and warm sun. We put on the bikinis, slathered in sun tan stuff and lay around the pool. We ate papaya, guava, ahi and ono (I think those are some kind of tuna). We even walked around the golf course to see what the parents had been up to. At night there were hula dancers. They kept their feet pretty flat on the ground but their knees and hips went crazy. We got up and tried, but found out it was tough.
The competition went OK. We came in third behind Iowa and Montana. Everyone was happy with that. The next day we went to see the Kilauea Lighthouse and Nature Preserve. Frigate birds soared overhead, boobies (weird name for a bird) nested like snowflakes on the hill, monk seals slept on the rocks. It was amazing. Someone said there were albatrosses you could see through a telescope so I went over to take a look.
“Is that you, Squirt?” I was wearing my shirt, but I knew that voice in a heartbeat. He was standing there in a blue shirt that said “National Park Guide” with a name tab with “Bob Meyers” in black letters. I didn’t know what to do so I just let instinct take over and stepped over and gave him a hug. It felt right. When I looked up, I could see the light was back in his eyes, skin tanned and pride back in his body.
“Meyers” had been his mother’s name and I guessed it was his way of starting over. We had a lot to talk about. It was clear how good we felt about the moment; how we both had grown, were connected to our new lives, and still could see that the warm connection was there. We found some time to sit and talk and a big hole seemed to fill in in my life. We would stay in touch. He wanted to know what I was going to do next. OK!
With the team back on the plane I could feel the change, how somehow things were a bit bigger, a bit more complete. I felt myself growing up. You can see now that I am not really a “Dorothy” or an “Ann”. Next year, when I’m eighteen I think that I will change my first name officially. I have been trying out “Brittany”, “Celine” “Crystal”, “Melissa”, but the one that I think I like the best is “Courtenay”. My Mom said “Dorothy” came from the “Wizard of Oz “ which she liked a lot and “Ann” from some relative of her mother’s so now she is saying “Go for It”.
Well, I’ve got to go now.
Been nice talking with you.
In a couple of years you might Google “Courtenay Williamson” and find something interesting.
See yah!
Bye, bye for now!
That's it. Why not give it a try.
“Squirt” –
My name is Dorothy Ann, but most people call me “Squirt”. You know when you are growing up and parents call you personal names that just sort of pop up out of their heads like “Pumpkin, Pussy Cat, Cutie, Hummer, Weasel or Tiger”. Well, my father called me “Squirt”. It was a sort of coded message from him that said, “You are small, wiry, full of energy, with great spirit and I just love what you are!” There are some people that you know love you without saying it right out; you can see it in their eyes. Then, I have found, that there are others that say it to you everyday and you just never quite can believe it.
My father had a CB radio in his car to talk with his friends while he was commuting. He added a loud speaker behind the grill so he could joke with people. One day he dropped me off at school and thru the loud speaker came “Have a good one, Squirt”. Embarrassing! I could have killed him. The other kids picked up on it and it was “Squirt” this and “Squirt” that. I knew some of them were just getting on my case, but I carried it proud and soon the mean ones got bored and my friends started to say it like something special. So “Squirt” I became and “Squirt” I am.
We live in Ridgeway. It’s a small town in Connecticut where most of the houses have gardeners and multiple car garages. My Dad had some sort of fancy job, but one day the light kind of went out of his eyes. His walk changed and his shoulders rounded so we moved to this house which has a carport and I do the lawn. He seemed to have less and less to say so he’d give me hugs rather that conversation. It was sort of like looking at a big lighthouse where they had turned off the light. He started to work for the town and my Mom did real estate and their friends changed.
For me it was kind of like watching a show on TV and someone was making everything run slower and a bit darker. I got out of middle school. Yeah, I was always pretty smart and found learning stuff interesting. Figuring things out and hearing about other countries just upped my curiosity. I got the right sized breasts and boys started saying I was “cute”, but they still called me “Squirt”.
My Dad got quieter and quieter and the lines around his eyes grew deeper. There just wasn’t much any of us could do. It was sad for me as each day we lost touch just a little bit more. There was nothing there to blame. There was just a growing sense of loss. There came a day when my father just wasn’t there. He had gradually faded as a person, but each day there had been some glimpse of what had been, a head nod, a smell, a magazine, keys where he always dropped them and then there was nothing. Mom said, “He went to Hawaii” and I didn’t know what that meant. My friend’s parents went to Hawaii to play golf, to get a suntan, to go to luaus, to wear leis and then they came back. But my Dad never came back. There was not even a tacky Hula girl postcard, no credit card bills just silence. We coped. Mom seemed resigned, perhaps she knew more of the whys, but we fell into acceptance and the edges of our feelings softened.
Life went on and the regular things happened. I made the honor roll, ran for class president and almost won, but Sally Anderson from the two car garage set edged me out on dazzle. I made the cheerleading team. Now you can stick your nose up about that if you like, but we were really good. Took all state three times and being “Squirt” paid off. I was top of the stack, the light one for all the big tricks and point for the big ending. I had lots of good friends, worked hard, we had a good coach and we were all together on this.
It had been five years after he left when we heard that the cheerleading team was invited to be in some big event at the convention center at the Marriott in Kauai. It took a while but when the details got worked out, well, the team would be going to Kauai, Hawaii.
I knew there were a couple of islands, but my Mom had no idea where Dad was or even if he might have moved. I am pretty good at the internet and had put his name in “Search” a couple of times, but nothing came up. I couldn’t think of anything more I could do, but I was still hoping (yes I was!) for something.
It was exciting and my first trip out of the US of A. The team got new uniforms with “Ridgeway High” on the front. On the back I put, “Hey! I’m Squirt. Yeah, it’s me!” Well, amongst the cheerleading crowd I am pretty well known. But, I even put my name on the college applications as “Dorothy Ann ‘Squirt’ Williamson”. The bus took us to the airport and we flew forever, stopping in LA. Yeah, I kept imagining movie stars everywhere, but we never saw a single one. Then on to Lihue on Kauai where another bus took us to the Marriott.
I mean it was different from Connecticut. Palm trees, orchids, water the brightest blue in the world and warm sun. We put on the bikinis, slathered in sun tan stuff and lay around the pool. We ate papaya, guava, ahi and ono (I think those are some kind of tuna). We even walked around the golf course to see what the parents had been up to. At night there were hula dancers. They kept their feet pretty flat on the ground but their knees and hips went crazy. We got up and tried, but found out it was tough.
The competition went OK. We came in third behind Iowa and Montana. Everyone was happy with that. The next day we went to see the Kilauea Lighthouse and Nature Preserve. Frigate birds soared overhead, boobies (weird name for a bird) nested like snowflakes on the hill, monk seals slept on the rocks. It was amazing. Someone said there were albatrosses you could see through a telescope so I went over to take a look.
“Is that you, Squirt?” I was wearing my shirt, but I knew that voice in a heartbeat. He was standing there in a blue shirt that said “National Park Guide” with a name tab with “Bob Meyers” in black letters. I didn’t know what to do so I just let instinct take over and stepped over and gave him a hug. It felt right. When I looked up, I could see the light was back in his eyes, skin tanned and pride back in his body.
“Meyers” had been his mother’s name and I guessed it was his way of starting over. We had a lot to talk about. It was clear how good we felt about the moment; how we both had grown, were connected to our new lives, and still could see that the warm connection was there. We found some time to sit and talk and a big hole seemed to fill in in my life. We would stay in touch. He wanted to know what I was going to do next. OK!
With the team back on the plane I could feel the change, how somehow things were a bit bigger, a bit more complete. I felt myself growing up. You can see now that I am not really a “Dorothy” or an “Ann”. Next year, when I’m eighteen I think that I will change my first name officially. I have been trying out “Brittany”, “Celine” “Crystal”, “Melissa”, but the one that I think I like the best is “Courtenay”. My Mom said “Dorothy” came from the “Wizard of Oz “ which she liked a lot and “Ann” from some relative of her mother’s so now she is saying “Go for It”.
Well, I’ve got to go now.
Been nice talking with you.
In a couple of years you might Google “Courtenay Williamson” and find something interesting.
See yah!
Bye, bye for now!
That's it. Why not give it a try.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
His Uncle - free write process
One of the best ways to shake off "Writer's Block", to get rid of the Watcher, the inner voice that says you can't is to do a free write to just splay something on paper. At one of our meetings a member brought in three pictures.
I chose the picture at the top and then spent around ten minutes free writing. This is what I came up with.
His Uncle -
This had once been my uncle’s place. He had passed and I had come to look, to reminisce, and to recover from the ordeal of the funeral. I just wanted to get away so had driven north from Burlington through the lush fall colors. I could remember his love of Vermont, of the earth, of things quiet and settled. He had moved here in his 60’s to read and have a small vegetable garden after years in New York City as a playwright. His play “Ten Miles to Eternity” drafted when he was at Bowdoin College had captured audiences in Portland, ME, Boston and off Broadway in NYC. In it four people, two men and two women, had received golden dated passes to Eternity. They discussed, argued and joked about what they would do with the time left, what the after life would be and how they would prepare for it. It established him as a thoughtful writer with a humorous side. The move had seemed such a change to us all and we had tried to stop him.
“You’ll get bored.” “There will be no one you can have a civil conversation with.”
But it made no difference and one day he was in New York and the next he was gone.
As a family we visited in shifts, parked our cars on his lawn, brought food, and paraded his grand nieces and nephews. He watched us all with quiet pride and wonder at his growing family. We played in the hay in the barn, swam in the muddy pond and taught our children how to drive his tractor.
When it was time for us to leave he would have words for each of us from his readings or his thoughts and would stand on the porch and wave us out of sight.
Somehow those images have stayed in our heads and when we have a quiet moment from our busy lives in the city, the pictures of the fields, the pond, the porch, and the vegetable patch come to mind and give us balance.
Now as I had just driven my car up onto the overgrown lawn, seen the door to the barn with its peeling paint and broken boards I really knew that he was gone and things would be different. I walked to the barn, put my hands on the peeling paint of the door, feeling the heat from the setting sun and the grain of the wood and the slight movement as it swung on its hinges. There still was some life there, like feeling a slowed pulse or a steady rhythm of life. I said my “Good Byes” to his spirit, thought of what he had been, what I would remember and carry with me, then turned, opened the door to my car, climbed in, started the engine and backed slowly down the drive.
It is your turn.. just pick one of the pictures and have a go at it.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
"Routines" - about rowing
A couple of years ago at 73 I decided to take up a new sport, rowing. I bought an open water rowing scull, The Echo (For details see their website) and joined a club to learn. Rowing is a perfection sport where there are lots of articles about how to do each element of the stroke to get the best performance. In trying to capture that I chose to do a fictional piece rather than just log what I do. "Routines" tries to give the feeling and satisfaction of rowing.
Routines –
The light green numbers clicked to 6:12, the soft gray early morning light came through the bathroom window, the trees unmoving. It would be another eighteen minutes till the alarm radio would switch on. He turned and looked at her sleeping soundly, one leg out of the covers, Victoria Secret pattern against the cotton sheet, short blond hair on the pillow; he didn’t want to bother her. Two feet on the floor he put on his glasses, his watch and got ready to stand up. He would switch off the alarm then start his routine for the proper clothes, lowering his scull onto the car top, remembering the oars, driving to the river. He savored these routines and found comfort in their fluid order and measured sense of achievement.
At the river he found others, but this morning ignored them and continued changing shoes, finding the water bottle and cap; locking the car, moving the oars to the low dock then settling the boat into the water. It was eighteen feet long and 21 inches wide, needlelike with a sliding seat and outriggers that held the nine foot oars now placed at 90 degrees to the hull. He had seen it in a magazine, talked with the designer, loved the lines of it and passion bought it never having rowed before. An Aquarian, his whole life he had found peace and alignment on the water. Now he paused to look up at the virgin river, empty now, black mirror smooth, the gentle tide running south to north, with its dark green treed sides and topped by the cool gray sky. A soft, light haze floated over the surface. He was ready to begin.
Stepping precisely in the center of the scull, one hand holding the overlapping oar grips he eased onto the sliding seat, placed his feet in the stretcher, tightened the foot straps and pushed lightly away from the dock. The scull moved slowly sideways with a smooth momentum until the long oars were clear and flat on the water in the most stable position. A quick look over his shoulder showed a clear path down the river to the bridge a mile away. Balance set he pushed the oars away straight armed, compressed his knees, sliding the seat aft, then rotated the blades to vertical and dropped them in the water, pushing with his legs then pulling with his back then his arms, releasing the blades from the water rotating them and moving the handles back for the second stroke. The scull slow at the start, gathered speed and slid smoothly over the water leaving a thin line on the water framed by pairs of black swirls where the oars had taken their bite.
He concentrated on balance, the straightness of the wake, the angle of the blades, the resistance of the water, movement of the scull on the water. A surge ahead then a glide, then the next surge. All his senses were focused. He could feel the pressure on the bottom of his feet with each stroke, the muscles of his legs timed to give power, his hips moving on the sliding seat, his back setting the right angle, his arms pulling, releasing, pushing, his head held even for balance. The river matched his rhythm, supporting, parting, soothing, cool in partnership. Surge, glide, surge, relax; he added a little pace, his heart rhythm responding, sweat starting, lungs filling, and stronger body sensations. It went on this way with all other thought banished, a mind and body cleansing, the effort gently pushing the body to its best, a peak of ecstasy in harmony with the river, the flow of the tides, the sky.
Then the shadow of the bridge swept over him and he became again aware of the surroundings; the bridge, houses, boats moored, the train station, pulled back to the moment. Reaching for his water bottle he drank the cool water and slowly took it all in. A train ran down the track on the far side of the river, others were rowing, a tug came pulling a barge bound for Albany, commuters cars hustled across the bridge, a few people walked in the park near the city. Senses sharpened, he was more aware as he turned and rowed slowly back by the eastern shore past industry, feeder streams, trees and shrubs spilling over the banks, marinas, shallows. There seemed to be space and time to enfold it all. More time to enjoy the movement of the scull, the growing movements of the river and wind, the warmth of the early morning sun, the rich colors.
An hour later, he brought the scull gently to the dock and stepped back into the routine. Oars and boat to the car, shoes changed, drive home, hang the scull in the garage. When he stepped into the house she was having breakfast and asked;
“How was your row?”
“It was a beautiful morning on the river” he said.
Then he opened the cupboard and started his breakfast routine.
Monday, January 11, 2010
A day with my granddaughter
Now is the time for a memoir. This is about family and my granddaughter handling Cystic Fibrosis. I think some of the emotions show through as they should. She is a marvelous person and we want her around forever, but we will have to see.
"A Day with My Granddaughter"
It has been a two and a half hour drive to New Jersey and it is 10:30AM when I pull up to the parking garage. The uniformed Kinney guard asks “What is your business?” “To visit my granddaughter” I say. As I park jack hammers pound the floor above with noise thundering around me, the elevator door closes to silence then opens to black marble floors and floor to ceiling two story glass walls. I am in the Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital and blue jacketed guides direct me to the main lobby with its grand player piano that plays soft pop music, then past the Surgical Waiting Room, Administration, Anesthesia, the Perioperative Material Management Office (your guess is as good as mine) and the Soiled Utility Room (don’t go there) to a glass corridor with children’s sculptures; one is made as an interactive Tic Tack Toe game, one a string less harp and one a speaking scale. Somehow kids never make it here, I only see contract workers using it for a lunch area. At the end is the Bristol Meyers, Squibb Children’s Hospital (are these drug companies giving back or adding market?).
I wait for my granddaughter, 4 ½ years old, 40 inches tall, weighing 33 pounds who sparkles with shy energy. She is a runner, a dancer (does well to James Brown), a quick study and a definite individual with delicate skin, soft hair and blue eyes. Two years ago she was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis.
CF is an inherited genetic disease that causes secreting glands to not function normally. Instead of producing thin,slippery secretions such as sweat, mucus, tears, saliva and digestive juices it makes thick sticky secretions that become plugs that can interfere with breathing and digestion. It used to be fatal in the first ten years, now lifespan can run 30 – 50 years.
She bounces across the lobby ahead of her parents shouting “GranBob”, my particular name. She is here for a “tune up”, a two week long heavy IV dosage of antibiotics and specialized drugs. Her new doctor saw a darkening on the left side of her lung in her x-rays last week and ordered this.
Her normal day includes three 10 minute nebulizers and an inhaler for special drugs. She gets enzyme pills at each meal for food digestion. Insurance covers the $3,000 monthly cost. This is followed morning and night with half hour sessions of chest physical therapy (PT) (left, right, front and back chest pounding to dislodge the sticky substance from the five chambers of the lungs so that it can be coughed up). It is this physical almost medieval, cupped hand, chest thumping on her small delicate body and her submission of it that affects me more than the IV’s, drugs, PICC lines and Xrays. It amplifies the intensity of our fight against this disease and fear, anger, injustice and empathy make me want to bolt from the room each time I see it. Ada watches cartoons with measured acceptance.
Nancy greets us with paperwork, a thirteen year veteran in her job, she is personable and efficient. She passes us to Sophia in light blue scrubs who is confused as to where we should go. After fifteen minutes we are delivered to the fifth floor children’s area with its special Children’s Media Center and Amber takes us to room 5016. My granddaughter walks quietly taking it in. She did this at another hospital a year and a half ago. 5016 has an entry door, a pantry, then a second door to the actual room. As CF patients have a lower resistance level, she will be under “Contact Isolation” rules which means she can’t visit the Media Center and all hospital personnel must stop in the pantry and put on a plastic gown and rubber gloves before entering her room. Diane (nurse) and Ali (student nurse) come to meet her and listen to her chest “crackles” (air passages sticking and unsticking with each breath – I borrowed the stethoscope and couldn’t hear a thing. It definitely takes training). Halley comes to take blood pressure and temp. Michelle comes to get phone contact numbers, Maria and Kosmul, doctors assistants listen to her chest and review her history.
Between visits we spread out toys and decorate the room with paper chains and colorful plastic flower pattern pieces that are stuck to the window and cause colored outlines on the bed. She is into her art work and tolerates the interruptions stoically.
Louise comes from housekeeping, Jenn from the Media Center, Heidi the social worker visits. Deborah does 45 minutes of PT (this will be done four times a day here). Around 2PM my graddsughter is wheeled to the “Procedure Room” where the temporary IV is put in her arm. The student nurse tries twice with the needle missing the vein, the day nurse needs two tries to get it right. Ada returns unhappy and subdued, but soon is back at her art work.
The doctor’s assistant Lee Ann visits with great information on CF care, the doctor visits (a great improvement in manner from their previous doctor at another location who is a national expert but aloof and abrupt and difficult to get answers from). Another technician, Mary Lynne gets blood pressure and temp. Deanne, a wonderful person who communicates at her level physically and quickly and compassionately covers for my daughter all aspects of the procedure schedule then does PT.
It is now about 4PM and I realize that so far sixteen people have passed through 5016 in four hours. she has had to absorb, evaluate, work with, include and accept them all. I marvel at her sense of self, at her ability to handle complexity, to acknowledge, to read people, to accept and work to understand.
My daughter moves the IV stand to the right side of the bed and gets a long line so my graddaughter can bounce off the bed to the chair, and to the window. she is up and about twirling to keep the line clear, careful at its limit but free within its scope.
She tells jokes:
“Why does the chicken cross the road?”
“To get to the other side.” She gives a small laugh, then again –
“Why does the chicken cross the road?”
“To get back home.” She throws her head back and sprays giggles all over
the room as she made that one up.
She produces scenarios:
“You say this, I’ll say this, then…. “
If you get the words or the tone wrong you are gently corrected.
It is dinner time now and this hospital lets you order from a menu at a time of your choice. She orders chicken fingers and mashed potatoes (her personal favorite) with lots of butter (CF kids need lots of fat and sometimes she will eat butter right from the stick and we all are delighted).
I leave for the motel at 9:30PM and know that tomorrow I’ll be back to see her handle no food for 24 hours, a PICC line (long term IV line) insertion under anesthetic, four more PT sessions, 20 plus contacts with doctors, nurses, etc. still with her integrity and character shining through.
It is special for me to be with her. I admire her and love her so much and feel the frustration of not being able to solve this. I worry as well about my daughter and her husband who manage with the complexity and drain of this each day. Her zest for life helps me refuel my aging pursuit of adventure. She reminds me of the health I take for granted, of the extent of personal options available to me, and the wealth of past good times.
It has been a good day with my grand daughter.
If you'd like to learn more about cystic fibrosis click here to contact the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation on the web.
"A Day with My Granddaughter"
It has been a two and a half hour drive to New Jersey and it is 10:30AM when I pull up to the parking garage. The uniformed Kinney guard asks “What is your business?” “To visit my granddaughter” I say. As I park jack hammers pound the floor above with noise thundering around me, the elevator door closes to silence then opens to black marble floors and floor to ceiling two story glass walls. I am in the Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital and blue jacketed guides direct me to the main lobby with its grand player piano that plays soft pop music, then past the Surgical Waiting Room, Administration, Anesthesia, the Perioperative Material Management Office (your guess is as good as mine) and the Soiled Utility Room (don’t go there) to a glass corridor with children’s sculptures; one is made as an interactive Tic Tack Toe game, one a string less harp and one a speaking scale. Somehow kids never make it here, I only see contract workers using it for a lunch area. At the end is the Bristol Meyers, Squibb Children’s Hospital (are these drug companies giving back or adding market?).
I wait for my granddaughter, 4 ½ years old, 40 inches tall, weighing 33 pounds who sparkles with shy energy. She is a runner, a dancer (does well to James Brown), a quick study and a definite individual with delicate skin, soft hair and blue eyes. Two years ago she was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis.
CF is an inherited genetic disease that causes secreting glands to not function normally. Instead of producing thin,slippery secretions such as sweat, mucus, tears, saliva and digestive juices it makes thick sticky secretions that become plugs that can interfere with breathing and digestion. It used to be fatal in the first ten years, now lifespan can run 30 – 50 years.
She bounces across the lobby ahead of her parents shouting “GranBob”, my particular name. She is here for a “tune up”, a two week long heavy IV dosage of antibiotics and specialized drugs. Her new doctor saw a darkening on the left side of her lung in her x-rays last week and ordered this.
Her normal day includes three 10 minute nebulizers and an inhaler for special drugs. She gets enzyme pills at each meal for food digestion. Insurance covers the $3,000 monthly cost. This is followed morning and night with half hour sessions of chest physical therapy (PT) (left, right, front and back chest pounding to dislodge the sticky substance from the five chambers of the lungs so that it can be coughed up). It is this physical almost medieval, cupped hand, chest thumping on her small delicate body and her submission of it that affects me more than the IV’s, drugs, PICC lines and Xrays. It amplifies the intensity of our fight against this disease and fear, anger, injustice and empathy make me want to bolt from the room each time I see it. Ada watches cartoons with measured acceptance.
Nancy greets us with paperwork, a thirteen year veteran in her job, she is personable and efficient. She passes us to Sophia in light blue scrubs who is confused as to where we should go. After fifteen minutes we are delivered to the fifth floor children’s area with its special Children’s Media Center and Amber takes us to room 5016. My granddaughter walks quietly taking it in. She did this at another hospital a year and a half ago. 5016 has an entry door, a pantry, then a second door to the actual room. As CF patients have a lower resistance level, she will be under “Contact Isolation” rules which means she can’t visit the Media Center and all hospital personnel must stop in the pantry and put on a plastic gown and rubber gloves before entering her room. Diane (nurse) and Ali (student nurse) come to meet her and listen to her chest “crackles” (air passages sticking and unsticking with each breath – I borrowed the stethoscope and couldn’t hear a thing. It definitely takes training). Halley comes to take blood pressure and temp. Michelle comes to get phone contact numbers, Maria and Kosmul, doctors assistants listen to her chest and review her history.
Between visits we spread out toys and decorate the room with paper chains and colorful plastic flower pattern pieces that are stuck to the window and cause colored outlines on the bed. She is into her art work and tolerates the interruptions stoically.
Louise comes from housekeeping, Jenn from the Media Center, Heidi the social worker visits. Deborah does 45 minutes of PT (this will be done four times a day here). Around 2PM my graddsughter is wheeled to the “Procedure Room” where the temporary IV is put in her arm. The student nurse tries twice with the needle missing the vein, the day nurse needs two tries to get it right. Ada returns unhappy and subdued, but soon is back at her art work.
The doctor’s assistant Lee Ann visits with great information on CF care, the doctor visits (a great improvement in manner from their previous doctor at another location who is a national expert but aloof and abrupt and difficult to get answers from). Another technician, Mary Lynne gets blood pressure and temp. Deanne, a wonderful person who communicates at her level physically and quickly and compassionately covers for my daughter all aspects of the procedure schedule then does PT.
It is now about 4PM and I realize that so far sixteen people have passed through 5016 in four hours. she has had to absorb, evaluate, work with, include and accept them all. I marvel at her sense of self, at her ability to handle complexity, to acknowledge, to read people, to accept and work to understand.
My daughter moves the IV stand to the right side of the bed and gets a long line so my graddaughter can bounce off the bed to the chair, and to the window. she is up and about twirling to keep the line clear, careful at its limit but free within its scope.
She tells jokes:
“Why does the chicken cross the road?”
“To get to the other side.” She gives a small laugh, then again –
“Why does the chicken cross the road?”
“To get back home.” She throws her head back and sprays giggles all over
the room as she made that one up.
She produces scenarios:
“You say this, I’ll say this, then…. “
If you get the words or the tone wrong you are gently corrected.
It is dinner time now and this hospital lets you order from a menu at a time of your choice. She orders chicken fingers and mashed potatoes (her personal favorite) with lots of butter (CF kids need lots of fat and sometimes she will eat butter right from the stick and we all are delighted).
I leave for the motel at 9:30PM and know that tomorrow I’ll be back to see her handle no food for 24 hours, a PICC line (long term IV line) insertion under anesthetic, four more PT sessions, 20 plus contacts with doctors, nurses, etc. still with her integrity and character shining through.
It is special for me to be with her. I admire her and love her so much and feel the frustration of not being able to solve this. I worry as well about my daughter and her husband who manage with the complexity and drain of this each day. Her zest for life helps me refuel my aging pursuit of adventure. She reminds me of the health I take for granted, of the extent of personal options available to me, and the wealth of past good times.
It has been a good day with my grand daughter.
If you'd like to learn more about cystic fibrosis click here to contact the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation on the web.
Audacity
Audacity –
It takes a certain audacity to start a Blog about writing.
I do love that word, “audacity”. It implies a certain verve a certain risk taking, a certain pushing of the limits. Of course if pushed to the limit or coming from prejudice or anger it can be destructive, but I like its energy. It would make a great writing prompt: List the last three times that you felt that you were being “audacious”. Pick one and write about how it worked out. Was it successful or disastrous? How did you end up feeling? How did it change people’s feelings toward you? Was it worth it?
Anyway, last night I was reading a great book on writing, “Discovering the Writer Within – 40 days to more imaginative writing” written by Bruce Ballenger and Barry Lane and published by Writer’s Digest Books in 1989. It has a great easy to read voice and offers a series of great exercises to kick-start one’s writing. Looking through it I wondered how I could add anything to that or the many other excellent books on memoirs or writing in general.
So it takes a certain audacity to start this blog, but I have started and we will just have to see where it will lead. There is the hope that others out there will come along for the ride.
Hate to do a post without another piece of writing so here is not “Fast Fiction” but a sort of “Fast Editorial” about how society or corporations or lawyers can possibly over protect us.
The new car – (267 Words)
The soft thud of the door seals out the cold and noise of the garage. Turning the key, twenty seven icons light up on the dashboard saying everything is OK. A few like the “Vehicle Dynamics Control” light are a mystery. There were fifty nine pages in the manual for “Instruments and Controls” yet to be studied, but it is good to see all are OK. The seatbelt warning beeped for six seconds and stopped (info on that takes sixty one pages in the manual). Trying out the “Multi-information display” I found there were a clock, odometers, and indicators for driving range on remaining fuel, journey time, outside temperature, fuel and average fuel consumption and trip meters. I had managed to turn the key without the advantage of thirty one pages on “Keys and Doors”. There wasn’t a heater, but a “Climate Control System” (thirteen pages), but a little fiddling and it seemed to work. There was a fifty page section on “Starting and Operating” covering things like “Child restraint systems” and “Head restraint adjustment” and “Tired and sleepy”, but I had decided to just go for it. I started to back out of the garage and there was a thump. I leap out to find I had run over a package left by FEDEX, a birthday present for my daughter. But that was not mentioned by the nineteen pages on “In Case of Emergency”. The SOB’s, I thought they had everything covered. They even Fabreezed out the new car smell. Those control freaks. Back in the car the seat belt warning is beeping again. Those bastards!
OK, so that is one person’s point of view, feel free to comment with yours.
It takes a certain audacity to start a Blog about writing.
I do love that word, “audacity”. It implies a certain verve a certain risk taking, a certain pushing of the limits. Of course if pushed to the limit or coming from prejudice or anger it can be destructive, but I like its energy. It would make a great writing prompt: List the last three times that you felt that you were being “audacious”. Pick one and write about how it worked out. Was it successful or disastrous? How did you end up feeling? How did it change people’s feelings toward you? Was it worth it?
Anyway, last night I was reading a great book on writing, “Discovering the Writer Within – 40 days to more imaginative writing” written by Bruce Ballenger and Barry Lane and published by Writer’s Digest Books in 1989. It has a great easy to read voice and offers a series of great exercises to kick-start one’s writing. Looking through it I wondered how I could add anything to that or the many other excellent books on memoirs or writing in general.
So it takes a certain audacity to start this blog, but I have started and we will just have to see where it will lead. There is the hope that others out there will come along for the ride.
Hate to do a post without another piece of writing so here is not “Fast Fiction” but a sort of “Fast Editorial” about how society or corporations or lawyers can possibly over protect us.
The new car – (267 Words)
The soft thud of the door seals out the cold and noise of the garage. Turning the key, twenty seven icons light up on the dashboard saying everything is OK. A few like the “Vehicle Dynamics Control” light are a mystery. There were fifty nine pages in the manual for “Instruments and Controls” yet to be studied, but it is good to see all are OK. The seatbelt warning beeped for six seconds and stopped (info on that takes sixty one pages in the manual). Trying out the “Multi-information display” I found there were a clock, odometers, and indicators for driving range on remaining fuel, journey time, outside temperature, fuel and average fuel consumption and trip meters. I had managed to turn the key without the advantage of thirty one pages on “Keys and Doors”. There wasn’t a heater, but a “Climate Control System” (thirteen pages), but a little fiddling and it seemed to work. There was a fifty page section on “Starting and Operating” covering things like “Child restraint systems” and “Head restraint adjustment” and “Tired and sleepy”, but I had decided to just go for it. I started to back out of the garage and there was a thump. I leap out to find I had run over a package left by FEDEX, a birthday present for my daughter. But that was not mentioned by the nineteen pages on “In Case of Emergency”. The SOB’s, I thought they had everything covered. They even Fabreezed out the new car smell. Those control freaks. Back in the car the seat belt warning is beeping again. Those bastards!
OK, so that is one person’s point of view, feel free to comment with yours.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Fast Fiction
So my "Getting Started" piece was fairly long, I'm going to try to keep these to 1000 words in the future. There was a time in our group when we tried to write "Fast Fiction". For us that meant trying to get a story or idea over in less than 500 words. I did three and one is below (I'm going to save my best one for later). Have you ever tried this? Why now give it a try? Sometimes what comes out is magical. Here is mine:
Good and Plenty – (174 words)
Linda studied the young girl slumped in the seat across the train aisle, her IPOD ear buds in place, staring straight ahead as she steadily ate her way through a box of Good and Plenty candies which she then dropped on the floor.
The conductor came and stood impatiently as the girl searched her bag for her ticket then looked up panicked to say, “I can’t find it.”
“Well you’ll have to find it, buy a new ticket or get off at the next station. I’ll be back.’
Linda took her time then leaned across the aisle and said, “You might check that box you dropped.”
The girl looked and it was there. Bright eyed, alert she looked at Linda, “Gee thanks. How did you know?”
“I was watching you and saw you put it there. Not a smart idea.”
The light dimmed in the girl’s eyes, she turned back, and sat slumped in her seat, staring straight forward, ear buds in her ears with her ticket clutched in her hand.
That's it. Sort of a low key picture of a train ride interactions on the train to NYC. Try one and let me know how it went.
Good and Plenty – (174 words)
Linda studied the young girl slumped in the seat across the train aisle, her IPOD ear buds in place, staring straight ahead as she steadily ate her way through a box of Good and Plenty candies which she then dropped on the floor.
The conductor came and stood impatiently as the girl searched her bag for her ticket then looked up panicked to say, “I can’t find it.”
“Well you’ll have to find it, buy a new ticket or get off at the next station. I’ll be back.’
Linda took her time then leaned across the aisle and said, “You might check that box you dropped.”
The girl looked and it was there. Bright eyed, alert she looked at Linda, “Gee thanks. How did you know?”
“I was watching you and saw you put it there. Not a smart idea.”
The light dimmed in the girl’s eyes, she turned back, and sat slumped in her seat, staring straight forward, ear buds in her ears with her ticket clutched in her hand.
That's it. Sort of a low key picture of a train ride interactions on the train to NYC. Try one and let me know how it went.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Getting started
Just to get things started here I have added here a short story piece of fiction written as a story for kids.. Let me know if you like it.
Cagney -
Cagney was a small dog with black eyes, a black nose, white shaggy fur and very short legs. He had fallen on tough times a while back and so he had found himself in the dog pound where he'd spent months in a small cage with newspaper shavings in the bottom. It was when he was let out in the yard to play for half an hour each day that he met bigger dogs with long legs who could run fast and could jump high that he realized that he had very, very short legs. Bill and Carmen came to the pound one Wednesday and took Cagney home with them. They were recently married and had a nice apartment in which he was free to wander. They put a special door in their door so he could walk out to the backyard anytime. They found a soft pillow bed made of blue fabric with little tiny flowers which he could sleep on. Cagney loved his new home. They all went out walking in the neighborhood and he could check out all the bushes and walk in all the yards. Though he was on the leash, he really enjoyed these long walks. There were times when they went out in the country would let him loose to run and run in the fields and as they began to trust that he would not run away, they would use the leash less and less.
One day they decided to go to the local fair. Cagney felt there was a lot of noise and a lot of things going on there. Many people were running around, going to stands to get food, jumping on ferris wheels, riding in small cars and shouting and yelling. It was very exciting for him. But with all of the people around him he still felt pretty small and sometimes he had a hurry to keep up because of his short legs. As he was walking he came to a thing that looked like a big red box. There was glass around the top and he could see there was a doll inside and above the top of the window were the letters: “F O R T U N E S”.
Well, Cagney was a pretty smart dog and he had learned to read a little bit so he thought that this meant music would come out of the box. He found a coin lying on the ground and he picked it up in his teeth and he put it in the slot in the front of the box. Instead of music, the doll in the box started to move and pretty soon it picked up a small piece of paper and dropped it a down a chute. The piece of paper came out from a slot in the front of the box. On the paper it's said "If you stand tall you will be tall". Well that sounded good to him but he didn't really know what it meant.
Just then there was a commotion and Cagney saw a boy running with a purse in his hand. Somebody was screaming, “He stole my purse”. Without even thinking Cagney chased after the boy. He managed to get close enough so that he could bite the boys leg and hold onto his pants. He held on for dear life. They bumped and scraped along till others caught up and grabbed the thief. There was a lot of commotion and flying dust as they held the boy down and got the purse back.
Someone said, “Whose dog is this? Why this dog is a hero, a life saver, a valiant warrior.” Bill and Carmen stepped forward and said, “That’s Cagney our dog.” They were all amazed at how so small a dog with such short legs could do such a fine thing. So there was a ceremony with flowers, ribbons, speeches and a special new bowl with Cagney’s name engraved on it. Cagney now felt that he knew what meant when the fortune teller’s paper had said. “If you stand tall you will be tall.”
That's it... hope you enjoyed it.
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