Rowing poem

This was a piece I did after a trip where I joined some kayakers off the north shore of Long Island. It was something to give the feeling of the wonderful day on the water.

From the shore, mirror smooth water

lies velvet flat in the early day.

Settling my scull down sends a ripple

expanding concentrically across the bay.

It is early so the air is cool and clear, noises
dampened by the remoteness of this space
I ease the riggers and oars down,
slide the seat back and settle myself in place.

Sandals off, feet secured now I move
for balance with oars at rest on the water
I breathe the pure air; relax my hands,
arms, my mind clears of all other matter.

It is time to start, knees bent, arms straight,
the oar blades twisted ready for a first bite
Legs straightening I feel the water resist,
the movement starts, balance to keep the pull right.

Now back for the second stroke, less resistance,
the boat rising on a plane, increases speed
Glassy water below, images sliding by,

sand, shells, the cool green of seaweed.

The continuous flow, body, oars, scull,

soft water sounds make a water dance

Concentration focused on the purity of the motion ending in an encompassing trance.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see a solitary

light house, cormorants balancing on a fishing weir

The flat blue of the water stretches

on for a mile, the view open, clear.

But I am with friends in their kayaks

who are moving behind at a slower pace

Drawn back, I am now aware of their image,

bright color, water bottle, paddle, a face.

Now we move as a body, past the weir,

the lighthouse, into the Sound,

Enjoying the massage of the waves,

conversation, letting nature surround.

We pull off the water after a while,

breaking the trance when we touch the beach

Comfortable on the sand we eat our lunch

with the water still within our reach.

Water is in my genes.

When I ride with it, it fills my soul

I move with it, I respect its strength,

power, the alignment is whole.

It was a beautiful day and this brings back good memories. Keep writing.

"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.

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.

"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.

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.