Would that I were this creative.
Maybe next year.
11/26/2011
11/24/2011
wc1317/Nano/Writing Doodle/ don't judge a book
In the weeks before my grandmother sold her home to move to a high rise condo in Boca Raton of all places. She knew three women who'd moved there after their husbands had passed and were going to open their own casserole brigade to entrap the new widowers.
Every evening after work I helped her cull the family treasures she wouldn't need and didn't think anyone else would want.
The house was full of doilies crocheted by her mother, afghans by her sister, and quilts by Amish women - it was the one craft her family had never done but had much appreciated.
"You know, we could take these to a flea market or open a booth at one of those antique shops," I said.
My eyes must have gleamed because her eyes grew incredibly cold. "Bernie, no one would ever want these things, but if you want them you can have them. What you do with them is up to you. I think charity would be a good choice."
I'm not a person who counts her chickens before they hatch, heck I don't even count the eggs because I usually just eat egg whites I get from a carton. But I kept seeing other twenty somethings or even thirty somethings looking for some kitch to decorate their apartments. After a quick mental review, I knew of at least five antique stores in the area that might take consignment pieces.
The clothes could go to charity. Some of the more vintage clothes might even do well for community or high school theatre if anyone was going to do a revival of Hair or Barefoot in the Park.
In her bedroom two of the walls were floor to ceiling bookcases. Mostly best sellers, a few bodice rippers, and the World Book Encyclopedia from 1968.
"Now Bernie, there's something we need to talk about." Grandma patted the spot next to her on her double bed.
I didn't roll my eyes because my grandmother hates that, but the last time we had a private conversation in her bedroom it was the facts of life talk when I was thirteen.
I nodded and sat.
"A woman should always have her own money," she said.
No surprise there. I've always maintained at least a little money in my own name, even when I was with Grady and he thought his name was on everything, it wasn't.
"Because you never know what the future will hold. Emergencies happen."
Again, I agree. We've had this discussion since I was eight.
"And once in a while you want to go crazy and buy something for yourself without feeling the need to justify it."
I thought about all of the times when she pressed a bill into my hand and put her fingers to her lips. that was the start of my financial independence and secrecy about my own small stash.
"Did you know I've been divorced longer than I was married?"
"Sure."
"But I kept some of my married habits," she said. "I squirrel money away here." She lifted her arm and swept the room with it, if she was smiling she might have been doing her Vana White impression.
I looked around for anything that might resemble the piggy banks we used to look at in antique stores. Just books. Books and old glass paperweights.
"We were burgled the first year I was married," she said. "We lived in a very poor part of Detroit. There was a lot of crime and violence. The sound of a police siren wasn't uncommon at any hour of the day or the night. That particular summer Saturday afternoon your grandfather was out bowling with his league. I was alone, pregnant, and scared out of my wits."
"I can't even imagine."
"How did he get in?"
"We didn't have central air conditioning, so I had all the windows open. I don't know which one he came through because I was in the kitchen making dinner."
"Was he alone or with a team?"
"He was alone and wanted money. The only cash to hand I had was the grocery money, and it wasn't enough."
"What did you do?"
I had hoped for a tale of heroism on the part of my long forgotten grandfather bursting into the room and saving the day. A neighbor who came by for a cup of coffee. A girl scout looking to sell cookies. Maybe Grandma had taken martial arts and was a secret seventh degree black belt and was able to drop him in less than five seconds. All of my scenarios were overly dramatic and wouldn't have happened. I watch way too much television The truly dramatic stories are great for television, movies, or books, but in real life, not so much.
What would I do if I were in the same situation? I hope to never find out.
"I gave him everything I had in my purse."
"And?" I was anxious to hear more about what happened.
Did he clock her upside the head with a firearm? Did he threaten her? Did he hurt her in some way?
"I told you I'd been making dinner, just spaghetti and meatballs. I threw a pot of pasta water on him. Then I ran like hell to the neighbor's house and called the police."
"Did they catch him?"
"No. But it wasn't enough to make the police interested. But the point is, I didn't have any more grocery money for the week and I still had to feed my family."
"That night I decided I would have my own cash to hand to make sure I could take care of my family if it ever happened again. And I would never have less than a month of food available."
Thus the stockpile was born. I had never known Grandma not to have at least six months worth of food on hand at any given time. Her freezer always had a spare turkey and frozen lasagna, just in case someone died and she needed emergency funeral food. As to the rest, a body could get tired of pasta and canned beans but they were there for a reason, a backup just in case the worst happened.
"And you always did," I said.
"Yes. And I began to squirrel away money. Just in case."
"In case the guy came back?"
"In case something dire happened."
Like what? I wanted to hear how she got the money and what the emergencies had been. If there had ever been emergencies.
"I'd rather not say," she said. "You don't need that kind of information. You aren't old enough."
Fine.
"Each week when I went to the grocery, I used coupons and I took the change and put it in books. Each type of book was its own denomination."
"What?"
"Each book category was assigned a denomination. Romance is usually cheap and taudry, so I stored singles there. Mysteries are higher in the scale and housed the fives. Non-fiction of all genres got tens. The encyclopedias got the twenties. And the dictionaries housed my hundreds."
"Didn't you ever worry when you'd tell me to go look something up?" I asked.
"You weren't much of a student and preferred to create your own answer rather than look something up in the dictionary. When you got older you had the internet."
Thanks for the truth Grandma. Fiction was always more fun and usually less cumbersome than finding facts.
"So what about the family Bible?"
"Some books are just to read," she said.
"Does every book have money in them?"
"No."
No as in not now or no as in they once did but don't now. something to think about.
"So, I want you to help me empty out my stash," she said. "And then we're going to give any books you don't want to the Visiting Nurses for their annual book drive."
~~
tbc maybe
word count 1317
Every evening after work I helped her cull the family treasures she wouldn't need and didn't think anyone else would want.
The house was full of doilies crocheted by her mother, afghans by her sister, and quilts by Amish women - it was the one craft her family had never done but had much appreciated.
"You know, we could take these to a flea market or open a booth at one of those antique shops," I said.
My eyes must have gleamed because her eyes grew incredibly cold. "Bernie, no one would ever want these things, but if you want them you can have them. What you do with them is up to you. I think charity would be a good choice."
I'm not a person who counts her chickens before they hatch, heck I don't even count the eggs because I usually just eat egg whites I get from a carton. But I kept seeing other twenty somethings or even thirty somethings looking for some kitch to decorate their apartments. After a quick mental review, I knew of at least five antique stores in the area that might take consignment pieces.The clothes could go to charity. Some of the more vintage clothes might even do well for community or high school theatre if anyone was going to do a revival of Hair or Barefoot in the Park.
In her bedroom two of the walls were floor to ceiling bookcases. Mostly best sellers, a few bodice rippers, and the World Book Encyclopedia from 1968.
"Now Bernie, there's something we need to talk about." Grandma patted the spot next to her on her double bed.
I didn't roll my eyes because my grandmother hates that, but the last time we had a private conversation in her bedroom it was the facts of life talk when I was thirteen.
I nodded and sat.
No surprise there. I've always maintained at least a little money in my own name, even when I was with Grady and he thought his name was on everything, it wasn't.
"Because you never know what the future will hold. Emergencies happen."
Again, I agree. We've had this discussion since I was eight.
"And once in a while you want to go crazy and buy something for yourself without feeling the need to justify it."I thought about all of the times when she pressed a bill into my hand and put her fingers to her lips. that was the start of my financial independence and secrecy about my own small stash.
"Did you know I've been divorced longer than I was married?"
"Sure."
I looked around for anything that might resemble the piggy banks we used to look at in antique stores. Just books. Books and old glass paperweights.
"We were burgled the first year I was married," she said. "We lived in a very poor part of Detroit. There was a lot of crime and violence. The sound of a police siren wasn't uncommon at any hour of the day or the night. That particular summer Saturday afternoon your grandfather was out bowling with his league. I was alone, pregnant, and scared out of my wits."
"I can't even imagine."
"How did he get in?"
"We didn't have central air conditioning, so I had all the windows open. I don't know which one he came through because I was in the kitchen making dinner."
"Was he alone or with a team?"
"He was alone and wanted money. The only cash to hand I had was the grocery money, and it wasn't enough."
"What did you do?"
I had hoped for a tale of heroism on the part of my long forgotten grandfather bursting into the room and saving the day. A neighbor who came by for a cup of coffee. A girl scout looking to sell cookies. Maybe Grandma had taken martial arts and was a secret seventh degree black belt and was able to drop him in less than five seconds. All of my scenarios were overly dramatic and wouldn't have happened. I watch way too much television The truly dramatic stories are great for television, movies, or books, but in real life, not so much.
What would I do if I were in the same situation? I hope to never find out.
"I gave him everything I had in my purse."
"And?" I was anxious to hear more about what happened.
Did he clock her upside the head with a firearm? Did he threaten her? Did he hurt her in some way?
"I told you I'd been making dinner, just spaghetti and meatballs. I threw a pot of pasta water on him. Then I ran like hell to the neighbor's house and called the police."
"Did they catch him?"
"No. But it wasn't enough to make the police interested. But the point is, I didn't have any more grocery money for the week and I still had to feed my family."
"That night I decided I would have my own cash to hand to make sure I could take care of my family if it ever happened again. And I would never have less than a month of food available."
Thus the stockpile was born. I had never known Grandma not to have at least six months worth of food on hand at any given time. Her freezer always had a spare turkey and frozen lasagna, just in case someone died and she needed emergency funeral food. As to the rest, a body could get tired of pasta and canned beans but they were there for a reason, a backup just in case the worst happened.
"And you always did," I said.
"Yes. And I began to squirrel away money. Just in case."
"In case the guy came back?"
"In case something dire happened."
Like what? I wanted to hear how she got the money and what the emergencies had been. If there had ever been emergencies.
"I'd rather not say," she said. "You don't need that kind of information. You aren't old enough."
Fine.
"Each week when I went to the grocery, I used coupons and I took the change and put it in books. Each type of book was its own denomination."
"What?"
"Each book category was assigned a denomination. Romance is usually cheap and taudry, so I stored singles there. Mysteries are higher in the scale and housed the fives. Non-fiction of all genres got tens. The encyclopedias got the twenties. And the dictionaries housed my hundreds."
"Didn't you ever worry when you'd tell me to go look something up?" I asked.
"You weren't much of a student and preferred to create your own answer rather than look something up in the dictionary. When you got older you had the internet."
Thanks for the truth Grandma. Fiction was always more fun and usually less cumbersome than finding facts.
"So what about the family Bible?"
"Some books are just to read," she said.
"Does every book have money in them?"
"No."
No as in not now or no as in they once did but don't now. something to think about.
"So, I want you to help me empty out my stash," she said. "And then we're going to give any books you don't want to the Visiting Nurses for their annual book drive."
~~
tbc maybe
word count 1317
writing doodle - thanksgiving
"How high can you count?" Susie's father asked.
"Thirty," six year old Susie said. She didn't always get the numbers right, but she tried, and thirty sounded impressive to her.
"Very good." He beamed at his daughter. She might be a math prodigy or become a scientist when she was older. "Do you want to learn how to dial the phone?"
She nodded so hard her head bounced off her chest. Only the big kids ever got to dial the phone. This was her foray into new things. Maybe she could sit at the adult table at Christmas instead of with all of the little kids who blew bubbles in their milk. "What's the number? What's the number?"
"Eighteen twelve."
Susie studied the dial and didn't see a number eighteen anywhere. She could count the numbers but she couldn't always read them. Finally she found the hole that had the number eight in front and put her finger in it and started to draw it to the top of the dial.
"What are you doing?" he asked. She said she could count to thirty so eighteen shouldn't have been hard.
"It's eight-"
"No. Eighteen starts with a one in front of it."
"Oh."
Maybe she wasn't going to be a math genius after all.
11/22/2011
Speaking of Love ...
Last weekend, I had a chance to go to a writers seminar in Phoenix. The keynote speaker asked how many of us had always wanted to be writers?
A year ago, I combined stories from my grandmothers and aunts, twisted them and wrote "How Did You Know?" It was accepted by Bright Light Multimedia for their current anthology: Speaking of Love. It was officially released today.
I couldn't say it was true for me. I was one of very few in the audience who hadn't felt the pull from kindergarten. I stumbled into writing a couple of years ago, but I've always loved a good story.
In grade school I wanted to be a fairy godmother and a storyteller - and in that order. That was about the size of it. Give the kid a wand and an audience and I would have been content for life.
Did you know there are precious few training programs or jobs available for fairy godmothers?
Until recently, there were just a scant few story telling programs. My advantage was the stories told to me, almost exclusively, on summer vacation. My sisters and I pestered aunts, uncles and grandparents to explain people in the pictures and the stories behind them. There were stories about horse drawn buggies that were driven in the snow by my great grandfather if he was needed to deliver babies. There were others about watering holes and who swam there a couple of generations prior. Then there were the stories about relationships and love.
A year ago, I combined stories from my grandmothers and aunts, twisted them and wrote "How Did You Know?" It was accepted by Bright Light Multimedia for their current anthology: Speaking of Love. It was officially released today.
I'm still looking for someone to make a real, working magic wand. While I wait, I think I'll continue to twist a few tales.
11/08/2011
writing doodle - Zero for the lack of a title
Three minutes and counting until my next shift started and I’d
barely staggered through the door unshaven and unprepared to face the world. If Sarah had been working at my usual coffee
place this morning, I wouldn’t be pushing the margin quit so closely. Sarah has never pushed me to the head of the
line, but she and I have a telepathy about coffee and she knows when I need an
extra shot of espresso or two to jump start my morning. It has never hurt that when she sees me, she
starts my order ahead of time. Who the
hell gave her a Monday morning off anyway?
“Well Zero, you look like shit,” Manny said. He glanced at his watch and tapped its face
to emphasize exactly what time it was.
Until about a year ago, he had more wild weekends than anyone I
knew. Since he got married, and who
would have ever guessed that would happen, he assumed I’ve taken up his
mantle. I hadn’t but I did drag it
around with me from time to time.
“Yeah, well mornings are God’s way of punishing his children
for having a good time.” I didn’t believe it, but I’ve never been a morning
person and this morning in particular hurt like hell.
“Long night?” He
smiled as he took a sip from his own coffee cup.
“Oh, yeah.” I rolled
my chair away from the desk and sat heavily.
Before placing my hands on the keyboard and opening the morning litany
of e-mail messages from my boss, I closed my eyes and tried to remember if
anything the night before had been worth it.
“Doesn’t look like it was a long night in a good way.”
“When Carol said she was coming over Saturday night after
Hal’s bachelor party with something that was guaranteed to keep me up until
dawn, I was thinking one thing and she was thinking something completely
different.”
“And she was thinking?”
“That I’d know how to handle a bitch in heat.”
“That could be fun.”
A year ago he might have smirked or made some lascivious comments. Now he seemed to retreat into the mists of
time and get a small, satisfied smile.
Rat bastard.
“No. She meant a real bitch in heat. She brought me the
puppy she begged me for six months ago.” And Carol gave me back everything
else. Clothes, cheap ass jewelry, a
picture from an art fair. She went to a
florist, bought a beautiful bouquet of flowers and then microwaved them to make
her point. It was over. Again.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Probably keep it. But now I’m regretting that I didn’t give
her a real dog like a Rottweiler or a German shepherd.” No. I
had to get her one of those purse dogs so she could be just like her friends. The beige pile of fluff was a Chug, part Chihuahua
part pug and weighed all of seven pounds.
Most of that was teeth. None of
it slept last night.
Last night the dog whined, cried, peed on my rug, and ate
the throw rug in the kitchen. Well, maybe she didn’t eat it, but it lay in
several heaps this morning.
“Does she have a name?”
Sure. Pain in the
Ass. Garbage Disposal. Chewing Machine. Ankle Bighter.
“Princes Ann-Margaret.”
Did I really say that out loud?
It wasn’t like I named her. Maybe
I’ll just call her Pam.
writing doodle - dusting off the keyboard
Kate pulled the dust rag out of her apron pocket and flicked it over the typewriter keyboard.
Of all of the things in her home, this was the most sacred item she possessed. It was worth more to her than all of the faded baby pictures that belonged to friends, piles of old holiday cards, or programs her children had performed in long ago and far away.
The typewriter is where she learned how to be in touch with herself and her imagination.
Sure, she had a computer now. But it wasn't the same.
The old manual typewriter was uncompromising and exacting.
Each strike of the key was solid and firm beneath her fingers.
Each strike of a key brought things into clearer focus.
Each strike of the key released something in her soul that needed to be free.
The computer with its programs was too easy. There was no need to contemplate each word or phrase. If she didn't like it, she could delete some or all of it and there was no proof of what she had done.
The computer didn't feel permanent. It felt temporary and easily replaceable.
Maybe perfection is overrated.
Of all of the things in her home, this was the most sacred item she possessed. It was worth more to her than all of the faded baby pictures that belonged to friends, piles of old holiday cards, or programs her children had performed in long ago and far away.
The typewriter is where she learned how to be in touch with herself and her imagination.
Sure, she had a computer now. But it wasn't the same.
The old manual typewriter was uncompromising and exacting.
Each strike of the key was solid and firm beneath her fingers.
Each strike of a key brought things into clearer focus.
Each strike of the key released something in her soul that needed to be free.
The computer with its programs was too easy. There was no need to contemplate each word or phrase. If she didn't like it, she could delete some or all of it and there was no proof of what she had done.
The computer didn't feel permanent. It felt temporary and easily replaceable.
Maybe perfection is overrated.
11/07/2011
an excuse not to update NaNo
Yes, I'd like to be more disciplined in NaNo and other aspects of my life.
This is a very worthy way to waste five precious minutes of NaNo writing time ... I think even my father would be proud (minimally) because it isn't blue humor.
This is a very worthy way to waste five precious minutes of NaNo writing time ... I think even my father would be proud (minimally) because it isn't blue humor.
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