In praise of the blank page

They say ...

... Just who are 'they' anyway?

There's nothing worse than staring at a blank page

I personally LOVE a blank page/screen.

It is still in a state of perfection. The blank screen is actually unsoiled and unspoiled. There are no typographical errors. The illusive showing but not telling mix hasn't been disturbed. Nothing offensive or insensitive has been recorded for the world to see.

The first keystroke changes all of that. Then comes the doubt, the fear, the concern. The next keystroke redoubles it. It can almost be paralytic.

But no longer.

The screen can easily be deleted, sometimes too much too. 

The journey can always be begun again.

Maybe things were better longhand or via typewriter. There was more courage and less second guessing. More permanence and less redrafting the same line over and over again.

They, the unknown, those who live in the ethers should exert no more control over me than I do over them.

With that, it is time to get out my three ring notebook and scribble. 

City Museum, Florence, AZ

figuring out Camp ...

My dearest, my darling, my one, my beloved Hunter figured out how to set up a cabin ... she is even providing the graham crackers, chocolate, and marshmallows.

(Mystery Castle, Phoenix, AZ
good place to make smores)

I just have to come up with kindling, sticks, and a place to make fire. 

For me to actually write,I have gotten out the old music that worked for how long?

Yep. I'm doing sing alongs with Jose Jose and Alejandro Fernandez ... 

everyone needs something to write on

I finally figured out the theme song - Besame Mucho ... unfortunately, I have 18 versions of it and need to choose just one that I can play into the ground. Tonight's song has been Eres (you are) ... it works with a coffee theme ... I just need one for miscommunication - and soon.

home of the Plot Bunny

Time to pitch a tent ... for Camp Nano

1941 Migrant Work Camp - Farming ... Idaho
Library of Congress

So, even ground has been found ... the tent has been pitched ... the bag has been unpacked ... now if I could just find a typewriter ...

The first 350ish words have been scribbled. 

A slow start, but it is indeed a start.

Maybe 50,000 is a bit ambitious?

10,000 might work ... I'll have to see how far I can push and how it feels.

Camp Nano ... a new (to me) holiday/celebration/event

In the attempt to re-ignite the muse, for real this time, I am joining a friend for Camp Nano!

I did music camp as a kid and only ever did tent camping once, it did not go well.

(how I would have looked , had I been a puggle, at the end of an actual camping trip)

Me? I think the wardrobe can be the thing ... but not always.

 It should be more about the equipment ... the keyboard, the chair, and the tenacity to sit before a screen each and every day.

 

So, we're gonna try it again.

I am currently shooting for 50,000 words, but will be thrilled if I can actually do 10,000.

Wish me well.

Oh, can you pass the marshmallows?

writing doodle - getting ready for NaNo ... this time I'll really do it

She stepped into the room to inspect her work and smiled.  Preparations for this year's writing challenge had been beyond exhausting but worth it.  The room finally looked perfect.  The dust bunnies had finally been defeated, but she didn't own an old Indiana Jones Halloween costume for nothing.  The storm of paper on the desk had been sorted, filed, cleared, and the necessary had been shredded. There was a new cushion in the old roller desk chair to make for comfortable nights.  

This year nothing could go wrong.

Everything was perfect.

She had even learned how to drink cold, bitter coffee just like real writers are supposed to slug down when the words just wouldn't come.

It had been a tiresome trek working like an absolute fiend attempting to get everything right.

Too many self-help books had been devoured along with too many audio books that were assigned for inspiration.  

The new checklist had a mark in every box:

1. frozen meals prepared for those long November nights
2. extra dog food was purchased so the pooches wouldn't go hungry
3. mail had been forwarded to reduce distraction
4. phone set to go automatically to voicemail 
5. basic plot outlined 
6. characters sketches complete
7. new battery for the laptop, just in case
8. extra lightbulbs procured for the solitary lamp

Now all she had to do was check her calendar and wait for NaNo to arrive.  Just like Christmas, it arrived every year.

Then it was time to actually check the calendar.

Wait a minute.  2015? When had that happened?  The last time she remembered looking at the calendar it was 2013?


Now what?

At least the room was ready for the white glove inspection, even if the rest of her life was not.

so it's been a while ... sorry about that ...why a bra is better than a man - the beginning

Well, it has been more than a little while since I've updated.  Writing is kind of like going to the gym ... you don't realize just how many muscles you do or don't use until you don't do it for a long, long time.  This has hurt, but in a good way.  It is just a beginning to make sure I didn't break something too important because we all know that November is coming.

~~~~~

“Babe.”

I, Stephanie Plum, consider myself to be multi-lingual. I speak English, naturally. A smattering of Italian, courtesy of the neighborhood and a fondness for the world’s most perfect food, pizza. Bergese, not necessarily a language per se, but it could be one. Come one, everyone who is raised in an Italian American home that is in the berg speaks Bergese; it is commonly known as guilt.  It is a combination of body language, tone of voice, sighs, and a lack of words. The lack of words provide the context of what I haven’t been doing lately of which I should feel guilty: no husband, a job no one really approved of, and no big plan for either one in the foreseeable future.

My final language is Babe,  the single word that had so many meanings: good, bad, sexy, impatient, unruffled, and always me.  I have been the recipient of long and complex salutations from Ranger Manoso.  Ranger is a man of few words.  Much like Bergese, it is a combination of understanding the body language, the tone, the inflection, and the incredibly short sentence structure. Why waste an entire sentence when a single look sometimes combined with a solitary word would suffice?  Plus, each word out of his mouth seemed to fill the room with pheromones or hormones that short circuited most of the brains of the female of the species. When we first met, I either babbled constantly or was left mostly mute.  Now, I still babbled but I could mostly control my own thoughts.

I glanced up from the list I was composing to notice he was leaning against my kitchen counter, arms and legs crossed, and a slight upturn of his lips. Tonight was different, he wasn’t in either basic black or some form of cammo. Ranger was in jeans, the well worn and painted on kind. The white, lightly striped oxford shirt set off his light chocolate coloring.  I am sure others might think he had mocha latte colored skin, I preferred to think of it as the color o a Snickers bar, fresh from the freezer. You know, not quite milk chocolate but yummy and delicious all the same. Yummy but full of not always great consequences and dangerous to those who should leave such things alone. Me? He wasn’t dangerous to me, much.  Sure, we had had our night a long time ago. And, yes, he had ruined me for other men, especially Joe Morelli, but my wounds had been licked and I had mostly healed.

He quirked his eyebrow. As a kid, I spent hours in the mirror trying to both quirk my eyebrows and wiggle my ears. I could manipulate my ears just a fraction not so anyone else would notice. The eyebrow thing? Not so much. I usually looked more startled than curious. I would have better luck stenciling an eyebrow that way, but then I’d always look lopsided and a bit deranged.  Then again, a bit deranged wasn't necessarily a bad thing. I am a bounty hunter and it wasn't necessarily a bad thing to look intimidating.  

“Yo,” I said.  Hey, two could play trade long, elegant nonsequitirs. Besides, I was in the middle of a project. A list. A possibly life changing list. The list wasn't for or about me, it was for my sister Valerie’s daughters. I immediately lowered my head to the notebook page and bounced my pen on it to clarify my thoughts.

“Why is a bra better than a man?” he asked.

Ranger is silent and stealthy like a cat. I hadn’t heard him come behind me so he could read over my shoulder.

I covered the list with my arms, looked up and glared at him. Val’s daughters were getting to the age when they were going to know the facts of life sooner than later, not that I was planning on having that talk with them. But I could put my vast knowledge from my past career as a lingerie buyer to good use by explaining the finer points to them.  

“Exactly why are you here,” I asked asI shot a look at my watch, “At five-thirty?” Was he after a favor? Usually if he wanted a favor it was in the form of a distraction and he showed up after nine, sometimes ten o’clock. Was he bored? Was he lonely? Nah. This was Ranger, he was never bored and from what he had told me about his family he would probably never be lonely.

“Dinner? It’s been a while.”

“I don’t know about you, but I had dinner just last night.  I even had it the night before.” Once dinner might have been construed to mean the prelude to a possible something. It had been so long since we had been alone together in a situation that might have been misconstrued as a date that it was probably the prelude to a work discussion.

“You know you’ve got to eat.” He took the three steps from my kitchen table to the refrigerator, opened it, and shook his head. “Your hamster could starve to death on what you keep in here.”

Two whole sentences and one was an attempt at humor.  Something was either very wrong or possibly very right.

writing doodle - day 28 - word count 298

Molly took a long drag from her e-cigarette, blew a puff of vapor my direction and said, "What're  your plans today, lovie?"

Lovie?  Who gets called Lovie anymore?  Sure Thurston Howell, III's wife went by Lovie, but that was fiction. How did she find my motel room?  How did she catch me unaware?

She moved closer to the dog and said, "I think we could have some big fun." She ran her pudgy finger beneath Hazel's chin and said, "You're the loveliest thing I've seen all day."

Ok.  The dog.  She was talking to the dog.  I knew that.  Of course I did. After a shower, some protein, and a long run, I'll be just fine.  Maybe.  After I unclench my fingers from around a crochet hook and rewind the ball of angora that has rolled to cover virtually all of the carpet on the floor, I'll be normal again.

Then again, I need to quit watching crafting videos on Youtube all hours of the night.  I don't need to make any afghans, toilet paper cozies, and no one I know needs legwarmers.  If my timemachine back to the 1980s begins to work, or I can catch a ride on the Tardis and I can go back with Doctor Who to the Flash Dance set, I'll be just fine.  

Socks.  Maybe I can learn to make socks.  It would keep my mind off my grandfather's situation, would be usable, and isn't too feminine.

Or not.

My plans?

Plot the quickest route home to get Grandpa back under his own doctors' care, return to my own life, and decide if the crochet shell pattern is too girlie for a scarf out of some great mohair.  I have never owned a really great scarf and it is about time.

~~~

Sure, blathering.  But haven't been very good the last several days.

writing doodle - day 22/23 - word count 219

If I still had hair, I would have shaken it from my eyes.  Instead, I shook it until it hurt, trying to change the image before me.

It wasn't the regular dogwalker.  Nope.  It was Holly from the craft store, two dachshunds, a poodle, and a streamer of yarn flowing from her pockets.

What the hell?  More to the point, how the hell?

"If you just slip me her leash, I'll be back in a jiff."  Molly, or was that Holly, and her words were aimed at the door.  "We won't be gone more than half an hour. Or do you need longer than that to take care of things?"

I grabbed the pillow from the bed and put it in front of me and began the hunt for the leash.  Usually it is on the nighstand for those little emergencies in the middle of the night.  In the wee hours of this morning, okay so seven isn't exactly the crack of dawn but when you only get three hours of sleep, it feels like it, I couldn't find it and didn't particularly care.  It wasn't under the pile of my clothes from the day before, beneath the bed, or on top of the television. What it was doing on the top of the toilet tank was anybody's guess.

~~
so, word count isn't really flowing like a river this time around, but I'm not making excuses either.  Things will wind around again - I hope.

writing doodle - day 17 - word count 800

I gave up on being self conscious and squeamish years ago, some where between being the sousaphone player who got stuck inside the instrument and my first condom purchase the day before my prom date stood me up.  Sometimes things in life happen and you just deal with it.

Today, I got to deal with it in a craft store.  Who knew they only carried acrylic worsted weight crap?  Haven't their buyers ever heard of wool?  What about cotton?  Do blends ring a bell to anybody?

I stood looking at the same pitiable gondola of yarn wishing it into cashmere.  Soft, warm, luxurious.  And let's not skimp on a soft but rich color.

But no.  Today all I had before me was a selection of yarn that would turn Santa's elves' stomachs.  Red and green acrylic yarn with silver interwoven.  Really?

I walked back to the pegboard to rehang the needles, both knit and crochet, the measuring tape, and a darning needle. Even though I hadn't committed to a project yet, there are some things you need to make a project happen. I wasn't going to half ass this afghan, scarf, or mittens.  A thing worth doing is worth doing right.

Just because I had the tools didn't mean I was going to get any inspiration for my project.

It was such a good idea.  I could have been in the room with no hassles and kept my mind semi-occupied.

A heavy-set, fifty something woman with a smock offered to rehang my items for me; obviously

she didn't think I was capable of doing it by myself.  

"Is there something specific I can help you find?" she asked.

"No, that's alright," I said, "Molly."

"Holly."

"Sorry.  My eyes aren't quite focused, Holly."  Years ago when I took a speaking course, they mentioned people liked to hear their own names.  Guess that was a massive faux pas on my part. I stretched and brought my fist to my mouth to stifle a yawn.  

"Are you sure?  Looks like your wife sent you here with a list," she said.  

"I'm sure." 

She looked me up and down and whispered, "You know Sharon, right? Cashmere?"

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing." She turned her back to me and began unloading my basket.  "Fine cashmere."

"Did you say cashmere?"

She looked me in the eyes and shook her head while she mouthed a yes.  "My break is in ten minutes.  Meet me back behind the store in twelve."

I was tired, my mind was muzzy, and I couldn't focus on a conversation much less a name tag.  "Sure." Exactly why, I couldn't tell you.

I completed my sundry purchase thirteen minutes later, I left the store and walked to the alley. Holly was smoking an e-cigarette with her foot on the bumper of a Chevy Cruiser.  'I can fix you up for a price." She looked over her shoulder and down the alley, I guess to make sure the coast was clear.

This was beginning to sound like an awful after school special except I wasn't being offered drugs. It seemed I was being offered contraband of some kind.

"I've got a stash in the back," she said.  She jiggled her foot and started rocking the car.  "Prime stuff.  You won't regret it."

I was already regretting it. "I don't know what I'm doing here.  Forget it."

There was a high chirp and the lid of the trunk rose.  Holly flipped back a murky green oil cloth and revealed a treasure trove of yarn.  Nothing like the offerings in the store. There were baggies labeled sock yarn, scarf yarn, mittens, and sweater. I picked up a baggie and held it toward her.  "How much?"

"Cash or credit?" She extracted a cube from her smock pocket and put it on her cellphone, ready to take my payment. "Cash is a ten percent discount and we've never seen each other.  If you go credit, full price plus tax."

I raised my eyebrow.  "Cash?"

She named a figure that was astronomically high, if you were buying your yarn by the pound.  This, this was pre-packaged and ready to go for specific projects.

I indicated the whole trunk.  "Everything?"

"No."

No?  I paid less for my first year of college than she priced just part of her stash.

"Everything."

She named a price that seemed to belong somewhere in the stratosphere.  "Tonight only.  Tomorrow I won't be here, I'll be gone for a week."

Taunted by perfection and bliss to have to make a spur of the moment decision?  I had half an hour left before I was going to be noticed missing at the hospital. I plucked four zippered bags, handed them to her along with my credit card, and cringed.

I signed her display and my own phone rang.  

writing doodle - day 15 - word count 691

The most uncomfortable furniture in the world goes to die in hospital rooms, especially recliners.  How anyone who is well can sit in them is a minor miracle, God forbid a patient should be in one, there would be a need for massive physical therapy after the fact.

I shifted forward on the seat cushion because my shirt had plastered itself to the seat back.  The next time I come to visit, I'm bringing a change of shirt and a towel to absorb the sweat caused by the pleather chair.  

Each time I attempted to leave, Grandpa would wake.  In order for him to get more than a few minutes of sleep at a time, I needed to keep my ass in the chair as long as I could tolerate it.  Wonder if they'd let me bring in a camping chair that would at least get a little circulation? Probably not, they'd already given me leeway about bringing in my iPod and docking station, playing piano jazz all hours of the night, and using Grandpa's favorite pillows from the RV.  

It wasn't like Grandpa's hearing was all that good, it was more a matter of masking the sounds of the machines.  The longer he heard the clicks, buzzes, and whirls of the machines, the sicker he got.  I had a limited selection of jazz on my iPod, but there was enough that the same song didn't play every thirty minutes.  The more it played, the smoother his breathing and the lower his blood pressure.

I attempted to rest my chin on my chest, but the muscles seemed permanently frozen.  Too much looking down and too little stretching tend to do that to me.  My eyes couldn't focus and I really needed a break.  If one of the nurses would take him on a walk around the floor, I could get to the drugstore and buy a pair of cheaters.  More than an hour of close reading made my eyes blur, cross, and get dry.  For a couple of bucks I could bypass the problems and embrace the purple half-moon frames that were on clearance.  

I closed my eyes and rubbed them with my index fingers. Still fuzzy and still dry.

"Gabe, we've got plans for him for a couple of hours, why don't you take off for a bit," Sharon said.

Sharon was my favorite of Grandpa's nurses.  She didn't suffer fools, neither Grandpa nor me, explained things in basic English, and liked order.  In my personal life, I like to do the organizing on a limited basis, I could never marry Sharon based on her compunction to set everything into order all of the time.  Then again, she is over sixty and married, so she's not really my type anyway.

I rose and stretched.  "Any craft or hobby stores in the area?" I was tired of attempting to read only to lose my place in whatever book or magazine was before me.

"Sure."  She gave me the names and addresses of two chain hobby stores.  "I like XXX better than YYY."

"Thanks," I said.  I scrubbed my face and thought about taking a nap before I did anything else. "What time will he be ready for company again?"

"About three h ours," she said.

A shower.  A real shower, one that lasted more than ten minutes sounded good.  A bowl of chili with a side of cheese and crackers would be lovely.  A couple of skeins of yarn, browns or beiges, and a pair of knitting needles or a crochet hook would give me a project that could potentially be mindless.

I don't remember the last time I attempted to knit something.  What I do remember is my fingers finding their own rhythm after a spell, and the calm that came down over me. I also remember who taught me to knit, Grandpa.  When my parents split when I was about eight, I needed something calming to do at night.  The XXX of us went to stay with Grandpa, and that is what we did when we were together.

Funny the memories you hold near and dear.

Scarf or potholders?
  



~~~
word count 691

writing doodle - day 14 - word count 977

In order for us to stay in Joplin, Missouri, several things had to happen:  a long term stay hotel or a furnished apartment that rented by the week and would take an overly enthusiastic puppy; doggie day care or a pet sitter who could come in a couple of times per day; a trip to a drug store to replicate sundries Grandpa needed during his hospital stay; and a call to work and my landlord explaining what exactly had happened.  

I should have been more specific with the pet sitter.  She owned an older dachshund and brought him whenever she came to the hotel suite I rented. The two animals got along and played fairly well together.  There had been no reports of fighting or dominance issues.  In fact Carrie was doing a little obedience work with Hazel to get her to sit, stay, and come on command.  Must have been the behavior modeled by Fritz that got Hazel to behave so quickly. 

Never did I think about relevant questions other than, "Are his shots up to date?" 

No.

I should have asked, "Has he been fixed?"

Why?

When Hazel showed up, she was a mere puppy of but a few weeks old.  My vet recommended waiting to have her spayed until she was closer to a year old.  He mentioned that I'd have to get her through heat, but the house I was in had a fenced yard and she never left the apartment without me.  On the road, she was always with someone and we didn't go to very many public parks since her behavior wasn't always perfect.

It never occurred to me that an eleven year old dog who was significantly smaller than my lovely girl could actually do the deed and knoc

k her up. Even worse, I didn't know until she was almost five weeks into the eight week pregnancy.

"I knew it," my grandfather said.  "You are finally going to do me proud."

Finally?  Gee thanks.  

"The family name will now live on."  He beamed at me.  It was the first and only time since I was six that he beamed, and back then it was because I didn't cry when I wiped out on my two-wheeler and bloodied both of my knees.

"With a dog?"

"Sure.  Hazel's licensed and it is to you, right?"

I nodded.

"Ergo, all of her puppies will also be XXX."

"I don't think that's how this works." We were going to engage in something long and protracted, I could just tell.  "Besides, Micheal and his wife have three kids."

"Don't like them."

"And what about-"

Before I could say a name, he cut me off.  "You're my favorite.  And you are my heir apparent."

Just what I always wanted?  "What about Dad or Uncle Ben?"

"Nah.  They won't learn anything from the old man. What I have to pass on to you is invaluable.  Besides, you've got my nose not to mention animal magnetism. Oh and did I ever show you pictures of me when I was young?  You look just like me."

Perfect.  I look like a baby bald eagle.  Small, frail, and can't keep my mouth shut.


I know the effort was unconscious when my index finger ran down the length of my nose.  I'd never thought of it being the typical XXX pronounced Roman nose before, but I don't spend a lot of time gazing at it in the mirror.  As long as it works, I don't really care that much what it looks like.  In pictures, before I broke it in high school, I always thought of my nose as being a little on the small side.  Before he said anything, I moved my hand to cover my ear, was it now cauliflower like Grandpa's? 

Until ten minutes ago, the only real concern I had was the fact my hair has mostly grown back grey and now the hairline is definitely receding.  Even on this trip, I run or walk every day and usually take Hazel.  On the days that I've been on the road too long, I take Grandpa for ice cream somewhere and then I do exercises in the RV park after we get back.  

One of us is delusional and I'm beginning to think it is me.

"Get my wallet.  I want to show you something special," he said.  "Excuse us, ladies." The nurses nodded to the two of us and quietly left the room.

What passed as a closet was about half the size of a gym locker.  There was just enough space to hang one pair of pants and a shirt, one pair of shoes, and a baggie of his incidentals.  I had removed his credit cards and ID when he was admitted, but left the pictures and a few dollars.  

The well worn, black wallet flipped open and he removed two items.  The first was a red, cherry flavored condom which expired eleven years before.  The other was a small black and white snapshot of someone who looked remarkably like me, holding an infant.  

I could have been his doppelganger.  Well now there was no way my father could ever again question my mother about my parentage.  

I plucked the condom from his hand and tossed it in the trash.

"You can't do that," he said.

"I'll buy you one that hasn't expired," I said.

"But that' my lucky condom."

"Lucky condom?"

"Sure.  No one has gotten pregnant since I started carrying it."

"Just how old are the women you've been dating?"

"Twenty-five, maybe thirty?" He counted on his fingers.  Years younger? "Years old.  I like to break them in before they have any bad habits."

Now he sounded just like me.  

Despite the fact it was only noon according to the clock in his room, I knew it had to be five o'clock somewhere.

~~

the old man, aka Blondie, had a slightly better day today ... made sure I didn't stray from the keyboard ... but didn't require too much writing

~~ below is supposed to be a one evening project ... if it only takes one evening to do that, you've got to be doing something wrong.

   

amended - writing doodle - day 13 - word count 511

Have you ever noticed that hospitals all smell the same?  The same town, across the country, all of the cleaning and maintenance departments get the same memo: make the room smell like a pine forest.  It doesn't matter if there has been a meal delivered within five minutes of the visit, the rooms smell like a commercial for pine cleaner.  Too bad I'm allergic to pine.

My grandfather's room was on the third floor, telemetry wing, right next to the nurses' station.  The  wing was all private rooms; there was no reminder I was his only visitor.  Neither of us lived in Missouri and it wasn't possible to get him to his hometown without some kind of medical flight; there was no way his insurance would cover it.

I hadn't been inside of a hospital for over a decade; the only things that were the same were the smell, the 1970s harvest gold decor,  and the uncomfortable chairs in the patient rooms.  

I knocked on the doorframe to announce myself. "Grandpa?"

The resoundingly chipper, "Sport, come on in.  Do you have any money?"

I peaked around the corner and saw two young nurses sitting on either side of the bed.  At least, I assumed they were nurses.  The scrubs and sensible shoes were a hint, but I used to own the pants and used them to sleep in.  That is back when I slept in something.

Money?

Why would he need money? Sure, there would be bills to settle after the insurances covered what they would cover, but his day to day needs were being met and he didn't need to tip after he received his meals.

"Why?"  Always better to ask why than to admit to something.  The last time I admitted to having money in my wallet, my ex-wife took all of the bills and credit cards and proceeded to buy herself a new wardrobe.

"We're just having a little fun," he said. "And they won't agree to playing strip poker."  He indicated each of the lovelies with a tilt of his head. "They think I have an unfair advantage."  

The only advantage my grandfather had was that he was wearing a hospital gown and a smile.  His card playing skills had always been rubbish, much like my own.

"How much money are we talking?"

"A couple of rolls," he said, "should be enough to keep me entertained for a few days."

Rolls of what?  Singles? Fives? Twenties?  I took on the underwriting of much of this trip because I wanted to, but the gambling was something I couldn't sponsor.  By the time I got him home and resettled, I'd have little left in my savings.  Not that I'm begrudging the cost of the trip, but it was going to take time to rebuild the reserve.

"Lincolns, boy.  Lincolns." He blew out a sigh and said to the blond on his right, "Gabriel has no idea how I roll."

"A roll of pennies?" I winked at him.  "I can bring that by later today.  Anything else you need?"

"Cheapskate."

writing doodle - day 13 - word count 0

Today has been Garage Sale Flunky by day ... Dog Nanny by night.

Blondie in better days

Blondie appears to be very much failing tonight and my heart is breaking. 

Until recently, whenever I went to write anything (even a sticky note for groceries) he was by my side making sure I was doing my best (honestly, he wanted to make sure I was doing something if I wasn't actively adoring him).

Today has very much been about keeping him out of pain today and keeping the younger dogs busy and out of his fur.

Tomorrow company goes home and though it has been a bit of a challenge, I will miss the company.


I have counted him out before, I hope I am wrong again.

So, he changed my mind about bottle blonds ...

writing doodle - day 12 - word count 582

a very nice scenic view
if I do say so myself.

I plotted several courses to find the most scenic views, the most rest areas, and even the most direct routes.  I could drive for several hours per day without a problem and have in the past; I never suffered fatigue when the road a head is invariable.  

Relatively young and healthy, a long drive with my grandfather touring local destinations should have been no problem.  It should have been a unique bonding experience.  In fact, that the motorhome had a small commode should have been a plus, what with his prostate problem.  He got the double bed in the back, Hazel and I would be sharing the converted dining table every night.  After the third night, I knew I'd need a massage therapist to get the knots out of my back.  Then again, a massage every few days might not be a bad thing to build into the agenda.  It definitely had possibilities.

It turned out that he was much more like traveling with a cranky six year old than the man I remembered from my youth.  He could read all of the signs, gauges, and receipts. Everything I did after I got the car back from the final maintenance was scrutinized.  All of the fluid levels were double, double checked.  The air pressure was verified twice against recommended manufacturer specifications and generally accepted guidelines.  

I remember my father talking about all of the technology his dad acquired over the years; I assumed it had continued.  Somewhere in the mid 1980s to mid 1990s things stopped for him; rumor was he sank a sizable investment in Beta tapes and machines.  After his heart and retirement fund were both devastated, he chose to live with what he owned until it wore out. At least he hadn't invested heavily in 8 track tapes or I'd be stuck listening to God only knew what when he slept in the back.

But this was the trip, the trip of a lifetime he was so excited about.  So I decided to keep my mouth shut and learn what I could from him and enjoy the time we had together.

"Grandpa, why is this reunion so important?"

"She said she'd marry me if we were both single on our 65th high school reunion."

"When exactly did she say that?"

"After she told me hell would freeze over when I asked her to the senior prom."

"She put it that way?"  No one should ever be that rude.  Courage, guts, and persistence are the least of what it takes to ask a girl out for the first time.  To be quite that brutal was just uncalled for.

"Nope. But it is what she meant." He slurped his coffee and said, "McDonald's has the best coffee, don't you think?"

I never really have liked coffee. To drink that is.  I like everything about coffee but the taste.  I enjoy hearing it drip into the carafe   Nothing beats the smell first thing in the morning.  And it warms the hands nicely after shoveling snow.  But to actually drink it?  Well, that's a different story.  

"I like to stick with the hard stuff."  I toasted him with my bottle of water.  I don't understand people who actually need caffeine   Once I wake up in the morning, no matter the time I turned in, I'm up.  A hot liquid makes no difference in my alertness, reflexes, or ability to make acceptable conversation.

~~
a/n:  Company has been here pretty much constantly for a month.  And while it is not an excuse not to write, it is why I'm tired and disjointed when I do ... apologies all around, but I am at least making an attempt every night.

writing doodle - day 11 - word count 593

Years ago, my grandfather lived on the bleeding edge of technology; he always looked for the next big thing.  When he found it, he invested heavily.  His garage could have outfitted an entire museum exhibit on how technology had changed over sixty years.  He held on to everything because he had a full barn, two outbuildings, and a garage.  When an item went to reside in an outbuilding, it was indexed into several spreadsheets for quick location.  Just in case.

Grandpa owned his own chain of craft and fabric stores because his first wife had a love of quilting.  If he had to support her habit, he figured he'd do it at wholesale and make a profit on it.  You might even say that they blanketed lower Kentucky with their tiny storefronts.

When we had our talk about the drive to his class reunion, he insisted we take Velma and Emily.  Velma was a Winnebago which had been state of the art in 1974.  Velma got six miles to the gallon when going down hill, if the wind was with you.  The three years he took Velma on the road, she, yes she, towed Emily, my grandmother's 19XX Thunderbird convertible.  

"We could rent any kind of car you want and stay in some nice hotels," I said.  "We can take our time and see things in comfort."

"Comfort, schmufort.  This is about arriving in style," Grandpa said. He coughed a little and said, "Sometimes you do things right so you don't have to do them over. I should know, I was married five times and should have done what it took to get the right one the first time." 

I could just imagine him running his fingers around the neck on his Hawaiian shirt that was covered in hula girls.  When he sold the businesses to his children, he insisted they do things right.  

It was my turn to cough.  I had been married three times and lived with several women, only one of them had ever been right and it hadn't lasted near to long enough.  My education and subsequent performance on various jobs had always been right, but I never carried it forward to my personal life.

"I'm bringing Hazel," I said.  Hazel had prevented me from moving forward with more than one inappropriate woman, impressive since we had only been together for three months. Before I could get the words out about dog sitting to Manny, his wife said no.  Something about a dog in the house interrupting their sex life.  Please.  They'd been married less than two years and were on each other like stink on shit most of the time.  One medium sized dog wouldn't be a disruption, not much of a disruption.  

"Is she good at cleaning? We're gonna be living in tight quarters," he said.  "Can't let things go for very long or we'll have to take a full day to shovel shit and start over."

"She's an expert at the dishes."  Due to her enthusiasm at 'doing' the dishes, I changed to paper plates and took out the trash every night.  "And she's great at dusting."  Hazel's tail was low table height and when she was enthusiastic could clear the magazines and books from a cocktail table in under three seconds.

"Does she snore?"

Yes.  All of the time, especially after she has gone for a run.  If you take out your hearing aid, she won't bother you. And she didn't bother me when I put a pillow over my head. "No sweat, Grandpa."

~~
OK, so I'm low on word count, but I'm working on consistency ... and have far and away deviated from the original plan (surprised? you shouldn't be).

please accept this as my apology for the evening ...