Capturing 2013

It feels odd to take a year and try to pare it the way a chef would an orange – good slices and bad, delicious and unpalatable. I think because time, to me, always has a fluency about it – this rapid forward motion that makes it almost impossible to corral, or to section off in any way. Months have a tendency to overlap, years to blend together, and only much later do they stand apart in any fashion. And then only through the largest of events – a birth, a death, blizzard or house fire or baptism.

And so, I’m capturing 2013, now, on the very edge of it's demise. Before it begins to fade and blend

This was the year of the book! The little girl inside me – who wrote her first full length novel at age fourteen – was, and still is, thrilled beyond measure to hold the finished work in her hands. Joy, joy!

Another bright thread in the weave looks like this – a patient winking at me, just once, from his hospital bed, breaking my heart in an instant, so that I can barely catch my breath. Such a sweet, crystalline sorrow. I know I won’t see him again.

(And how could elation and heartbreak have much the same effect? Chest tightened, soul squeezed, sudden awareness of the heart beating. Maybe these emotions aren’t so far apart as we believe them to be?  Thought for another day.)

In between the pinnacles – my first anniversary; I love him! Our last high school graduation, Johnny grown up! – lies the middle ground of life. And that looks a little like this – my kids and I at midnight Mass. We hold hands during the Our Father, and while I know the brothers are squeezing the blood flow from each other’s fingers, I am still absurdly grateful for this moment. The four of us together, happy and healthy. 

Or this – my bedroom by lamplight, long shadows on the cream-colored walls. Here is a refuge; I am safe and warm and loved.

My daughter, home on summer break and pedaling ahead of me down the bike path with the sun on her hair and the wind carrying her laughter.    

My parent’s house – home – on Sunday, with the fantastic noise of siblings, nieces and nephews, Mom and Dad. Another year gone by, and this thread is still strong and vital.

My partner and I after a particularly rotten call. The helicopter noise has faded into the distance and we are going about the business of red-bagging our bloodied equipment, and he manages a joke. I don’t remember the joke now, it isn’t important. What matters is the effort, taut smile held bright against the blackness of that day. We’re here for each other, and that means everything. 

Or maybe 2013 could be summed up in the simple image of our cat asleep on the couch. Little fat black kitty, so content, he must know more than the rest of us.

Contest Entry: Nicola and The Whopper

I love contests! So often, they are the key to meeting other authors and occasionally, even publication.  This one found me via Facebook, and I couldn’t resist. I apologize in advance for the decidedly unholidaylike theme, but I was on a deadline, and try as I might I couldn’t fit Christmas into the Horror category that I had decided to write under. Well, you’ll see – I’m including the links as well as the story. My contribution fits under number seven in the Horror section - not really horror at all, but lots of fun. Hope you enjoy!

Writing Contest Rules

Writing Prompts -Horror

                                         

              ~ Nicola and The Whopper ~

            Nicola’s affinity with frogs had long been established, even before she found The Whopper in the fire station on the day of the drowning - her childhood summers spent largely on the shores of Blue Goose Lake with spotlight and gig in hand, blonde curls caught back with haphazard butterfly clips. Bikinis Tap paid a flat ten dollars per pound for the unfortunate’s hindquarters, and Nicola had purchased books with the proceeds – Steinbeck and Burke and later Sookie Stackhouse.

            But she had never seen a frog the size of The Whopper. He emerged from beneath the gear rack while she was removing her helmet - nudged her boots crosswise and leaped past her, enormous legs trailing.

            “Good Lord.” Burwell passed a gloved hand over his bald head and left a sooty smear just above his eyebrows. “There’s a whopper, kiddo.”

            Nicola had already captured her prey - gray-green and greasy-wet, its warble more like death rales than anything else.

            “Look at that mouth,” Burwell bent close to peer into the pop-eyed visage. “Opens a little wider, he’ll eat you right up.”

            “I’ll put him in my car for now,” Nic twisted away from her coworker with the monstrosity clutched to her chest. “Take him home and turn him loose in the lake.”

            Nicola’s half-sister Benny called at lunchtime, when the EMS crew was still hashing the details of the drowning – her voice so agitated, Nic could practically see her finger- combing her cornrows and rolling her eyes.

            “That thing I did last night, remember? With the frog eggs and the poppet?”

            Nonsensical magic, Benny’s forte; Nicola closed her eyes against a wash of real fear. She would not reply....

A Season for Reaching

Okay, here comes Christmas! Life is flying forward in fast motion and it’s time for the tree the gifts the cookies the caroling! If you’re on facebook at all – and I assume you are or you wouldn’t be reading this – I'm sure you've been inundated with holiday posts, everything from the holy rollers to the folks from Walmart.

I know.

I’m going to try to limit my Christmas posts, I promise. But I wanted to share this with you, and, fair warning for those of you who are nonbelievers – this might actually get a tad religious.

I think that belief is more about reaching than anything else, no? That stretch of the mind towards another plateau. This is a good season for reaching. And in doing so I stumbled across the really unique view of Christmas as a subversive holiday.


 (This frame of mind comes to us from the brilliant teachings of Father Barron – he’s all over Youtube, people, and he’s wonderful.)

So, Christmas. Peace, joy, love – subversion, really?

But I love this idea.

Consider this – the Gospel of Luke tells of the shepherds tending their flock by night, how the angels appeared with their message of hope. We tend to think of angels as benign creatures, winged and wreathed in smiles, bathed in light. But no, pay attention. The angel’s first words were “Be not afraid,” which would indicate a real fear on the part of the shepherds. Well, the sky was lit up, strange beings were talking to them. And lets face it, they were simple men, so, perhaps, even “gibbering terror” would be an apt description of their reaction? It gets better! The first angel was then followed by a “host” of angels. Again, we picture song and light. But the Greek word is “stratos” and that word means army. So we have an army of angels. A triumphant army with a message.

The King has come.

I’ve heard it a thousand times. We all have. But this stops me in my tracks. That baby was here with a purpose, and that was, yes, to subvert. The message of love is painful, hard fought for, not easily gained; and it began at that moment with the angels shouting a victory into the boundless night sky over Bethlehem .

We’re meant, I believe, to think about that, at least a little, during the mad rush of the season, in between the Festival of Lights and the cookie bake-offs.

We’re meant to reach. 

"I See Ghosts All the Time" -A Thanksgiving Post-

This Thanksgiving, I wanted to share something that showed up on my Facebook wall a couple of days ago and actually made me cry. But only for an instant. One tear. Because I was at work, and I’m never a sissy at work. One of my partners captured, so beautifully, the very essence of our job, how it lightens and darkens the soul all at once. And in an instant, I was taken back to all the after-turkey walks through our slumbering town where I mark the houses more through my knowledge of the occupant’s tragedies than anything else. “This one battled cancer, this one died in her sleep, here is the heart attack house, here is the basement fire.”  So, such intimate knowledge. Alas, so isolating, and such a downer - especially on a holiday! – that I have learned not to share. But I will share this with you.

Because it’s lovely.

 

 

 

 

~Quentin Buffington - the same man who penned
this post - is also a photographer of enormous
talents, and he has captured here the sunset
over the Illinois River . And while at first
I could not make this relate to Thanksgiving,
it soon came to me that a sunset of such epic
proportions undoubtedly puts us all a
little closer to God.~

 

Q makes art with his camera! View more here.

 "Here is my Thanksgiving "Thankful" post and it will be the only one of the month I am going to do. I once argued with someone about shows like "Rescue Me" being a bit unrealistic because the characters saw ghosts. I tried to explain, I see ghosts all the time, not literally like they do in the "shows" but I do.  I see the boy who drowned. I see the lady I delivered papers to for years who died in her sleep. I see the family members who I had to tell that I am sorry that there was nothing we could do. I see accident victims who died in my arms. I see the lady on her sun porch looking at a Cardinal eating and taking her last breath surrounded by her family. I see suicides and overdoses and heart attacks. I see people at their worst, their most tragic. I have seen the little girl who felt safe because Jesus was with her in the ambulance and there was no pain.  So I thank God everyday for giving me the ability to be there. To give your loved one, someone, for who this is not a job, but someone that cares. God does not hate, God is not evil, he is with us in all things and all places and his is the hand that guides and heals all wounds."

 

So, I love this, and it made me thankful again for a beautiful job and wonderful coworkers. And the really awesome life with the really lovely people in it that God has given me. 

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

 

 

"The Nice Writer Lady"

 


"Once you use those quotation marks, it's not you the writer talking, it's you the writer listening."—Albert Ríos

  

“Okay, guys.” I’ve gathered my characters together in a corner of my mind resembling the dining room of Nicola’s big old inn. They’re pretending to listen to me. “The verdict’s in. Ya’ll swear too much.”

“Y’all,” Bobby corrects me. He’s a Tar Heel, after all; he knows. 

“You always fu.... misplace that apostrophe, darlin’,”  That was purposeful. He’s grinning at me, blue eyes laughing behind his Lennons.  At least he’s listening.

Rush and Delilah are at the piano, working on arrangement to “Everybody Hurts.” It’s gorgeous. And furthermore, it’s nice to see them getting along so well.I almost hate to interrupt them, but our meetings have become infrequent since publication; these are exceedingly independent individuals, and by now – seventeen chapters into the sequel - they are running their own show.

“Attention please.” I clear my throat in a futile bid for the spotlight. “About the swearing. You guys drop the F bomb way too often. You take the Lord’s name. Some of my readers are upset.”

“Then they ought to jump into my shoes for a day.” Bobby cracks a Budweiser and takes a long draught while I refrain from comment. “I spent four hours in a dumpster last night waiting for a bust that never happened. Came home stinking like moldy tacos and kitty litter. Sometimes ‘gee whiz’ doesn’t cut it, see?”

“Ha.” Sophie’s smile dimples her narrow cheeks. “Try tending bar if you want to test your tolerance levels, big guy.”

“No, the writer lady is right about this.” Help from an unexpected quarter; Delilah speaks to the piano keys.  “You’ve got kids in this house.”

“Give it up.” Rush elbows her without missing a note. “You’re worse than the rest of us.”

Delilah sacrifices harmony for retaliation, punches her father on the arm. “Angelo? Remember him?”

“He’s in bed. And the nice writer lady is only worried about her Amazon rank, kiddo.”

Not fair. I slink from the room, closing the door on their argument and leaning against it to get my breath.

We’ll take this up another time. In the meanwhile, gentle reader, try not to judge.

 Sugar Man's Daughter

November House

Walls and windows. Hardwood floor - scarred by the memory of a child’s roller skates - and a narrow, enclosed stairway. (We painted the steps SpongeBob Blue a dozen years ago, and I have played hell matching that color ever since.)  We've added on, jacked up, mudded and sanded. New roof, new bedroom, foundation repair, windows replaced all around.

Our house has been tucked into the base of Cemetery Hill for so long it is not hard to imagine horse-drawn farm wagons lumbering past, and my children were the third generation of our family to toss maple spinners in the front yard. All of which is to say that our home belongs as much to the past as the present; and that has always felt exactly right.        

            But, particularly in November, the line between seems rather blurred.

November is the month of All Souls, and the seventeenth was my grandfather’s birthday, as well. This late in the season, there is already a bite in the wind, and nightfall comes early, twilight seeping through the blinds and throwing plum colored slats across my living room floor. It’s not hard to envision my younger self sprawled on the carpet with siblings and cousins, chin in hands, while my grandparents showed vacation slides.

            “How are you?” My grandmother’s voice, forever paired in my memory with the music of front door chimes. Short little woman, she wore flowered dresses and round spectacles, and on November seventeenth she would have made a two-layer cake and kept if from our incautious fingers by means of a pink plastic carrier.

            Funny what your mind chooses to keep. I could pick that cake caddy out of a hundred others.    

            But often the smallest retrospection is the one that stays with us the longest. Scent of butter cream frosting, sound of first sleet ticking on windowpanes. Comforting backdrop of adult voices. We keep these things in the whirlpool of memory and forget we even have them until they surface again.

  Usually in the fall, always in November.

(My grandparents were the first family members to own our home. This is their wedding picture, taken in 1929, and I just had to include this picture of Grandma. Wasn't she gorgeous? My sister still has the dress she is wearing here.)

Related Post:  Spring has its own form of nostalgia, in "Frog Song".    

"....The frog song brings the little girl back, and I can see her almost as plainly as I see my own children –  Here in the same yard, beneath the magnolia, and trailing up the hill after lightning bug..."

November Tool Kit

January - at least in Illinois - requires a kit. Snow shovel, extra blankets, Carhartts. August is all about sun screen. Flip-flops and margaritas. April is umbrellas and rubber boots.

            But November, as far as I know, is the only month that requires a mental tool kit. From the dawn of the first gray day (with your optimism already circling and gasping like a goldfish in the toilet bowl) to the final death rales just after Thanksgiving, this month is a struggle.

            A lot of it has to do with sunshine. Which there tends to be less of when daylight savings time kicks in at the beginning of the month. There’s not much good to be said about living in the dark, but, well – shadows are good for hiding. Once my youngest leaped out at me from behind the oak as I came down the sidewalk after work. I splattered twelve ounces of pumpkin latte down my front and we laughed like loons for half an hour. 

            So, tool number one, and most important – laughter. Don’t lose it in the dark.

            Faith, people, faith. Play “Here Comes the Sun” on your iPod and try to believe it. Do not for any reason play “Bookends”. Simon and Garfunkel injected a downer into their harmony that seeps beneath your skin and lays there like a bruise for days. I’m sure there’s a warning label somewhere on the album cover.   

            Search out good winter fruits. Pomegranates are phenomenal! Which, okay, I know sounds absolutely overboard, but have you ever had one? Juicy and crunchy all at once, and what a gorgeous color, never mind the red stain beneath your fingernails. In salads, in desserts, or just out-of-hand, these are sweet and wonderful, and the best thing about them is that they don’t become available, at least around here, until several weeks into the fall. Welcome November!

            Oh wait, did I say that?

            Early evenings are made for reading. Go ahead and be greedy about it – it’s not like you can do yard work! This time of year is awesome for disappearing into a good Victorian mystery – the fog, gas lamps, horse drawn hearses, all so fitting. I can almost feel Jack the Ripper lurking in the shadows, and while there’s nothing uplifting about that, it makes for a great diversion.

            So – laughter, faith, winter fruit and a good book. I think we can make it now. Let me leave you with these lyrics from Kimya Dawson, which I try to keep at the front of my mind on the really gray days. 

When I go for a drive I like to pull off to the side
Of the road, turn out the lights, get out and look up at the sky
And I do this to remind me that I'm really, really tiny
In the grand scheme of things and sometimes this terrifies me

But it's only really scary cause it makes me feel serene
In a way I never thought I'd be because I've never been
So grounded, and so humbled, and so one with everything
I am grounded, I am humbled, I am one with everything

 

 

            Oh, do look this up! There is much more to it, and the tune is as fun as the lyrics.

            Happy November!