Something New

Week 11

2010-11-22T01:30:00.002-05:00

Teaching a Teen to Drive

You hit a tree the first time you backed up a standard; it was your brothers pick-up and with three pedals to choose from you mistook the gas as the brake. It could have happened to anyone. You still knew best. Seventy years behind the wheel, or has it only been thirty or maybe just seventeen; oh well, doesn’t really matter, you know best.

He’s your friend’s son and he’s fresh off the market with a permit in his hand. No car of his own, the only transportation he’s been in control of has been his ten speed and he only learned to handle that four years ago (all those gears to choose from). His parent’s wash their hands of his training and they put their trust in you, his teacher.

“Let him drive? Never. He’s my baby!”

“I’m standing right here Mom, you are acting like I’m still five. Trust me, I can do this.”

***

Your brother taught you to spin donuts in his van. Your mom hid in the back seat when you ventured out onto Main Street. Your first speeding ticket came two months after you got your license for going 64 in a 30; but you know best. So, you take your friends son out on Old Route 1 and hand him the keys.

He buckles his seatbelt but forgets to adjust his mirrors; you speak up. He puts it into drive and pulls out without looking; you clear your throat. He drives between the lines but gets the speed odometer a good 40 slashes above the law; you grab the ‘oh shit’ bar.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve drove; my dad has taken me before.”

“Pull over. Give me the keys. We’ll try again another time.”

***

“Mum, you’ve gotta take me driving…this poor sap just can’t swing it.”

“Sorry hun, I just can’t.”

You’ve decided you will take him out again, but he’s going to listen to you and do things your way. You have several years on him - so you have the experience. You tell him:

“We have less then five months to teach you how to drive. Each week we will work on one part of becoming a safe driver.”

He’s excited, eager, trusting and ready to learn. He knows how to drive a little and goes to you willingly - completely unaware of your plan.

***
Week one:

“I want you to think about the steering wheel; how it operates the steering mechanisms of the vehicle thus allowing you to maneuver within the limits of the yellow and white lines - of which we will later cover the varieties and significances of.”

He roles his eyes and lets out a sigh but his enthusiasm and trust wins out and he thinks.

Week two:

You unveil the next lesson. Followed with some fantastic examples of what you have done; exhibiting your vast array of expertise. You conclude with a handwritten list of what not to do; what you do not want to see, hear, experience or have him try. You leave him to his thoughts.

***

The weeks follow and he’s made a few attempts behind the wheel. Some successful ventures and some….well, lets just say it’s a comfort knowing there were seatbelts. He’s listening to you, hears your stories of your experiences and is doing his best to follow your ‘not-to-do’ list. He’s trying.

“I really appreciate you taking me out to drive, mom still does not dare. I can‘t wait to test for my license; I’m dying to take a bunch of friends out. ”

“My mother never took me either. I told you about the time I got the speeding ticket right?”

“Yep.”

“There was this time I went with a bunch of friends too. We went to Branch Pond after work to have a few drinks, it was a ritual the closing crew did where I worked. I didn’t drive thankfully so I knew I could have a few. Haha, what a joke that was - we forgot to get a d.d. so it was the least drunk who had to drive us all out. That was me. Yep, I learned pretty quick how to handle a car with a buzz.”

***

This wasn’t the first kid you taught to drive. In fact you had taught several. Your methods have worked in the past, or, in your opinion, they had…so you thought it was best to stick with the plan - even though you noticed he was having troubles. You had faith. You knew he would get it.

“I don’t get it. How am I going to figure out a standard if we don’t try one?”

“Why do you want to try a standard? Most cars are automatics now.”

***

Time is moving along quickly and his permit time is almost up and he has a few more hours left to fill. His frustration grows and he asks you questions, comments on your methods and wonders what he can do because there are still things he doesn’t get that he will need to know; parking on hills, night driving, parallel parking…he knew he needed help.

You were confident. You met his questions with questions. You challenged his fears with quick responses and you filled his mind with more of your past experiences and those of your buddies. After a few trips out on the road, your list of what not to do grows as does your frustration of his inability to follow your plan or his lack of trying (as it appears to you).

“Please take me parallel parking, I know it will be a part of my driving test.”

“Let’s try driving on ‘95 first. Next week we will drive up North so you can get some long distance driving in! Did I tell you about that trip I took in the snowstorm and almost hit a pole? …”

***

The following week came and went and he did not show up. The next few weeks went by and your frustration grew. You heard his complaints through his mother and it angered you; after all you were only trying to help him. You contact him on face book and say:

“Let’s drive.”

Six days later he contacts you.

“I can’t. I’m too scared. It’s almost time for our training to be done. I’m having troubles. I’m never gonna get this, I’ll never figure it out.”

***

Your frustration has peaked. Your tired of trying. He does not appreciate your efforts. Screw it. Why do you care if he learns to drive, after all, who needs another teen on the road?

“I’m done. Get your mother to help you with your last hours.”

“She won’t, please help.”

***

Sixteen (and a half), crisp new laminated card in his wallet. He’s driving his friends home (he’s the least buzzed), it’s snowing pretty heavily and the car starts sliding out of control. He wrangles with it and nearly misses a telephone pole. He and his buddies breath a sigh of relief, crack up laughing, and gun it. Four miles down the road he is pulled over for speeding 64 in a 30.

You have succeeded.

Week 9 Rewrite

2010-10-28T01:36:00.002-04:00

The Whore in Me

I can feel the little hairs on the back of neck stand and send shivers down my spine; he is eyeing me, staring me up and down, I am aroused and enticed all from his very presence. The power he has and doesn’t even realize it; the control I lose when tempted by him - every fiber of my being fights to resist his calls to me. I’m able to walk away…this time.

***

Katahdin was my goal this summer and I hurdled each boulder up Abol with enthusiasm and excitement (ok…some sweat too); I’ve worked hard to condition my body for this climb and I’m not stopping here . Battling weight my entire life, a year and a half ago, I stood 5’1 and morbidly obese (or so I was told by my doctor). My squat frame tipped the scales beyond the 230 mark; I was waddling my way into our family tradition of diabetes, high blood pressure and other various weight problems. Change was mandatory.

Yet change was not always easy. Mike walked out of G & M variety with a dozen jelly and creams from Dunkin Donuts, I sighed and asked him, “why do you not want me to lose weight?”

“You will become a whore.” he said and handed me a glazed goodie. I rolled down my window and chucked it out; my will power was not always this strong but his comment had set my mood.

In fact, it inspired me…inspired to waltz into Bangor’s Goodwill to look for some new clothes. It’s taken about 18 months, 48 krav and fit classes, 96 karate lessons, over 260 miles biking Hancock county, multiply hikes through Acadia and endless trips to the YMCA to drop about eighty pounds - going from a tight 24 to a 20 to 16... and now my 16’s were hanging; I needed something new.

Fresh off Katahdin, my legs were looking hot, so I decided to stroll through the skirts. I happened across a little mini skirt; chuckled as I lifted the size 8 and thought this will never cover my booty but, inspired my Mike’s comment, it came with me to the dressing room. I couldn’t believe it, shocked and amazed, I had found me a whore skirt and….damn I looked pretty good in it!

***

Regardless of where I went the thought of him followed me; I tried to tune him out forget about the luscious vision I had of him. I’ve always liked the big, dark, black ones but how could I do this - to my family, to myself; I could not let my desires overtake me. Yes, I wanted him - I wanted to experience all he had to offer; let him sooth me, let him waltz with me, let him fill me…

The agony was almost unbearable, it was a yearning beyond comprehension - like when you’ve held your breath too long or your so afraid - that dizzy feeling that comes is just what I was experiencing. Lightheaded and stirred up, he beckoned to me - I found my moment and drew nearer. But knowing I shouldn’t take any more steps, I paused… my kids will be disappointed, my mother raised me better, Mike, oh god, what would Mike think and me - would I ever be able to look at myself in the mirror again if I went through with this…

Catching my hesitation, he intensified his hold on me, probing me from a distance, and I felt weak in the knees; stopping to sit for a moment I glanced down at my exposed thighs - damn Abol sure had worked its’ magic - the definition was clearly lined, even my calves appeared a little more lifted. How could I ruin it all now, I believe in the ‘Law of 3’ and what goes around comes around, karma always finds a way…so how could I risk this…It wasn’t right to cave into the temptation and let him have me and I him; I would be punished.

Penalized how - I’m not sure, maybe my abs would turn back to flab and protrude past my belt loops (muffin tops are in - right?), or my thighs will lose their definition, my chins will return (all three of them) or maybe my extra ass will reform on my lower back…my knees could scream and refuse anymore lunges or side kicks and my progress could halt and revert. It’s hard to say what could really happen but, sadly, the power of belief is strong, and I believe punishment would follow if I was to continue on to him.

However, at the least, I could still be a gracious host and be so kind to escort him out and bid him farewell. I rose from my seated position, adjusted my whore skirt, and moved closer. I could feel the static between us intensify, electric waves encompassed us and closed us in…could I simply say goodbye and part on good terms.

The minutes slowed for me, paused momentarily, as the two critters on my shoulders debated. Ooo, I wanted him, he was fine, mighty fine; just what I liked. He wanted me too, I sensed it. He spoke not a word but I could hear him, he flirted without words - tempted without tongue. Oh god, the lure was too strong, I was being sucked in; why wasn’t my brain working - after all this was only lust - right? I could fight lust. Calm, breath, think of the consequences. Who would forgive me, could I look at anyone in the eyes, would my world stop and the fat drip back on? I really needed to find my strength.

I heard a noise from the side door. Someone was coming. I had to decide. He froze, motionless, like he did not want to be discovered by anyone but me. I tried to act nonchalantly, smothering my desires deep down so not to be too obvious to who was approaching and, damn, wouldn’t it figure, it was Mike.

Mike stepped in and stood still; glanced at me then turned his eyes to him. We formed a triangle the three of us; a scary, odd, love triangle of sorts. Could Mike read me, did he recognize the look in my eyes, what was my body language saying. I needed to make my move; I slowly stepped forward but it was too late - Mike was stepping towards him. Mike gave me an odd sideward’s glance - phew - he had no idea; he had not picked up on the vibes, the looks, my body language…he was none the wiser. But just the same he moved in towards him with his own purpose in mind, faster than I, Mike reached out and grabbed!

As he loosened the grip on his shirt he smoothed it and joked, “Had ya there bud didn’t I?” Mike looked at him, at me and at the plate on the counter between us all. “Looks like one donut is left.” He snatched it up and walked off. My friend stood, paused and looked at me. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t take the next step. He said not a word; hung his head and walked out the door.

I was empty; the ache in my stomach hurt beyond belief. Standing alone. I caught my reflection in the window; there I was - me in my whore skirt. My heart longed for love, my belly longed for the donut; my body had not betrayed me but my mind had. At that moment, I realized, I was turning into the very thing Mike had accused me of becoming…

Week 6 ReWrite

2010-10-28T01:13:00.000-04:00

Is Blood Thicker Than Milk?

Today we are not speaking. Yesterday was tipsy. Tomorrow is still not known but a week ago…we were good. It’s like that with us, she and I are not like two peas in a pod but are more like milk and cookies; both are nice on their own but are much better when together. However, this yummy combo was not concocted overnight - it has taken more effort then a fifty year long marriage but every moment has been worth it because a friend like this is that diamond in the rough we all hope to find.

I have five sisters, I love them all; she, however, is my sixth sister, not by blood but by choice. We make a daily conscious effort to make this choice and the feeling you get when you know you are being chosen for this place of honor in someone’s life is an ultimate high. Sixteen years now we’ve been making this choice, for it was sixteen years ago we met.

It was the mid-nineties, I was finishing up high school and I was ready for the world! Of course I wanted it all handed to me on a silver platter, what kid didn‘t. We were a generation that was raised having to start working as soon as we were big enough to lift a blueberry rake (thank you child labor laws for coming into play years later). So by the time I was breaking out of accounting class I figured I knew the ins and outs of earning a buck and, with pyramid schemes flooding Ellsworth, my ex and I thought why earn the buck when you could swindle it; after all that was faster and easier - or so it was thought…

Her ex and my ex worked together, old Mr. Bellows kept them pounding nails and scraping paint but work was scarce and times were tough; everyone one was on the look out for a way to improve their situations. Somehow, our exes pulled together a plan…probably the best (only good) idea they ever had.

I was informed one afternoon that we would be hosting an event, a meet-n-greet of sorts to learn all about a new business opportunity (thoughts of a pyramid scheme came rushing to the forefront) and I was to be prepared for my life to change. Change it did; however, not in the way the exes thought it might. Amway may have been their spiel of choice, thoughts of riches beyond their imaginations, dreams of quick bucks and self employment, busier and richer then Sam Walton; but it was the long haired lady that altered my life. Granted Amway did have that get-rich-quick jingle to it but I discovered something worth more than cash.

She sat in our living room quiet as a mouse. She had long blonde wavy hair, tall, slender, eloquently dressed (like a proper lady on her way to church); she spoke softly, sharing her hopes and dreams in a soft voice just above a whisper. Her and her husband were to be our sponsors, the people just above us, the ones we would have to go-to and I thought… “Oh god! This will never work - her and I are just going to clash!” She was too sweet, too doting on her husband, too kind, too gullible…not at all someone I could mesh with but like my mumma always told me - never judge a book by it’s cover.

***

“You didn’t EVEN give me a CARD for my birthday! You have NOT been around to help me at all. Don’t bother to call me - I won’t answer! I need a BREAK!”

Mouse was gone…

Spoiled milk and burnt cookies!

“Don’t worry, I WON’T call! You NEVER answer when I do anyhow! I wanted to spend time with YOU on your birthday! Next year I will just send you a freaking CARD!”

***

My ex and I would drive to her home in Milbridge once a week to pick up our SA8, and each week we stayed a little longer. They taught us how to play the card game “Hearts” and then they taught us how to keep playing after a few drinks. We bonded over swapping cards beneath the table to beat out our exes’s hands and we bonded while scraping jello and potatoes off her kitchen ceiling because we, once again, managed to lose our hearts to them.

***

“I don’t know what to do. It’s been two days. I miss you.”

Milk.

“I don’t know either but I miss you too. Should I come over?”

And.

“Yes.”

Cookies.

***

Cool Autumn days are made for baking and there is nothing that makes a day better then eating a spoonful of raw cookie dough while splatting your best bud with flour. Her and I don’t often bake together so when we do - it’s therapeutic.

Therapy is often needed in daily lives but few are able to accept the help; I was there when she divorced her husband and her maid-of-honor when she married her current one, she held my hand as I confronted the teacher and principal at the school I removed my son from…we both lost our fathers to cancer, we’ve cut our Christmas trees down together; we are best buds - we’ve learned the secret.

Set the temperature to 350’, mix up the dough - eat it raw - splat flower, and poor yourself a glass of milk because blood is not thicker than milk.

Week 9

2010-10-25T22:21:00.002-04:00

The Whore in Me

I can feel the little hairs on the back of neck stand and send shivers down my spine; he is eyeing me, staring me up and down, I am aroused and enticed all from his very presence. The power he has and doesn’t even realize it; the control I lose when tempted by him - every fiber of my being fights to resist his calls to me. I’m able to walk away…this time.

***

Katahdin was my goal this summer and I hurdled each boulder up Abol with enthusiasm and excitement (ok…some sweat too); I’ve worked hard to condition my body for this climb and I’m not stopping here . Battling weight my entire life, a year and a half ago, I stood 5’1 and morbidly obese (or so I was told by my doctor). My squat frame tipped the scales beyond the 230 mark; I was waddling my way into our family tradition of diabetes, high blood pressure and other various weight problems. Change was mandatory.

Yet change was not always easy. Mike walked out of G & M variety with a dozen jelly and creams from Dunkin Donuts, I sighed and asked him, “why do you not want me to lose weight?”

“You will become a whore.” he said and handed me a glazed goodie. I rolled down my window and chucked it out; my will power was not always this strong but his comment had set my mood.

In fact, it inspired me…inspired to waltz into Bangor’s Goodwill to look for some new clothes. It’s taken about 18 months, 48 krav and fit classes, 96 karate lessons, over 260 miles biking Hancock county, multiply hikes through Acadia and endless trips to the YMCA to drop about eighty pounds - going from a tight 24 to a 20 to 16... and now my 16’s were hanging; I needed something new.

Fresh off Katahdin, my legs were looking hot, so I decided to stroll through the skirts. I happened across a little mini skirt; chuckled as I lifted the size 8 and thought this will never cover my booty but, inspired my Mike’s comment, it came with me to the dressing room. I couldn’t believe it, shocked and amazed, I had found me a whore skirt and….damn I looked pretty good in it!

***

Regardless of where I went the thought of him followed me; I tried to tune him out forget about the luscious vision I had of him. I’ve always liked the big, dark, black ones but how could I do this - to my family, to myself; I could not let my desires overtake me. Yes, I wanted him - I wanted to experience all he had to offer; let him sooth me, let him waltz with me, let him fill me…

The agony was almost unbearable, it was a yearning beyond comprehension - like when you’ve held your breath too long or your so afraid - that dizzy feeling that comes is just what I was experiencing. Lightheaded and stirred up, he beckoned to me - I found my moment and drew nearer. But knowing I shouldn’t take any more steps, I paused… my kids will be disappointed, my mother raised me better, Mike, oh god, what would Mike think and me - would I ever be able to look at myself in the mirror again if I went through with this…

Catching my hesitation, he intensified his hold on me, probing me from a distance, and I felt weak in the knees; stopping to sit for a moment I glanced down at my exposed thighs - damn Abol sure had worked its’ magic - the definition was clearly lined, even my calves appeared a little more lifted. How could I ruin it all now, I believe in the ‘Law of 3’ and what goes around comes around, karma always finds a way…so how could I risk this…It wasn’t right to cave into the temptation and let him have me and I him; I would be punished.

Penalized how - I’m not sure, maybe my abs would turn back to flab and protrude past my belt loops (muffin tops are in - right?), or my thighs will lose their definition, my chins will return (all three of them) or maybe my extra ass will reform on my lower back…my knees could scream and refuse anymore lunges or side kicks and my progress could halt and revert. It’s hard to say what could really happen but, sadly, the power of belief is strong, and I believe punishment would follow if I was to continue on to him.

However, at the least, I could still be a gracious host and be so kind to escort him out and bid him farewell. I rose from my seated position, adjusted my whore skirt, and moved closer. I could feel the static between us intensify, electric waves encompassed us and closed us in…could I simply say goodbye and part on good terms.

The minutes slowed for me, paused momentarily, as the two critters on my shoulders debated. Ooo, I wanted him, he was fine, mighty fine; just what I liked. He wanted me too, I sensed it. He spoke not a word but I could hear him, he flirted without words - tempted without tongue. Oh god, the lure was too strong, I was being sucked in; why wasn’t my brain working - after all this was only lust - right? I could fight lust. Calm, breath, think of the consequences. Who would forgive me, could I look at anyone in the eyes, would my world stop and the fat drip back on? I really needed to find my strength.

I heard a noise from the side door. Someone was coming. I had to decide. He froze, motionless, like he did not want to be discovered by anyone but me. I tried to act nonchalantly, smothering my desires deep down so not to be too obvious to who was approaching and, damn, wouldn’t it figure, it was Mike.

Mike stepped in and stood still; glanced at me then turned his eyes to him. We formed a triangle the three of us; a scary, odd, love triangle of sorts. Could Mike read me, did he recognize the look in my eyes, what was my body language saying. I needed to make my move; I slowly stepped forward but it was too late - Mike was stepping towards him. Mike gave me an odd sideward’s glance - phew - he had no idea; he had not picked up on the vibes, the looks, my body language…he was none the wiser. But just the same he moved in towards him with his own purpose in mind, faster than I, Mike reached out and grabbed him!

Four mouthwatering bites later and it was done, he was gone, my big black, chocolate twisted donut stick was gone. Just like that. I felt empty, alone, and betrayed; I turned to return to the land of the living and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window…my legs looked hot, my tummy fell a bit flatter and my size 8 whore skirt was hanging a little loose…Life was good again.

Week 8

2010-10-25T04:08:00.000-04:00

The Union

Welcome friend. Thank you for allowing me into your home but are you sure you want me here? I am like the plague that wipes out the village in the night, the storms that sweeps you out to sea; I will crawl into your mind and fester into the darkest places, awakening them. Oh yes, my friend, be afraid.

For who is that dares creep into the darkest basement, gradually slinking down the stairs, spider webs clinging to their face; is it you that dares this descent? Do you openly enter the mind of Lucifer, peeling back the rotting flesh and placing your face close enough for your nostrils to pick up the odor seeping from the decomposing souls of the fools before you. It is so. I see you now, you know my will and you fear not the line I have drawn.

You hesitate not my brown-eyed friend, though our lives teeter at their end; you think not of ‘morrow but of this day at noon. Fairly warned, you step to the altar of your own free will; taking my hand in yours, you exchange the vows of eternity. Onlookers, naysayer’s, those unable to bare false witness to this bond of which we make will rise to this festive occasion and weep for us, and weep with us; for you, my friend, on this day shall weep. The deal is sealed with the coming together of our chapped flesh. Then shall I bore my claws into your heaving chest and clasp them around your pulsating heart. The mere thought of the beat intoxicates me, gives breath to my lungs, adds life to my malnourished soul; and you shall fill the core of me with your essence as we solidify our unity. In the name of all that is holly and righteous it shall be done.

And so it is.

My person thanks you, my brave, naive friend; for into your home, of no walls, I shall stay. Mortality is but only to our shells; our innards will putrefy ceaselessly, in no way departing fully - instead, entangling eternally… We have crossed the threshold of matrimony; you to I and I to you, we are bonded.

What! Do you back step now? Now that it is done, do you tear the mask from your saccharine face to reveal the demon beneath! I forewarned you fairly, justly, honestly! Where was the returned courtesy? Does thou think I shall fall back! Tripped by your hoof, hammered by your rod, entrapped by your steel limbs; you were not afraid thus I shall fear you not! For how can it be thought that your mind will out demonize mine, to the gambler you have asked to play the game and like a fool you will fall.

You do not believe? You scoff at my will, my determination, my survival. Does thou here the calling of an apocalypse, did our union draw it near? Do we have not but an hour in the clock of life; let us draw our breath on this second and reveal our weapons to one another - let us hide no more. Draw your sword my friend and pierce the lungs to which you have given breath, raise your shield and protect your own; for when I strike, it shall be but once.

A fool perhaps am I for such blasphemy, yet we shall continue on. We made the pact, one hundred years behind us and forever more to go. Our mob draws near, what their God has joined together - no man shall tear apart, thus the time has come. You do not pull back so I shall meet you head on. It was your dream in which I cowered before you, it is in your awaken night terror that I do not. The time to fear is not far from us now, embrace and know this horror and halt… or rush blindly upon the blade. Soon the torches will be lit, my friend, for in your home - of which is your mind - you can not escape me or draw me out. It is there that I shall be… forevermore.

Week 7

2010-10-25T01:56:00.000-04:00

When the Birds Stop Singing

Two little zebra finches perched in their pen atop of my piano; they chittered and chattered and sung to their little hearts content. I’d relax into the silence of the night and allow them to invade my thoughts - bringing natural music into my world.

***

At Mary’s party, Lisa and I tied our ankles together and walked around the house like Siamese twins joined at the hip; we danced, chatted and sung our hearts out. She sang mostly country; Shania Twain, Reba, and Susie Bogus. I believe she would have enjoyed the Dixie Chicks - especially, “Goodbye Earl”.

***

Lisa Jean Lounder, born and raised in Hancock, Maine. November 1976.

***

Thirteen going on twenty-one, playing happily in her little pen, we stayed up late making prank calls and playing “Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em” till her mother barged into her bedroom, groggy and rubbing her eyes saying, “Cut that racket out!”. We apologized until her mom closed the door, burst into laughter and after three more prank calls to our Freshman gym teacher we drifted off into dream land (with visions of Sophomore boys dancing in our heads).

***

An overdose of pills in fifth grade, slashed wrists in seventh grade, alcohol poisoning her Freshman year, raped her Sophomore year, overdose of prescription meds Junior year and a head on collision with a telephone pole her Senior year; Lisa was lucky to be alive. I sat with her on the floor of the trailer her and Jeff were renting - their very first place on their own after moving out of their parent’s houses. Positioned in my lap, I wrapped my legs over hers around her waste and my arms around her shoulders holding her the best I could; trying like crazy to soothe her as she spazzed out. She thrashed, kicked, dug, head butted, and attempted ever possible maneuver she could to escape my grasp - the loaded gun I knocked from her when I walked through the door was only a few feet in front of us. We started to sing together…like the little birds who sing sweet lullabies and she calmed.

***

Standing 5’4, weight fluctuating from 98 to 140, hair color and style changing as often as the seasons, she stood looking in the steamed mirror. A quick swipe of her hand revealed her reflection; wearing a baby blue polka dotted bra and her Pizza hut workpants she burst into tears and smashed her palm against the mirror, screaming, “I’ll never look right! Never!” Reacting like a little Finch caged, thrashing her wings against the little bars; she freaked out. Running late for work, less then 10 minutes to get there, she tore off her clothes and jumped in the shower again; I stood frozen in the doorway. Fifteen minutes and a loud thud later; I turned off the scorching shower, picked her up out of the tub and carried her to her bedroom and made the familiar call into her workplace.

***

She had every Cabbage Patch doll there was; her father made sure of it. They were lined all around her bedroom, still in their boxes. Her closet was full of clothes that still had tags on them, that she would donate to kids at school that did not have much. When her father walked into the room, she would say, “daddy” and he would just smile at her and ask us how we were doing. If she could have flown to his shoulder and perched there she would have accepted any cracker he offered - tweeting till twilight.

***

A little spitfire, she once attacked a man a foot and a half taller then her to defend her friend; knocked him backwards right into a wood stove! People learned not to poke their fingers in her cage, she wasn’t afraid to peck. She jumped out of a moving car to step between her best bud and a baseball bat, and she sat swinging on a swing for countless hours with her little brother who was not yet cancer free.

***

Lisa Jean Lounder. Survived by her two parents, her two brothers, her boyfriend, and a friend who will never forget her; drove into the sea at Lamoine Beach on a cold evening in October, 1998. Her car was fifteen feet off the shore - her body floated from Lamoine to Hulls Cove where it was found the following day…the day the birds stopped singing.

Week 6

2010-10-24T23:19:00.002-04:00

Is Blood Thicker Than Water?

Today we are not speaking. Yesterday was tipsy. Tomorrow is still not known but a week ago…we were good. It’s like that with us, she and I are not like two peas in a pod but are more like milk and cookies; both are nice on their own but are much better when together. However, this yummy combo was not concocted overnight - it has taken more effort then a fifty year long marriage but every moment has been worth it because a friend like this is that diamond in the rough we all hope to find.

I have five sisters, I love them all; she, however, is my sixth sister, not by blood but by choice. We make a daily conscious effort to make this choice and the feeling you get when you know you are being chosen for this place of honor in someone’s life is an ultimate high. Sixteen years now we’ve been making this choice, for it was sixteen years ago we met.

It was the mid-nineties, I was finishing up high school and I was ready for the world! Of course I wanted it all handed to me on a silver platter, what kid didn‘t. We were a generation that was raised having to start working as soon as we were big enough to lift a blueberry rake (thank you child labor laws for coming into play years later). So by the time I was breaking out of accounting class I figured I knew the ins and outs of earning a buck and, with pyramid schemes flooding Ellsworth, my ex and I thought why earn the buck when you could swindle it; after all that was faster and easier - or so it was thought…

Her ex and my ex worked together, old Mr. Bellows kept them pounding nails and scraping paint but work was scarce and times were tough; everyone one was on the look out for a way to improve their situations. Somehow, our exes pulled together a plan…probably the best (only good) idea they ever had.

I was informed one afternoon that we would be hosting an event, a meet-n-greet of sorts to learn all about a new business opportunity (thoughts of a pyramid scheme came rushing to the forefront) and I was to be prepared for my life to change. Change it did; however, not in the way the exes thought it might. Amway may have been their spiel of choice, thoughts of riches beyond their imaginations, dreams of quick bucks and self employment, busier and richer then Sam Walton; but it was the long haired lady that altered my life. Granted Amway did have that get-rich-quick jingle to it but I discovered something worth more than cash.

She sat in our living room quiet as a mouse. She had long blonde wavy hair, tall, slender, eloquently dressed (like a proper lady on her way to church); she spoke softly, sharing her hopes and dreams in a soft voice just above a whisper. Her and her husband were to be our sponsors, the people just above us, the ones we would have to go-to and I thought… “Oh god! This will never work - her and I are just going to clash!” She was too sweet, too doting on her husband, too kind, too gullible…not at all someone I could mesh with but like my mumma always told me - never judge a book by it’s cover.

And boy o’ boy was mumma right about that! Wasn’t too long into this ‘working’ relationship that her and I got to know one another…..like I said, milk and cookies. Now I had friends prior to her; first male friend from Kindergarten who stomped on my toes to get ahead in the water fountain line , my first female friend who lost the silver glove to my Michal Jackson Barbie doll, and others along the way…but she tops them all.

We are far from perfect; we can not always be there for each other the way the other one thinks is best. I remember when I was getting married she was no where in my life to be found, nor was she when I was pregnant with my first child; it was hard and it hurt, even put a bit of a strain on us for awhile but we talked and worked it out. I, in turn, have not always been there for her; sadly there have been times that I have let her down too. It’s hard when that happens because it hurts worse then anything I can describe. The very thought of losing one another aches more then all the toothaches in my life combined, stings more then the time I stepped on the bee jumping off our old tire swing, throbs more than the severe migraines I’ve been enduring do to high amounts of stress and crippling back pains….I believe the point is being made that it would really simply bite (worse than nursing babies with first teeth).

But the good out weighs the bad; there have been more times then I can count or even recall that we have been there for one another. I believe we are like Thelma and Louise, Selma and Patty, Betty White and the rest of the Golden Girls all balled into two; we would go to the ends of the earth for one another. The tails I could tell of bail outs from jail or pick-ups after being drugged by a coworker; no questions asked, no judgments made - we were just there - best friends.

How does a quiet mouse evolve into the bestest friend of all times…well, that road is different for everyone and a lot will depend if you are traveling on that same road or not. Amway did more then sell their SA8 laundry detergent that year… At one point, we all took a business trip to Rhode Island, we read the required reading on the way down, “Chicken Soup for the Soul”, shacked up with their sponsors and attended the big Amway conference; boy did that company know how to put on an event. Ricky Van Shelton blared across the arena and into the night; when my new pal smashed her head on the cement ceiling of the parking garage from being excited and overjoyed by the times we were sharing together and just laughed it off…I knew it was friendship at first smash - the mouse was knocked clear out and I knew from that moment we were kindred spirits - her and I…milk and cookies.

Now, I’ve always heard blood is thicker than water…. but is blood thicker than milk?

Not for class. Just for me.

2010-10-24T13:03:00.000-04:00

There’s two of you but you are both the same
Called different things but go by one name
Stories you told seemed honest and true
I was a fool to buy into them and to believe either of you
One bites the heart, the other the mind;
Together blood is shed and pain is left behind
You won’t read this, you don’t care to see
The damage your lies do and the pain you cause me
You may look, you may scan but it will be done in vain
Because only seeing what you want, there is nothing to gain
Twisting this up to make yourself feel all right
Behind closed doors and into the night
No one will see, the smile stays on
But the pain that is caused is still very wrong
Wanting something more searching everywhere
Pause and look, maybe what you want is already there
Only you can stop it and clear up the haze
Hoping and praying this is only a faze
When a soul sheds its’ shell, only the body sticks around
You will miss what you had, it’ll be no where to be found
Deceased or thriving, I’ll find the path
With you, without you; you do the math
Two is two, one is one;
Bottom line is… I’m simply done.

Week 5: Audience & Adult Memoir

2010-09-27T05:06:00.002-04:00

Week 5: Audience & Adult Memoir

Writing is wicked and can be passionately true,
A writer writes for the reader; himself or you.

Dearest reader, I calm you and tell you no lies;
That the words here before you go together without ties.

This isn’t a poem, in me - a poet you‘ll not find.
This is a jubilee of the words that race in my mind.

***

The dog days of August brought us unbearable heat, temps in the 90’s; so damp with sweat that our clothes stuck to us and us to the couch. My phone vibrated and I had barely enough oomph to lift it to my ear. It was my sister, she was calling me from her vehicle parked out in my yard, she wanted to take my kids swimming for the afternoon. A towel in one hand and a swimsuit in the other, I sent them out the door.

***

Alone at last, for an hour or two;
Melted brain and mushy muscles, I had nothing to do.

The phone rang again, “hello?” “hello!”, this time for me.
Mustering my energy, I found the strength of ten hot wives - plus three.

A word can mean more then it’s intended, my dear.
Let me say again; though things may rhyme, there is no poetry here.

***

My swimsuit, my helmet and my mountain bike on the back; the Land Rover and I left the dogs behind as we set out. I drove for thirty minutes, made a call for directions, drove another fifteen miles past a fields of lupines gone to seed; parked and lifted the bike off the back. Strapping my helmet on; I pedaled and glided around corners and over hills with the breeze from the Atlantic keeping me cool. I saw the tall pole and all the little wooden signs marking the names of the camps down that drive; I made the right turn down the dirt path and journeyed to the end. Tossed my bike in the woods, waded into the ocean and swam thru the seaweed to the cliffs edge; the waves were rough but his hand pulled me up.

***

Light unveils what the darkness hides,
Summers are for loving, I was along for the ride.

Unspoken words rhyme in rhythm with the beats of the heart,
What God has brought together, let no man tear apart.

Truth is like the tide, it comes and it goes.
A love beyond the truth is a love that holds.

***

Sunset came quicker then ever before, speaking into the pink skies and hoping dusk stay out at sea; I stayed on the island as long as I could. Be it an uninhabited island, I enjoyed my time and desired to never return to the main land. If only I had brought my kiddos with me, I would have stayed - started over - just my family and I; the isolation would’ve be sublime.

***

Alone may mean that you are on your own,
But being on your own does not mean that you are all alone.

Time travels and if you don’t take the ride,
You are left in the dust with yourself to abide.

Roads dip and turn, and you may come to a rock or a bend,
You may struggle with the journey but don’t let it come to an end.

***

After tucking the kids into bed, I returned to the couch. I sat, listening to the hum of the fan, thinking of the cool ocean breeze; and imaging myself on the island, living on crustaceans, garden goods, and love. I was feeling like Arial the mermaid, wanting a life I couldn’t have. I flipped open the computer and opened up the word program; it was time to type. With my pointers on F and J, I stared at the blazing white screen for an hour; no words came. My phone vibrated, “hello?” “hello!”

***

This story has not ended, for it has yet to begin.
Parts and pieces float in the waters with us, ready to swim.

Fact or fiction, was this just a dream?
Pinch me, wake me, I’ll tell you what I mean.

Listen, dear reader, to the song deep inside…
Be brave, fear not and go along for the ride.

Week 3 Rewrite: Tone and Travel

2010-09-27T02:52:00.000-04:00

The scariest ride at the fair and he wanted to take me on it. “Come on” he coaxed “It’s not that bad.” With his palm firmly on the center of my back, we merged forward; I was leaning backwards and my feet were two steps ahead of the rest of me…I did not want to go on the ride.

A black night, with the sparkling lights from the fair added a colorful glow over our heads. I had enjoyed the evening thus far; cotton candy, a game of darts, the car stunt show - life was good. But now, the night was taking a turn for the worse - no excuses left - my husband was dragging me onto the ride that frightens me the most…the Ferris Wheel.

We stood in line - three couples ahead of us, he had a tight grip on my forearm so I couldn’t bolt, I was wincing in pain and already starting to cry a bit; the carnies were eyeing me - I could tell that they were wondering if I was drunk, stoned or going to puke on their ride. One carnie even moved to bring the water hose closer to the loading deck…just in case I guess. After all, I couldn’t guarantee them I wouldn’t; all the lights that were once prettily illuminating the night were now blinding me as they spun this way and that. I couldn’t help but notice a container stopped at the top was rocking back and forth, appearing to be held on by only two small pins; I was unable to run, so I just lowered my head, closed my eyes and started to pray.

Mike pulled me up the silver metal steps onto the platform, he handed the man our tickets and we moved inside the railing; another guy lifted the lap bar and Mike nudged me to climb in first. I stood frozen, my stomach already churning, I did not want to get on. He nudged again, more like a shove and I stumbled into the seat. The man lowered the bar and pulled the lever we were going up.

Slowly, like the hands on a clock we started to work our way around the wheel as they unloaded and loaded more people. With one hand on the side of the bench and another on the bar across my legs, I trembled and whimpered softly not loosening my death grip on the cold steel one bit. Mike howled, laughed and rocked the bench wildly back and forth; we swayed and tipped and I could see both the ground and the dark sky within the same second….I squeezed my eyes shut, my body ached and my belly hurt. Up, up we went.

Right as we were nearing the top I feared they would stop us there to let on more people but, thankfully, they did not. With a tug and a jerk, we were off. I tried to pry open my eyes but the tears were stinging them so much it was a pointless effort; I wasn’t about to let go of the freezing frame to wipe them. Each trip around felt like an eternity; the ride was slow going and our seat was just a rockin - Mike laughing like a mad man, obviously amused hollered down for them to speed up and keep it going; the carnies half appeased him by stopping us right at the very top.

My heart was racing a mile a minute. Seeing the end of my life through squinted vision, I had no thoughts at all but those of the painful death that was to come at any moment.

“Open your damn eyes!” Mike said. “Come on - let loose and hold your hands up or I’m going to flip this thing all the way around!”

I just gripped a little tighter, stiffened a bit more and prayed that much harder; just hoping someone was listening to me. I don’t know how long we were up there but it felt like forever; my head hurt, I was dizzy and felt very sick to my stomach. After what seemed like hours, we started down. Mike was making use of our final moments by trying to peel my fingers off the bars, all the while swinging roughly trying desperately to flip us. Unsuccessful and annoyed he urged the man to let us stay on for another trip around. I don’t know what the look on the man’s face was but I do recall feeling the bar being lifted off me and a strange hand being offered to help me out.

The world spun when I stood and I released the air that I believe I had been holding in my lungs during the course of the entire ride. Each colorful light turned white and several faces merged together; I rocked, swayed, trembled and my legs felt as heavy as boulders and moved like jello - I tried to take steps but as I did the ramp below me seemed to move like the waves of an ocean…my body gave way… and I fell.

Laying on a hard surface, freezing and unable to move - the world was dark - I thought I was dead. Muffled sounds had me trying to pry open my eyes, when I was finally able to open them, I saw two paramedics above me and heard lots of voices all coming at once, I felt very, very nauseous; Mike’s voice, although low and quiet, boomed over all the rest, I could smell him and feel his hair brushing against my cheek, he leaned in very close to my ear and whispered… “I just got us enough tickets for another trip around.”

Week 4 - Voice & Childhood Memoir

2010-09-26T17:10:00.002-04:00

Week 4 Voice & Childhood Memoir

“If you’ve got the money honey ~ I’ve got the time.”

Jim, my neighbor, would sing this to me every Sunday on our way home from church after I would relentlessly beg him to stop for ice cream. Occasionally Rita, his wife, would go along with us to the little Pentecostal church in Town Hill. It wasn’t the typical looking church, white steeple - few people, but, instead, a big brown building. I’ve never been a fan of brown; they had brown paneling on the walls, musty brown cabinets in the bathroom and hard brown benches to sit on but this was all upstairs… Downstairs was fun!

Aaah Sunday school; brightly colored rooms, lots of kids, painting, coloring, stories and singing - I was five - the church could have stopped with just the crayons and they still would have had me. It was a break, one day a week that I got away from everything else in my life, when I could just be a kid and have fun.

My mom and dad never took me, they never went. Mum was too busy raising eight kids and keeping house, dad….well, mumma told me churches and dad just didn’t agree. I had to keep it a secret from him that I was going; mum said he would be very angry. I didn’t understand but I also didn’t care - it was fun.

We had a carnival one Sunday with face painting (I had a heart painted on my cheek), bubbles, sack and three-legged races, and balloons! We were even allowed to bring our bring our bikes to decorate with crepe paper and ribbons, I wasn’t able to bring mine but I watched the other kids and it looked like a blast. My Sunday school teacher approached me while I stood back watching the bike race, leaned down and asked me if I was almost six; I excitedly told her that yes it was almost time for my birthday, she straightened up and simply smiled. I didn’t realize that the end was near, the end to the fun.

***

I was in the backseat but not buckled and I leaned up between the two front seats; with my head on Jim’s shoulder, I smiled as sweetly as I could and pleaded with him to stop for ice cream after church (yes after - this time I begged on the way there instead of on the way home - I thought if I started sooner I would have more time to convince him). He just kept driving and sang the usually ditty:

“If you’ve got the money honey ~ I’ve got the time.”

Arriving hopeful and happy I ran downstairs to join the other kids for the regular routine of coloring, singing and stories; but this time I was met at the schoolroom door. My teacher stood tall and with a soft smile she proudly told me I was ready to go upstairs and be with the adults for service; I had graduated from Sunday school. I burst into tears and cried and cried. My world was changing and it took me about twenty years to realize just how crucial that moment in time was to the rest of my life.

We all need to have something to believe in, something to hold on to and to have faith in; something that makes us happy. That was what Sunday school was for me and now it was stopping. I felt rejected, confused and hurt. How could she think this was a good thing! I didn’t want to be with the adults. I was a kid and told her such; I told her what it meant for me to be downstairs with them but she insisted that it was God that I needed to have faith in, to believe in and to find my happiness with - not the room downstairs.

Sadly, I turned from her and took the long walk back up into the big open room; the service had already started so I quickly and quietly found a spot in the back row. The man at the pulpit was shouting so loudly that the chandelier above me was shaking, he spoke of the people who were not there in church and pointed at various people shouting things. When he pointed at me he shouted that my father was going to hell and then turned to tell another that her child was going to hell too. There were women kneeled in front of him with their hands raised franticly mumbling out words (later learned they were speaking in tongue). A feeling was rising from the pit of my belly and something inside of me was changing; somehow, I knew this was the last day I would be coming to this church.

I was feeling the urge to blow chunks and I was looking around for the fastest escape route; I contemplated climbing under the benches or going around them - when I looked towards the isle I saw my Sunday school teacher’s husband (I recognized him because he was the man I had seen being baptized with his wife the previous Sunday at the carnival). His eyes were on the man preaching but his hands were up the dress of the woman beside him. She was wearing stalkings that hooked on her legs just a bit above her knees, she had long black hair and wore a long black dress but at the moment the dress was hiked up like a mini skirt; I liked the lace trim on the top of her stalking and I think he did too because he couldn’t stop touching it. He must have felt me staring because he caught my eye and quickly removed his hand and smoothed down her skirt. I decided I better stay in my seat.

When the service was over I jumped up to leave; the husband stepped in my path, grabbed me by the arm and leaded me out the door. He looked down at me, smiled and said, “we are friends right?” I nodded and he handed me a five dollar bill and walked away.

After the events that followed when I went upstairs, I spent years associating the ‘downstairs’ with hell and the ‘upstairs’ with heaven and believing that hell was a far better place. On the way home, I didn’t speak a word. Jim said to me, “why so quiet? What, not in the mood for ice-cream?” And he started singing the usual tune. I thought for a moment about how I was going to tell him that I didn't want to come to church again - no words came to mind. Instead, I smiled, leaned inbetween the seats, handed him the five dollars and replied:

“I’ve got the money honey ~ do you have the time?"

Week 3 (An Unpleasant) Tone

2010-09-26T15:27:00.000-04:00

After another horrid day, feeling very inadequate and underappreciated, I made a few calls and did some searches with Google. Cooks can make an average of $27,000 a year, childcare can run a family roughly $1,000 per child per month; maids charge approximately $80 per day and a part time secretary usually make about $8 an hour; based on this I should be bringing in something like $88,856 a year and this does not count in any of the other jobs I do. So, why do I still have to ask for $20 for gas for the week, or money for groceries, or a few bucks to take the kids out once in awhile?

How can anyone make a marriage work when you have just spent the last eight hours pulling your hair out watching two sick kids, home schooling another, doing your own class work, cooking, cleaning, tending to the animals and running errands alone - having to change crappy diapers with out baby wipes only to have your ‘partner’ (I’m using the term loosely) come home, after being gone all day (doing god knows what) with a new bow for the upcoming hunting season. Honestly, how much can one person handle?

We’ve all heard of or made up our own mnemonics for things; our names, the planets, things that will be on a test, or, the most common, ones for the words: mom and bitch (notice how often these words are used to describe the same person). It’s should not be a big shocker as to why, is it right, fair or kind…no (just my opinion). My sister Jane once said to me, “what can you live with?” She wasn’t asking me a question she wanted the answer to, she was telling me the question that I needed to be asking myself. So, what can I live with?

I know what I can’t live without, one being my extended family. We all need support in our lives, someone to turn to when times are tough, people that will help us to laugh at the worst times in our life, people that will share our pain and our joys…I get that from my extended family. The greatest part about this family is that anyone with an open mind can share them with me, they can be your family too! The head man is one pretty darn amazing man, he will walk with you and leave you to walk on your own; he will ask things of you, challenge you, make you laugh, make you cry and give you hope…I’m sure you know who I am talking about - the family I am referring to…. If you are thinking of “The Simpsons” (Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa and all the other people on the show) you are 100% completely accurate. Who else could I have meant?

The Simpson’s, Bob (that’s Sideshow Bob) said, “Attempted murder? Now honestly, what is that? Do they give a Nobel Prize for attempted chemistry?” Thou shall not kill is one of the commandments but so is thou shall not lie and that does not stop the world (our spouses) from telling more tales than a politician. I’m greeted daily with a, “Jesus Fucking Christ”; I have a time limit for how long I can be on the toilet, I must check in regularly (but not call too much), dishes have to be done, house cleaned, errands run, bills paid (even if I have none). Money grows on trees, you can indeed get blood from a turnip and I really can pull flying monkeys from my ass! Eighty eight thousand sounds pretty sweet and would be very nice (but you can’t pay for things with monopoly money) but honestly, what is the worth of all of this and, more importantly, what is the cost?

Week 1 Rewrite

2010-09-26T14:07:00.000-04:00

You can learn a lot from the little pond in your own back yard; all about the slimy black water snakes, the call of the monstrous man-eating frogs and the slippery sludge that can suck the life away from you in a moments notice; all these fancy little ponds - oh yes, and canoes flip easy in smaller spaces. Snakes, sludge, frogs and fish…I have so much to learn.

Dad took me fishing in the little pond almost daily when I was a young girl, I would catch a trout now and then. He and I would stand on the banks by the cattails and I would cast out the line of my little Snoopy fishing pole; feel the tug and reel it in and with a little fling over my back shoulder the fish would land softly on the grass. Sometimes I would play with them in a bucket full of water and other times I would scale, gut, clean and fry them up for dad and I…well, the ones ‘Idle’, our cat, didn’t snatch off the hook for himself. The snakes and frogs didn’t bother us much back then and we didn’t have much use for any canoes, just the rod, real, line and hook is all we needed for a decent catch.

Dad caught more then a tricky trout once; overly curious and leaning in, I slipped on the sludge in our little pond, right down into the muck and reeds I went - the water was over my head, mud between my toes and darkness choking my airways - daddy pulled me up. After that, it occurred to him he would need a back up plan in order to keep me safe from precarious waters of the world; he didn’t want just any fish taking me, it would have to be a whale worthy of the catch - so, he taught ‘Lady’, my dog, to save me from drowning using my old winter coat strapped onto a big stuffed toy. Luckily Lady never had to try out her skill in the water but she did save me from a few wrong fishies with a couple of growls and nips. Mike was one of the fish I found along the way, he came after the wind took Lady; I wonder if she would have nipped him…

Mike and I love to fish and canoe, although I didn’t always jump at the idea. He didn’t care much for fishing along the banks, he wanted to drop the canoe in and paddle out deep. There was a time when I was very scared at the thought of being out in the middle of nowhere, in a little tipsy boat, with a man who wasn‘t my dad. The last thing I wanted to do was flip a canoe, lose my glasses, have the boat bash me in the head, my legs cramp up and end up just swimming with all the fishies…no dad to pull me up, no Lady to pull me out.

Mike and I started with a few small boat trips; around Branch Pond and under the bridge into Branch Lake, weaved through the rocks into Patten Pond, and danced with dragonflies out on Blunts. I got the feel for the quakes motor boats left behind, the winds from storms rolling in and the pull from the feisty bass on the other end of the fishing lines; like learning to drive a car, I needed to experience all the conditions - I needed to learn to stay afloat without my winter coat.

Not always the patient man, Mike has thrown lots of obstacles at me; the aqua critters get more fierce, the ponds get deeper and the waters get rougher but we keep taking the boat in and dropping the line. He wants to do the Penobscot Canoe race and he’s been trying to wheedle me into doing it with for the last three or so years. I’ve seen the pictures and I’ve got to admit it looks great but I’m just not ready. The white water waves crashing over us, the huge rocks to maneuver around… He wants to do the canoe race so badly he can taste it. Be it a canoe race or a sweet catch; he’s always got his eye out for that next big adventure and catching that big, record-breaking bass; I sometimes wonder if I’m just the paddle part of his journey.

Mum told me that her and Dad would boat out to a big rock in the middle of Union river and fish from that spot, my parents divorced when I was six - their canoe tipped too many times. Mum keeps a picture of her parents, they are sitting side by side fishing from a rock they had boated over to, my grandparents divorced after thirty some years of marriage - Grammpy took the bait but it wasn‘t Grammy’s hook that he latched on to… Maybe, like Mike, there is something that I want so much that I can just taste it too but sometimes the canoe tips and the fish just don’t bite.

Freak outs for Week 1 - Nature

2010-09-23T00:39:00.000-04:00

Ok....so, here are my first thoughts when I read about week 1:

When I arrived home today I thought, “oh god, my yard smells so bad like crap”. We have goats, geese, ducks, bunnies, chickens…I could go on; we have a farm. In addition, two flourishing gardens all on a beautiful ten acre lot of land; so, why can’t I think of something to write about for our ‘nature’ topic?

I love hiking, swimming, fishing, canoeing, kayaking and I just finished my hunters safety course this Spring; nothing nature-istic (I know that’s not a word) comes to mind.

I’ve seen one person born into this world and watched three people leave it. I’ve raised baby bunnies, baby birds, baby ducks, chickens and turkeys and more…. What am I going to write about?!?

***************

Then I thought: What about telling the story of when I saw my nephew being born! Can't really call this much of anything because as soon as I started it - I didn't like where it was going:

I Was (not) a Teen Mom

The cramps were excruciating, doubled over in my buddies Ford 150 on my way to work; popping Midol and chasing them with Pepsi - in hopes to make it through the day…that’s some pretty darn good work ethics for a fifteen year old.

He was like my own big cuddly bear, six years my elder, 6’1, and sexually sensational.

**********

So, then I thought....why not a bit about my garden, my marriage and the book I've been reading (ya...the Bible. Me reading it? Well....that's another story) So I got going with this which I actually didn't mind and I think I could still work with but for another topic/week:

“And there was evening and there was morning, one day.” (Genesis 1:3)

A plot of land, 16x24, grass, comfrey and a dream. A tiller rumbles to life and rips the grass up by its’ roots, the comfrey twists into the blades and mulches into the earth; a vision in the making.

Part time jobs, a 1991 mobile home, dishes from mum, beanbag chairs and a dream. A baby lets out her first breath in a shrieking cry; we were young, not quite so dumb and not quite so full of…well lets just say - two children later - we were a family in the making.

“And there was evening and there was morning, a second day.” (Genesis 1:8)

Several sections of rejected stockade wood fencing for a border; some tossed out decking boards, a post hole digger, hammer and nails for raised beds - we burrowed and pounded into the night.

Appliances bought on-time to make the kitchen usable; discarded mattresses from Mardens piled on the particle board flooring, cleaning supplies, a broom and dustpan - we scrubbed and settled ourselves into our new digs.

“And there was evening and there was morning, a third day.” (Genesis 1:13)

We dickered for a deal on soil, we shoveled - loaded and unloaded - wheel barrel after wheel barrel to fill the beds. We bartered for basil, rosemary, chives, and sorrel; pumpkin, sunflower and cucumber seeds we had; strawberries, celery, and lettuce came in trade. Rhubarb, tomatillos and nasturtiums were a gift.

What was it Daddy told me about gardening? Mumma knew the ins and outs of marriage and family…what was her advice again?

****

But is just wasn't working....or I just didn't give it enough of a chance - not sure...

The truth is - there has been so much going on in my life lately - that I can't seem to make heads or tails of some of it and right now honesty (non-fiction) means dealing with or coming to terms with certain things...and I'm not quite ready for that...but pushing on just the same - so we'll see.

I can already tell I will regret clicking the 'post' button.... I have tons of things saved in my word documents that are starts to pieces (I'm sure we all do) so it's odd to expose/share them.

Sometimes I wish you did a class on poetry.

The toast is burnt, the skin is fried; it's all a dream, you have not lied. Two by two, they are little and white; play pretend, turn your head, it doesn't make it right. Convice me not, you've played your game; I'm in the wrong and I'm to blame. Left is wrong and black is blue; whisper no more sweet things, I will tell you no lies too.
*****

Drama. Drama Queens. Queens, New York. New York, Broadway. Broadway, Drama.

Salt is best kept in the shaker, coffee in the pot, food in the belly, hair on the head.

Lets leave things where they belong (or at the very least - work best).

Week 1 - Nature

2010-09-22T20:20:00.000-04:00

Mike and I love to canoe, although I didn’t always jump at the idea. There was a time when I was very scared at the thought of being out in the middle of nowhere, in a little tipsy boat. The last thing I wanted to do was flip a canoe, lose my glasses, have the boat bash me in the head, my legs cramp up and end up just swimming with the fishies…didn’t want that at all.

He and I started with a few small boat trips; around Branch Pond and under the bridge into Branch Lake, weaved through the rocks into Patten Pond, and danced with dragonflies out on Blunts. I got the feel for the quakes motor boats left behind, the winds from storms rolling in and the pull from the feisty bass on the other end of the fishing lines; like learning to drive a car, I needed to experience all the conditions.

You can learn a lot from the little pond in your front yard; snakes, monstrous man-eating frogs and sludge fancy little ponds - oh yes, and canoes flip easy in smaller spaces. Bigger ponds taught me too; you can get very lost and eels… un-dead eels belong in the water - not in the canoe! So, which is better the little ponds or the big ones…I had so much to learn.

Dad took me fishing in the little pond in our yard when I was a young girl, I would catch trout. He and I would stand on the banks by the cattails and I would cast out the line of my little Snoopy fishing pole; feel the tug and reel it in and with a little fling over my back shoulder the fish would land softly on the grass. The catches ‘Idle’, our cat, didn’t snatch off the hook for himself, I would gut, clean and fry up for dad and I - we handled the snakes and frogs with ease.

Mum and myself, would pop Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” cassette into her car stereo and head out into the big ‘ponds’; chasing our ‘Neon Rainbows’ from Hancock to Brunswick, across the borders into New Hampshire and back again - just ramming the roads. Sometimes she would let me drive while she covered her eyes from the back seat and prayed, other times we would purposely get lost, find a motel and stay over night in a new land. Just her and I; we never picked up hitchhikers, nor brought along anyone else - big eels belonged in the water.

Mike wants to do the Penobscot Canoe race and he’s been trying to wheedle me into doing it with for the last three or so years. I’ve seen the pictures and I’ve got to admit it looks great but I’m just not ready. The white water waves crashing over us, the huge rocks to maneuver around…I don’t know - I’m timid and afraid. I’ve been working on over coming my fears, slowly and one at a time. Fears can turn even the clear blue waters into dark nasty nightmares; but in order for a clock to keep ticking it must continually change the placement of its’ hands - let loose of the rock holding you under and find a way to the surface.

I slipped on the sludge once in our little pond, right down into the muck and reeds I went; the water was over my head, mud between my toes and darkness choking my airways - daddy pulled me up. He taught ‘Lady’, my dog, to save me from drowning after that using my old winter coat and a big doll to represent me floating in the water. Luckily she never had to try out her skill in the water but she did save me from a few wrong fishies with a couple of growls and nips.

She never nipped me but she did howl with the banshees the day that I had been outside playing… Mumma hollered for me to come in for supper; I barged into the house and followed my nose to the dining room; mum took one look at me and screamed in horror. Shocked and confused I ran to the bathroom and locked the door, she pounded on the door while I stood frozen in the mirror - a monster was staring back at me. We spent the rest of the day in the doctors office. She held and rocked her little monster for hours while we waited to hear why I was red, swollen and covered head to toe in hives. Every Christmas since I get Benadryl in my stocking.

Mike wants the canoe race so badly he can taste it; my fears are what’s holding us back. We took the canoe out into Craig’s Pond in Orland a few weeks ago. It’s a rare opportunity when Mike and I get to spend some time together alone, without kids, without work, without anyone or any obligations - just the two of us. Neither of us had been to this place before, we had the canoe but no poles; Mike was fishing but not for anything below the surface, trolling along the edge, admiring the ledges and caves. The pond had other visitors that day so, reluctantly paddling from the edge, we found a quaint spot in the middle. We tested the waters without going in, we rocked the boat and tipped our luck from side to side; losing our shorts along the way - we discovered a canoe does not tip so easily in a big pond but now fellow boaters have to tales to tell.

Mum told me that her and Dad would boat out to a big rock in the middle of Union river and fish from the spot. She keeps a picture of her parents on the buffet in her dining room, they are sitting side by side fishing from a rock they had boated over to… Boats do tip, people do drown, sometimes the fish just don’t bite but there are things that stand the test of time, fears can be overcome, and, sink or swim, I know I will do the Penobscot canoe race one of these Springs…I just know it.

Are you ready - An Impaired Observation (freewill rewrite)

2010-09-17T05:17:00.001-04:00

She was crying, when she cries I go to her. We were little together; a nine year difference that left me with the crappy end - I changed her diapers. My niece, my darling, my Amber… when she cries - I go.

When we walked into LaVerdiere’s Drug store, she was just over two, the snow had warmed up to slush and mumma sent us in together; hand-in-hand. I was eleven - the perfect age to be easily embarrassed; she was two - the perfect age to easily mortify me. Three steps out of the slush, into the warmth of the store, we stood next to the counter with the gray haired man who busied himself tending to the line of customers. Without warning, Amber belts out, “Turdie!!!” All eyes found us, my eyes found their feet; paired in twos were goulashes of all colors. Moving quickly three steps back out the door, I was ready to run. It turned out her excitement was over nothing more than a stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toy. Oddly enough, ever since that day, I’ve found myself wanting to run to her …and for the same reasons I once wanted to run from her - “Turdies!”

Did I develop an obsession with Ninja Turtles? No. Mike and Dixie are the “turdies” of today. Mike is mine (but he is another story) and Dixie is hers. I told Amber when she turned twenty-one that I wanted to take her out to the bar for her first legal drink but she was away at college and Dixie took her. I did not change her first diaper, see her first steps, was not the first to hug her as she graduated from high school and moved onto college, didn’t smoke her first joint with her or even help her move into her first apartment; I made it for none of those…but did that stop me from changing her stinky butt, walking with her, hugging her, chasing a shot or entertaining Miss Mary Jane with her…no. Because when Amber cries, I go.

It was around seven and the sun had not quite set when Amber called me quite hysterical; Dixie was up to her usual bullshit but had taken things to a new all time low. I jumped into the car and closed the 200 mile gap between us within moments (or so it seemed). Hugs, tears and a two second tour of her pad, had us baking clams like true Mainers in her little Toyota Corolla - scanning the radio for something to set the mood. Tears turned to laughter and tunes turned to texts; pals bid us to venture over their way. We floated across the yard on a cloud to arrive at their door, we entered into another cloud as we crossed their threshold; cigs and beers in hand, they were true friends - ready to listen, they knew she was there to talk about the latest brawl with her long term ‘turdy’.

It was a blast from my past, Queen wasn’t on the walls - nor was Meatloaf, Aerosmith or Guns-N-Roses but those black velvet posters that glowed were there…those were the same. As was the big comfy ‘curb-side’ furniture, tower of beer cans (the cheap stuff-no Bud here) and the scent of incense and Menthols (ok maybe some bud after all) clouding the room. Strands of beads hung in doorways and a variety of high school ceramic artwork embellished the ash covered coffee tables; oddly enough I believe they were meant to be ashtrays; the place was tripping.

Amber and I found the loveseat, it was a soft mocha color, like those yummy iced coffees from DD, this is where we sat - her and I and her friend, that I’ll call, “Kat” (as in Kat Von D - because she’s cool), this 'Kat' was a female friend of a different kind - the straight (yet awkwardly bi-curious) kind. As they started to chatter about Dixie, the smoke in the room started growing a lot thicker and tastier. The three of us sat, becoming immobile on that mocha cigarette burned loveseat. Amber and Kat continued their chatter back and forth to one another as we passed around the lil bubbling glass of toxic pleasure - Bic lighter in tow; Kat had the silver tongue and spoke a mile a minute - while Amber kinda fell into numbness,
“Dixie is shit -forget about her!”
“Yaaaaaaaa”
“No, seriously, crap - complete crap.”
“Yaaaaaaa”
“What the fuck? Really. Lets just do it. You and I bitch. No joke.”
“Ummmmmmm”

The chair adjacent to us was a soft, strikingly beautiful color of… oh heck, honestly, I don’t know, half-baked and bored, all I knew is that there was an adorable red-headed hunky Irish man lounging in it. Snow white skin with tiny little pepperspots; those green eyes carried the freckles with pride. A cell phone glued to his ear and a scowl on his face were the only unhealthy things about him; the conversation was twisting him from the cutie he was into a frazzled little angry leprechaun, “I told ya baby, I’m with friends. Jesus….really? No hun, we are just chillin. Ya ya baby, you can swing by. Fuck.”

Two other men adorned the room; one - a tall thin tattooed one - sat shirtless in torn jeans with a silver chain around his neck - he played the role of a young Charles Manson (B.C. - Before Carnage) He spoke in a dramatic way, as though he were running for President and addressing his country, “Today we are facing difficulties; the cultural differences I see on a daily basis mixed with the advanced technology is creating the unnecessary dramas in the world of which we live” .

His friend who sat beside him was a little man; short brown hair - shaved in a military fashion. He was the regular guy who would blend into a crowd (most likely the one to end up on top of a tower shooting the people below). He spoke slow and steady in a dreary tone, “Yes, your point is clear. You speak from knowledge. Pass me another. I see your point. Do you have a light? You are recognizing what I’ve been seeing. Dude, is this South park that’s on?”

All the voices blended together like a Barber Shop Quartet; I was getting the high notes from the silver tongue, the baritone from my angry little leprechaun and a little in between embellishment from the rest of them. I smiled as the room spun; a nice beautiful, shit-eating grin spread across my face, it was a picturesque moment, a night to remember, this experience - my niece and I. The room spun and settled as we floated about it. Her and I sat heavy like the couch and lingered like the smoke; there was no rhyme or reason to the evening - it just was what it was… Kenny was killed yet again, Lady GaGa danced with Alejandro, we sang, laughed and coughed into the darkness until our ears rang with delight. Eventually, our inner alarm clocks lifted mine and Amber’s shaking legs and we traveled like lava across the shag rug and out the door. Two stairwells down, three more up, and a couple of clouds later, I found myself back at her place, awaking, in the early morning hours, to the hungry eyes of a... stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. It was time to go.

An Impaired Observation

2010-09-16T01:07:00.000-04:00

She was crying, when she cries I go to her. We were little together; there was a nine year difference that left me with the crappy end - I changed her diapers. My niece, my darling, my Amber… and when she cries - I go.

When we walked into LaVerdiere’s Drug store, she was just over two, the snow had warmed up to slush in the parking lot and mumma sent us in together; hand-in-hand. I was eleven - the prime age to be embarrassed by any joke - especially a ‘poop’ joke; she was two - the prime age to have one thing on her mind - poop. Three steps out of the slush, into the warmth of the store, next to the counter with the old man with gray hair tending to the line of customers in goulashes, Amber belts out, “Turdies!!!” The only time in her life I wanted to run away from her. I wanted to run and run far all because of ‘turdies’ (which turned out to be nothing more then a giant stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toy). Ever since that day, I find myself wanting to run to her and oddly enough for the same reasons I once wanted to run from her, ‘turdies” (just of a different kind).

I told her when she turned twenty-one that I wanted to take her out to her first bar for her first legal drink. She was away at college in Waterville and I did not get to take her. I did not change her first diaper, walk her to the bus on her first day of school, be the first to hug her as she graduated from high school and moved onto college, drink her first drink with her, smoke her first joint with her or even help her move into her first apartment; I made it for none of those firsts…but did that stop me from changing her stinky butt, walking with her, hugging her, toasting the New Year with her or smoking a sweet treat with her at her first apartment…no. Because when Amber cries, I go.

It wasn’t Queen on the walls - not Meatloaf, Aerosmith or Guns-N-Roses but those black velvet posters that glowed were there…those were the same. As was the big comfy ‘curb-side’ furniture, tower of beer cans (the cheap stuff-no Bud here) and the scent of incense and Menthols clouding the room. Strands of beads hung in doorways and a variety of high school ceramic artwork embellished the ash covered coffee tables; oddly enough I believe they were meant to be ashtrays. We floated across the yard on a cloud to arrive at their door, we entered into another cloud as we crossed their threshold; cigs and beers in hand, they were true friends - ready to listen, they knew she was there to talk about the latest brawl with her long term ‘turdy’.

The loveseat was a soft mocha color, like those yummy iced coffees from DD, this is where we sat - Amber and I and her friend, not the ‘turdy’ who had made her cry…a female friend of a different kind - the straight (yet awkwardly bi-curious) kind. As they started to chatter about Dixie (the long term piece of shit who was upsetting my baby girl) the smoke in the room started growing a lot thicker and tastier.

The chair adjacent to us was a soft, strikingly beautiful color of… oh hell, I don’t know because all I know is that there was an adorable red-headed hunky Irish man lounging in it. Snow white skin with tiny little pepperspots; those green eyes carried the freckles with pride. A cell phone glued to his ear and a scowl on his face were the only unhealthy things about him; the conversation was twisting him into a frazzled little angry leprechaun - someone was after his pot of gold. “I told ya baby, I’m with friends. No hun, we are just chillin. Ya ya baby, you can swing by.”

Two other men adorned the room; one - the tall thin tattooed one - sat shirtless in torn jeans with a silver chain around his neck - he played the role of a young Charles Manson (B.C. - before carnage) He spoke in a dramatic way, as though he were running for President and addressing his country, “Today we are facing difficulties; the cultural differences I see on a daily basis mixed with the advanced technology is creating the unnecessary dramas in the world of which we live” .

His friend who sat beside him was a little man; short brown hair - shaved in a military fashion. He was the regular guy who would blend into a crowd (most likely the one to end up on top of a tower shooting the people below). He spoke slow and steady in a dreary tone, “Yes, your point is clear. You speak from knowledge. Pass me another. I see your point. Do you have a light? You are recognizing what I’ve been seeing. Dude, is this South park that’s on?”

And the three of us, the only females in the spacious two bedroom apartment, sat motionless on that mocha cigarette burned loveseat. Amber and her friend continued their chatter back and forth to one another and we passed around the lil bubbling glass of pleasure along with the Bic lighter; their voices were rapid and exact wording was quite un-comprehendible but I got the gist of it all as I helped to cloud the room, “Blah, blah some guy… Yada Yada Dixie… Blah blah manaja twa… Yada Yada Yaaaaaa.”

The room spun and settled as I floated about it. I sat heavy like the couch and lingered like the smoke; there was no rhyme or reason to the night - the night just was… Kenny was killed yet again, Lady GaGa danced with Alejandro, we sang, laughed and coughed into the night until our ears rang with delight. Our inner alarm clocks lifted our shaking legs off the shag rug and transported us out the door. Two stairwells down, three more up, and a couple of clouds later, I found myself awaking, in the early morning hours, to the hungry eyes of a stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Amber, resting peacefully without a tear, so I washed the cotton from my mouth, gathered my stuff and slipped quietly out, it was time for me to go.

I don't think you know me, I don't think I know me.

2010-09-02T04:28:00.000-04:00

What makes me different from any other student? Nothing. I’m one of the many people returning to education to better their situations.

Youngest of eight, born within the sixth month, just shy of the sixth day in the hours of six-ish; I was brought into this world with an evil smile on my face. Twisted, congealed in my beliefs, I am determined; foolish yet feisty, I am eager….

I started babysitting when I was six, grew into a blueberry rake, burned my way to a fry vat, served myself right into a bar and counted my tips all the way to an accounting office; ten years behind a desk - I was missing the outside world, so I sang, “The hills are alive” to my boss as I walked out the door and into the gardens of my present employer. It’s been a long road, with a lot learned. I am a Jane of all trades (and a master of none).

Engaged at 19, spent my 21st birthday pregnant (unable to enjoy that first legal drink) and graduated into my 30’s knocked up again; life has been that rollercoaster ride but it’s been a somewhat fair ride that’s not over yet.

However, those stars shot themselves through the sky in vain, uncaught wishes left me with a bit of a bitter taste - skip the tale, the white night and the fairy godmother and just make the dreams come to life. If only that simple.

I thought I knew where I was going with this educational opportunity but honestly I’m still quite clueless; my head steers me in one direction and my passion in another. I know what I like, I know what I want but I still need to learn what I can do.

I’m at Eastern Maine Community College as a Liberal Studies student, the plan is to eventually transfer to University of Maine; will I get that far or switch gears and take the road “less traveled”1 …only time will tell.

__________________________________________
1 “The Road not Taken” by Robert Frost

A challenge to work towards...

2010-06-29T09:53:00.000-04:00

It's dark and dreary out this morning so I've spent an exceedingly large amount of time just playing on-line; not a good habit. However, while researching, I came across something that gave me a chill when I read it:

"Man is born to Die, His Works are Short-lived Buildings Crumble, Monuments Decay, Wealth Vanishes But Katahdin in All Its Glory Forever Shall Remain the Mountain of the People of Maine"

What is my passion for wanting to climb this mountain? I simply don't know but it doesn't change my desire to want to do it. I can see myself at the top, resting, viewing the world before me with the breeze cooling me down and the same chill I felt this morning when I read that quote, climbing up my spine and allowing a shiver to escape my body. Sitting upon mother earth will I feel her heartbeat? Will it be a feeling of accomplishment? Closer to the divine? A connection to the earth? Or will it just be?

I was reading a bit about Katahdin and read that it is very rich in Native American lore. The Native American tribes were wise beyond what man today will ever fully understand or appreciate; they would recognize the importance of working together, leaving pride behind and honoring all the souls for their connected contributes - so unlike man today.

This journey I feel I'm on with this weight loss, this search for a healthier happier me, I'm learning that I can not - nor should I try to believe - that it should be done alone....it is a tribe that helps carry us when our muscles rest. To think otherwise would be foolish...and I have thought otherwise thus the long rollercoaster ride I was once buying countless tickets to ride.

If I was to start dishing out 'thank yous' for the parts of my body that have already left me (like one of my extra butts) the list is already lengthy and I'm only half way there.

I've talked with others and hear them tell me about how hard they have worked to shed some pounds and control their diets and in their stories I hear a lot of "I", "me" and "my"....well, I don't doubt it - I believe they've worked very hard - heck I know I have but that's only a part of it. It took support, encouraging words (even unencouraging words), babysitting, cash, time, effort and so much more from friends, family, new acquaintances and even strangers. It's funny how so much ties together. Each day is a struggle, something new that I encounter and by the end of the day I've met a new person that I need to thank.

Today’s challenge was a Twinkie. Odd eh? I don't usually buy them or even allow them in the house but yesterday was Zac's birthday and his request was for Twinkies. Phoebe brought one to me this morning to open for her... my heart raced, pulse quickened and even a few droplets of sweat trickled down my brow. My mind thought of a zillion reasons not to eat it a zillion other reasons why it would be ok to just indulge. Bless (bless is a code word for shoot) the people who can simply indulge and gain no extra weight for doing so. Curse (curse is code word for reward) those of us who can not and have the will power to walk away. However, I feel a slight tremble as I write this...perhaps the battle is not over just yet. The Twinkie and I will perhaps still have our face off...till then I thank the extra children in my home for asking for Twinkies for breakfast.

So, the challenge I'm working toward....is it the hike up Katahdin or is it the hike along the rocky edge of my will power?

It's been awhile...

2010-06-28T18:56:00.000-04:00

Everyone has to start somewhere - right? But where to start....

Remember being younger and playing the game, "Life"? I sucked at that game (nothing like Monopoly). Why did I not see it - that "Life" was surprisingly similar to life.

However, they should update and add a few more realistic spots. I mean sure - some are right on the money like all those little spots after you get married...honeymoons are a lot like that - one problem after another right from the beginning (and p.s. to newly weds - it never stops and I'm not referring to the sex - that often does or at least slows down). The spots I'm referring to that should be added are ones like, "go back 10 spaces for moving back in with your folks" or "lose a turn for gaining 50 extra pounds that you can not blame on the new baby". You know things along this line.

I mean they do not teach you in high school about real life; we learn all sorts of useful things - history, science, algebra and how to sneak a smoke on your break but what you don't learn is how to not get bored in your marriage, how to survive on macaroni and ketchup and not gain extra weight or how to find and keep a decent paying job when all you learned prior to graduation is history, science, algebra.

Ok, I'm downplaying the importance of education. I don't mean to do that, it is important, valuable and I'm happy to have had it but looking back I realize there is room for improvements in the system but that's another story.

In all honesty so much of my life so far I've had to learn as I go...trial and error and it's not the easiest course. Remember how our parents told us not to do something because they had been there done that and then whatever they said next we didn't hear because we were too busy rolling our eyes and thinking about how we were going to sneak out with our friends later that evening....well, maybe our parents were on to something with those warnings - if only I had listened.

No, instead I learned on my own - as I went - the hard way. I can't say that is is the road less traveled...so many of us don't listen - no, no I encountered a lot of other people going through things just like I was - many other fools.

So now I'm 33 years old and I can feel myself on a different road once again. Wait, better yet, a different level. You know those "over the hill" jokes...well guess what - there really is a freaking hill! Yep, that's right. Here's my take on it so far...

At the bottom on the first side is all the pretty green grass and wild flowers - we are all just babes in Toyland at this point. Not a care in the world simply enjoying the new bodies we were born into.

We climb a couple of rocks as teens and get a taste for that level up. We get cocky and daring. We now see the grass below and realize if we fall...it's not really so far. So we do stupid things - skip school, try the pot, have sex with a variety of people, smoke the cigs and get so drunk our friends carry us home and sneak us in through our bedroom windows.

Our twenties are only a couple of stones higher but it is a major difference because now we think we know it all. We want to be adults but we still want our meals cooked for us and our laundry washed and dried by mumma. We've discovered that we must work to stay on those higher rocks but we are not ready to spend our earnings on the necessities...we feel the need for the latest movie, ipod, or cell phone is way more important at this time. Our elders are all clueless and the youth is so annoying. In our twenties - we own that hill.

We hit our 30's and this was like a big jump and the hill developed cliffs...we are climbing them all through our 30's. If we have yet married we are looking - fearing our child bearing years are nearing their end. If we have married and had children we wonder why the hell we did that so soon. Our loved ones that are just a bit older start to die and the younger ones are screwing up left and right and we've dished out so many "I've told you so's" that we realize karma is knocking at the door along with the bill collectors. We teeter on the edge of our trail up the hill and contemplate life frequently but are often so busy wrapped up in the moment that we don't realize it is passing us by. At this point in time, many of us realize with all of our contemplations, what they heck have we done to ourselves and how can we fix it. This could be in the form of failed marriages, one too many run ins with the law, failed childhood dreams, or simply the shallow fact that we can no longer walk up stairs without sweating and gasping for air and we can no longer fit into those jeans we were wearing just a few months (years) ago...the ones in the back of our closets (men have them too) that looked so great on us (in our teens and twenties) and now have a layer of fat (new) clothes piled up on top of them. We wonder.... "what the hell happened and when?"

And so I guess here is where I begin...

Week 16 Theme Choice 4

2009-12-15T03:20:00.002-05:00

Week 16 Theme Choice 4

Choice #4 Week 16. Write about yourself as a writer--hopes and dreams, strengths and weaknesses, ambitions and failures; reactions to the semester, what changed for better or worse in your writing; course experiences, problems, positives.

Some people like to draw, paint, sing, jog daily, build things…..me, I like to write. Paper is my own little, personal (and inexpensive) counselor. I love finding small details unique and exciting and utilizing those discoveries in various poems, stories, and such (if only you knew the true speck of dust some of these stories stemmed from); it’s like a sick challenged of sorts that I’m obsessed with. I completely enjoy writing about my family, when one of them says to me, “I’m so bored, my life is so dull.” - I write a story about them; just to prove them wrong…all in good fun. It’s grand to capture memories on paper the way a photographer does with a picture; precious things and people fade and become lost if we don’t preserve those memories. Not too mention it is very exciting to write a piece and have it move someone…to tears – to laughter – or to be completely pissed off – whatever the emotion – it’s fun just to know you brought that on with your thoughts and crazy out looks. That’s how I feel anyway.

My weaknesses are retched; I procrastinate something wicked. There are times I am well aware that I do it…I tend to work best under pressure but then there are times that are just beyond my control. It’s a weaknesses that can prove to be beneficial or can really wear me down after countless sleepless nights working late hours to catch up on things.

Another horrid weakness is this dang cement block that hinders my vision and weighs down my writing hand – it can go on for days, weeks, even months and sometimes it is a great challenge to lift it off and work past it. I feel as though my imagination just up and leaves for Hawaii a few times a year.

It’s fortunate in ways that I am still - basically….learning to fly (so to speak) because I do not have many failures on my plate pulling me down. I was hoping to be proud of some great writing accomplishment before my father passed away but that did not happen…but I continue because what child does not want their parents proud of them and mum still enjoys when I read foolishness to her.

This class has been…what a good word for it….like a fine vinaigrette. If you always have your salad plain and never venture out for a little spicy variety then you will never improve the taste of the salad.

Some weeks I really got into doing, I liked the memories the prompts brought up – other weeks felt like trips to the dentist….but with every pulled tooth comes the fairy – right and all your comments and tips and such were like valuable gold coins….not saying you are like a fairy or anything. 

Honestly, any time I write and someone critiques it, I feel I’ve gained something….whether it is a new out look to a different approach, a bit more strength for handing judgments or whatever…but always something gained. I mean sometimes, especially with a nonfiction class, we really put ourselves out there – kinda like baring all.

Occasionally I wanted to comment on other people’s pieces in the class; there are some amazing writers in this group and it’s been quite enjoyable reading the variety of stuff. Other times, I would have liked to hear a few other opinions – specially on the pieces that you didn’t get…it would have been interesting to know if I was so far off – no one could get them or if it was just generation issues.

One of the biggest challenges I felt was the pressure of what to write and what not to, some weeks the lectures frightened me and I was like....ok – he doesn’t want this – this – this or this…so that leaves…this and there are already several good examples of “this” that I don’t want to copy so now I need to do….what again? Confusing. Exactly. Frustrating. Precisely. But fortunately you were not a stickler for requesting the assignments to be done by a certain date/time leaving opportunities for us to sleep on the lectures and really think about them for a while and work through all that.

Positive experiences…many! I honored a friend by writing a story about her life and her struggles, she had her family read it and that evening they all pitched in together to help her clean up the house and they all decorated the place for Christmas; that was a wonderful feeling. I read a few pieces to the sister who I worked with caring for our father during his last days and as I read we shared tears and memories and it was like our own form of therapy. Another sister who lives far away, I call frequently to read my stories to and we laugh and share together and it is very bonding and enjoyable. I could go on an on with the positives…I liked learning some of the different techniques to try. For example, after those torturous vignettes – a friend asked me to go watch the Nutcracker with her…but it was not the whole version it was only a vignette of it – so, finally – duh – got it! 

So, to sum things up – I have no regrets. I enjoyed this class a great deal. Though, I know there are other options that are probably financially more appealing, I want to do more writing classes, fine tune, polish, and simply just keep doing what feels natural. I feel you’ve done a great job as an internet teacher – it must be quite a challenge to keep things interesting and to keep up with all of us posting a dozen weeks at a time!  It’ll be interesting if we ever meet in person someday because over the course of this class I’ve developed my own impression on what sort of person I think you are – lol but I’ll save that for a creative fiction class. 

Thank you for everything.

P.S.

Choice 3 - I would love to tackle but, your right….just to scared, don’t know where to begin, how to begin and now…times up.

Week 16 Theme (Option 2 - I think it is...fixing a prior piece.) Part 2

2009-12-15T01:37:00.000-05:00

Here is it revised:

If I was to give it a title, I would call it "Amber"

Fifty-three gowns in two days, she knows he would prefer her in jeans – heck she would prefer jeans (and a get-a-way car). Six of her nine aunts “oooo” and “aaaah” while her mother dabs at tears, her grammy takes pictures, and her nanner zips, tucks and buttons one dress after another; her sister slouches on a red velvet divan and texts; one auntie hangs back questioning the queer look in her niece’s eyes.

Dress after dress, white upon white, all the white could not fix her thoughts…she loved who she loved – she had been wrapped in fifty-three different straight jackets and within a few days she will be bound in one of those contraptions for life…where’s the gaiety in that. In need of a break, she heads out for a bit of time with her best girl. Watching the sun set from their windy seats atop of Blue Hill Mountain, shades of red highlight the sky - the sky masking their blushing cheeks, the cold rock under them prevents them from putting on airs – so they sit in silence – holding hands. Her best girl is like a little radiator, so warm –so soft, they snuggle closer and enjoy the moment; the past is not thought of, the future is not considered only the moment…so warm, so soft, and so red.

Just one day till the shackles are welded closed around her limbs; her sister, mother and grammy arrive at her home to help with final preparations. Her soon-to-be greets them with a grumble from his recliner, feet elevated higher then his head; sporting his lucky Yankees cap, releasing a little gas, he loses himself in the game. Just one day to go…she hides; her sister knows right where to find her – in her closet.

Needing to escape the chaos of finalizations, she sneaks off to visit her Aunt, the aunt who does not usually miss a beat, the auntie who noticed the look in her eyes. Bringing along her best girl, the two sit for a spell, “Auntie, this is my good friend. My auntie loves the Simpson’s, check out this Rubik’s cube of Homer’s head – she can be pretty good at figuring out these head games.” The three girls sit and watch episode 345 of the Simpson’s together, nervous laughter and side glances until her auntie starts a game of Truth or Dare…she was never good at keeping things from her auntie…even as a small child:

“Your knees are ticklish; who are you going to marry? Barney? Big Bird? A Ninja Turtle?” Teases her Auntie

“Turdies, silly Auntie, I wuv Barbie.”

A child no more, the years and days have passed briskly by, the day of reckoning has arrived too quickly, she tries to write her fiancé a long over due Dear John; her hands tremble and she shuffles the pen from right to left – her hands as ambidextrous as her soul. The Fates hold her life but who holds her heart…

A few sprinkles of rain spatter against the windshield, “oh I hope their wedding does not get rained out” her mother frets.

“No matter what happens, it will be a good day” her grammy declares, “red skies at night – sailor’s delight”

The fifty-fourth gown, a restraint concocted of lace and tulle; the final fitting moments before the facade is to begin. Family, friends, co-workers; they are all there – all but her best girl. She thinks back a couple of nights ago to their time on the mountain and tries hard to feel the rock beneath her and to feel the warm, soft hand in hers.

Most everyone is gathering in the pews while, in the back room, she stands for the final alterations. Six of her nine aunts “oooo” and “aaaah” while her mother dabs at tears, her grammy takes pictures and her sister, unenthused, slouches in a chair and texts; one auntie hangs back, noticing, but no longer questioning, the queer look in the bride-to-be’s eyes. She stands on the stool while her nanner alters and hems. Stitching away, nanner leisurely pokes the needle in and gradually pulls it out.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry sweetie, I did not mean to pierce you with the needle.”

She offers a small smile of forgiveness for her nanner, then gazes down at the dress and at the red liquid seeping from a little hole in her leg… or is it from her heart…where is her courage, her strength, her heart; where is her best girl. The clock is ticking - the approaching ceremony is weighing on her like a drove of ominous black clouds, tears escape her eyes...blood trickles from the open wound…yet she feels… nothing.

Week 16 Theme (Option 2 - I think it is...fixing a prior piece.) Part 1

2009-12-14T22:38:00.000-05:00

Here is the original from Week 10 Prompt 43 - And your original comments follow:

Blogger Stephanie said...

Prompt 43

Fifty-three gowns in two days, he would prefer her in jeans. Six of her nine aunts “oooo” and “aaaah” while her mother dabs at tears and her granny zips, tucks and buttons one dress after another; her sister slouches on a red velvet divan and texts.

***

Watching the sun set from their windy seats atop of Cadillac Mountain, shades of red highlight the sky; the cold rock under them prevents them from putting on airs – so they sit in silence – holding hands. She’s like a little radiator, so warm –so soft, they snuggle closer and enjoy the moment; the past is not thought of, the future is not considered only the moment…so warm, so soft, so red.

***

He reclines back, feet elevated higher then his head; pulling of his socks, she rubs his feet. The kitchen timer signals supper is ready and she moves to set the table; two plates, two cups, two forks, all but the two red candles that do not leave the cupboard. He brings his plate to the recliner and flips on the Patriots game.

***

“Auntie, this is my friend Dixie. My auntie loves the Simpsons, check out this rubics cube of Homer’s head.” The three girls sit and watch episode 345 together, nervous laughter and side glances until her auntie brings out the brownies.

***

A few sprinkles of rain spatter against the windshield, “oh I hope their wedding does not get rained out” her mother frets.

“No matter what happens, it will be a good day” her granny declares, “red skies at night – sailor’s delight”

***

Fifty-fourth gown and the final fitting moments before the ceremony is to begin. She stands on the stool while her granny alters and hems; she tries hard to feel the rock beneath her and her warm, soft hand in hers.

***

“Your knees are ticklish; who are you going to marry? Barney? Big Bird? Michelangelo (the ninja turtle)?”

“Auntie, I wuv Barbie.”

***

Light headed, dizzy, and a desire to flee, she stands motionless. “Oh dear, I’m sorry sweetie, I did not mean to prick you with the pin.”

She looked down at her dress, granny pulling the pin from her skin - a trickle of red; she felt nothing.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009 3:37:00 PM
Delete
Blogger johngoldfine said...

I get a little lost in this one, stephanie--the little girl confuses me; she's the niece of the bride to be? And the Patriots game...before marriage???? Am I to understand that this fellow is such a lout that he doesn't realize he should at least try to fool his fiancee into believing that she will always take precedence over the kickoff (wait until the knot is tied before letting the truth come out, buddy!)

Or not? As I say, I got confused.

Friday, November 27, 2009 9:18:00 AM

Week 15 Theme 2nd One

2009-12-14T13:51:00.000-05:00

Reach for a Lucky, instead of a sweet.
Nothing refreshes better under the hot sun or after a hard day of work.
Have it your way.
Do you know me?
The skin you love to touch.
Reach out and touch someone.
Fast, fast, fast relief.
The ultimate driving machine.
For a product demo break glass.
Melts in your mouth, not in your hands.
Takes a licking and keeps on ticking.
We try harder.
Where’s the beef?
Think small.
My bologna has a first name.
How many licks to get to the center.
Prejudice is one of the worst side-effects.
Just do it.
It’s the real thing.
Snap, Crackle, Pop!
Good to the last drop.
Mmm, mm good.
It’s so simple.
A job well done.
I can be the March Playmate.
Be all that you can be.
Life’s too short for the wrong job.
Always a bridesmaid but never a bride.
A buck well spent.

Week 15 Theme 1st One

2009-12-14T12:42:00.002-05:00

Week 15 Theme 1

It's like falling from a plane - you just want to get the landing over with so you will know if you've survived it or not. But you know.....as you fall - you tend to really see a lot, a lot of the world around you - you learn a lot and think about a lot. And when you've realized you've survived the landing - you are a bit wiser, stronger and better because of it.

Rootbeer is on the way.

People never understand death - even when they go through it...sometimes they still don't get it. Why? Because it's different for everyone. The same death could be handled 100's of different ways. I mean really...do we all eat an Oreo the same way - nope.

Bunnies are in the mail.

If they keep at you....ask them, "have you ever burned yourself? Have you ever purposely stuck any part of your body into hot scorching flames?" There answer to the 2nd question will be, “No”. So ask them..."Why do you want me to?"

Hives suck!

Niece: When life hands you a lemon, say F*** the lemon and bail.
Aunt: Embrace the lemon, they are good. You can squeeze them and shoot juice in the eye of whoever handed it to you – laugh and then bail.

The square route of pi is apple.

Week 14 Theme Part 2

2009-12-11T20:45:00.000-05:00

Week 14 Theme #2 – Option 1

Effective and Ineffective Ways to Keep Kids Quiet So You Can Write a Paper

Effective*:
1. Duct tape.
2. Burlap sacks, heavy stones and a deep pond.
3. Washer and Dryer.

Ineffective:
1. Ask the oldest child to babysit.
2. Occupy them with food, tv, books or games.
3. Give them all their birthday gifts, Christmas gifts and any other gifts early.

*Please Note: While any of the three choices are highly effective they are illegal and are not recommended, and since they are the only choices offered – suggestions are welcomed.

Week 14 Theme #2 – Option 2

Effective and Ineffective Ways to Keep Kids Quiet So You Can Write a Paper

Effective*:
4. Duct tape.
a. Cover mouths and affix them to walls or furniture.
5. Burlap sacks, heavy stones and a deep pond.
a. Place in sack, add stone, tie tight, drop in pond.
6. Washer and Dryer.
a. One for each child or if you have only one child or more then two feel free to use the rinse cycle…spin well.

Ineffective:
4. Ask the oldest child to babysit.
a. The power will go to their head and both will end up screaming and crying loader then before you shifted the control.
5. Occupy them with food, tv, books or games.
a. Their will be a food fight, they will argue over the show, the books will become objects to hurl and they will want you to play the games with them.
6. Give them all their birthday gifts, Christmas gifts and any other gifts early.
a. Assuming you have any, it will only occupy them for 30 seconds per gift: 15 seconds to open (if you are lucky) and 15 seconds to become bored with it.

*Please Note: While any of the three choices are highly effective they are illegal and are not recommended, and since they are the only choices offered – suggestions are welcomed.

Week 13 Theme

2009-12-11T19:39:00.002-05:00

Week 13 Theme

“Tree! Tree! Tree! Tree!” Phoebe holds the little twinkling light in her hand, “pretty” she says and smiles. She is not quite two and her vocabulary is quite limited; within the last hour she has added two new words, “pretty” and “tree”.

This is our third year of putting up a real tree, it took Mike ten years to convince me the world would not end if we cut a tree at Christmas; can’t say that I’m convinced. It’s a little over six feet tall, round and full; lights and two ornaments that Zac made hang from it. The house smells homey.

Out on route nine we found it in a tree lot, with hundreds of others; several returned with us. Most Mainers will do anything to survive, a “Jack of All Trades” is what many are called; we are no acceptation. I never once thought I would take part in cutting a tree, let alone ninety five of them, but we did, Mike fired up the saw and I hauled them through the fields back to the truck and onto the trailer; a days labor for a pauper’s pay.

Mike got way ahead of me in the cluster on the hill side, I followed the sound of the saw – trudging in and hauling out but then it stopped. So, I stopped, lifted my eyes from the forest floor and stared out at the world before me. Atop of the hill, I could see for miles and miles – the tops of trees, the birds flying in circles, the roofs of homes and businesses in the distance, the clear blue sky; I took a deep breath in, the air felt so fresh.

Week 14 Theme

2009-12-11T15:56:00.002-05:00

The peeler clangs to the sink, she holds a half peeled apple in one hand and her forehead in the other. Bending forward over the kitchen sink, she cringes from the pain, sweat dripping into her eyes – salty and warm – burning and itching; she’s tired but can not sleep. The clock on the wall behind her ticks a very quiet ‘tap’ ‘tap’ ‘tap’, everyone will be hungry soon and this is only the first apple.

She used to love baking homemade meals, oh, how she took that for granted. Her kids complain she does not cook enough anymore, little do they realize the torture of cutting up potatoes, peeling apples….to use the electric mixer is excruciating, she has to keep stopping every minute or so, the pain in her arm makes her cry but she does not tell them this, she won’t, they do not need to know why their mom is not the same.

She is still bent over the sink when he walks in the door, married for almost ten years, they have been so close and yet are still so far apart; he has not been able to understand the pain that climbs up her legs like a thousand needles marching in form – spreading across her back and shooting out the tips of her fingers. He does not understand why she is always over heated, why she does not smile the way she once did, why she sleeps the days away, he does not understand why she does not bake her apple pies for him anymore. He sighs; frozen pizza again tonight.

Pillsbury has become her new best friend, he makes for her all the things she no longer can…the pie crust, cookies, breads – oh how her children loved her banana bread. She expected this pain to come but not for at least another thirty years or more, she is still too young, only in her early forties not ready to throw in the towel. To have a mind so active and a body so weak, she wonders what is happening to her life.

He already has the t.v. channel on the race, when she leaves the sink to crash on the couch again. He knows not to ask what’s wrong, this year – he remembers. Every Christmas has been hard for her since her father died, that’s when all her pain started, it is when she started sleeping more, when her smile faded and when the smell of fresh baked apple pie left the house. He wants her back, to be happy again but he doesn’t know what to do and he is growing tired too.

Fybro Myalgia is what her doctors have told her, she cares not for the name - the name is meaningless; it puts a small title to the horrible thing that is taking her life from her, that is eating at her from the inside out. She can hear him sighing in his chair, doesn’t he know she wants to be better, she wants to be active again but the constant migraines, the endless fatigue, the pain in her leg muscles so sharp and sensitive she feels if she stands they will buckle beneath her….doesn’t he know – this is not what she wants.

The snow is really picking up, the kids will be coming inside soon; they are too old to slide now…probably best, that is something she did with them each winter and now it would be one more way she would disappoint them. Sometimes she can not bare the thought of looking them in the eyes, they never tell her with words how sad they are she is not the same but she fears their eyes will say it all; stares that would be too hard for her to bare.

The half peeled apple sits alone on the counter; her husband dozes in his chair when the kids come in from the cold; the youngest one heads to the kitchen to start supper. Casual chatter starts up and for a brief moment life feels normal and then her shoulders tighten up and her stomach cramps but she grins so they won’t take notice. Together like this, it feels warm and she would like to hold on to that feeling…that small sense of normalcy.

Her friend arrives at the door, knocks twice, waits for the dogs and then enters. The home feels warm to her, she sees the youngest at the stove and smells something yummy coming from the kitchen, she sees the other two children on the couch with their mother, resting, playing on their laptops and chatting about odd things that get them laughing - little personal inside jokes. She sees her friend’s husband in his comfy chair relaxing and smiling from time to time at his wife. They all look at her – each of them, with love and admiration for what a strong individual she has shown herself to be, they see her not as the woman whose illness is taking her over but as the wife and mother who is fighting that illness – they look at her….with eyes that understand; her friend smiles and joins them.

Each day is a battle for her, some days better then others but it is small moments like this that give her hope. She used to love to run, she can remember that each time she would come to a hill her heart would beat a little faster, her breathing would grow a little heavier and quicken, her muscles would burn and scream but she would run on to the top of the hill just the same. She knows right now she is on a hill and there is an ongoing battle she must fight to make it to the top and she knows… she won’t give up – these people who love her, her husband, her children, her dearest friend – they need her and she needs them…so, she will keep climbing then maybe….just maybe when she gets to the top…maybe then – it will be time for pie again.

Week 12 Theme

2009-12-08T05:08:00.001-05:00

Week 12 Theme

They were riding their 4wheeler up in his field again, asked not to but they didn’t care. It’s not like they can hurt anything thing but themselves, the field is only used as a place for his cows to graze.

She’s not really enjoying herself, the place stinks, and there appears to be cow crap everywhere but he is truly handsome. He’s two years older, tall, built rugged, fabulous tan and the most gorgeous green eyes she’d ever seen and he asked her to go riding with him. She would ride through fields and fields of cow crap if it meant spending time with him.

It was getting late, only a wee bit of day light left and the Rolands were not back to their farm yet, he was guessing they had about another hour before he would have to call it a day. He was truly hoping to impress her and then maybe lay her out on a few bales of hay before heading home.

She was leaning into his back holding his waist, tightening her grip when they hit; the atv came to a dead stop and the two of them flipped end over end.

He jumped up to help her and once they both realized they were not hurt they burst into laughter at the site of each other – both covered head to toe in mud (likely to be a mixture of cow crap and mud by the smell of things). Caught up in the humor of the moment they completely forgot why they had been flipped off the vehicle, until they heard a soft cry.

Looking back they saw a frail looking cow and an injured new little baby calf, both still alive but for how long they could not be sure; both critters looked quite hurt.

She started to cry right away, “We’ve got to get them into the barn and help until Mr. Roland shows up!”

“No fucking way! If they die by our doing and we are caught we are gonna get skinned alive!”

She pleaded and pleaded with him. With a quick glance he snatched up the calf and headed for the barn. She breathed a sign of relief and chased after him to help. As they neared the building he turned a bit and lifted a wooden panel from the ground.

“What are you doing?”

Without a reply, he dropped the calf down into the well.

She screamed wildly but her screams could not drown out those from the calf; she tried to reach it but she could not even see how far down he was – she could only hear it screeching.

The momma cow was still out in the field struggling to rise to help her baby. He was running back out to it and she left the well side to try to save the mumma before he got to her. He got to her first but did not go near her, instead turned his 4wheeler up right, jumped on and started it. She thought he was leaving her in the field and was glad, Mr. Roland would be along very soon and they could still save them she hoped.

He revved up the engine, kicked it into gear and drove off, she thanked the stars – she had a chance. He spun back and charged right for the momma; she jumped between them to try to stop him but he rushed on – she had no choice but to leap out of the way or be killed too. He rammed the cow, drove over her and continued to do so repeatedly until all movement from the critter stopped.

She jumped back into his path and tried to stop him but he struck her with his hand and knocked her to the ground. She could not pull herself together quick enough to stop him.

Tying a rope to the cow he dragged her with his atv to the well and knocked her down into it, rejoining her with her calf.

Headlights peeked at the top of the driveway, he spun off for home; leaving his date in the field and the baby calf still screaming.

Week 11 Theme

2009-12-08T01:55:00.002-05:00

Clip – snap!

This little piggy went to karate; leaving all her weight at home.

Clip – snap!

This little piggy ate a woopie pie; feeling ashamed and all alone.

Clip – snap!

And this little piggy played wifey; doing dishes and laundry with a moan and a groan.

Clip – snap!

This little piggy wracked up minutes; texting and conversing on her phone.

Clip – snap!

This little piggy played momma; loving and carry for her own.

So, where is the little piggy who looked after the sheep? Well, she’s not under any haystack fast asleep. Awake and wide-eyed, she works night and day; so much to do and no time for play.

Play is for the critters who live in her shoe; for there are so many of them she often does not know what to do. Feeding them no broth – just a bit of bread; off to sleep hungry, she puts them all to bed.

Early to bed, early to rise; the youngest of them pries open her eyes. Pulls at the little curl resting in the middle of her forehead; gets up and going and proves right away that when she is good she is very, very good but when she is bad she is horrid.

A few extra hands this little piggy needs, but little jack horner is not in his corner, the spider on the tuffet has already frightened Miss Muffett and Papa bear is out for his morning stroll while he waits for the cooling of his morning bowl.

So, this little piggy cries below the twinkling star in the far off black sky…wondering – just wondering – why oh why….Keeping up with it all is a task too demanding she is too weak; picking pecks for Peter barely enough energy left to speak.

And what do you think appears before her eyes? But a tiny fairy godmother, dressed in disguise. With a twinkling of her wand and a catchy little jingle; this little piggy’s back starts to tingle; the fairy godmother dances and sings… and from this piggy’s back sprouts some wings.

“Why, fairy godmother, why?”

“Because my dear, pigs must fly!”

Week 10 Theme

2009-11-24T16:31:00.000-05:00

“Sha click, sha click” the sound resonates deep within her, a sound she’s heard before – experienced before – lived before; the wool slides between her fingers, her foot rises and falls on the pedal and the wheel spins.

Their hands joined, they formed a circle around the altar; a fire ablaze in the womb of the cauldron – Her womb, the magickal workings spread before them and they spun – chanting, singing and spinning their web.

Westward bound, Water spun her way clear off the island – into a hospital; a sickness so many now have. She collected her hair and secretly stashed it into a little brown box in the bottom of her closet. She sleeps.

They whirled into the night, the moon hidden behind a storm of clouds, the darkness stood outside their circle cast; Her lit belly lighting their way.

Northern lights guided Earth’s adventure far from their sacred space, as stability abandoned her; her husband faded into the past, her children graduated and moved-on, no place to call home – no place except the land where her herbs grow.

Heat rose and their hands vibrated with the intensity of the energy they created; no longer were they dizzy, their speed increased as they weaved in and out of this world.

Southern flames that once roared fiercely dull themselves to the strength of a barely lit candle as South sits at home, knits, zones and finds glimmers of comfort in the time she has left; her passions fading with her spirit.

An abrupt termination of the spinning, their web was complete, their cone erect and direction required; they released their hands and placed them above the altar – hovering, releasing, energizing. Harm to none, their will was done; their circle was opened.

Eastern breezes carried Air home that night; leaving her to crave the clasping of their hands once more. A delicate tune escapes her now as she travels into the years ahead; she finds herself visiting her dear elemental friends through spirit and feeling the loss of what is to never be again.

“Sha click, Sha scrape” the wool - over spun - pulls apart; she loses her footing on the pedal and the wheel comes to a halt.

Week 9 Theme

2009-11-06T00:47:00.000-05:00

She stays up; her little ones are tucked snugly into their beds and she knits. Squinting her tired, dry eyes she counts her stitches and marks her rows; a simple acrylic wool blend sweater for her young daughter. Forty three, forty four, forty five…..approximately thirteen rounds to go till she marks off the arms.

Her hands are cramped from working the needles for so long and she hears her husbands alarm go off. He trudges into the dim room, sips his coffee and groans while he bends to lace up his work boots with cracked soles.

Christmas will be hard this year, one of their hardest ones yet. Their son asks Santa for a Wii – she feels sad, holds her daughter tighter to her hip and tucks her hair behind her ear, Santa winks at her and tells her little boy that the elves are working on something different – something special for him this year; the boy slides off Santa’s knee, takes her hand and they walk outside into the wet cold.

Week 8 Theme

2009-10-27T03:21:00.000-04:00

Week 8 Theme

Will they believe I have a headache? No, of course they won’t! Well, I don’t care – I have one and that is that and who wants to go to a party with a headache – not me! I do have a headache – don’t I…

I’m sure their Halloween party with be fun – I could pop a few Advil, leave and still make it to see all the costumes; my family is such a hoot at these parties but I don’t know…my head really hurts – I think…

It’s quite likely he will be there; he would sigh loudly and roll his eyes when I walked in and that would be the start of it. He would cock his head to the side, prop his foot up on an end table, rest his elbow on his knee and stare me down before he spewed out, “Look what the cat dragged in.” Plus, I’m sure they will all be smoking inside since the rain is coming down so hard and that will make my head hurt worse, it is a migraine now – well, I’m pretty sure it is…

Everyone will gather in the basement around the pool table and mini bar and they will laugh and act foolish; he will stand along the edge of the group – a bottle of Bud in one hand and a pool stick in the other but he won’t play; he will make small comments about how his night is ruined because I showed up. I will stay upstairs, with the sober folk, massage my temples and make it known my head is really hurting and I should leave early – it is the pain in my head why I wish to leave, I’m pretty sure…

They will understand if I just don’t make it, they know I would go if I could; when they hear how bad my head hurts I’m sure they will urge me to stay home, rest and feel better…No, no they won’t. They might speak sympathetically and pretend to believe me but they know he and I don’t get along – some will think I’m a chicken for avoiding him, some will think I’m rude for not letting bygones be bygones and others will turn the other cheek and pretend they don’t care one way or the other but none of them will be genuinely concerned for my state of well being - for having to endure this excruciating headache…

Week 7 Theme

2009-10-26T11:36:00.002-04:00

Week 7 Theme

Dearest Treesha,

I’m thinking of you today; my mind is wandering after our short but pleasant visit and I’m feeling a bit like Anne – if only my gables were green – right?

I appreciate your encouragement, criticisms and thoughts on the stuff I showed you; it was sweet of you to take the time to read it all. Your looks resemble mum when you smile while your read – she has the speckled red in her cheeks too and calls it Rosacea but I think you wear the red sweetly, like you call onto the color to naturally rouse your inner Dianna.

I’m not sure that you are a Dianna though, not a Marilla either but it’s ok because I’m really not an Anne but your recollection of Gil’s advice is well received and I think will give it a go.

What do you think it would have been like if we had grown up together closer in age? Perhaps, sister, you would not advise me the way you do if we were closer together and I might not admire you the way in which I do.

Everyone seems to look up to you in a way; maybe it is because you are the only one of us who moved away. I mean you joined the Navy, traveled the seas and have the stories to prove it. That’s pretty cool. I wish I could go to Italy too – just once would be nice, I’m sure Sicily was neat but if I got to go I would go to Venice…just imagine streets of water! I’m sure glad you didn’t stay that far gone, it’s nice having you within driving distance but – 6 hours away – really? You could have considered the gas prices – hee hee. I do completely DIS-agree with everyone who says you are perfect, please don’t misunderstand me – I’m not trying to be rude. (Your are Practically Perfect in every Possible way – Not! Hee hee) Ok, so your yard is more managed than mine, and your dishes are always done on time and I was not able to find any dust (yes, I looked – so there :p ) but your not perfect because….I saw a hole in your sock! Yep, that’s right your big toe was sticking out and you thought when you tucked your foot behind your leg that I didn’t notice. 

Oh guess what! You inspired my creative side with yours, after you showed me those craft books you made I got thinking and I was on the chapter of our book where Anne accidentally gets Dianna drunk and I decided to make cordial! I loved all the blue glass in your kitchen so I decided to recycle a blue glass wine bottle to put the mix in – I’m actually making two so I can bring one to you sometime….then maybe I will accidentally get you drunk! How funny would that be – I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk…or even have a drink. That’s kinda cool actually and I’m really glad you don’t smoke or probably the books you loaned me would stink too much for me to bear reading them. Plus, Anne would never smoke.

You know, I think your hair is like hers - not the orange carrot color but the strawberry blonde shade but your hands are like mums and I’ve always imagined mums hands to be like Marilla’s.

Wow, I really do babble on and on don’t I, it’s just a sign that our visit was too short. I miss you immensely my beloved sister – we are true kindred spirits you and I (how corny does that sound!) Well, I’m off now to go write a Rollins Reliable story….or maybe I’ll think of you and your advice and write about the people I know and love. Till next time sis…

Cordially yours,

Teffitee (your Anne)

Week 6 Theme

2009-10-17T08:50:00.000-04:00

Vertical paneling hangs on all four walls; it is a sage green on the bottom and a vanilla cream on the top, separated by a sage green chair rail. The window treatments are all white; white framing, vintage white lace curtains and a faded white pull shade.

The light treatment; floor lamps and lamps mounted to the walls are all brass with a cream colored lamp shade; they use the new energy efficient light bulbs in each one. You must turn them on by hand; the light switch on the wall seems quite useless.

How long does it take for white to fade? Brass to rust? Who left the grease smudge on the vanilla cream wall?

The TV hangs from a black metal rack attached to the wall about four feet above the floor. Rug covers the floor, commercial grade brown rug. One table, one dresser and one night stand are placed around the room; they have a dark, laminated wood grain finish.

Two double beds take up the most space, resting on simple metal frames; white sheets and hospital corners. Rose covered bedspreads draped over each.

How many bear feet have walked across this brown rug? How many bibles are sold for night stand drawers? Who put the cigarette burn in the bedspread?

A white squared drop ceiling hangs above with a pattern like an ant farm. One small mini fridge rests beside the doorway to the bathroom and a silver coat rack is mounted to the wall behind the only door out.

One mirror hangs from the wall next to the TV and two pictures of mountains hang above the beds. The window shows a view of the parking area and a place outside for people who smoke.

How much weight does it take to break three coat hangers? How many people steal the batteries to the remotes in their motel rooms? Who received seven years of bad luck for breaking the mirror?

Week 5 Theme

2009-10-04T10:32:00.000-04:00

I grew up here on this little chunk of land in Hancock and I’ve roamed all 10.75 acres of it for the last thirty-two years; ventured across the boundary lines and familiarized myself with almost every square-inch within a five mile radius, so it came without surprise when my husband and I chose this place to set up residence and settle.

Through the pines, across the brook, around the beaver damn and back again, my siblings, nephews, neighbors, my husband and myself built some of the best recreational trails around…for the adventurous at heart. We take our snowshoes, cross country skis, dirt bikes, 3 & 4 wheelers out on them, not to mention just simply hiking them on foot with the kids and dogs for hunting or for adventure. It’s been an unspoken agreement with our bordering neighbors that property lines are redundant, only meant for the town tax collectors; thus we share the scope of our swampy, muddy, mossy terrain. The land is rich in history, not the history you will find in a text book, but a sort of natural history; for along side of, mingling with and beyond our trails are portions – reminiscent reminders of our kin who played here before us. Just sixteen paces left of the tallest knotted pine are the remains of my father’s and uncles aged smoke shack, along the outskirts of the cedar swamp is granddad’s old tree house, and just beyond the junk yard is the massive mud pit bordered by maples all donning carved hearts and initials of past romances, our tree is at the back side of the pit, at one time it blended with the others but now it stands a bit ragged and wounded – a few limbs are missing and it is split near the top from lightening, it has been hit twice (that I’m aware of) by 3-wheelers but it still stands strong – a few scars but nevertheless strong, ironically enough the tree seems to have mirrored our marriage in a sense.

My mother often says, “what does not kill us makes us stronger”, she doesn’t say it for religious reasons, more so because she sees the practicality in it. She’s had lots of opportunities to test her theories, raising eight kids doesn’t come without tribulations; she may have been lucky with me (I may be the exception here – the black sheep of the family) however, my husband fits right in with the rest of them – catastrophe could easily be his middle name.

It was a cool spring morning, two springs ago, when Little John brought over his Honda 250 for us to borrow for the weekend. He quietly backed his pick-up down the drive and rolled it off the back without a word; Mike was still asleep but I was up and stepped out onto the porch, Little John nodded his head at me, smiled and was gone – I felt like the first kid awake on Christmas morning and I had just seen Santa. I quietly slipped back into the house, kicked off my slippers and threw on my Mucks, I didn’t care that I was wearing my night clothes – sweat pants and a flannel nightshirt would be just fine, I flew back out the door and climbed on the 4 wheeled, big red ATV, turned the key and felt it rumble to life. I didn’t want to linger long, at 6:00 a.m. its’ low rumble echoed like a great Maine grizzly attacking the chickadees and I knew in moments Mike would be out the door to steal it away from me, so I kicked it into gear and was out of there! I went the long way around, to hopefully avoid waking him up, down past our neighbors (I’m sure they loved me for this), pass the beaver pond, down through the pines, deep into the back woods I raged through some of the last remaining snow and darted out into the clearing behind the junk yard…the mud pit!

A light frost remained in the ground and the mud was crunchy below the tires, a few puddles had a light layer of ice that I thoroughly enjoyed smashing through and splattering in and out of. It took a few tight donuts in high gear to really get the ground worked up, the pleasure of molding it into fine workable clay felt almost as exciting as foreplay (ok about as equally exciting), with dark mud starting to spit up onto my legs and icy, murky puddle water spattering onto my face – I was having the time of my life! My teeth started chattering, not because it was cold but from the extreme vibration that traveled from my grip on the cracked rubber handles wrapped in duck tape, up my arms straight into my head; the beast was wildly throbbing, yet I held strong - knowing from past experiences how easily one of these could go up on two wheels and flip right over.

My peripheral vision caught a cluster of Alder trees bending and bowing, I dropped gears and slowed to a stop – just before me, less then ten yards away, was a small dotted fawn, his little ears were perked straight up and he was staring right at me. I sat frozen, motionless, staring right back, enjoying the moment but concerned with what bigger friend of his might be accompanying him on his little outing. Seconds past, then a tree branch snapped behind us, startling him provoking him to dart deep into the woods. I remained frozen, a bit frightened, wondering what caused the tree to snap; my eyes frantically scanned the range of view I had without turning my head. I heard a faint rustle of the bushes but could see nothing, I contemplated revving my toy back to life and speeding out of there but fear (or curiosity) kept me frozen still. My heart skipped a beat when I heard the mud suctioning around the new intruders steps as it apparently advanced towards me from behind, my mind was racing on what to do – what to do, I’m sure my brain was still rattling around from all those donuts I had been spinning in and that is why I was not thinking clearer or faster. I had seen bear tracks down here before, heck I had seen them on most all of our trails, why did I think this was a good idea to come out here alone. I was trying to remember what I had learned to do in a bear attack…play dead – right? Just then I felt it, the weight added to the back of the 4 wheeler – I gasped, hot breath heated the back of my neck – sending shivers down my spine, I took one last breath in and then…there it was - a strong paw slamming down onto my shoulder! This was followed by a loud boisterous laugh and I turned and came face to face with my husband. Seeing the fear on my face and my ghostly white appearance (despite the mud that I was covered in) he doubled over laughing himself into a tizzy and muffled out the words, “Serves you right!”.

That was it - my fun was over, he promptly regained his composure, lifted me off the drenched seat and instructed me to stand back and watch a pro at work. As I backed off, trudging through the rutted up, muddy ground towards an old weight bench he fired the beast to life and lurched it forward, triumphantly spinning circles around me. I made it safely to the rusty weight bench and sat – pouting. He just grinned ear to ear and gunned the ATV forward, diving in and out of the trees, nearly missing them, dodging under low limbs and climbing two tires up onto heaps of rocks…all the things I didn’t do (not because I’m a chicken mind you but because I do have some basic common sense) regardless, he enjoyed his carelessness that he calls a pro at work (I call it showing off). I guess he noticed that I was not that impressed for he switched gears and decided to turn up the ground a bit more – working over my donuts he began to spin several of his own. He was not as cautious as I had been, he climbed up onto the seat, resting on one leg – bent at the knee under him while the other was straight back, holding onto only one handle while waving at me with his free hand…he looked like a bear on a ball in the circus, however I couldn’t help but grin a bit. This small grin only encouraged him and he gave it some more gas, cut the corner even tighter and went up onto two wheels – tilting the rig and almost losing his balance, anxiously he tried to regain composure but it all happened too quickly. He lost control of the ATV, without his grip on the handle it spun recklessly out of control, headed towards a tree – our tree – smashed into it, climbed part way up it and then spilled over backwards. There Mike laid, sprawled out, mangled and twisted with a four wheeler on top of him.

I gushed across the sludge and muck to him, pushed with all my might and got the majority of the weight off of him but I stopped dead when I saw his leg, bent in the wrong direction, curled up around the wheel! (I had no idea legs could bend this way!) Thank god for cell phones, so where the heck was mine? (Back home on the charger.) I darted through the woods to our closest neighbors and pounded on the door, J.D. answered in just his boxers. Breathless, I couldn’t produce words. Instinctively (he knew Mike well and this was not the first – or the last time – we knocked on his door), he grabbed his phone and called an ambulance, threw on his work boots and a sweatshirt and followed me back through the woods.

Mike was breathing but shock was setting in and he started to shiver, J.D. and I did what we could to reduce his pain and keep him calm. We didn’t dare move the ATV in fear we would really mess up his leg but we, wrapped J.D.’s sweatshirt around him to try to warm him, talked and joked with him to keep him awake and alert. The ambulance crew found us with ease (this was not their first trip down there), they arrived carrying their gear through the trails, even prepared for the muddy territory; Ken lead the way. Ken always seemed to be on duty when we called (I really should consider inviting him to dinner sometime), he works quick, is familiar with Mike and really knows how to handle a variety of situations with skill and ease. They had Mike boarded and on his way to the hospital in record time.

When I arrived at the hospital, the Doctor on call informed me he was fine, a few cuts and scrapes and a severely damaged knee but nonetheless fine. They wanted to keep him for a few days and prep him for surgery; he had shattered some bone, torn some ligaments and needed a complete ACL repair. He assured me Mike would be okay, that he was lucky and that he would be out of work for only about six months (only!). I knew this news would not settle well with Mike, he is not a man to be kept down – I was right, he scoffed when the doctor repeated this all to him but little did both Mike and I realize at the time, Mike was lucky and should have listened and took some down time.

Mike did go through with the surgery (there was no way around that) but to be without work for six months – he was going mad! He tried to move around and go to work, he was painting at the time and tried, boy did he try, he even attempted to hop up a ladder, however, the coursing pain shooting through his body humbled him and he painstakingly realized he was homebound for now but he did not rest – he “was not a man to be kept down” as he put it….so, this ATV accident, knee surgery and six months of ‘down’ time was really - just the beginning…

Week 4 Theme

2009-09-25T09:08:00.003-04:00

Week 4 Theme

Part 1:

I’m sitting here, at my laptop, trying to do my assignment. I can’t think. I have a cold. Luckily, the house is almost completely quiet; the kids are asleep still and the dogs are keeping my feet warm. I will continue to try.

Part 2:

I’m sitting here, perched in my thinking chair, at my laptop, attempting my Creative Non-Fiction writing assignment. Clouded with an abundance of mucus, overwrought with extreme sinus pressure, I can not think. The season is upon us for colds, an Oak leaf did not land upon me when I stood beneath her limbs, and I have not been missed. I have succumbed to the inevitable; I have been touched by my first cold of the season.

My head is hot, yet no drops of perspiration can be found. Feeling chilled to the bone; icicles for fingers, frozen oranges for knees, feet as cold as a corpse - my dogs sense this discomfort, and move to curl their warm bodies around my ankles; I am warmed.

The slight breeze unhinges leaves outside my window, they tap their ‘good mornings’ to me, this is the only sound I hear.

Enjoying the peaceful morning, with my newly warmed feet, I reach for the box of Puffs and tuck the tissues between myself and my thinking chair, with one tissue torn, rolled and stuffed up into a nostril – I lean forward, resting my forearms on my laptop and continue to try.

Part 3:

A bed of nails would be more comforting then this electric chair that I have been strapped to; a dark lord has brought forth a frightening buzzing, glowing device and has instructed me to please him with words.

My body screams from with-in of the agony it had endured all week long, a week that has felt endless – centuries long. I have been tortured beyond repair.

With the aid of his hired minions, the dark lord demanded I be weakened. Eagerly with deadly hunger, they attacked me from many angles, all at once, and I could not escape.

First my head, loud noises erupted within inches of my face and I felt my skull being sawed in two; lifting my scalp, cracking the bone, a hole was drilled – stuffed with maggots and resealed. The maggots multiplied at an ungodly rate and filled all voids in my skull to the brim. Massive pressure prevented me from seeing all that His minions were doing. Jaded, the maggots attempted to slither out my nose; their attempts were thwarted as 36 grit sandpaper was stuffed into my nostrils to seal up their escape hatch.

Then my body, I was temporarily released from the binding straps of the electric chair, pummeled with gallons of water and thrown into a chest freezer. Almost instantly I began to freeze and thinking I might die, I heard a faint whisper of hope, a small clacking of sorts and only moments before what I thought was to be my untimely demise, the top was lifted. Two great beasts reached for me – a gentle aura glowed brightly around their lush, warm fur…I was lifted and slowly warmed with their affection and generosity but it only lasted a moment. The dark lord sensed this kindness within his region and aspirated swarms of fire ants in their direction with each word he spoke; I could not hear his words but I could see them, black and white before me.

His cronies raced past him, snatched me from my gentle giants and returned me to that cold, hard chair; tightening the straps until blood supply had been cut from various limbs.

So, here I sit, with the glowing device mounted to the blank wall before me, and my dark lord beckoning for me to continue on.

Week 3 Theme

2009-09-17T01:48:00.000-04:00

Cellars are often known for being a few degrees cooler then the rest of the building, not this one. Red floor mats stretch out the length of the concrete floor. Two a/c’s rest in the front widows of this daylight basement, but so often unused, it’s possible they are broken. Weights, jump ropes, medicine balls line the far right wall; a punching bag hangs in the front right corner and an multi compact disk player rests to the far left near the main door. Four metal chairs are nestled among a cluster of flip-flops, sandals and sneakers.

“All right everyone; let’s warm up with a light jog around the room. Get those hearts pumping!” shouts the ATA fit instructor.

(She is way to chipper. I really should have stretched first – oh god my legs are killing me already!)

“Kick those legs up! Jog like there’s a fire under your feet!” said the only male participant.

(Who does he think he is? Would someone please turn up the music and drown that jerk out!)

“Grab a medicine ball, down on the floor for 20 sit-ups!” shouts the instructor.

(It’s like a hundred degrees in here and we are only six minutes into the work-out…turn on the a/c!)

The man speaks again, “Full sit-ups! Crunches are for wimps!”

“I’m trying sir!”

“Trying! I don’t want to hear your trying! I want to see you doing!”

(Can’t someone shut that ass up! He’s not the instructor, but it looks like he thinks he is…I know – those a/c’s might be good for something after all! One crammed down his throat and one crammed up his…)

“Now, flip on to your bellies and do as many push-ups as you can in one minute!”

(She must have been a drill sergeant in her past life…one, two – rest a few, three…floor – ahhhh)

“Get up – off your knees! No sissy push-ups on my time!”

A lady speaks out, “This isn’t your time bud.”

(Finally, someone speaks up! Why didn’t I think of that? Oh that’s right – I’m breathing too hard to even try to mutter out anything; well, I think I’m still breathing – wheezing maybe.)

“Enough chit chat ladies, time for jump ropes!”

(Ha, she called him a lady too! God, I hate jump ropes…think she’ll notices if I don’t swing the rope.)

That small black and white clock on the wall is ticking slowly away like a time bomb. A loud Chevy 4x4 pulls up to the front and three more ladies join this ‘Sweatin’ to the Oldies’ work-out; the only thing missing now is Richard Simmons. In the back left corner, a toilet flushes and a fourth participant walks out carrying a floor fan.

“Lunge time ladies!”

“I want to see those legs lifted and those knees hitting the floor!” says the man.

“Woo hoo!” shout the new arrivals.

(Ya…freaking woo hoo, if you were here from the beginning you wouldn’t be woo hoo-ing. )

“Mountain climbers everyone!”

Everyone drops in unison in a push-up position and lunges one knee up under chest – one knee down – switch. Faster and faster they climb; in spite of the waves of spandex, they resemble soldiers in training.

“Up into squats ladies!”

“Did you stop at any of the yardsales on the way here?” one lady asks another.

(How can she talk? Why isn’t she out of breath? And why isn’t that damn floor fan turned on!)

Sixty minutes, eighty sit-ups, a hundred push-ups and god knows how many lunges later…

“Pick up those jump ropes! Almost done!”

“I love jump roping!” says one.

“Oh wow – me too!” another says.

“I think I could jump rope all day!” the instructor exclaims.

(Ya, well, I lost my jump rope and this floor mat is lumpy.)

“Last round – let’s end this with a light fifteen minute sprint around the room!”

(What ever happened to cooling down and stretching? Hey, I don’t hear that jerk anymore.)

A hazy, sweaty atmosphere seems to linger above our heads. The temperature has reached all time highs and the floor mats glisten with smeared beads of sweat. There is something different about the room; weights are still there, ac’s still untouched, music still blaring, shoes still scattered – ah but the chairs are no longer empty; a hunched over, sweaty, breathless man rests in one.

Week 2 Theme

2009-09-12T15:13:00.001-04:00

He had a sweet and innocent face, full of life and full of energy; I’d decided to take him to the YMCA again for their baby gymnastics. He was so small; very light weight, just a young little typhoon, two years, two months, two weeks old…to be exact.

When we arrived the Y gym was already set up, the mats were out, as were the small balance beams and some giant landing blocks; it was a great opportunity for him to run, jump, play, enjoy his youth and be a free spirit without a care in the world.

The lady who manages the event was running late, but we parents and our little balls of liveliness knew the routine well so we began without her; right away the giggles and laughter fired up, the children were enjoying themselves immensely. Their enthusiasm was inspiring and we enjoyed watching them as they vivaciously tumbled, flipped, teetered and played in circles around us. Kids possess this magical gift of awakening the youth in all of us; they are like that warm brownie fresh out of the oven, that first star to appear in the midnight sky, that breath of fresh air in a world full of smog.

I leaned back and relaxed on a mat, jabbered with other parents about nothing at all, simply enjoying the outing, nabbing the moment; no worries, no cares, just pure sweet fun.

My moment of peace was startled by the gym doors thrusting open and a rupture of cries and screams that escaped from the hall into the gymnasium. A cluster of people surged in, the lady who supervises the baby gymnastics was at the head of the pack; frantically they all start talking, no not talking, screaming at once. It was hard to filter what they were saying and understand the gist of it all. What was happening in our small town? I was not even sure of what was going on and the panic had suddenly rushd into my lungs, halting my heart and tightening my chest. My motherly instincts kicked in, or it could have been just fear of the unknown chaos of what was going on, but I turned to grab my son.

Dozens of glowing, bright cheeks and hopeful intense eyes were frozen in their spots, their little chests heaved in and out from their play. They were frightened from the sudden adult stampede. I noticed no one was moving, not an adult or a child, I too stopped, it was as if we had all been frozen in time and to some degree we had been…we had willingly frozen ourselves in time to hold on to the play – the moment before people charged in – that happy, fun moment, that presently felt as if we would never see or experience pure merriment like that again.

It lasted only seconds, like floodgates finally being lifted, all at once we tore off towards our children and I could not rush to my own little babe swift enough. I snatched him up into my arms, held him close and realized we were both trembling all over, frightened, terrified and I became conscious that our adult reactions intensified the fear in our children instead of soothing them like we would have had we been able to comprehend the moment but it was one of those moments that made no sense at all.

With our children safe in our arms we all moved into the hall and gathered in front of a small television and radio; the volume of both turned up high enough for us all to hear but it could had remained on the lowest setting and we all still would have heard…for we all watched and listened in silence.

On the television, I first saw people fleeing down huge busy streets, screaming, crying and debris flailing every which way, and then I saw two large towers with flames and smoke billowing out from them. The voice of Katie Couric was strong and clear and she was announcing the horrific event of two planes crashing into the twin towers. Momentarily, I forgot what the twin towers were, it was all too unbelievable. I thought it must be a hoax, like the 1938 radio show that Orson Welles did about the Martian invasion…this too had to be unreal…like a very bad nightmare.

By some means, we made it home, my trusty, baby blue, Dodge mini-van somehow transported my son and I safely back, my New Balance running shoes worked overtime as they assisted my legs of jelly in delivering us safely to the snug glider rocker facing my old Zenith. Still clutching my son close to my bosom I gingerly reached out, not using the remote, and powered up my television, we rested only a foot or so from the screen. The image off smoke and destruction appeared on practically every channel, I settled on NBC, watched and listened.

As I sat and gazed at the horrors before us, I could not seem to make it valid in my mind. I had lived through remarkable, unimaginable times before but nothing ever such as this.

I was only eight years old when I watched with my other classmates in our school cafeteria the shuttle launching the teacher, Christa McAuliffe, into space and I remained seated seventy-four seconds after liftoff as the shuttle transformed into a blazing ball of fire, did I see it or did I imagine it, our teacher spoke not a word but the tears in her eyes told it all.

On my twelfth Christmas I recalled unwrapping a beautifully packaged box, it could not have been bigger then a toddler shoe box and I wondered what it was….under the holiday wrapping was an ordinary brown cardboard carton, I lifted the flap and pulled from the cushioned package a small red pouch. I felt the pouch, the contents were oddly shaped with what felt like jagged, rough edges…I gently pulled the drawstring, tilted the bag and dumped its’ contents into my hand – the words of Ronald Reagan echoed in my thoughts, “Mr. Garbachev, tear that wall down!”

Hurricane Gloria, the tragic death of Princess Diana, the ice storm of ’98…nothing compared to this instant …seeing the twin towers ablaze, a camera zoomed in on one of the towers and followed the image of what appeared to be a man falling from 100’s of stories up, I thought this just had to be a hoax of some kind…some cruel, malicious, genius had finally masterminded a hoax that will go down in history. Somewhere inside of me I knew it was not a hoax, I was terrified.

My son squiggled in my arms and I reached out to phone my husband, my mother, my family; I wanted to ensure that all were safe. I needed to hear their voices, I needed to be pinched and awakened from this nightmare.

More images flashed across the screen, people all gathering in the streets watching the smoke, the fire, the madness and then gray dust detonated into the city as the towers appeared to have collapsed. People dove for cover, screeches and cries rang out and then, the voice our then President, Mr. George W. Bush, spoke out.

While watching all this commotion, I was still holding my son close to my heart, it wasn’t until now that he really began to fuss and make his presence known. I’m sure Mr. Bush meant for his words too soothe us, to bring us some sort of peace or hope in the midst of all this but in truth it only made me more afraid. At that moment, I did not think anything could ever feel peaceful or hopeful again.

My son though, that sweet little light-hearted man, brought faith to me; he wiggled, squirmed and made his discomfort well-known …I leaned back, calmed the best I could, gazed into his precious brown eyes, and settled in to nurse him.

He is ten years, two months and two weeks old now, this day of September 11, 2009.
He still has a sweet and innocent face and is still full of life and full of energy. This morning I trekked him off to karate. I took the same route I always take, utilizing the same roads I have driven on since I first got my permit when I was fifteen. As we passed the YMCA, I remembered that moment all those years ago and as I drove on a bright, open field caught my attention. It was full of elegant, emerald greens and it was shimmering with morning dew; my son commented on how it looked like the sky had opened up and dropped snow on us last night, his innocence warmed me. With my son at my side and the field passing us by, both of them being a breath of fresh air, both a precious part of life, I realized I could lose it all in the blink of an eye and I just wanted to freeze time.

Week 1: Know thyself...Walk in someone else's shoes.

2009-09-06T08:33:00.000-04:00

Once I saw something I thought was unusual in a movie, I believe it was “Ya Ya Sisters”, anyhow, in the movie a women was having an uncommon (or maybe it’s common) drink for breakfast. The drink looked like tomato or V8 juice, with a bit of alcohol and a celery stalk oh and I think hot sauce or something like that. I remember wondering why she would want to drink that for breakfast, I’ve always thought of booze as a late night, once in a while, just for fun sort of drink – not a good morning lets get tipsy type of beverage.

Well, time marches on…..

Last night we took the kids to the Blue Hill Fair, spent six or so hours traipsing through crowds in dust and muck, spending an ungodly amount of money on tickets (plus their added gas charge) for my son to ride four rides (almost five rides – but that’s another story), sitting up in the grandstand to watch a blueberry pie eating contest (the fist I’d ever seen), a vehicle stunt show (with some terribly awful jokes) and munching on the fair foods – good fun for all.

I could go on in much greater detail because some of this was so out of the ordinary and worthy of writing in more details but it will have to wait for another time...

Throughout the majority of those six hours I carried my 18 month old daughter, yes – we had a stroller but what kid wants to ride in a stroller when all they get to see are dozens of strangers tushes. No – no – she wanted to be carried and not just by anyone, it needed to be mumma (I felt honored at first). I suppose the adrenalin of the night prevented me from feeling the pain that comes from carrying around an extra 25 pounds for six hours but this morning….I feel it.

I’m not a huge drinker and I did not have any last night, yet I feel as though I’ve awoken with a massive hangover. My right eye does not want to fully open due to the congested pain I feel in my right eyebrow. My forehead crinkles in thanks to the morning sun, I wince and put on my shades. I understand a whole new meaning to "Splitting headache". There is a cement block (or so it seems) in the place that used to be my shoulder blades and my neck is a frightfully strong, unbendable metal rod…the rest of the aches and pains seem miniscule in comparison.

So, I suppose the world works in mysterious ways. Why did I wonder about that lady in the movie enjoying her morning booze.... was this some higher power at work placing me in a situation that was a learning experience…to walk in anothers' shoes...judge not – less ye be judged…well, it worked because right now – all I want….is one of those drinks.

Week 1: Know thyself...know the place I love to call home regardless of my physical shell.

2009-09-05T08:12:00.001-04:00

“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” This is not exactly what a rooster sounds like, at least not ours. A bit more like, “kraaa-ra-ka (rooster cough)-krou” but it’s not his fault, I think ours has a sore throat.

A gorgeous morning, the sun is slowly creeping up the leaves on the trees, the roosters shouting for everyone to get up and the goats are tap dancing on the deck (with a bit of Irish in them, I’m sure they would blend in well with the River Dancers) and our dogs having a barking competition with the neighbors dog (or maybe they are just discussing in dog language the wild parties that went on last night while us humans were asleep).

My husband and I just returned from a nice small walk out on this cool morning and we were so excited to see all the wild Mallards that our pet ducks have invited to our pond. The pond is only about thirty feet in diameter and it is snugly hosting about 53 (we tried to count) Mallards and eight of our own for a tentative grand total of sixty one – now I just hope we have enough cracked corn to go around (Jimmy crack corn and I DO care)!

It would be quite fun to be a duck (until hunting season) and I don’t mean a duck like Daffy Duck or Donald Duck (though being in a cartoon would be pretty cool but I think if I was a Disney Duck I would want to be Uncle Scrooge McDuck or if not him, I would be a duck on the Simpons – what they need a good talking duck!) nevertheless I’m talking about an actual wild duck (notice I didn’t say pet duck – they don’t fly but more then two feet off the ground). I believe I would choose to be a male duck too, yes, it would be cool to lay an egg I’m sure and I realize that male ducks do not pee while standing up (it’s not fair that I can’t write my name in the snow too) but male ducks have the most beautiful feathers, especially in the fall. When all the leaves have changed into elegant shades of reds, oranges and yellows the wild Mallards fly in with their vibrant emerald greens and sapphire blues…simply breath taking. They also, always visit in pairs, the males are very protective of their mates and will fight off any other duck (or chicken) who try to make the move on their love, it’s a bit of old fashion charm really.

As a duck, I know I would be different (a duck of a different color – the black duck of the family) it is just in my reborn soul to be the odd one (duck) out. My first autumn I’m sure I would try to stay North for the winter (to try to prove to the other ducks they are just a flock of wimps) but after a close brush with death and a few frost bit feather tips I’m sure I’d humbly fly (not quite so elegantly) down South with the rest of them. However, I would not stay where all the others did (that’s what the hunters look for – the big groups of quackers) oh no, I would do some research (no – not on google, I would use my duck instincts) and travel the world. Perhaps, I would find my true love mate on the waters of Venice Italy and I would court her right there on those waters with all the gondolas floating past and we would pose for the cameras and snack on the bits of Altamura bread (not fish, yes small fish are fun but contrary to popular belief we ducks are not great fishermen – in fact we need to watch our….um tail feathers if a big Pike gets too close) the passing tourist tossed out to us. We might fly to Africa to adopt a few orphaned ducklings and eventually after a few more stops (I could dream on and on about places I would like to visit) we would fly home….to this little pond in Hancock, Maine.

So, I guess even if I was a duck I would always want to come back home. Despite the frigid snow bound Winters or the muddy mosquito infested Springs, the barely-there Summers or the magnificent blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Autumns – Maine is a beautiful place to anchor down.

Speaking of anchoring down, time to go catch the goats and put them back in their pen.

Week 1: Part 3...She is you and you are her - so who am I?

2009-09-04T10:42:00.001-04:00

Occasionally, I simply allow my mind to wonder. I write when the mood strikes and the moment is available for my hands to frantically record my thoughts, it could be while I’m stuck in road traffic on the back side of an envelope belonging to some random unpaid bill, while I’m at the park with the kids writing on the first available surface – usually my hand or my jeans, or while I have the rare luxury of sitting before my laptop…my point is, I like to write. I enjoy words, expressing feelings and taking pleasure in all our language has to offer. My problems are that I often find my thoughts blocked and it takes some extreme life altering event to unblock them (or some fun prompts from a cool teacher – see the brown on my nose). I also don’t know what to do with the things I write. Yes, I do it for enjoyment but like most of us we want to share it, have them published, do something that helps us feel that all the effort of getting it down is not in vain. Stacks of journals, papers, poems, stories can be found all around my home…I would like to learn how to take it to the next step.

You rest your eyes, breath in, breath out, you remember and you dream. You want to record your past, your history and that of family and ancestors. You dream of freezing time on tangible pages that will inspire future generations. It will arouse enthusiasm deep within their blood, igniting their inner passions, triggering their desire…their need to write, as it was done to you. Your rested eyes are rejuvenated, you leisurely open them and sadly before you great dark walls rise up, you see no ladders, no doors, no windows just darkness. A part of you understands they are not authentic, they are not true physical obstacles yet they do not fade, they do not wilt or wither or diminish in any significant way. You imagine climbing over them but they reach beyond the heavens, you envision plowing them down or creating a hole to dive through but they are strong and seemingly unbreakable. You visualize digging below them – a tunnel under, but your arms ache with each foot you dig down the walls seem to extend two feet more. You remain trapped - in a world with limited light, you succumb and continue your monotonous daily routines finding pleasure in any place it can be found. Straining to keep your sanity. Breathing in, breathing out, remembering and dreaming.

“Tess, take a look at this.” her Dad gently commands. He hands her a stack of papers, scribbled writing, almost unreadable ink smudges reside on the pages she takes from him. “Read it. Tell me what you think.” He asks her with cheerless, aged eyes. She knows the routine well – she has read his creations all her life, her dad’s work has inspired her since she was a child. As she begins to read her mind wonders back in time to the rare days her dad and she spent together during their visitations. She recalls his fun poetry written about her and her first fishing experiences, his folk style songs about her siblings and their family traditions and his stories…the sad, lonely stories he would tell – her only window into what his world was like - the world that was now ending for him. This realization jolts her back to the present and she reads on. His work is good, raw and real. Why was he not fading now known as a great writer and how can she give him hope so that he may move on in peace. She sets down his papers, takes his hands in hers and whispers sweet reassurances of his great works and accomplishments. He smiles. “Read your stuff to me now.” He requests. Hesitating, she sets down his hands, picks up her notebook and reads. He relaxes, she does too. He interrupts briefly to tell her how proud he is of her and how happy he is to know they share their love for writing. They both dreamily allow their minds to wonder into her story. They read into the late hours of the night until they are both overcome and finally sleep. She is awoken to a strange noise, a difference in his breathing, the rattling – gurgling sound. This is not her first loss and she recognizes the moment – it is his last. As he struggles through his transition she climbs up beside him in bed, cradles his head, moistens his face with her tears and sings to him. It is his song, one he had sang to her many times, a song to help her sleep, a song to help her through sad times, a song about love – that he wrote – that they shared….his words, her words. The noise stops, the transition is complete, the moment is final – it’s the words that bring her comfort, she prays the words brought comfort to him too, she owes the words and they owe her. She feels her path, she knows her path and maybe that will bring him peace.

Week 1: Know thyself....Know Pain.

2009-09-03T22:41:00.003-04:00

I faced a flying oompa loompa tonight! Result - the toe next to my big toe really hurts. Ok, so he wasn't really a little man who churns chocolate but he did do this funky little routine like a good Mr. Wonka employee might do (without the catchy little jingle).

He was dressed all in white except for his black padded head, black pads(metal - I think) on his miniature hands, and black padded protectors (made of cement - I'm sure) on his elfin feet and that nice tight black belt wrapped twice (maybe three times) around his tiny little waist. There I stood, a bit of disbelief clouding my memory, would I remember my form - high block, low block....front...what? In lieu of this little man, my memory was betraying me. Despite my own protection - a padded red sweat producer that snugly fit on my head, red protection on my flimsy fists and red (Side Show Bob sized) feet protectors adorning my tiny feet, I felt exposed, vulnerable. There I was clothed in white with a white belt wrapped around my waste (only once) and the ineffective red 'armor' that flawlessly matched my red face, I felt like a fly in a spider web (the sticky sweat helped with this mental image).

We faced one another, bowed, shook hands and wished each other luck (like he needed it - pfft!) and then directly into fighting stance - YAA!

Like a flash of lighting this miniature man (ok so he was only about 9 or 10) came flying - full speed - across the mat, lunging about 12 feet (ok maybe only 3 or 4 feet - but that's still pretty high) off the floor at my head (more like my shoulder since I'm 5'1) and missed me by one miraculous block from my new best friend (my awesome left arm). Still, despite the block, in the face of this evil oompa, I cowered like the lion that Dorothy met while on her way to Oz.

A charming supportive (naive)fellow white belt shouted to me, "Embrace the tiger within!" What freaking tiger?!!! Where was he - where was he hiding??? Here kitty kitty kiWHAM! Ouch! I was so busy looking for that darn tiger (and I guess my new friend - my left arm - was busy looking too) cause that time young karate kid (I swear I heard our instructor call him Daniel-Son) - flying ninja boy, the amazing airborne oompa nailed me! Three points - that's match!

"Good game, mam."

(Breathless response)"Good game, sir."

Off I went to find that darn cowardly tiger to beat it with a Sshang Jeol Bong...and, just my luck, I stub my toe!

Week 1: Know thyself...the journ(ey)al continues

2009-09-02T15:32:00.001-04:00

It's in the middle of the day - this is huge! I rarely get a moment to sit and and think so this will come as no surprise that this is not one of those rare moments... Yes, I'm sitting but not thinking. I wanted it this way though. Since I do most of my writing late at night I thought it might be cool to try it during the day.

Pause Pause Pause...............................................................

Ok, I'm holding back -first difference. I guess writing at night when I 'm so tired I don't care is a bit like writing after having a couple of drinks (you know what your doing but you don't care how it comes across...well, until the next morning that is).

Ever feel like the wind? I'm fortunate that my laptop and I are sitting in a way that I get to dreamily stare out the window that faces our back yard and all I see is green leaves with a few tree trunks tangled amongst the green. But I can hear....It's like the sound of soft rustling of crumpled brown paper bags. Maybe it's more like the waves of the ocean - you know when you are lying on the sand (and rocks - like most of Maine beaches) staring up at the bright blue sky shielding your eyes from the sun...you can't see the waves but you can hear them....as the tied comes in - you know the cool ocean water will soon touch your toes and you don't care..... Ya, that's how this wind sounds right now. The wind, this end of summer breeze is just like the waves after a bit they feel like they are inside of my chest - helping me to breath and I feel like they are me - I am them.

It's nice to take this moment and notice that.

Like the wind though - I must blow on...time to move my two little green leaves onto their next task.

Week 1: Know thyself. Know thyself?

2009-09-01T02:02:00.000-04:00

Where did summer go? Why do I hear Brian Adams singing Summer of 69? Oh maybe that's because since I've started this blog some old friends are popping up and sending me the "remember when..." e-mails. Let me just save some time here - No, I don't remember. Ok, well maybe I do but maybe the flashbacks are just too painful (painfully hilarious) and really who wants to remember Penny Days - that poor jogger did not have it coming Cathy. Maybe Becca was right and Life does go on....then again Mr. Leary could have sent out his warning about Life and how it's like a well working vacuum a little sooner and perhaps we all would have embraced the Belushi ending...

Is it the New Year yet? It should be...in fact, I'll pretend that it is and here is my new years resolution (for this week) I promise I will write at least one journal entry before midnight...before I'm so tired that words come out of me in the form of some sort of mental spew.

Maybe I'll jump on while the little one is zoned into Barney - ya...Barney in the background, that should make the journal entry much more interesting (yes, I'm rolling my eyes - but they are dry, sleepy and almost closed - so actually it was a half roll for the right eye and a three quarters roll for the left eye...now they are stuck and the computer screen looks odd....)

Wait - just remembered...this is titled 'know thyself' after all of this rambling what do I know? Hmmm....got it - that I have kids and I have to work after they are asleep if I want to try to concentrate (and if I want to avoid little fingers helping me type and all my words having a few extra i's, some numbers or plus signs in them). I also know that if I don't go to bed soon - I will never be able to wake up with them and function...so for now - good night.

Sleeptyping

2009-08-29T02:41:00.000-04:00

Dangerous!

Don't do it.

Why don't I ever listen to myself?