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 |  Just play: don't look at your hands! |
What a dumb title for a person who never got a single star  on her piano lessons!Daily practice is the thing though: the practice of noticing as well as of writing.  However, I'd much rather play duets than solos, so hop right in! You can do the melody or the base part, I don't care.  Just play along--we'll make up the tune as we go. I'll try to write regularly and deliberately. Sometimes I will do it poorly, tritely, stiltedly, obscurely. I will try to persevere regardless. It seems to be where my heart wants to go, and that means to me that God wants me there too. See you tomorrow. ![Merit Badge in Journaling
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| Is there any place to look for lost entries? Like maybe a draft page? That was a good one, and I want it back. Here's the sequel to it. I'll try writing it again tomorrow. Too late tonight. On Acquiring a Cane When you begin to use a cane, you should know what to expect. People will be jealous! After all you‘ll have instant respect. Your cane will make you stand out as a person of wisdom and distinction. Young men fly to open doors for you. Children beg to try it out, walking with exaggerated limps. feeling old and smart and cackling. Even friends will ask to borrow it to reach for pill bottles that rolled beneath the bed, or the dog’s ball stuck behind the chest of drawers. On the other hand, it makes a nasty clatter when it falls inevitably from the chair or counter to the floor, which helps you remember where you left it. |
| Actually, I'm probably not so creative on Fridays, but that's the day I have both the short story class and the watercolor class. Hope next quarter to have them on separate days! The story went well. About eight of us read stories today, on greatly varied topics but all extremely well done. Much of this group has been together for a few years and are very comfortable with each others' styles. A couple of them write stories from their experiences, memes I suppose you'd call them but written like short fiction. All the comments that are made are positive. That feels a little lame to me. I prefer the feedback I get here with your impressions and suggestions. There is some clock in this house that is alarming, and I have no idea which one or why. Bill's gone for the weekend. It's undoubtedly one of his, probably the one that warns us when the temperature might drop below freezing. We've never figured out how to turn off that feature, so I may have to hunt it down and hide it in a drawer. While I'm thinking about writing groups, my poetry group continues to meet weekly without the old leader, the professional poet. She was a great help and offered good advice, but she managed to get offended or make enemies of people far too. often for an adult with any stability. She's moving out of town, and because of the riff with some folks, has ignored us all. Too bad. For her and for us too. Too bad Bill's gone tonight. I never sleep well when he's gone, and never when it's near freezing (see above).I also never sleep well on Monday nights after poetry or Fridays after short stories. Words tumble around in head all night like gym shoes in the dryer, ka-bump, ka-bump. |
| My story is getting longer than most people present in class, so I've cut it off about halfway. I still haven't finished it. Let me know what you think. Facing into the Storm by Ann Wren Howard 11/08/12 She knew she wouldn’t go. She had listened to the news, the phone calls, now the coast guard, all urging everyone to leave the island before the storm got worse. She pretended to consider it, but deep down she knew. Carmen had owned this house for thirty years, almost half her life. When Carl first showed it to her, it was just a fishing cottage, a place to go to get away from the busy city on weekends and vacation. Isolated, peaceful. Then, as times and fortunes changed, they took early retirements, sold their townhouse and moved out here to this barrier reef to start their life together, really together. They’d made it into their dream home, and she had all she’d ever wanted: a cozy living room with built-in book cases, a stone fireplace, a roomy kitchen, a wide front porch with a swing, a view of the ocean and a man to love her. In March Carl had been winching up the boat when a rogue wave hit, knocking him headlong into the prow. He’d been airlifted to a trauma center, but he never regained consciousness. She brought him home, where he would want to be, with the sound of the sea at his window, and he died within the week. Since then she’d seldom left the place, only for necessities and she didn’t need much. That had been, what, eight months ago? she reflected. It seemed like no time, and a lifetime, both at once. She would just stay put. She didn’t know where else to go but here, or who to go to. It didn’t matter. She sat at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, and cried. She’d weathered storms before, but always with Carl. He knew how to start up the generator, how to build a fire in the fireplace even when the wood was wet. He knew where the supply of candles was, and had a wall in the boathouse stacked high with bottled water, paper goods and supplies, carefully stored away. She’d manage somehow. What did she need to do? She’d think it all out and be ready for whatever happened. She called her mind out of its fog to the task. The power was sure to go out. She gathered candles, lighters and matches and put them in one central place. Then she changed her mind and distributed them to all rooms in the house. That way she’d have them where she needed them, whenever that was. Flashlights. Okay, there was one on the hearth next to the firewood, so she could see to light a match. There was one in the bedroom and another in the bathroom, and one on the kitchen counter beside the hurricane lamp, and they all worked and had fresh batteries. As for extras, well she’d put them in a basket on the coffee table. Oh, and that funny one that was mounted on a headband. It was probably for wearing when you walked or rode your bike at night, but Carl had given it to her so she could read in bed without her lamp disturbing him. She’d keep that in her pocket. What else would she need? Food, of course. She’d cooked some extra chicken breasts last night, so she could have those cold. They’d keep in the fridge for a day or two if she kept the door closed, and it never took longer than a couple of days for the power to come back on. Or she could put them in the freezer. In fact, she’d fill up the freezer with those ‘blue ice’ bottles now, so she could keep things cold in there for even longer. Good idea! And there was always peanut butter and canned fruit. She wouldn’t go hungry. If worse came to worse, she’d eat those sardines Carl had stocked up on. Water. That’s important. Maybe she should fill some gallon jugs and put them in the freezer instead of the blue ice. Then she could drink it when it melted. That was a better idea! There were some small water bottles in the pantry, she thought, and of course those big 3-liter ones in the boat house. Or was it the shop? She’d have to look, but she surely wouldn’t need that for a day or so, if ever. Water for washing and flushing. That was a standard hurricane precaution: fill the bathtub. She’d done that in Florida as a young Navy wife. Hard to think there’d ever be a hurricane this far north though. She turned the tap on full force and watched, mesmerized, as the tub filled. How would she dip the water out? She’d never had to. She went to the laundry room and returned with two gallon bleach bottles, one almost empty. She didn’t know why she’d need bleach, but the empty container would work fine to pour water into the top of the toilet tank. There was so much that just had to come from memory. What had she ever seen or heard about how to prepare? No check lists for what to do to weather the storm. You were supposed to leave, she thought. But I can’t. It’s all I have left of my life. Of myself, whoever that is. Boarding up the windows. Oh no. Her heart sank. She’d never done that before, and she didn’t remember Carl doing it either. She didn’t even know where to start to look for material. Helplessness crowded around her, wearying her body and her mind. Maybe it would be enough just to close the shutters and put the crossbars in place, the way they used to do when they only used the cabin occasionally. That would just have to be good enough. Even that was hard to do, given the mounting winds. Carmen was breathless and exhausted when she came back inside. And cold. What about the cold? She went to Carl’s closet, still just like he’d left it, and pulled out a heavy flannel shirt and put it on. That felt good. She imagined him wearing it, and of herself being hugged, and the tears came again. Why was she having to do all this alone? She took a warm jacket and his yellow slicker off the pegs and stood with them in her arms. There was a day pack on his shelf, and she took it down too. Maybe she might need these later, especially if she had to go out to the boathouse for supplies. She put them on the railing by the door. What else was there to do now but wait? She glanced at her watch. Not quite five. Not time for a drink yet, she thought, but what did that matter? Even though the lights were on, she lit the hurricane lamp and mixed herself a gin and tonic. The glow from the lantern was comforting against the darkening window, and she began to feel her courage flowing back. Liquid courage, isn’t that what they called it? She was standing in her kitchen when the sounds from the television in the living room stopped abruptly. The refrigerator quit humming. Everything was silent, except for the annoying beep warning her that the power source to her computer had been interrupted. Picking up her drink, she went outside. It was hard going, walking into the wind, and the waves were definitely higher. She headed to the pier, drawn to the water to see for herself. She was feeling—what was it? Brazen? Defiant? It was so unlike her that she wondered about it even as she stood there, calmly, watching the storm move in. Even when the rain began to pound, she did not feel fear. She felt invigorated! Something was happening. Something was about to happen. She welcomed it. |
well, I'm not going to write this one again. I was pouring out my troubles that ended with dropping the meatloaf in the sink when i was trying to drain the liquid out of the pan, and then breaking the counter saver I'd just gotten in the mail yesterday. Plus I'd had my leg wrapped, and it feels crappy, and I don't know how long I can stand it or if it will help get the swelling out anyway. There. that was about the gist of it. But where did it go? That's two in a row that have disappeared. Any suggestions? |
| I posted this yesterday, but no sign of it tonight. So here it is again. “Look At All Those Leaves!” When she opened up her door and saw the leavings of the night’s forceful wind, her voice was sharp and sad. “Look at all those leaves!” she said. She knew the work that it would take to rake them all. It wasn’t her first fall, and maybe not her last. She put on Jack’s old coat and leather gloves and went out to the storage shed to get her tools: two rakes, one’s handle would come loose as she worked with it a while, and she didn’t know which one. It hadn’t been repaired, just stuck back on and hung again beside the other on a nail. The leaves were bright against the neutral sky. She tied an old plaid scarf beneath her chin and started at the east side of the lawn, head down into the chill. A neighbor’s boy came pedaling up the street into her drive. “You need some help?” he asked. “It sure does look that way,” she said, and smiled and handed him the extra rake. His mother probably had sent him. He headed for the far side of the yard and pulled in heaps of leaves with strong fast strokes, advancing his pile deftly, nearing hers. His rusty rake head did come off, but each time he would jam it on again and keep on working. Near the end she said she’d better go get bags and went inside. He followed her, breathing on his hands to warm them. Even though they still had work to do, and she hadn’t planned to make it until they were through, she offered him a cup of cocoa and she poured one for herself. Wrapping up again against the cold, they headed down the steps. The boy gazed at the pile in awe and whistled. “Look at all those leaves!” he said and launched himself headlong into its heights. She scowled, then changed her mind and said instead, “ Maybe I should try it—one more time.” |
| I helped with the 8 a.m. service today, and Bill sings in the choir at the 10:30 service. So, after hanging around for a Bible study on James and some conversation with a lady I don't see often, I'm home alone for a short time. Three shelves of clouds extend above the horizon reaching into gray unremarkable sky. A sweater isn’t quite enough to keep out the cold. Intermittent breeze and drizzle is an uninspiring forecast, but so much better than the other coast that’s plagued with flooding and high winds. The 7.6 earthquake off B.C. didn’t send the tsunami predicted last night to our western beaches. All in all, a good day to be thankful. Even though this is the only hour I have to write, nothing stands out. It’s good enough to be inside and warm, accompanied by dog and cats suggesting, by example, napping. |
| This was just my second session at the short story class, part of the extended learning program at the community college--meaning it's for people over 50. Or maybe they're all Democrats and were afraid I was saying bad things about their candidate. One thing I know for sure, very few of them seem to be Facebook literate, and so were unacquainted with the barrage of political trash that's being posted there. I was trying to make a spoof on it, but nobody laughed. The Fact-Checkers “Did you see this latest thing I re-posted on Facebook about President Perry?” James called to her. He was spending his morning as usual, tucked away in the computer room at the back of the house. Diane was in the kitchen tackling a new recipe, and she wanted to ignore him. Not him, really, just the anti-president stuff he was always posting. But he needed attention, so she put down her spatula and went back to see whatever it was he wanted to show her. He was leaning forward in his office chair, peering intently at the screen, not even looking around when she came in the room. “See, this proves it,” he said. “Perry was actually on the Titanic when it sank. Here’s his name on the manifest. He’s had twenty-seven plastic surgeries, can you believe it? He must be 90 at least by now. By golly we can’t elect a president that old. And he says he’s only 62. What a liar!” She stood a pace behind him, her hands on her hips. As he scrolled down the page to show her the evidence, the original post’s vitriol leapt out at her. “I don’t like that,” she said quietly. “It’s demeaning. It’s a personal attack, not about the issues at all.” “There, see,” he said when he reached the page he wanted. It was as if she hadn’t said a word. “It’s the manifest from the Titanic, signed by the owner of the Cunard Lines. What do you think of that!” “Hmmm,” she said, but she didn’t tell him what she was thinking. “I’d better get back to my baking.” As soon as she reached the kitchen, instead of picking up the cookbook or a utensil, she pulled her iPhone from her pocket. Googling made everything so easy. She was ready for his next announcement. It wasn’t long in coming. “Look at this, will you?” he urged, and she again went to his side. “It’s an affadavit signed by the plastic surgeon. Is that good enough for you?” She paused a minute, then decided. “First of all, it wasn’t even a Cunard ship, so somebody’s making that part up. Second, the oldest living survivor was Mary Davis Wilborn, and she died in 1987. If Perry had been on the Titanic, he’d be over 100 now. It sank in 1912. Don’t you think that’s a little far fetched? And the plastic surgery thing to make him look young is so ridiculous I don’t see how you could fall for it, no matter who signed his name to what.” James was silent. He didn’t mind a challenge, he thought, but this was a cruel rebuff. Was she calling him stupid? Was she an ‘Other’ Party supporter after all? That’s what they always said about anyone who had the nerve to blow the whistle on their candidate. Diane rested her hand lightly on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. She leaned over to kiss the back of his neck but decided against it and walked slowly away. Back in the kitchen, she whisked the eggs with a fury. What was she supposed to do? She didn’t want him to make a fool of himself. Truth be told, she didn’t want him to embarrass her either. They had many Facebook friends in common. What if they thought she agreed with his outlandish ideas? Well, they probably knew her better than that, she thought. Maybe she should ‘share’ some ’Other’ Party political statements. That would show her position to be clearly different from his. But it wouldn’t really. She wasn’t honestly in favor of the incumbent president herself. He might talk about how much he cared for the poor, but she’d read too much about his past to believe that. The slumlords he’d won cases for, pushing the poor people out on the street in freezing weather, and the big housing project that went up, putting a lot of money in a lot of pockets but not helping the poor that time either. And those ‘pockets’ contributed heavily to his campaign. Most of all though, she cared about James. She didn’t want him to be hurt. Maybe if she posted what she’d just been thinking, that would be a show of solidarity for him. She planned what she would write as she finished putting the cake in the oven, then went to her laptop. Opening up to Facebook, she typed in her status carefully. It didn’t support either political party. In fact, she made it clear that she was still undecided. She’d be deluged with bipartisan propaganda now, she knew. She pushed the ‘Post’ button anyway. Almost immediately a post appeared above hers on the feed. It was from James again. “Sources near the President reveal his intention to invoke Executive Order 13537, making it illegal to route cruise ships across the North Atlantic except during the three months of summer.“ “Oh, James!” she murmured, her head in her hands. Ann Wren Howard October 8, 2012 839 words |
ambivalence leaves gathered and dispersed wobbled by the wind first here then there tangential and uncertain no safe harbor only lonely circumstantial breath comes and goes continually chuffing, charging chanting insignificant song Here's my more obscure version of the flurries of leaves whirling around. Tomorrow I'll give you my short short story that was a bomb in my class today. Not 'da bomb, but a bomb, politely. |
| Here are two new poems I wrote while watching the motion of the leaves in the intermittent gusts of wind. Fall Migration A horde of leaves blows in from the pile beneath the red maple tree, skitters across the walk, reverses directions, scatters, heads for the porch-- a safe retreat there from the gusts--beside the steps or beached among the flower pots. Some hide there till they’re swept away, The rest dart on, careening from spot to spot like children in a toy shop. Two dark leaves, dried and curled, trailing long stems, scurry across the carport, look alarmingly like mice. In the end, most succumb to the shelter of the row of arborvitae, squirreling themselves between the trunks, to rest in peace. No, I guess it's just one of them. I'll save the next for another day. It's a little obscure. |
| Last spring, before or maybe just about the time Bill retired, my life was feeling pleasantly full. Not overly busy, as some retirees claim --or is it bragging?--but enough regular events on my weekly calendar that I usually knew what day it was and had something coming up to look forward to. I did grouch about needing to drive to the next town six days a week and occasionally more than once a day. And I wanted something bigger to anticipate, like a cruise planned or a trip to Ireland or something. But I was doing pretty much just what I wanted. Three days a week I went to the Y for water aerobics, MWF. On Tuesdays I had a staff mtg at church. On Thursdays I helped sometimes with the soup kitchen and had watercolor class in the afternoon. I usually took communion out to a lady on Friday, and Sunday was church. In between, I had time to write poetry, practice painting, work in the garden. When Bill started being at home every day, I cut out the Y frequently because we slept later, and I figured I'd have our own pool to do that in as soon as the water warmed up. The art class stopped for the summer, and I've only gotten out my paints a few times since then. I did write a bit, when I could find some quiet time to myself, and worked in the garden where I'd never be interrupted. (Funny about that, isn't it?) I began to plan possible trips for us, but Bill's budget for retirement took a while to get in place and he had a lot of obligations with CAP and the ambulance board that he chairs. Besides, I wanted to do exactly what I was doing. I wanted a week with the twins visiting and a few days with BIll's sister in Seattle when we went over for his year followup to prostate treatment. I wanted a few days with my son and his family in the Portland area, and we did that too. I wanted Bill to get his flight medical back so we could go flying again, and it happened! I've made zucchini bread and homemade salsa, marinara sauce to freeze. I've figured out a better way to garden next year, God willing.I've had some poetry accepted at an on-line site featuring poets from the inland northwest (as opposed to the Seattle and Portland areas.) I made a skirt and scarf for my granddaughter while she was here without even using a pattern. I'm not a very accomplished sewer, so that was a big deal for me, and she liked it well enough to wear it on the first day of school. She's in 7th grade this year. The one thing that has made me sad is that our poet/workshop leader is leaving town. She was a great help, an encouragement and also a good critic with useful suggestions. Now it's almost time to start the art class up again--two more weeks. I'm not very good at it, not enough to please myself even, but plan to do it again anyway. As for the poetry group, I don't know if I will continue with it or not. I don't trust the expertise of the members to give constructive help, and I don't want to hear a lot of vacuous praise. Snob, aren't I? The one other bad thing is that my left knee, which I've been protecting for years, barely made it though the Portland trip with a jet boat ride and a day at the state fair. It had been hurting anyway, and I'd claimed plenty of rest time for it. Shortly after we got home, I could hardly bend it. Getting in and out of the car and the little airplane had been tricky, but it became next to impossible. I couldn't get in to an orthopedist with first seeing my own doctor, and couldn't get in to see him for two weeks. His nurse advised me to go to the immediate care clinic and get the referral from there. That doc gave me an 8-day course of Prednisone as I wait to see the knee doctor on Thursday, and it's done wonders. Flew with Bill to Spokane Saturday and went shopping with Lenore. Today we spent several hours in the church kitchen getting soup started for the new Tuesday soup kitchen we'll be hosting. We'll be busy with that all day tomorrow. I did miss out on the poetry workshop today though, and an email this evening from the teacher announces that that will be her last workshop with us. I'm really sorry about that. One funny thing happened in Spokane while I was in Costco with Lenore. We were emptying the cart as the old gray-haired gentleman checked us out, and we heard him muttering to himself in a sing-song way that sounded a little odd. We looked at each other, and then suddenly realized what the words were that we had been hearing him say: "Once upon a midnight dreary as I pondered weak and weary over many a volume of forgotten lore..." We finished it with him, to all our enjoyment, and Lenore said that was her favorite pickup line. |
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