Diane’s husband Bill is going to make a desk. He needs a desk to write poems. He’s written a couple of poems that she knows about, somewhere else, not at a desk, maybe with a pad of paper propped on his lap while he sits on his chair, and they’re pretty decent, but the desk would help him to concentrate fully on making poems. So he needs to make a desk.
These are simple matters, really: a poem, a desk. Maybe in reverse order. But they require a great deal of thought, of discussion. Bill wants to discuss with Diane his vision of the desk he will make. He visits stores, runs his hand along the wood, judges the height of the working area, whether his knees will fit under the table part when he is sitting at the desk. These visits to antique stores and boutique furniture stores are done by trial run by Bill before he returns with Diane so she can get a feel for the sort of thing that Bill wants to make, so she will understand his needs, maybe even the scope of what he can make.
Bill hasn’t built anything in the twenty-five years Diane has known him. So, in a sense, the desk is a warm-up of his old craft, one he says he performed early in life, in the life he lived before his life with Diane. The other twenty-five years, where he made beds and a sofa and chairs and tables for his family. Diane believes all this, and can picture the young Bill outside the farmhouse he’d purchased in New Hampshire, swinging an ax or sawing boards; she can picture the rustic interiors, the hemp cushions his then-wife arranged on the wooden frames of the furniture Bill made, his children, now middle-aged men, running their trucks into the solid wooden legs of the end tables, tables would could withstand kicking and bumping.
Bill is a man to overcome obstacles. The present obstacles he faces in his desk-making are several. One is the floor space to put the desk, which has not presented itself to either him or to Diane. They live in a flat that, while decent in its area, already has two desks. One desk she has claimed as hers, but that’s only because she retired from full-time work first, and conceded to a cheap IKEA thing which—in all fairness—Bill had to put together for her—so, she’d forgotten this!—he had, essentially, made one desk. The other desk is a relic from the past (hers) that sits in the bedroom piled high with files and bills and opera brochures and the like. That’s the bill-paying desk, although it’s really too cluttered, so Bill writes bills at the dining room table. Clearly poems cannot be written at either desk and the goal here is, ultimately, not to make a desk, but to make the poems that will emerge once the desk is in place.
Bill has tried to show Diane the sort of desk that would work for him. One such desk he found in Flax, while Diane was buying wrapping paper and ribbon, and led her, with excitement, to witness his discovery. The desk was a huge plane of wood that tilted, a drafting table, the flat area the size of a refrigerator turned on its side, the legs thick steel.
Bill might be willing to forego the making part to acquire such a desk. She asked where they would put it—would they clear out the living room and mount it there? Well, he said, he just wanted her to see what he had in mind. She could tell he thought she was squelching his plans, putting him down. Maybe he wouldn’t show her his poems.
But he couldn’t resist leading her down the vast cement aisles of Home Depot so she’d get a sense of wood. He pointed out to her the difference in qualities of wood, the air thickly redolent of it. Even the Home Depots differed in qualities, he said, leading her through the Home Depot that specialized in building materials only. What did she think of this grain? That grain? Both would make good desks.
She was hesitant to ask, surely he’d seen this obstacle: Where will you build the desk? They had no garage, they lived upstairs. Bill wasn’t sure; he’d think of something. He pointed out he’d need tools, too, to let her know that he’d thought of all angles.
Making the plans to make the desk does not occupy Bill full time; the rest of the time he makes the plans to make the poems. He reads poem after poem; the table next to his chair is piled high, haphazardly, with books of poems. Volumes of poetry have filled one bookshelf, then another. (Bill also wants to make bookshelves, maybe at a later date.) He searches out poetry readings, which Diane likes to go to, too.
Sometimes Diane will go into the living room, where Bill is sitting (until he has his own desk to sit at) to ask if he wants some lunch, and he is reading aloud, softly, in a whisper, a poem. He is concentrating, he always concentrates on the poem; he loves the words. He is getting ready to make his own poems. Diane at such times sees that he needs a place to turn inward, a desk facing a wall or a window, a place to think. He needs a desk, whether he makes it or not, to make his poems.
Friday, July 17, 2009
What He Made - John Fetto
The lathe ground metal, bits flew up on Hawley’s apron, fogging his glasses until he had to stop, unwind the vise and inspect the metal. He held the heavy metal tube up to the light, inspecting the nine millimeter hole. The metal was heavier than what they called for, but the weight would reduce the kick, making it easier to keep it on target and absorb the heat of fifty rounds. Heat was his enemy, burning his hands and causing the weapon to jam, leaving him defenseless. Heat ruined most everything, led to mistakes, fatal errors. He knew he could do this without heat of any kind. He had done it before.
He saw a small imperfection, a rough edge at one end where he’s have to screw the barrel into the action. He lowered his visor, started up the machine and began to grind metal again, coolly, precisely, like mortician preparing a corpse.
He saw a small imperfection, a rough edge at one end where he’s have to screw the barrel into the action. He lowered his visor, started up the machine and began to grind metal again, coolly, precisely, like mortician preparing a corpse.
What I Made - Donna Shomer
I cannot name it.
Sometimes I can fashion
what I lack
or give
what I cannot have
or teach
what I do not know.
And sometimes
it comes back to me.
Maybe
in the form of a young girl
stepping out into her world
and knowing her way.
Sometimes I can fashion
what I lack
or give
what I cannot have
or teach
what I do not know.
And sometimes
it comes back to me.
Maybe
in the form of a young girl
stepping out into her world
and knowing her way.
What I Made of It - Bonnie Smetts
“Baby, I’m loving you so much right now,” Roy says to me. It’s one time I don’t jump up and stamp around and tell him to stop with saying love. Roy’s definition of love is about a different from mine as him having black eyes and me having blue. But he pulls me closer to him and I can’t think of anything sweeter than his smooth skin.
“Baby, I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me now,” he says, he’s whispering close to my ear. I don’t know either. He’s facing a judge I know takes no excuses.
“Roy, you gotta say you’re sorry, you gotta admit you did something wrong. This guy’s not gonna be listening to you sweet talking,” I say.
“Sweet talk, what are you talking about. I tell it like I see it and I’m gonna do that again,” he says, moving a tiny bit away from me now. “I didn’t do nothing wrong, that guy come on my property and I got a right to shoot his dog.”
“Roy, you don’t have a right to shoot his dog,” I say. I’m no lawyer but I’ve been listening to the goings on in court now for a year. “Make of it what you like, but there’s laws, Roy.”
And I know Roy is going to go on making it up, making up whatever he wants life to be, but now he’s up against somebody else making the rules.
The sun’s shining into his trailer, lighting us up like it did when I didn’t have sense to stay away from this man. I still don’t, just like the sun still comes in the window.
“Sweety, I gotta be going. I gotta put in my time at the diner, Shirley’s still needing me Sundays,” I say. Roy pulls me back to the warmth in his chest. He bends my head, gently gently into the spot under his chin and I curl into his chest. I breathe in his scent. “Roy, I gotta go, really. And tomorrow, you gotta do right, Roy,” I say, finally sliding myself away from him like a ship leaving shore.
I bend down and kiss him one more time. And he pulls me to him, his mouth is on mine, hard and fast.
“Baby, I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me now,” he says, he’s whispering close to my ear. I don’t know either. He’s facing a judge I know takes no excuses.
“Roy, you gotta say you’re sorry, you gotta admit you did something wrong. This guy’s not gonna be listening to you sweet talking,” I say.
“Sweet talk, what are you talking about. I tell it like I see it and I’m gonna do that again,” he says, moving a tiny bit away from me now. “I didn’t do nothing wrong, that guy come on my property and I got a right to shoot his dog.”
“Roy, you don’t have a right to shoot his dog,” I say. I’m no lawyer but I’ve been listening to the goings on in court now for a year. “Make of it what you like, but there’s laws, Roy.”
And I know Roy is going to go on making it up, making up whatever he wants life to be, but now he’s up against somebody else making the rules.
The sun’s shining into his trailer, lighting us up like it did when I didn’t have sense to stay away from this man. I still don’t, just like the sun still comes in the window.
“Sweety, I gotta be going. I gotta put in my time at the diner, Shirley’s still needing me Sundays,” I say. Roy pulls me back to the warmth in his chest. He bends my head, gently gently into the spot under his chin and I curl into his chest. I breathe in his scent. “Roy, I gotta go, really. And tomorrow, you gotta do right, Roy,” I say, finally sliding myself away from him like a ship leaving shore.
I bend down and kiss him one more time. And he pulls me to him, his mouth is on mine, hard and fast.
Made - Chris Callaghan
MADE: that word keep flipping its M upside down and substituting the d and the e with spare tiles from a scrabble game, making itself into WANT. But I’ll give it a shot.
I made a life; stubbornly, continuously raking through the debris of my childhood, looking for pieces of my family stuff I wanted to stick back into my existence. In between the melted black glob of incest and the shattered ceramic turkey platter that we passed the vow of silence around the table on, I salvaged a few things.
That pile of faded blue sea glass is shards of self-sufficiency, they used to be cobalt, but the color fades with wear. They’ll make a nice necklace. I made the pants of independence out of one-hundred dollar bills; there were some in a shoe-box under the safe. They looked nice the first time I wore them, but they don’t wash for shit. So I switched to this skirt – a cache of silver dollars I drilled and linked like chain mail, wears like iron, but I can’t sit down in it, bites into my thighs.
This old Schwinn bike was my ride, a cross between escape and freedom. I just keep it around for sentiments sake –the tires are rotten. This toolbox was my grandfather’s, I found it way over there in the corner, buried in spider webs and dust. My dad wouldn’t use it, and I never knew why.
I found a cardboard box with my name on it that had all these tools in it: saws, hammers, screwdrivers, pliers, chisels. There was an instruction book on top. I know, it doesn’t make sense to me either – put that black glob next to these useful tools and it seems like they couldn’t have come from the same man.
Well, none of it makes sense. My mother’s NOW buttons and the “Peter and the Wolf” record I used to clean house to, next to the empty bowl I’ve been trying to fill with the hugs I never got. I can’t find any. Or my sister’s old letters signed LOVE, next to a pile of court documents she filed against me. I’m sick of raking.
What I want? Well, that might be easier to say. I want the loving family that has always been just out of my reach.
Notice I didn’t say easier to get.
I made a life; stubbornly, continuously raking through the debris of my childhood, looking for pieces of my family stuff I wanted to stick back into my existence. In between the melted black glob of incest and the shattered ceramic turkey platter that we passed the vow of silence around the table on, I salvaged a few things.
That pile of faded blue sea glass is shards of self-sufficiency, they used to be cobalt, but the color fades with wear. They’ll make a nice necklace. I made the pants of independence out of one-hundred dollar bills; there were some in a shoe-box under the safe. They looked nice the first time I wore them, but they don’t wash for shit. So I switched to this skirt – a cache of silver dollars I drilled and linked like chain mail, wears like iron, but I can’t sit down in it, bites into my thighs.
This old Schwinn bike was my ride, a cross between escape and freedom. I just keep it around for sentiments sake –the tires are rotten. This toolbox was my grandfather’s, I found it way over there in the corner, buried in spider webs and dust. My dad wouldn’t use it, and I never knew why.
I found a cardboard box with my name on it that had all these tools in it: saws, hammers, screwdrivers, pliers, chisels. There was an instruction book on top. I know, it doesn’t make sense to me either – put that black glob next to these useful tools and it seems like they couldn’t have come from the same man.
Well, none of it makes sense. My mother’s NOW buttons and the “Peter and the Wolf” record I used to clean house to, next to the empty bowl I’ve been trying to fill with the hugs I never got. I can’t find any. Or my sister’s old letters signed LOVE, next to a pile of court documents she filed against me. I’m sick of raking.
What I want? Well, that might be easier to say. I want the loving family that has always been just out of my reach.
Notice I didn’t say easier to get.
Outlaws - Camilla Basham
She is sitting at the Viceroy in the armpit of America: Los Angeles. Mind numbing house music is eating her brain. She can sense the stares in her direction, she is an unknown beast in some cage for viewing. She is wearing a modest swim suit and reading an obscure object; not a manuscript, not a tabloid, but something called the New York Times. She is aware of her rare state here as someone who can maintain both boobs and a brain. No silicon has gone to her head. She is absent the tramp stamp; the fake double D's, the orange tan; the bleached blond locks and the frozen forehead. She is not sitting alone obsessively texting so people will imagine her more popular and important than she really is. She is not buzzed before noon. She is not sitting with a metrosexual man who spends more time on his hair then she does. She is not giggling incessantly at the very fact that she is at a pool in L.A. She was not neglected as child and therefor seeking attention from any and everyone who walks by her. She doesn't care that Oliver Stone is in the cabana next to her drinking champagne with teenage girls; she doesn't know him; he doesn't know her; she doesn't care. She does not need to know that the man next to her was in an episode of Entourage or that the woman next to him is auditioning for a new reality show. She doesn't care that someone is interested in the waiter's script or that the bartender is starting his own indie movie company called Outlaw Productions. She refuses to admire the cougar who has had so much plastic surgery that not even she knows when she is smiling or the middle aged man sporting Speedos and hair plugs. It suddenly dawns on her why the rest of the world sees us as shallow and morally bankrupt; and with that epiphany and a shake of her head she turns the page.
Outlaws - Randy Wong
Nathan Sanford quickly walked into the liquor store. The electronic bell chime rang twice signaling his entrance into the store. The cool refrigerated air was a welcome change from the blistery heat being blown outside. The temperature difference caused Nathan to sweat profusely. He took out his handkerchief and quickly wiped his forehead. It was the heart of summer on the East Coast of the United States, and it’s been a hot one.
He gave a quick nod to Alfredo, the store owner sitting behind the counter. Alfredo nodded back.
“Man, I hope this heat breaks up! You look like you fell into a swimming pool!”
Nathan laughed. “I wish! A nice cool dunk sounds like a good idea! For now, I’m gonna grab a brew.”
He continued on to the refrigerated section of the store. Nathan believed that a liquor store or a supermarket would be the best places to go when it gets this hot. Seeing that he was the only customer, Nathan opened the glass door to one of the refrigerators containing the beer. Nathan closed his eyes as he stood there for a long moment as the cool air flowed over his body.
The sound of electronic chimes awoke Nathan from his meditation. He was still a little dazed from the pure ecstasy of refrigerated air when he noticed two young men enter the store. One man stood by the doorway while the other man walked directly to the counter. Nathan’s line of sight to the counter was obscured by aisle shelves, so he could not see what was going on up front. He did see the first man by the doorway. That man was keeping a constant lookout towards the outside. Nathan was getting a weird vibe from this. At first he shook his head and figured his imagination was running away. He grabbed a couple of beers from the refrigerator and quietly closed the door. Nathan took another look at the man near the doorway. He was still looking outside. Something did not feel right, so Nathan ducked behind one of the aisle shelves and crept towards the counter. He wanted to know if anything was going on with Alfredo.
Nathan slowly made his way towards the front. He wanted to get as close as he could without detection. He stopped at the end of the aisle closest to the storage room doorway. Nathan figured that if he needed to bolt, the quickest way out would be through the back of the store and into the alley. He was finally able to see Alfredo. His friend had his back towards the counter and was grabbing a couple of cigarette cartons. The young man at the counter gave the man at the door way a look. They both nodded. With a quick turn, the man that had been watching the door was now walking throughout the store. It looked to Nathan that he was making sure no one else was in the store. Nathan figured he had another fifteen seconds before he would be discovered. The only weapons he had were the two bottles of beer he was holding.
Alfredo turned back towards the counter and handed the man both cartons of cigarettes. The other man had walked over to the same refrigerator that Nathan was at and grabbed two six packs of beer. Surprised, Nathan stayed put and kept watching. The one with the beer calmly walked out the door, and the man with the cigarettes smiled and nodded to Alfredo who did not respond. When both men left the store, Nathan got up and walked towards the counter.
“Alfredo! Who were those guys, and why didn’t they pay you?”
His friend shrugged. “That is nothing. Nothing that I cannot handle”
Nathan stared at his friend for a bit. Whenever Alfredo would get nervous or stressed, his native Italian accent would get stronger.
“Every so often, a couple of guys come in and take some stuff. After that, I don’t see them for a while. I let them do it so they don’t cause me trouble. If I say anything, then I get trouble.”
Nathan shook his head. “This is extortion. You should call the cops.”
It was Alfredo’s turn to shake his head. “Non voglio problemi. I have my family to think about. They don’t take much, so I don’t really care.”
Nathan tried to convince his friend to go to the police, but Alfredo was steadfast in his belief that he was doing the right thing. As Nathan left the liquor store, he saw the two men that were in the store across the street. They were involved in some deep conversation. They did not notice Nathan stepping out of the liquor store. The two men turned and started to walk down the street. Nathan stared at them for a moment. With a deep breath, he quickly crossed the street and began to follow them.
He gave a quick nod to Alfredo, the store owner sitting behind the counter. Alfredo nodded back.
“Man, I hope this heat breaks up! You look like you fell into a swimming pool!”
Nathan laughed. “I wish! A nice cool dunk sounds like a good idea! For now, I’m gonna grab a brew.”
He continued on to the refrigerated section of the store. Nathan believed that a liquor store or a supermarket would be the best places to go when it gets this hot. Seeing that he was the only customer, Nathan opened the glass door to one of the refrigerators containing the beer. Nathan closed his eyes as he stood there for a long moment as the cool air flowed over his body.
The sound of electronic chimes awoke Nathan from his meditation. He was still a little dazed from the pure ecstasy of refrigerated air when he noticed two young men enter the store. One man stood by the doorway while the other man walked directly to the counter. Nathan’s line of sight to the counter was obscured by aisle shelves, so he could not see what was going on up front. He did see the first man by the doorway. That man was keeping a constant lookout towards the outside. Nathan was getting a weird vibe from this. At first he shook his head and figured his imagination was running away. He grabbed a couple of beers from the refrigerator and quietly closed the door. Nathan took another look at the man near the doorway. He was still looking outside. Something did not feel right, so Nathan ducked behind one of the aisle shelves and crept towards the counter. He wanted to know if anything was going on with Alfredo.
Nathan slowly made his way towards the front. He wanted to get as close as he could without detection. He stopped at the end of the aisle closest to the storage room doorway. Nathan figured that if he needed to bolt, the quickest way out would be through the back of the store and into the alley. He was finally able to see Alfredo. His friend had his back towards the counter and was grabbing a couple of cigarette cartons. The young man at the counter gave the man at the door way a look. They both nodded. With a quick turn, the man that had been watching the door was now walking throughout the store. It looked to Nathan that he was making sure no one else was in the store. Nathan figured he had another fifteen seconds before he would be discovered. The only weapons he had were the two bottles of beer he was holding.
Alfredo turned back towards the counter and handed the man both cartons of cigarettes. The other man had walked over to the same refrigerator that Nathan was at and grabbed two six packs of beer. Surprised, Nathan stayed put and kept watching. The one with the beer calmly walked out the door, and the man with the cigarettes smiled and nodded to Alfredo who did not respond. When both men left the store, Nathan got up and walked towards the counter.
“Alfredo! Who were those guys, and why didn’t they pay you?”
His friend shrugged. “That is nothing. Nothing that I cannot handle”
Nathan stared at his friend for a bit. Whenever Alfredo would get nervous or stressed, his native Italian accent would get stronger.
“Every so often, a couple of guys come in and take some stuff. After that, I don’t see them for a while. I let them do it so they don’t cause me trouble. If I say anything, then I get trouble.”
Nathan shook his head. “This is extortion. You should call the cops.”
It was Alfredo’s turn to shake his head. “Non voglio problemi. I have my family to think about. They don’t take much, so I don’t really care.”
Nathan tried to convince his friend to go to the police, but Alfredo was steadfast in his belief that he was doing the right thing. As Nathan left the liquor store, he saw the two men that were in the store across the street. They were involved in some deep conversation. They did not notice Nathan stepping out of the liquor store. The two men turned and started to walk down the street. Nathan stared at them for a moment. With a deep breath, he quickly crossed the street and began to follow them.
Inseparable - Melody Cryns
Me and music, we’re inseparable.
Even if I were to try to get away from music, which I wouldn’t, music follows me around wherever I go… Like last week I met that guy Peter in front of the Red Rock Café and he started playing the riff to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.
So, I got brave and I called my friend Debbie and said meet me at the Red Rock Café because I’m going to play my guitar and sing at jam night, which I’ve been meaning to do for years now, but I just haven’t got the guts.
Then I contacted my friend Phoenix and she showed up with her husband. There were quite a few people piled into the Red Rock Café for jam night, lots of younger people, teenagers, and older hippie Bohemian type people…and me, wearing my American Idol top 10 Contestant t-shirt. Okay, so it wasn’t a Beatles shirt, but my beloved Adam Lambert was on that shirt along with all the other contestants…and to me American Idol represents following your dreams and doing what you’re meant to do. That may sound a little cheesy, but that’s the way I feel about it.
So I had my 10 minutes of “fame,” scared to death, standing up there playing and singing, with a guy I hardly knew named Peter.
As I walked towards the Red Rock Café on Monday night, I thought, “Why are you doing this? You’re not a musician. You’re just a fraud, a musician wanna-be…are you nuts?”
It was a warm balmy evening, much warmer than it usually gets in Mountain View – people with guitars stood outside the Red Rock Café, a building made of what looks like rock on the outside (but probably wasn’t), and when I walked inside, the café was filled with people.
I saw an older guy with a tie-dye shirt and wire-rimmed glasses setting up a microphone and an amp on stage, and I went up to him and said, “Is it too late to sign up for open mike night?”
“No, it’s never too late,” he said in a friendly voice. He pointed to a sign-up sheet. I gulped. What the heck was I doing? I actually signed my name to the list, number 9. Just like in that one Beatles song, number 9, number 9, number 9, I laughed to myself, and then I texted my friend Phoenix and told her she should come to the Red Rock Café because it was jam night and I was number 9, number 9. I knew Phoenix would get it.
What I wondered is whether she’d actually believe that I was going to do it, get up there and sing and play guitar. My friend Debbie showed up just then, and I said, “Am I ever glad to see you. I thought I’d be here all by myself!”
“I wouldn’t miss this!” said Debbie.
Great, I thought. I’m doomed. I’m going to make a total and complete fool of myself tonight all because I sang along with some guy on guitar whom I hardly knew a week ago and he said, “You should go to open mike night and sing this!”
The mood was festive – people sat at tables with guitars, drinking coffee. ^This was a great place for the young people who couldn’t go to the 21 and up clubs. Even a couple of kids hung out and I noticed one of them had a guitar as well. How cool is that?
I remembered taking my own kids to coffee shops to hear good music, especially Megan, who was still out of town on Monday night. I had hoped at least one of my kids would make it, but they were all busy and said, “We’ll come next week, Mom!”
It’s tough to get out on a Monday night, I figured, especially for my son Stevie who lived all the way in San Francisco and Melissa as well.
Debbie ordered a cappuccino and a blueberry looking cake that of course I couldn’t eat – special diet. No fancy coffee drink either – just regular coffee with sweetener and a dash of cream (which is my one indulgence, a dash of cream, I mean, c’mon!). I’m losing a steady one-pound per week these days on the HMR Weight Management Program, and I’m under 200 pounds now – and I haven’t weighed this little since, umm…I don’t know when. But at the rate I’m going it’ll only take me another 30 to 40 weeks to get rid of the rest of the week – that’s all.
I’m going to be on this program FOREVER, I thought, putting my dash of cream in my coffee, never having any idea that in this lifetime, a dash of cream would be considered decadent.
No yummy cakes for me – at least not for a while.
But I was so nervous as I sat at the table across from Debbie, very close to a young guy whom I recognized – oh it’s the lead singer and guitarist for the Mechanical Snails! I knew I recognized him. This girl from my guitar class, Nicole, used to play bass with them, so I actually went to a couple of their shows – their youngest band member was 16 and the oldest was 25 and they said they were influenced most by the Beatles, and they even did a modern-sound fast version of Beatles’ Rain.
Okay, open mike night officially began with the guy setting things up going first. I’m sure he had a right to. Everyone gets to play two songs or for 10 minutes. 10 minutes? How could two songs last longer than 10 minutes?
“We’ve seen it all,” someone whispered over to me. “Some people go on and on and you have to cut them off or we’ll be here all night!”
How could anyone go on? The guy MCing sang a Grateful Dead song I knew, called “Ripple,” and then he read poetry.
I sat nervously at the table, listening, and looking out the window – and there was that guy Peter standing outside with the guitar. So I grabbed my cheat sheet, almost knocking over my friend’s cup of cappuccino, knocking on the window and showing this lanky renegade guy with a cowboy hat on, Peter, the cheat sheet I’d created for Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds.
Even if I were to try to get away from music, which I wouldn’t, music follows me around wherever I go… Like last week I met that guy Peter in front of the Red Rock Café and he started playing the riff to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.
So, I got brave and I called my friend Debbie and said meet me at the Red Rock Café because I’m going to play my guitar and sing at jam night, which I’ve been meaning to do for years now, but I just haven’t got the guts.
Then I contacted my friend Phoenix and she showed up with her husband. There were quite a few people piled into the Red Rock Café for jam night, lots of younger people, teenagers, and older hippie Bohemian type people…and me, wearing my American Idol top 10 Contestant t-shirt. Okay, so it wasn’t a Beatles shirt, but my beloved Adam Lambert was on that shirt along with all the other contestants…and to me American Idol represents following your dreams and doing what you’re meant to do. That may sound a little cheesy, but that’s the way I feel about it.
So I had my 10 minutes of “fame,” scared to death, standing up there playing and singing, with a guy I hardly knew named Peter.
As I walked towards the Red Rock Café on Monday night, I thought, “Why are you doing this? You’re not a musician. You’re just a fraud, a musician wanna-be…are you nuts?”
It was a warm balmy evening, much warmer than it usually gets in Mountain View – people with guitars stood outside the Red Rock Café, a building made of what looks like rock on the outside (but probably wasn’t), and when I walked inside, the café was filled with people.
I saw an older guy with a tie-dye shirt and wire-rimmed glasses setting up a microphone and an amp on stage, and I went up to him and said, “Is it too late to sign up for open mike night?”
“No, it’s never too late,” he said in a friendly voice. He pointed to a sign-up sheet. I gulped. What the heck was I doing? I actually signed my name to the list, number 9. Just like in that one Beatles song, number 9, number 9, number 9, I laughed to myself, and then I texted my friend Phoenix and told her she should come to the Red Rock Café because it was jam night and I was number 9, number 9. I knew Phoenix would get it.
What I wondered is whether she’d actually believe that I was going to do it, get up there and sing and play guitar. My friend Debbie showed up just then, and I said, “Am I ever glad to see you. I thought I’d be here all by myself!”
“I wouldn’t miss this!” said Debbie.
Great, I thought. I’m doomed. I’m going to make a total and complete fool of myself tonight all because I sang along with some guy on guitar whom I hardly knew a week ago and he said, “You should go to open mike night and sing this!”
The mood was festive – people sat at tables with guitars, drinking coffee. ^This was a great place for the young people who couldn’t go to the 21 and up clubs. Even a couple of kids hung out and I noticed one of them had a guitar as well. How cool is that?
I remembered taking my own kids to coffee shops to hear good music, especially Megan, who was still out of town on Monday night. I had hoped at least one of my kids would make it, but they were all busy and said, “We’ll come next week, Mom!”
It’s tough to get out on a Monday night, I figured, especially for my son Stevie who lived all the way in San Francisco and Melissa as well.
Debbie ordered a cappuccino and a blueberry looking cake that of course I couldn’t eat – special diet. No fancy coffee drink either – just regular coffee with sweetener and a dash of cream (which is my one indulgence, a dash of cream, I mean, c’mon!). I’m losing a steady one-pound per week these days on the HMR Weight Management Program, and I’m under 200 pounds now – and I haven’t weighed this little since, umm…I don’t know when. But at the rate I’m going it’ll only take me another 30 to 40 weeks to get rid of the rest of the week – that’s all.
I’m going to be on this program FOREVER, I thought, putting my dash of cream in my coffee, never having any idea that in this lifetime, a dash of cream would be considered decadent.
No yummy cakes for me – at least not for a while.
But I was so nervous as I sat at the table across from Debbie, very close to a young guy whom I recognized – oh it’s the lead singer and guitarist for the Mechanical Snails! I knew I recognized him. This girl from my guitar class, Nicole, used to play bass with them, so I actually went to a couple of their shows – their youngest band member was 16 and the oldest was 25 and they said they were influenced most by the Beatles, and they even did a modern-sound fast version of Beatles’ Rain.
Okay, open mike night officially began with the guy setting things up going first. I’m sure he had a right to. Everyone gets to play two songs or for 10 minutes. 10 minutes? How could two songs last longer than 10 minutes?
“We’ve seen it all,” someone whispered over to me. “Some people go on and on and you have to cut them off or we’ll be here all night!”
How could anyone go on? The guy MCing sang a Grateful Dead song I knew, called “Ripple,” and then he read poetry.
I sat nervously at the table, listening, and looking out the window – and there was that guy Peter standing outside with the guitar. So I grabbed my cheat sheet, almost knocking over my friend’s cup of cappuccino, knocking on the window and showing this lanky renegade guy with a cowboy hat on, Peter, the cheat sheet I’d created for Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds.
Monday, July 13, 2009
It Wasn't My Plan - Camilla Basham
Dear Doctor Roth,
As much as I love sitting in a cold waiting room in nothing more than a paper gown, I have decided to collect my crumpled clothes and my dignity and return to my home; to the piled up dirty dishes and unmade bed I left behind hours ago so as not to be late for this appointment your receptionist so graciously offered me when my call finally got through on the third attempt months ago. It's not that I don't enjoy having my breasts repeatedly groped and squeezed under cold metal while someone half my age tries to decipher whether they are watching a tumor or a scratch on the screen while simultaneously discussing the last episode of American Idol. It's just that I have had this time to really sit and think about it all: life, that is. I mean if it is just a glitch in the machine I still have life to contend with. If it is the dreaded C word, I imagine the worse case scenario is death; which can't be much worse than these last several hours. I therefore must thank you for curing me of my fear of death. I also thank you for the atmosphere you provided during my stay: the fragrant scent of rubbing alcohol, the warm water in Dixie cups, the stale peppermints, the gossiping staff, the 2001 Good Housekeeping magazines, the elevator music and the incessant crying from both the colicky vomiting baby to my right and the regretful bearded post op guy in a dress to my left. My God, this was fun. We must do it again soon.
Yours truly,
Patient #428-41-9100
As much as I love sitting in a cold waiting room in nothing more than a paper gown, I have decided to collect my crumpled clothes and my dignity and return to my home; to the piled up dirty dishes and unmade bed I left behind hours ago so as not to be late for this appointment your receptionist so graciously offered me when my call finally got through on the third attempt months ago. It's not that I don't enjoy having my breasts repeatedly groped and squeezed under cold metal while someone half my age tries to decipher whether they are watching a tumor or a scratch on the screen while simultaneously discussing the last episode of American Idol. It's just that I have had this time to really sit and think about it all: life, that is. I mean if it is just a glitch in the machine I still have life to contend with. If it is the dreaded C word, I imagine the worse case scenario is death; which can't be much worse than these last several hours. I therefore must thank you for curing me of my fear of death. I also thank you for the atmosphere you provided during my stay: the fragrant scent of rubbing alcohol, the warm water in Dixie cups, the stale peppermints, the gossiping staff, the 2001 Good Housekeeping magazines, the elevator music and the incessant crying from both the colicky vomiting baby to my right and the regretful bearded post op guy in a dress to my left. My God, this was fun. We must do it again soon.
Yours truly,
Patient #428-41-9100
What Plan? - Chris Callaghan
Lately Jeff was always telling Rosie how disorganized she was.
Her fiancé: Mr. Anal, Mr. Bureaucrat couldn’t even go to the grocery store without meticulous planning. She could have handled a list, but mapping out which aisles to go down in advance was a new level of obsessive-ness. God forbid something got put in the cart that wasn’t on the list. Sometimes she’d tuck bizarre things in there just to get a reaction out of him. Things like: baby pacifiers, a jar of pickled oysters, hemorrhoid pads, or Fixodent.
Five years ago they would have laughed at her choices but not now. He seemed to be clenching into himself more intensely lately, and she seemed to be purposely flinging herself into bedlam.
It’s true they’d always been an odd couple, being complete opposites, but there was an interesting symmetrical balance that made it work. She loosened his tension and ties, and he gave her a comforting stability to rely on and turn to. It was surprising even to them how well their relationship worked.
Today they’d hit a new low, perpetrated either by the global crises or the full moon. They’d both said unrecoverable words before he’d stalked out the front door to go to the mortgage seminar he’d signed them both up for, and she’d flung the surprise picnic she’d planned into the basket of her bike and pedaled it furiously down to the park.
Rosie intentionally spread her blanket in the direct sun, knowing the exact words Jeff would have to say about the dangers of UV exposure. Well, she wasn’t listening today – she was sick and tired of his lists and charts and damn reasoning. She tried to eat, but was still so upset, she could only manage half a chicken leg. She defiantly popped open the wine and drank almost 2 glasses before falling asleep on her stomach.
She woke up to some man’s hand on her shoulder and panicked. She thrashed over onto her back screaming for Jeff. Rosie almost smacked him in the face before she realized it was him. “Why aren’t you at the seminar?” she gasped.
He was kneeling in the damp grass in his white khakis. “Oh honey,” he said softly. “You’re bright red.”
She pointed to his knees, “You know that stain will never come out.” They looked at each other for a full minute, and then he pulled her to her knees and they both stood. Jeff picked up the picnic stuff and moved everything over to the shade of the big tree behind them. He flipped the blanket out and down, not even smoothing out the wrinkles.
“Any lunch left?” He asked.
“Yeah, but it’s been in the sun,” she said.
“That’s one of the best thermal coolers money can buy.” He smiled.
Two women were sitting on a bench a few trees over. One said, “Look how different they are.” And the other said, “That pair will never last.”
Little did they know.
Her fiancé: Mr. Anal, Mr. Bureaucrat couldn’t even go to the grocery store without meticulous planning. She could have handled a list, but mapping out which aisles to go down in advance was a new level of obsessive-ness. God forbid something got put in the cart that wasn’t on the list. Sometimes she’d tuck bizarre things in there just to get a reaction out of him. Things like: baby pacifiers, a jar of pickled oysters, hemorrhoid pads, or Fixodent.
Five years ago they would have laughed at her choices but not now. He seemed to be clenching into himself more intensely lately, and she seemed to be purposely flinging herself into bedlam.
It’s true they’d always been an odd couple, being complete opposites, but there was an interesting symmetrical balance that made it work. She loosened his tension and ties, and he gave her a comforting stability to rely on and turn to. It was surprising even to them how well their relationship worked.
Today they’d hit a new low, perpetrated either by the global crises or the full moon. They’d both said unrecoverable words before he’d stalked out the front door to go to the mortgage seminar he’d signed them both up for, and she’d flung the surprise picnic she’d planned into the basket of her bike and pedaled it furiously down to the park.
Rosie intentionally spread her blanket in the direct sun, knowing the exact words Jeff would have to say about the dangers of UV exposure. Well, she wasn’t listening today – she was sick and tired of his lists and charts and damn reasoning. She tried to eat, but was still so upset, she could only manage half a chicken leg. She defiantly popped open the wine and drank almost 2 glasses before falling asleep on her stomach.
She woke up to some man’s hand on her shoulder and panicked. She thrashed over onto her back screaming for Jeff. Rosie almost smacked him in the face before she realized it was him. “Why aren’t you at the seminar?” she gasped.
He was kneeling in the damp grass in his white khakis. “Oh honey,” he said softly. “You’re bright red.”
She pointed to his knees, “You know that stain will never come out.” They looked at each other for a full minute, and then he pulled her to her knees and they both stood. Jeff picked up the picnic stuff and moved everything over to the shade of the big tree behind them. He flipped the blanket out and down, not even smoothing out the wrinkles.
“Any lunch left?” He asked.
“Yeah, but it’s been in the sun,” she said.
“That’s one of the best thermal coolers money can buy.” He smiled.
Two women were sitting on a bench a few trees over. One said, “Look how different they are.” And the other said, “That pair will never last.”
Little did they know.
What's Worth the Risk - John Fetto
He didn’t have to do anything. All Hawley had to do was stand in a security uniform all night and make sure that nobody but Tate’s crew walked off with the wooden crates. Hawley didn’t even have to open the boxes, to know what was inside. He’d counted those kind of crates before, seen them stacked in base camps in the Central Highlands, then seen the same sort stacked in camps in Cambodia, all with the initials of the US Government, so he knew that they didn’t look any different if they were stolen, or they were being used to protect or to kill. They were just boxes with deadly stuff, faithful to whomever was holding them, and didn’t mind being swapped back and forth. First time Hawley saw them he thought he was crazy. Like he’d see someone and think it was Willie or Jaybird and Sandman. He looked at them the way he did, out of the corner of his eye, hoping they’d go away if he blinked. And they did. The next night they weren’t there, but then they were back, a whole room full, and he really thought he was losing it until Tate came barging in with Crow chatting him up and unloading more, not saying what it was about because he was just a night watchman. He counted on Hawley not wanting to lose his job, not caring about what it was. He acted as if Hawley wasn’t even there. When he left, Hawley went and got a screwdriver from his truck. He lifted down one crate, hesitated, then unscrewed the lid and lifted it off. He blinked. Green slabs of plastic, curved, with little prongs for attaching the wires. Hawley knew what they were and he knew what they could do. Inside was c 4 explosive behind a thousand little bits of metal. You had to be careful which way you aimed it. Some guys would hold it against their stomach, to feel the curve if you didn’t have enough light to see the simple instructions in raised placed on the outside curve. It read: Front: Toward Enemy.
What's Worth the Risk - Bonnie Smetts
So I got five minutes the next day to run into the pharmacy, working like I am right now, I’ve been out of shampoo for two days and no way I’m putting waking up another day with hair smelling like bacon.
I’m zipping through the make-up aisle and I turn past the mouthwash and toothpaste, and I skid to a halt. In front of the toenail section, there’s the woman who I’m sure as the sun is my grandma. Last time I saw her, she’d been in the diner with that group of ladies of hers, one of the worst days my life having to serve them all.
I stop. And turn around. And move back to the mouthwash and pretend I’m shopping but I’m not shopping I’m thinking as fast as I can. Except it all seems like I’m falling off a bike, the aisle tilting and I’m hearing girls giggling in the far corner of the store and I smell the perfume coming from two aisles away.
God’s gone and given you this, Rawling. Here she is, alone. My heads beating because my heart’s up there right now. I step and stop. Rawling, you can’t just walk up to her again, like ending up on her front porch. And then I just blast past myself like an explosion, I take five steps to the end of the aisle, turn past the old people glasses, and there’s the toenail remedies.
“Honey, you should really just go see Dr. Phillips. This is just amateur stuff here,” he says, her neat, nice husband, the man who has nothing to do with me. In that moment, I’m not taking another step, instead I twirl around like I’m dancing and I’m back in front of the asprin before I know what I’ve done.
I hear them talking, kind of arguing about going to the doctor. I guess she’s got some real mess going on with her toes. But I’m clear as can be that I’m not taking this chance with my grandma with her husband standing there. He’d as good as told me I’m impossible when I stood on their front porch.
Shampoo, I grab the shampoo. And then I’m yelling at myself. I’m gonna be late for work. But I gotta hide in the make-up and watch as my grandma and her slow husband pay for their things and check out.
“Rawling, you’re late. Ten minutes late, girl. I can’t have you being late,” Shirley says when I bust through the door. “Not with Richard being sick, I can’t have you being late.”
I’m zipping through the make-up aisle and I turn past the mouthwash and toothpaste, and I skid to a halt. In front of the toenail section, there’s the woman who I’m sure as the sun is my grandma. Last time I saw her, she’d been in the diner with that group of ladies of hers, one of the worst days my life having to serve them all.
I stop. And turn around. And move back to the mouthwash and pretend I’m shopping but I’m not shopping I’m thinking as fast as I can. Except it all seems like I’m falling off a bike, the aisle tilting and I’m hearing girls giggling in the far corner of the store and I smell the perfume coming from two aisles away.
God’s gone and given you this, Rawling. Here she is, alone. My heads beating because my heart’s up there right now. I step and stop. Rawling, you can’t just walk up to her again, like ending up on her front porch. And then I just blast past myself like an explosion, I take five steps to the end of the aisle, turn past the old people glasses, and there’s the toenail remedies.
“Honey, you should really just go see Dr. Phillips. This is just amateur stuff here,” he says, her neat, nice husband, the man who has nothing to do with me. In that moment, I’m not taking another step, instead I twirl around like I’m dancing and I’m back in front of the asprin before I know what I’ve done.
I hear them talking, kind of arguing about going to the doctor. I guess she’s got some real mess going on with her toes. But I’m clear as can be that I’m not taking this chance with my grandma with her husband standing there. He’d as good as told me I’m impossible when I stood on their front porch.
Shampoo, I grab the shampoo. And then I’m yelling at myself. I’m gonna be late for work. But I gotta hide in the make-up and watch as my grandma and her slow husband pay for their things and check out.
“Rawling, you’re late. Ten minutes late, girl. I can’t have you being late,” Shirley says when I bust through the door. “Not with Richard being sick, I can’t have you being late.”
In the Dark - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
All I need is the faint spray
of orange glow from the city,
to walk alert in the dark
across the plain of springing carpet,
skin open to the glimmer of light
off the white couch, across
from the red chair looming
in moonlight. I know where
the table corner pierces the gloom
next to my thigh and ease
sideways safe to the kitchen.
of orange glow from the city,
to walk alert in the dark
across the plain of springing carpet,
skin open to the glimmer of light
off the white couch, across
from the red chair looming
in moonlight. I know where
the table corner pierces the gloom
next to my thigh and ease
sideways safe to the kitchen.
In the Dark - Anne Wright
In the dark, Gary could see a man and a woman inside the house through the undraped picture window: the man, paunchy and balding, up on a ladder, and the woman, squat and with a full head of bushy grey hair, pointing at the ceiling. He stopped walking and clicked the button on the retractable leash so the dogs could wander while he stood there, watching. The man stood on the top rung and reached for the light fixture. He removed a bulb, and as he handed it to the woman, he lost his balance and fell off the ladder. Gary saw her fluffy head disappear from the window, then reappear along with the man’s shiny pate as she pulled him up from the floor. To Gary’s astonishment, the man then grabbed her by her shoulders and kissed her, unbuttoning her loose dress, and then they fell out of sight, leaving the bright rectangle of the picture window empty.
Gary turned his back on the house, his shoulders slumped. The dogs were criss-crossing their leashes in a search for that special smell along the weeds next to the sidewalk. It wasn’t the first time he had felt empty inside, but here in the dark, without the distractions of his cluttered living room or bleak workspace, he realized how much he wanted to touch a the linen dress on a woman’s shoulders, and put his fingers through the soft curly hair on the back of a woman’s head, and smell the rich warmness of her skin.
He continued walking around the block to his house, wondering where he could meet someone. Church would not be the right place; people who joined a church for the social aspects were hypocrites, and besides, he was an agnostic. He thought about the women he worked with. They were married or involved with someone. Of course there was the receptionist, but she had an inflamed nose piercing, and she smelled of pot when she came in from her breaks. In his neighborhood, he was the only single person. He had been living with his mother since he’d graduated from the university, and after she died he stayed on in the house that he’d grown up in. His old neighborhood had changed. All the other houses were filled with young couples with herds of children, or very old people like the ones he had just seen through the window.
When he arrived home, he took off his shoes and went into the kitchen looking for something sweet, or cold. He opened the refrigerator and saw the slice of chocolate cake in its clear plastic coffin, the cake that the grocery checker had recommended. She was friendly, and Gary usually searched for her checkout line, even if he had to wait, because she’d smile at him. He liked to look at her apron, stretched over the roundness of her breasts, and peek at the shadowed curves below the buttons of her polo shirt. Her name tag said Sheila. As he stood in the kitchen and ate the cake from its box, he thought that tomorrow when he shopped for dinner, he’d find out if Sheila wanted to meet him on her break. He poured some milk into a glass and drank it, then went into the bedroom to get ready for bed. The dogs had positioned themselves on his bed, one with her head on the pillow, and the other at the foot, their eyes closed and legs outstretched, leaving just enough room for him to squeeze under the covers.
Gary couldn’t sleep. Over and over he practiced what to do at the grocery store. Should he wait until nobody was at Sheila’s station? That probably wouldn’t happen, because most people shopped after work. How could he compose his words so that she would be likely to say yes? He remembered a sales course that he took one summer vacation, but could not think of how they phrased those convincing words. What if she didn’t have a break? She might have already had a break. Maybe he should write her a note and slip it to her with his money. No, that felt creepy. The sky filled with a violet dawn when he finally drifted off.
Gary turned his back on the house, his shoulders slumped. The dogs were criss-crossing their leashes in a search for that special smell along the weeds next to the sidewalk. It wasn’t the first time he had felt empty inside, but here in the dark, without the distractions of his cluttered living room or bleak workspace, he realized how much he wanted to touch a the linen dress on a woman’s shoulders, and put his fingers through the soft curly hair on the back of a woman’s head, and smell the rich warmness of her skin.
He continued walking around the block to his house, wondering where he could meet someone. Church would not be the right place; people who joined a church for the social aspects were hypocrites, and besides, he was an agnostic. He thought about the women he worked with. They were married or involved with someone. Of course there was the receptionist, but she had an inflamed nose piercing, and she smelled of pot when she came in from her breaks. In his neighborhood, he was the only single person. He had been living with his mother since he’d graduated from the university, and after she died he stayed on in the house that he’d grown up in. His old neighborhood had changed. All the other houses were filled with young couples with herds of children, or very old people like the ones he had just seen through the window.
When he arrived home, he took off his shoes and went into the kitchen looking for something sweet, or cold. He opened the refrigerator and saw the slice of chocolate cake in its clear plastic coffin, the cake that the grocery checker had recommended. She was friendly, and Gary usually searched for her checkout line, even if he had to wait, because she’d smile at him. He liked to look at her apron, stretched over the roundness of her breasts, and peek at the shadowed curves below the buttons of her polo shirt. Her name tag said Sheila. As he stood in the kitchen and ate the cake from its box, he thought that tomorrow when he shopped for dinner, he’d find out if Sheila wanted to meet him on her break. He poured some milk into a glass and drank it, then went into the bedroom to get ready for bed. The dogs had positioned themselves on his bed, one with her head on the pillow, and the other at the foot, their eyes closed and legs outstretched, leaving just enough room for him to squeeze under the covers.
Gary couldn’t sleep. Over and over he practiced what to do at the grocery store. Should he wait until nobody was at Sheila’s station? That probably wouldn’t happen, because most people shopped after work. How could he compose his words so that she would be likely to say yes? He remembered a sales course that he took one summer vacation, but could not think of how they phrased those convincing words. What if she didn’t have a break? She might have already had a break. Maybe he should write her a note and slip it to her with his money. No, that felt creepy. The sky filled with a violet dawn when he finally drifted off.
In the Dark - Darcy Vebber
"Hide," he said. He opened the door to a shed next to his house. "Here."
Lisa took a gulp of air and dove in to the darkness. The floor was sand. She felt a spider web on her shoulder and arm. Something rattled but nothing fell.
Paul pulled the door closed behind him and crouched next to her. For a moment all they could do was work to catch their breath, one gasping gulp after another. Then he said to her, "Let's see."
They placed the figurines in a ray of light. They were about as big as Lisa's hand, each one a child dressed as an adult. They were porcelain, smooth and beautifully white. She touched the back and head of a boy in a top hat and tails. "What are they?"
Paul shook his head. His hair fell in his eyes and he brushed it roughly back. "Statues. I saw ones like them in that second hand store in Kemp. My mom wanted one but they cost too much."
"Are you going to give them to your mom?" Lisa was sitting on the sand. It got under her bathing suit no matter what she did and into the creases of her legs. She ran a finger under the elastics, pulling them away from her sunburned skin. The shed was warm inside and smelled like oil.
"You can keep some if you want." His voice was softer. He sounded embarrassed.
"Just one maybe." When she got home she would tell people her boyfriend on the east coast stole it for her for a present. "The boy maybe. With the hat."
He leaned back, away from her, listening to the world outside the shed. "No one's out there."
Lisa nodded. She wasn't ready for it to be over. She wanted to do it again, the two of them, the house, the feeling for a minute like they owned it, like they were a real couple, married, in a house and then the running. She loved the running. She moved closer to him, leaning over the line of figures, her knees in the sand now. Girls had told her sometimes you had to make the first move. Boys are scared, they said at night in the dorms. She leaned further forward and brushed her lips against his. She could feel his surprise, in the skin, in the dry, chapped skin of his lips, how he didn't react. She jumped up, knocking the boy in the top hat over.
"Hey" Paul said. "Hey wait."
Lisa took a gulp of air and dove in to the darkness. The floor was sand. She felt a spider web on her shoulder and arm. Something rattled but nothing fell.
Paul pulled the door closed behind him and crouched next to her. For a moment all they could do was work to catch their breath, one gasping gulp after another. Then he said to her, "Let's see."
They placed the figurines in a ray of light. They were about as big as Lisa's hand, each one a child dressed as an adult. They were porcelain, smooth and beautifully white. She touched the back and head of a boy in a top hat and tails. "What are they?"
Paul shook his head. His hair fell in his eyes and he brushed it roughly back. "Statues. I saw ones like them in that second hand store in Kemp. My mom wanted one but they cost too much."
"Are you going to give them to your mom?" Lisa was sitting on the sand. It got under her bathing suit no matter what she did and into the creases of her legs. She ran a finger under the elastics, pulling them away from her sunburned skin. The shed was warm inside and smelled like oil.
"You can keep some if you want." His voice was softer. He sounded embarrassed.
"Just one maybe." When she got home she would tell people her boyfriend on the east coast stole it for her for a present. "The boy maybe. With the hat."
He leaned back, away from her, listening to the world outside the shed. "No one's out there."
Lisa nodded. She wasn't ready for it to be over. She wanted to do it again, the two of them, the house, the feeling for a minute like they owned it, like they were a real couple, married, in a house and then the running. She loved the running. She moved closer to him, leaning over the line of figures, her knees in the sand now. Girls had told her sometimes you had to make the first move. Boys are scared, they said at night in the dorms. She leaned further forward and brushed her lips against his. She could feel his surprise, in the skin, in the dry, chapped skin of his lips, how he didn't react. She jumped up, knocking the boy in the top hat over.
"Hey" Paul said. "Hey wait."
In the Dark - Jackie Davis Martin
They kept forgetting there were no lights—there was no electricity. When Cassie returned to the apartment building she had to walk up the six floors, the elevator was down, daylight filtering dimly through shafts so it wasn’t dark. She could see the mess in the living room, one bookcase toppled, the potted plant that had sat on it shattered in its own dirt. The large lamp, on its side, fallen into the sofa. A crack that hadn’t been there zig-zagged across the wall.
She’d dashed to the kitchen, a small affair with open shelves for her dishes, shelves that sat smugly and intact as thought they had watched the action in the next room. Where was Nick? A coffee cup sat on the table near the fallen bookcase, the coffee still a little warm; the Mr. Coffee still warm in its decanter.
“You’re here!” Nick threw open the door. “I went looking!”
“The dentist—“
“I know—I walked toward there—”
“You were here?”
“The ceiling—the chandelier waved—the bookcases!”
They talked at the same time. They embraced, safe after all. It had been an earthquake, big enough to shake the apartment, intense enough so that Cassie, sitting in her car at a red light, thought men had jumped onto her back bumper and kept jumping, like children on a mattress. It was October 18, 1989.
Nick walked to the TV. “Let’s find out—” Of course, no electricity. They’d forgotten. No radio either, as it turned out. Cassie found a few candles—the red one from last Christmas she’d forgotten to put away, a box of dinner candles that they could burn two at a time since they had only two candleholders.
“Don’t we have a flashlight with the camping gear?”
“Maybe the electricity will come back on.”
“At least we have a gas stove. I’ll make dinner.”
The rooms were dimming, then dark. The refrigerator was dark. They looked out their living room window, which faced St. Mary’s Cathedral. All was dark. They looked out their bedroom window, the one that faced the street: dark there, too, but with an aura down the hill. They groped their way back down the six flights with the flashlight where, out front, several people hovered over a radio. They joined the group, all sitting on the edge of the sidewalk.
“The Bay Bridge!” Cassie said.
“Shh!” said the others. “It’s down.”
“But I—”
Nick squeezed her hand; she could tell the others she’d just crossed it that afternoon in a little while.
A helicopter chop-chopped dramatically overhead, lowered with a deafening beating of wings to land on a field two blocks below where they sat. That field had lights—an emergency headquarters of sorts. They’d hear the helicopters for the next few days, although they didn’t realize it that moment.
The Cypress Structure had collapsed, crushing commuters—who knew how many? Here Nick spoke: “My wife takes that road every day! Today, even—”
“I came home early—right after school. Dentist appointment.”
“Otherwise—”
They knew this. Otherwise Cassie could have been, most likely would have been, driving across the Cypress at five o’clock with the others, the crushed ones.
People from the apartment building huddled over the little radio; they didn’t know each other. The evening was balmy and beautiful. The air, gentle and dark. It didn’t seem possible that a bridge and a highway had been destroyed—that a building was in flames across the city, that others had crumbled and killed people. They listened in the dark, sirens persistent, the helicopters coming and going, suggesting war.
Back upstairs Cassie said they had to call their children—out of state. Certainly their mothers, who’d be frantic. The phone was dead—again, of course. No way to reach anyone.
The daylight the next morning was cheerful and consoling, belying the experience of the night before. They adjusted to no coffeemaker, boiled water for instant. (“We probably shouldn’t use the gas, either,” Nick said.) They ate bread and jam and cereal with milk, which was still cold. “I can’t go to school,” Cassie said, “with the bridge down.”
They would walk the city—see what had happened for themselves. They walked to the disaster on 6th and Townsend and from there to the Marina. They forgot that stores and restaurants would be closed, the ATM machines down. No electricity. They walked and walked, horror struck, with a camera. The sun shined brilliantly and happily on the wreckage and, as they sat looking at the calm bay from the Marina green, the whole episode seemed a strange, contorted dream. But it wasn’t.
Daylight began to dim again. They had forgotten this! They were in a bar on Greenwich Street—a somber but welcoming assembly of people around warm beer and candles—but they had to get home. It was dark on Greenwich Street, but they could find their way to Van Ness. Van Ness was dark, too, no streetlights, a car here and there. Cassie and Nick walked close to the buildings. “Why didn’t we bring a flashlight?” “It was daylight, then.” It was so dark! Imagine what could happen. It had happened; they couldn’t think further, just keep walking in the dark.
They walked for an hour barely discerning each other before they heard, then saw, the swooping helicopters. People were out front of the apartment building again, the lobby and the stairway dark still. They felt their way up the six floors until someone, descending, lighted them a path, then they sidled along the walls to their apartment. They’d improvise again for a meal. They were safe, in the dark.
She’d dashed to the kitchen, a small affair with open shelves for her dishes, shelves that sat smugly and intact as thought they had watched the action in the next room. Where was Nick? A coffee cup sat on the table near the fallen bookcase, the coffee still a little warm; the Mr. Coffee still warm in its decanter.
“You’re here!” Nick threw open the door. “I went looking!”
“The dentist—“
“I know—I walked toward there—”
“You were here?”
“The ceiling—the chandelier waved—the bookcases!”
They talked at the same time. They embraced, safe after all. It had been an earthquake, big enough to shake the apartment, intense enough so that Cassie, sitting in her car at a red light, thought men had jumped onto her back bumper and kept jumping, like children on a mattress. It was October 18, 1989.
Nick walked to the TV. “Let’s find out—” Of course, no electricity. They’d forgotten. No radio either, as it turned out. Cassie found a few candles—the red one from last Christmas she’d forgotten to put away, a box of dinner candles that they could burn two at a time since they had only two candleholders.
“Don’t we have a flashlight with the camping gear?”
“Maybe the electricity will come back on.”
“At least we have a gas stove. I’ll make dinner.”
The rooms were dimming, then dark. The refrigerator was dark. They looked out their living room window, which faced St. Mary’s Cathedral. All was dark. They looked out their bedroom window, the one that faced the street: dark there, too, but with an aura down the hill. They groped their way back down the six flights with the flashlight where, out front, several people hovered over a radio. They joined the group, all sitting on the edge of the sidewalk.
“The Bay Bridge!” Cassie said.
“Shh!” said the others. “It’s down.”
“But I—”
Nick squeezed her hand; she could tell the others she’d just crossed it that afternoon in a little while.
A helicopter chop-chopped dramatically overhead, lowered with a deafening beating of wings to land on a field two blocks below where they sat. That field had lights—an emergency headquarters of sorts. They’d hear the helicopters for the next few days, although they didn’t realize it that moment.
The Cypress Structure had collapsed, crushing commuters—who knew how many? Here Nick spoke: “My wife takes that road every day! Today, even—”
“I came home early—right after school. Dentist appointment.”
“Otherwise—”
They knew this. Otherwise Cassie could have been, most likely would have been, driving across the Cypress at five o’clock with the others, the crushed ones.
People from the apartment building huddled over the little radio; they didn’t know each other. The evening was balmy and beautiful. The air, gentle and dark. It didn’t seem possible that a bridge and a highway had been destroyed—that a building was in flames across the city, that others had crumbled and killed people. They listened in the dark, sirens persistent, the helicopters coming and going, suggesting war.
Back upstairs Cassie said they had to call their children—out of state. Certainly their mothers, who’d be frantic. The phone was dead—again, of course. No way to reach anyone.
The daylight the next morning was cheerful and consoling, belying the experience of the night before. They adjusted to no coffeemaker, boiled water for instant. (“We probably shouldn’t use the gas, either,” Nick said.) They ate bread and jam and cereal with milk, which was still cold. “I can’t go to school,” Cassie said, “with the bridge down.”
They would walk the city—see what had happened for themselves. They walked to the disaster on 6th and Townsend and from there to the Marina. They forgot that stores and restaurants would be closed, the ATM machines down. No electricity. They walked and walked, horror struck, with a camera. The sun shined brilliantly and happily on the wreckage and, as they sat looking at the calm bay from the Marina green, the whole episode seemed a strange, contorted dream. But it wasn’t.
Daylight began to dim again. They had forgotten this! They were in a bar on Greenwich Street—a somber but welcoming assembly of people around warm beer and candles—but they had to get home. It was dark on Greenwich Street, but they could find their way to Van Ness. Van Ness was dark, too, no streetlights, a car here and there. Cassie and Nick walked close to the buildings. “Why didn’t we bring a flashlight?” “It was daylight, then.” It was so dark! Imagine what could happen. It had happened; they couldn’t think further, just keep walking in the dark.
They walked for an hour barely discerning each other before they heard, then saw, the swooping helicopters. People were out front of the apartment building again, the lobby and the stairway dark still. They felt their way up the six floors until someone, descending, lighted them a path, then they sidled along the walls to their apartment. They’d improvise again for a meal. They were safe, in the dark.
Narrow Escapes - Melody Cryns
Yesterday I drove to San Francisco and parked at the end of the street where my daughter Melissa lives at Twin Peaks, and looking out her bedroom window is amazing…half of San Francisco stretched out before you. We took my dog for a walk, and Melissa showed me these wooden steps that went up on top of a hill, and we hiked up the steps and a sandy path to a clearing that took my breath away…all of San Francisco lay stretched around us…from the ocean and the Golden Gate Bridge on one side, to St. Ignatious Church to the Bay Bridge and the downtown skyscrapers…
It took my breath away…
Funny because when I was a kid we hiked up at Sutro Forest not far from where Melissa and I stood…looking at the City. And we were accustomed to seeing the entire City stretched out before us. We’d climb up hillsides and take risks…climbing up the sides of the mountains and the sides of cliffs alongside the ocean…narrowly escaping plunging to our deaths.
Back then we didn’t think anything of it. We were invincible then…we didn’t worry about whether we’d fall because we knew we wouldn’t, or if we did fall, we’d still be okay.
But looking out on the City on top of that hill with the wind blowing so hard, I felt as if I had to hang on to something and my small dog’s hair flew on end…she looked as if she was about ready to fly away.
“Be careful Melissa!” I shouted into the wind as she walked towards the side of the cliff to look out towards the Golden Gate.
“Isn’t this amazing?” she shouted back, standing right on the edge of the rocky hillside. Her hair blew in all directions.
“Yes, it’s fabulous! But be careful!”
“Oh Mom…Since when are you afraid of anything?”
I laughed…how many times had I narrowly escaped – not just cliffs and hillsides, but how many times had we narrowly escaped losing our place to live, or our electricity…or how many times had I wondered how I would get through just one more month with my four kids, just one more month…get me through the next month, the next week – or the next day. How many times had I felt as if me and the kids floated down the street on a lifeboat, and sometimes that nice little stream felt like the rushing river I’d take my kids to during the summer at Little North Fork in Oregon…how we’d all float downstream on that large double bed air mattress that we used as a raft…sometimes that raft would narrowly escape a rock that jutted out, threatening us…sometimes we all hung on for dear life…me and the kids. And other times we just floated along…
Life had come full circle, and there I was standing on top of the world with my daughter Melissa and my dog Sydney, who reminded me so much of Nikki, the little white dog who always accompanied me when I grew up in the City…
As I walked up to Melissa right near the edge, holding on tight to my little white dog’s leash, I put my arm around her and we both looked out on to the City, the ocean and the Bay…
I was finally home.
It took my breath away…
Funny because when I was a kid we hiked up at Sutro Forest not far from where Melissa and I stood…looking at the City. And we were accustomed to seeing the entire City stretched out before us. We’d climb up hillsides and take risks…climbing up the sides of the mountains and the sides of cliffs alongside the ocean…narrowly escaping plunging to our deaths.
Back then we didn’t think anything of it. We were invincible then…we didn’t worry about whether we’d fall because we knew we wouldn’t, or if we did fall, we’d still be okay.
But looking out on the City on top of that hill with the wind blowing so hard, I felt as if I had to hang on to something and my small dog’s hair flew on end…she looked as if she was about ready to fly away.
“Be careful Melissa!” I shouted into the wind as she walked towards the side of the cliff to look out towards the Golden Gate.
“Isn’t this amazing?” she shouted back, standing right on the edge of the rocky hillside. Her hair blew in all directions.
“Yes, it’s fabulous! But be careful!”
“Oh Mom…Since when are you afraid of anything?”
I laughed…how many times had I narrowly escaped – not just cliffs and hillsides, but how many times had we narrowly escaped losing our place to live, or our electricity…or how many times had I wondered how I would get through just one more month with my four kids, just one more month…get me through the next month, the next week – or the next day. How many times had I felt as if me and the kids floated down the street on a lifeboat, and sometimes that nice little stream felt like the rushing river I’d take my kids to during the summer at Little North Fork in Oregon…how we’d all float downstream on that large double bed air mattress that we used as a raft…sometimes that raft would narrowly escape a rock that jutted out, threatening us…sometimes we all hung on for dear life…me and the kids. And other times we just floated along…
Life had come full circle, and there I was standing on top of the world with my daughter Melissa and my dog Sydney, who reminded me so much of Nikki, the little white dog who always accompanied me when I grew up in the City…
As I walked up to Melissa right near the edge, holding on tight to my little white dog’s leash, I put my arm around her and we both looked out on to the City, the ocean and the Bay…
I was finally home.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Excuses - Camilla Basham
“Um, I don't know if you'd want to come over, I um...well, there doing some work on our house and it's kind of a mess, how about we have a sleepover at your house." It took me all year to ask Rochelle, the most popular girl in class for a play date and I was petrified. I stood silently in my pleated navy skirt and starched white sailor top twisting my ponytails as I waited for her response.
“Rachel said you never want anyone to go to your house, she says she heard a rumor that something's wrong with your family. Is that true?”
Boy, was it true, though I never fully understood until that year. There I was in 5th grade at St. Maria Goretti, standing under a banner that read, "Jesus died for you, what will you do for him today?" I answered silently in my mind, "I'll be humiliated, is that good enough for him?"
“I don't know what you mean by something wrong with them. They are just my family.”
“My mom said people go to your house to die. So why would I want to go to your house in the first place?”
“My mom takes care of people that are sick, that's all. There's nothing creepy about it.”, I lied. In fact being lulled to bed by the sound of a death rattle of one sort or another every night for as long as I could remember was creepy all right. But, I had gotten so use to it that is seemed perfectly normal to me, and it soon dawned on me that this fact alone made me strange.
“Never mind, I just remembered that I have something planned for that night anyway.”, I lied. I grabbed my backpack and sprinted back to Mrs. Higgins classroom.
I loved Mrs. Higgins. Out of all the teachers at Goretti: the clubbed footed, one-eyed math teaching nun, the closeted homosexual history-teaching priest, and the sweaty science teaching pedophile, Mrs. Higgins was a diamond in the rough.
I bolted into her classroom thinking it would be empty, but she was sitting behind her desk grading papers.
“Camilla, it's recess, why aren't you out playing?” I looked back at the hallway sign once again, HE must be proud of me. I was racking up on the humiliation for him today.
“I, um, wanted to look up some words I just thought of.”
She tilted her head and said, “You're going to spend recess looking up words in the dictionary again?”
“Yes, ma'am.” I answered and took a seat at my old wooden desk. I didn't want her to feel pity for me, though I imagined it would have been hard for her not too.
For most at Goretti, the dictionary was nothing more than a means of punishment. When caught in an unchristian like act, one had to kneel in front of class on grains of rice, while facing the crucifix and holding a bible in each out stretched hand, never allowing it to fall below shoulder level, for as long as the teacher deemed necessary.
For me, it was an escape.
I smiled at Mrs. Higgins. I wanted to tell her not to feel sorry for me, yet that seemed like it would have been strange coming from someone my age, so I remained silent and opened the page to take up where I left off the day before....
Excruciating, exculpate, excursion, excuse...
“Rachel said you never want anyone to go to your house, she says she heard a rumor that something's wrong with your family. Is that true?”
Boy, was it true, though I never fully understood until that year. There I was in 5th grade at St. Maria Goretti, standing under a banner that read, "Jesus died for you, what will you do for him today?" I answered silently in my mind, "I'll be humiliated, is that good enough for him?"
“I don't know what you mean by something wrong with them. They are just my family.”
“My mom said people go to your house to die. So why would I want to go to your house in the first place?”
“My mom takes care of people that are sick, that's all. There's nothing creepy about it.”, I lied. In fact being lulled to bed by the sound of a death rattle of one sort or another every night for as long as I could remember was creepy all right. But, I had gotten so use to it that is seemed perfectly normal to me, and it soon dawned on me that this fact alone made me strange.
“Never mind, I just remembered that I have something planned for that night anyway.”, I lied. I grabbed my backpack and sprinted back to Mrs. Higgins classroom.
I loved Mrs. Higgins. Out of all the teachers at Goretti: the clubbed footed, one-eyed math teaching nun, the closeted homosexual history-teaching priest, and the sweaty science teaching pedophile, Mrs. Higgins was a diamond in the rough.
I bolted into her classroom thinking it would be empty, but she was sitting behind her desk grading papers.
“Camilla, it's recess, why aren't you out playing?” I looked back at the hallway sign once again, HE must be proud of me. I was racking up on the humiliation for him today.
“I, um, wanted to look up some words I just thought of.”
She tilted her head and said, “You're going to spend recess looking up words in the dictionary again?”
“Yes, ma'am.” I answered and took a seat at my old wooden desk. I didn't want her to feel pity for me, though I imagined it would have been hard for her not too.
For most at Goretti, the dictionary was nothing more than a means of punishment. When caught in an unchristian like act, one had to kneel in front of class on grains of rice, while facing the crucifix and holding a bible in each out stretched hand, never allowing it to fall below shoulder level, for as long as the teacher deemed necessary.
For me, it was an escape.
I smiled at Mrs. Higgins. I wanted to tell her not to feel sorry for me, yet that seemed like it would have been strange coming from someone my age, so I remained silent and opened the page to take up where I left off the day before....
Excruciating, exculpate, excursion, excuse...
Laughing Until You Cry - John Fetto
Jaybird was the funniest. Nothing could wipe that stupid grin off his face. Still he’d shut up when Willie talked, outlining the mission, exchanging ideas with Sandman, and telling him to gear up. He wanted to bring the rubber duck. He bought it in Saigon, and he figured if he nailed it up to a tree, vc would climb over each other trying to get to it, and then die trying to eat it. They could tie trip wire to it, so that when they grabbed it, two slabs of c4, claymore mines, would shred whomever pulling it out of a tree. They would hang it from a tree limb, the way the vc had hung the lurp they found, with his arms tied behind his back and his throat cut.
Sandman wanted to grab one of them and string them up on the same spot, but Jaybird liked the idea of a chicken. More insulting, and the more he talked about it, the funnier it got. Sandman would write down the list, and Jaybird would add “and one rubber chicken. Check,” they’d crack up, but it still was really a joke. Not serious; no one believed it. Still after they dropped, lay around about two days, watching and counting the black pajamas walking down the trail, undetected, creeping to their landing zone without any contact, any detection. The pickup zone was on the other side of the mountains, and as they worked their way towards it, Jaybird hung back and for a mad moment they thought he was lost, till he came running, running fast, knees popping up as high as his chest like high school kid running the high hurtles, yelling, “Go, let’s go.” He dove into the chopper, and the chopper lifted just as the pajamas appeared over the crest and popped their ak’s in the general direction of the chopper. The chopper lifted away, but jaybird signaled for the pilot to circle back. The pilot looked at Willie and Willie rolled his eyes, then nodded, and the bird swung back over the hill and swooped down into the valley. Before they pulled out they could see the tree where they had found the dead soldier. Now a bright red rubber chicken hung by it’s neck there, surround by at least a dozen dead black pajama’s who were stupid enough to try to take it down before they were shredded by what Jaybird had rigged to the noose.
Sandman wanted to grab one of them and string them up on the same spot, but Jaybird liked the idea of a chicken. More insulting, and the more he talked about it, the funnier it got. Sandman would write down the list, and Jaybird would add “and one rubber chicken. Check,” they’d crack up, but it still was really a joke. Not serious; no one believed it. Still after they dropped, lay around about two days, watching and counting the black pajamas walking down the trail, undetected, creeping to their landing zone without any contact, any detection. The pickup zone was on the other side of the mountains, and as they worked their way towards it, Jaybird hung back and for a mad moment they thought he was lost, till he came running, running fast, knees popping up as high as his chest like high school kid running the high hurtles, yelling, “Go, let’s go.” He dove into the chopper, and the chopper lifted just as the pajamas appeared over the crest and popped their ak’s in the general direction of the chopper. The chopper lifted away, but jaybird signaled for the pilot to circle back. The pilot looked at Willie and Willie rolled his eyes, then nodded, and the bird swung back over the hill and swooped down into the valley. Before they pulled out they could see the tree where they had found the dead soldier. Now a bright red rubber chicken hung by it’s neck there, surround by at least a dozen dead black pajama’s who were stupid enough to try to take it down before they were shredded by what Jaybird had rigged to the noose.
Family - Darcy Vebber
They are on the table right inside the front door, the Holy Family under their balsa wood and rough twine shelter, caught, still, all eyes on the baby and the baby's eyes on Heaven. Lisa's daughter reaches out to touch the baby's fat stomach. It has peach skin, wide blue eyes and hands folded in prayer. She hesitates, sensing her mother's warning before it comes, her own plump hand hovering over the scene, then she very gently puts one finger on the infant savior's belly and lets it rest there. Her gaze, when she looks up at her mom, is declarative. She gets everything there is to get. The figures are important, maybe even magic, but not ours, not for us to be exactly in awe of.
She is almost three, a baby herself, but she has sentences and ideas and enough small motor skill to make the letters of her name with a fat crayon. Soon, Lisa is sure, she will be reading. Just like you, her mother Alice says, whenever they come to visit. She is just like you.
Lisa knows that isn't true. Franny's brain is on fire in a way Lisa's never was. She takes in everything.
"Mom?" Lisa calls into the dim light of the apartment beyond the entry hall. "Alice?"
She hears shuffling. Her mother is getting out of bed. Lisa puts a hand on Franny's little shoulder. She is still wearing the wool coat she needed in Boston. The back of her neck is damp. It was a long flight and Lisa feels suddenly confused. Parenthood has done this to her, made her indecisive, sometimes blank. As if she has been asked a trick question. Who to help?
"Sweetheart," she says, trying to move Franny into the living room, "Come take your coat off and I'll go help Grandma."
Franny resists. She is touching the head of a donkey now. Very carefully, she tests the plaster straw under the baby.
It looks to Lisa disturbingly like a campfire set with the baby at its center. Why hadn't she ever noticed that before? "Francis, move. Those things are not for playing with."
Her daughter withdraws her hand and looks up.
It's just because she understands so much that she looks older, Lisa believes. She is just a toddler, still. Taking it in but not judging. It just feels like judging.
"Lisa," her mother calls. She is trying, Lisa knows, to sound gay. The vocal cords are strained, the words punctuated with gasps. "I'll be right there."
She is almost three, a baby herself, but she has sentences and ideas and enough small motor skill to make the letters of her name with a fat crayon. Soon, Lisa is sure, she will be reading. Just like you, her mother Alice says, whenever they come to visit. She is just like you.
Lisa knows that isn't true. Franny's brain is on fire in a way Lisa's never was. She takes in everything.
"Mom?" Lisa calls into the dim light of the apartment beyond the entry hall. "Alice?"
She hears shuffling. Her mother is getting out of bed. Lisa puts a hand on Franny's little shoulder. She is still wearing the wool coat she needed in Boston. The back of her neck is damp. It was a long flight and Lisa feels suddenly confused. Parenthood has done this to her, made her indecisive, sometimes blank. As if she has been asked a trick question. Who to help?
"Sweetheart," she says, trying to move Franny into the living room, "Come take your coat off and I'll go help Grandma."
Franny resists. She is touching the head of a donkey now. Very carefully, she tests the plaster straw under the baby.
It looks to Lisa disturbingly like a campfire set with the baby at its center. Why hadn't she ever noticed that before? "Francis, move. Those things are not for playing with."
Her daughter withdraws her hand and looks up.
It's just because she understands so much that she looks older, Lisa believes. She is just a toddler, still. Taking it in but not judging. It just feels like judging.
"Lisa," her mother calls. She is trying, Lisa knows, to sound gay. The vocal cords are strained, the words punctuated with gasps. "I'll be right there."
Declaration of Independence - Vicki Rubini
Dear General Washington,
You’re worse than a rock star.
We have all heard your praises over and over again. Frankly, we’re all bored to tears with stories of your morality. I would like to hear more about how many cherries were on that tree you cut, or how much you brushed your teeth. How many women were you with before Martha?
Sometimes I hear your name and see your picture more than I do that of my own family. Quarters, dollar bills (admittedly, harder to come by lately), bank names, Mount Rushmore, portraits on stamps, etc., etc. Talk about overexposure! Thank God I don’t live in your eponymous city or state. I think I’d go nuts!
You have the fame of a rock icon, but no song to go with it. You weren’t a writer. I love good writing. You weren’t a dad. I live for my kids. You didn’t paint. I haunt art museums (which, by the way, is loaded with more portraits of you than anyone else).
Yet somehow you are on my mind, and I can’t shake you off.
Icy river water on Christmas Day. Frostbitten soldiers wearing rags. Battles against England, the Darth Vader of Taxation. Personal loans of spirit and cash.
When they offered you the crown, you turned it down….you turned it down. They begged. You reminded all why you had fought.
And that is why I guess I can love you in spite of your perfection.
You’re worse than a rock star.
We have all heard your praises over and over again. Frankly, we’re all bored to tears with stories of your morality. I would like to hear more about how many cherries were on that tree you cut, or how much you brushed your teeth. How many women were you with before Martha?
Sometimes I hear your name and see your picture more than I do that of my own family. Quarters, dollar bills (admittedly, harder to come by lately), bank names, Mount Rushmore, portraits on stamps, etc., etc. Talk about overexposure! Thank God I don’t live in your eponymous city or state. I think I’d go nuts!
You have the fame of a rock icon, but no song to go with it. You weren’t a writer. I love good writing. You weren’t a dad. I live for my kids. You didn’t paint. I haunt art museums (which, by the way, is loaded with more portraits of you than anyone else).
Yet somehow you are on my mind, and I can’t shake you off.
Icy river water on Christmas Day. Frostbitten soldiers wearing rags. Battles against England, the Darth Vader of Taxation. Personal loans of spirit and cash.
When they offered you the crown, you turned it down….you turned it down. They begged. You reminded all why you had fought.
And that is why I guess I can love you in spite of your perfection.
Declaration of Independence - Chris Callaghan
The matron from the fifth row watched Cory meet his attorney in the hall. She wanted to see his face when he came through the door, but sat on a bench far enough away from it that he wouldn’t notice her. She wasn’t quite ready for that. What mask he might pull on or any of the possible conversations they might have if faced with each other. No, she wasn’t ready for any of that.
Nora had felt her son’s eyes on her in the courtroom, but he hadn’t recognized her. And then the flurry with the judge and Harry going up and Cory standing here in the sad blue clothes wearing those pitiful handcuffs, it all went by so fast.
She’d kept her own eyes fastened on his face, having been starved for it too long. She noted the hard lines and pallor – It seemed a disguise painted on the face of the boy she remembered.
She’d hoped it was worth the risk of recognition to wait in the hall. In that unguarded moment when he came through the door and saw Harry, his face lighted up, and in that and his laughter she’d seen a glimpse of her boy again. That face now etched on the back sides of her eyes no matter what else happened.
How pitiful she had been back in the old days. How desperately she had tried to keep first Bill and then Cory tied to her. How long she had wandered from room to room in the empty house and how close she’d come to disappearing. And then finding that tiny ledge of hope or will inside herself – She’d almost passed it by.
Had she made a conscious decision to build on that or had it occurred instinctively? Like a terrified animal struggling for the shoreline in a flood.
Well, no matter. The fact is that she had built on it, many small steps that had led to that first job and a semblance of independence. Always making sure to give thanks for helping hands, yet allowing her self a modicum of pride at each accomplishment. And so by the time Harry came along she was no longer grasping for rescue, but standing steadily on her own two feet. That could be why he saw things in her that Bill had never seen, and was able to give her what Bill could not.
Poor Bill, she’d been such a scared girl with him, with no sense at all of who she was, no base. And poor Cory, with a child for a mother, no wonder he’d sneered at her.
Nora straightened her back and checked her watch. It had been over an hour since they’d left the building, but she and Harry had allowed for two. It should be enough time, they’d agreed, for Harry to lay the ground work of her plan. A plan for Cory to find his own ledge of hope and how he might build on it, how she might help.
She already knew what she would say when she slid into the booth across from him at the restaurant. First she would say, “I love you Cory.” And then she would say, “You can call me Nora, or Mom, whichever you prefer.”
Nora had felt her son’s eyes on her in the courtroom, but he hadn’t recognized her. And then the flurry with the judge and Harry going up and Cory standing here in the sad blue clothes wearing those pitiful handcuffs, it all went by so fast.
She’d kept her own eyes fastened on his face, having been starved for it too long. She noted the hard lines and pallor – It seemed a disguise painted on the face of the boy she remembered.
She’d hoped it was worth the risk of recognition to wait in the hall. In that unguarded moment when he came through the door and saw Harry, his face lighted up, and in that and his laughter she’d seen a glimpse of her boy again. That face now etched on the back sides of her eyes no matter what else happened.
How pitiful she had been back in the old days. How desperately she had tried to keep first Bill and then Cory tied to her. How long she had wandered from room to room in the empty house and how close she’d come to disappearing. And then finding that tiny ledge of hope or will inside herself – She’d almost passed it by.
Had she made a conscious decision to build on that or had it occurred instinctively? Like a terrified animal struggling for the shoreline in a flood.
Well, no matter. The fact is that she had built on it, many small steps that had led to that first job and a semblance of independence. Always making sure to give thanks for helping hands, yet allowing her self a modicum of pride at each accomplishment. And so by the time Harry came along she was no longer grasping for rescue, but standing steadily on her own two feet. That could be why he saw things in her that Bill had never seen, and was able to give her what Bill could not.
Poor Bill, she’d been such a scared girl with him, with no sense at all of who she was, no base. And poor Cory, with a child for a mother, no wonder he’d sneered at her.
Nora straightened her back and checked her watch. It had been over an hour since they’d left the building, but she and Harry had allowed for two. It should be enough time, they’d agreed, for Harry to lay the ground work of her plan. A plan for Cory to find his own ledge of hope and how he might build on it, how she might help.
She already knew what she would say when she slid into the booth across from him at the restaurant. First she would say, “I love you Cory.” And then she would say, “You can call me Nora, or Mom, whichever you prefer.”
How She Thinks About Music - Anne Wright
Suzanne didn’t come from a musical family, although before her grandmother Mimi died, she used to sit at the ebony grand in Mimi’s apartment when Dad took her to visit, and press with her fingers on the smooth ivory keys. The tonggg of the low note would go on forever, and a chinggg of the high note, especially if she could manage to reach a foot down to the pedal. Like the colored glass perfume bottles on Mimi’s bureau, and like the empty Marlboro cigarette boxes that Mimi saved for her to use as doll beds, and like the black and white television set tuned in to As the World Turns in Mimi’s darkened apartment, the piano was mysterious. Nobody played it; Mimi had bulging arthritic knuckles, Daddy never offered, and Suzanne had never thought of it as a musical instrument. She had never heard piano music.
Suzanne’s family moved into a furnished house one year. She was eleven years old, and in the living room sat an upright piano. After seeing that Suzie was enchanted with the sounds she made on the old piano, Mother agreed with Dad that she could take lessons, and sent her each week to Mrs. Murphy’s house. For half an hour she played nursery rhymes set to music, and she just didn’t get it, this baby music, note by note. She never practiced; it was boring, and no amount of nagging could get her to sit an hour a day at the stupid piano. It was more fun to tease her sister and read library books. So when she went for her lessons she never progressed, and was embarrassed so she quit.
The next year she heard of a little radio that ran on batteries and she had to have one. When she heard the sounds coming from its little speaker she was excited and became so attached to the radio that she slept with it on her ear, only to wake up in the mornings with no sound coming from it, its batteries dead. After school she turned on the television and watched Dance Party, and practiced dancing using the doorknob as her partner, stepping back and forth to the beat of the music until she fell down, joyous and out of breath. The music just got better, every year, and when she closed herself into her bedroom with the record player on, loud as it could go, she couldn’t even hear her mother screaming, turn that noise down. It helped her bear living with a couple of idiots who just happened to be her parents, and whose job it was to torture her by making her clean up her room.
Suzanne’s family moved into a furnished house one year. She was eleven years old, and in the living room sat an upright piano. After seeing that Suzie was enchanted with the sounds she made on the old piano, Mother agreed with Dad that she could take lessons, and sent her each week to Mrs. Murphy’s house. For half an hour she played nursery rhymes set to music, and she just didn’t get it, this baby music, note by note. She never practiced; it was boring, and no amount of nagging could get her to sit an hour a day at the stupid piano. It was more fun to tease her sister and read library books. So when she went for her lessons she never progressed, and was embarrassed so she quit.
The next year she heard of a little radio that ran on batteries and she had to have one. When she heard the sounds coming from its little speaker she was excited and became so attached to the radio that she slept with it on her ear, only to wake up in the mornings with no sound coming from it, its batteries dead. After school she turned on the television and watched Dance Party, and practiced dancing using the doorknob as her partner, stepping back and forth to the beat of the music until she fell down, joyous and out of breath. The music just got better, every year, and when she closed herself into her bedroom with the record player on, loud as it could go, she couldn’t even hear her mother screaming, turn that noise down. It helped her bear living with a couple of idiots who just happened to be her parents, and whose job it was to torture her by making her clean up her room.
How She Thinks About Music - Bonnie Smetts
And I just stand there until Randy comes to get me. She comes screeching around the corner from the highway into the school parking lot and I’m there in the place she picks me up.
“Hey,” I say and slide in. Randy’s got oldie tune, rock and roll, blaring and she’s bobbing her head to it. As soon as I’m sitting, this music is grating on me, I already got my insides all grated up anyway. I can’t get my rushing out of class out of my head.
“Hey, girl,” Randy says, her head bobbing to the music with her eyes almost closed. Then she sees I’m not moving at all, and says, “What happened to you?”
I point at the radio. “Off?” she asks. Randy knows me too well. “If you don’t want the music on, something really bad must have happened. Tell.”
She’s pulled the car into a spot and I can tell she’s not moving until I talk. She turns off the car. “What.” she says.
“I left class,” I say.
“Well, so did I, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here. What do you mean, you left class?” she asks.
“I left, left in that I ran out of the class in the middle of it,” I say.
“Why’d you go and do that?” she asks. We both know that our hopes for ourselves are there, staying inside these classrooms.
“Teacher asked us to write. About family,” I say.
“Hmmm,” she says. Words aren’t exactly Randy’s thing and that’s why she’s going to be a hair stylist. She says it’s inherited, not being good with words. “But Rawling, couldn’t you just have faked it or something. How much did you have to write?”
“It wasn’t the how much that got me, it was the family part,” I say. Now Randy’s got a family story that isn’t exactly perfect but mostly she knows about my momma.
“Rawling, why didn’t you just go back in there and say you had to use the ladies room or something?” Randy always makes a lot of sense, sometimes I wish I could just carrying her along in my purse.
“I didn’t think. I couldn’t think, I just didn’t want to write about momma,” I say.
“Monday, you are just going to go in there and if Miss Sheila asks, you’ll say you had female problems and that you’d suddenly not felt well.”
That seems so easy. I just hope that’s what I’m gonna do.
“Hey,” I say and slide in. Randy’s got oldie tune, rock and roll, blaring and she’s bobbing her head to it. As soon as I’m sitting, this music is grating on me, I already got my insides all grated up anyway. I can’t get my rushing out of class out of my head.
“Hey, girl,” Randy says, her head bobbing to the music with her eyes almost closed. Then she sees I’m not moving at all, and says, “What happened to you?”
I point at the radio. “Off?” she asks. Randy knows me too well. “If you don’t want the music on, something really bad must have happened. Tell.”
She’s pulled the car into a spot and I can tell she’s not moving until I talk. She turns off the car. “What.” she says.
“I left class,” I say.
“Well, so did I, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here. What do you mean, you left class?” she asks.
“I left, left in that I ran out of the class in the middle of it,” I say.
“Why’d you go and do that?” she asks. We both know that our hopes for ourselves are there, staying inside these classrooms.
“Teacher asked us to write. About family,” I say.
“Hmmm,” she says. Words aren’t exactly Randy’s thing and that’s why she’s going to be a hair stylist. She says it’s inherited, not being good with words. “But Rawling, couldn’t you just have faked it or something. How much did you have to write?”
“It wasn’t the how much that got me, it was the family part,” I say. Now Randy’s got a family story that isn’t exactly perfect but mostly she knows about my momma.
“Rawling, why didn’t you just go back in there and say you had to use the ladies room or something?” Randy always makes a lot of sense, sometimes I wish I could just carrying her along in my purse.
“I didn’t think. I couldn’t think, I just didn’t want to write about momma,” I say.
“Monday, you are just going to go in there and if Miss Sheila asks, you’ll say you had female problems and that you’d suddenly not felt well.”
That seems so easy. I just hope that’s what I’m gonna do.
How She Thinks About Music - Jackie Davis Martin
A reporter and a photographer arranged them on the sidewalk in front of the high school, the yellow buses puffing and snorting impatiently at the curb. First there was the entire concert band, but Marcie couldn't find herself easily in that picture. She was happier with the photo of the woodwind quintet, happy with the way her red and white dress fitted her midriff, her waist, snugly, then flared into a fullness, a nonchalant sailor collar. She squinted at it. Would anyone identify her as the bassoonist of the group? Dan Wahl, solid, dark, grinning, was next to her. Dan played French horn and Marcie was in love with him. Sometimes he acted like he was in love with her, too. He'd shoot an intense gaze in her direction, eyes meeting above the music stands in the semi-circle they sat in, either when they were getting ready to play or sometimes in the middle of a piece, when he had a few bars' rest; he'd count them, and gaze at her. If she glanced up, her mouth puckered around the narrow double reed (and which she'd do only with a whole note), she'd often see him looking at her. He'd smile slyly and cradle his horn into position on his lap, opening his mouth toward it before he began to play. During those times, which Marcie thought of as harvests, so abundant she couldn't gather them enough to store, Dan would linger after practice, watching her take apart the pieces of her bassoon and arrange them into their velvet fitted holders, talking about the Hindemuth, about section 32, or about the test they'd had in physics—how did she do? It was the only class they had in common besides this, music, the band, the quintet, the after school practices. Or, he'd lean against her locker, also in the bandroom, the round, bulging case of his French horn leaning against his leg, and watch her put on her jacket, ask if she was going to the studio. The studio was downtown; it was where they all took private lessons. Other times Dan would laugh with her and the others but his eyes would be unfocused when they met hers and he'd hurry away to another girl—there were many. In the quintet Dan belonged to her; neither ever missed practice. Well, none of them did. If you were in the quintet you didn't fool around with not going to practice.
The picture was taken because they—both the band and the quintet and several other instrumental groups—were going to the state competitions. On Marcie's other side stood Dina Dee, composed and exact, her neck long, her waist long, who also leaned in. Dina Dee, who played the oboe and was the other girl in the group, and Marcie were almost friends. They weren't not-friends; they roomed together happily at these competitions, had fun, but never made any other arrangements outside the group. Dina Dee studied piano, too. Well, so did Marcie, so did they all, really, but Dina Dee was really serious about it. Her oboe was almost an afterthought, a hobby, although one she was extremely good at. The threesome: Marcie, Dan, Dina Dee, were flanked by Bob Akers and Jerry Jones, flute and clarinet. Bob Akers was in charge, more than likely gay, and Jerry some sort of wunderkind, younger, dazzled by his own promotions.
The other thing was that they were all scheduled in the competitions as soloists as well. Their nerves were at a pitch. Marcie was playing the first movement of the Mozart Concerto for Bassoon and Orchestra, although in her case—as in the others, the band director assigned a pianist and they two would rehearse over and over together, to time the rhythms, the pacings—even the breathing.
Big schools would be there, too, as scouts. Penn, of course, where they were going, but Pitt and Duquesne and Carnegie Mellon from here, too, from Pittsburgh, where they'd be most likely to accept a scholarship, if offered. But others, too. Peabody and and even, somebody said, Julliard. There would be the smaller colleges, too, they were told, who desperately needed somebody skilled on horn or oboe or bassoon. They—the quintet—were doing the Hindemuth as their chosen piece, wild in its changing counts, so deliberately cacophonous it made them all seem competent, above the fray, particularly when they'd just played faultlessly the required, dull madrigal. That's what mattered most, to Marcie anyway. It'd be nice to be offered something, but frankly, she cared about doing as well as the others; she wanted Dan Wahl to be proud of her. There was so much at stake here! How were they all breathing? How was she?
Years later, Marcie, now old, unfolded the scrapbook and noticed in the yellowed photo—how did she overlook it before—Dan Wahl's fingers over her head, the stupid rabbit ears! How could she have yearned for someone who did that? At the last reunion mailings, Dan Wahl's and Dina Dee's names were among the missing. Dina Dee, Marcie was pretty sure, had gone on to study music at Carnegie and Dan had done the same at Duquesne. Then, her own life had gone elsewhere, so many other things, people, arts.
What she had here was a photo of a bus trip—buses and five young people bunched together and grinning nervously—of a time when just about everything that defined what was important in life was music.
The picture was taken because they—both the band and the quintet and several other instrumental groups—were going to the state competitions. On Marcie's other side stood Dina Dee, composed and exact, her neck long, her waist long, who also leaned in. Dina Dee, who played the oboe and was the other girl in the group, and Marcie were almost friends. They weren't not-friends; they roomed together happily at these competitions, had fun, but never made any other arrangements outside the group. Dina Dee studied piano, too. Well, so did Marcie, so did they all, really, but Dina Dee was really serious about it. Her oboe was almost an afterthought, a hobby, although one she was extremely good at. The threesome: Marcie, Dan, Dina Dee, were flanked by Bob Akers and Jerry Jones, flute and clarinet. Bob Akers was in charge, more than likely gay, and Jerry some sort of wunderkind, younger, dazzled by his own promotions.
The other thing was that they were all scheduled in the competitions as soloists as well. Their nerves were at a pitch. Marcie was playing the first movement of the Mozart Concerto for Bassoon and Orchestra, although in her case—as in the others, the band director assigned a pianist and they two would rehearse over and over together, to time the rhythms, the pacings—even the breathing.
Big schools would be there, too, as scouts. Penn, of course, where they were going, but Pitt and Duquesne and Carnegie Mellon from here, too, from Pittsburgh, where they'd be most likely to accept a scholarship, if offered. But others, too. Peabody and and even, somebody said, Julliard. There would be the smaller colleges, too, they were told, who desperately needed somebody skilled on horn or oboe or bassoon. They—the quintet—were doing the Hindemuth as their chosen piece, wild in its changing counts, so deliberately cacophonous it made them all seem competent, above the fray, particularly when they'd just played faultlessly the required, dull madrigal. That's what mattered most, to Marcie anyway. It'd be nice to be offered something, but frankly, she cared about doing as well as the others; she wanted Dan Wahl to be proud of her. There was so much at stake here! How were they all breathing? How was she?
Years later, Marcie, now old, unfolded the scrapbook and noticed in the yellowed photo—how did she overlook it before—Dan Wahl's fingers over her head, the stupid rabbit ears! How could she have yearned for someone who did that? At the last reunion mailings, Dan Wahl's and Dina Dee's names were among the missing. Dina Dee, Marcie was pretty sure, had gone on to study music at Carnegie and Dan had done the same at Duquesne. Then, her own life had gone elsewhere, so many other things, people, arts.
What she had here was a photo of a bus trip—buses and five young people bunched together and grinning nervously—of a time when just about everything that defined what was important in life was music.
How I Think About Music - Melody Cryns
Music is life. And music has been a part of my life since I remember.
I was only three when I yelled, “Peter Pan, come back, come back!” at the end of the old Mary Martin musical version of Peter Pan that appeared in black and white on the small-screen TV. We hadn’t even moved from Chicago to San Francisco yet back then.
My mother held me and assured me that yes, Peter Pan would come back and all would be well.
I remember how I sang along with all the songs that I’d heard ever since I’d been a baby when mom would fly me around and pretend I was Peter Pan – I’d yell the song, “I’m flying!!!!” and actually run around the room – and even sing the prayer Wendy, John and Michael’s mother sang for them at the beginning, “Tender Shepherd.” Then I’d march around to “I don’t wanna grow up, I don’t wanna go to school, and if someone tries to make me, I will break all the rules!”
When we had to clap to revive Tinkerbell, I clapped and I clapped so hard that my hands turned red, stomping my feet to the jingly music…
And, in the end, I’d shout and yell, Peter Pan, come back…because I never wanted Peter Pan or the music to leave…I wanted to remember it and keep the music in my heart forever, my first love…music. I heard it all around me, knew every musical jingle played on TV by heart. I believed in magic and that fairy dust really was magical…and I believed in music. I also believed that anything was possible…
And hearing the music all around me made me remember all the magic. I began pounding on the piano and picking out tunes at five, and when I was not quite seven, “they” arrived in our den on Second Avenue in San Francisco – on February 9, 1964, the Beatles arrived on the big screen black and white TV in our living room…me and my mom got so excited, stomping our feet, holding each other and yelling, “She loves you yeah, yeah, yeah!” over and over again…it was the first thing I remember having in common with my Mother, our love for the Beatles, for the music that lit up our lives and made us so happy…
So, the music surrounded me and while life happened and I went to business college so that I could always find a job because my mother freaked out when I told her that I’d like to start playing guitar on a street corner for a living because the people who did that looked happy, I never lost sight of music.
Years later, my kids and I would bounce down the road in an old car, listening to music blasting on the radio – maybe it was Led Zeppelin or Grateful Dead, or of course the Beatles. We all knew the songs by heart, the kids and I, even Megan who was so young back then. We would listen to music and talk about how some day we won’t struggle for money because I’m going to publish my book and we’d go on road trips and have a nice car…and I wouldn’t have to work and be away from home so much…life would be wonderful and we’d surround ourselves would music, and fairy dust still existed.
I had almost forgotten about that until just a couple of weeks ago when I became overcome with emotion at a workshop at a writer’s conference in New York – the one I go to every year with my daughter Megan.
What happened to the dream? When did the dream have to take the back burner? The kids are grown now…and the dream never happened and to this day I still struggle to make ends meet and worry over how much rent I’m paying.
But as long as I can hear the music, the dream still lives, but somehow I feel as if I disappointed my kids…I wasn’t able to show them that anything is possible.
I was only three when I yelled, “Peter Pan, come back, come back!” at the end of the old Mary Martin musical version of Peter Pan that appeared in black and white on the small-screen TV. We hadn’t even moved from Chicago to San Francisco yet back then.
My mother held me and assured me that yes, Peter Pan would come back and all would be well.
I remember how I sang along with all the songs that I’d heard ever since I’d been a baby when mom would fly me around and pretend I was Peter Pan – I’d yell the song, “I’m flying!!!!” and actually run around the room – and even sing the prayer Wendy, John and Michael’s mother sang for them at the beginning, “Tender Shepherd.” Then I’d march around to “I don’t wanna grow up, I don’t wanna go to school, and if someone tries to make me, I will break all the rules!”
When we had to clap to revive Tinkerbell, I clapped and I clapped so hard that my hands turned red, stomping my feet to the jingly music…
And, in the end, I’d shout and yell, Peter Pan, come back…because I never wanted Peter Pan or the music to leave…I wanted to remember it and keep the music in my heart forever, my first love…music. I heard it all around me, knew every musical jingle played on TV by heart. I believed in magic and that fairy dust really was magical…and I believed in music. I also believed that anything was possible…
And hearing the music all around me made me remember all the magic. I began pounding on the piano and picking out tunes at five, and when I was not quite seven, “they” arrived in our den on Second Avenue in San Francisco – on February 9, 1964, the Beatles arrived on the big screen black and white TV in our living room…me and my mom got so excited, stomping our feet, holding each other and yelling, “She loves you yeah, yeah, yeah!” over and over again…it was the first thing I remember having in common with my Mother, our love for the Beatles, for the music that lit up our lives and made us so happy…
So, the music surrounded me and while life happened and I went to business college so that I could always find a job because my mother freaked out when I told her that I’d like to start playing guitar on a street corner for a living because the people who did that looked happy, I never lost sight of music.
Years later, my kids and I would bounce down the road in an old car, listening to music blasting on the radio – maybe it was Led Zeppelin or Grateful Dead, or of course the Beatles. We all knew the songs by heart, the kids and I, even Megan who was so young back then. We would listen to music and talk about how some day we won’t struggle for money because I’m going to publish my book and we’d go on road trips and have a nice car…and I wouldn’t have to work and be away from home so much…life would be wonderful and we’d surround ourselves would music, and fairy dust still existed.
I had almost forgotten about that until just a couple of weeks ago when I became overcome with emotion at a workshop at a writer’s conference in New York – the one I go to every year with my daughter Megan.
What happened to the dream? When did the dream have to take the back burner? The kids are grown now…and the dream never happened and to this day I still struggle to make ends meet and worry over how much rent I’m paying.
But as long as I can hear the music, the dream still lives, but somehow I feel as if I disappointed my kids…I wasn’t able to show them that anything is possible.
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