Succinctly Yours #191: Picture a Picture

Thank you to Grandma’s Goulash for hosting Succinctly Yours! The idea of this meme is to use the photo as inspiration to capture a story under 140 words or 140 characters. The bonus word this week was “bedlam.”

They thought Ann couldn’t hold up the camera, but when bedlam ensued, she kept a cool head and a steady hand and captured the greatest footage Channel 14 had ever seen.  137

Ann chose to view the bedlam of the world through a lens. It may have made the picture sienna rather than rose-colored, but it allowed her to frame life as she pleased.  137

“Everyone must leave something behind….Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there. It doesn’t matter what you do…so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away.” ~Granger, Fahrenheit 451 (Ray Bradbury)

Succinctly Yours #183: Writing on the Wall

Thank you to Grandma’s Goulash for hosting Succinctly Yours! The idea of this meme is to use the picture in order to paint a small story of 140 words or 140 characters or fewer. The bonus word this week was “macabre.”

When Helena invited her macabre friend Yvette over to help her with the hanging, she didn’t have any idea Yvette had hoped to help with an altogether different kind. 136

Yvette was surprised macabre Helena liked her idea of a Buns of Steel calendar. Until she saw the skeletons and realized Helena had thought she’d said “Bones of Steel.”  140

Helena had a wicked and macabre sense of humor, hanging an x-ray of Yvette’s gallstones on the wall as art. Yvette was galled all over again. 116

It is truly a great cosmic paradox that one of the best teachers in all of life turns out to be death….While someone could tell you that you are not your body, death shows you…death instantly makes us all the same. ~Michael A. Singer, The Untethered Soul

A Taste of Whine and Crappers, or…Why Blog?

 I have a confession. For a while I’ve had trouble blogging because something caused me to reevaluate why I blog. The reason doesn’t matter, though it should be made clear that the issue wasn’t about blogs in general, but about mine in particular. And it wasn’t about all social media. So I thought a lot about why I blog, and I wrote down my thoughts…because it’s just what I’ve always done. It helps me think.

We all hear that social media is important to utilize for our writing careers, but I obviously don’t do it to gain readership. I’ve had editors and a few readers contact me through my blog, but that’s not the main reason I do it, either. I am doing what I love most in this world and sometimes people tell me that it helps them somehow. That alone is a way to cup, however briefly, my personal holy grail.

We’ve all known people who seem to want to write because they think there’s something glamorous about writing. If there is, I have yet to see it. I’m undoubtedly preaching to the choir here, but you know it’s a lot of hard work sitting in a chair in the oversized t-shirt with the moth holes and coffee dribbles. Oh wait—the shirt thing is probably just me. But it is solitary work. Blogs are a chance to feel not so alone.

When I ask myself why blog, the simple answer I keep getting back is because I enjoy it. Some say we should be spending our precious writing time on worthier endeavors than blogging, but I get tons of writing ideas. I cherish the online friends I’ve made, and I truly, deeply enjoy your blogs and other social media posts. I enjoy your wit, your wisdom, your warmth. I appreciate your talent, your tips, and your feedback. I love the challenge of the memes you offer. I’m not asking you for comfort or reassurance here. You’ve already given me those—much more than you know.

Lisa Ricard Claro’s Book Blurb Friday rekindled my interest in fiction and reinforced my faith in my ability to plot. And blogging has taught me a whole new skill: how to write short and even ultra-short pieces. In today’s fleeting, tweeting times, that’s not a bad thing. Lately Grandma’s Goulash has been helping me with micro fiction, a genre I’d never before appreciated. You even inspired me to enter the recent Reader’s Digest 100 Word contest in which I placed.

In the end of writing down my thoughts, I realized I blog because it helps me to write down my thoughts. It’s what I’ve always done. It helps me think. No matter what anyone else thinks of my blog, I care about it. This is me deciding that’s all that matters. So…I’m going to try to get back more to blogging, especially now that summer is here.

And plus? Thank you again. For being so inspiring.

The criticism that damages an artist…contains no saving kernel of truth yet has a certain damning plausibility or an unassailable blanket judgment that cannot be rationally refuted. ~Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way

Writing is magic….~Stephen King

Trying Toads

I’ve been trying to challenge myself more, writing wise, and it just so happens that  Imaginary Garden with Real Toads provided some pretty compelling inspiration in the artwork of Kathryn Dyche Dechairo.

For L

Broken heart, broken vase

Broken vow, ripped lace

Broken promise, broken face

Mending done, shield in place.

  

It doesn’t matter what they are unhappy about, you will get the blame. If they treat their children badly and cause their children to become angry, you will be blamed. If they loose their job, have car trouble or just can’t seem to catch a break, you will be blamed. You may go months at a time without seeing them or talking to them, but you can bet that if something goes wrong, you will be blamed. ~Cathy Meyer, About Toxic Ex Spouses

Improper Poll: Tiny Poof of Magic

I have a theory that there are wine people and coffee people. I wish I were a wine person. Wine people are cool. They are calm. I imagine when not sipping wine, they go to gyms. I picture them celebrating relaxation by inviting small groups of people to eat gourmet health food and discuss…what? I have no idea, but I bet it’s cool. I bet it makes them all laugh softly and toast one another.

Like it or not, I am a coffee person. I walk too fast, eat at my desk, and have been known to laugh until I have to run to the bathroom because all that caffeine is a diuretic. Gourmet health food, to me, is buying the GOOD TV dinners.

Usually I drink it black, but this summer I developed yet another vice when I discovered that the little parking lot shack a few miles away makes a mean iced coffee. On more than one occasion I’ve found myself driving miles out of my way. Then I started making it at home.

The easy version doesn’t taste as good as shack-bought, but I secretly get a little thrill pouring the fat-free half and half into the glass. It’s a moving work of art that’s gone in the blink of an eye. It’s so quick, I couldn’t even get a decent picture. That tiny, magical poof was almost done by the time I picked up my camera.

Gone in an instant.  Goodbye, summer. Farewell, iced coffee.

Do you have a weird little thing that gives you thrills every time?

Ten Things I Learned from My Father

 1.  A real man is big on the inside. He has a booming laugh and tough, warm hands that almost make a muffled sound when they clap, like slapping oven mitts together. If he is tall and strong, it’s so he can lift you onto his shoulders to help you see better. His size and strength only emphasize his tenderness.
2.  Everyone should have a sense of humor and use it often.
3.  Encourage your child to ask questions about life, and then have the patience to answer honestly. If the question is about sex, give an honest, straightforward answer. Then shrug your shoulders and add (with wonder in your voice), “That’s the way God made it, and it works!”
4.  My father was a man’s man, a one-time boxer, a former Nebraska Cornhusker football player, an ex WWII marine. But he was also a talented artist and in many ways so much more intuitive than most of the women I knew that for most of my childhood, I thought the stereotype of creative woman/pragmatic man was a joke. I learned that the best people go against stereotypes.
5.  Lying is okay if it’s done out of genuine love. When I asked my father if he was sorry he didn’t have a son, he grimaced with mock horror and asked, “What would I want with icky boys when I have the three best daughters in the world?!” Of course I knew he was lying. But how I loved him for it.
6.  Sometimes it’s the things you don’t say that speak the loudest. When I asked him about WWII, he got that look and got way too quiet. And then he’d perk up and say, “Here’s a funny story….” He’d tell things like the time he was supposed to swab the deck and got the “bright idea” to clean the mops by tying them to a rope behind the ship, without thinking about the fact that they had metal on the handles that would set off the torpedo warnings. When I got done laughing, I was left contemplating that prologue of silence. It was the things he didn’t say about the war that made me ache.
7.  Small people put others down in order to feel bigger. Big people lift others up because they have the strength to spare. They know how to be humble. They admit they have faults and know how to laugh at themselves.
8.  Absolutely the best gift a man can give his daughter? His respect. Not for the way she looks, but for her mind and her soul. Because of course men who are confident enough to be able to love and respect strong women are the best men there are. And I don’t mean in that slightly cheesy, “I am excessively chivalrous” way that’s really an excuse to posture. I could have an intellectual conversation with my father or just be silly. He worked in local politics toward the end of his life. At his funeral, a female politician approached me and told me all the things she admired about my dad.  But the thing that struck her on the deepest level was what set him apart from all the rest. “Your father was the only man of his era I’ve ever known who genuinely knew how to treat women as his equal.” She was right. I’ve always cherished both that truth and her gift of putting it into words.
9.  The most important thing really is being there.
10.  There is a great deal to be said for having nothing left to say when it’s time to die. Sometimes you have to greet each other by your nicknames, do the “secret handshake,” and know that’s the best goodbye there is.

Miss him? Yep. Happy Father’s Day.

When all is said and done, 90% of being a dad is just showing up. ~Jay from Modern Family

Sub Notes: Gallery of Youth

Homely little statue of the goddess Laurel, who is supposed to represent poetic inspiration

 I subbed in a high school library recently, which means I got to stand behind a desk sometimes and just watch them.

The librarian was watching them, too. “Aren’t they beautiful?” she asked, echoing exactly what I was thinking.

I was recently discussing this with a friend. “Even the not-so-pretty ones are still pretty,” she’d said.

Yes. They have fat, glossy hair and thin, glossy bodies. They are tall and strong and new and gorgeous.

They are works of art, these children, captured through the centuries, through eons even, firm in that age-old conviction that they are the first ever to be young. They are, and possess, every sense of the word, “ideal.” They are the infamous Waterhouse model and Queen Hatshepsut and sculptures of Roman gods riding off to war and Lord Leighton’s titian-haired princesses and Aztec sun gods.

“They have no idea how beautiful they are,” the librarian said. I think she was right. Youth has such irony to it. They know youth creates idols, worshiped in part because of its brevity, but they are still insecure in their newness.

Which is a good thing, I guess. And of course the not-so-new among us have beauties of our own that these children won’t discover until it’s their turn. And somebody else’s turn—for the briefest of moments, anyway—to make youth eternal.

High school boy asking me for a restroom pass: "Can I go number...." (Turns to friend and shouts across room), “ Which one is pee? One or two?”

Me: "That’s okay. You don’t need to specify. Really."

Stuff from Around My House: More Art

I teach grades 6-12, so students don’t draw pictures for me very often. Every now and then, one does. And who do you think gives me a picture? Wouldn’t you think it would be a 6th grade girl? That would be my guess. But no. Strangely enough, the person who occasionally gives me a picture is a high school aged boy—usually a junior. Really.

This has happened several times. In every case so far, he’s the sweet, gregarious type who is talking to his friends. When I tell him to get to work, he grins up at me from his seat and tells me he is done with his work. Would I like him to draw me a picture? After I make sure he’s done whatever he’s supposed to do, I tell him sure. Anything to keep him quiet enough to allow others to get their work done.

This last one asked me for my favorite vacation spot and animal. He started to ask my favorite sport, but someone asked me a question and I got distracted. So here is the picture he gave me. I thanked him for giving me a nice LARGE bottle of rum and a volley ball net, though I later realized it was a hammock. My guess is I would need that rum in order to put up with the rabid-looking wolf-dog that is about to plunge itself into the ocean in pursuit of an apparent hallucination.

 Usually I make them put their name and age on it, but sad to say, the bell rang before I got a chance with this one. It is hanging on my refrigerator, though. Of course.

Overheard from high school boy: “In school, gum is gold. Like, if you’re in the outside world, and somebody is like, ‘Do you want a piece of gum?’ you’re like, ‘no, man.’ But if you’re in school, you’re like, ‘I want that piece of gum!’”

Stuff...I Mean...Fancy Shmancy Objéct from Around My House

This stunning piece was hand-crafted by my son, I think when he was in kindergarten. Feel free to guess what it is. Sorry, you won’t get any prizes, but you will get the enviable distinction of being named the winner. Yay! And I will personally clap for you while sitting here at my computer, and probably some people will be impressed by your…um…appreciation of the finer things in life.

I used to keep this arranged on an antique table next to a Baccarat crystal candle holder because I am just that weird. I thought it was sort of funny. A Realtor with a background in home decorating was over, and I saw her eyes dart all over the table and then go back to the THING. Several times. “Oh,” she said. “This is an interesting…piece. What is this objéct d’art?”

Don’t you love it? “Objéct d’art.” I wish I could have kept a straight face and made something up (using a haughty voice) but I’m not nearly that cool. Instead, I made her guess. While she was examining it, it came apart in her hands. The look on her face makes me giggle to this day. We both ended up laughing so hard we had to fight over the bathroom.

She never guessed what it was, either. So here it is, lovingly glued back to its original configuration, although I must warn you that I really don’t know which direction it’s supposed to go. Your turn. Good luck.

Laughter is the shortest distance between two people. ~Victor Borge

Caught by the Principal

In honor of school starting again, here is the true story of something that happened to me last year.

I’d dealt with an incident involving several high school kids. Although everything had worked out as well as it possibly could have, it’s always a good idea to document, so I started a rough draft of my documentation on a piece of scratch paper I had with me.

Earlier that day, I had been helping out in a history class where the teacher had been showing a PowerPoint presentation on Vietnam. Not having anything to do at the moment, I doodled.

I am a doodler. So I started doodling the picture of this Vietnamese dude. I know I should know the name, but I don’t. I’m sorry—I’m not a history buff. And I certainly mean no disrespect to anyone’s leaders. But the thing is, I was working on the guy’s beard when the teacher switched slides…so my doodling hand had to improvise. And I just don’t feel terribly responsible for what that doodling hand does.

The beard became a long braid.  Then I added a polka-dotted bow. Then earrings and a nose ring. I surrounded him with helicopters (á la M*A*S*H), palm trees, and for no explicable reason, volcanoes.

So these were the notes I used to draft my documentation. Except…just as I was finishing up the rough draft, the principal showed up at the door and asked to see me in the hall. He was happy with the way I had handled the situation, but he needed the names of the children who were involved. I started to check my notes and told him I had been drafting a statement.

“May I see it?” he asked. Um. Well. I sort of hid the paper behind myself, guiltily.

“I need to recopy it,” I explained. “But first I could just check the names….”

He told me that was okay—he could just read my draft. He held out his hand. I stood there like an idiot. “I’ve drawn all over the page,” I blurted out. “It’s a…habit. It was Vietnam, and I….It might be hard to read. Why don’t you let me recopy my notes quickly?”

He wasn’t buying it. He needed to see it, please. Now.

So I shuffled my feet and looked at the floor. Here I was, a forty-something-year-old-teacher, summoned by the principal, admonished to hand over a paper with silly drawings on it. I handed it over.

I watched his eyes dart around the page, and the corners of his mouth quivered ever so slightly. Still, I have to hand it to him, he held his face as still as possible and read my notes without giggling. Then when he was done, he sort of winked and said, “I’ll let you get back to Vietnam.”

In all fairness, it could have been much, much worse. I’m partial to silly hairdos, and I’d given the guy a sort of modified “Betty Boop” earlier but had erased it off because it just wasn’t the look I was going for.

I yam what I yam and that’s all that I yam ~Popeye the Sailor Man