Prompt #15 Behind the Scenes

I stole this idea from Laurie.  The prompt is to write a fiction  piece, fan fiction, so to speak, inspired by a song. Not just any song. Scenes from an Italian Restaurant.  I've always been intrigued by the song, and it raises questions.  There is a story within a story here. We have two couples.  The first is meeting after many years,  and  the story of the second is told by the narrator, but it's the untold story of the narrator and his old love that I am interested in. All we know is that they were a couple,  meeting again.  What we don't know is their story, how it ended. We know she left town, because the narrator is telling her the story of their friends' failed marriage.  Why? What is his motive there? Maybe she left him for another man and is finally divorcing....there are so many possibilities.  Listen to some Joel, let your mind wander, and have some summer fun!

Why I Dread Going Home

June 28, 2016

Dear A.P.,

We sometimes watch your show on a cable station.  It seems innocent enough.  You travel around the country looking for treasures stored in peoples’ barns, garages, and yards. We marvel at the items you uncover, many of which the owner doesn’t even remember owning and often don’t know the worth. You gather these treasures and sell them for profit.  Good work if you can get it, I guess.

But the issue here for me is the hoarding nature of the endeavor. When we see these places, they are often riddled with dust, and the owners will admit that they hadn’t even looked at any of it for years. The other point often made has to do with age – the person who gathered and kept these items is sometimes long gone and their relatives have to dispose of the items. Or the owner is getting kind of old and knows he/she has to get rid of the things, but still has a hard time. Sometimes they refuse to sell certain items.  Why?  Hard to fathom.

As someone that recognizes this scenario, I know why they don’t sell. You see, I have a Certain Family Member (CFM) who is a hoarder. The problem is not just the amount of stuff, although that is bad.  It is that this CFM has an emotional attachment to each and every box of whatever she has shipped all over the Midwest.  These boxes fill up two bedrooms in her three bedroom home, plus the entire garage. The hallways and walkways in her bedroom and sections of the kitchen are given over to boxes of…what?  Any normal person just looking into these boxes don’t see anything of value.  In other words, the A.P. show would not find anything to sell for a profit.

It doesn’t end with the boxes, which are disintegrating slowly and creating a dusty environment to the home. It’s all the stacks of magazines that will be read “someday” and the newspapers scattered on the floor. The coffee table is stacked high with whatever, and the kitchen table is unusable for the same reason.  Years ago my nephew tripped over some clutter and hit his head on a corner of a table. That was enough for my brother-in-law. My sister visits CFM alone now when she is in town.

I am traveling today to CFM’s home.  I have run out of places to stay when I travel north.  My sister and a good friend have moved away from Ohio.  My other friend has divorced and moved from her house, the place I’ve stayed the last couple times I was up there.  I’m out of options.  I have been assured by my brother that nothing has changed. I will be spending the next few days maneuvering around boxes and knowing that it will do me absolutely no good to ask CFM to start ridding herself of this stuff.  You’d think at 83 she would want to.  But it isn’t the case.  Instead she will dig in harder.  The idea of getting rid of stuff so her relatives don’t have to do it doesn’t seem to cross her mind.

So when people ask if I’m excited for my trip, I can only say yes, conditionally.  I am glad that I will spend a couple nights at my brother’s home, giving me a break from the chaos.  I will try to deal with CFM on the terms available – someone who was broken long ago, who clings to every little newspaper puzzle and scrap of paper from her parent’s house as a way to keep balanced somehow.  It isn’t something I will ever understand.  I just know that when it is over, I will be grateful to get home and will probably find myself purging anything unnecessary as a way to heal from the experience of living with a hoarder for a week. And I don’t look forward to the day that I, along with my siblings, have to start dealing with the years of “pickings” gathered and kept.  It will be agonizing.  It will not feel profitable.

Sincerely,

HMS

To my Mother's Lovers

Skip,
I always feared my mom left you because of me. Maybe not. Maybe you just took care of her in the wake of the divorce, and she wasn't in love with you.  Maybe my dad's accusations of what you did to your daughter bore too heavily on her conscious.  I don't know.  I can't ask her. Like you, she's been dead these long years. I remember loving you. I also remember being mean to you.  Maybe it was because no one was good enough for my mom. Maybe it was something else.  I remember sitting on your lap. I also remember that mom didn't like it.  Maybe it was because she was raped at nine, but maybe it was something else.  When grown-ups tell children to tell if someone touches you in a way you don't like, or touches your private parts, they don't mention the hand on your hip. Not your privates. They don't mention that you might like it. That it makes you feel special and safe. That it's wrong.  And that the liking it, mixed with the shame of liking something wrong also might thrill you in a way you are ashamed of.  Shame is a hard emotion for kids to identify,  let alone deal with.  Maybe you put on my sunscreen with my shirt off. I didn't have boobs  yet. Maybe it didn't register as a sexual act. It definitely didn't,  or wouldn't, as I don't know if I am remembering correctly.  Memories are lies, anyway.  We don't remember events; we remember the stories we tell ourselves about the events. I know you didn't rape me, put anything inside me, or stick your tongue down my throat.  I would have recognized that as wrong, as an episode of Donahue. But maybe your love for me was wrong,  in a way I didn't know.  I'll never know.  Maybe you are the reason I used to like older men. Maybe you are the reason I love to curl up in my lover's lap like a little girl. Maybe I am fucked up, and maybe you are the reason,  but maybe it doesn't matter. I'm old enough to own my issues,  whatever the source.  I've dealt with my issues long enough that they know their place.  So maybe it doesn't matter.  Memories are a magician's stage.  The smoke obscures the vision,  directs the eye away  from the shadow near the curtain, the false bottom in the box. Even if I paid a hypnotist to retrieve those memories,  would they be real? More importantly,  would they matter? I'd rather remember you on a ladder,  creating perfect archs in the ceiling of the princess bedroom you gave me.  I'd rather remember that you made perfect eggs and adored my mom. After all,  it's my story.

Chuck,
You were the love of my mom's life. I'd never seen her in love before or since. That's why I forgive you for turning my bike into a guitar.  You taught me how to live.  To see things as they could be. To make your own happy.  Maybe my mom was afraid you didn't love her as much as she loved you.  Maybe she was just afraid of how much she loved you. Maybe she didn't want you to resent her, as a life with her would be childless.  I wished I was enough for you.  I would've loved for you to be my stepdad. I could've used you to guide me through my teen years. I hope you found a woman who gave you a baby. I hope you know how much we both loved you.
P.S.
Thanks for teaching me to condition before I shampoo.  You're a genius!

Jim,
I don't have much to say to you. Or maybe I have too much to say, and that's why I hid in the kitchen when you were at my restaurant all those years ago.  You exited my life as quickly as you entered it. That's a blessing. You were the first mean person I ever really got to know.  Despite that, despite how you saw my mom as a meal ticket, or tricked me into eating moose meat, you made me laugh. I'm more comfortable around different people because of you.  And, you taught me how to drive. You were grumpy,  but navigating your moods taught me how to survive explosive tempers. I guess I am at peace with the good and bad you brought my life. Also, thanks to you,  I know how to marinate chicken and pour a mean rum and coke.

Rest easy,
Love,
Dana

Hire Me. You Won't Regret It

Prompt #14: The Unsent Letter

June 26, 2016

To the Members of the Search Committee at Whatever College or University:

Listen. I could start this letter the way all applicants do, telling you the job I am interested in, as if you didn't already know. I could write you a statement about my career objective and ask you to accept my resume or CV, and this letter of interest. I could then, if I wanted to be like all the other hundreds of applicants who apply for jobs at your institution each year, follow a widely accepted template shared all across the internet. You know the one in which I highlight the most notable entries on my CV without listing them all over again. But I'm not like the others, any of them. So I won't.

Loosen your ties and kick off your heels because I'm about to blow your minds. I approach this pitch without any apology and without reserve. Go ahead and toss that entire pile of resumes and hire me.  Here are the things my resume won't tell you...

I work balls to the wall when I care about what I'm doing. When I choose to work somewhere, it's just about my choice as much as it is yours. I am committed and work with the highest standard of ethics and professionalism. My personal endeavors feed my soul and my practice so I don't chew up students and spit them out.  I expect to learn everyday and so I want that for my students as well. I am a graduate of the College of Education, and that means I have devoted myself to the craft of teaching. I have 18 years of onsite teaching and administrative experience in schools. I have worked in public and private, elementary and secondary, nonprofit and for profit, day school and residential programs, and I have taught and administered general and special education programs. I am qualified to teach teachers, because I am a teacher.

I want teacher candidates to live up to the standard of joining my profession. I take it to heart they will one day be a part of my own profession and be considered my peers. It is with this understanding that I have extremely high expectations, and provide feedback and learning experiences that will help my students develop into teachers prepared for success. I teach not just in theory but in practice, because I have been there. I want kids to once again dream of being teachers.

My doctorate is in Curriculum and Instruction, not in Educational Leadership and this is by design. My life's work has been in the study and practice of teaching and learning. Don't be fooled by my current position and others throughout my career in leadership. I have a natural propensity towards leadership, but my heart and my strengths are in the areas of curriculum development and program evaluation. I am interested in creating the best possible learning environment for students at all ages- one in which students have voice, are part of the process, and are valued as citizens in their classrooms. A place in which students construct and draw meaning from the interactions they have with peers, teachers, and literature. Students, I believe, are not empty vessels to be filled with whatever portion of the world's knowledge we think we have to give to them. Students, human beings, bring life and experiences, and knowledge with them to the school community. It is up to us to provide an environment for students to integrate and reflect upon the blending of all these things. And I can provide this.

I have the experience, I have the degrees- four of them, and I have the drive and passion. I really care about the profession. It matters little to me whether I teach undergraduate or graduate classes. I actually enjoy the entry level classes that some of my peers turn their noses up at. This is where we have the power to introduce our profession. This is where we can weed out those who just couldn't decide what to be. This is where we can excite students about what it means to be a teacher. This is where we can lay the groundwork for high expectations. I'm not in it for rank. I don't care what the title is before or after my name. I don't care what office I have or which rooms my classes are in. I just want to teach.

Hire me. You won't regret it.

Dr. Laurie J. Kemp, Ed.D

Unspoken

Response to prompt #14: Unsent Letter

“Get me a towel!”  commanded Keisha’s mother.

“I will, Mom, but I have to get you out of the tub and on your stool first,” Keisha responded as she prayed for patience, for empathy, and for strength while she gingerly guided her mother’s fragile frame from the tub to the stool placed over a non-skid bath mat. 

“I’m dripping all over, goddammit!” she screamed. “The floor is getting all wet!” 

God forbid that a linoleum floor get water on it. Isn’t that why people use it in kitchens and bathrooms? 

She dutifully and silently wrapped her mother in a towel, fresh from the dryer, hoping its warmth would permeate this cold woman’s soul. 

Her mother just scowled.

She was familiar with that face; she had seen it all her life. Furrowed brow, eyes shooting out mean, sharp daggers, lips formed into a tight, thin line. 

This same bathroom, some 40 years ago, was quite a different scene:  Keisha and her sisters, all under the age of 7, taking a bath, giggling as they splashed in cooling water, screeching in delight when the middle sister made a beard out of the bubbles.

“What in the hell is going on in here?” the three girls froze as their mother burst into the room, an ball of anger wound too tight to let her children have any fun, even in the bathtub.

“The floor is soaked! Get out of the tub….NOW!” she roared.

“Sorry, mommy!” the girls cried in unison.

But, it was too late. She was already pissed.

She frantically mopped up the floor with a towel as the girls stood naked, teeth chattering, partially from shivering in the cold air, partially from fear.

Then, she stood and turned to them. The wet towel whipped through the air and cracked on the girls’ bodies. She swung hard and fast, hitting whomever she could as she continued her verbal rant. The girls knew better than to run away. They simply sat on the cold floor and curled into protective balls, hiding their faces in their knees.

“Mommy, stop! We’re sorry!” They took turns pleading with her, to no avail.

When she ran out of steam, she looked at them in disgust and spat out commands to get their pajamas on, comb their hair, brush their teeth, and go to bed. 

“Keisha!” The piercing voice cut through the memory. “Why the hell are you just standing there like a moron?”

Keisha just blinked blankly at her mother and finished getting her ready.  As she gently eased her into bed, she thought about how nice it would have been to be tucked into bed as a child, maybe even get a kiss on the forehead.

“See you tomorrow, Mom,” Keisha said in a flat tone.  

“Hopefully, you can get it right next time,” responded her mother.

As she drove home, tears streamed down Keisha’s face.  The thought of taking care of this woman for God knows how long was too much to bear.  She needed someway to release the frustration she felt but couldn’t talk to anyone she knew about it. After all, in her world, this was the duty of the eldest daughter. You took care of your mother. Period. 

Thankfully, her husband was working late, and her teenage kids were both working, so Keisha didn’t have to explain why her eyes were swollen and her nose was runny.  She made a beeline to the office and grabbed some stationery and a pen. 

Dear Mother,

I understand that it is my obligation to care for you as you age and become helpless. And, although I had every intention of living up to that expectation, I simply can’t do it anymore. For my own health and sanity, I have to give your care over to someone else.

You are a hateful and mean-spirited woman, and I have spent my whole life making a conscience effort not to be like you.  I work every day to be kind, patient, and empathetic, and I fear that being around your verbal abuse daily will turn me into the very thing I diligently avoid. 

The pen couldn’t move fast enough as Keisha’s thoughts poured onto the page.

Remember when we were little and you beat us with a wet towel for getting the bathroom floor wet? I’m sure you don’t because somehow your delusional brain has turned every terrible, abusive incident into a funny story. But, I remember it. I can still feel the sting of the towel; I can still hear the insults you spewed at us. We were just little girls, all under the age of 7. How could you have been so cruel?  How can you have so much hatred in your heart for your own children?

I hope whoever takes care of you is as cruel and rough as you were with us. I hope your caregiver jerks you out of the tub and leaves you there, naked and cold as you shiver, too scared to ask for a towel. 

I hope you finally realize what it’s like to walk on eggshells in your own home and to be at the mercy of someone who resents having to take care of you. 

Because one thing is for certain: that person will not be me. 

Very Sincerely,

Keisha

Keisha could barely read the letter through the tears that relentlessly welled up. She reached for an envelope, neatly folded the letter, placed it carefully inside, and sealed it shut.  She meticulously penned her mother’s address, then put a stamp that read “Celebration!” in the right hand corner.  

As she walked toward the mailbox, she had second thoughts. What good would this letter do? Would it change her mother’s awful demeanor? 

Keisha knew in her heart the answer was “no.” 

With a deep sigh, she made her way back into the house. As she lifted her jewelry box to slip the letter underneath, Keisha spotted the business card she grabbed at the car wash for  elderly home care services.

She would not send the letter, but she would make the call. 

In Honor of June 16, 2016

EMBRACE

For my Trail Brazens

Energized into the next level
My writing group embraces the challenge that is a writer's very life blood
Bold. Brave.
Remembering for each other the great words written; we've forgotten
   because they became part of who we are.
Confident and connected.
Expressing, emerging, exposing, excavating, exploding.

hms
6/17/16

Prompt #14 - Unsent Letter

The Trailbrazen prompts of late have been pushing us to be brave and experiment with forms we may have been too timid to attempt before. Because we are a tribe of strong, supportive, and intelligent women who don't make apologies, I think we are all ready for prompt #14.  

At pivotal times in my life, I have written the unsent letter when I need to say something to the person/people who have crushed me---but can't---or decide it's just not prudent to do so. These letters are cathartic whether it's after a break-up, a death, a friendship gone sour, or any situation ending badly. 

I know that unsent letters aren't supposed to be published, or at least seen by the people they are addressed to. I also understand that it can be uncomfortable to write one. So, here's my way around those issues: Make your unsent letter fictional. If you want, you can base it on a true story. Or not. It can be a poem. It can be anything you want. Because if I've learned anything from this group, when we are brave and brazen and let our walls down, the words that come out free us all. 

The Fourth Goddess

This is inspired by Helen Sadler's Celebrating Three Goddesses response to the 13th Trailbrazen writing prompt.  Her original form is brilliant, and the specialness of the piece touched us all. Another member of our group, Dana, suggested we write Helen in since the piece was incomplete without her.  Helen graciously agreed.  So, here is my version to honor this very special woman.



Honorable intentions graciously and intricately pave her path.
Every word wise and knowing,
Lining the rocky road we tread with flowers of hope and calm.
Each smile genuine and beaming,
Never letting those around her forget they matter in this world--and the next.

About Time

This is my response to prompt #13, original form. Sorry to exhaust the same subject. I thought about the last year or so, thought of 12 hours, 12 months. And so.

No one saw it coming.
One day, we just knew, the
two of us were through.
Three months of suspended silence.
Fortitude didn't cash in.
Five weeks of questions.
Six years of ripping at seams.
Seven times seven, forgiveness
Ate at my soul.
Nine friends fell by the wayside.
Ten months until I felt well.
Eleventh hour snuck up on me.
Twelve miles of broken promises.

Lesson learned? Time heals all, and wounds will out.

Inner Voice

In response to Invitation to Write #13, I have created a fairly straightforward form. It is an idea I have been playing with for some time, and it is finally coming together. You take an inspirational line, from a quote or any other source, and after using it as a the first line of the poem, you start each of the subsequent lines with the words from the quote. The first word in the opening line then becomes the first word in line 2, the second word in the opening line becomes the first word in line 3, and so on. Please enjoy Inner Voice, with the opening line from Rumi.

Inner Voice
When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy.

When the inner voice rises to the surface
you must release and allow your truth
Do not let others silence you from the
things your heart cries out,
from the thoughts and words which haunt
your inner being, which nourish your
soul. No one has this power.
You speak freely and
feel it in your blood, in your veins
a rising force flowing through you,
river rapids rushing
moving you fiercely along your journey
in pursuit of the truth.
You are unrelenting
a truth sayer revealing  
joy in authenticity.

Photo retrieved from thinglink.com

Celebrating Three Goddesses

This is my response to http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2016/05/invitation-to-write-13-original-form.html

MY FORMAT

I decided to do an acrostic of each of your names, and write about you. But I added an additional feature -- each line for each letter in the acrostic had to contain the exact amount of words for the position of that letter in the alphabet.  For example, A = 1, D = 4, L = 12.

What I discovered is that this made me write in ways, and to word things a bit differently, than I ordinarily would if I was just writing in my usual styles.  It forced me to use words in new ways.

Since Dana's name is so short, and Annmarie's so long, I added the middle names to try to even it out a bit.

Hope you like this little experiment of mine.

Celebrating Three Goddesses

By Helen Sadler

Let me celebrate one who has read my mind on many occasions.

Ambitious.

Unwritten yet in so many ways, possibilities endless, insights clear,

            idealist heart, she rests among those who envision a graceful Gaia

Radiating exuberance, rarely off her game, she knows the value of relationships;

            in turn, her friendship is treasured.

Immersed in her life as a writer, she shines,

Expands her creativity and curiosity.

Jewel in the life of so many, making a difference

Always.

Yearning for the next step, she continues in her grounded ways,

walking a balance beam,  arms outstretched,

            ready for more, having faith in perfect outcomes,

Excelling in every targeted goal.

Authentic

Never a false word falls from her lips – pure, real deal in every way.

Noble in spirit and substance; speaker of the truth in matters large and small.

Memories together cause me to smile: at dinner, the beach,

our genuine conversations.

Admiration.

Reaches for the new, strives for improvement, not afraid to see what doesn’t work,

            willing to make changes.

Irony in speech patterns, inventive in the written word,

Explorer/architect of the extraordinary.

Deep conversations, always attuned,

Animated.

Negotiator of unknown territories, throwing caution to the wind,

            leaving the morally repugnant behind.

Activated.

Living a life of an artist, a teacher, a reveler in the

Absurd.

Laughing at the strange ironies, the ammunition used against her, never downed.

Only necessary losses and lessons in transition, figuring out where she stands

            in this world.

Not a neophyte to that which burns, but one willing to cool the flames;

Desperately, deliberately, dancing diva

Echoing in the canyon walls.

Ups and Downs

Challenges: I don't always accept them, but when I do, they're usually from one of my Trailbrazen sisters. This month, we get to create our own form, and I can't wait to see what everyone comes up with.  I'm counting on prompt 13  being lucky for us all as we try to stumble onto a cool unique from.

Disclaimer:  This poem is NOT reflective of my current emotional state. But, I think at one point or another, we have all been there.

Read stanza I from the top down; stanza II from the bottom up.

f

a

l

l

i

n

g

d

   o

      w

         n

into the depths of self-doubt;

s

i

n

k

i

n

g

l

 o

   w

      e

         r

into the pit of self-loathing; 

p

l

u

n

g

i

n

g

d

  e

    e

      p

        e

          r

into the underbelly of a self-made hell. 

to finally reach the zenith.

          r

        e

      h

    g

  i

h

g

n

i

s

i

r

to the promise of a better day;

               y

             l

           i

        d

      a

    e

  t

s

g

i

d

n

e

c

s

a

to the pinpoint of light;

           d

         r

       a

    w

  p

u

g

n

i

b

m

i

l

c