Cracking Open the Unfamiliar Parts

 Response to Prompt #66  Stories in One-Three-Five

 

Preparing this prompt: I had several ideas come and go, and absolutely nothing was sticking or making sense.  Eventually I realized it is because I was supposed to go back to things I've drafted out before and make them work for this. And once I sat down to do that, everything fell into place beautifully.

 

The first two are short stories, ones I call "addadabbles." Dabbles are 100 word stories. What I did with these was "add a dabble" at the end of another micro-story, ones that I found in a notebook from 2003, continuing it in some way. I have several of these in drafting stage, but these two stories were closest to the theme I had established, as well as word counts I needed.  Full disclosure, "Sad Victory" is a bit longer than a minute, and "Quartz" is not three minutes, but again, I felt they fit the entire scheme of this, and so I broke the rule!

 

The final piece is a memoir from a trip I made to Ohio in 2016. With my summer plans including a trip to Ohio, I thought it was time to take a look back and see what I wrote. I was surprised at what I found. Would love your feedback on any of these, but especially the memoir.

 

Cracking Open the Unfamiliar Parts: Stories in 1-3-5 

 

 

Sad Victory (1)

 

Flying down the street on her scooter, Misty hit a gravely patch of stone which threw her into a tailspin. Her Red Ball Jets scraped the ground as she went down on all fours -- knees and the heels of her hands grinding into the small stones. She knelt there, not sure whether to laugh or cry. She slowly looked to the left, to the right, and down in between her knees behind her. No one had seen her accident. No sense crying. Instead, she rolled over onto her butt and started to pick the little bits of gravel out of her hands and knees. Gosh that was fun, she thought to herself.

    She finished just in time for her sister Gina to come flying down the same hill on her bicycle. “Wipe out,” Gina yelled and with that, hit her brakes, expertly stopping her bike on a dime. Mostly looked at Gina with disgust.

    “Here I am wiped out on the gravel and you make a perfect stop. You make me sick.”

    Gina laughed. “Oh, Misty. Grow up. Let’s go home and play checkers.”

    Misty looked at her sister, who was smiling big at her. Damn, no sense being made at her. She is just too cool. She picked up her scooter and began the walk back up the hill, slightly limping, side-by-side with Gina, her older sister whom she envied, and who would proceed to beat her at checkers five times in a row.

 

70 Years Hence

Life is about what you remember, and for Gina these days, that isn’t much. For me, it’s turned into a silence; memories are all mine. 

 

One night I remembered that day on the scooter, how envious I was Gina, and how I continued swallowing my jealousy that day and beyond. But the memory provided something else. This visit I’m bringing checkers to the Alzheimer's Center.

 

And it works. Gina remembers how to play. She does not talk. She does not win. I thought it would feel good -- finally winning after all these years. 

 

Yet sadly, this silence holds no victory. 

 

 

 Quartz (3)

 

Sammy opened the cabin door on a cool early spring day. Still no leaves on the tree, he could see the hillside, brown with dead mulch and brush across the river. The river, too, was brown, and the grass not yet much greener. He cursed under his breath, “Fuckin’ brown existence.” He had come to the cabin with the hope of having his spirits lifted. Instead, he felt as dead inside as ever.

He talked out loud to his dog, Fella, who yawned with indifference. “Today. Today will be different. Today we catch that fish. Today, we will not only catch the fish, we’ll pan fry him. Trout. Yes, trout.

Sammy put on a windbreaker over his sweatshirt and jeans, and walked down the hill to the river, the ancient New River flowing peacefully. He stood on the side of the river, as the water marched by, its rhythm uninterrupted for centuries. Lying at the bottom of this waterway were petrified logs; trees that had fallen so long ago God barely remembers. They have turned to quartz in some cases. Sammy saw a small piece of quartz lying on the bank, and stopped to pick it up to toss it. Instead, he put it in his jeans pocket. And for a moment, Sammy felt as old as that river, as old as the fallen trees, almost as old as God. Any troubles he brought with him that morning, the ones he seemed to carry with him for years, were now carried within that jagged piece of quartz in his pocket. 

Sammy thought of the grief that had brought him to this cabin: the death of his wife Clara on Christmas day as she was driving back from a quick visit with her sister. The snowy roads were treacherous, but she had insisted she’d be fine. He had not forgiven her for this miscalculation. The winter had been bitter and mean, culminating in his decision to take a leave of absence from work and burrow away in the cabin. Until this morning he had done a pretty good job of not thinking about his severe anger and his lack of forgiveness. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea to think about it now, so he pushed it to the back room of his mind where he stored all his emotional injuries.

The sun cut through the clouds, and the rapids began to sparkle. Sammy looked up at the sky and then to the hillside across the way. That is when he saw for the first time the brilliant green of buds clinging close to the branches. Had they just arrived with the sun? 

Taking that as a cue to get on with the day, he walked back to his cabin, Fella trailing behind, to get his fishing gear.

 

Evening

Back at the cabin, Sammy pulled the quartz out of his pocket and set it on the kitchen table. It appeared to be a beacon and a promise. He allowed himself to think of Clara for the first time without bitterness. He had buried his love for her for too long. 

 

He put the quartz back into his pocket, and remembered the moment when he saw the green buds in the morning light. Everything felt possible now somehow. Sammy knew spring had arrived in a crystal form. He would release his severe judgments and then somehow learn to love again.

 

 

 Shedding My Shoes at the End of the World  (Memoir-5)

 

Prologue

As part of an e-course I did on gratitude, David Whyte’s poem “Finisterre” was offered for study. While delving into this particular segment of the course, I tried to answer the following questions:

 

What do you need to leave behind in order to go forward? A habit? A relationship? Beliefs? Identity? Ways of seeing the world and yourself?

 

I did my best to answer those questions, but within two weeks I would uncover the true answers to these questions. I would come to the end of the world – the world I had always believed I held inside – and I would suddenly know it was time to leave it behind.

 

Journal Entries & Poems from the Trip to Ohio, Summer 2016

Sometimes we are called to dance on the wild edges of our lives and discover something new, or we have a sense that our lives have grown too small so we need to confront our fears of what is unknown, we need to welcome in strangeness to crack open unfamiliar parts of ourselves and of God – Christine Valters Painter

 

Wednesday, June 29

I doubt I will ever come back here. What a fuckin’ MESS. Mom won’t let me help her get shit out. Says it’s “wasting time.”  I want to CRY.  Time is DRAGGING.

I can’t even write. I feel so frazzled.

~~~

Inspired by Joy Harjo’s “Conversations Between Here and Home”

This is not my home.

This is a wasteland where someone I used to know lives.

This is carpets of clothes, layers of dust and dirt,

    Newpapers of eternity.

 

I cannot come here any more.

I won’t even consider it.

Sounds harsh, but I need to be resolved.

This won’t resolve itself.

 

So I am here

A place I call “home”

But more than ever

I don’t recognize it.

 

I’ve been puzzled by my non-attachment for years.

This just reinforces

All I want to be.

All I never was.

 

11:00 a.m.  6/29/16

 

 

Friday, July 1

 

I place my future in the Hands of God.

Remembered to pray today. Finally. 

Getting tired of socializing and want to go home.

Yes, this has been about accepting the moment as it is and yes, sometimes that moment is KILLER. But I’m staying in it and not lashing out. Nothing that could make me angry matters anyway.

I’m finding it difficult to physically write.

 

Inspired by Joy Harjo’s “Four Horse Song”

 

The tracks always lead to the same place

This isn’t vacation

I’m tired – bone tired in just a couple of days

Want to be home in my chair

Listening to Hamilton and writing good poems

Not scratching out shit at Starbucks.

 

The track to Ohio always leads the same place

Sorrow amid the town’s happiness

Friends changing, family reaching or drawing back

I grasp to keep myself and maybe

I let others define me too much.

 

Or is it a reflection?

 

Here again, those elusive tracks

always leading me to the same place.

 

7:41 a.m.  7/1/16

 

 

Saturday, July 2

I suppose in many ways I am learning a lot about acceptance, but also my own boundary.  Yesterday I was perturbed by my mom’s mocking me about having to stop and use the restroom. I don’t know – it just bothered me.  Then she wants me to be kind to her. Yeah. Okay.

My reaction to all of this is to isolate. She has a disorder. My point here is that I need to keep a boundary. My friends tell me I’m loving and accepting. I call it self-preservation.

 

 

Inspired by Joy Harjo’s “I Am a Dangerous Woman”

I know who I am

Where I belong

What I want to do

      without apology

 

I am a dangerous woman.

 

I write the truth

I provoke conversation

I’m not afraid

 

I am a dangerous woman.

 

Look at me like I’m old

Look at me like I’m a hippie

Dismiss what I have to say

 

I’ll set the world on fire.

 

I am a dangerous woman.

 

7:08 a.m.  7/2/16

 

 

Sunday July 3

Damn, I just want to cry.

I’ve had a wonderful time here in Columbus, but today I need to return to that dirty mess and I made no solid plans for tonight, so now I’m regretting that…I can’t even call Jim because I feel like I’m going to cry.  I WANT TO GO HOME.

 

Okay, I cried a tinge and now I feel better.

 

Yeah – so right now nothing feels right. I made the decision to come to Ohio out of obligation and I can’t say I’m totally sorry. It was glad to see Donna and Becky’s place and to meet Gordon. Oh, and Kate, of course. And I’ll be happy to go to the Rock Hall tomorrow. All is not lost by any means. And the time here in Westerville has been incredible.  I just feel far away from my writing life and I feel all I want to do is complain and I hate that. I don’t feel like investigating this awfulness with my mom and her mental problem. It’s exhausting. Keeping a boundary up and accepting what is exactly as it is. Seems easy, but then somehow catches up to me.

~~~

Poem inspired by Joy Harjo’s “Crossing the Border”

 This has been a border crossing

Amid the entertaining times:

  Cookouts,

        Sunset boating,

              Steak lunches

And hours of conversation

And that lovely nature walk

I have crossed a border

I love these people

but if I am to return

the terms have to be different.

It’s been taxing and I have to

shut down constantly

to get past the irritations.

I have crossed a mother/daughter

    border.  I don’t feel it.

Absolutely no guilt.

Move on to a new land –

    Don’t look back.

 

7:17 a.m.  7/4/16

 

 

Tuesday, July 5

Had a good morning and it was wonderful to see Laura, but I am still fighting the depressed feeling.

Just have to make time MOVE. It will be such a relief to pack. This has been the weirdest trip ever because of the extreme highs and lows. The highs and lows were both a surprise. I mean, really, my joy was multiplied at times because I was fighting the depression.

So this is it. I’m not planning on coming back willingly. It has become obvious that I need to be where I can do my best work. The emotions tied here can’t get resolved here.

 

I put my future in the Hands of God.

 

Poem inspired by Joy Harjo’s “Someone Talking”

Maps

In my mind

The roads, how they intersect

Where they go

Not in my memory

until I come upon it.

Baltic. Berea. Belle.

 

I traveled a lot of the

same roads, like following

a map of memory.

Westwood to W. 210 to Detroit

to Clifton to Cove

or other places

and back.

 

The Solstice Steps were at

the end of Belle.

The exit to Edgewater no

longer marked.

We took a boat, watched the

train bridge descend.

Listened to Paul Simon while

the sun set, the lines criss-crossed,

unbroken connections still.

A map of memory for me.

 

7:28 a.m.  7/7/16

 

Epilogue

I stepped off the plane, light pack on my back, walked up through the portal into the Southwest Florida terminal, my white jeans glimmering in the sunny interior.  I took a very deep breath and smiled. Then another.  And smiled wider.  I breezed past the Sanibel Bean and the red, white, and blue USA sweatshirts for sale, past slow walking airport workers, past the display boats, to baggage claim. In a few minutes I would get to see my husband for the first time in over a week.

 

I am home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stories in 1-3-5

In response to Prompt #66--1-3-5--I've penned 3 stories: a 1-minute read, a 3-minute read, and a 5- minute read (times are approximate). This was a challenging and fun exercise that I may just play more with!

The Power of 5

She could read their moods before they even made it halfway down the long hallway to her door--the last stop before the parking lot.  They wore their emotions on their faces, carried them in their bodies--shoulders slumped or rolled back, heads hung low or held high, feet that dragged like concrete blocks or skipped lightly above the ground, eyes that either shot daggers or sparkled with light,  downturned lips or toothy smiles--all these things ready to be read and interpreted by anyone who paid attention.

Regardless of her mood, she smiled warmly at each and every one of them as she greeted them with a "Good morning!" or  a "Great to see you!" or a "How are you today?" She wasn't being disingenuous but knew her approach--or reproach--would make or break the day.  Instead of barking down the hall to move faster or spit out gum or take hats off or put phones away, she gave directions with her eyes and subtle hand signals. She often got eye rolls, but the students generally complied without incident. No one lost face, no gauntlet was thrown, no battles ensued. 

At times, they would brush by her with nary a grunt, but sometimes they smiled and returned the greeting. Other times, they asked to be left alone for the day. She honored all those reactions and used that information to make on-the-cuff decisions about who would partner with whom, what to add to the day's lesson, and what to leave out. 

Those 5-minute stints several times a day were sacred moments for her, moments that she knew had immediate effects--and hoped had lasting impact. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dead Silence 

Time seemed to stop in that moment. The voice on the other end was barely discernible. She knew it was one of her parents by the number that flashed on her caller ID, but the croaks coming through the line were not her father's normal steady speech.

"Dad, take a deep breath." She waited to hear the sharp sucking in of air and the shaky release. "What is it? What's happened?"

"She's dead," he finally managed. 

There was no need to ask who "she" was. It was her mother, a woman with whom she had a close bond as a child but had increasingly pulled apart from thanks to her incessant complaining and judging. A woman who had suffered at the hands of multiple immune disorders, pinched up with pain for years and years. A woman who had suffered with severe depression for more years than that. A woman who chose the bottle and pills to ease that suffering over the sweeping lifestyle changes her doctors recommended. A woman who chose to wallow in her misery instead of trying to find joy. 

She let the silence hang for a while, not quite sure what to say to him. He had played caretaker for decades, all while being barked at and berated and unappreciated, his retirement dream of mountain cabin dwelling in North Carolina nixed by his wife's situation. He too relied on pills to ease his anxiety and the crushing weight of a life he never wanted. 

"I killed her," he finally choked out. 

"Dad, you didn't kill her. You did the best you could for her. It's a miracle she lived as long as she did."

"No, you don't understand." Once again, the silence hung, heavier this time. So heavy it felt as if hands were clenching her throat. "I shot her."

Her throat closed so tightly that if she had words, they wouldn't have been able to escape. 

"She begged me to," he bawled. "Said that if I really loved her, I would put her out of her misery, save her from having to do it herself." 

"Dad, why didn't you call for help?"

"They would have Baker Acted her, treated her like a crazy person. She would have never forgiven me."

More silence.

"I don't expect you to understand. I just wanted to tell you goodbye, that I love you, that none of this is your fault."

The shot rang out, piercing her ears, her heart, her soul. She had feared this day for so long--a dangerous mix of alcohol, pills, guns, and misery. She had tried to stop it, but no amount of urging and offers to help could have fixed any of this. 

Yet she would be the one to carry the burden of it all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Doll Face

Finally--the baby was down for his long afternoon nap, and her 2-year-old daughter was tucked safely in her room for a shorter nap. Any amount of time she could grab during the day to take care of herself was like winning the Golden Ticket. 

She was almost giddy as she popped her Denise Austin exercise tape into the VCR. The overly enthusiastic fitness guru is just what she needed--quick hit fitness with a side of inspiration. 

As the music started thumping at its fat-burning pace, she began the warm-up, mimicking the moves of  the tan Denise with an impossibly white smile. "If you rest, you rust!" the host reminded her followers. 

She felt that was an accurate observation as her extra-baby-weight body fought her just 5 minutes into the tape. Keeping up with a toddler and an infant seemed like enough movement, but she knew that was different from this body-toning activity. Denise looked fantastic, and she had had two kids. She also had a similar build as the tired mom used to have--larger hips but a small bust and little waist. 

Denise kept up her encouragement at predictable intervals. "You deserve this! You are worth it!"

I do deserve this! I am worth it! 

Just as the real workout began, she heard it. The jiggle of a door handle. She kept working out, doing her best to ignore the possible interruption to her precious half-hour of self-care.  

She heard it again and turned the volume as loud as she dared without waking the baby in the next room. 

Another jiggle.

"Mooooooooomy! I stuck!" squeaked a little voice. 

"Just give Mommy 20 minutes! You need to rest," thinking to herself little girls can't rust--only big ones. 

She wondered how that child had managed to lock herself in, but she was also grateful she did. 

"I want oooooout!" 

"No! Just give Mommy 20 minutes, and I will unlock the door."

It got quiet, and she thought, that was easy. She shrugged it off and kept pace with the energetic instructor. "Keep it up! You're doing great!" 

The workout ended--20 minutes later--and, as promised, she went to spring her big blue-eyed, sassy daughter from her room. A room, by the way, that held every comfort and toy to keep a 2-year-old occupied for hours. 

As she popped open the lock with the emergency key, she was greeted with her daughter, sitting on her bed, covered in pink Barbie lip balm, with a I'll show you scowl on her chubby little face. 

She looked around and also saw the pink balm smeared all over the comforter, embedded deeply into the wicker hamper, and painted on the walls. 

She back slowly out of the room, shut the door, and began laughing. 

Then, she called her own mother. "Mom, I am about to kill your granddaughter." She relayed the story quietly, looking for some piece of wisdom, some momvice if you will. 

"I don't know what to tell you, honey. You got your sister's child. You would have never done anything like that."

She cursed her rebel middle sister as she said, "Well, she's about to inherit a 2-year-old." 

She hung up, plotting her next step as she re-entered the room. Her daughter sat in the same position, holding the empty tube like a weapon of war. 

"I wanted out."

She bit her lip--hard--to keep from busting out into laughter and told her precious hellion to gather up her other Barbie toiletries, the lotion, the powder--who buys this stuff for a 2-year-old anyway? Oh yeah, her grandmother--and held out the trash basket. 

"Throw it all away. If you can't use things appropriately, you don't get to have them."

Her daughter's little lip quivered, but she did as told. Then, she got a super-soapy mid-day bath to coax the oily balm from her hair.

Since the baby miraculously slept through the commotion, she settled her daughter in front of a Barnie video and took to washing the sheets and comforter and scrubbing what she could. The hamper was a lost cause. 

It dawned on her that she hadn't heard her daughter sing along with the Barnie "I love you" song. She hurried into the great room--worried about what she might be up to now--to find her sound asleep, her little face scrunched up against her Barnie stuffed toy. 

She sighed, "Of course, now she sleeps." 

And, just then, she heard the screech of a baby boy who didn't get a long enough nap.