The Real Deal

Posted on by
Reply

Every day I pack my bag with

Swimsuit and fresh beach towel

And drive to the gym

Optimistic that a few pounds will be shed

Just enough to make a slight difference

I drive past workers stringing new telephone lines

Bicyclists, young and old, wavering in and out

Of the narrow confines of their allotted space

I bypass trucks that stop at train tracks

As I listen to my favorite country music stars

Wondering how crowded the pool will be

And picture my fat self  walking

Nonchalantly to the pool’s edge

Sitting on the top step as I put on my fins

Pretending that my suit isn’t stretched too

Tightly over my abdomen

And then I step into the water and begin to swim

Feel the current that my hands create

My breathing rhythmic and the motion calming

Lap after lap I glide

Outlasting younger, stronger, faster men

When I’m finished, I smile

Proud of what I have accomplished

And in those peaceful minutes

I forget about my size

And what others see when they gape

For I know, that in that moment of time,

That they don’t know the real me

And never will

Night Visitors

Posted on by
1

Imagine the dead walking at night

Arising from their daytime beds

To visit. To observe.

I think of my mother and what she’d say

How she’d bend down and count the wrinkles

Around my eyes and comment about my age

How my dad would want to fix things

Toasters. Microwaves. The awning on his windows.

My Grandma would smile, laugh, encourage me

To be the best possible person imaginable

And then she’d slice cheese and add crackers

Never worry about her weight

Who else would come to visit?

The previous owners of our house.

They’d drop by and tsk about the changes we’ve made

Or maybe they’d snicker at the pathetic state of the gardens

Because they don’t know about the drought

I think of them floating about in the night

Gathering together to discuss my life and shake or nod

Or smile or reach down and brush the hair off my face

And kiss my cheek and say “I love you” so softly

That it feels like a gentle breeze on a warm summer day

Then I’d wake and sense their presence

I’d sit up and look about, knowing that someone was there

See only darkness and hear only the silence of the night

And wonder. Just simply wonder what I’d missed.

 

 

Musings About my Life

Posted on by
3

Self-doubt is a crippling emotional disease. I know, because I’ve carried it on my shoulders for as long as I can remember.

When I was small, I understood that I wasn’t pretty enough or girly enough for my dad. I liked to play boys’ games: tag, kickball, cowboy, fort-building and trike-riding.

I despised dolls and pretend house and so I was a disappointment to my mom. I wanted to wear pants and go without tops in the summer, like my brother did. I hated dresses, Mary Janes and frilly socks.

As I grew older and I discovered paint-by-number, I worked at it until I thought I could draw. But I never truly believed in myself. I saw myself as a failure, a person without skills, and so nothing I created was ever of value in my eyes.

I loved books and a good story, and imagined myself as a famous writer. In middle school I wrote short stories about things I knew: tornadoes, thunder and lightning storms, harsh discipline. Because I was shy, I never shared them with anyone. Again, I doubted my ability and quickly gave up.

As a student, I felt dumb. It took me longer to learn to read than my older brother. He was better at math and science, while I believed that I had no academic skills whatsoever. I worked for every grade. Studying hours every night and on weekends. Creating flash cards and copying from my textbooks to help me memorize important facts. My grades improved and I obviously learned to read, but I could never let down my guard.

In high school I enrolled in college prep classes, even though my counselor said that I’d never succeed. That I’d be a dropout, get married and have kids before I was twenty. To spite her, I passed all my classes, and then the following year I’d enroll in even more challenging courses. When I got accepted to every university to which I applied, I brought in my acceptance letters and showed her how wrong she was. And then she told me I’d flunk out.

When I reached dating age, I was an old-fashioned, frumpy kid. My clothes were homemade and based on styles my mother wore as a teen. My skirts were too long and my tops too loose. My shoes were brown and white oxfords at a time when girls wore black flats. And let’s not mention my hair! Oh, my, it was awful. Teased up and hair-sprayed into a plasticized shape that only a mother could create.

Because of my looks, which were not only out of sync with the rest of the world, but also because I was fatter than any of my classmates, I was told that I’d never get a boyfriend. My mother was right until Geoffrey moved in during my eighth grade year. He was as old-ball as I was. He wore thick black glasses, button-up-the-front shirts and pleated slacks when guys wore jeans and rolled up the sleeves of their white t-shirts.

But Geoffrey saw something in me and asked me out. We must have been quite an attraction wherever we went. The nerdy guy and the fat girl with plastic hair. While I enjoyed his attention, I never felt as if I deserved to be with him and so broke up with him after only a handful of dates.

My parent’s goal for me was to get married and have kids. Even so, for some reason they allowed me to go to college. Sitting in those desks, surrounded by incredibly smart young people, I felt even dumber than before. My head swam with confusing information. I didn’t understand many of the assignments and didn’t truly understand how to take notes or write a paper. I studied late into the night, often getting little sleep, just to try to keep up.

Once I went away to school, I found friends for the first time in my life. I had people to eat with, go to football games with, study with. I dated, but mostly odd-ball guys who weren’t too different from me.

For example, there was the one who was shorter than me and I’m only five-foot-two. It just didn’t feel right to bend down to kiss him. And then there was the nice Australian man who had a bad back and couldn’t bend over. He walked with an awkward gate, kind of a shuffle combined with a lope. Another rather interesting guy came from Guatemala and spoke broken English. He was sweet and thought I was beautiful, but we had nothing in common. And I can’t forget the man from a Muslim country who was a wealthy prince, but never spoke to me. He wrote me a love letter asking me to marry him, move to his country, and bear his children.

Even though I now had a social life, I never felt as if I fit in. It was more like they accepted me out of pity, not like. That’s how I saw it. And when I went home on breaks and spoke of my friends, I was told that they weren’t good enough, nice enough, smart enough. The implication was that I lacked the skills to find worthwhile people and that my so-called friends were using me.

And then my husband-to-be came into my life, and then, for the first time, I began to believe that there was something good about me. Something that was valued and important. He made me see that I had talents. He was patient and kind and encouraging. He pushed me out into the world and honored those things that I struggled to learn.

For example, I had always wanted to teach, but I graduated from college at a time when unemployed teachers glutted the market. My husband encouraged me to take classes in the evenings and to work toward a credential. He applauded my first teaching job, even though it was a minimum-wage preschool position.

The first day of class, as the parents walked in with their kids, I froze. Doubt wiped my brain clean of cognizant thoughts. I couldn’t remember the words to the songs, the dance moves, the stories or the activities. Thankfully an elementary school teacher stepped in and saved me. Because of her, I came back the next day and the day after that and every day for over thirty-three years. And all along that journey, as I changed the grades and specialties that I taught, my husband was there to support me. When I doubted my abilities, he buoyed me up.

I have always loved music, but as a teen, when I’d sing, my family would ridicule me. So I didn’t. But I wanted to be a singer. To be part of a choir. And so one day, I walked up to the choir director at church and asked to join. She was encouraging, patient and kind. Because of her I developed enough confidence to be a soloist, all the while doubting my ability to sing on key.

And when I decided to return to writing after a fifty year absence, I was terrified. I didn’t believe that I could create story, character, plot. And so I wrote my story. I told of my early years, my teen years, my college years. I spoke of my fears and those things that caused me to have low self-esteem.

One day I shared some of the stories with a college professor. She told me to write some more. To turn my stories into new ones that were linked together, with a character from my imagination in a setting that was very different from my own.

The idea of doing this, of creating something original, was paralyzing. I’d sit before the computer and nothing happened. Words failed me. But one day I typed a paragraph. The next day I added two more. After that I turned it into a multi-page story that made sense. When I reread, I deleted sentence after sentence, ashamed of my poor writing skills and swore that I’d never do it again.

Self-doubt took away my voice. It robbed me of words that were screaming to be let loose. It locked me up in a prison without a key.

But one day I returned to my work, found a story that I could tell, and wrote page after page. Those pages turned into a novel. And that novel encouraged me to write another.

Today I am still the same person whose doubts often prevent her from action. I’ve never forgotten what it felt like to be a disappointment and this colors how I act and the things that I do. Self-doubt blocks me from speaking in crowds of people that I don’t really know. It causes me to dislike the way that I look and prevents me from doing something major about it.

While I have accomplished much over the years, and dream of accomplishing even more, Self-doubt still cripples my thinking. It distorts my vision of myself. It always has and probably always will.

 

Childhood Joys

Posted on by
Reply

well-loved children with sparkling eyes

rosy cheeks, and happy smiles

glittering with unbounded joy

freely bestowing generous hugs and

warm kisses that leave cheeks glistening

with reminders of their passing

 

laughter peels from hallway rooms

giggles rising to the gloriously blue sky

caressing souls, nourishing hearts

better than steak and potatoes

or a well-read book

warm arms, tickling fingers

and conversations uninhibited by age

 

playground games fairly played

indoors under the watchful eyes

of guardian parents checking safety

guarding friendships from the

ills of sibling rivalry

growing up together in love

 

meals broken and shared

prayers offered with heartfelt sincerity

special times protecting doors

to teenage rebellion that tears

families apart, breaking hearts

and shattering good times remembered

 

for now, though, life is good

quiet times of reflection broken only

by stories told and songs sung

well-love children with sparkling eyes

rosy cheeks, and happy smiles

glittering with unbounded joy

Princess no More

Posted on by
Reply

Princess no more she sadly reflects

Upon life’s unfair realities

Father was killed by seven suspects

Lords who forgot their fealties

 

Sadly she looks at her former house

Hearty tears descend down roughened cheeks

Enslaved, tormented like timid mouse

She secretly planned for twenty weeks

 

Escape across the mist-covered moor

Shoeless she runs under crescent moon

Fear drives her forward; footing unsure

Freedom’s joys erasing mournful tune

 

With bleeding feet she stumbles along

Nights the princess seeks shelter discreet

Each sunrise she greets with trembling song

Determined, she moves on tender feet

 

Far from home the princess finds relief

A cottage hidden in forest deep

Woman, kind, knew her father, the chief

Gives the girl a bed in which to sleep

 

Loyal friendship here she now detects

Will dwell no more on fatalities

Princess no more she sadly reflects

Upon life’s unfair realities

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love

Posted on by
Reply

Love is an ever-changing dialogue

A definition that is vague, perpetually

Unclear

When young, we feel it nestled in parents’ arms

Snuggled together on the couch

In Spring

As teens it’s infatuation with different

It defines clothes, music, and, of course,

The other

As twenties we feel lust’s call to reproduce

To couple and uncouple, searching for

Perfection

Eventually love consumes thought and action

We marry, co-habitate, share things and thoughts

Intertwined

But when we grow old, loves morphs into

Companionship, shared quiet times, walks and talks

Togetherness

Love is still there, still speaks to our hearts,

But not with the intensity of youth

In a soft voice

Love is everything and more

It is laughter and tears, joy and sadness

Forever

 

 

Memorable Characters

Posted on by
Reply

How many stories have you read that contain characters who do not resonate with you? When you finish the text, you can’t recall a single striking detail about that character.

There is nothing unique about him. Brown hair and eyes. Medium height. Slim build. Pleasant personality, but not engaging.

As a reader, you might not have read to the end out of boredom or dissatisfaction. Why do this to your readers?

You must create individuals that are unique in important ways. Give her freckles across the bridge of her nose and a loud, booming voice. A sultry walk. A gift for music. Place her in a restaurant, playing the piano to an engaged audience.

Make her familiar to the reader: someone that the reader might have known back in high school. Maybe she wasn’t class president, but she was one of the smart ones. You studied together in the library during lunch. You played on the same team, and while you excelled, she persevered.

When your reader comes in contact with her, there is a pleasant vibe. A glow or hum. A feeling of empathy towards the character’s situation.

Your character is likable, but has flaws. He speaks calmly, yet forgets names and important dates. He loves his spouse but still looks dreamily at others passing by.

Make your character someone that demands attention. Someone so worthwhile that readers are compelled to follow that moment in the person’s life. The reader doesn’t have to like the character, but does have to care about him.

As time passes in your story, the reader will either root for or against your character’s ability to achieve her goal, even if that goal isn’t something that the reader would want for herself.

When we read, we want to follow the character through her day, be a part of her world. Be thankful when good things happen to her, cry when tragedy strikes.

If you do this, if you create a character who is memorable, then your readers will be fully engaged throughout the telling of the story. They will root for or against the character each step of the way. And when the end comes around, the reader will feel satisfied.

That’s your goal.

A Dream of Peace

Posted on by
Reply

I dreamt that I traversed the sands of time

to a place mysterious and sublime.

Where gigantic trees with branches stout,

safely nestled all feathered friends about,

 

providing shelter from many foe,

yet allowing freedom to come and go.

Silky soft leaves whose gentle caress

becalms restless souls, soothes with fine finesse

 

young and old alike; no bias here

where all live in peace for many a year.

Through the sands a winding river ran

giving sustenance to both beast and man.

 

Surprisingly blue with not a trace

of sinister longings upon its face.

It speaks of a sweet love; it calls to me,

“Step right in,” it says, “ and I’ll set you free

 

from all that ails; as well sin and pain.

You have nothing to lose, but much to gain.”

With tremulous step I slowly crept

into her warm, comforting arms.  I slept.

 

Or thought I did, for there soon appeared

hosts of angels. I panicked, afeared

of my demise. But to my surprise

they lifted me on high with joyous cries.

 

The night did end. My dream soon left.

The suffering world found me quite bereft

and yearning for that heavenly place

whose welcoming arms did me quick embrace.

 

One thing alone I brought home with me:

knowledge that all men could soar high and free

seeking truth, wisdom, righteousness, and grace.

making earth a truly heavenly place.

The Storm

Posted on by
1

Thunder rocked the house while lightning danced across the sky.  Stan Ellis, a slightly built fifteen year old, stood on the front porch, watching the show.  Simultaneous bursts struck at a couple of trees on the nearby hills, sending puffs of smoke into the moist air.  He wondered where his grandpa was. He hated to think of the old man out driving in this terrible weather.

Stan’s eyes followed the gravel drive from the front of the barn, through the wooden gate that enclosed their property, and out toward the state highway that went into Bozeman.  No rusty red truck rumbling home.

A jagged bolt of lightning plunged into the field just beyond the horses’ corral.  The impact sent small rocks flying and a dust cloud filled the air.  The horses stabled in the barn screamed in fear. Stan knew he’d better check on the horses and make sure that all were safe in their stalls.

Pulling on his anorak, he ran down the steps and across the yard, hoping to beat the next bolt.  Just as he pulled open the barn door, another hit, stronger than before.  Stan held on to the door as the earth trembled, absurdly terrified that he might fall.  Eyes huge, he saw a nearby fir tree burst into flame like a forgotten shish kebab on a grill.

Stan stepped into the cool semi-darkness of the barn and pulled the door closed.  It slid easily on its well-greased track.  After dropping the latch into place, he turned to examine the animals.

Dopey and Suzy-Mae stood in the back of their stall, brown eyes as large as platters.  The stallion’s head draped over the mare’s shoulder, his nuzzle stroking her mane.  Dopey snuffled in a whisper-like voice, trying to calm his frightened partner.

Big Joe’s hooves clattered against the sides of his stall, a staccato beat that seemed to match the pounding of Stan’s heart.  The big horse’s snorts sounded like rifle shots, and Big Joe’s sides were covered in a foam-like lather.  Stan knew he’d better wipe Big Joe down before he left the stables.

Betsy and her foal, Spotter, squealed when the ground shook from another blast. They stood at the back of their stall, with ears pulled back, seeming to be listening to the pounding rain.

At the back end of the barn, Lucifer, the most gentle of the bunch, snorted, neighed, screamed, and bucked when another round of thunder shook the barn.  This would be Stan’s first target. Lucifer was his grandpa’s favorite, a horse that was bought for Stan’s mother to ride when she was young.

“Hey, boy.  Lucifer boy.  It’s OK, big boy,” he softly crooned as he approached the stall.  Whistling the stallion’s favorite tune, “Edelweiss,” he stepped closer and closer, hands outstretched in a pleading fashion.  When even with the stall door, Stan peered in over the edge.  Lucifer plunged forward, crashing into the wood, nearly cracking it down the middle.  “Calm down, Lucifer.  Calm down, boy.”

Stan picked up a handful of sweet hay, the stallion’s favorite, and held it gingerly toward the horse’s mouth.  Still whistling, the young man slithered forward at turtle speed.  Lucifer’s eyes rolled, showing white even in the gloom of the stall.  Foam dripped from the horse’s mouth, and his sides heaved and rattled.  Stan moved closer, still offering the treat.  “Come on, boy.  Easy, boy.”

When thunder sounded again, Lucifer burst through his door, shattering the wood as easily as breaking toothpicks.  Stan jumped out of the way of the flailing hooves just in time to avoid being struck a deadly blow to the head.

He cowered against the back of the barn as the terrified horse raced up and down the center.  Stan trembled in fear, leaning tightly against the door to Knight’s stall.  The giant horse suddenly stopped running and looked around the barn with terrified eyes. Taking advantage of the temporary calm, Stan took a step into the center aisle.  “Here I am, boy.  Come here, Lucifer.  Come to me, boy.”  His hands shook, but he kept his voice soft and calm.

After shaking his head up and down a few times, Lucifer allowed Stan to approach.  Sides quivering, spittle flying from his gritted teeth, Lucifer was far from relaxed.  “Let me touch you, boy,” Stan crooned.  He resumed whistling and watched as the horse’s eyes focused on the hay and the hand.  “That’s it, boy.  That’s it.”

When Lucifer took the first tentative nibble, Stan grabbed his halter.  After pulling the giant head toward his chest, Stan offered the last of the hay, and then began stroking the black muzzle.  The stallion slowly calmed, thanks to the passing of the storm and the persistent cooing and petting of the young man.

Once the horse’s eyes narrowed to a more normal size, Stan urged him forward.  They walked from one end of the barn to the next, stopping only to turn and change directions.  In time, Lucifer’s breathing took on its changed cadence.  “That’s the way, boy.  That’s the way.”  Stan wondered where to put Lucifer now that his stall door was shattered.  Not in with Big Joe.  They’d fight and get each other riled up.  Not with Betsy, either.  Lucifer hates Spotter.  He decided to put him in Knight’s stall as it was empty.  Grandpa had taken his Appaloosa into Dr. Steinway’s clinic for some kind of operation, and so the stall would be available for a few days.

Stan walked Lucifer to the stall and opened the door.  Agitated about entering another horse’s place, the stallion reared in protest.  Stan jumped out of the way of the hooves.  “Hey, boy.  No problem.  Knight’s gone for a few days.  He won’t mind.”  Lucifer instantly calmed, as if he understood every word.

“Go on, now,” Stan said.  “Step in.  Step in, boy.”  The stallion did as told, as meekly as the lamb he normally was.  “Yeah, that’s it.  You okay now?”  Stan picked up a soft cloth and rubbed the horse’s sides and neck. When Lucifer was quiet, Stan checked the food and water, and then quietly stepped outside.  He closed the door and dropped the latch into place.

Now that the stallion was calmer than before, Stan rechecked the other horses.  He spoke to them and whistled each one’s special song.  Within minutes, all were relaxed, and even Big Joe was wiped down.

Stan left the barn and headed back to the house.  His grandfather still was not home to prepare dinner, so he went into the kitchen to find something to eat.  The refrigerator light did not come on when he opened the door. The clock on the microwave was dark, and when Stan flicked the switch for the ceiling lights, nothing happened.

            He dug into the meat drawer and pulled out some sliced turkey, and then he got out the mayonnaise, some leaves of lettuce, and a slice of mozzarella cheese.  He assembled a mammoth sandwich, tossed a handful of chips on his plate, and poured himself a tall glass of water.  Stan carried his meal out to the front porch, sat in his usual chair, placed the glass on a nearby table, and balanced the plate on his lap.  As he ate, he watched lightning bolts, far off in the distance, as they zigzagged across the darkening sky.  The air had that fresh smell that always followed rain.

As night came on, Stan gave up his watch and went inside.  The electricity was still out, so with nothing to do, he decided to go to bed early.  He was worried about his Grandpa, wondering if he was safe, holed up somewhere in town, or stuck in mud out on the road.  There was nothing he could do about it, so Stan pulled off his shoes, socks, jeans and shirt, and then climbed into bed.  He stared at the dark ceiling, trying to recall if his grandfather had said anything about visiting Uncle Jack, or dropping in on his old friend, Zechariah.

In time Stan’s breathing slowed to a rhythmic cadence and his worried face relaxed.

 

            “Stan, wake up, boy.  You’re having a nightmare,” a familiar voice penetrated the haze that fogged Stan’s brain.  A rough hand stroked his right cheek while another squeezed his left shoulder.

Stan fought back, trying to escape the demon that held him in a vise-like grip.

“Settle, boy.  It’s me, Grandpa.”

Stan opened his eyes into the dark of his own bedroom.  He made out the silhouette of his grandpa, leaning over him.  “Grandpa?  Is it really you?”

“Yes, it’s me.  You’re safe now.  You’re safe.  Nothing’s going to hurt you,” he said as he removed his hands from his grandson’s shoulders, and then sat on the edge of the bed.  “You were dreaming.  It must have been one heck of a nightmare.  I’ve never seen you so scared.”

“It was terrible.  The barn was on fire and the horses were calling for help.  I opened the door, thinking there was a lion in there, but this thing…this thing came after me.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  It…it tried to kill me.  I had the rifle, but I couldn’t squeeze the trigger.”  He stared into the darkened room, seeing the creature once again.  “Grandpa, are the horses safe?”

“Yes, they’re fine.  Everything’s fine.  The power’s still out, but everything else is fine.  How about you, boy?”

Fully awake now, Stan reached for his grandfather’s gnarly hand.  Finding it, he gave it a firm squeeze of gratitude.  “I’m glad you’re here.  I couldn’t remember if you were coming home or not.  That was a bad storm, Grandpa.  It scared Lucifer.”

“Don’t worry about it, boy.  I got hung up at Becker Creek.  The darn thing overflowed its banks.  And then lightning hit a tree right in front of me.  It burst into flame like a torch.  Next thing you know, the grass caught fire and surrounded the truck.  I thought I was a goner.  The gas, you know?  But your grandmother must have been watching over me, like she always does.  The flames moved away, silently creeping back into the woods as if blown by a ghost.  Her spirit has saved my life more than once.  I sure owe that woman.”

“Next time you see her, give her my thanks,” Stan whispered.

“I will, boy.  I will.”

“Did you see anything in the flames?  You know, like an animal?”

“I was too scared to pay attention,” Grandpa said.  “Even if I had, I couldn’t have done anything but sit there and watch. You calm enough now to go back to sleep?”

“Yeah,” Stan answered as he settled back on his mattress.  “Would you mind staying for a bit?”

“You want me to hold off that demon?”

“Yeah.  That would be real nice.”

Silence fell, wrapping both men in a blanket of comfort.  Soon snores echoed off the walls: Grandpa’s deep rumbles harmonized with Stan’s staccato tenor notes.  They slept.