Class and blog update

For anyone checking on this blog I have made a few changes.

• Member blogs listed on top right.  They are listed according to date posted.
• Below the blog list is list of articles posted by members.  Each title has the writers name attached.  If you are interested in a particular member's post just click on the title and that article will come up.
• If you want to post a story you can log in with your password and copy to the "new post" area.  Once you copy from your own writing program you may need to do some editing.  (i.e. - letter size, paragraphs. etc.)
• If you have any questions, you can email me (Stan) and I will try to help.

If you have a blog and want it listed please email me the blog dope and I will put on the member list.

If you would like to start a blog I can help you get one up and running.  It is free and can be fun.

I highly suggest you follow Amy's blog.  She is a great writer and just reading her writing can help us all be better writers.  She posted a great blog called "The Box" on this site and also on her own site.  It reads much easier on her site due to editing problems on this site.  (sorry about that Amy.  I haven't figured how to make the site easier to copy from word)

We begin anew on Jan 04, 2011. but unfortunately I will be out of town and to make it worse I cannot remember if we had a volunteer for the prompts.

for our last session (12-14-2010) LoRee furnished the prompts:

1. If I could speak in another language it would be________, because...
2. My favorite Christmas carol is __________, because it always makes me___
3. If I could live one day of my life over again it would be the day....
4. I'm looking forward to 2011 because....
5. The one thing that really scares me to death is.......

The session was attended by LoRee, Betty, Jim, Jim, Barbara, myself and Mary.

Hope everyone is having a great holiday season.

The Box - Amy

The box arrived and I let it sit there. I knew what it contained. Something hard earned. Something wrought. Something personal. Something lasting. It sat there waiting for me to open it. There in the upper left corner of the square box, oversized, I thought for its contents, but befitting its sender, was the return address sticker. His name simply printed. Mine, scrawled in black felt marker. An artist's hand. I didn't want to open it because I knew that with one slice of the knife I would unseal emotion I had boxed up in order to begin a new chapter in my own life. I didn't want to open it because I wanted to hold on to the moment to the memory to him. But there it was beckoning to me through its corrugated exterior something to be relished something to be cherished. I slid the knife along the taped edges until it neatly opened. A knowing anticipation. A tiny, monumental, private moment between the two of us. The box within the box, a highly polished, lacquered piece of art itself shining amidst tissue paper and bubble wrap bespoke the treasure within. The story of a life and the author's signature laying claim to it. An effort spanning over eighty years. In my hands I held the gift of a lifetime. Jim's autobiography. Volume 1. Its title, A Song of My Years. For me. His story, a reminder of the unfinished chapters of my own life. The files of starts, nearly dones, abandoned pages of then waiting to be opened. A Song of My Years reminds me it's never too late to begin again. Jim's song a sweet symphony of inspiration I will savor for the rest of my life.

Bringing Christmas Home - connie

This is the Christmas story I started but never finished, it's the story that needed to be told (as Amy would say).

Bringing Christmas Home
“And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.” ~Dr Seuss

The Grinch was on to something, Christmas always comes, in times of plenty and in times of want, with bells and whistles or in the most silent of nights, Christmas comes. This is a truth I learned on Christmas Eve, 1976.

It was my first Christmas as a single parent and oh how I wished that Christmas wouldn’t come. It just couldn’t come, there was no money for gifts, my family all lived out of state, and I had no idea how I was going to get the lights on the roof top or buy and haul a Christmas tree. Scared, lonely and the mother of a seven year old girl, it just wasn’t going to happen. But, of course, it did happen.

Erin’s “big gift” that year was a used stereo bought from a co-worker. A girl friend helped me drag a small Douglas fir home from the market and we twirled lights around the porch posts, skipping the perilous climb to the roof. My parents sent me $20.00 to use for goodies for Erin’s stocking and another $20.00 for her to shop for me. I drove her to the local dime store and waited in the car while she shopped. I think she bought at least 35 gifts with that $20.00. It was enough to fill the bottom of our tree with awkwardly wrapped packages, each topped with a stick-on bow.

I bought a steak to broil for our Christmas dinner, just one to share and we baked and decorated sugar cookies. Our little house was decorated, the fragrance of cookies filled the air, and the presto log was ready to light in the fireplace.

On Christmas Eve her father picked her up to take her to his family’s home, the place I spent my last ten Christmas Eves. This year he had his new fiancée with him and she was bringing the dessert. The dessert had always been my responsibility, my contribution to the family dinner. I was glad Erin would be with the family, her Grandparents, her Aunt and Uncle, her cousins but I felt discarded and replaced and terribly, terribly alone. I volunteered to drive an extra shift that night; I drove the Airport Shuttle bringing passengers home from the airport. I wore a funny Christmas hat and a smile was pasted on my face. Truth be told, my stiff upper lip was starting to tremble by the time I left the bus in the transit yard and headed for home.

I remember pulling into the drive way of my dark lonely little house and looking around our usually quiet little cul-de-sac. I could see that every house was lit up and my neighbor’s guests were parked along every square inch of curb. As I opened my screen door to insert my house key, a bottle of cheap red wine fell to the porch shattering upon contact with the concrete. An eager real estate agent that had been after me to list my house had put it between the door and the screen, where I saw a crumbled life and a ruined marriage, he saw dollar signs. The shattered bottle was my proverbial last straw. As I swept and hosed my porch I cried, not silent tears but great gulping sobs as I loudly repeated, “HO, HO, HO, Merry Christmas”. Looking back, I think I’m fortunate that none of the neighbors called the police.

I got the porch cleaned up just in time for my daughter to come home. She came through the front door and into my arms, hugging my neck and saying “I missed you Mommy” and Papa and Nah whispered and told me that they missed you too”. In that moment Christmas came, without ribbons and bows, cookies or carols, Christmas for me was my little girl walking through that door. She brought Christmas home.

U-2 - stan

This morning Connie sent an email about the U-2 Spy Plane.  It is a wonderful video that takes you too 70,000 feet and you fly above the clouds inside the U-2..  Watching the video was my first flight inside of the U-2 and actually I was amazed that it is still flying and that it is still flying spy missions.

I was aware of the U-2 program way back in the early 60's when it first used to fly over Russia.  I belonged to the Air force and Air Intelligence was my specialty.  However, I was only the flunky that filed the papers and emptied the waste baskets.

The U-2 used to take off from Barksdale AFB and I was privileged to see it take off on a few occasions.  The U-2 was not part of the program that I was involved with but when the Russians shot  the U-2 and Gary Powers down I was able to read all of the inside info on the flight.

Normally the U-2 flew way above the altitude the Russians were able to get to but they knew it was there and tried everything in their power to shoot it down.  They were not able to even come close until the plane had an engine burn-out and Powers couldn't get it restarted.  When if dropped to 30,000 feet the Russians were waiting and shot it down.

Theoretically Powers was supposed to take the "off" pill but he opted to live and bailed out.  His capture caused an international incident at the time.

When you watch the video notice that the plane is not marked in any way with the normal markings of a US war plane.  The pilot and the passenger have some kind of US patches pinned to their left shoulders.  They are not sewn on.  I assume they were there only for the publicity.

The reason the plane is not marked is that if it should crash in "enemy" territory the US can claim that it "knows nothing".

One final note.  The U-2 that I saw taking off would only hold one pilot.  After it left the run way it would begin a vertical flight that would take out of sight with in seconds.  It is basically a glider plane built around a huge jet engine.

To view the video go to the following link:

http://www.wimp.com/breathtakingfootage/

potatos, jellybeans and google - stan

just some thoughts on potatoes and jellybeans without out the use of google.  have no idea why.  they are just there and I need to regurgitate them.  the thoughts not the potatoes and jellybeans but maybe google.

there is a reason why i'm thinking along the lines of potatoes and jellybeans.  these thoughts were instigated by news stories.

sometime not to long ago, someplace in the USA, someone or somebody or some government bureaucracy banned potatoes from someplace claiming that we americans were getting to fat and potatoes were the cause (i think).

so a man that grows or sells potatoes protested by eating nothing but potatoes for 3 months or a similar period of time.  he ate potatoes for every meal.  he ate nothing but potatoes.  he lost weight.  not bad.  i like potatoes maybe it would work for me but I have a better idea.

jellybeans. 

pres. obama is going to sign a law that bans jellybeans in school lunches. the law will allow skittles but not jellybeans.  i am not even going to try and figure that one out but it may be because pres reagan loved jellybeans.  however, i do not want to accuse obama of being political when it comes to school lunches so maybe it is because he does not like jellybeans.

I have decided that I need to go on a jelly bean diet to protest the banning of jellybeans.
lets see, now I weigh  235.  check me out in three months

Meeting - 12-07-10

Small meeting today.  Judy was not feeling good, Barbara had car problems, LoRee went to see the Rockets.  I didn't hear from Diohne or Glory but assume they were baking cookies for next week.
Connie furnished the prompts.  They were excellent and based on Christmas.

Connie wrote on A Christmas that almost didn't come.  Excellent on her first Christmas after her divorce.

Betty used the "words" prompt and wrote an excellent story on an open house for Christmas

Jim Hunter wrote about "The best gift" and made a great case for family togetherness

Jim Haddad wrote about Ghost of Christmas past and the great Christmas decorations they used to put into store windows.  He ended it on a funny note about all you see now are manikins with only bras and panties.

I wrote a smartalec piece about the ghost of Christmas past drinking my Christmas spirit.

Mary wrote a nice piece about the best gift.

It would be fun if everyone typed them up and posted them on the blog (all I want for Christmas)

The stories that came from home were great.

Betty wrote an excellent tribute to her dad "Buddy"

Jim Hunter wrote a fun piece about a "Ronald Regan rose bush".

Jim Haddad wrote about his memories "Pearl Harbor" bombing as he listened to the radio that fateful morning.

I wrote a story about "Eddy" that seemed to be well received.  I put that up on my blog
"Taters, Maters, Words and Water" if anyone would like to read it.

Mary wrote a great piece on her first teaching assignment.  She is really beginning to blossom with her writing

Connie wrote a fun piece ranting about the butchering of "A Christmas Story" and a list of her favorite movies. 

Next week posts by LoRee so bring your funny shoes.  She needs material for her show.

Horse Meat and Ants by stan

The power of the mind is awesome and sometimes strange.

Sometimes it doesn't matter what something really is. What really matters is what your mind perceives it to be.

Take for example the day I got a great buy on ribs. They were 45 cents a pound (remember my name is Old Grizz).  I bought about 20 lbs for the week end cook out. The normal price in those days was around 1.75 per lb so you know I got a great deal,

 But that is where the mind thing comes in.

About the time I got  those ribs half way home I began to wonder why they were so cheap and of course my mind naturally got around to "horse meat". The more I thought about those ribs the more I could see some poor ass horse in a slaughter house and the more my stomach began to churn.

I wasn't about to eat "horse meat" so I threw the ribs out. I knew I would never be able to eat them.

Fast forward to my life in the here and now.

We just paid big bucks to have a new kitchen put in and my wife had to have "granite" counter tops.  She chose the color.  It is dark Brown or black with beige mixed in.

The other night I was fixing a snack on her pretty new counter and I was attacked by ants.  They were everywhere but I didn't even see them when I started the snack.

Seemed like there were millions of the little thugs and I couldn't see them. They blended in with the counter top very nicely. Of course I sprayed and sprayed and washed and washed and sent all their little bodies into the sewer.

Now my problem is this "ants in the mind"...my mind. I see ants every time I go into the kitchen.

My wife has never been so happy. I wash the dam counter at least 3 times every night and twice before my coffee in the morning. I can't get them out of my mind.

God how I wish I was an Aardvark.

the road to hell

One of the most recent fads to hit America is the GPS system.  Everyone has to have one. They do not need one but they have to have one.  They need to keep up with the neighbors. 

I have not felt the need to buy one.  I have figured out how to maneuver through the cities of Los Angeles, New York, San Francisco, Seattle, Salt Lake City, Atlanta and the ugly city of Buffalo, New York.

I accomplished this by having a map and some common sense.

Oh yes, I have been lost and I have hovered  around my destination for long periods of time.  However, I have always felt that the lost and hovering times were my adventures.  I've seen places that I would have never thought of visiting.  I have seen the barrios and the ghettos of several major cities and believe it or not I am glad that I have.  (probably more glad to be alive)

When I am alone, being lost is not a problem.  I just keep searching until I find what I am looking for.
My troubles start when my wife is with me.  She has a lot of trouble controlling the car when I am driving.  That does not stop her from trying. 

She has a habit of telling me where to turn and adds to the problem by using her finger as a turn signal.  I used to get mad as hell but over the years I have learned to accept her directions and not pay attention.

But now  she has acquired a "Droid" phone.  When she acquired the "Droid" she discovered that it has a built in GPS system.  I can thank my techie son for that little tidbit of information.

"Oh goody," she said.  "We will never get lost again."  I just rolled my eyes wondering what I was in for.

It is really ugly.  I mean the whole scenario of my wife and me driving to new destinations is ugly.  At least it is ugly for me.  When we get into the car out comes the "Droid". 

"Turn left", says the "Droid."

"Turn left here," my wife says,  with her finger pointing left as if I don't know which way left is.

The really excruciating thing is the damned "Droid" has to tell me how to get out of my own neighborhood.

Sometimes, just to stir the pot, I will not turn or I will turn the wrong way.  They both start jabbering a mile a minute.  The "Droid" wants me to turn at the first street I come to.  It seems very paranoid that I am going to get lost.

My wife is upset because I "don't listen" and wants me to make a U turn at the next corner. 

If I am lucky we are on a street with miles and miles of no U turn intersections.  Then I can go into the back neighborhoods where even the "Droid" can't find its way out.

I keep my mouth shut and smile inwardly.  A guy has to have some fun.

Thanksgiving and music

Every year at Thanksgiving time I get frustrated.  I get frustrated about the music on the radio and in the malls.  It's not Thanksgiving music.  It's Christmas music.

I keep wondering why  they play Christmas songs before Thanksgiving.  However, I really do know why and so does everybody else.  Christmas is not really about Christ anymore.  It is all about money. The quicker we are tantalized with Christmas music the more money we will spend.

No one has really commercialized Thanksgiving except for the supermarkets and the turkey farmers.  So far no one has figured out a way to make Thanksgiving into a gift giving day.

I think that is a major miracle.  Think about it.  The flower world has not tried to get us to buy flowers. Hallmark has not had a major push for cards. (well, maybe a few).

So maybe Thanksgiving is really a gift from God.  A day of true family unity.

Maybe we should give our thanks to Jesus on this day and let the leeches have Christmas.

However, we really need some good Thanksgiving music.  Something like:

bless our table with Turkey wings

please pass the gravy someone sings

Bless this food and all that's good

let's leave Christmas for Robin hood

Pass the cranberry's and apple pie

oh my stomach we all say with a sigh

bless our families with peace and love

but most of all God

send your blessings to all

from heaven above.

Those are some words and now they need music.  Any volunteers?



The Imposible Dream - Connie

August 28, 2010 Connie Wolf This is what I wrote for my last assignment for our on-line class. It is not what I posted there, that's another story but it is what I wrote so I'll post it here, where I feel safe:
Assignment: If it weren’t impossible I’d…..
If it weren’t impossible I would make the whole world laugh. My gift to the world would be a giggle, a chuckle, an “I can’t catch my breath” belly laugh. I would write a world-wide column that would be translated in every language, printed in every newspaper the world over. It would miraculously transcend all cultural, regional, and social differences.
My little essays on the absurdity of the human condition would be reprinted in an anthology that would sky rocket to the top of every imaginable Best Sellers list. It would stay there, on top, year after year. It would be outsold only by the Bible. This would be accomplished without one personal appearance without a single interview and without a book tour. I would be allowed to cling to my privacy, maintain my anonymity and revel in my solitude.
Eventually, I would stretch my creative muscle and write a novel. This novel would be filled with laughter and tears, touching the hearts of my loyal readers. The book will be made into a Tony award winning play that will go on to break all records on Broadway. Inevitably it will be translated to the silver screen. This story, like most first novels was somewhat biographical and the heroine, a thinly disguised me. My character would be played by Julia Roberts, perhaps? Maybe Sandra Bullock, or more likely, played by Kathy Bates. It would have to be an actress that can laugh at herself, could laugh at the entire human predicament. I would like this laughter to transcend gender and maybe be played by Hugh Grant; I love his satirical British humor. Better yet, I’ll remain a woman but transcend cultural and ethnicity barriers, I could be played by Queen Latifah.
Forgive the digression; let us get back to matter at hand, making the whole world laugh. The only public appearance I would even consider making would be the presentation of a personal monologue, a sort of underplayed stand up routine. My routine would never rely on obscenity or stoop to cruelty. I would play only for the masses, no smoky late night comedy clubs for me. I would make a DVD from a performance given to a conference of PTA mothers. I would distribute it for free. I would appear only on daytime television. Maybe Oprah or Ellen or better yet, PBS, never would I appear on late night or cable TV. I want to share laughter with hospice and assisted living centers, in cancer wards and prisons, in soup kitchens and in the waiting room at the DMV, God knows those people could use some distraction. My audience would be old, fat, and tired like me but I would also reach out to the young and struggling, the lonely, the misunderstood. I would share laughter not at the Four Seasons but at the Sizzler, not at the Hilton but at Motel Six, and not in the Big Apple, on the Las Vegas strip nor an exclusive resort on Maui, no I will perform in Pittsburg, Bakersfield and Kingman Arizona.
I would be ignored by the Pulitzer, rejected by the National Book Award and, of course, shunned by the Nobel. I would accrue my honors from the P.T.A., from Parents without Partners and Overeaters Anonymous. I would be overjoyed if I could lighten the load of twelve step programs everywhere. Let others grace the pages of the New Yorker; I will proudly publish my quips in the Pennysaver. I will broadcast on AM radio stations played in the drive up window of McDonalds, the waiting room for Mammograms and piped through ear phones in the dentist’s chair. I’ll do warm-up acts for Weight Watcher’s Meetings, for Neighborhood Watch and Tupperware parties. I will be your “Everywoman”.
If it was only possible, I would make the whole world laugh.

conquering your own summit

I get a weakly blast in my email from a site called "Zen Habits".  When I signed up I thought that Zen would be good for my soul.  However, like a lot of other things I sign up for, I very rarely read it. I call it "Zen for my soul".  It's not that I do not need it, because I do.  I just find every reason in the world to avoid looking into my Zen Soul.

However, today I read a guest writer and his mountain theory.

How to Summit Life’s Everyday Mountain (Scott Dihsmore)

“The man who moves a mountain begins by carrying away small stones.” ~Confucius


....Last week I sat on top of Mt. Shasta, a 14,179 foot mountain in Northern California. It was my first real summit and I was proud. Getting there took me through two days of snow, ice and below-freezing camping conditions, using crampons, an ice axe, and more layers than I thought I owned.

......I began to realize the lessons required to reach the top and make it back down safely. As it turns out, the most important rules are just as relevant in the snow as they are in conquering our everyday challenges.


When was the last time you reached a mountain summit, whether outdoors or in life?

He is comparing reaching a summit in life to climbing a mountain.  I think what caught my eye was the statement about sitting on the mountain top. That brought a part of my own life to memory.  I sat on a mountain top once but it wasn't Mt.Shasta.  It was a small mountain in the Cedar Breaks area of Southern Utah and it was only a half mile hike from the road.  However, I hiked my mountain and let it all hang out.  I climbed my mountain in the nude.  I sat on my mountain top in the nude.  I heard my echo yelling back at me in the nude.

Scott gives the following advice for mountain climbing and life:

Pack light...I certainly did that.

Take one step at a time...you try to take two steps at one time and you'll fall on your butt, nude or not.

Don’t go at it alone...disagree here...not to excited about a lot of people seeing me in the nude.

Listen to the experts...actually I wasn't to interested in hearing about other people hiking in the nude.

Slow down...well duh, you cannot walk fast over sharp rocks with bare feet.

Look back and take in the view...check for Forest Rangers while your at it.

Save some energy for the trip down...now there is some good advice.  No one wants to spend the night nude and on top of a mountain.  (at least I don't)

Getting to the top is optional...I don't think so...why would I want to walk around a forest in the nude and not claim victory over a dumb mountain.

Getting down is mandatory...double duh...if you cannot get down, don't climb the tree.

Failure is a part of the process...OK, get out of the car, take you clothes off, shiver for a couple seconds, put your clothes back on and wait for a warmer day.

“It is not the mountains we conquer but ourselves.” ~Sir Edmund Hillary

I absolutely agree Sir Hillary.
 
Running around nude in the trees and rocks is awesome. Standing nude above a canyon listening to your echo screaming the call of the wild is an experience few will ever experience.  I was not sure if my echo was nude.

Eat your heart out Scott.

three dots and a blah

I have been writing a lot lately but most of it has been my (book?)... (there they are) and my net class.
I have not been very happy with the net class.  I took the class to learn something.  I was hoping that I would get some constructive criticism and just maybe learn how to improve my writing.  The only criticism I have received is about my punctuation. The criticism is, "there are some problems you need to fix."  OK, what are they?  I was hoping the instructor would at least say what is wrong and maybe give me a lead  as to where to go for some help.  I was not given any help.  Unfortunately I know I do not have the greatest knowledge of punctuation and could use some help.  The class I am taking is not the place to go for help.
However, I have discovered  that using three dots (...) is not good.  My problem is that I have fallen in love with the three dots.  They solve a ton of problems for me.  "Word" allows me to use them without screaming at me with red or green lines so I assumed I had found my panacea for writing.
However,  my instructor told me to get rid of the dots (...).  It made me want to cry because it is sort of like having to return a wallet full of money that you just found.  You know you cannot keep it but it sure would be Nice to have the money.
Alas, poor me...adios my old friends...I will never forget you...If I ever become a famous writer I will resurrect you...

Third Summer Nap

Dust motes dance in the sunbeam that slants across my bed. I’m lying on my back, my legs in the air. First I wave them freely about then I walk my bare feet up the wall, going higher and higher until my hips leave the bed. Suddenly, I lose my balance and I fall back with a resounding thump. Mommy calls out from the kitchen,
“What are you doing in there? You are supposed to be taking a nap”.
“I’m not tired,” I call back.
“Then just lie still for fifteen minutes and rest your eyes. Just fifteen minutes and then I’ll let you get up”
I grimace and wiggle some more, eyes wide open. I don’t want to sleep. It is summer and the side yard is full of wild strawberries to eat and daisies to pick. A breeze smells sweet as it gently flows through my bedroom window. I am too young to know if the fragrance is from the clover and sweet peas outside or from the freshly laundered and starched gingham curtains that move with the current of air. I don’t even wonder I simply accept it as part of the delight of this perfect summer day, I could not yet conceive of any more to come, not tomorrow, not next month, not next year.

It is my third summer but I am experiencing it as my first, a year is a concept that I haven't yet grasped, I remember no other summer. Every joy, every touch, every taste, every smell is wondrous and new. The smell of fresh cut grass is not laden with nostalgia and memories when you are only three. It is the first delicate scent on the first day of the first summer ever. The first time my bare feet touch the lawn and I feel it’s tickling delight an unbidden giggle bubbles up. The metallic taste of water drunk directly from the garden hose astonishes my tongue. Digging in dirt, capturing a ladybug, the prick of the berry bush, all are new, all are remarkable, all waiting while minutes stretch like hours before me.

I couldn’t sleep; I wouldn’t sleep, not on my one and only perfect summer day.

Perils of a 20th Century Gal in a Techno World

by Connie Wolf My husband, the gadget guru, says I’m technologically challenged, well “Duh!” Even he, the die-hard fan of bells and whistles, admits that perhaps, in some situations, modern technology has gone too far. Yesterday we ventured out into a brave new world; we went shopping for a new laptop computer. We decided to visit South Coast Plaza because amid the Rolex, Gucci, and Versace there is a Sony store and an Apple store where Jon could get all his questions answered by the experts, all of which were young enough to be our grandchildren.

Have you been in that mall lately? The place is enormous! We took careful note of where we left the car and ventured in. Unable to find a store directory, we wandered in wide eyed wonder until we found a uniformed security guard who pointed us in the right direction. Jon entered the Sony store with a glowing rapt expression on his face; I left him giddily pushing buttons with a sales rep at his side. I was off in search of a restroom. I found the sign pointing the way and following the long hall until I came to the door marked, “Women” and stopped short when I read the sign that said, “Wave at the door to open”. I looked over my right shoulder and then my left, no one around. I looked up to see if there was any sign of a hidden camera. Just as I was trying to decide if a one-handed or two-handed wave was in order, and whether it should be a horizontal or a vertical wave, I was saved from my indecision by someone exiting the restroom. I slipped in as they slipped out, problem solved.

What do you think of these modern, all electronic restrooms? Personally, I’m convinced they were invented by evil mad scientists who are determined to confound and embarrass me. I prefer to flush my own toilet, thank you. The bottom line is I am not going to walk out of that stall until it’s flushed. This usually involves waving my hands around in front of the sensor or even sometimes pressing my body to the side of the booth trying to trick the mechanism into thinking I’m gone, whatever it takes, I am there for the duration. When that mission is finally accomplished I still have the daunting task of washing my hands before me. This entails a lot more hand waving to get the auto sensor to spit a little water on me. As I’m madly waving my arms around the person next to me simply walks up to the faucet, holds her hands under a spigot that releases a nice steady stream. What is that about? My faucet turns off while my hands are still full of soap causing me to wave again, spattering soap on the mirror, counter and the front of my blouse. Giving up, I decide to just wipe my hands on a paper towel and then wipe up my mess and get out of there. This is going to take a bit more than the tiny square of paper dispensed by the automatic towel machine so a line forms behind me as I wave my hands again and again in front of yet another demonic sensor.

Finally, I return to the computer store where Jon still stands with the sales rep. He no longer looks so joyful, his eyes are glazed over and a frown has formed between them. He turns to me and says, “There is so much to consider, the screen resolution, the speed, the storage capacity, the video card, the CD ROM, the battery life. What do you think?” he asks. “I like the blue one” I say “It matches your eyes”.

Don’t Get Me Started

By Connie Wolf My last column was a rant about my aversion to high tech restrooms. Motion sensors for toilets, sinks and towel dispensers make me crazy. It doesn’t stop there; don’t get me started on the subject of my new cell phone.

Please understand I appreciate the cell phone. It gives me a great sense of security to know I can call home, the automobile club, or in the worse case scenario, dial 911 whenever or wherever I may need it. In the twenty first century we don’t need to look for a phone booth, fumble with change or even venture out of our car to get help. This is a good thing and for this I am thankful. The problem is my shiny new metallic, glow-in-the dark cell phone befuddles me.

My children send me pictures on my phone with cryptic text messages. I don’t know how to save the pictures or answer the messages; I’d much rather they would just drop by for a visit. My inability to master this device is not from lack of effort, I once sent a two line text message to my daughter or at least I thought I did. I played hunt and peck on the teeny tiny keyboard for twenty minutes then pushed an itty-bitty button and poof it disappeared. Apparently it was the wrong itty-bitty button; I asked her if she ever got it, she didn’t. It’s just gone. Is it now drifting in cyberspace or hidden in my phone? Who knows, certainly not me.

I once tried taking a picture with my phone; my husband tells me that I have the latest in electronic flash equipment right there in my cell phone so I tried it. Unfortunately, I was holding it backwards (who knew?) and I took a flash photo of my eye. It was frightening, both the picture and the effect on my eye. I won’t be doing that again!

Jon even bought me a blue tooth for the phone assuring me that I could now drive and talk hands free. I’d be safe and legal. Isn’t that technology at its finest? I wore it while running some errands on the day he brought it home. The tiny wireless contraption fell out of my ear; I never even missed it. It could have happened in the grocery store or in the parking lot or maybe at the gas station, I never even talked on the thing, not once, it happened that fast. “Surely you felt it fall out”, queried my husband in obvious exasperation. “No” I answered “and don’t even think about buying me another one”.

The cell phone is not the only example of the electronic confusion that terrorizes my home. We have a DVR/cable TV remote control that looks like it could be a control panel for NASA, I think if I push the right combination of buttons, I could bring space lab home. In our closet there is a shelf with an electrical outlet and a power strip. This is where we recharge all of our technological wonders. There is a charging cord for the digital camera, two cell phones, two MP3 players, an IPod and Jon’s e-reader. I have no clue as to which cord goes to which device or what hole, slot, or port you plug it into. When I look at that shelf, I am so tempted to just clear it all off and store my shoes and purses there. Of course, in the name of marital harmony, I wouldn’t really consider it. Not seriously. Our electronic docking station is here to stay.

Stewart Brand, the editor of the Whole Earth Catalog said it best, “Once a new technology rolls over you, if you're not part of the steamroller, you're part of the road.” I guess we know what part I am.

When I was nine

I was introduced to death when I was just a boy by my two year old neighbor, Timmy. Timmy was a strapping tow head toddler with lots of curiosity. I am sure Timmy never intended for me to see death at the age of nine. I can still remember Timmy running around his back yard, his blue eyes sparkling in the sun. He would laugh and giggle with his dad in chase, pretending not to catch him and then grabbing him up with a big tickle and a rub on his chubby belly with whiskered chin. No daddy, no Timmy would giggle and then ask for more.

Then one hot summer day when Timmy's dad was away Timmy could not be found. We all looked and yelled and checked all the neighbor's yards and houses. Have you seen Timmy? Timmy's missing everyone would say and another neighbor helped to look that day. Timmy's dad came home and the police were called and they all searched all over again.

Timmy's dad was scared and Timmy's mom was frantic and then someone, I can't remember who, found little Timmy Roebuck floating in the irrigation ditch behind my home. I was there when they pulled him out all wet and blue. The ambulance came and they tried to make him breathe and then my mom was crying and said. "Timmy is dead". I didn't understand death and I wasn't sure what it meant but I cried too. Timmy's gone to live with God they said.

They put Timmy's tiny body in a tiny casket in the house next to mine. My mom asked me if I wanted to say goodbye to Timmy and I was afraid to say no. We walked next door hand in hand. Timmy's dad was stern and Timmy's mom was crying.

My mom walked across the room to say goodbye but I was afraid to follow because I did not know what I would see. My mom said, "Come on and say goodbye" and Timmy's dad said, "Yes please, Timmy would like that."

I edged across the hard wood floor and I shut my eyes and did not want to look but my mom said, "Open your eyes and say goodbye, it will be alright." I opened my eyes and looked at Timmy. He lay quiet and looked peaceful and looked alright. I did not know what to say so I stared at him and then reached to feel his hair. It was blond and soft and felt alright so I put my hand on his chubby cheek to feel his skin. But Timmy's cheek wasn't soft and warm and didn't feel alright. It was cold and hard and felt like stone. Timmy startled my fingers and etched my mind when he introduced me to the stone cold feel of death when I was only nine.

I wrote and I am not afraid

I wrote

and I heard truth

Truth

had always been there.

Truth

is always there.

Why didn’t I

see truth before?

Why couldn’t I

hear truth before?

Truth had nudged

me for decades.

I just nudged

truth back.

Truth would not go away.

Truth haunted me.

I knew not

 what truth was.

truth was in a place

I cared not look.

truth was in a place

I dared not look.

I never thought

to look for truth

through my pen,

through my grit

through my grime.

I never dared

to look for truth

through my pen 

through my grit

through my grime

Not until

I wrote and I wrote and I wrote

about

the things that are

about

the things that aren’t

about

the things that may

about

the things that might

that

truth was heard.

Truth

spoke to me

with words

from a raining cloud.

Truth

spoke to me

withwords

from the sizzling lightning

burning

across the sky

blazing

a path

that I was

afraid to walk.

The words

dripping blood and ink

awakened

my mind,

awakened 

my eyes,

awakened

my heart

awakened

my soul

truth

spoke to me

and now

I have the strength

to walk the path

of  the sizzling lightning.

I am not afraid

of falling any more.

lost in the words

I drift across my words
wondering where you are

I look behind a phrase

hopeing to find you there

a sentence about romance

opens to find you gone

I stare through verbs and nouns

and you dance before my mind

but yet a paragraph from my hand

seems not to touch your heart

maybe if I write a book
you will spend a moment with me                                                  
                                                                           gsbatty

Mother and Daughter

Lunch on Wednesday
Face to face
Toe to toe
You judge me
I judge you.
I’m waiting for you
Scanning the parking lot for your car
Not your fault
I’m always early, you are hardly ever late.
Time to think
Time to wonder
Will I say too much?
Always, I always say too much.
Will I say anything that will offend?
I always do.
It’s never intentional
But never-the-less,
My words are a cause for offense.
You will take each statement
Twisting and turning
Until you find the pin prick of transgression.
“I knew it”, “I knew it” you’ll say.
“No, no, that’s not what I meant”
Too late, the words are out there
You find what you seek.
We play out our acrimonious history
Your mind tweaking the dialog
Forcing the words to fit within the frame
The frame you’ve built for me.
And all the time
It is you that judges me.
As we walk out together
We pause on the sidewalk.
We fumble through an awkward embrace.
“Same time next week?” you ask.
“Looking forward to it” I say and I walk away.

First Moment

This is a poem I wrote in class on Tuesday. Amy said I was very dismissive of my work so I took it home. Read it over. Corrected the spelling. Typed it up and decided to post it here. If I'm going to be dismissed it's not going to be by me!
First Moment
The first moment I was aware of you
Was a Surprise and an affront
“Liar” you said and my head whipped around.
The first moment I saw you
I fell into your eyes
Large liquid brown eyes
That belied your taunting voice
That hinted of a vulnerability
Your mocking crooked grin couldn’t hide.

My dance partner was ignored as I bantered back,
“Am Not” I retorted.
“Are too” you answered.
You danced your partner even closer.
I was wearing a carefully ironed yellow cotton sundress
You wore stained and worn knee length shorts and
A tee shirt that may have once been white.
I wore white sandals carefully polished
Your feet were bare.
I was embarrassed and my flushed cheeks
Told the tale
You were brash with darting eyes and
Rapid fire retorts.

young and shy

I wrote this poem in my journaling class and was not happy with it.  I have rewritten it and tried to improve it but I think it still needs more work.  Following this poem I am going to attempt to write a poem on the real prompt.

Write a "first moment" poem

It was a time when I was young

It was a time when I was shy

I looked at her

but let her pass me by

It was a time when our voices were strong

It was a time of glorious song

I sang with her

but let her pass me by

it was a time when the music was right

It was a time we could dance all night

I danced with her

but let her pass me by

It was a time I looked for her and she was not there

It was I time I ask her why

I wanted her badly

but let her pass me by

It was a time she did not come

It was a time I did not ask

I assumed she would be there

but let her pass me by.

It was a time when I was young

It was a time when I was shy

I really wanted to be with her

but let her pass me by.

a first moment poem

I felt her voice
through my heart

I saw her eyes
through my heart

I heard her words
through my heart

her voice, her words, here eyes
are my heart
                                             gsbatty

one by one

I watched closely as they walked towards me.  I waited patiently as they got closer.  One continued but the other three turned and began to explore the areas near them.  But the first one did not wait.  He continued towards me. I wasn't sure if he knew I was near and was seeking me out.  He seem to be suspicious because the closer he got the slower he walked.  He stopped and turned towards the others but they were busy with their own inspections.  He paused and then came on.  I killed him with one swift blow and pushed him off to the side so the others could not see him.  I waited patiently for the others.  I could see them.  They were spaced apart, each proceeding more slowly.  They seemed to sense there was a problem.  The second one continued towards me but the last two stopped and waited.  They seemed to be discussing something as the second one came forward.  The last two turned and went in the opposite direction.  The second one was close. He never saw me and I left him where I put the first one.  I was thinking I would have to go after the last two but then I saw them coming towards me.  They moved slower than the first two, stopping every so often to look and try to sense what was ahead.  The came slowly at first but then one of them stopped but the other seemed to be charging at me.  He never saw me and I know he had no idea what killed him.  The last one waited and I waited.  He was close but I could feel his suspicion.  He turned and went back to where they had come from.  He escaped before I could react.  I lost him.  I knew he was going back for reinforcements. 

Dam, now I was going to have to use the ant spray.

I can't stand those creepy little buggers.

maters

My dad called tomatoes, "maters".  When we were camping he would would put a dutch oven on the hot coals of the camp fire, pour in water and cut up some potatoes and then add the "maters".  Then in would go some onions, some carrots and then a slab of meat.
He called it his "taters, maters, wood and water stew".  One of the blogs I try (very poorly, I might add) to maintain is called "taters, maters, words and water"  I write it in honor of my dad.  I do not post enough on this blog but I have "captured" the name and and on days when I think about my dad or something about my life I try to write a poem and publish it on the blog.  I have no idea why I write poetry on a blog in honor of my father because I don't think he ever read a poem.  Also, we never discussed anything about education or reading.  In fact his favorite form of liturature was any book by Zane Grey.  I am sure he read every book that Zane Grey wrote.  Add to the Grey books those of Max Brand and Louis L'Amour and you will have a great idea of what was on his book shelf or rather in our house on the night stands, the coffee tables, the kitchen tables and the work bench in the garage.  The really great thing was that my mother also loved to read the western novels and since they were all over the house I also read them.  That still does not explain the poetry thing.  I have never written a poem about a horse or a cowboy hero.  I have no idea why I am comparing cowboy books and poetry.  Maybe one of the heroes or maybe one of the bad guys wrote poetry under the stars and it stuck somewhre in the back of my brain.  Maybe when I think about my parents I get mellow and writing poetry is a  way  to honor their memory.  So when ever I get a little mellow I will pen somes words to ease my mind.  Hopefully those words will have some meaning to someone other than me.

The Dream

June 20, 2010 Connie Wolf
The DreamI had the most extraordinary dream. Extraordinary not in content, in fact it was the most ordinary of content, it was extraordinary in emotional impact, in physical sensation, in the eradication of time.
In my dream I felt the energy of youth again; I felt it physically and emotionally in real time. I was actually young and strong and all of my jiggly bits were firm. There was a young man wearing only knee length shorts, his chest was smooth and hairless. I felt such a physical longing to reach out and touch him. He knew exactly what I was feeling, he desired me too. Neither of us moved. Our eyes locked together prolonging the sweet torturous moment, the touch was of course inevitable but it never happened. I woke up.
I groaned aloud and struggled to go back to sleep, to recapture and continue my dream but, of course, I couldn’t.
It lingers. It’s been two days and the dream lingers still, how absolutely amazing to have such feelings trapped in my sub-conscience mind. These were actual physiological responses that I haven’t felt with such intensity in decades. It’s all still there, lurking beneath the surface.
What pharmaceutical cocktail created this nameless boy and resurrected the youthful fervor in me? Can I perhaps duplicate the night? Duplicate the weather, the barometric pressure? If the same windows were open, if the same sheets were on the bed, if I wore the same nightgown, if I slept in the exact same position with the exact same configurations of pillows, could I go back?
“In a dream you are never eighty” –Anne Saxton
“Dreams are a semi-deliverance from the human prison”-Henri Amiel

Get Your Pens Ready

This is a reminder that we will meet at 3:30 June 22nd at SPLC!

My Tomato Plant

My Tomato Plant

It truly is the simple things in life that brings one pleasure, in my case it is my, what began as little, tomato plant.

One Sunday a while back after mass, the Priest was giving out fruit and vegetable plants and asking parishioners to take them home and plant and care for them and return the crop to feed the hungry who gather for meals each week. Well of course I grabbed this darling little tomato plant. It said “take me, take me home, I will do well for you.” I heard it, really I did. My husband was somewhat reluctant, as we don’t have a garden or a yard, only a small patio. “Just where do you plan on planting that he said?’” “Oh, I’ll find a place, don’t worry.” He knows me by now; he just said that because he always says that.

Well upon returning home, as I cradled the seedling in my hands like a kitten on the way, he planted it in a pot, as I knew he would, and he has coddled and cared for it more than myself. I think it has brought out the speck of farmer in both of us. Each day it seems to spring up another inch or two, until now it’s is as tall as my 5’ self, and just laden with tiny green tomatoes. Each time I look out my kitchen window and see the grand plant on my oh so small patio, I gleam with pride and want to pat ourselves on the back. “We did it, we brought that little sprout into a full growth.” There really is such a joyous satisfaction watching something like a simple tomato plant burst forth fruit.

Now, these couple of months later, my dilemma is, do I really bring my crop back to the church? No one kept track or would know the difference, but I profess to be a good and honest Christian gal, yet I got quite attached and my heart is kinda wrapped around these little soon to be red critters. It will be hard to part with them, but I know I will do what is right, and I also know I will throw a few of those yummy fellers on a big summer salad before I leave the house.

Betty McCallister 6/15/10

stan's update

I have been writing a story that started out as "a six page mind" but has now evolved into "Himshee".  It is a story about mind wasting and trying to recover a wasted mind.
It is a story about the "money" of success and the "failure" of a wasted mind and a man's search to regain a mind he threw away...

I committed to a challenge from the blog world to write a page a day for 30 days and on this I day I completed that challenge. 

My story continues to grow and evolve.  The story moves from an unfinished education and success in the world of business to the hoodoos and white castles of the canyons and just recently to a headless state trooper in Nebraska.  The story is not finished but what I have written is published on my blog "Burned Toast and Coffee".

A Thanksgiving Memory

I read this is class this week but it wasn't finished so here's the complete story:
A Thanksgiving MemoryConnie woke to the sound of rain, it had rained all night and she slept better than she had in months. She had a theory. Burglars, rapists, and assorted deviants never worked on rainy nights, why would they? They didn’t punch a time clock, they made their own hours. She felt safe on rainy nights and slept through the night curled into one little corner of her king-sized bed. As she squinted at the clock, feeling for her glasses, she remembered why no alarm clock rang, today was Thanksgiving. A no work, no school day lay before them, a day unplanned, unstructured, the most non-traditional of Thanksgivings. It was their first Thanksgiving since the divorce, no family lived in California it would be just the two of them. She felt the depression materializing around her, like the grey smog that so often hide the California foothills, poisonous, insidious and potentially deadly, there was only one way to defeat it, hit the floor running. Catching a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror, she grimaced, her dark hair stuck straight up at the crown and lay in ragged edges on her neck , this payday for sure, she had to get a haircut; she skipped it the last two paydays, trying to save every penny for today. They were not going to eat Swanson’s TV dinners in front of the television set, not today. They were going to Denny’s. This was the 1970s and Denny’s slogan was, “We’re always open”. Every place else was closed, this was a stay-at-home family holiday and it felt like everyone else had a family straight off the cover of the Saturday Evening Post. “OK, enough” she told herself as she stepped into the shower. As she soaped her body, she determined to count her blessings. Blessing number one, she had never been thinner. A failed marriage, stark terror and an erratic work schedule had done wonders for her figure; it had chiseled every ounce of extra flesh away. She wondered how she would look in a pair of tight jeans, new clothes were not in her budget but it sure would be fun to try some on, trying on clothes was fun and free, she reasoned, maybe this week-end, they could go to the mall and try on clothes, no better not, too hard on Erin if she couldn’t afford to buy anything, too hard on her too. OK, she told herself, let’s get back to the business of counting our blessings. Blessing number one, she was fashionably thin. Blessing number two, she had no credit rating in her own name; she didn’t qualify for credit cards so no temptation could lead her into debt. Blessing number three, there was a pot of coffee waiting in the kitchen, she headed that way while wrapping herself in an oversized bathrobe. After filling her favorite cup she turned and there was Erin standing in the doorway, “Good morning Mommy” she said around a yawn. “’Morning Baby Bunny” answered Connie reaching out her free arm to hug her, thinking, Here’s blessing number 4, 5, 6 and beyond right here. Here was her reason for living. She felt herself choking up and gave the tousled haired seven year old a little shove “you go put some slippers on or least some socks and I’ll get you a cup of hot chocolate. We’ll have a cuddle and watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.” “OK Mom, Happy Thanksgiving. “Happy Thanksgiving to you too baby”. Two hours and one parade later it was still raining. “Now what are we going to do?” Erin asked, “Now we are going to get dressed, get in the car and go see if we can find some adventure”. “What kind of adventure?” “Well, if I knew it wouldn’t be much of an adventure now would it?” “Dorothy didn’t know what was going to happen on the yellow brick road, did she?” “No, she didn’t” said Erin, that was good enough for her; they had read all the OZ books together, a chapter a night, they were among Erin’s favorites. Ten minutes later she emerged from her room wearing her favorite Ditto Saddleback jeans (now a couple of inches too short), her tattered sneakers and a sweatshirt that said “Yellowstone National Park” across the front “How’s this?” she asked, “Perfect” her mother answered, “comb your hair, brush your teeth, wear your warmest jacket and we’ll follow our yellow brick road”. As she slipped into her own, now baggy jeans and an old sweatshirt, Connie wondered how she was going to turn a cheeseburger at Denny’s into a grand adventure. She knew there was a Denny’s down the street from Knott’s Berry Farm so she headed the blue Pinto towards Beach Blvd. Maybe, just maybe the shops and chicken restaurant might be open today. She had called every movie theatre, shopping mall, and miniature golf course that she could think of, all were closed. She knew that the ponies were running at Hollywood Park but somehow that just didn’t seem appropriate, not really family friendly. As they drove by Knott’s she could see that they were out of luck, closed up tight as a drum. She made a U-turn in the entrance driveway saying, “Nope, our Yellow Brick Road doesn’t lead here”. But there’s a Denny’s down the street, let’s get something to eat and see what happens next. Her voice, with its false cheerfulness, set her teeth on edge. She glanced sideways at her daughter and tried read her expression but her little face gave nothing away. She remembered the first time Erin came home from spending the week-end with her father and his new girlfriend, she said, “I kept my face plain so no-one could tell what I was thinking”, was that what she was doing now? Making her face plain? About half way down the block, something caught her eye, there was a couple of cars in the parking lot and a person in the ticket booth at the Movieland Wax Museum, she made a quick U-turn in the middle of the block, Erin looked at her startled, “Keep your fingers crossed Baby, I think I know where the Yellow Brick Road is taking us. They parked the car and made a dash for the door getting soaked in the process. The bored looking girl in the ticket booth said they were the first customers of the day, maybe their only customers of the day. “Really?” responded Connie “You mean we have the whole place to ourselves?” “Yup” was the reply. Somehow this cheered her up enormously; there would be no one to stare at them, to wonder what their story was, to wonder why they were alone on Thanksgiving. At first they just walked around looking at the figures, it was spooky quiet and their voices echoed when they spoke. They looked at a few political figures, a replica of Michelangelo’s David and General George Patton. Most of the displays, however, were dedicated to Hollywood. The silliness started with Mae West reclining on her couch, they each took a turn at posing by the display and saying “Why don’t ya Come up and see me some time” out of the corner of their mouths. The bored guard reminded them not to touch or go pass the ropes and they promised that they wouldn’t, after that he left them pretty much alone. The movie scenes with their original costumes were the best. Mother and daughter danced and sang in front of Debra Kerr and Yul Brenner; they joined hands and twirled around the floor to “Shall We Dance” from the King and I. They joined Gene Kelly and Debby Reynolds in “Singing in the Rain” it seemed so appropriate for the weather, so they did that one twice. They did their best rendition of a tap dancing Shirley Temple “On the Good Ship Lollypop”. But the display they returned to again and again was Dorothy, the Tin man and the Cowardly Lion skipping down the yellow brick road. They locked arms and skipped through the museum, “We’re off to see the wizard the wonderful wizard of oz. Because, because, because, becaaause of all wonderful things he does”. They danced and sang and giggled until the guard came in to say that it was closing time. It was dark as they returned to there car, but the rain had stopped and Denny’s was just a block away. “I’m starving” they both said at once and laughed again. Years later they couldn’t remember who said it first but they forever more titled their day, “The Weird Family Goes to the Wax Museum”. It was the first of many weird family adventures. They were only two, they were weird, square pegs in round holes but still, they were family and no family had ever been closer than they were on that Thanksgiving Day.

Update on My writing - Stan

I have attempted to maintain 3 blogs and post on TWA and I think it has helped me with my writing.
However, I have decide to take a challenge of writing one page a day for 30 days.  I am going to post my writing on my blog "Burned Toast and Coffee".  I will continue to post on this site about class writing and stories.

For the 30 day challenge I have chosen to expand the article that I read in class on 5-11-10.  I named the article the "mind taker". It was written for class and those that heard it felt that it did not have a beginning, a reason or an end and they were right.  I felt the article had some promise so I am attempting to expand it into a 30 page story.  Wish me luck.  I am re-writing the article and changing the name to "Himshee".  I am posting the story I wrote for class below.  If anyone has some extra time and would care to follow my story on BTandC, I would be honored.  I would also be excited if you could also comment and be critical and offer your honest thoughts on what I have written.

The mind taker

I sold my mind to the soul of nothingness. To be nothing was my choice. I chose to be nothing. I chose that path for my life. It was a place for my mind to wallow in a sty of eternal regression. It is a place of sloth, a place to recline in the glory of mindless achievements.

I walked into the pawn shop of eternal hell and laid my mind on the counter. “How much can I get for this,” I asked? “Not a hell of a lot”, the mind taker grunted. “It’s not worth a tinker’s dam” and he almost laughed himself into convulsions.

“This mind is almost useless, passé. You have let all that is worth redemption die. It is a mind of waste. I can only give you the curse of an eternal two lane highway to nowhere. You will forever travel the same path. You will be removed from the beauty of truth.

You will not need to make room for a growing mind. You will be forever in a rut of silage. You will be plowed under only to return over and over like a blade of grass. Your mind will be my mind.


“What will you do with it”, I asked? “Nothing,” he replied, because that is what I am.” I will put it on the shelf of “forever lost”. “Can I ever redeem it”, I asked? “A lost mind is always redeemable for the right price”, he smiled.

Cool, I said. Let’s do it.

The bargain was made and my mind was left behind and I did not care. I was happy because I had learned all I needed to know. I did not need my mind anymore. It had served its purpose and was useless to me. I was smug and smiled at the stupidity of the “mind taker”. I had made the better deal. I did not have to worry about wasting my time expanding a tool that was no longer necessary. He had my useless mind sitting on the shelf of….what? Where did he say he would put it?


My heart danced and my feet skipped down the street as I gloried in my success. I had duped a fool. Only my mind, sitting on the shelf of “forever lost” and the “mind taker”, knew that the fool was me.


“Redeem it...Redeem my mind...Why?” I lectured in the halls of nowhere to the mindless souls that would listen. I did not need it anymore. I was happy the way I was. I was successful. I had a path to walk and a road to follow. I only needed to stay where I belonged. But my path, my road was a destiny of forever denial. It was a destiny I could not betray. I had sold the tool of escape. I had sold the only tool I had to learn and grow. I had sold me. I was happy wallowing in my sty of eternal regression.


My mind was slowly dying on the shelf of “forever lost”. The “mind taker” haunted my dreams. But a dream was only a dream. I was happy. I continued backward. My mind continued to slowly die.


My body continued to walk the road of nowhere. Was there ever to be redemption? What was down that lost road? Would I ever find a way to redeem me? Would the “mind taker” still be open or would he be closed for eternity and have taken my mind with him. I did not asked nor look. I did not need to know because `I was still happy wallowing in my sty of intellectual filth.

a strange feeling

Class assignment - combine an unfinished story with a line from a book. I chose a James Patterson murder mystery)


When I got out of the hospital my camper was waiting for me. I drove out of Sinalejo heading north. I decided to finish my Baja camping some other time. After a few miles a car moved in behind me. At first I wasn't bothered but as the miles went by and the car just stayed there I became edgy. I decided to turn around and see what happened.

The guy behind me, all sideburns and tattoos, elbowed his girl friend. "Damn", he said. "What the hell is he doing now?"

I am not sure why I turned around but, as I was to find out later, it was a damned good thing that I did. Maybe it was a 6th sense I never knew I had or maybe I was just afraid of my own shadow.  What ever it was I'm glad I did turn around and head back to Sinalejo. I wondered why I was going back but I couldn't shake that edgy feeling so I kept going. The car that was following me kept going. I did not see it turn around. There, I thought, you are just being stupid.

When I drove back into Sinalejo I stopped in front of the cantina and sat there a few minutes wondering if I was crazy. I still wasn't over being accused of raping and killing that nun. Thank God for an intelligent Sheriff that used his head and not his heart. If it wasn't for him I would be hanging from a tree out in the desert. Instead of losing his head he looked at the evidence and now two sleezy Arizona bikers were in jail for the crime. Even though the mob had beat me up he stopped them from lynching me.

The weird feeling was still there and the chill in my spine returned.  I decided I needed a cold beer.  As I was getting out of my camper, the "car" that had been following me out in the desert went by and stopped in front of the small grocery store about a block away.

Two people, a man and woman, got out. They did not look my way but went straight inside the store. I had a strange feeling and another cold shudder ran down my back.  I shrugged my shoulders and went into the cantina.

Maggie, the bar maid said, "Senor, Why do you return?" "We thought you were going back to California." "Did you miss me already?" "Oh Maggie," I replied. "I missed you before I was out of town. "How about getting me a cold cerveza?" "Si senor Johnny," she replied.

I was drinking the cold beer at the bar thinking that I must be crazy when the couple walked in and took a table near the door. The man had long greasy hair and long greasy sideburns. He had tattoos on every part of his body that I could see. He even had the ugly "LOVE" & "HATE" tattoos on his fingers. He was in his mid forties and had a pot belly. He was approximately 6 feet tall. I couldn't see his eyes in the dim cantina. The girl was a brunette about 5 foot 5 inches tall and a little on the dumpy side. She may have been pretty at one time but now it was obvious that a hard life had caught up with her. They were both chain smokers.

They both ordered bottled beer. They were trying not to be obvious but they were eyeing me. That wasn't too hard to figure out.

I became painfully aware that I was the reason they were there. I made no bones about staring at them. They were hunting and I was their quarry. The problem was I didn't know why or how serious it was. I ordered another cerveza and had it about half gone when the sheriff came in. He sat on the stool beside me and said "Maggie sent for me". "She seems to think you may be in trouble." "I don't know," I replied. "That couple seems to be very interested in me and I don't know why." "They were following me out on the desert so I got a little edgy and decided to come back. They followed me into town."  He replied, "That's interesting because they left town right after you did." "I noticed that they came back right after you so I had their plates ran. My deputy's over at the office waiting for an answer. When Maggie called I thought it would be better for me to wait here."

"Thanks," I said. "I was beginning to get a little nervous." The couple paid for their beers and left. The sheriff and I waited for the deputy but I didn't order another beer. I still wanted to head for home but this time when I left I was going to drive straight through and only stop for gas. The deputy came in with the results of the inquiry on the couple. The information was only about him. He was tied in with the same gang as the two creeps that had raped and killed the nun. The gang believed I was responsible for getting those creeps arrested.

"You know my friend," the sheriff said. "I think they want to harm you for getting their friends arrested. "Great," I replied. "Now what do I do?" "Well I cannot arrest them until they kill you or at least try to kill you," he smiled." "Thanks a hell of a lot," I groaned. "However, he replied, I can arrange to hold them for 48 hours while you quietly leave town."

He motioned and his deputy left. I waited a few minutes and went out to my camper. The sheriff followed me out and we shook hands. As I was walking to my camper I saw three deputies hand cuffing the weird couple.

I left Sinalejo for the second time and I hoped the last. As I was driving home I made plans to go all the way to Canada and stay there for a few years. I hope they won't be able to find me up there.

The Process

Stan’s piece “Spilled Tea” inspired me to share some of my creative process with the group. Wouldn’t it be helpful if we all shared our little writing secrets?


The Process
By Connie Wolf
9:00am
I sit at my desk, notebook, pens and computer at the ready. I scribble a title or an opening sentence. I cross it out; I draw a flower in the margin of my now, desecrated page. I have a prompt at the ready or maybe, on rare occasion, an original idea and even a vague notion of where I want to go with it. I’ve set aside the time, I’m dressed in my most comfortable sloppy non binding clothes. I’ve had my morning coffee, took my morning pills and brushed my teeth. What’s there to stop me? Let the creative process begin! Dun to Dun…….Dun to Dun……Charge! I sing to myself.
9:15am I think, maybe I’ll look up some quotes up on the internet, something I can copy, respectfully attributed, kind of a kick start. No! I tell myself, you’ve done that entirely too much lately they will have to re-name your column, rather than “Connie’s Corner”, they can name it “Connie’s pithy quote of the month” or “Stuff I Wish I had Written” or “Ramblings from a Vacuous Mind” I like that word vacuous, I’m going find a way to work it into my piece. What piece? I haven’t written a word. I need to put pen to paper and write for twenty minutes without stopping, it works in class it should work here but first I’ll warm up my coffee and use the bathroom, wouldn’t want natures call interrupting my creative flow.
9:30am On my way back to my desk, I take a sudden interest in the disarray in my kitchen, the dish towel was not hung up and the potholders are all askew, I straighten them and look out the kitchen window, it looks like my neighbor Jan put some new piece of pottery in her flower bed, for someone on a fixed income she certainly spends a lot on statuary, it does look nice though, she keeps it so neat and tidy. What am I doing! What am I thinking; I’m going back to my desk and get started right now! I pass a pile of junk mail on the corner of my desk. I’ll just sort through this and throw it away. Look at that waste basket! It’s full again, over flowing, I have to empty it and replace the liner; I can’t just leave it like this.
9:45am Back at my desk, I doddle some more, a daisy, an eye with a single tear drop. How pitiful is that? I’ve been doodling all my life and I’ve shown no improvement at all, I doodle the same way now as I did in the fourth grade, If I would write as much as I doodle I could have completed a trilogy by now. Why are so many works written as series now? It’s gimmicky and I don’t like it, I mean if I don’t discover an author until they are seven books into a series I’ll never find all the volumes and if I do, I can’t afford that many at one time anyway. Well, Lord of the Rings and the Chronicles of Narnia were series and I can hardly fault them. Enough of this mind wandering foolishness; I must get back to the matter at hand. Maybe I’ll forgo paper and pencil and compose on the computer instead. No more doodling for me!
10:00am Sitting before me is a nice clean word document, I’ll start with my name and the date, Amy says we should always put our name and the date on our piece; we need to own our work. You know what? I am really bored with Times New Roman and Arial I need a new font, something to give real life to my piece, maybe Papyrus in Plum or Gungsuh in sky blue……. What exactly is a “wingding” font? I have a variety of wingding fonts none of which consists of letters. What are they used for? I’ll Goggle it; it’ll only take a moment. Well, according to Wikipedia they were invented by Microsoft for Windows 3.1, they were developed in 1990 but it doesn’t say what it’s used for. On Answers @ yahoo.com they say they are just used for decoration, you would have to print out a chart of all the symbols and then use them to make a line of smiley faces or something. Well that sounds like a waste of time, speaking of which, I better get back to my writing. An opening sentence might be just the thing. How about, “I try not to think about it but my mind often returns to the visceral memory of……..” Oh I’m not sure if I used the word “visceral” correctly, I better right mouse click it and read its definition, you know what I like? I like the way you can right click on a word and find all those synonyms for a word that is so cool! I mean, if I use the same word three times or maybe more I am being redundant, right mouse click and Voila! Of course it might be more authentically creative to come up with my own words but, on the other hand, there is much to say in favor of modern technology, I mean William Shakespeare probably wrote with a pen and quill but I’m certainly not going to do that, am I? I wonder if he did, write with a pen and quill I mean maybe I should look that up. No, I won’t, I need to get down to it right now. Let’s see, where was I? Yes, “visceral memory” oh there’s that melodic little chime, I have an email, I’ll just take a quick peek and see who it’s from, I’ll be back in a sec.
10:30am It was just an advertisement but it had a two for one coupon in it, so I printed it out. A penny saved is a penny earned I always say. Yeah I always say it but Ben Franklin wrote it and I better start writing something for myself. Was it Ben Franklin? I’m going to look that up. Yes, it was Ben Franklin, it sounds like old Ben doesn’t it? Another email, this one was from the vacations-to-go newsletter, that volcano in Iceland sure has played havoc with global travel hasn’t it? Well I’ve put down my email program so no more interruptions from there but now I’m thirsty, I’ve had enough coffee for today, think I’ll switch to diet Pepsi, of course it contains just as much caffeine and a bunch of sodium to boot. It also tastes good and I’m going to get one. On my way back to the desk I glance out the window and notice the wind has really picked up today, it’s only 62 degrees out and it’s almost 11:00. Almost 11:00, no wonder I feel hungry, I skipped breakfast, and besides I’ve been at this for two hours, I need a break. Then this afternoon I needed to do a bit of shopping so I better jump in the shower after I eat. I don’t know how I ever got anything done before I retired, the days speed by so fast. Oh well, tomorrow’s another day. I’ll write tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I’ll brook no distractions, I’ll display stellar self discipline, I’ll try some of Jon’s Yoga exercises, to clear my mind and invite the muse. Tomorrow, I’ll write tomorrow.


April 21, 2010

SPILLED TEA

Time and how it affects writing is a curious concept for me. Everyone I know wastes time. We all procrastinate and bemoan the fact that we do. I question whether it is really procrastination or the uncrossing of the mind? There is probably some mathematical formula that will predict or tell if we are procrastinating or clearing cobwebs but I have no idea what it is. I choose to believe that no matter how long the time period is between one word and another I am not procrastinating. I am clearing cobwebs or as I call it, I am “uncrossing my mind”

I work cross word puzzles and frequently when I am stumped I will put the puzzle aside and go back to it the next day or even longer. I am always amazed that in many of the puzzles I am able to solve them after my mind has had a rest from them. Has my mind worked while I am asleep or does a fresh mind take a different look at the problem? I know when I write something if I go back and read it over I always change it. My mind seems to look at it in a different way? Has a short period of time made that much difference? Is that really the right thing to do? I am told that often the best writing we do is in the first draft.

Is time the “grim reaper” to a writer?

Time and mind seem to run on the same track or at least along side of each other. When the semaphore of knowledge like the semaphore on a train track rises, the mind is in a certain speed and time zone. When that same semaphore closes time continues but does the mind follow or does it wait and get on another train at some future date? When time continues without the mind does the knowledge go on or does the mind wait in some nebulous location waiting to be restarted?

When I’m writing a story, sometimes the words flow and the mind is working on however many cylinders it takes to make it work. Time seems to stop and not exist. But when the semaphore closes and the mind loses continuity or blows a gasket and the words do not come, then time seems to be a clock in your brain.

Maybe your brain turns into a clock and your mind becomes like the “mad hatter” running around, spilling tea while your mouth mimics the words, “I’m late, I’m late for a very important date.” The words, “writer’s block” spill from our mouths like the “mad hatters” spilled tea. We stare at the paper or the computer knowing that the clock is ticking. The big hand is visible inside your brain. There is a deadline looming. Your mind becomes confused about what it is supposed to do.

I think the mind turns off like a computer and needs to be rebooted. A long walk or a nights rest or a good hot showers are ways that I use to reboot my mind and get it creating words again. That’s what seems to work for me.

Often I will think about the direction of my article and not write anything about it. I will write about some part of my life. Then I will start writing anything that comes to mind about my project. If nothing seems to flow I will put it aside until the next day and try again. Sometimes this works really good and I write something that I am really excited about. However, often I end up in the “mad hatter” state writing an article with the spilled tea stains and it turns out to be a disaster.

I try to use those “mad hatter” articles as learning tools. I hope it is working. “Only time will tell”. What time does the train leave? I have a very important date with the “Mad hatter”.

S. Beatty/April 2010

The View From Over My Shoulder

It’s been a full month since I’ve written a word, not an entry in my journal and no idea what I’ll write for my column in the Hawker. Nothing more interesting than a grocery list has come from my pen. It once was a lazy malaise, it became self doubt and now it looms as an oppressive fear. Can I write again? Am I even capable of putting words on paper, words that will make you laugh or even smile? I don’t know but I do know that I am not laughing much myself these days. I probably can’t ask you to join me in the laughter when, truth be told, I have lost my smile. To be perfectly honest, the only thing that comes easy to me is aging. With everything else, there has always been effort counter-balanced with a profound love of inertia. Particularly difficult in my life is anything that requires balance, coordination, physical strength or even the smallest measure of grace. When I was six I went to a Saturday morning ballet class and at the end of the term there was a dance recital. My father, an avid amateur photographer, snapped picture after picture of the event. In each picture I was on the wrong foot. The line of little tutu clad girls had their right foot forward, I had my left. They turned clockwise, I turned counter clockwise. There it was, captured in black and white, frozen as eternal evidence of my lack of grace. The other girls’ faced the audience with their eyes raised angelically heavenward while I with my back to the audience looked over my shoulder trying to figure out what went wrong. I heard the audience titter, I knew they were laughing at me. As the pictures of my recital were passed around at family gatherings, I was laughed at and hugged in merriment by aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. I was a roaring success as a comic if not a ballerina. This is who I was, this is who I am. I will continue writing; continue sharing the view from over my shoulder. I will figure out what went wrong and I will find my smile. After all, it is impossible to smile on the outside without feeling a bit better on the inside and I am more than ready to do that.

The decade of loss

The first decade of the 21st century was not good for me. It was not a good decade for me because it stole my dreams. It stole from me the right to spend some free time with my brother Richard and my sister Kaye.

The first decade of the 2000’s was not supposed to be the end of their lives. It was not supposed to take their lives. I had plans for them and in order to complete those plans they had to continue to live. But they didn’t. The decade took them away from me.

The first was my sister. She was the eldest of the four children raised by mother and father. She was always there for me. She was there for me when I was five and she was there for me when I was thirty-five and again when I was 65. I had always had plans to go on cruises with her when I retired. She loved to go on cruises. The trouble was that I didn’t get to retire before the decade took her. When the decade took her it took my plans and dreams with her. I never got to make that trip with her.

Next the damned decade came and stole my brother. He was the second oldest and I was the youngest but there was only three years differences in our ages. We were supposed to go hunting and fishing again just like when we were kids. We were supposed to sit on a porch and drink whatever we damned well pleased. We were supposed to sit on a porch and swap lies. We were supposed to sit on a porch and dream about a future that would be all too short. We were supposed to ride the range again with an old broken down jeep and talk about our dad and how great he was. We were supposed to laugh and giggle about our dad’s old pink and black truck. We were supposed to talk about mom and how he kicked my butt when I sassed her. We were supposed to talk about the days he worked at Stanford University and how he got me a job there. We were supposed to laugh about Tony Ferlito and the girl’s dorm. We were supposed to remember how Tony grabbed the hot electric wire when the naked coed walked by. We were supposed to remember how grabbing the hot wire knocked him off the ladder while he was telling the naked coed her naked body¬¬ didn’t bother him.

We were supposed to grow old together. We had all of these things to do and all of these things to talk about and that damned decade took that from us. That damned decade stole my brother.

Now all I have are the memories and what great memories they are.

Stan Beatty/April 2010

Reed’s Billiards Part 2

Mr. Chips

After two weeks of working Thursday and Friday nights with Bubba and Saturdays with Both Reed and Bubba, I was given my own shift and regular hours. I worked 4 to 7 Monday through Thursday and 4 til closing on Friday and  12 to 8 P.M. on Saturday.

The man I called Mr. Chips walked through the swinging doors at 12 o'clock noon on my first Saturday. I had just clocked in and it was very busy. At first I didn't pay any attention to him because I was busy at the far end of the bar setting a couple of guys up with a pool table. Bubba was rolling the dice for beer. Mr. Chips sat on the stool nearest the door. I didn't see him until I walked the bar to see if anyone was dry.

When I saw him the first thing I thought was that he did not belong there. He wasn't the same type of individual as the other patrons. Our normal clientele were farmers, constriction workers, steel workers from the mill and Indians. He was none of those. He was from a more gentle background. My first thought was that he was from the college and I had been caught serving beer and what was much worse smoking a cigarette. Smoking and drinking could get you expelled from Brigham Young University. Brigham Young is a Mormon school. A good Mormon does not drink alcohol and does not smoke.

At first glance he had a very distinguished look. A mane of dashing gray curly hair erupted from his head. It looked like it was groomed and it looked like it had never been combed. His nose had the pinch marks of glasses but I never saw him wear glasses. I assumed he wore glasses when he read. He looked like he had been a handsome man in his earlier life. but now as I got closer I noticed his face was a little puffy and a little red. He seemed to have a 2 or 3 day beard growth. He was dressed in a suit with a vest but he did not have a tie. The jacket was worn on the end of the sleeves. I realized that he may have been a college professor at one point in his life but I was sure he wasn't at that point. He ordered a draft beer and did not bother with any small talk.

I never gave him much thought. He ordered one draft after another until about 4 o'clock. When I went to his end of the bar he ordered another draft but his words were slurred and I decided he had enough. I told him he was done. I wouldn't serve him more beer. He had a hurt look on his face but he didn't get mad. I asked if he was driving and he said no. I asked if he had a ride and he said no that he was walking. He stood up and walked out the door. He didn't stumble or teeter like a drunk. He actually held his head high and seemed to walk with a strut. He made me feel like he wasn't drunk. He walked out like a man that was indignant because he had been insulted.

He still puzzled me. I meant to ask Bubba about him but we were busy and after Mr. Chips walked out door I never gave him a second thought until he walked in again one week later.

He was dressed exactly the same. His hair looked exactly the same. His nose had the same eyeglass marks. He wasn't wearing glassed when he came in. He sat on the same stool and the only thing he said as he laid a $10.00 bill on the counter was, "I'll have a draft and keep them coming until that's gone. He said the words clearly with a strong deep voice and I thought that he must have been a public speaker at one time. The voice almost had a song attached to it. I wondered if he had been an actor at one time.

I tried to get a conversation going by asking him how he was. He looked my way but I don't believe he really even saw me. He never responded. He looked at the beer without touching it for a long time. I wasn't very busy so I just watched him. Finally he picked up the beer and seemed to down it in one gulp. Dam, I thought, he could give my cousin Nell Ann a race. I'd seen Nell Ann swallow a whole pitcher without taking a breath. She was one broad you didn't want to try and out drink but I was wondering if this guy wouldn't give her a real good race. "Another", he said. He put that one away almost before I put it down in front of him. "Again", he said. He wanted another before I could get his money into the register for the last two he guzzled. He had five before he slowed down. Then he drank steady not sipping but not guzzling either. In two hours his ten bucks was gone. He ordered another. His voice was still strong. I asked him if he was driving and he said no. I gave him another beer. He never offered to pay and he sipped this beer. He took a long time to finish that beer and ordered another. I asked him to pay for the last one. He looked at me like he wanted to kill me and tears dropped from his eyes. He stood up and tried to back away from the bar but his foot caught on the bar stool and he fell flat on his butt. Two guys went over and helped him up. He gave me another dirty look and stumbled his way through the swinging doors. I went around the bar and followed him out the door. He was walking north with his hands making gestures in the air. I watched until he turned left onto the first street he came to.

I had really misjudged how drunk he was. I was worried about him so when I went back inside I made a point of asking Bubba what the deal was with my "Mr. Chips". Bubba simply said, "He's just an old drunk". "He comes around for a few days, sometimes a week, sometimes he will come almost every day for a couple of weeks and then he disappears for awhile." "Ask Reed, he knows about him." "Reed told me to treat him good but I can't stand the old drunk". "I was glad that you had to deal with him."

That was my first lesson on the care of bar drunks. I learned that when you have worked the bars for awhile, "drunks" do not create a hell of a lot of sympathy. They create a lot of trouble and no one wants to hear their tales of woe. I did not ask Bubba about his feelings. I had some interest in "Mr. Chip's" story but I couldn't create a lot of empathy for him. He reminded me of the drunks that hung around with my brother. I made a mental note to ask Reed about "Mr. Chips".

When I got to work on Monday, "Mr. Chips" was there. He was so drunk he couldn't sit on the stool. He was holding on to the bar so he wouldn't fall down. Reed was across the bar and there was a man in suite trying to help him stay on his feet. "Come on John", he said. "Let me help you home". Reed backed him up, "John you have had enough, go on home with the bishop."

John (my Mr. Chips") would have none of the bishop's help. "Get away from me" he slurred. "You get out and take your lousy God with you". Then his words became clear and his voice became strong as if he had never had a drink. "You take your god damned God and shove him up your ass. I want nothing to do with you people. You and your God can stay the hell out of my life. Stay the hell away for Lois to". "Now John", the bishop said. "God was not responsible for your son's death." Jerry's death was an accident."

"Mr. Chips" face grew red with anger. The veins in his neck looked like they could burst at any moment. He clenched his fist and shook it in the face of the bishop. Then he grabbed the bishop by his neck tie and pulled the bishop's face to within inches of his own and said in a very low but clear menacing voice, "I gave my life to that fucking God of yours. I lived as I was taught and what did that pompous bastard do for me? "He let my son die. He let my only son die. I have no one else. I have no grandchildren. Your lousy no good fucking God left me with nothing. I gave my life to him and he took my son. Well you get this straight; Mr. fucking Bishop, there is no God. There is no God now and there never has been a God." Then he fell to his knees and cried like a baby. "I want my son back. I want my son back. I want my son back", he wailed.

At that point his wife walked in and found him curled up the floor of the bar in a fetal position, sobbing like a baby. "Come on John" she said in a low loving voice. "Let me take you home". The bishop helped her get "Mr. Chips" to his feet and they got him into her car and she drove him home.

Reed had tears in his eyes as they went out the door. I never had to ask Reed about "Mr. Chips". I learned his story the hard way. I also learned that having compassion for drunks is not a bad thing.

The Tuesday Provo Herald announced on the first page of the second section the following:

"A once prominent Brigham Young University Professor committed suicide last night or early this morning. Professor Jonathon E. Williamson was found hanging from the rafters in his garage early this morning by his wife Lois Johnson Williamson…………"

Bubba said good riddance. I never liked Bubba much after that.