anitawritesforyou

ending

2019-06-13T05:16:00.003-07:00

Is this the end of my blog? Time will tell, but, for now, I am closing the book.

2019-05-05T13:15:00.000-07:00

Write about:

Write about sunshine and mesquite trees heavy with pollen blooms.
Write about plants rooting in new soil.
Write about stars in the western sky popping out of the dusk darkness.

Write about baseball, its rhythms and ballet moves on the mound and infield.
Write about the crack of a bat from the powerful left hander.
Write about kids snacking on ice cream with dad wiping their faces with his t-shirt sleeve.

Write about stories--the bedtime mystery, the afternoon on the patio Irish tales of women gone wrong.
Write about stories--dragons in the sky, Indiana Jones taking a step across the chasm.
Write about stories--fairy tales and Nancy Drew, Bobbsey Twins, and Bible passages.

Write about what is elusive: joy, bliss, peace of mind, quietude--
until I write about all of it.

2019-04-21T17:02:00.004-07:00

Sights and Sounds from the Passover-Easter Weekend 4.21.19

Shabbot candle and prayers in Hebrew and English. We kept the door open at sundown to welcome anyone to join us. It remained just the two of us, but past and present family and friends were with us at the table

A simple meal of roasted chicken with olive oil, salt and pepper and rosemary cut from our yard. Matzo and meringue cookies. We finished the day with a ride through yellow blossoming palo verde trees and the breeze of sunset. Coming down the foothills, the pink full moon waved us home.

Saturday was stuffed with "to dos" that got done so we could relax on Sunday. An early task was planting a few marigolds that reminded me of my mom and her mom. In the middle of the day, we enjoyed a stuffed egg salad sandwich at Rin Con Market. At night, we watched the first hour of Cecil DeMille's the Ten Commandments during light Passover meal of matzo, greek salad, and grapes. I first saw the movie at the Crocker Theater in Elgin, Illinois and watched in amazement as technicolor parted the Red (Reed) Sea into a new world for Jews and Gentiles. On the other side of the sea, the Commandments, behind the Jews as they crossed, soldiers and the plagues, in front, far way, the prophesy of the Messiah.

Later, I listened to Mozart.

In the morning of Easter, the breeze turned to wind. I watered flowers, fed the birds. Skimmed the news and dressed for service. The big Methodist music at Catalina Methodist Church, exceeded expectations. The words from the music and from the pulpit of Pastors Dottie and Jamie brought an interfaith and "all are welcome here" message of mindfulness in the "meetup" moments we take with us into the broader and sadder world.

At the end, brass, organ and full choir four voices (the sopranos soared) welcomed us to stand and sing Handel's Messiah chorus.

I lost count of how many "alleluias" we said or sang this morning.

As the day ends with another simple Passover meal, punctuated by a return to secular life, I will watch Judy Garland and Fred Astaire in "The Easter Parade."

A full weekend of reflection, meaningful memories old and new, and faith and hope triumphant over fear.

De Grazia Chapel, now perished by fire

Roller Coaster Ride and Tripping Over Tile

2019-04-07T18:57:00.000-07:00

It's been a heck of a week and, as I write this, I am ready to turn in and tune out. But I promised myself (and whoever follows me on FB), that I would add a post to my blog soon. So here it is.

My roller coaster ride has not been fun and I have not yet been to the County Fair. Rather, for a few weeks, I have been up and down inside and out. And we have been having our two bathrooms updated, including switching out a fall-prone deep tub for a walk in shower in our master bath.

My primary doctor actually coined the "roller coaster" phrase for me last week and it fits. Right now I am on a plateau and hope that's where I will stay for awhile. I don't care for sharing all the grisly details so I won't and, heck, who wants to read that anyway. But here is a funny (after the fact) story that has come out of it that I will call "Tripping Over Tile."

So, on Tuesday, the tile crew (great guys from Arizona Restoration Experts), left a box of the 1 inch floor tile on the floor by the new shower. It's important to note that we had Italian tile installed--super heavy and durable. My husband was preoccupied all evening with the floor and drain. He had asked (and they complied) to have the drain and part of the floor redone after the first layout had too much of a slope to suit him. He's a safety professional and tough project manager which is important to the story.

So he's looked at the floor and drain multiple times. We go to bed. I am exhausted from two days of stomach pain, the doctor's visit and referral to GI specialist. (The ending of that episode is pending, but with samples of a medication, I am feeling better). About 1 a.m., I wake up to go to the bathroom. To get to it, I have to walk past the shower and then turn into the toilet room which has a separate door. The door is often closed. But, on this night, it is open. Another important detail.

Half asleep, I am walking. Yes. And I trip over the tile box. I am heading headlong forward, on my way to hit our concrete floors when I instinctively grab the toilet room door handle Good news: it stops me from falling. Bad news: the force of my falling pulls the handle toward me and into my cheekbone. The four letter word that starts with an F cascades out of my mouth and I scream in pain and regret, calling out to my husband, "the safety professional". One hour later, I am nursing my face and around my eye--which barely avoided the impact of the door knob. Next morning, a bruise (but little swelling) appeared and it's been that kind of a week.

I share this with the post script that, the next day, we went out and bought auto night lights for both bathrooms. We have lived in this house since 1997 and it's the first time we added night lights. So, we have the "safer" walk in shower (which we love), the tile box has been removed, and we have more light in the dark.

Here's a question for readers: when have you ever "tripped on the tiles"? Did you adjust to the darkness or add more light? In the spirit of the coming Passover and Easter Season, let's agree to not accept living in the dimmer light and take whatever "steps" we need to take to avoid disasters that are right in front of us...even if they are on the floor.

More than Obituaries

2019-03-21T10:41:00.002-07:00

More than Obituaries from A Local Paper

Ted de Grazia fresco formerly seen in The Chapel

Everyday I skim most of the newspaper except for the comics and the obituaries. With the comics, I look for a laugh or a bit of wry wisdom tucked into the images or dialogues. With the obituaries, I look for the faces of those who have recently died—or sometimes an obituary repost as memoriam. I know that photos are costly, especially when they are in color. For my parents, I wrote a simple text with no photo. They wouldn’t have wanted the expense, so I honored their practicality. But both my in-laws had photos and long texts which mirrored the dramatic ways they lived their lives compared to my parents’ common-sense frugality.

So maybe I look at the pictures wistfully, wondering who wrote the text and selected the photo that sums up an entire life. Did siblings argue and deliberate over every word and selection as in my husband’s family? Or did a friend or one child step up to the task just to get it done, as in my family. My sister didn’t sit by either of my parent’s deathbed, didn’t deal with the paperwork and arrangements and didn’t attend my mom’s stone placement or my dad’s nearby military funeral. But, as the eldest, I had the job of doing it all. When it was done, I was thankful it was simple and didn’t have the complexities of too many cooks in the kitchen, or too many children trying to direct their parents’ denouement.

Thus, I selected these two following obituaries because of a) photos that were posted by their names and b) the terseness of their stories. I wanted more for them (and maybe from them), so I took bits of truth from their actual obituaries and wove in my imagined mystery of their lives.

***

I. Gaye Jordan Dixon

Gaye gazed at her face in the mirror before pinning the cream-colored hat on her auburn hair. “My nose”, she considered for the millionth time, is a bit too round for anyone—except Bill—to call me pretty. But my nose’s length fits my face and balances the curve of my definitive eyebrows. I like my smile. I just need to remember to smile more, especially today.” Gaye dotted both lips with her newly purchased Helene Curtis cinnamon-red lipstick. The silver earrings, something borrowed from her Aunt Meg, poked out beneath her curls and the new hat. “There”, she thought, “Aunt Meg’s earrings are the final touch, making me the glowing bride of Hershaw, Virginia. “

Gaye gaily (yes, today the word today fit her like her hat) swirled around her apartment, before leaving to meet Bill. She was no traditional bride; the war had broken many traditional behaviors which Aunt Meg reminded her often. “Well, Auntie, times have changed and I am changing, too” was Gaye’s frequent response. Her job as manager for the Navy’s on base grocery store was a big leap after high school and working at the A&P. As she walked up the concrete steps to City Hall, her navy jacket with silver buttons informed strangers whom she passed that here was a woman who walked to the tune of her own bugle.

Bill was already in the lobby, waiting for her entrance. Gaye knew the quickened click, click of her leather pumps against the marble floor mirrored the accelerated pace of her heart. Oh, how she loved him and he was so handsome today. He didn’t often wear his full Navy uniform when off duty, but today was an exception. They were finally formalizing their “matched pair” status. They were both children of the depression and brought up with the Methodist values of hard work and duty. They weren’t youngsters and were frugal with their salaries. And she knew that Bill had been fidgeting about this day for over a year. He was tired of trying to keep their shared nights a secret from both families and Gaye agreed that pretending they weren’t already sleeping most nights together was getting complicated. Particularly, Aunt Meg had a sixth sense about Gaye’s social life and Bill’s Navy Pharmacy Supervisor didn’t approve of any fooling around of his staff. “He runs a tight ship on land and sea and thinks all of his staff should toe the line just as he does,” Bill often complained. But, once they were married, they could let go of pretenses and Bill would move into Gaye’s two-bedroom apartment.

As she walked down the hall, sunlight piercing the tiled floor, Gaye pictured the years ahead of them, once the war was over. Maybe a couple of kids. Raise them in the mountains out west, open a lumber mill like his dad had done in Virginia. Sure, there would be challenges, but they’d face them together. After the war, no challenge could beat them.

Even, she thought, in our later years, with the kids grown, she figured they’d find ways to be unretired and stay busy, happy. With Bill’s strong constitution, matched by Gaye’s intelligence and will power, they would stroll into the western sunset with smiles on their faces, arms entwined.

***

In the local paper announcing Gaye’s death, I saw the photo of the two of them, probably on their wedding day. Gaye died about six months after Bill, so her time alone in the sunset was blessedly brief.

II. Ginny Dobbs

Ginny and Tom had a dream and, after the depression was over, ran a motel in Tucson called Dream House. They brought it cheap and it had seen better days in the 1920s when Tucson had its first burst of growth when the train tracks were opened. Back in the 1940s, their Dream House pulled in a steady stream of day trippers along Miracle Mile. A few babies were born on the bed sheets Ginny washed and a few lovers hid behind the window curtains she sewed and pressed.

When the freeway was built in the early 1960s, the motel income faded along with the bed sheets and curtains, so Ginny and Tom turned to other enterprises and ran them smart. Tucson was a growing town and working folks had cars that needed frequent repairs. When repairs couldn’t keep cars running, the cars needed to end up somewhere, so Ginny and Tom opened a wrecking yard stocked with broken vehicles, odd pieces of concrete, and multi-colored spooled wire.

Gifted with a mind for figures and facts as well as a bouncy smile and sparkling eyes, Ginny could warm the hearts of disgruntled customers. To sweeten the mood often experienced at a wrecking yard, she sold freshly baked goods on the side. Irish soda bread was one of her specialties. After Tom died, Ginny kept occupied with cooking, sewing, and tending their grandchildren. Never one to be idle, when her kids took over the family business, she became an admissions clerk at St. Mary’s Hospital. Ginny lived a life of ninety-four years.

***

As I looked at her newspaper photo, taken some time in her mid-life, she is wearing a dark dress and smiling broadly at the camera. I consider that Ginny was probably not a remarkable woman in the larger sphere of life, but her face in the obituary column photo pulled me toward the details of the pearls in her ears and pearl strand around her neck. Maybe Tom had given her that jewelry set for an anniversary gift. Such a gift would have been precious to her for decades.

I can envision the scene after Ginny’s last heaving breath in hospice care--with a resigned shrug, her daughter puts the treasured pearls in a green velvet jewelry box. She covers the box with one of Ginny’s pressed handkerchiefs and shuts the drawer. The hospice nurse closes Ginny’s eyes and wraps a blanket up to her chin. Ginny is no longer able to see the blooming yellow mesquite tree outside her window.

From a photograph at Mariann and Jim's house

2019-02-14T10:02:00.000-08:00

In my last blog, I wrote about our lovely memories of times at Mariann and Jim Laue's home. I also shared the recipe for her casserole.

Today, I am looking at a photograph Mariann sent me several months ago. Taken around 1988-89, it shows me, my son and the Laue's dog, Spicer, standing in front of their Virginia home. Aron is around six-seven years old and I am not quite or just forty-years old. It's before Instagram or cell phone photos and the photograph paper still has a shiny sheen .

There is a porch light on by the front door so I am guessing it is after dinner--or maybe Mariann's casserole is still bubbling in the oven. I am wearing a white sweater draped over white pants and blue t-shirt. Aron is in black basketball shorts (he was already mastering those skills thanks to being a part of the Tucson fan base for UA Wildcats), white t-shirt with a colorful "love the Earth" design and green/pink fanny-pack hanging from his waist. Spicer is in his last years, full-bodied and panting after what was probably a short walk.

My right hand is on my son's shoulder and left is holding the dog's leash. Aron is looking at Spicer, left arm outstretched to pat the dog.

There is nothing particularly special in this moment, except there we are. A young mother and son enjoying hospitality from friends, relaxed and happy in Virginia.

Mariann's Casserole

2019-02-03T10:57:00.001-08:00

Mariann's Casserole (response to Poets & Writers Week #52 Creative Non-Fiction Prompt).

I came to know Mariann Laue and her late husband, Jim, through my 1980's work with the Kettering Foundation. One of their staff members introduced me to Jim and his social justice work. Jim Laue was appointed by the U.S. Justice Dept. to join MLK's Civil Rights events. He was with Rev. King when he was shot. In the historic photo of the shooting on a hotel patio, it is Jim's handkerchief that is covering Martin Luther King's face. Jim Laue worked with the Kettering Foundation as he transitioned from social justice research to the specific field of peace and conflict studies.

Jim's academic role was at George Mason University where he established their Peace Studies Program. As a consultant with Kettering's National Issues Forum research on peace, I was sent to Washington D.C. periodically. One time, I extended my working visit a few days after being invited by Jim to stay as his residence in Virginia. I felt as if I had a found a second family with him, his wife, Mariann, and their still-at-home son, Ron. For the following three or so years, their home became my second home and a couple of times I brought my husband and our young son with me to stay with Jim, Mariann, and Ron.

Enjoying Mariann's "Methodist" casserole on a late summer evening was one of our quiet treats. She often set the stage for dinner by playing a few hymns and pop tunes on the piano. Our son would pet their German Shepherd, Spicer, or throw tennis balls to this gentle four-legged giant tennis as they played on the Laue's rolling backyard lawn. The casserole, served on the Laue's screened-in porch, would be accompanied by Pepperidge Farm French Bread, fresh from the oven.

Dessert was light---such as sugar free peach ice cream because Jim was an insulin dependent diabetic. I add this detail because Jim usually had to give himself an insulin shot before we were served dessert. The disease took him too soon. Mariann, who is a two time breast cancer survivor, eventually remarried. We stay in touch during Christmas and she and her blended family are growing with their children's spouses and children. I hope Mariann continues to serve her casserole when the grandchildren come to visit and plays her songs on her piano as the bread and casserole bake.

Even though our son grew up to be a professional chef, this simple recipe is still one of his "comfort food favorites."

Brown a pound of ground beef (can substitute ground turkey) with 1 tsp of ground oregano in oil.
Boil two cups of egg noodles.
In an oven-proof bowl, mix the cooked noodles and browned ground meat with 1/3 cup of water and 1 can of tomato soup.
Top the mixture with 1 cup of shredded cheddar cheese.
Bake uncovered in the oven at 350 degrees until cheese is thoroughly melted and mixture bubbles. (10-15 mins.)

Serve with warm bread.

Domestic Apologies

2019-01-27T15:59:00.003-08:00

(Note: format is attributed to "The Domestic Apologies" by Dustin Parsons found in 1/27/19 Sunday Shorts, Creative Nonfiction.org)

Apology to my indoor succulent plant

You have roots curling in brown water and need to be potted. But I enjoy the way western sunlight shines on your petals and even the brown water glistens.

Apology to my cat

I have to step over you or around you and often I trip on the red rug I crocheted for you. I am clumsy sometimes and need to practice my balance.

Apology to my office

You serve a purpose and yet I often ignore you because the computer beckons me to write and do bills.

Apology to my rocking chair

You comforted me in my teen years and I took you to my college dorm. I brought you to Arizona and you warmed me as I rocked my young son into sleep. Yet now, I use you to hold my scarves and haven't sat on your cushion in years.

Renoir

My memory of bedtime stories

2019-01-20T15:20:00.001-08:00

(response to Poets & Writers Prompt "The Time is Now" 1/20/19)

My memory of bedtime stories begins with my Grandmother Dice (my mom's mom), reciting "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man" (by James Whitcomb Riley). My sister, cousin and I cuddled under woolen blankets in the attic bedroom at my grandparents' farmhouse on Randall Road in Elgin, Illinois. I didn't learn until years later than my grandmother and my mom grew up entertaining other farming families by poetry and dramatic reading recitations. One of mom's childhood favorites (also by JWR) was "Our Hired Girl".

Grandmother would perform her stories on the side of the bed and end with "Had a little calf; that's half. Put him in a stall; that's all." Those lines meant: no more stories, no more trips downstairs to go the to the bathroom; it's time for bed. And she meant it. A couple of time I tried tiptoeing down the creaking stairs and she'd be waiting for me at the bottom. "March right back up young lady!" was her command. Sometimes a hard swat would follow if I tried to resist.

Mom's nighttime routine included hand gestures, voice inflections, and tolerance for "just one more." She never seemed to tire of sharing her performances. Later, when my sister and I became early readers, we had the "Big Big Story Book" and illustrated fairy tales. Sitting on each side of her on one of our twin beds, my sister and I would lean in and look at the pictures as she read in her mesmerizing dramatic voice. I loved "The Wild Swans" and "Beauty and the Beast" because both stories were long and mom never stopped a story before the ending.

Mom continued this tradition with her grandson and two granddaughters--but not as often as she would have liked. She made sure I understood that moving from Illinois to Arizona meant she expected more grandchildren sleepovers than what she experienced. I think our son (being the first born) benefited most from her talents and she expanded her performances with him to include silly songs such as "On Top of Spaghetti" (sung to the song "On Top of Old Smokey") and "How much is that Doggie in the Window?".

I started reading to her grandson when he was a month or so old. The family tradition continued (I only needed a quick "read me a story" anytime of the day) until he was 12 years old. I read all of the C.S. Lewis books twice and several books by Brian Jacques--along with Pooh stories and fairy tales, of course.

In my late 50's, I began to volunteer read at elementary schools and the public library. The last story I read aloud to 5th graders was "The Little Prince" which had been published as a pop-up book. We learned about astronomy, love, adventure, and death from that amazing story.

Entering my 7th decade now, I occasionally still read children's stories to myself. I hear the harmonic voices of my mom and my grandmother in my head. Sometimes I see my mom's gestures in the moonlight. These memories create a sweet bedtime song I hope to sing for many more nights.

The Blue Scarf draft preview

2018-11-03T11:19:00.000-07:00

The Blue Scarf

Nora Bergatti wore the teal blue and gold scarf around her shoulders. An early autumn wind off Lake Michigan picked up the silk fabric, stroking her cheek as Mama used to do. Seeing her husband, Hugh, depart for the airport that morning, Nora knew that being alone for a week was an opportunity to explore the unpacked art files in her office. She removed the scarf from her shoulders and rolled it into a ball, tucking it into her satchel. As she walked up the steps to the museum, she patted one of the two marble lions on his head--a gesture of habit since she and Mama visited the exhibits every month in thirty-five of Nora’s forty years. Even with Mama gone, the habitual gesture recalled those visits.

But Nora was unaware that when Hugh returned, she would not be the same woman. The blue scarf in the satchel knew this. Since 1885, it carried all its memories between its threads of blue and gold--

My story is an old one, but not as old as the scarves made before me. Each of them as a story, too. But this is mine. My makers weren’t weavers. They were textile workers who came from farms in disarray. The centuries old feudal system in Italy, as in most of Europe, was gone. Peasant farmers were free, but as poor as ever. They had land, but no tools to work the land. Their former masters now could enslave them in debts for tools, for housing, for food. So many of them left the hills, such as my textile workers. They came from the Abruzzo region and entered Roma, looking for jobs in the newly built factories that were close to water and land transportation. The trains came in the late 1880s so workers could live in the cities, work, earn some money, and return back to the farms to work their land.

These workers didn’t bend and weave the silk threads. The threads continued to come to Europe over the Silk Road from Asia. The workers learned how to operate the silk through the steam-powered Jacquard mechanisms. These machines cut textile labor by half and so costs could be reduced. There was a new middle class emerging that wanted the finer goods that only the rich used to be able to purchase. The new machines changed everything and transportation also became less hazardous and more efficient.

A new style of design for patterns came from France, called Art Nouveau. In Italy, it was called Arte Nouva or Stile Foral. The designs were made in sinuous lines, whiplash curves, flowing lines, expressing a new freedom and release from traditional textile designs. This design style affected the visual imagination of women who felt the flowing lines in their hands. The sense of energy for a new life for women slowly came into the daily life of those who could afford the fabrics.

Such is the story of my first owner, a woman named Maria Fontevilla who lived in Fiesole. Fiesole was an ancient Etruscan village, but Maria was from Roma. She had married Raphael ten years before the blue scarf entered her life. Then, Raphael had completed his legal studies. Now, he was the Mayor of Fiesole and he bought me from a shop in Rome while finishing a legal case in the city. It was the eve of his tenth anniversary to Maria. Lately, she had been more subdued than usual. In these ten years, the third baby was a fussy one and the other two boys were at an active age. So sleep for his wife was a rare visitor. Raphael saw the silk scarf and thought, with its golden threads woven like a river around its edges, Maria would be reminded of Roma and happier times in their marriage.

So I was wrapped in parchment paper, rolled into a bundle that could fit in the carriage behind Raphael’s work papers and we went up the steep hill to Fiesole. My long life as an accessory to three women and one man’s stories had begun. Like her great-niece Nora, Maria was unaware how my presence would change her forever.

“Here you are, my lovely. You might have thought I forgot our anniversary, but I did not.” Raphael offered the paper bundle to the woman sitting at the table who held a baby nursing at her breast. The baby sniffled and Maria pushed it away and wiped its milky lips with a cloth. She looked up at Raphael with a slight smile.

“Well, you are forgiven then. For forgetting to say as much to me before you left. So busy you were with your life in the city.” Maria sighed and placed the baby in a cradle next to the table. “Now you are fed, Claudia, please be content for a few moments.”

She took the rolled bundle from her husband and untied the raffia string, slowly unwinding the parchment paper. A hint of blue like the ocean appeared.

“What is this, Raphael?” Maria's smile widened.

“Something new I saw today. I liked the colors as they shone in the window.”

“Oh, my." Maria unwrapped the scarf and the glints of gold caught in the setting sun, the blue fabric rippling like liquid in her hands.

“It is so beautiful. So fine. Too fine for a weary mother like me.”

“No. It is perfect for you, For a new mayor’s wife. You will wear it to the next town meeting to show everyone you are a lady of this village.” Raphael picked up the scarf and looped it gently around his wife’s long neck like a bracelet. It fell across her full breasts and his eyes lingered.

Maria touched the silk and a current of energy from it flowed into her fingers. Then the energy flowed into her quickening heart. Her eyes opened up to see the sun in the window and, for the first time in months, her legs felt strong again. “I am a lady of this village. I am more than a milk cow, cook, cleaner, and nurse to little boys’ colds and knee scrapes,” she murmured.

Yes, I whispered into her blood as it flowed throughout her body. I was made of silk from China, tended in a silkworm farm by a Chinese farm girl. She blessed the silk with her pure heart and mind and now her soul is mixed with yours. My magic has begun.

Exploring the Gardens

2018-10-26T18:48:00.000-07:00

Today my friend and I strolled through the Tucson Botanical Gardens and we had it almost to ourselves. One chicken, multiple birds and butterflies accompanied us and a few lizards skirted across our path. Enjoy these few photos. I went a little crazy on my facebook page, too. www.facebook.com/anitafonte

The Blue Scarf

2018-10-07T15:44:00.000-07:00

She wore the blue scarf around her shoulders. A light wind picked up its edges, caressing her as Reginald used to do.
Seeing him off at the metro station, she knew that being alone for a week was an opportunity to dare herself to do something differently.
She tied the scarf in a knot around her throat, hiding the scar.
When he returned, she would not be the same woman.

Bits and Pieces of Children's Writing

2018-09-02T16:25:00.003-07:00

Bits and Pieces from the prompts in Children’s Writer’s Notebook

A.A. Milne

Inventing characters from your childhood and write a 300 word adventure

Brownie: stuffed collie dog; Teddy: teddy bear; Oma: sock like toy; Mortimer: Mickey Mouse toy; Lulu: finger puppet

Location: Reid Park, Tucson

It was a sunny day for an adventure at the park. For three days it rained and the five friends were stuck inside the adobe house. But the with sun reappearing, Mortimer woke and cried, “It’s play day. Let’s go to the park!”

“Not before I brush my fur.” Brownie stroke his golden ears with his paw.

“Let’s go somewhere to explore,” challenged Mortimer as he tightened his red vest and grabbed is black walking stick.

“Ohh. Not some place too scary,” cooed Oma. “And I need to eat my breakfast first. I am a growing girl.”

“I say we make our breakfast a picnic in the park.” Lulu hopped to the cupboard and began to pack up milk, apples and cheese.

“I’m with you, Lulu. How can I help?” Brownie pranced behind Lulu, wagging his tail that brushed against the door as Mortimer opened it.

“I don’t need any help with the food, Brownie. But you can grab a blanket for us.” Mortimer was ahead of everyone, going out the door and into the sunshine.

Brownie grabbed a blanket from his bed and carried it in his mouth. He tried to bark but it came out with just as a puff of air, muffled by the blanket. His brown eyes gleamed with excitement. He trotted closely behind Mortimer.

Oma took her time, looking at the birds and carrying the basket of food in her arms. When all of them arrived at the park, Brownie led the way to a shady spot under a mulberry tree and dropped the blanket on the grass. Oma put the food in the center of the blanket and each of them ate their fill.

As they wiped crumbs from their faces, Mortimer stood up and held his walking stick in front of him. “Okay. Now it’s time for us to explore the rocks by the waterfall.”

This was a challenge for Oma was did not like getting wet. It took her a very long time to dry when she was washed. (337 words).

Roald Dahl

Naming Characters using an unusual first name with a surname that is a condiment or sauce

Gladys Worcestershire, Edith Pickle, Grover Dill, Archibald Gherkin

Pick one of the characters and compose a character sketch in a single paragraph

Gladys Worcestershire is a woman of her early 70s. She dyes her hair jet black with a blue streak down the middle. She wears her hair in a tight French twist. She is bulky and short, shaped like the bulb of a turnip. She works as a school crossing guard, wearing comfortable cargo paints in green with long sleeved yellow and white striped cotton t-shirts. Her shoes are high top black converse sneakers with red ties. She wears polka dot socks in red and white or blue and white. She frowns at the traffic as she raises her stop sign for the kids who need to cross. As they pass by, they “high five” her and smile. While they are waiting at the curb before crossing, she spins off a tongue twister or knock knock joke. She loves her day job.

At home, she has two cats, Bogart and Bacall, who fight for their spots on the kitty condo or sleep under the bed while Gladys is gone. In the evenings, they curl on her feet and she reads aloud to them from Robert Louis Stevenson stories and poems.

Heat Wave

2018-07-24T10:03:00.000-07:00

"Ok, darlin'. What's the plan for the day?" My hubby was still in his pajamas. We had turned off CNN after getting the latest analysis of T's roller coaster presidency--a ride many of us are on even though we'd rather be coasting in normalcy. Breakfast dishes were put away and the cat was curled up inside. At 9 a.m. the temperature was already 96 degrees.

"Well, I think we need to stay inside as much as possible. I can do quick shopping for cat food and vitamins while you keep the car running. We can go through a Starbucks drive-through and, depending on the heat, a short exercise work-out at the Y. Maybe we'll get lucky and be able to park under the shade of a mesquite tree."

I was trying to assemble my wardrobe options--considering the lightest fabric to wear with a dark t-shirt so I could skip the added layer of a camisole. I had stopped wearing a bra except for rare occasions and when it's this hot, I would go naked if I could.

Still, I didn't want to start off the day in negativity--CNN alerts aside. As I wrote in both my journals today, I am grateful for my house and car, both air conditioned. And most of the places I go have their a.c. cranked several degrees below what we do at home. But I know that going around town today, as we do everyday, we will see men and women, sometimes with their dogs, sitting on street corners, begging for money. Yesterday, I saw an aged woman in long sleeved blouse, long skirt, heavy white socks past her knees and in sandals, walking to a bus stop for shade. She was pushing a grocery cart (one of the rare ones that didn't lock) full of her belongings, so I doubted she was going to take the air conditioned bus for respite.

For those of us in first world situations, a heat wave is an inconvenience. For people on the streets it can be life-threatening.

As I turned on the computer this morning I saw that a horse racing in Del Mar yesterday died of sudden cardiac arrest, injuring the jockey who was riding him. "I bet heat was a factor," I thought to myself as I reflected on the morning radio news that LA had several electrical blackouts yesterday due to overuse of the electrical grid during this heat wave. Animals outside are at risk, too. So are children left in parked cars.

What to do, what to do? Writing is an action I can take. And as the compassionate police chief used to say on the 1980s tv show "Hill Street Blues": "be careful out there."

Making Room

2018-06-20T16:31:00.000-07:00

In the past few days, I began a new morning writing practice. This change took place after I made room for it by clearing a bedroom desk from other knickknacks, books, pens. Just the act of making room for something new can open up my mind and clear space for creativity. A small step with maybe significant results.

I also continue to push myself to engage with my community, beyond my comfort zone. Yesterday, I volunteered for our local Humane Society and walked a sweet dog, Snugglefoot. She kept looking up at me as if to ask, "Am I being a good girl? Do you like me?" "Yes and Yes", I would say to her as I patted her head and scratched her ears.

A few days before, I had a Bunko night with other ladies. As I threw the dice, lost a few games, won a few and shouted "Bunko" four times, I observed myself. I was ill at ease with the banter and lightness of conversation. But, as I made myself participate in it, I heard myself being funny, even a bit silly.

Interesting experiences and I will keep up with them as I learn more about different parts of myself--making room for summer growth.

Not 750 Words

2018-04-25T10:55:00.001-07:00

Definitely not doing 750 words every day or maybe even today. So much of life gets in the way.

There is the mother bird and her baby finally leaving the loosely knitted nest they made in my son's flowering lemon tree. We watched her and her mate build it, weather the desert winds, wondered if a baby or two were beneath her wings. Then, just a few days ago, s/he popped up when mama had flown for food. And not too long after, the baby bird's trial flight agitated our son's kitty, Basil. A young one herself, this new world of windows, trees, flowers and birds are enchantment to an apartment-raised kitten.

So the baby bird flew up and down and Basil followed its movements around the patio, her golden eyes widened in anticipation. But the drama from the nest is gone now. Instead, gutters are removed and painters arrive to restore our son's new home to a place that demonstrates new and first ownership pride. For Basil, the tradesmen, who come and go, are not the kind of movement she likes, so under the bed she flees. Only to be coaxed out by a treat or two. Then back into the dark again, where all is safe.

I share her sentiment to a certain degree. While I have breakfast of bananas and peanut butter on toast, sip my tea latte and close with a mixed berry nut yogurt, I read the news, particularly the comics. I write, long hand, in my Higher Power journal, and then my daily mini collage ritual. I ask for guidance from my HP and state my intentions to be "thriving today." Then, I'd like to be like Basil and, if there are no birds to watch (fortunately, since I feed them daily, they often are still fluttering outside), I'd like to return to the safety of the bedroom where it's still and more shaded that the rest of the house.

But I don't retreat. I stretch, and shower, take a walk around the neighborhood and chat it up with neighbors and yard workers. I think I know what's ahead in the day, but the unexpected may occur and so adaptability is necessary. Limited political news is a regular distraction and today, I wear "red for ed" as our Arizona teachers prepare for a strike. Walking out or walking in on issues is a choice I make every day. To stay in the nest or to fly.

Two new Erasure poems

2018-04-23T16:00:00.000-07:00

You may recall that I am a follower of Austin Kleon and often use his posts, tweets, and books (Steal Like an Artist and Show Your Work) for inspiration. Specifically, he introduced me to "erasure" as a poetry form. He suggests blacking out all the words from a newspaper article to reveal the remaining words as a poem. My variation is to circle the words or phrases I want to use and then reconstruct them into a poem.

Here are two I wrote yesterday 4/22/18. Sunday newspapers can be a treasure trove of images and words.

Down this Road (Az. Daily Star, Sports)

Down this road,
I don't have any worries
about what that looks like
when we show up.

The lines can
get a little blurry.
But
when we did
what we wanted to do--
we were good.

Ready to Embrace (Az. Republic, Lifestyle)

Ready to embrace
with
a seductive sense
of style
twin chandeliers
descend
from the
soaring
ceiling.

Much about Spring

2018-04-14T11:57:00.000-07:00

Much about Spring
has already been said
by poets greater than I am.

So, I only want to ask this about Spring:
how does a mother dove
make a nest
to withstand
wind gusts
of over
fifty
miles
per hour?

And when
it blows
apart,
why does
she risk
her life
to rebuild
it?

Oh,
I know:
she is
a
mother.

More than an Obituary for Ginny Dobbs

2018-04-08T17:04:00.000-07:00

More than an Obituary for Ginny Dobbs (based on the 4/8/18 obituary of Genevieve “Ginny Dobbs/Steed-Gideon, Arizona Daily Star)

Ginny and Tom had a dream and ran a motel by that name, Dream House. Still located on Miracle Mile, back in the late 1940s it pulled in a steady stream of road trippers. Maybe a few babies were made on the bed sheets Ginny washed and dried; maybe a few lovers hid behind the curtains she sewed.

When the freeway was built, the motel income faded along with the bed sheets and curtains. So Ginny and her husband turned to other small businesses; they always ran them smart. Tucson was a growing town and folks needed furniture and cars needed repairs. When the repairs couldn’t keep cars running, a wrecking yard stocked with vehicles, broken concrete and spooled wires was the next venture for Ginny and Tom.

Gifted with a business mind, bouncy smile and sparkling eyes, Ginny could warm the hearts of customers and sometimes charm them with freshly baked goods. After her Tom died, Ginny kept busy with cooking, sewing, and tending grandchildren. Never one to be idle, she managed the family businesses and became an admissions clerk at St. Mary’s Hospital.

She lived a long life of ninety-four years. Probably not a remarkable woman in a large sphere of life, but her face in the local paper’s obituary column pulled me in and my eyes set on the pearls in her ears, and the pearl strand around her neck. Maybe her husband gave her that matching set for an anniversary gift. I can see her touching them like a rosary before she put them on for church or special occasions. They would be precious to her for decades, but now they lie in a green velvet box, in a drawer, covered, like a shroud, by one of her pressed cotton handkerchiefs.

Back story sketch for "The Bare Things" Part 2

2018-04-06T12:25:00.001-07:00

I am slowly restarting, expanding my Alicia Frame story, thanks to encouragement from most of my beta readers. I need to do a mind map for Part 2 since that really helped me move forward with the first part (novella) in November. Here's what I have sketched out, so far.

NYC late winter 1926/Alicia Frame setting

Streets stuffed with men in long wool coats, bump into each other and don’t tip their hats. Instead, shoulder to shoulder they eye each other, grumble a few words best not repeated in a lady’s company and shove until one of them backs off and moves on down the street.

A delicatessen is open 24 hours a day. When Alicia first arrives this shocks her. In Paris, the baker wakes early to make the baquettes, roles and pastries, but he closes shop by 5 p.m. and goes home to his family. Here, she finds, it is a city that never sleeps and everyone who wants to get ahead, move faster than the next person, cuts hours at home, carries more than one job if necessary. And, if a person is running a place where folks needs to grab a bit as they rush off to work or after late hours, then it is open 24 hours a day. Thus, Alicia’s neighbor, Mr. Brumbinski, a recent immigrant in Poland, works the midnight to 7 a.m. shift at the corner deli, then works at a sleeve factory from 8 to 4, goes home for a quick meal made by Mrs. Bumbiniski, sleeps until 10 and then goes to work. He does this five days a week and has one day off from the sleeve factory, Saturday. Since most in the garment district are Jews, he and Mrs. Brumbinski go to the Temple and now Alicia, reclaiming her familial faith, often accompanies them to the midday service.

By that time, she has partially recovered from her long Monday-Friday days at Scribner’s that run into the early evenings. She hopes this is going to change when, in late Summer, Philippe will bring Emily to join her. It didn’t take Alicia long to discover that rooming with Miss XXX wasn’t going to work long. A bit of a New York Party girl after work, her roommate liked to dine and drink and arrive back late. This disturbed Alicia’s usual Parisienne lifestyle of early to bed early to rise—particularly when she had become a mother. So looking for her own place which would accommodate Emily and, perhaps as she had promised Emily, a small dog, was how Alicia spent her Sundays. After a cup of coffee and semi stale pastry that Mrs. Brumbinski would salvage from her husband’s take home on Friday, Alicia would borrow their Sunday paper and read the ads for apartments for rent. She hadn’t found a place yet, but, in her rapid adjustment to America, she was becoming more optimistic by the week.

Hadn’t she already endured the rough and lonely ocean voyage from Normandy to New York? As one of the few women on board who was traveling without a husband or child, she had to learn how to avoid the sneers and not subtle invitations from single men of all ages and nationalities. She learned to be in the company of the elderly matrons of various countries who were taking the last major leap of their lives by resettling to America. Some were going to go to New York, but others had family waiting in Chicago, Boston or Philadelphia. Alicia used this time to practice her English and she gained insight into how these women planned to adjust from their home country to this one. When they were greeted by Lady Liberty, all of travelers on the rails—first class, second, and third class such as Alicia, cheered and cried. A new and better life was in front of them and America promises safety, security and opportunity.

2018-03-26T16:10:00.001-07:00

Children’s Practice 3/2018

1. Experimenting with running-on rhyme aka Dr. Seuss

Fish, dish, whis(per), lis(ten), miss, kss risk, tsk, priss

It was dawn when I glimpsed the fish

Jump from the bowl to the dish.

I guessed he was wise about the risk

But then I heard him utter, “tsk, tsk…

I underestimated the risk of the dish,

So would you be so kind as to help me, Miss?

I don’t mean to sound like a priss,

But I need some water dipped into this dish.”

I was surprised at the request from him

To use the dish as a place to swim.

But being a gal who’s inclined to agree,

I nodded and made him a clear blue sea

Of water in his chosen dish.

Now he’s quite a happy dish-risk fish. 3/14/18

2. Creatures and their actions aka Margaret Wise Brown

Gardenia flowers open one petal at a time.

Each a pearly white, uncurling from her green stem,

Stretching her edges in shadows

Softened by the morning sun

Whose shine shifts its angle by afternoon

When the blossom’s work is done for the day.

Gardenia flowers open one petal at a time. 3/26/18

Learning to write

2018-03-09T14:18:00.001-08:00

from Poets & Writers "The Time is Now" Week 10 prompt for creative nonfiction

Credit is due to so many people in my life for teaching me how to learn to write. But first, a little blame. My pre-first grade teacher (or maybe it was in first grade), decided it would be better for me to be a right-handed writer rather than a lefty which is how I started out. I remember someone tying my left hand behind my back until I got the idea and practice of writing with my right hand. So that might explain by zig-zag life as it has evolved. In any case, I write right-handed now when I use long hand and type with both hands--so maybe all's "write/right" with my world, after all.

So that is my first memory of writing. I next recall Miss Meyers in 3rd Grade who bopped us on the head when our cursive letters didn't look perfect. I received quite a few taps on the noggin for poorly shaped cursive capital letter "F". Those green paper letters for print and cursive that lined the top of the blackboard throughout elementary school are burned into my psyche and still haunt me in midnight dreams. The traumatic memory is so strong that, when I do write long hand notes on holiday cards, I often get a response such as "I can't read your writing, Anita." So there you go, Miss Meyers,you couldn't bop me into submission.

That is the skinny backstory on my learning how to write--actual content development soared with Mrs. Hanson at Kimball Junior High, eighth and ninth grades. Even though I struggled to get beyond a "B" on my essays, I had already began penning poetry thanks to the oral tradition of poetry (James Whitcomb Riley and others) passed along from my mom and her mother. My poetry writing might have been the reason Mrs. Hanson recommended me to honors English when I entered high school.

First year at Larkin H.S. was a partial bust for English class. My first teacher was pregnant and left early. I have no memory of her and we had quite a few substitutes after that whom I also don't remember. But then, after the holidays, we had a substitute that stayed for the entire semester. I don't recall writing much in class except for book reports. The glory in that experience was she let me make reports on books that were way beyond my age range. Somehow, I had been able to convince a librarian at the Gail Borden Public Library that I could handle the content of adult books--mostly biographies on artists such as Michelangelo and Rodin. Their biographies were rather "racy" for me and introduced me to homosexuality and illicit passions. I wrote about those themes (and a few details). The nameless, but important, 10th grade substitute English teacher read the reports and didn't censor my writing at all. She did correct my grammar and composition and so the world of writing exploded in potential along with the world of reading.

Maybe she knew what was ahead when I entered Mr. Caldwell's 11th Grade English class, followed by Mr. Fuhs' senior year class. Both challenged our class with Faulkner and Hemingway, Joyce and Shakespeare and more. They were equally unfaltering in their critiques of our writing and stretched our vocabulary with weekly tests. By the end of my senior year, I was not only well prepared for college English classes, I excelled. English Literature became my major and I immersed my reading and writing into medieval English Literature, 17th Century, a semester on Shakespeare, a semester on American writers--mostly Mark Twain. At my public university, Northern Illinois University, I learned poetry from Lucien Stryk, a poet himself and international translator of Zen poetry. I joined a writers group and had week night poetry sessions with him a a handful of others "invited" into his dusty living room where we ate crackers and cheese and drank sparkling wine.

The years have passed since then (1971) and, in all of them, I have continued to write and to learn to write. As I wake each day in my 69th year, I read daily poetry, bits of nonfiction, everyday comics, and nightly fiction that lulls me to let go of reality.

I am grateful to all of my teachers and--through my past years of teaching writing to GED students, graduate students at the UA, and tutoring a family of second language elementary students--I hope I have helped others enter the wonderful world of writing.

2018-01-14T11:37:00.001-08:00

Happiest in Tucson (from Poets & Writers Poetry Prompt, 2.12.18)

Yesterday my friend and I
spent the day wandering through
downtown and beneath
the mountain where
over 2000 years ago,
Tucson became a living place
for humans.

They joined the coyotes,
bobcats, mountain lions,
lizards, butterflies and
birds who thrived along
the rushing waters of
the Santa Cruz River.

Corn was planted,
homes were formed out of mud,
shade trees softened the
summers.
Much later,
a mission was built,
bringing the word of God
to those already living
the Word.

Today, we saw a few
hard-working young women
and men working the fields of
Tucson's Mission Gardens,
hauling compost, digging holes
collecting brittle stalks and leaves.

With the workers then and now,
I embrace our living history
filling me with stories
of the place I call home.
And where I am the happiest.

Alicia Frame story completed and now being edited

2017-12-05T10:21:00.000-08:00

by Edgar Degas

I met my goal of 15,000 words for my first attempt at a long(er) story and exceeded it: hitting 20,040 on 12/2. Now I begin the editing stage for "The Bare Things" and plan to have a finished version by the end of January 2018. I learned a great deal about writing and about myself during the #nanowrimo2017 experience. I wouldn't have done it without the challenge to Write a Novel in November and our online community of global writers. While 50,000 is the word count for the goal for a novel, I went for a more modest one, a long short story or novella--yet still a bit leap from my poetry and flash fiction genres.

While I develop the story in the next phase, I will keep learning and will let you all know when the story is completed and how to access it. My intent is to share it first with the few donors who supported NaNoWriMo and then with all who are interested in reading about Alicia and the other characters in the story. This includes Madame Celeste Bonne who was once a milliner as pictured in the painting above by Degas. She becomes a key ally to Alicia and her quest to leave Paris for a life in America.

My protagonist comes to life

2017-11-07T08:48:00.001-08:00

This painting, probably by Modigliani (according to NYT story) is the image I am using to "frame" my protagonist, Alicia Frame, on my first short story/novella/novel "The Bare Things". I am writing almost every day, averaging 600 or more words as part of #NaNoWriMo2017, National Write a Novel in a Month. Joining other writes around the globe, I even put up a fundraiser for this non-profit effort, and it was interesting to see which (a few) Facebook friends decided to contribute.

My story is set in Paris, 1925, where American writers Hemingway and Fitzgerald hung out at cafes, bars, and partied in jazz clubs until dawn. As I deal with a personal health issue, I am finding that writing this story helps me detach from my everyday life and escape. It's good for my soul and I may even be crafting a story worth sharing!!