Ms. Taken, ad infinitum

It happened again. I'm in line at Starbuck's, waiting to order coffee when the woman behind the counter says, "Hi, Olive! How are you today?"

I was still half asleep and caffeine deprived, so I just looked at her and said, "I'd be much better if I was Lorraine." And then apologized. Because I knew her from seeing her at various art happenings and the farmer's market, and I felt a wee bit bad about being snarky.

But not much.

I shared this story with my friend Mary the day after it happened, and she helped me laugh away the crankiness of being "Ms. Taken" yet again. We made tentative plans to meet later at an art show that night and I left feeling better about things.

At the art show, the barrista that had mistaken me for Olive was there. She came over and said, "Hello, Lorraine." and we laughed about the earlier encounter. As I turned after our greeting, out of the corner of my eye I saw a young man, waving at me, saying, "Hi, Olive!". He realized his mistake when I had turned completely around, mumbling, "I thought you were Olive."

Standing right there behind him was Mary, who just looked at me and dissolved into laughter. As I left to go to Hasting for tea with another friend, she said, "So, you're going to go somewhere where they know your name? " and grinned. We agreed I needed a "Cheers" moment. (And I got it, too, when I got to Hastings. Yay!)

My crankiness about the whole thing has to do with getting older, feeling like you're fading into oblivion, having younger people see your graying hair and mistaking it for your brain leaking away. Inside your gray head and body gone south, you still feel 14 or 16 or 35, and your mind is whirling with a thousand wonderful ideas. But all people are seeing is old, with all the connotations "old" has in our youth orientated society, whether they're true or not.

Part of it is my fault, I'll admit. I tend to be a hermit, avoid large parties/crowds, don't join civic groups. So while I've lived up to my reputation of an older "in" (invisible and inaudible), lately I've begun to wonder, "Am I really that unremarkable?"

All of my life, I've said that it was the little things that counted to us, made a difference in our lives. A hug. An enthusiastic wave from across the street. A postcard from Spain or Rome or wherever friends got to go this year for vacation. A cup of tea with a friend.

Our names, slipping off another's tongue.

My name had the distinction of being chosen for me by my father, who in a time when every little girl was named Karen or Kathy or Debbie, gave me a distinctive moniker. (Apparently he knew I was going to need it!) He never allowed anyone to call me "Lori" or my sister Susette "Sue", something I have always been grateful for.

I've always tried to remember people's names. Granted, it's much harder now with cognitive overload (aren't we glad we have computers to blame now?) and getting older, but I try. And if I'm not 100% of someone's name, I'll ask. Rude? Maybe. But which would you rather encounter: someone who couldn't remember your name for whatever reason, and didn't bother to figure it out; or someone who cared enough to refresh their memory and their remembrance of you?

I'll take the latter, any day. Because I know that the reason for their forgetfulness is that they might not have seen me for years, or their parents are sick and take up their every thought, or any of a million other reasons.

So the next time you run into someone and you just can't remember their name, 'fess up.

I won't mind, just as long as you don't call me Olive. :)

All Ears

All Ears

(for Dulcie, and her tail of devotion, always wagging for me)

You use my legs as a runway

to join me in the moonlit hammock,

happy despite the complaints I make

as my tender shins are prodded

by the nails I left untrimmed again.

The hickory tree hides us from most

of the stars and the neighbors, so I tell

you my secrets and your long silken

ears are wee elevators of emotion,

flaring and sliding up when they hear

“go”, “ride”, “cookie”, “ love” and “read”;

flattening and going back when you catch

“bath”, “vet”, “cat” and “bedtime”.

You lie on my stomach, queen of all

you see and hear and smell and touch

with those fluffy house slipper feet,

and I watch you, knowing full well

that one day those ears will hear

a final “go” and you'll trade your leash

for wings, and I will be inconsolable.

You already wear a halo,

and have since you first tucked

your golden head into that juncture

between my love and wisdom

that the Beloved finds so enchanting.

I'll treasure every day of grace

I get to share with you, my angel.

2010 © Lorraine D. Achey

Caution: Watch Where You're Walking

Last night the dogs were restless, waking me throughout the night with dog tag jingle jazz, percussed with hocks hitting the wooden floors as they scratched. Not very restful, and I gave up about 7:30 and got up, thinking I'd have some breakfast, see how I felt, maybe just come back to bed in a few.

Breakfast eaten and dogs fed, I sat down to catch up on what my friends were doing on Facebook. There's always something that makes me laugh, and I needed a better start to the day than I was getting from my own tired spirit.

One of my friends consistently posts the best music, often with stunning videos. She's a visual artist, and I love how she finds unusual video with different subjects.

Today's choice* was exceptionally beautiful, shot in B&W, with some clever speed effects in the movement of the dancers. I was enjoying the art and flow, until at 3:10 there came an image I've spent most of the last 18 years avoiding.

A graphic scene of a gunshot wound to the head.

I was stunned to say the least, and very glad for B&W film at that moment. Though when I watched the video the second time, I could see I might have had an inkling that there would be the possibility of something like this. I mean, after all, it does start with a young man deliberately falling backwards off the roof of a camping trailer onto the roof of a car, the possible imitation of a suicide.

What my friend didn't know is that it's only a few days until the anniversary of my father's death by self inflicted gun shot wound. (And even if she had, I would not expect her to avoid putting this or any other video up for others to enjoy. I'd only hope she'd give me a wee warning.) So this reminder of the destruction of him and the house of cards that was my family was particularly disturbing for me. I've come to refer to this time of year as "flashback season", even though I was spared finding my father. But there are things about that time that I'll never be able to wipe out of my mind, but also cannot bring myself to share with my family or friends.

One of my favorite poets says that everyone has their story that no one can know. Everyone suffers. I try to remember that when the person in front of me is being unkind to the clerk, or not paying attention, or looks like the last time they smiled it was so painful they vowed never to smile again. Remembering that they may be suffering a loss, whether it be of a loved one, their health, their job, their peace of mind, helps me practice compassion for them. Maybe share a smile with them, if I can spare one that day. A kind and encouraging word.

But the part of my story that you can know is that today, for the first time, I did not let that image effect the rest of my day. I was able to let go , to start the healing wave again. Our wounds are often too immense to recover immediately; like the sea, healing rocks in ragged rhythms. Cresting in high and low tides, every seventh wave threatening to take us under in its powerful grasp, working with the abrasive sand to chip away our sorrow, barnacle by barnacle.

Let me also share the outstanding experience of the day before. One of my friends was journeying to Florida, and I asked her a favor over a month ago when she announced her plans. "While you're there, would you write my name in the sand, so Mama Ocean can kiss me?" She's a busy lady, so I figured it wouldn't happen.

But it did. She'd been back a couple of days when she posted the pictures of her writing my name in lovely script on the beach. Staying with it until the waves came in and smoothed my name out of the sand, bearing part of my spirit back out to sea with them, where peace, hope, and joy float.

I am so blessed.

*you can find the video here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BrZTNhW44-o

Quirky or Spooky?

One more thing, and I'm done for the night.

After starting the Floodgaps blog, I joined AuthorNation to showcase my poetry and fiction, which I felt needed a place of its own. This blog is for remembering and laughing, for sharing the stories of my life; the AN page is for the wild fiction and poetry that litters my mind until I get it on paper.

I needed a profile picture for the AuthorNation page, so I googled "images of floodgaps". Imagine my surprise when the first entry was :
http://www.floodgap.com/retrobits/ckb/secret/lorraine.html

Go ahead, click on it. You know you want to find out!

As you can see, not exactly the images I was looking for, but I found it a fun read!

. . .Ms. Taken. . . or Ms. Diewreckted?

My last post dealt with how I'm frequently mistaken for my friend Olive by folks here in southeast Kansas. I left everyone with the knowledge that Olive had never been mistaken by me. . .until the arrival of a letter for Olive, addressed to my house.

Now, when I first saw the return address of somewhere in Idaho, I remembered Olive's story of visiting family and llamas there. Understandably, I assumed the letter to be from her relatives, but I couldn't figure out: a) why they'd sent the letter to my address; b) how did they even know my address; c) why didn't they know Olive's address? weren't they family?

Finally got in touch with Olive, who said, "I know it's a royalty check. Open it up and tell me how much it is. I know it's not going to be much, but I can't wait!" So I opened it up, read her the letter, and put some of the pieces together.

Olive, and her father, the esteemed Dr. Victor Sullivan (retired from PSU) had both written stories to be included in the book of aviation tales: "Flights of Adventure" . (www.flightsofadventure.info) It was published earlier this year, and Olive and Victor have done a "meet the authors" book signing at the local library. They sold books. When you sell books, you get royalties. Not much sometimes, but you get enough to go out to dinner. Maybe.

Apparently, "Flights" had sold enough that it was time to divy up the proceeds. This was done, and checks mailed out. Olive and I are still trying to figure out how the two people in charge of this effort, who have never even met me, ended up with my address and thought it was Olive's.

For now, the relatives and the llamas are off the hook. But if Olive and I ever figure out how come that royalty check got addressed to come to my house, we'll let you know!

Just Call Me "Ms. Taken"

I have one of those faces. You know, the one where no matter where you go, people say, "I think I've met you before. You look so familiar."

I also have this friend, Olive. She's got long, fairly straight, medium blond hair and green eyes. I have short, generously salted and curly brunette hair and brown eyes, hidden behind glasses. She's more of a pear shape; I'm a definite pineapple. She's pretty much always in jeans and sneakers; the only denim I own is a tank dress, and I only wear sneakers to work in the yard. She's rarely seen with a handbag; I am usually leaning to the left from my tote bag. She has a nice smile, but mine comes with a side of dimples.

In other words, we don't look that much alike. The only trait we have in common is that we're short and . . .um. . . .rotund. Yeah. Plump. (Okay, I have no trouble saying I'm fat, but I'm not sure how Olive feels about the "F" word.)

So why is it that I frequently get mistaken for her, even when we are sitting at the same table, eating breakfast? There's one young man, a visual artist who knows both of us, who looks at me, nods, says, "Hello, Olive." to me and ignores Olive. He's done it at least 3 times that I know of, and each time, Olive and I dissolved into laughter. He had to know something was going on, but he never bothered to take a second look. I wonder if ever he talks about looking for detail in his classes, or if his students tend to be as oblivious as he appears to be when it comes to telling women apart.

He's not the first person to mistake me for Olive. The first time it happened, it was with a young woman who had just met me the week before. I was at an art opening when she came up to me, gave me a huge hug, and said, "It's been forever since I've seen you! I've missed you so much." I was a bit startled; after all, I generally don't make such a deep and lasting impression the first time out. But I gladly accepted the hug and chatted with her for a few minutes, until I saw the realization creeping across her face that she had the wrong person.

"Oh, my gosh, I'm so sorry, I can't believe I thought you were Olive." She blushed, then said, "I hope you didn't mind that I hugged you." When I assured her I didn't she apologized again and made her escape.

And I didn't mind, really. I've been in training for being a perpetual walking case of mistaken identity since that day in the park during Little Balkans Days, when a woman walked up to me and said, "How are you? Are you still teaching at the university?"

I looked at her and said, "I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else. I've never taught at the university; I don't even have a college degree." What I really wanted to do was fall on the grass and roll around laughing. Me? Teach? College students? I'd barely gotten the dogs through obedience school!

"Oh, but you did. Don't you remember me? I sat on the front row in the printmaking class." She waited, looking for my remembrance of her.

"I'm sorry, I've never taught at the university, much less taken a class in the graphics art department. You must be looking for someone else."

Now, most folks who are told that you've never taught, don't have the degree to teach at university level, and that you don't know them from a text book usually realize they've got the wrong person.

Not this woman. For the next 4 years, every fall at the Little Balkans Festival, she would go through the same routine with me. And every year, except the last, I tried to convince her that I was not her printmaking professor.

The last time, I said, "Why, yes, I remember you! What are you doing these days?" and left it at that. It was the last time I ever saw her. Makes me think she might have been stalking me at the festival, determined to make me admit she was my student.

Being mistaken for Olive has happened often enough that I've decided that I need a button. A picture of a green olive in one of those red circles with cross hatch signs. "No(t) Olive." I'd get one for her of a rain drop in the red circle, but she doesn't need it.

You see, she's never been mistaken for me.

Or at least I didn't think so, until today. Today, I opened the mail box and got a letter addressed to Olive at my house. I'm still waiting to unravel this one.

Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion! I'm sure we'll get it sorted out soon. I hope. :)

Wondering. . .

. . .how things would have turned out if I'd been reading Rumi in that bathroom line at the SunCo Station. (See "Look Out Jane, I Have Boots!" post.)

Or would there have been something more appropriate to read? "Les Miserables", perhaps?

Things would have definitely been different if I'd been listening to the soundtrack of "O Brother, Where Art Thou" on my iPod.

Isn't it amazing and wonderful and fabulous how changing the tiniest detail can completely alter a whole structure? And how each of us brings a different view to the same event?

So now I'm wondering what story my Illustrated Muscle Men are telling about meeting me. I hope it's one that makes them laugh, and gives them hope on their journey.

Go create your own story, or help someone change theirs (if they want you to!). The world's full of possibilities!

Line, Please!

This was inspired by my friend Eve's poem "Early Morning Buzz". Seems like waiting in line is another of my writing themes. Time put to good use twice: once using it to read; twice recreating it in my own words.

Line, Please!

6/7/2010

You touch me gently

on my silent shoulder, wanting

only for me to pay attention

to the pharmacy tech calling

my forgotten name.

I've been lost in the Beloved

again and again and again

there under those florescent lights,

humming under respirations

so feeble as to be undetected.

You may treasure a lost reader

in your own family, to have

touched me with such care,

to speak in soft tones,

unwilling to startle the strange

woman with her miniscule book

and word saturated mind.

Wish I'd taken a better

look at you, noticed something more

than the emptied pocket

of your blue/grey/white plaid shirt,

when I realize too much

later you're the first man

in far too many painful years

to touch me without permission.

But for someone subsumed

in the grace and glory of

a passionate and well spun phrase,

I fail to capture even one whirling word

among those gleaming pearls

on a tender shoot of flaxen thread

to recognize your simple gesture.

Tales From a Therapy Dog: Family Photo

Rimba, Dulcie, and Shani:
The Three Dog Opera and Theatre Company
(around 2006)

Shani left us in January 2010 after 16 years
of loving and devoted companionship.
The Diva Duet and I miss him so very much.

People often ask me,
"How did you get them to sit still for this?!?"
To which I reply,
"Two words: obedience classes!"
(It also took 10 shots to get 1 good picture of all 3!)

Dulcie and Shani both earned their AKC Canine Good Citizen titles;
Rimba would probably have, too,
if I hadn't gotten tired of driving to dog classes all the time!
Take your dog to obedience classes,
it'll be fun for him and educational for you.

All of these dogs were adopted:
Shani from a private party;
"The Diva Duet" from the Joplin Humane Society.

Please spay or neuter your animals;
there are too many here needing homes already.

Adopt your next pet from the shelter instead of buying--
You'll never regret it;
their love is unconditional AND infinite.

Tales From a Therapy Dog: CockleShell (1)

You could say that Santa brought Dulcie into my life, that Thanksgiving weekend eight years ago. And you wouldn't be far from wrong, but the truth is, I'm still blaming the media.

I already had two lovely dogs at the time: the marvelous Shani, a black and tan cockapoo; and the quiet Rimba, a black accented with white SchnauTick (schnauzer and blue tick hound mix). They were my Black Brace, two adult dogs who'd finished at the top of their obedience class. More than enough well behaved dog for one woman.

Or so I thought.

But I'd always said my next dog was going to be a cocker with its tail undocked, and there she was, in all her curly, golden coated glory, big brown eyes and maundy nose checking me out. Her tail and butt never stopped wagging, but I steeled myself and walked on by. After all, the last thing I needed was another dog, much less a puppy. I was here to play Santa, have pets come get their picture taken with me, perhaps raise some much needed funds for the Humane Society.

The day was slow, not many folks were thinking about having their pet's portrait made for the Christmas season. So when the local TV reporter showed up with a group of kids to do a promo for the event, Santa needed a dog to complete the picture. A child was promptly sent to choose a puppy for Santa. I called after the child, “Bring me that black and white terrier.”, knowing full well that I'd be able to resist that wriggling bundle of bristling fur and razor teeth. Instead, with a child's unerring sense of cute, a happy Dulcie was deposited in my arms, where she promptly tucked her head under my chin and licked my neck.

I was a goner.

So, “Curly Sue”, who had been born prematurely to a cocker mama and an unspecified papa, came home with me that day. Her mama, brother, and she had only been returned to the shelter from their foster home only a few days earlier, so the trauma of living in a world of anxious, barking dogs was minimal. To my delight, I found that Dulcie was already housebroken, and though not interested in learning tricks, had a heart of gold and loved to be with me every minute she could, preferably in my cozy lap.

While papa's pedigree remained unknown, I came to believe that surely he was a Sheltie. Dulcie has the thick, plush coat and coloring of the Sheltie breed. She also had the ability to spring straight up into the air, bouncing high enough to look me directly in the eye. She would complete this aerial feat by wagging her entire body in joy. I began to call her the “Doglin”, since she resembled a dolphin dancing on its tail.

As she grew, it became apparent that she could easily be referred to as “The World's First Miniature Golden Retriever”, though I had to stop telling people that when they insisted on knowing where they could get one for themselves. For awhile after that, if someone asked what kind of dog she was, the standard answer became, “She's a rare breed: a CockleShell.” Recently, I've just been saying, “She's the sweetest cocker mix ever!”

Since the first moment I met Dulcie, sweet and gentle have been the two words that best described her. She's never met anyone she didn't like, although after her first set of shots, poor Dr. Mickey was demoted to a merely tolerated and bothersome necessity. Dr. Mickey always asks that you let him and his staff handle your animal during shots, so that your companion knows you don't have anything to do with that stinging poke in their shoulder. That first time, Dulcie shot across the exam table and up onto my shoulder when Dr. Mickey released her. Burying her head in my neck like a small child, she refused to look at Dr. Mickey. I coaxed her into looking back at him as he extended his hand, holding a delicious puppy treat. She shot him the most baleful look I'd ever witnessed on a puppy, and whipped her head back into the shelter of my neck.

We all had a good laugh at it—that is, all of us but Dulcie. She'll go to the vet, patiently let them poke and prod her, but she doesn't like it. Even after all these years, she still won't willingly go across the room to greet Dr. Mickey, even if I've given him her favorite treat of cooked chicken to entice her.

Her sweet and gentle nature meant that she never met a stranger. She especially loved babies and children from the first. If a baby was crying, she would come to me, then go to the baby, looking at me for assistance. Children could do just anything with her, although I always kept a watchful eye on them as they played together.

I enrolled Dulcie in dog obedience classes at Kloud K9 in Joplin around her first birthday. Everyone always commented that she never stopped wagging her tail; there was a steady thump, thump resounding even through some of the quieter exercises. The instructor nicknamed her “Velcro Butt” because once in a sit/stay, she didn't leave it until told to do so, no matter the distraction. She graduated and earned her Canine Good Citizen title from the AKC, which was all we needed to join a local group who took their dogs to nursing homes in Joplin.

I'd already started looking into therapy dog registration, but was unable to find a program and evaluation that fit my time schedule and budget. While I kept looking for a program, I thought it would be good experience for Dulcie and I to go on some visits with this group. It would be provide Dulcie with some much needed experience with older folks, and many things she'd never encountered before: wheelchairs, meal carts, beeping and shrieking alarms, etc. We were set to start our journey as a therapy team, not knowing how much it would enrich and change both our lives.

Green Ink (c6/4/2010)

Written on a deli napkin, when I found myself dining alone, and the pocket Rumi had been left at home. I resorted to cleaning out my bag, where I found a business card from the tattoo artist who'd done my niece Reya's last tattoo. Reya wanted me to see a tat being done, hoping it would help me see that it really didn't hurt to have one. It still looked like it hurt to me, but I think I understand better now why people return time and time again to get their bodies illustrated.

Green Ink

You let the iron

tiger nibble on

your pale leg

tender lamb

to him

though inside

you're screaming

for his needle teeth

to stop! cease! desist!

because it tickles

so.

Tales From a Therapy Dog: 3/24/2010

Today, I lost someone who'd touched my life with barely saying a word. She did it with her face, a face remarkably unlined for a woman of her age.

When I first met her, she had two black eyes and a bump the size of a hen's egg on her bruised, sunset colored forehead. She was lying listlessly in her bed, until she saw what I had to offer.

“Hi,” I said, “This is Miss Dulcie. Would you like for her to get up on the bed with you? I'll make sure she doesn't step on you.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. So up went 25 pounds of strawberry blond cocker mix to lie beside her. The rec director helped pull a stiff and resistant hand out from a layer of blankets to touch the silken fur spilling out from under Dulcie's work harness.

And there it was; the magic of a face lit by the lamp of pure pleasure. That first visit, the woman couldn't take her bright blue eyes off of Dulcie, though her spasmed limbs often snatched her hands off the satin of Dulcie's coat.

For most of our visits, our new friend was heavily medicated and unable to respond to much talk. But it was understood that Dulcie was always welcome on her bed. So after I settled Dulcie carefully on the bed, tucked as close to the woman's hands as possible, I sat on the floor beside the bed. Gently, I would take a hand and place it on Dulcie, and every time, I saw that miraculous facial transformation from dullness to radiance.

Dulcie spent a blissful fifteen minutes a week, lying on that bed, looking at the woman with the adoring look she had previously conferred only upon me. With grace and delicacy, she would slip her maundy nose under the woman's hand, nudging for a pat. If she didn't get one after a few tries, she would sigh and lay her head on the woman's chest, big brown eyes blinking sleepily in the quiet, warm room.

Sometimes I suspected the woman and Dulcie were sharing a laugh; Dulcie would sit up on her hind legs, slowly collapse backwards onto the woman's abdomen, all the while panting merrily and making chittering noises.

Mostly it was the woman, Dulcie, and me sitting in the relative silence of the room, but staff would drop by and fuss over Dulcie, who continued to be enthralled by the woman. As the weeks passed, and the woman got weaker, touching Dulcie became very difficult. But that luminous look of joy always appeared when she felt the weight of Dulcie come to rest on her bed.

The past few times we came to visit, I found myself reaching to take the woman's hand, not to guide it to Dulcie, but simply to hold it. She had long, strong fingers, and as I held her hand, I felt the lingering power of a determined woman. It gave me courage to face my own life, those fifteen minutes watching my dog and my friend enjoy each other. I found myself seeking and finding joy in circumstances that before I'd only expected to yield pain and sorrow.

A couple of weeks ago, I meant to find the rec director and ask her to call me if our friend died; I sensed the end was near, and I wasn't sure I wanted to be surprised by the news a week after the fact. But she wasn't to be found that day, so Dulcie and I went home.

Last week was spring break, and I was busy taking care of 2 houses full of animals in addition to my own. I'd told the nursing center residents the week before that Dulcie wouldn't be coming to visit because I wouldn't have time to bathe her. I didn't even take time to run by our friend's room and say hello.

The evening before our next visit was fraught with wrought. I was chatting with a friend online, and we were talking about some painful things which brought tears to both of us. But I could not seem to stop crying, and the longer I cried, the more my whole body ached. The night was spent crying, a great sadness filling my heart and causing Dulcie to velcro herself to my back as I lay in bed, tears filling my ears and swelling my eyes. If I slept at all, it was snatched time. I was still crying at 7:30 when my niece called to talk, and got her incoherent auntie instead. She pulled me out of the salt water abyss and sent me on my way.

I took special care to get Dulcie groomed, carried her to the car (mud season!) and she arrived at the nursing home well swathed in my sweater to keep her dry. She always protests at this, but even a clean dog is stinky when wet. We visited our first resident, and as we walked down the hall toward our friend's room, the rec director stepped in front of me. One look at her reddened nose and eyes said everything. Our friend had passed that morning, after two days of struggle.

My first reaction, after the emotional night I'd had, was to sit down right then and there, clutch Dulcie to my side and howl a memorial. But they train you in therapy work to be professional, and so I swallowed my tears, put a smile on my face, and went to visit another resident, the tail scratching woman Dulcie liked so well.

I realize now that part of the outpouring of pain and sorrow the night before was because I had unwittingly tuned into our friend's last hours on earth; that in some way both Dulcie and I were on her mind as she crossed over. It didn't make my loss any easier, but it helped to remind me how we are all so very connected.

It's hard enough to have to go to WalMart when you feel good. When you're hoping you can still put one foot in front of the other, it's pure hell, perhaps one of the inner rings. As I stumbled around getting food and phone cards, I remembered one of the things my chat friend had said the night before: that I must always be ready to see an angel when s/he appeared to comfort me.

My particular angel that day was a gorgeous Hispanic man near my age, neatly dressed in new jeans, a cream and caramel long sleeved plaid shirt, with beautiful white teeth. Most importantly, he looked me directly in the eyes, and generously gave me the smile I so desperately wanted and needed.

Perhaps it was also the woman's way of reminding me to keep looking for the joy, no matter how many times pain tries to bury it out of sight.

Crushed Petals

I saw the lavender creeping phlox today and remembered my wild writer friend, Beth. The first time I met her, she asked me for a ride home from a party. It was about 1:00 in the morning, the misty cool streets silent as only small town streets are at that hour. When Beth suddenly screamed, "Stop!", the obedient girl I am hit the brakes, downshifted, and stopped. Seems she wanted to pick some of the phlox in the turnaround flower bed because she loved how it smelled. But she overestimated her strength (she was a wee drunk!) and pulled up the whole plant, leaving a tremendous gap in the elegant border. She jumped back into the car, now screaming, "Drive! DRIVE!". I was laughing so hard I could barely shift gears, but I somehow managed to get us out of there. The whole car smelled of fresh dirt and injured phlox.

I never looked back.

With Beth, anything and everything happened. When she moved out of town, she called me at Thanksgiving, asking me to go to her old house and see if the present residents would let me go into the basement and get her box of Christmas ornaments. This is the kind of friendship she inspired in me, because walking up to a stranger's door and making such a request is possibly one of my inner circles of hell. But I did it, and I still remember every crease and crack in the well worn cowboy boots of the young man who answered the door. (I had a hard time meeting his eyes; wouldn't you?) But he was kind, and helped me load up a huge shambles of a box that held Beth's traditions and memories. I often wonder if he remembers that encounter. How many times does a stranger show up at your door, asking for a box of Christmas ornaments left by the last tenant?

But Beth was too much for the small western Kansas school where she'd landed, and soon she'd moved back to Tallahassee to be near her sister. She called often, making me laugh with her tales of working in an office. Once I laughed so hard at a story about her adventures with a condom that I fell out of my hammock.

Beth fell ill shortly thereafter. I made plans to go see her, hoping that there was enough time. She passed 3 days before I got there, but her sister wanted me to come anyway and bring Beth's ashes back to Missouri to her children. I remember being in the rental car, driving from Tallahassee to Santa Rosa Beach to see other friends, and stopping for a rest. All at once, I was sobbing on the steering wheel, finally aware that my friend, my writing buddy, my editor, and encourager, was gone. It must have looked like a major meltdown, because for the one and only time in my life, a stranger walked up and asked me if I was all right, did I need help? I'm not even sure how I got rid of him, but he went, and I stopped crying and got back on the road.

In Santa Rosa, my friends left me on the beach to say goodbye to Beth. I wrote poems in the sand for her; I cried over the shortness of her life; I mourned over her writing that I'm sure her sister threw away. Beth taught me so much about living life; I didn't think it was fair she didn't get to live a long, long time, writing and loving and making people fall out of hammocks with her humor.

There's much more to this story (ask about the adventure of taking cremains on a plane); but the gist of it is that I came home and wrote. And wrote some more. It was the only way I knew how to remember her always, in poetry, in every pen or key stroke. There's a little bit of Beth in everything I write; if you lean in closely, you can almost smell the crushed flower petals.

Watch Out, Jane, I Have Boots!

About this piece: My writers group thinks I've found my voice. Yup, right there at the SunCo Station in Osage Beach, standing in line next to Illustrated Muscle Guy #1 and #2 as they try in vain to visually vaporize the beef jerky display. I should write a book called "Waitin' in Line: Desperate Tales from a Female Traveler".

Watch out Jane, I Have Boots!

I'm strung out on Cohen covers and lapsang tea, my sorrowing mind still in Fulton after an hour plus on the road. I've stopped for gas at the same quick stop that Amber and I used the last time we came back to Kansas, forgetting that it only has the one co-ed bathroom. Lack of sleep has also taken the last of my usual careful attention, so while I know where the exit is, it doesn't register at first that the line to the bathroom is going to take some time. I'm too enamored of the corner of the huge map I see peeking around the hallway corner, sharing the door trim with the bathroom. I understand the need for this kind of map in a metro area, but Osage Beach? How could anyone possibly get lost here? Of course, to me, Osage Beach is just another amber bead on the strand of road that leads to the true pearl: The Fulton/Columbia/JeffCity Triangle. Home.

The line is made up of three guys, all about the same size, and me. Prep Boy, dressed in a buttoned up, blood red polo shirt tucked and belted into pressed khakis is first. I forget Taylor's edict and miss what kind of shoes he's wearing; by the end of this encounter, I'm hoping that they were running shoes, and that he knew how to use them. His tiny, round wire framed glasses only emphasized his small stature and youth.

The next guy has pale, long hair streaming out from under his baseball cap, which he's at least wearing with the bill in front. His plain gray tank top gives me a glimpse of the many tats he has on his well muscled arms and chest. The tank is tucked into old but clean and neat jeans, lending him the look of college kid, vacationing as a construction worker. I check out his shoes. Well worn sneakers.

He's talking to his friend, who also has donned a plain tank, this one pale blue. Ditto on the jeans and sneakers. His hat, I will discover later, hides a nascent brunette mohawk and well shaved scalp. I'm so fascinated by the elongated skull tat sweeping from his shoulder to his elbow on the arm nearest me that I'm not even eavesdropping on his conversation with his buddy.

Which is a shame, as I soon discover. Apparently, Prep Boy thinks my tender, womanly ears needed protection from whatever Muscle Guys are discussing. My first warning of trouble ahead is when I catch, “. . .inappropriate for public.” What? Where? Did I miss something GOOD? are my first thoughts. But Muscle Guy #1 is glaring at Prep Boy, every muscle in his lithe and barely controlled body on edge. “What did you say?” he demands, and even from 4 feet away, I feel the ice in his voice.

“I said, that conversation is totally inappropriate to be having in public.” He hears the bathroom door open just in time, and ducks into the bathroom even as MG #1 says, “Why, I ought to knock your f**king head off!”

He looks uneasy, though, and I notice that both of them do stop talking, choosing instead to practice visual vaporization on a rack of innocent beef jerky. It's tough, it can take it.

In the past, this would be my cue to flee. I don't do confrontation with people I know, much less strangers, but my bladder makes the decision for me. Stay and pee in a few minutes, or get back in the car and suffer the consequences. Anyway, I reason, isn't it time I added “brave” to my list of assets? After all, I have turquoise hair and knock-Jane-Austen-off-her-horse boots. I'm up to this.

Besides, waiting for them to finish beating up Prep Boy so I can have a chance at the bathroom is not in my schedule, not to mention that I really can't stand to see anyone suffer. So, I take a deep breath and ask Skull Arm (a.k.a. “MG#2”), “Did you get your tattoos locally?”, figuring that he'll be like every other illustrated person I've asked about their tats: vocal, enthusiastic, and inclined to forget minor annoyances such as Prep Boy.

Instead of the usual praise of his favorite tat artist/salon/studio, he looks at the floor and gives me a terse, “No.”

I'm a bit taken aback, having expected to do nothing more than nod and say “uh, huh” for the next 5 minutes after this query. Giving myself a pat on the back for having at least tried, I lapse into silence, wondering what reason he had for being so close mouthed about the beautiful art decorating almost every inch of his visible skin.

“We in Fulton yet?” MG#1 asks Skull Arm. He's fiddling with the packages of beef jerky now, perhaps checking to see if they're at least warm to the touch from his efforts to vaporize them. At that point, I realize how very young they are, tough as they are trying to appear.

“Nah. I don't think we're in Fulton, but I ain't got no idea where we are,” says Skull Arm, scratching his tat's septum. The black nasal holes twitch, and for a moment, I fully expect a ghostly sneeze to rend the air.

“You're not in Fulton,” I volunteer. “I just came from there, about an hour from here. You're in Osage Beach. Miles of tourist crap.”

Skull Eyes turns to look at me then. He takes in the turquoise freakstreak, the shell and flower lei bracelets, the denim dress, decides to smile at me. I give it one more shot.

“Coming home from college?” I ask, smiling back.

MG#1 answers me too quickly, and with real longing in his voice, “Don't I wish.”

“Hey,” I say. “You could be like me. I went to the University of Hard Knocks. You can learn whatever you want, wherever you want. Just go for it.”

Skull Arm decides it's time to clear things up, no tiptoeing around the dead pink elephant rotting in front of us. “We just got outta prison.” He looks at me, expecting what? Shock? Horror? Instead, he finds a middle aged woman, who, unknown to him, has a cousin or two of her own serving time. Getting out of prison/jail is almost a family coming of age rite on the maternal side of my family, so I'm not inclined to hold prison time against them. Instead, I said, “So, let me ask you something. I just went with my niece when she got her last tattoo, and she and everyone I talk to swears it doesn't hurt to get a tat. But it looked like it hurt to me. Did getting yours hurt?”

It does occur to me that it might be best to cut and run at this point, but I figure, I've come this far, why not see what happens?

What does happen is that the next few minutes pass as they usually do with illustrated people: prefaced with the standard, “Oh, it doesn't hurt, EXCEPT if you have it done (points to area) here.”, and followed by the pulling up/down/over/off of various items of clothing to better display the masterpieces they've had etched into their bodies. Stories flow of when and why and where and how they got them, permanent reminders of landmark events, or drunken foolishness carved in marbled muscle.

We're having a good time, chatting, when the bathroom door pops open, expelling Prep Boy. He plows right through our little group, muttering, “You guys are the reason women in America don't respect men.” He doesn't have enough conviction nor courage to stand still and say it, nor to say it clearly and loudly enough for me to catch it the first time around. I have to ask Skull Arm to repeat Prep Boy's exit line. I snort.

“Forget him,” I tell MG#1. “Get in that bathroom, there's women here who need to pee!” (At some point, the line has been augmented by another female presence.)

He laughed and headed into the john.

That's when Skull Arm decided to show me his freshly shaven head. He pointed to the ¼ inch tall baby mohawk and said, “When it gets longer, I'm gonna bleach it and dye it bright blue.”

“That's great,” I said, grinning at him. “That's my favorite color.”

“I know,” he said, pointing to my hair. “Nice streak.”

MG# 1 was coming out of the bathroom, so I shooed Skull Arm along with my hands, saying,“Hurry up, hurry up! I gotta pee! Just don't stand there!” Laughing, he went into the bathroom.

That's when I finally took my first deep breath in minutes. Turning to the woman standing behind me, I said, “I believe there's a little piece of good in everyone, don't you? It's just that sometimes you have to dig for it.”

She agreed with me, but then, why wouldn't she?

After all, I have turquoise hair, knock-Jane-Austen-off-her-horse boots, and the courage to help people find their own good pieces.

Primer

Recently a friend and I were chatting about the cars we'd had during our lifetimes; the ones we loved, the ones that never ran right, and the ones that tried to kill us outright. We're planning an evening sometime soon to tell each other the more elaborate stories, but I promised myself I would write about one special car—the first van my father bought me.

I confessed to my friend that since high school, I'd always wanted a customized van. Remember, the vans of the 70s, painted with livid murals depicting: (chose any two) wild horses; Southwestern theme; sea creatures; wizards; galaxies; long, dark haired maidens; long, blond haired maidens? (Only I was going to have something more dainty and lady-like painted on mine. I think.) It just seemed the perfect thing, to jump in your van, take off down the road, have bed/kitchen/living room following right with you. As a farm girl, the lack of a bathroom never bothered me; squatting in ditches to “pick flowers” was nothing new to me, so I figured out that I'd be set to see the world. Or at least the United States. Oh, who am I kidding? At age 18, I would have been to scared too explore my home state of Missouri by myself!

But young single women don't exactly bring home the kind of money that will buy a tricked out van, new or used. So my first car was a 1976 blue Ford Mustang, which my father promptly dubbed “The Stang”. His first fatherly instinct was to buy me ramps and teach me how to change the oil, which is another hilarious father-daughter-automobile story in itself. The story I want to tell today happens at a much later date, when I am grown and living in my second house, a older and more adventurous woman who now knows how and where to pitch a tent.

I've always regretted that I wasn't along on that trip to the Ozarks where my father found the van we came to know as Primer. I don't remember why he was there, but I do know it was a trip that involved my mother, who had her own dark version of what happened that day. Daddy saw the van with a for sale sign propped in its window on some lonely red dirt road, and pulled over to look at it. There were no before pictures, but my mother said it was the ugliest thing she'd ever seen, and she was appalled when Daddy made her write a check for it, then and there. Underneath it all, I doubt that she was surprised that he was buying it for me; what she didn't realize was that it was only a sign of things to come. Before he died, my father would buy at least two other junker cars for me; two more wondrous chapters that my father would add to my life. I'd still trade those stories for a few more years with him, but since I can't have him back, I'll take the memory of his efforts to help me live my dreams.

Daddy was a master storyteller; I often wonder what his life would have been like if he'd been encouraged to write. At the last, someone did: his therapist. It was too little, too late, which often serves as a reminder to me to write as much as I can, to dump out all the emotions and feelings and festering doubts. Not for public consumption, mind you, but to exorcise my frequently overheated imagination. So when he invited me to come see his latest “prize”, I was intrigued by his hints. Either a great story or a huge tall tale were coming, and both held the promise of laughter.

My first sight of Primer was in the old garage on the farm. My father and his friend Floyd had spent several more days sanding down the old coat of paint than they'd planned, due to the nature of the last coat of paint applied to Primer. Seems Primer had come from aging hippies, whose response to “how do we cover up this newspaper logo on our new-to-us van the cheapest/fastest way?” was every graffiti artist's dream: lots and lots of spray paint. The aging hippies chose basic black for its covering properties, and simply sprayed the 1973 Ford Econoline van from bottom to as high as they could reach. They also reasoned that even more paint in the areas that were starting to rust would seal that little problem. Since Primer came from the Minneapolis area, famous for the heavy salting of its winter streets, there were many of these problem areas; Daddy often joked that since Primer was more Bondo than metal, he should have bought stock in that particular company.

Aside from the fact that the spray paint was sticky and a bitch to sand off, there were other problems. When Daddy started the drive home, on tire tread thin as tar paper, he discovered that the brakes were mere ghosts of their former selves. (Since my father is responsible for several fears surrounding riding with a farmer, I am very glad I was not a passenger on that hilly, twisting trip. I still get carsick in a car making an attempt at a three point turn because of him.) The battery shelf was solid rust; baling wire and a long bolt served to keep the battery precariously perched under the hood.

He found that to start Primer cold, you had to go through the cumbersome process of removing the interior doghouse, then find a screwdriver to hold the carburetor open just enough to get things going. (In at least one instance, this quirk led my neighbor to think that one of my friends was stealing my van. Thank God she didn't give into the temptation to call the cops!) Daily fuel priming and the fact that I never got around to getting the primer coat covered with a new shade of paint led to us fondly refer to this heap of rust and decay as “Primer”.

But it ran like a trouper once it was started, it didn't leak, it had those wonderful window wing vents that I miss so much on modern cars, and it was soooo much fun, even without power steering. I took it camping and hauled just about everything in it. I remember having to take a boom box along on long trips for music, since the radio and baling wire antennae were unreliable. I would wedge it on top of the doghouse, and sing along with Jimmy tapes as I headed towards Roaring River.

As for customizing it, well, let's just say that you can fit a full sized antique metal bed frame in there, throw on a mattress, and still have room under the bed to haul lumber or camping supplies. To others, I'm sure it seemed like a party wagon. To me, it was the freedom to go where I wanted, and visible proof of my father's love and desire to help me live my dreams.

Scaring the Tea out of Me

What could be lovelier than a tea party at a well appointed Victorian bed and breakfast? (Visit http://romancingthepast.com for a quick setting of atmosphere, if you will. Thank you. Charming, isn't it? Go see Cate. She's wonderful, best tea in the business! Thus ends my shameless blurb for a truly delightful experience.) A nice, soothing walk back to the house, enjoying the beauty of the spring flowers and the quiet of the day after tea, that's what.

So how come I never get that?

Even though I am dreading leaving my family after such a short visit, as I walk, I am thinking about getting home to the Sweet Duet. Now, the Sweet Duet used to be The Three Dog Opera and Theatre Company (or more commonly, the 3DOT) until the passing of Shani this past January. The girls have adjusted well, as soon as they found out that I was still the one in charge, but we all miss our Bear.

And when I'm gone, even for a day, I miss the Duet. Dulcie, in particular. Usually I manage to find some kind soul who loves that I'm fussing over their loyal canine friend, and my dog withdrawal is lessened for a bit. Somehow, on this trip, I hadn't had a chance to pet a dog for about 45 hours. (Which may be some kind of record for me. Did I mention my addiction of choice is dog fur?). So during our short walk, I'm starting to long for a dog to pet, ears to rub, chin to scrub. The perfect ending to a wonderful day.

Imagine my delight when just across the street, I spy a cream colored Labradoodle trying with great enthusiasm to convince a short Corgi type dog to play. The LabraDoodle is off leash, though her human is close by. He's unsuccessful in his attempt to stop her from annoying the Corgi, who is on a leash held by a small, confused woman. She's not quite sure of the LabraDoodle's intentions, and is simply trying to get her dog away from all that curly exuberance.

My party continues on toward home base; I cross the street, intent on getting my hands full of Happy Dog. I'm just reaching down, touching Happy Dog's silkiness with my palms when the air is rent with the shout, "NO! YOU CANNOT TAKE THAT DOG HOME WITH YOU!". It's my friend Amber, who in her intention to tease me, sets off a chain reaction that nearly ends in total disaster.

First, I nearly, yes, very nearly wet my pants. Remember, I've just had some of the best tea I've ever seen poured out of a teapot, so I drank several cups of it. But my bladder is smarter than my reptile brain, so it kept things under control. Barely.

Secondly, I snatched my hands off that dog like my mother had caught me snitching her stash of chocolate covered peanuts. Some dark corner of my brain scanned the area for my mother; perhaps she'd followed me there, simply to shout at me. And when Happy Dog felt those hands leave her back, she went after them, leaning all of her considerable weight on me, a wobbly woman who was now concentrating on not peeing herself.

I caught myself before I fell into the flower bed or hit my head on the stop sign post, but it was close. Even with all this going on, I noticed that if I'd been startled, Happy Dog's poor man looked terrified as he reached out to break a possible fall. We shared a look of commiseration; by then I know I had a hand over my heart, too breathless to speak. He seemed too shocked to say anything himself.

When I finally could say something, I said, "Beautiful dog." I could hear Amber saying other things in the background, but I was no longer paying attention to her. I was busy trying to let the two of us on the sidewalk, separated by a panting Happy Dog, salvage some sort of dignity in our encounter. I'm not sure it worked, and that's a shame, because Happy Dog lived just down the street from my family. It would have been nice to be able to go down there and say hi when I visited, but I'm not sure that's going to be possible.

Because, you see, I'm still not really sure that the man's whispered "Thank you!" was because I'd admired Happy Dog--or because I didn't try to take his dog with me as I left him standing there in the flowers surrounding the stop sign.

Talking to dogs. . .

Tonight, Elias (my nephew by choice) and I were chatting about our favorite parts of the delightful movie "Clue". I've visited at their lovely home, and slept upstairs in their tiny attic room. To get there, you have to climb some incredibly steep and somewhat narrow stairs, and there are no handrails. A wee scary for an aging, short legged auntie with an old back/leg injury, but I managed (until I begged to be sleep downstairs the last night! Thanks, kids!).

When I first opened the door and looked up those stairs, immediately I saw the scene from "Clue" where the French maid and the Federal agent are sent to search the attic. Neither one wants to go up the dark, scary staircase first, so they end up struggling up the narrow steps side by side, their butts bumping together and their shoulders pressed against the walls. So, that was how I climbed them; suitcase in one hand, the other shoulder pressed firmly into the wall. Dubbing them the "Clue Stairs", I joked about wearing a groove in the wall with my shoulder.

And what, you may be wondering, does this have to do with talking to dogs?

I shared with Elias that one of my favorite scenes in the whole movie is when the butler is dealing with the dogs, just as one of the male guests arrives. Butler shouts at the dogs, "SIT!" and the guest immediately plops down on a bench by the front door. The butler apologizes.

I then realized that I had done much the same thing to a recent visitor at my house. Now, most of you who know me and my Sweet Duet know that I talk to them like people. Full sentences, most of the time. So Dulcie was running to joyously greet Visitor, and I said, "Be CAREFUL! Keep your feet on the floor!" Then I wondered why Visitor was standing so very still. (At 25 pounds and resembling a sweet miniature golden retriever, Dulcie doesn't generally scare people.) Sheepishly, Vistor confessed, "I thought you were talking to me!" Apologies were made, and laughter was shared. Dulcie even got an ear rub out of the deal.

I told Elias I was glad I didn't use our usual "stay off the guests!" command, which is "All four on the floor!". I might have turned around to find my poor guest crouching on the couch, or worse yet, fleeing this house of madness.

So, if you love your dogs--and your visitors--at least learn to preface a command with a name. It'll save everyone a lot of confusion!

The Lady in Red and Lime

Opportunity. We rarely recognize its face at the moment we need to, and sometimes miss its lovely visage entirely.

Such was almost the case with the gothic manse and the elderly woman in a blood red jacket, sparse white hair tied back with a lime green kerchief. She had two ancient dogs on leashes; one so old he was now cinnamon and sugar instead of his youthful brown, the other a black and white rat terrier so drunken wobbly the wind was the only thing holding him up. The trio were visiting with a couple of children, the dogs sniffing the grass and trying valiantly to remain standing under the onslaught of pats from the kids.

Amber had first seen the house on our drive to the cemetery, and on the return trip she decided to drive around the block and take pictures of the two story red and brown house, now abandoned but not yet in great disrepair. She got a bit lost, and in driving around the blocks several times, I got carsick from being sloshed around in the tiny backseat. So when we finally pulled up and parked on the side of the street opposite the house, I was more intent on getting my head and stomach to stop swimming in circles than I was on what was happening across the street. Friends Taylor and Reya both had a better view and stronger constitutions, so they may have seen things differently, but I'll leave it to them to post their comments or corrections on this tale.

After finding her camera, Amber opens her door to get out. Which cues up Lady in Red (whom I came to dub "Elise"), who's been lingering on the sidewalk watching us with undisguised interest as we park and help Amber find her bag and camera.

"That's sure a pretty color for a car," I hear Elise say of Amber's small plum colored car. Which means she must have quite the voice, because she's across the street and I'm on the opposite side of the car, and I'm not having a bit of trouble hearing her. Amber is still at the side of the car, muttering about not talking to strangers, etc. She choses to not answer Elise, which I think is a shame, because I love older people and their stories of the past. I want to leap out of the car and let Elise know I'm interested in her and her dogs. But I also understand we are in a hurry; Taylor needs lunch and a tea party is coming soon, and all those other various last minute things we have to deal with before starting the long trip home. Elise might prove to be too talkative; better to avoid finding that out the hard way. My urge to leap is overcome, with regret.

But Amber is fascinated with the house; it's all she can talk about on the drive home. She would love to have floor plans, know more about this house, learn what architect designed that stunted gothic concoction which she feels would be perfect with her hearse, Miss Victoria, parked in front of it. (She's right, I can see it, too.) I'd just like to know why the remodeling process was not completed, why restoration was dropped.

We're a little tired and overloaded with images from our visit, so it's easy for us to miss the obvious. What I can't explain is why it took me two days to finally see it, but it did. Guess that my observation skills are getting a wee rusty.

But I couldn't stop thinking about the lady in the red jacket with her two tottering old dogs, and it suddenly occurred to me that if Amber had chosen to interact with her, Elise might have could been (as my grandma used to say) an excellent source of info about the house Amber loved so much.

Think about it; she was lingering on the sidewalk already; those dogs didn't look like they could walk a block, much less two; and the kids obviously knew her. Sounds like the "eyes, ears, and mouth" of the neighborhood to me. Perhaps she'd lived 2 houses down from the red house her entire life; or she went to her best friend's sweet sixteen party there; maybe dated the oldest son--or married him and made her home just down the street. We may never know. . . unless I make it a mission to go back there and lie in wait for her and those ancient dogs.

Over a year. . .

I wish I could pick up where I left off last March, but the truth is, I was swept away in a flood of continuing education courses for my line of work and completing the necessary paperwork for a license and a national board recertification for most of the rest of the year. It was a draining process; I'm not even sure I wrote anything after last year's Writer's Digest Poem A Day Challenge in April. I was sleepwalking and didn't know it.

But in late December 2oo9, I got a wake up call, and the awakening process from then until now has been an incredible journey. Bits and pieces of it will appear later, but for now, know that I've chosen to take Ray Bradbury's advice to heart: "Stay drunk on writing so reality won't destroy you." (I'd add "reading" to the writing bit; several books have kept my spirit soaring, too. Not to mention loving and supportive family.)

This last March, I wrote 2 pieces that changed my outlook on my creative process. A friend was asking for possible hiding places for a trunk; I wrote one and posted it, then realized I had to snatch those 2 beginning paragraphs back and run with them. The result was that I ended up with a short story that "turned me upside down and shook all the nonsense out" (paraphrazsing the Persian poet, Hafiz), and resulted in a week of ignoring my life and writing like crazy. The second piece was one that opened my heart to changing and healing my past, inspired by the events of the story of the trunk.

It was worth the sleepless nights and dust rhinos that invaded the house.

I wish I could share those pieces right now, but the truth is, I think I wrote them for myself and a few close family members. Only a few have seen the trunk story; no one has seen the sequel. Perhaps someday they'll appear somewhere. For now you will have to trust me that they served to open the floodgates to writing as truthfully as I am able.

It shows. In my poetry, in the observations that I've been recording, in my willingness to be more open about how the past has shaped me. There are times I feel selfish, that I am concentrating on all these words trapped in my head, helping them plan their escape, and by doing so, ignoring other parts of my life I truly love. But once the flood of refugees has lessened, there will be plenty of time for the rest, too.