Writing Exercise - Lesson 4

Assignment: Choose a color to write about; write about the color in the first person, that is in the I way.

I am romantic Caribbean sunsets.

I smolder in candlelit jazz clubs and present the sun-softened finish on buildings deep in the French Quarter.

I am variegated in mums and marigolds but in roses I am desire and afterglow.

I nurture you with luscious peaches, succulent apricots and the flesh of butternut squash.

I offer you the Mackinac Bridge in silhouette on a summer evening.

I cast sparks and illuminate the night with embers in a winter fireplace.

I am warm, radiant, luminous and flush - orange.

Writing Exercise - Lesson 2

Assignment: Write a short story using one of the provided sentences

Mary was "fed up" with Bob and he had only just arrived. He walked in as if he was some kind of superhero. But instead of an "S" on his chest he had "Bob" embroidered on his work shirt.

"Where's the culprit?" he demanded.

"In the fireplace" she responded begrudgingly. What was she thinking when she bought this 100 year old money pit of a house? Now, hardly a month into ownership she had an unwelcome housemate. While cleaning the glass doors of the fireplace – a fireplace she dearly loved and hadn't even used yet – she discovered a squirrel settling in for a stay. He wasn't going to exit the same way he entered so she called animal control. And they sent her super Bob.

Bob dropped his bundle on the living room floor and began to gear up for his task. Mary looked on as he donned hip waders, heavy duty gloves and a mask. Was he hunting squirrel or playing goalie for the Blackhawks?

"Go get yourself a broom" he directed. Probably the only way he recognizes a woman is if she's holding a broom, she thought. While she fetched the broom Bob moved her dining table and chair away from the sliding glass doors to the left of the fireplace. He moved the couch and chair off to the right barricading the front door. He then positioned Mary in front of the staircase with the broom."Now," he said opening the sliding glass door, "when I open the fireplace doors with this pole the critter should make for the nearest, most obvious exit – right through these doors. If he comes your way, just wave the broom to redirect him."

"Whoa!" Mary suddenly decided compliance was overrated. "You're standing there dressed like a Star Wars storm trooper with a ten foot pole and all you're going to do is open the doors? Where's my hip waders, my gloves, my squirrel gear?"

Bob smiled indulgently. "Miss, I'm a professional. I know what I'm doing."

Well, she thought. Once I deal with the squirrel I'm going to use what's left of this broom to beat the snot out of Bob.

I’ve recently come out of a 10 year relationship. That’s not exactly right. I’ve recently been booted out of a 10 year, 8 month, 5 day relationship. Never mind the details. Getting dumped is getting dumped no matter how you dress it up.

I’m working through the recovery process. In matters of the heart forget the typical five stages of grieving (denial, depression, anger, bargaining and acceptance). My theory is that you can gauge your healing process by the content of your fantasies.

Initially I envisioned my heart’s desire finding me walking the wind swept cliffs of New England. As I turn and the wind swirls my skirts he approaches me determined to reclaim his paramour ala Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights. He sweeps me into his arms and professes his never ending love and desire for yours truly. Never mind that I live in Indiana and the closest things we have to wind swept cliffs are guardrails on the interstate. Disregard that my lost man is an accountant. The only time he becomes a tortured soul is at tax time.

Later, as incremental doses of reality and sanity seep back into my psyche, I begin to daydream about a benign crisis that throws us together. In a plot torn from the script of Twister my leading man realizes that it’s me he wants instead of the gorgeous gal pal fading into the background. At first, I resist and make him atone for his lapse in judgment but, eventually, I surrender.

Further into the process I begin to create my fantasies in more reasonable settings. After settling into a comfortable platonic friendship my former love asks me to accompany him to a business associate’s company Christmas party. He is smitten by my new self confidence, my size 6 frame and form (hey – it’s still my fantasy!) and the familiarity of my perfume. As the evening progresses he calculates the risk and asks me to dance. We have a wonderful evening. He drives me home, walks me to the door and kisses me goodnight. As he walks toward his vehicle he turns on his heel and returns to me. His next kiss promises everything except “goodnight.”

And finally, at his funeral I am picked up by one of the guests.

I suppose the ultimate recovery signal will be when I wake up, proceed with my day into the evening and finally to bed without thinking about him every hour. When my mind no longer constructs scenarios that keep him in my life; when thinking about a life without him doesn’t seem quite so bleak, then I will know that I have completed the process. Clearly, I’m not there yet.

Meet Kristi

She's beautiful, sweet, loving, mischievous.....she raced, won and retired. She came to me 9 years ago. She changed my life. I thought I was rescuing her...She rescued me.

An Apple Pie Without Cheese

When I was a little girl I remember my dad quoting this phrase: "an apple pie without cheese is like a hug without a squeeze." This usually served as the intro for Mom's dessert or a holiday treat. And, yes, I developed a taste for apple pie with cheese – usually with a chunk of nice mild cheddar.

In fact, the quote is actually "an apple pie without cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze."

Rowley Leigh mentions this phrase and its possible origin on www.ft.com:

An English fruit pie is frequently not sweet at all. Apple pies in England were often almost savoury and sometimes eaten with strong cheese. "An apple pie without cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze," went the old saying. The Kentish apple pie went further and introduced a layer of mature Cheddar under the crust.

Throughout my life with Dad we developed our own variations of this saying:

An apple pie without cheese is like….

…a cold without the sneeze

…a tree without the leaves

…a lap without the knees

… a car without the keys

… the birds without the bees

…a ship without the seas

As with most things about Dad, I prefer his original version. It’s one of the gifts he left me – every time I indulge in a slice of apple pie I hear “an apple pie without cheese is like a hug without a squeeze.” I hear it in his voice and in my mind’s eye I can see the mischief and delight in his eyes. I remember how he loved my mother, his children … and apple pie.

Success

To laugh often and much;
to win the respect of intelligent people
and the affection of children;
to earn the appreciation of honest critics
and endure the betrayal of false friends;
to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others;
to leave the world a bit better,
whether by a healthy child,
a garden patch
or a redeemed social condition;
to know even one life has breathed easier
because you have lived.
This is to have succeeded.

Ususally attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson but current postings debate this. Regardless it has become my personal "mission statement".

Can you call it writer's block if this is your first attempt to write for public consumption? Can you even call it writer’s block? Blogger’s block?

I like the concept of blogging. It’s kind of like graffiti on the Web. However, for better or worse, words on the Web live forever. No sandblasting, no urban renewal. For those of you who know my fear of commitment (I don’t even like massive furniture) this can be an overwhelming responsibility. It’s not quite the same as writing in a journal because this is intended for others to read while I’m still alive and accountable for what I say here. Still, I consider blogging a method of reaching out and I can delude myself into thinking that others might be interested and even mildly amused.

I’ve just come off a week of vacation. No exotic trips, no treks into the wilderness. I got as far as an hour away to walk along the bluff in St Joe, Michigan. Forget for a moment that a day trip to St Joe is about as far as my budget will take me. I really do enjoy vacations at home. I like spending daylight hours in my home. I like walking my dog in the neighborhood when everyone else is in school or at work. I love this time of year – the mild temperatures, saturated colors and crunchy leaves. The bugs are gone and the field mice haven’t invaded yet. I like running errands outside of the lunchtime or after work hours. I have time to talk to the young people ringing up or bagging my groceries or to ask about the baby pictures on the dry cleaner’s calendar. I have lunch with my mother, dinner with friends, and I make or send long overdue phone calls and emails. I make appointments and keep them. My focus is the life I want. The one that keeps getting eclipsed by the occupation that is supposed to finance it.

I’m getting my house ready to sell so I spent some of my vacation getting repairmen in to fix things I should have taken care of long ago. I had an electrician come to install an oven hood I bought when I bought the stove. It’s been sitting on top of my refrigerator for 10 years. You can’t rush these things.

I’m a little ambivalent about selling the house. It’s time. The nest is empty and a four-bedroom, two-story house is excessive for one person. I could be quite comfortable in less than 900 square feet – assuming that 900 square feet includes two bedrooms, a bath and a half, central air a fireplace and an attached garage. (I’m downsizing but let’s not be ridiculous). Even so, things are getting spruced up and, besides, the photo the realtor took makes the house look really good. So, if it sells –great; if it doesn’t - no biggie.

My life is in flux. Everything is up for grabs. I’m anxious to make new mistakes in the second half of my adult life. So, stay tuned.