Wending My Way Through the Internet and Avoiding Krakens

Have you ever been driving somewhere and suddenly turned off of your track on purpose?

As writer, I frequently find myself going "down the rabbit hole," as a friend put it last week.  At the time she said it, I was researching for a new short story.  I got on YouTube (fatal mistake) looking for videos of sharks beaching themselves.  As I kept getting distracted by the exciting titles of other videos that turned out to be *nothing,* I clicked my way right into an hour of "kraken sightings."

I had to laugh at myself.  Ultimately, I'm sure a kraken will show up in one of my stories as a result.

But today was different!  As I was driving around on the internet highway, I saw a great big souvenir shop with the words "FAMILY HISTORY!" in neon lights.  I jerked the car onto the next exit ramp intentionally.  Want to ride with me?  Here's how it happened:

1.  I was checking a link on a government website, because it was included in an article I wrote in January.  When you write articles for the internet, it's a really good idea to update them and make sure your links are still good from time to time.  But instead of this one being about National Hot Tea Month, the page was now some announcement related to hydroelectricity.  Instead of simply updating the link and moving on, I listened to that voice in my head that said, "Oooh!  Something shiny!  Pull over; pull over!"

2.  I thought of my great-grandfather, an engineer, who built the first hydroelectric plant in North America (Canada, specifically), or so I thought.  But right there in black and white, it said that Thomas Edison had built the first such plant in the world, and it was in Appleton, WI around 1880.  That is definitely in North America, too.  And it's definitely 40 years or more before my great-grandfather's project.  All right, I said to myself.  Gotta get my facts straight.  Right now.  Al Gore did not invent the internet, and my great-grandfather didn't build the first hydroelectricity plant in North America.

2.  I Googled my great-grandfather.  I clicked on an article on file in a SC library where a historian had synopsized letters between my great-grandfather and a couple of his brothers.  I learned that one of my grandfather's first cousins was institutionalized in various Sanitariums.  I learned that while my great-grandfather and family lived in Charlotte, the farm house back in SC was rented to a man who had to be turned out.  Reason?  96 broken window panes.  I'm guessing that the man was shooting up the house.  That's just the "fun" stuff.

3.  I decided I needed to send this link, by email, to my cousins.  Their grandfather was quoted in the article, too.

Now I was faced with a decision, though . . . continue meandering and proceed to Ancestry.com, or get back to work?  Work, it was.  (Here's the part where I impress myself.) I actually clicked back through every stop I had made along the way, and without getting lost.  What's more, I accomplished my business at each stop.  And, here at the end of the work day, I have actually posted a new article online and managed to get some work done, despite rabbit hole diving!  No kraken sightings today.

So, I found out that what my grandfather's father built was most likely the first hydroelectric plant in Canada, not North America.  (I probably could have just asked my dad, but then it would have been over with in 60 seconds or fewer.)  I learned more intriguing family history.  I made contact with some dear family members.  I proofed old articles and updated them.  I wrote and posted a new article on the internet, and am working on the next one already.  And now, friends, I have also blogged.  It's a good day in this writer's world.

FICTION: Stayed

This past Friday, I set a timer and gave myself an hour to write a story.  It was an experiment.  I did it, and I wasn't displeased with the results.  I did spend a couple of hours yesterday revising it, though, and ended up undoing most of the revisions.  So it's very much like it was when I finished it on Friday.  The 23rd anniversary of Hurricane Hugo just passed, hence the subject matter.


Stayed

THE FLASHLIGHT FLICKERED.  “No, no. God, please, not now.”  Tonya groaned.  The batteries were brand new, but the cheap plastic light was only working intermittently.  She shook it back to life, but for how long, she didn’t know.  Darkness had overtaken the little wooden house half an hour earlier when the electricity quit.  The wind had been whining since sundown, but now it howled through the cracks around the windows and doors.  Above, the small loft added just a year earlier made new cracks and thumps that the house had never made before.  It was a jackleg job, done with plywood by a cousin.  Tonya still couldn’t believe her grandfather had paid him over a thousand dollars.  It wasn’t much more than a rude attic space.

                “I told you we shoulda left, Grandaddy!”  she shouted.  Hard of hearing, her salt-haired grandfather only grimaced at her.  They’d been told by the people on television to go to the high school gym in the village.

                Earlier in the day, police officers had urged, “Seek shelter now.  When the wind starts, it will be too late.”

                Neighbors had implored, “Come with us, Louis.  This is a big storm.  It’s different.”

“Category five,” Tonya had nodded.

“Never left before.  Ain’t leaving now.” Grandaddy had barked with finality each time, and with a shotgun laid across his lap for punctuation.  All the well-meaning warning wielders made their way back down the oak-lined dirt road with heads shaking.  Grandaddy’s thin frame fit neatly in the rickety wooden chair with the rope seat.  Peeling red paint always stuck to his back when he stood up out of it.  But there he had waited, had stayed, all afternoon.  When the breeze kicked up late in the day, the five sagging porch steps creaked under Grandaddy’s weight as he retreated into the house.

Now drips and streams from the roof turned the oddly-shapen carpet remnant under their feet soggy.  Its cornflower hue looked black in the dark, soaked room.  Tonya raced to and fro with pots and bowls, trying to catch all the leaks until  it became futile.

Grandaddy waved his cane in the air.  “Cut that out and sit down!  It’ll dry out tomorrow,” he hollered.

But when Tonya turned to face him, what she saw through the window behind his head propelled her forward to clutch her grandfather’s arms with her slender, light brown hands.  “Get up!  Get up!  God, help me!  Get up, Gran-”  Even in the blackest night, the white froth on the wall of water rushing them glowed phosphorescent.  The old man moved in slow motion as he turned to look backward and then tried to push himself up.

Adrenals screaming, Tonya pulled her grandfather from his chair and dragged him up the steep, little stairs into the loft.  The surge slammed and rocked the house.  Black water filled the room beneath them as they scrambled all the way up.  The flashlight made one last flash from under the water, then died.

They inched to the wall to lean back.  They grasped each other’s hands, swaying gently with the house during the eye.  Grandaddy gave Tonya a pat on the arm.  Despite his stubbornness in staying, she still trusted his lifetime of knowledge.  At only nineteen, she hadn’t much choice.  A trace of starlight glowed from the windows downstairs.  She checked her grandfather's face for what might come.  His jaw had unclenched.  His eyelids were now halfway down, revealing exhaustion.  He looked at Tonya and answered her with a nod and a sigh.  But the sound of water gently lapping against the steps still gave Tonya a start every few seconds.  She would scramble over to peer down, fearful of the water’s further swelling.  It came no higher than the third step from the top. 

The back end would not be as bad as the first; that much she knew.  So when it began, she willed herself to relax.  The water began to recede downstairs, and she soon stopped looking.  The low roar of the wind lulled them both into a wakeful rest.

                In the first light, Tonya and her grandfather were awakened by distant shouts.  They heard their names and called back.  Then they began their careful descent into the muck-coated living room.

(Truth) A Handy Husband Around the House

Ladies, you will be jealous of me when I tell you this.  I have a husband who helps out around the house.  Granted, he has an odd work schedule that allows him to be home more than some other husbands.  But even if it were not so, he would still do things that he thought needed doing.  Of course, he takes care of the mowing, weedeating, and such.  But on any given day, he also might vacuum, clean up the dishes after dinner, do laundry, or give the kiddo a bath.  It’s lovely, to say the least.  He’s a hard worker, and a wonderful person.

Now, before you start asking what I put in his food to elicit this behavior, I do have one “however” for you.  Here goes:  He is, HOWEVER, still a typical man with challenged sense of aesthetics and décor.  He can make something look neat.  And he’s very sensible about re-using and recycling things, which is a great quality to have.  (Now do you have an idea where I’m going with this?)  But it’s still my job to make things look homey.

So, we had a cactus that was thriving on our back porch, and growing every day.  We actually discovered it was several plants, and could be transferred into separate pots.  Transfer we did, and the plants have done very well.  One in particular was growing so tall that its little pot was no longer sufficient.  So for a while, I walked past it on the back porch every day and thought, I really need to do something for that little plant.

Handy hubby to the rescue.  I was upstairs working the other day, and he was doing his usual helpful things downstairs and outside.

He came inside and informed me:  “I repotted that little cactus.”

I responded gratefully: “Oh, wonderful!  Thank you!”

After a pause, he smiled and said, “You’ll have to see what I used.  You’ll think it’s funny.”

I smiled and silently prayed, Thank you, Lord, that it’s on the back porch and not the front.  I’ll check it out later.

And before I go any further, please note that I am NOT complaining in any way.  I just think it is extremely funny.

So, here is what he used:

 

First, he put the plant in an old, broken, plastic pot that had been put in the recycling because it was dropping soil.  Then, he . . . What’s that?  Why yes, it IS sitting inside one of my old kitchen pots that I was going to throw away!  Now, here’s the best part!  He went to the trouble to rearrange all of the plants in (a man’s idea of) an attractive manner.  It’s really a very nice display, with one exception.

 

Maybe you remember the old Sesame Street song and can sing along with me:

One of these things is not like the others,

One of these things does not belong!

Can you guess which one is not like the others,

Before I finish my song?

Lala la la la la la lala lala . . . .

Not only does he help out a lot, but he’s environmentally aware and very entertaining!  I love that man.

 

Where is her happy ending?

Many readers have communicated to me that the story “Get Your Own” from my recent collection The Ballad of the Shirley T and Other Stories stayed with them long after they put the book down.  This is a wonderful compliment for a writer to receive, of course.  While I’m happy to hear it, I can’t take credit.  And not only can I not take credit, but these compliments also serve as a reminder for me.  They are a reminder of something which I know I have to do.  I have to write the next part of the story.

Why is the story haunting?  So far, everyone has given the same reason.  Galya.  Is she okay?  What happened to her?  And here is my personal favorite among the comments:  Please write a sequel.  Yes, yes, I know.  I know you’ve only heard part of the story.  Her story was far bigger than I expected it to be, and there is much more to it.  It was very difficult for me to write, and the sequel is difficult, as well.

When God gave me inspiration for that story, I prayed over it before I began to write.  I asked God what story HE wanted to tell.  I asked Him to give me part of His heart.  I wanted the story to flow directly from the heart of God into my own, and from mine into the reader’s.  I continued to pray this as I wrote, day by day.

I knew then, and still know, that no human can ever conceive of the contents or capacity of God’s heart.  I am no dummy.  I would only receive a molecule of a fraction, a microscopic drop of an infinite source of love in order to write this story, but that tiny drop is more than enough.

Many times, I have felt the lightning strike and been able to sit down and “bang out” a short story in a few hours or a few days.  That was never the case with Galya’s story.  It came slowly.  It hurt.  I took extra precautions and felt especially burdened for her character.  I felt especially burdened to be delicate and truthful with what I was given.  From the very first sentence, Galya was my child.  I held her and loved her.  Day after day, I labored over it.

Once it was in the editor’s hands, I was told that the story had “too tidy” of an ending.  I knew it was true, and I cut the very end.  There was too much else to tell - in between where it ends now and where I knew it would ultimately end.

So, if you’re wondering, I’ll leave you with a clue.  Remember when Galya sat breathless, bleeding, and terrified behind the counter in the fabric store?  She was calling for help, but she hung up the phone and left.  She hung up too soon.  Help was on its way.  Where she went next, she could also find help.  But the real help that she wanted was already being dispatched, dear readers.

What challenges will she face next, and will her mother come looking for her?  Coming soon . . . Get Your Own, Part II.

Leave a comment and let me know – would you like it in print format or e-book format?  If e-book, do you have a Kindle or a Nook?

If you haven't read the first part of the story, click here (Paperback or e-book) to find it.

A Teacher's Hands

I love writing flash fiction.  It keeps my muscles warm when I reach writer's block on another project.  Below is one of my flash fiction projects.  I hope you enjoy it.
Photo credit


A Teacher's Hands

I knew exactly what I would get for Mrs. Carter for Christmas.  My mother walked me into McCall’s Pharmacy downtown, and my brown, leather shoes thumped quickly across the wood floor.  My knee socks started to slide down.  “Slow down, Virginia,” my mother admonished.

I sighed heavily and heel-toed my way to the cosmetics section.  A shelf displayed large bottles of scented hand lotions.  The palette was overwhelming, but all pastel.  For every fruit, flower, tree, or nut, there was a different color of lotion, and a different picture on the bottle.  I stood before the pinks and chose the one with a rose on the label.

“That’s what you want to get her?” my mother questioned.  I nodded.  Her curly red hair was unruly that day, and she tucked it behind her ear.  Checking the price, she added, “Well, all right,” then handing it back, “Why this one?”  I knew why, but I wasn’t sure how to articulate it.

Mrs. Carter’s hands were always wrinkled and dry.  It was probably from all the chalk dust.  She would tappity-tap-tap down that blackboard with little white crumbs flying in every direction.  The eraser would make a soft pop, then swish the dust back and forth at the front of the room.

Loose skin hung from Mrs. Carter’s “old lady” fingers, as I thought of them, giving them a soft look, like milky velvet.  But a white-knuckled grip forced the obstinate, swollen, old windows in the classroom open on pleasant days and told of the unbreakable strength in the bones underneath.  With a red pen, she graded our papers using perfect flourishes, angles and loops typical of old-fashioned cursive.  The words she wrote had all the propriety and politeness of an invitation to tea with the mayor’s wife.  

Mrs. Carter’s fingernails were always manicured and neat, but never too long.  Great length would not have been practical for a teacher charged with educating twenty-two fourth-graders.  After all, those hands had to pat shoulders under falling tears.  They had to sew buttons back onto a dress after a tree-climbing accident at recess.  They had to steer dirty, sweaty necks to the principal’s office.  They had to shuffle papers, carry books, slap a yardstick on a desk to get attention, move thumbtacks on a bulletin board.  Those hands baked cupcakes and brought them to school once a month to celebrate birthdays.  They dialed a parent’s phone number when a child seemed troubled or had slipping grades.  They clapped at the conclusion of oral book reports.  They dug in the dirt and captured small creatures in the name of science.  Those were busy hands.

On her left hand through it all was Mrs. Carter’s thin, tight wedding band.  She had told us during the first month of school that she never took it off, nor did her husband remove his.  I thought that was wildly romantic and sweet, for a couple to be so deeply connected as to never remove their wedding bands.  When we were practicing our long division one day in October, a delivery boy brought a magnificent bouquet of pink roses into the classroom.  It was an anniversary gift from Mr. Carter.  Pink roses were Mrs. Carter’s favorite.  She told us she thought they were soft and ladylike, but with a strong stem not easily broken or bent.

So I tried to condense it all and answer my mother’s question, “Why this one?”  before we got to the cash register.  I finally looked up at her as we got in line.

“Because,” I said simply, “she has beautiful hands.”

Back to pencils, back to books . . .

Okay, I admit it.  Even in a private school, the four year kindergarten doesn't exactly use a lot of pencils and books.  And that's as it should be.  They are playing, singing, dancing, building, listening to stories, taking care of class pets, and having a wonderful time.  That's how a four-year-old learns best.

But that little song that the children sing at the end of the school year about "No more pencils, no more books . . ." comes to mind right now as I reflect on how glad I am that the school year has begun.  For the last two weeks, I have been writing and writing and writing!  While my son is at school, I am back to my sweet spot: creating things out of words.  I'm so happy.

New novel ready yet, you ask?  No, indeed.  That thing has been to threshing floor.  It is slowly, but surely, being rebuilt and restructured and . . . yes, mostly re-written.  The story itself is mostly intact.  But point of view, pace of plot, and some characters have all changed.  The book will be better for it, I believe.  So we all must wait a little longer for that.

In the meantime, I continue to write short stories.  I may post some here one day soon, if I am feeling wacky.

I also write articles in various spots online.  Here's a recent creation:  http://www.squidoo.com/have-a-successful-trunk-or-treat-event

Enjoy!

Happy Independence Day: What Makes Us Great

Gumption.  Courage.  Elbow grease.  Determination.  Ingenuity.  Dedication.  Faith.  Fortitude.  Our ancestors who left their home countries in search of America possessed all of these qualities.  On tiny ships, they set out as free agents.  Their dreams of free exercise of religion, free enterprise, and opportunity for future generations were realized through braving the harshest of nature’s elements, fighting wars, establishing laws, taking risks, and trying over and over until they succeeded.

The same qualities accompanied those immigrants who arrived a couple of hundred years later on larger, more sophisticated ships at Ellis Island.  So it is today for those immigrants who come here with the desire to become Americans and stay until they die.  Whether those determined Americans-to-be arrive on an airplane, drive across a border, or stow away while trapped for weeks or months inside a shipping container, they come here for opportunity.  When I see pictures of those desperate souls who dare to float across the Florida Straits - across 90 miles of perilous ocean on inner tubes or rudimentary, handbuilt rafts - I realize how good we have it here.  Those of us born here never had to face sharks, stormy seas, drowning, or dehydration to get here.  Imagine being so desperate to get away from something, so hopeful that you could have opportunities you have never had before, that you risk your life in such a manner.  Many have perished before reaching our Land of Promise.  In the 90’s, thousands attempted to make it across those straits in various homemade floating devices, with only one in four reaching Florida beaches alive.  Those same desperate souls would rather die trying for freedom than stay in the old circumstances.  Rather die.  God help them.  What we have here must be pretty darned good, y’all.

That same searching spirit that rows its way here is what built this nation, brick by brick, board by board.  The huddled masses of hundreds of years ago sawed, hammered, tilled, planted, watered, harvested, sewed, and welded us into the great nation we are.  We continue to be great because of education, small businesses, free speech, and choices that are unfathomable in other countries.  It’s better here, because of opportunity.

While times have been tough in the last few years, the USA is knocked down but not destroyed.  Yes, over 8 million jobs were lost in 2008 and 2009 with only a few added back since.  But the USA has woken up.  The battle cry has been heard, and the people are standing up. 

Descendants of English, Irish, Scots-Irish, German, Japanese, Mexican, Cuban, and everything in between are rising up not as the heritage of the old countries, but as the heritage of the Melting Pot.  “Bring back our jobs!” they are crying.  We are Americans, and we will work hard.  We will not give up.  And we will not allow the opportunity that gives this country its good name to be taken away.  That’s what makes us great.  How are we doing it?

The non-partisan Buy American/Made in the USA movement is growing every day.  It inspires me and excites me to see more and more people making an effort to buy American goods and support American jobs.  In honor of our great nation, go out and buy something today that was made in the USA.  Cheer Google for creating a USA-made media streamer, the Nexus Q.  Cheer Chi for bringing some hair dryer manufacturing jobs back to the USA.  Support a local artisan or buy a buy a book written by  a local author.  Tell the corporations who shipped their manufacturing overseas to get wise and bring it back.

While you’re at it, watch the trailer for Josh Miller’s movie “MADE IN THE USA: THE 30 DAY JOURNEY” that is coming out soon:  MOVIE TRAILER

People like Josh Miller change the world.  People like Josh Miller are Americans.

Who are your favorite Americans?