A small room.

The room was small and square. Sparsely furnished, the main piece was a set of two simple, blue wingback chairs that reminded me of something my mother would've chosen for the living room. In between the chairs was a slender cherry wood table and a silver lamp, which was turned on, casting a warm glow on the room. Next to the lamp was a short, round bud vase holding a single white peony. It's fragrance tinged the air only slightly--more like the scent of a memory than anything else. A curtain hung over one end of the room, made of a heavy dove gray brocade, and on the opposite wall was a door. Looking around, I took all of these details in quickly, rubbing my hands on my arms. The room was pleasantly warm, but I felt slightly chilled--like I'd come in after being out in the cold for a long time.

I moved over to one of the chairs and sat in it, watching the door. I wasn't sure where I was, or quite how I'd gotten there. But I didn't feel anxious. That surprised me, slightly. It occurred to me that, not knowing where I was should have made me worry. But it simply didn't.

I closed my eyes and sunk deeper into the chair. For all their simplicity--it was very comfortable. For the first time in months, I felt like I could fall asleep and sleep for hours and hours, uninterrupted. As I sat, waiting, time seemed to move quickly around me.

A very soft knock at the door opened my eyes as the handle turned with a click.

I stood as it opened and I found myself face to face with a kind, familiar face.

My second grade teacher, Mrs. Linden.

Her face, just as I remembered it, smiled at the surprise she saw play across my features. Her gray hair, plaited into a braid. Smile lines around her mouth and eyes. I even glanced down to notice her hands, which had always been dusted with chalk as she waved them around energetically. They were clean now, but still looked just as wrinkly and soft.

Stepping forward into the room, she put her arms around me briefly and reached up to touch her cheek to mine. I was surprised to find that I was taller than her. When I'd seen her last, that had been different. Some things had changed.

"It's good to see you, Anna" she said, cheerfully, "I have to say I wasn't expecting to see you yet, but I'm glad just the same."

"You too" I responded automatically, pausing briefly to wonder what she meant by "yet." I hadn't really expected to see her again, ever.

She gestured to the chairs, "Please, sit! Let's catch up and chat for a few minutes. I'm sure you have questions."

I took my seat again and she went and sat opposite me. I looked at her and was aware that her hazel eyes were looking at me very intently, if kindly. Searching for something. I was the first to look away and down at the peony.

"I love peonies. But they're out of season right now."

"Yes, I would've imagined you'd like them. They're some of my favorites as well."

After a pause, I looked at her again. She sat back in her chair. She had on a forest green corduroy jumper with a peach turtleneck under it. Just like I remembered her.

Finally, I took a breath and said "I don't know where I am."

She nodded, but said nothing.

"I don't even really know how I got here" I laughed, embarrassed.

"Don't worry about that. I think you'll find if you think hard enough, you'll remember. But it's really not important" was her easy reply.

"Oh, well. I guess if it doesn't matter... can you tell me where I am, though?"

And as suddenly as I had uttered it, I felt a tremble of unexplicable sadness that took me by surprise. My eyes sought hers and suddenly there was a flash of remembering. I realized that tears were springing to the corner of my eyes and my hand flew to my mouth. Mrs. Linden knelt quietly by my chair, her hand on my knee.

I was shaking my head, trying to decipher the memories that were suddenly spreading out before me. Memories that didn't seem to be my own, because I wasn't in them.

Placing her hand on my cheek, Mrs Linden lifted my head and said "Yes, Anna. What you're remembering? Yes."

I stood suddenly, and she knelt back--looking up at me.

"I'm dead." I whispered.

"Yes." was her soft, sympathetic reply.

Day 83: Baby Blues

Note: I recently came across an article about the depiction of postpartum psychosis on the show Private Practice. I didn't see the show, but read the synopsis and have read enough to feel that they did so many women an injustice in perpetuating myths and stereotypes about the illness of postpartum depression, obsessive compulsive disorders, and psychosis. I wanted to write something, even though I know it isn't a fun topic. It certainly isn't an easy one. I have also never experienced severe PPD and it's related ilnesses, but while the following story is not intended to be autobiographical, I will say that it's something I can easily imagine from where I'm currently standing.

For further information regarding PPD and other post and mental illnesses, please visit www.postpartumprogress.typepad.com.

**

No one likes to admit that they're crazy. Not to themselves. Not to the people that love them. Curled up into a ball on the couch, snuggling with her baby in a soft, yellow blanket, and resting her forehead softly against her son's soft hair, she had to admit it to herself: she was afraid she was losing her mind.

She hadn't thought of it. Hadn't seen it for what it was. Every time her son cried, she walked into his room and greeted him with a smile on her face. Even at three in the morning. She gave him baths while singing "I'm a little teapot" as he gurgled and laughed. She made spaghetti dinner for her husband in the small kitchen of their apartment, and kept things tidy. Every afternoon, she bundled her baby up in his soft green snuggly and went for walks in the hilly suburbs around their town.

She spoke to no one of wanting to climb back into her bed every morning. She tried to ignore the little things, escaping to long, hot showers several times a day. Closing her eyes to sleep at night, she could hear her baby crying, even when he wasn't. She would pull her pillow over her head, turn on her fan, and try to sleep.

But the strangest thing, the thing she couldn't ignore. It had occured as an idea, and become an obsession. She had cancer. Her mind kept trying to tell her that. On her best days, she would sit and remind herself that she felt fine. There was not a single ache. Not so much as one symptom. But then a hard day would come, and she would find herself believing that she didn't have much time to live. Her imagination would run wild, until she was planning her own funeral in her mind and crying over the thought of leaving her husband and her sweet little boy.

She thought about this as she burrowed her face into the soft downy baby hair. She wished she knew what to do. She wished she knew someone to talk to. She wondered if other moms felt this way. A couple times, she'd almost asked her downstairs neighbor, who also had a baby, if she ever felt lonely. If she ever felt bored. Afraid. Stifled. Trapped. But she couldn't quite bring herself to ask, and so they talked, instead, about bottle feeding versus nursing, gross motor development, and different kinds of birth control.

The weeks and months of his baby days were slowly passing. She felt a sadness at not being able to enjoy them with all her heart. She wished that she knew how to feel more like herself again. How to shake the invisible pebbles from her shoes and the cobwebs from her mind. Sighing, she sang her son a song, "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray. You'll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away."

Day 82: Radio Hour

cue soft organ music

Women's voice: Women are only out to get one thing. One thing they desire above all else. One thing to be achieved above all else. What is this thing that lies at the heart of a woman's heart?

organ music fades, sound of footsteps, the hiss of a steam engine, a large clock chiming.

Elise: Oh! I just know we're going to miss it--Paul, what track?
sound of rustling
Paul: Two. Track two--just down there.
footsteps pick up speed
Elise: Hurry!
sound of door opening at the same time you hear a train begin to chug and lurch forward

Elise: sighs We made it! I thought for sure we weren't going to get here on time.
Paul: calmly I don't know why you ever doubt me, my love. You worry entirely too much.
Elise: laughingly And you don't worry at all.
sound of luggage being placed on the floor and pushed under seats

Elise: So, since you've planned this whole trip so secretly, will you tell me yet where we're going?
Paul: You already know where we're going.
Elise: exasperated Well, it's obvious we're in Zurich. It's also obvious that we're leaving. I know we're on a train, but I don't know it's destination.
Paul: chuckles You were the one who said that you wanted our honeymoon to be a surprise.
Elise: pouting But it appears you're going to a keep it a surprise all the way through.

A door opens with a woosh, making the sound of the train louder.
Conductor: Karten, bitte schoen. Tickets, please.

sound of papers rustling, the click of a hole punch, and the door closes again

Paul: Don't worry. You will see where we're going soon enough.
sound of a kiss on the head and Elise laughs lightly

organ music grows louder, then fades. Sound of the train coming to a halt.

Elise: Luzern... Luzern! Is this where we're getting off?
Paul: It is. And it is all yours--the bridge, the cobblestone, the lake, the swans. All ordered especially for you.

luggage pulled out, door opens, and a sound of general train station hubub.

Elise: Paul, wait just one minute. I left something in the compartment of the train.
footsteps, door opening, slight rustle, then door and footsteps again as the train gives a lurch and the whistle signals it's about to leave
Paul: teasing I can see I'll have to keep a close eye on you so you don't get lost.

walking out into the city
Elise: Why, it's beautiful! As beautiful as I've imagined it for years.
Paul: You sound so surprised!
Elise: How often does it happen, that something lives up to the expectations in your mind? Especially someplace you've wanted to see for a very long time?
Paul: Rarely. And agreed--it is breathtaking. Our hotel isn't far, would you like to walk, or shall I arrange a taxi?
Elise: Oh, let's walk. I'm longing to walk.

Elise: Look! Look at the swans. Gliding there, like a picture. And, oh! There's the bridge!
Paul: teasing You are so easily pleased. Maybe we can just go home now, you seem content. But no, I already have another surprise planned for tomorrow.

organ music rises, then fades
Paul: Good morning, my dear. Are you ready for our day out?
Elise: Ready and waiting! Where are we off to?
Paul: No. No--not yet. But you'll soon see. First, to the bus station.

break for the night... just that much took me an hour! It seems ridiculous. Have you figured out yet what women are after??

Day 81: "Brought to you by Johnson's Wax!"

I absolutely adore old-time radio. When I was growing up in Utah, KSL radio station played vintage radio every night at 11:00 to midnight. I would lay in my room and my mom would turn up her stereo so I could hear the latest "Fibber McGee and Molly", "Little Orphan Annie," or rarely, our favorite, "Chandu, the Magician!" There is something about listening to vintage radio that makes everything in the world more simple--more right. Everything in black and white.

The shows always start out by announcing who their sponsors are--this is one of the things that I like the most. Sometimes you'll hear a commercial for things you wish you could get. Permit me a couple examples:

Here's one from a 1939 Fibber McGee and Molly sponsor Johnson's CarNew: "Unsolicited letters have been pouring in from listeners everywhere. Some of these comments are from women, who wax polish their own cars without help!" (Can you imagine???? Where can I get some 70 years later?)

From Jack Benny, circa 1937, "I'll bet you don't know the real meaning of the word delicious, or do you? Well, I didn't until I looked it up, and it comes from two Latin words meaning pleasant and charmed, and if that doesn't spell "Molly Rich Grapenuts" then my name isn't Don Wilson. You're as pleased as punch when you sit down to the big tempting bowl of grapenuts, now aren't you?" (Well, now that I' ve been insulted, yes. Yes, I am pleased as punch. Thanks, Don Wilson.)

Following the brief commercial, the shows come on with all their fabulous sound and voice effects. My favorites are the mysteries, with their famous detectives--The Shadow, The Adventures of the Falcon, and the like.

I wonder what it would be like to write a radio show. To have to come up with a story entirely dependent on what you can communicate with sound. I'm amazed at the stories they can weave into their thirty minute, commercial free time slots. I imagine kids and adults sitting around radios listening. Letting their imaginations send shivers down their backs. Being able to listen to a person's voice and create a whole picture of how they look in your minds.

I would like to be better at listening, at creating stories in my mind. I would especially love to be better at creating stories that catch people's imaginations--whose plots and characters are intriguing and delightful.

So, stealing a line from "The Adventures of the Falcon"-- "I believe all women are alike. They're only out for one thing", tomorrow I'm going to write a story based on that line. And remember, like The Shadow says, "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?"

Day 79: Something Wonderful

I believe that I owe you good people something wonderful after a few days. Hm.

From writing.com--a writing prompt.

Go.

Her name was Angie. She had shiny, black hair that curled in ringlets down her back and big hazel eyes. She lived in a quiet, old apartment on a quiet old street next to a Portuguese restaurant and an antique store. Every evening, she closed her shades and did yoga stretches on her hardwood floors or made herself some loose leaf herbal tea. While she stretched and breathed and pondered, she listened to opera. She enjoyed pop opera, like Andrea Bocelli and Josh Groban. Sometimes the Three Tenors. But her favorite was anything by Wagner. Soaring, long, and ferocious. She loved it. She would close her eyes and let the voices carry her. Sometimes she would sing, at the top of her lungs, with her off kilter, uneven voice. Singing through an entire chorus would leave her limp, drained, and blissfully happy, fully relaxed into a yoga pose or holding a warm, empty mug in her cupped hand.

In the morning, when she woke up--early, before the sun, she would stand in the dark, brushing her teeth. Combing her hair back into a ponytail. Applying lipstick to her lipsand then vanilla scented lotion to her hands. Keeping her eyes closed and her shoulders relaxed until she stepped out her door. Then she walked purposefully, swiftly to the bus stop and caught the number 32 bus--always on time--to her work. The city sanitation brigade. Zipping into a navy blue jumpsuit, slipping on heavy leather working gloves, she jumped into the cab of a rumbling green "Waste Collection Vehicle" as her boss, Vin, called it. A front loading garbage truck. Rumbling off into the morning, to wake people up to the sound of garbage cans being emptied. And in her mind, Wagner played.

Day 65: Clementine, chapter 2

Sitting in the back seat of her parents Suburu, Clementine stared out the window. They had been driving for days, and she'd never had so much to see before. It had surprised her, how the world looked different from state to state. They had passed from the familiar hardwoods of the east--where you couldn't see anything from the road because it was hidden by the trees, to the rolling green hills, and then corn fields, as far as the eye could see. She saw a man on a tractor, the only person in a vast expanse. He raised his hand and waved to her, but she didn't think to wave back. They had crossed huge rivers, and she had quietly tossed a nickel out her window, hoping that it would reach the water and sink down, down into the muddy depths. Proof that she had been here.

Now, they were getting closer. Her little sister huddled against the car door, playing handheld video games or watching movies on her dad's laptop. She had cried for three states, clutching a stuffed koala her BFF had given her. She was 9.

Now, on the last day of their trip, the road wound through the trees, slightly upward, for what seemed like forever. Occasionally Clementine saw handmade signs for pottery, or small cafes offering huckleberry jams and ice cream. Clementine had never tasted a huckleberry in her life, and could only think of Mark Twain and his Huckleberry Finn. Suddenly, ahead, they came into a broad valley, rimmed by mountains. Her mother turned toward the backseat and smiled encouragingly, "We're almost home."

Home, as it turned out to be, was a hunkering brick house with a nondescript yard. Chainlink fence. A black mailbox that said SWENSON. Her father pulled into the driveway, put the car into park, and turned the key. There was silence as they all opened their doors and slid out of their seats. Her mother stretched. Her dad cracked his knuckles. Clementine just stood behind her open door, and looked.

Day 57: Clementine

There was a teenage girl, named Clementine. There is no nickname for a name like that. No way to shorten it, strengthen it, or even make it your own. It is a name that wears the child.

Clementine's mother chose the name because she was born in December, and for the whole week before she was born, her mother had eaten nothing but clementines. Holding their perfect, orange weight in her hand, she would unwrap them with the peel almost intact. Separating the see-through crescents, she would line them up on her pregnant belly and and then savor slice after delicious slice. She was convinced that clementines were the most perfect, wonderful food on the planet. She could imagine nothing lovelier.

And so, she named her daughter Clementine--the squirming bundle in the pink blanket, in a plastic bassinet among a sea of Jennifers and Kimberlys. Maybe if Clementine had been a happy child, with neatly combed blonde hair and a ready smile, things would've been different. Maybe. But she had long, dark hair, and large, dark eyes. From her smallest days, her eyes followed everything, but she made very little noise. She was not bubbly and warm. She felt anything but lovely. So she wore her name like a coat that was the wrong size. Every time she introduced herself, she would watch for the tiny line in the person's forehead that showed their confusion. Most of them would ask her to say her name again, with a slight shake of the head.

In junior high, Clementine would practice her handwriting and fill whole sheets with the names she wished she had: Elizabeth, Kathryn, Caroline. Serious names. Names that fit. Names that everyone had heard, and no one asked twice about.

Practicing her handwriting was something she did a lot. Ever since second grade, when her teacher commented on how nice her penmanship was. Since then, she took a quiet pride in having the most beautiful, even handwriting in her class. Not that anyone but herself and her teachers ever saw it, but it was beautiful, just the same.

It was in the summer after ninth grade that they moved. She hadn't minded, since she felt that she was leaving very little behind. The only things she would miss was a pattern in the plaster on her bedroom ceiling that resembled a bench on a cliff overlooking the sea, and a certain cottonwood tree near the sidewalk on the way to the library. These two things, she could not take. But she left nothing else behind.

Day 55: Fire Bird

I'm afraid that my entries the past few days have been... well... "pretty bad" might be even too nice a term for them. It's a funny thing, this writing. Some nights, I have such great ideas. Other nights, I feel like there just isn't anything there. So, I write--either way. And some mornings, I wake up and think "Oy. Last night's entry was awful. I should erase it." Almost without fail, it's the stories that I think were awful that get a good response, and some that I really like--get none. So I erase none of them. Good, bad, unedited as they are. They stay. But, please, accept my apologies for the ones that are "pretty bad."

Tonight, I was trying to make up a story for my son as I was trying to wrestle him into his pajamas. Something about a bird of every single color who could fly so high that he could see the whole world. I was feeling pleased with it. My son, on the other hand, couldn't have been any *less* interested. So I thought I'd write my simple story here. Maybe someone *else* will like it...

****

There once was a bird.
It had draping feathers of blue, red, purple, yellow, green, white, black, orange, and aqua--every color of the rainbow. But it didn't always.

Once, that bird was very small, and very weak, with simple brown feathers. But, one day, he decided to fly as far as he could--to see what he could see.

Setting off, he could see some squirrels in the trees, gathering nuts. He could see small fish in the streams. But, before long he grew very tired, and went back to his tree.
When he reached there, he realized that he had grown some silvery blue feather--the color of the stream, and some green feathers--the color of the trees.

The next day, and the day after and after, he flew a little further and a little higher.
He saw sheep in the meadows and cows in the fields dotted with purple clover.

Higher still, he could see goats clambering on the rocks in the mountains,
their peaks covered in glistening white snow.

Ever higher and higher he flew, and soon he was never tired. And for everything he saw, he grew feathers of different colors. The yellow of the sunrise and the orange of the sunset.

Higher and higher it would fly, until it could see the boats bobbing on the deep blue ocean. Soon, it reached the moon, with it's smiling face, and grew silver white feathers.

Higher still, the bird--strong and beautiful--flew and flew,
until it's tail feathers brushed the stars and it turned all the colors of the sun.

Day 54: You Wore a Tulip

Growing up, my parents would sing old songs. "Let Me Call You Sweetheart", "Daisy, Daisy", and "Mairsy Dotes" were some I remember. My favorite was one about a big yellow tulip. Do you know the lyrics? It goes:
You wore a tulip, a big yellow tulip, and I wore a big red rose.
When you caressed me twas then heaven blessed me, what a blessing no one knows.
You made life cheery when you called me deary, way down where the blue grass grows.
Your lips were sweeter than julep, when you wore that tulip, and I wore a big red rose.

Tonight, I piled my kids into our car in the freezing cold and went on a drive just after the sun set. The house was feeling big and empty, and we needed to fill some time before bed. The radio is broken in our wonderful van, so, as I drove, I sang those old songs. When I came to that one, I couldn't help but smile. Then I wondered if I had the talent to guess at the love story behind it. So, I thought I would try...
***

If you ever visit Kentucky, make sure it is in the month of May. The soft green of early spring bursts forth into the multi-hued exuberance of coming summer. Horses on a track in Louisville. Fireworks over the Ohio River. Colts chasing behind straight fences in cropped green pastures. The heart of Kentucky can be found in the month of May.

That spring, my love and I would meet at the end of a lane--Happy Jack Hollow. He was always there first, somehow. Sitting on the low, moss-covered stone wall the rambled quietly on one side. At it's base, daffodils planted many years before bloomed. A very few tulips remained. He would rise, smiling, and take my hand. We would walk down the lane--talking, making plans. It was our favorite place.

On this May morning, I could see him, seated already--slowly twirling the last of the yellow tulips in his hands. As I approached, he rose and strode quietly toward me. With a soft, sad smile, he placed the tulip in the chocolate brown curls of my hair. Taking my hand, we began to walk silently.

The stream criss-crossed our path several times, overflowing from recent rains. But it ran clear, and shallow, across the slabs of slate. Stopping at one crossing, I peered down into the water and could see both of us reflected. He leaped lightly across the stream, and helped me gently across. A swarm of tiny, violet butterflies rose around us--fluttering in the rays of sunlight making their way through the trees.

We did not talk of the war in France. We did not talk of him leaving. I did not then dream of fields of poppies under clear blue skies. We thought only of each other, in a silence so brittle that neither of us dared breathe, let alone speak. Walking again, slowly, we came upon a wild rose bush with the first tiny rosebuds of summer on it. I reached out and broke off one stem and placed it in the buttonhole of his shirt.

Looking up at him, we kissed softly once. Sweeter than julep. He released my hand and turned to go. I wanted to run after him. To tell him to come back to me. To tell him that I would be waiting. But he was already gone.

***
PS. Yes. Happy Jack Hollow is real. And I've been there in May. :)

Day 51: A Day in the Life

If only walls could talk...

Monday

Mr. Pelham had a sleepless night. The first rays on sunshine, pouring in the cracks of his window shades, fell across his open, bloodshot eyes. He threw his arm across his face, clenching and unclenching his jaw; opening and closing his upturned fist. Moving slowly, he rose slightly and took a sip of stale water from the glass sitting next to his bed, then falling back on his thin pillow. He tried to concentrate only on the ticking of the clock, and the sound of his breath in and out. He closed his eyes once more.

Downstairs, Krishna knelt before her shrine. Her hands and feet decorated in an intricate pattern, repeated on the step outside her door. She was perfectly still, as cool as water. Her saari a deep shade of blue, trimmed with gold, and her dark hair in braids. At her temples, the first shades of gray. The smile lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth betrayed a kind heart, still young despite years with a husband for whom she felt no affection. Despite the grief of a son who had rejected his upbringing and his parents for a blonde girl and graphic design school. She breathed, and she prayed.

One apartment over, the Tysons sat across from each other at the breakfast table. He put his wrinkled, knobby hand over the top of her tiny, gnarled fist and she smiled. He poured her a glass of milk, with a straw, and lifted it for her. She leaned forward slightly, shaking, and took a few sips. Some of the milk dribbled out the right side of her mouth, and he dabbed at it lovingly with a napkin. She smiled crookedly. He pointed out the vase with stems of pussywillows that Lavendar had brought, and asked if she remembered how much their own children had loved pussywillows in the spring. She smiled. Standing, Mr. Tyson wheeled her away from the table and into the small front room. He pulled her chair to stand next to his recliner, and put on the brakes. He adjusted the afghan over her legs--a beautiful afghan that she had made years ago, before her fingers had grown curled and rigid and painful to move. He stroked her cheek and asked her if they should watch The Price is Right or LIVE with Regis and Kelly. She smiled.

On the top floor, Lavendar Craven stood in front of an 8 foot canvas. Already spattered with paint, she had been up early enough to see the street lamps fade for the day. She dipped her brush into the Alizarin Crimson and pulled it boldly across the canvas, moving her whole body side to side. A small radio, covered with blobs of paint, sat next to her feet and filling her small studio with sound. She hummed as she dipped her brush into the turpentine, swishing it back and forth, finishing with a tap on the side. She stepped back to look at her progress, reaching back to pick up her cold roast beef sandwich off the plate on the stool in the corner. She took a bite and, chewing, tilted her head slightly to consider her painting. Ochre. It needed more ochre.

Below, Maggie paced the floor with Astrid on her shoulder. She sang "You are my sunshine" over and over, as the tiny head grew heavy. She swayed in front of the crib, rocking gently back and forth, watching the pudgy fingers slowly relax and uncurl. She leaned over and softly placed her baby in her crib, slowly and carefully so that she wouldn't startle and wake up. Maggie tiptoed out the door, drawing it closed behind her. Sighing and letting her shoulders fall, she went to face her stack of monthly bills and prayed there would be enough.

Day 49: Heirloom

In the back of my mother's closet hung a beautiful, ivory skirt. Made of water-stained silk, it fell to the floor with a tiny train in the back... where did it come from? Who wore it?

...

Sitting in front of the thin mirror, Emily turned this way and that, pinning up thin strands of her dark brown hair. She had spent hours trying to coax it into the Gibson style, but it was simply too fine. It wouldn't stay. Twisting a few strays behind her ears, she sighed. Her parents would never allow her to buy a foundation or a hairpiece, like so many of her friends had. Nor would they allow her to spend her hard earned teaching money on the beautiful, wide-brimmed hats that were in all the shops. But she did have a thin, blue ribbon to weave through her hair, and a small silver comb as an accent. It was a little behind the styles, but she thought it was pretty, just the same.

Tonight was an important night for her--her first social as an engaged girl. She wanted everything to be perfect. She wanted to look perfect, so William would be proud, just like she was proud of him. Proud of the dreams he had for his little plot of land. Proud that she was the girl that got to sit next to him, and claim the first dance. She held her hand out and looked at the delicate gold band, with it's tiny blue sapphire.

As she bent down to lace her boots. she heard some of her ten siblings bounding up and down the stairs and down the hall. She was the oldest, and the first to be engaged, and the other girls were as anxious for the social tonight as she was. Anxious to be included in the upcoming festivities, and to boast to their friends of their upcoming status as bridesmaids. Her mother, too, seemed to flutter. In a hurry one moment, and the still the next--looking at Emily strangely. And her father, saying little, but watching always.

Turning to the bed she shared with her two sisters, she picked up the soft white blouse and pulled it carefully over her hair, arranging the little bit of lace on the collar and the sleeves. Bending, she held up her skirt--ivory in color. A heavy waterstained silk. It had a lovely weight and drape to it, falling in folds to the floor, with it's tiny train. It made her want to sing it was so beautiful--the most beautiful thing she had ever saved for and owned. Her parents thought it was a ridiculous extravagance, but she loved it. She smiled as she pulled it over her head and buttoned it at the side, then tied a sky blue sash around her tiny waist.

Gazing in the mirror one more time, she could hear the wheels of a wagon pulling up in the front yard, and the sound of her brothers and sisters going out. She could hear William's deep, serious voice. Yes. It would do....

...
Leah was assigned to clean out her mother's arimoir. She was glad of the dark, comforting silence. Time to be alone--to think. Pressing in among the folds of dresses, breathing in deeply, she inhaled the mixed, mellow scents of perfumes. She buried her face in the shawls, blouses, and skirts. Simple, unadorned clothing, but it carried so many memories of her mother. Shoes worn through and patched, sweaters and stockings mended time and time again. Evidence of a life well lived, and worn through.

Placing the worn things aside, Leah divided them, one at a time, into giveaway piles. Going back in time, through her mother's life. She could hear her Father's voice, staccato and sharp, still ordering things in the orchard outside. She was glad, again, for silent task. With her Matthew gone to war, the days seemed to stretch endlessly in front of her. Her mother had been gone for nearly a year, but only now did Leah take on the task of sorting through her things.

Soon, she sat among piles of clothing, shoes, and the odd piece of jewelry. Reaching into the back of the closet, on the top shelf, her hand fell upon something wrapped in tissue paper. Drawing it out, with it's soft rustling, she drew the yellowed paper back and saw a shimmering ivory silk skirt. With a small gasp she held it up. She could hardly believe that her mother--her practical, hardworking mother, had ever owned such a thing, let alone worn it. Holding it up to her own waist, she realized what a tiny person her mother had been at one time.

Folding the skirt carefully, she placed it back in the tissue paper. She thought to ask Father about it. But then she shrank, thinking of his reaction to anything that had been her mothers. She ached to have it out of her childhood home, and into her own sunshine filled home. She wanted to shake it out, hold it up to the light, and think of her mother--young and beautiful. Glancing over her shoulder, she tucked the bundle in her wool coat. Maybe she could wear it when Matthew came home.

...

Everyone in her graduating class was wearing dresses covered in rows and layers of ruffles to their graduation. Broad hemlines and tight, long sleeves. Rachel had wanted something different, but she didn't know quite what. Her mother had offered to make her something, and she had looked through patterns, and fingered bolts of fabric, but she just couldn't find anything. Now, tomorrow was her graduation, and she had nothing better than her Sunday dress to wear. She flipped her long, brown hair over her shoulder and sighed, falling back on her bed.

Standing, she walked down the hall to her parents bedroom--thinking to borrow the single strand of pearls from her mother's jewelry box. Standing on tip-toe, she reached up into the closet and pulled the box down. She retrieved the string of pearls and was just reaching to put the box back when she caught a glimpse of shining ivory. Lifting a folded bedspread off of it, she pulled out a compacted square of fabric. Shaking it out, she saw a skirt fall in wrinkled folds down to the floor, with a tiny train at the back.

Fingering the fabric gently, she wondered how old it was and where it had come from. She held it up against herself, and wondered if it would fit her own waist. She draped the skirt over arm and walked back to her room, closing the door. Pulling the heavy skirt over her head, she did up the single side button and turned slowly to look in the mirror. Catching sight of herself, she smiled in surprise. It was perfect.

Day 47: House Hunting

The house was yellow. It sat just up an incline, surrounded by tall oak trees. A rocking chair front porch hedged by azeleas that would bloom crimson and white in the spring. Carol, The Realtor, opened the box on the front door and stood aside to let me in. Directly in front of me was a wide staircase with a wooden banister. Turning to the left, I noticed that the carpets were faded and shabby, but the windows were tall and wide, with sunshine pouring in the south facing windows. I could imagine our Christmas tree, standing in the corner. Moving into the kitchen, I tried to picture our dishes in the dark brown cupboards, and wondered if I could paint them a clean white.

The Realtor trailed behind me, making comments about the neighborhood and the schools. She seemed oblivious to the 10 month old in my arms, our only child. The thought of buying this house, with it's attached school district and high school, made me feel like a kid pretending to be older than she was.

Running my hand over the banister, worn to a comfortable sheen, I wondered to myself "Is this our house?"

House hunting. What an experience. Trying on homes for size. Making a decision about the biggest purchase you'll ever make in less time than it took you to decide on and purchase a hair dryer at Target. And you don't just buy the house--you buy the neighbors next door, with their barking dog and tendency to throw their cat litter over the fence into your yard. You buy the noise of the bypass a mile away, and the former owner's preferences for trees and shrubs.

Note: I want to turn this into a story--I was just getting my thoughts out there, for tonight. I'm too tired, I'm afraid, to actually come up with a plot. I'll be working on it for tomorrow, though.

Day 32: Missing pieces

From The Playful Way to Serious Writing: Where are the missing spoons?

On the bottom shelf of our pantry growing up, there was a brown wooden box. Lined with pink satin, it held my mother's silverware. She had selected the pattern in 1969 at the age of 18 for her wedding to my dad. We used them for Sunday dinners, Thanksgiving, and their anniversary. They were beautiful. As the years passed, the spoons began to disappear, and I remember my mother saying in exasperation "Where did my spoons go?" Well.

There was one of the dessert spoons, with it's curling rose pattern, that I smouched to be my first "Barbie" doll; driving it around in one of my mother's high heeled shoes with a butter knife "Ken." Then there were the two that we left under the cottonwood tree in the backyard after using them as tools for our dinosaur excavation. (We hadn't found any dinosaurs, but we did chisel through a lot of roots to that tree in the attempt.) I'm pretty sure that one got tossed in the trash inside a Miracle Whip jar. and another one we left at the church after bringing a dish to a potluck. One by one, the spoons disappeared. Eventually, the only one left was the scalloped sour cream spoon. The last one left standing, to be used on Sundays, Thanksgiving, and their anniversary.

Now that I'm grown up and have some silverware of my own, I too watch it wander off in my kid's pudgy little paws. Some of them I've found--in the bathtub or in the dollhouse. I can only hope they're being used to dig up dinosaurs and that the lovely, fine dessert spoons will marry the tall, handsome butter knives.

Day 28: Economy

Note: Okay, I've never attempted the kind of writing I did today, so what follows below isn't good writing. It needs a lot of revision and editing and could use several drafts. It needs better characters. It needs to just... be better. So don't pay attention to what isn't there--what do you think of the ideas that are?

It was Christmas day, and we were all sitting down to the table to eat. My mother had prepared a her best meal for us, and we were anxious to eat. My grandmother sat at one end of the table, looking at her plate and smiling slightly.


"Do you remember Christmases, back when you were a child?" she asked my mom.
"A little." mom replied, as she passed a dish of steaming white rice.

Grandmas eyes got a far-off look, and she continued, "We had more food than we knew what to do with, then. Turkey or ham, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, Jello, pie with Cool Whip...."

"I'd almost forgotten Cool Whip existed!" my mother exclaimed.

I shoveled a spoonful of rice into my mouth, ignoring them. I'd never tasted any of the things they were talking about, even though people had tried to describe them to me. The things from the old days. It was another world, completely foreign. Grandma talked about going to stores and spending over $100 on anything she felt like--toys for her kids, or clothing. She talked about going to the grocery store and filling a whole cart with food, just for their family. I secretly believed she was exaggerating, not that I would ever say that to her.

Still not touching her plate, she continued, "We just didn't think things could change as much as they did. We thought that we would always have enough to eat. New clothes to wear. We made fun of our grandparents who talked about the Great Depression and saved their tin foil and their plastic bags." As she said this, she glanced at me, and I ducked my head--eating a slice of cooked onion.

I had learned in my history classes about those years leading up to the Fall. Years when most people had no idea what it meant to be poor. They didn't realize how rich they were because everyone they knew had their own homes, two cars, and went on vacations every summer. They did not see poverty or hunger, and hardly dreamed that they could experience those things themselves. That was before everything had changed. The world's economies had lost their footing, and spiraled downward and downward, made worse by wars and natural disasters. They kept waiting to hit rock bottom, but--every time they thought they'd found it--it sank further

I was proud to say, like many people, that my grandparents had graduated from college. My parents and most of their generation never had that chance. There simply wasn't money, and many of the colleges and universities had closed. But my parents still talked about how fun it was--falling in love in those days, when every date they went on was free. When my parents got married, my grandmother gave my mother her own wedding band--gold and diamonds had become an almost extinct and, therefore, precious commodity. I don't know how my grandmother had managed to hang on to it that long. I didn't understand why she didn't sell it, when things got bad.

It think it took time for people to realize that the very nature of their world had changed. They kept waiting for things to go back to the way that they had been. Somehow it finally began to sink in--my history textbook said that it was when the Pandemic Influenza hit and killed millions in the same summer that two Category 4 hurricanes hit the east coast. Many people lost their minds, when they lost everything. Some people had killed themselves. Others turned to desperate crimes and even killed others to get the things that they wanted. "Our faith and our families were the only things we had left, and the only things we needed." my grandma would say.

I was in the first generation that had been born after the Fall. We had no hopes of college or travel. We laughed when we learned that people used to expect to get a car for the 16th birthday. Things had changed so much. Things were so much more simple. We were completely delighted by a Christmas dinner of white rice and cooked onion.

Day 24: Star

Joy! I'm actually posting before 11:00 pm! We'll see if my writing is better or worse if I write earlier. *grin*

Tonight, the story of a shepherd on a hill. (To clarify, I set the story of the Nativity in the spring for this piece, just so you aren't confused. Because why not?)

There are days in the springtime on the hillsides outside of Bethlehem where the clouds seem to hover just under the sky. Where everything is distinct and clear and bright. The light takes on almost a golden hue, and everything--from the pebbles on the road to the birds soaring the air, are distinct and beautiful.

It was on such an afternoon that I wrapped my small dinner in a bundle of cloth: salty goat cheese, a dried fig, and some good, flat bread. Holding it in one hand along with a small earthen jug of cool water and taking my staff, which was light but strong, in the other hand, I set off for the hills.

Walking happily through the bustling, busy streets of Bethlehem, I nodded at strangers coming and going. All these people had come to our small town to be taxed by the Romans, and our usually quiet homes buzzed and bustled with the movement. It was hard to find a place to step in the streets.

I saw men selling and men buying. I saw women laughing as they chose food at market stalls and children darting in and out between people and animals. Foreign Roman soldiers struggling to walk in their armor amongst the crowds. The hated tax collectors at their tables, with their scrolls. The throngs parting hastily for a man passing with leprosy, calling out, "Unclean." A beggar with twisted legs leaning against a wall with his eyes closed, asleep. All of these people I saw as I walked toward the city gates.

Then out into the clean, fresh air. The breeze could reach me here, and swung my cloaks about my legs as I walked. The bright, new grain swayed laughingly in the wind. My heart felt light as I rose up into the rocky hills above the city where I would find my family's flocks and help to tend them for the night.

All our sheep were known to me, by their black faces and simple eyes. When they heard my voice, they would come. It was lambing season, and so we had leaping, wobbling new lambs with their rough wooly coats scampering amongst the rocks. I would spend much of my time counting and re-counting to make sure that we had every one, that none of them had strayed. Each of them were precious to me. They were our livelyhood, and our way of living, but they were also under my care, for I was their shepherd and they trusted me to keep them safe.

I joined my friends on the hill and we talked as we watched our sheep graze. We talked of the Romans and their taxes. We talked of the Passover soon to come. We talked of our children, and of our scripture. As the sun drifted and sank below the horizon in a blaze of crimson light, we gathered our sheep and lit fires of sweet wood. Sitting down, we opened our bundles and ate.

After supper, some of the shepherds lay down to rest. The night was deep and warm, and the stars glittering in the sky. I stood among my flock, and rested my cheek against my cool staff. I could see the lights of the town below, which looked so clean and orderly from this distance. Slowly, the lights in the windows went out. All was quiet and still except for the soft bleating of a sheep every now and then.

Suddenly, without warning, there was a blaze of light. In an instant, I raised my hand to shield my eyes and crouched slightly. Without realizing it, my ears waited for a crack of thunder. But the light wasn't a flash--it was still there. Lowering my hand slowly, I raised my eyes. I took a violent step backwards and gave a small cry. The other shepherds on the hill all stood, like me, frozen in place. Some had fallen to their knees. Others hid their faces in their hands 0r with their heads turned like they were waiting for a blow.

There, above us in the air, was a person. A man. As radiant as the sun in the middle of the day, breathtaking and beautiful. He held out his hand slightly and said, in a firm deep voice, "Fear not, for I bring unto you glad tidings of great joy." His rich voice filled my ears and seemed to fill every fiber of my body. I clutched my staff tighter and leaned forward, just slightly, as he continued to speak. "For unto you is born this day, in the City of David, a Savior who is Christ the Lord."

Tears were wet upon my face at these words. My hands released my staff and I fell slowly to my knees. A Savior. I could not breathe for joy. I tore my gaze away from the heavenly visitor and glanced at my fellow companions--I caught the eye of my brother and he suddenly beamed at me. The promised Messiah.

The angel told us that we were to seek the newborn infant, and that we would find him wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. I felt that I could've flown over the hills and gates of the city in that instant. Suddenly, bursting with even greater light than I'd ever dreamed possible, an entire host of angels could not be restrained from our sight, singing, declaring with power "Glory to God in the highest! On earth, peace good will toward men." The very hills seemed to drink in their song and respond in an echo. Glory to God in the highest.

Fading, shimmering, and slipping away into the night, we were left in the rich, deep silence that followed. For one moment, we continued to gaze upward at the darkness, except for a new star that had appeared, filling the world with it's light. We picked up our staffs and we ran, while below us, the city slept.

Day 23: Christmas Card

Prompt: I came across a soggy, lost Christmas card in the gutter. It had a picture on the front of a woman, a man, and two children. At the bottom was scrawled, "Love you guys! Matthew, Jill, Micah, and Alyse". I think I will write a story about this Christmas card...


My head was buried deep in my daughter's closet, as I kept flinging shoes over my shoulder. She stood behind me, whining as she held up her choice for family Christmas pictures: Dora the Explorer pajama pants, a green shirt with a popsicle on it, and pink galoshes trimmed with purple. I had chosen an off-white turtleneck and jeans, not a sparkle or cartoon character to be found. To her four year old mind, this was ridiculous picture attire. Now I just needed to find her plain white sneakers. I had a suspicion that she'd hidden them somewhere. Maybe under her tap shoes....

Down the hall, I could hear my husband coaxing, negotiating, and all-out bribing our two year old. She, also, was supposed to put on an off-white turtleneck and jeans. She, too, thought this was ridiculous, but that's because she thought that clothes, in general, were ridiculous. "Oh look! I have your pants on my head! Do your pants go on my head?" I heard my husband tease. "Nooooo" my daughter laughed. "Where do pants go?" asked my husband. "DRAWER!" she laughed back. "One point for Alyse." I thought.

Back to the matter at hand, I still couldn't find those white sneakers. Glancing at my watch, I realized that we were running dangerously close to being late. Getting up off the floor, my daughter looked at me triumphantly. "Fine." I huffed at her, "You'll go barefoot for the picture."

Down the hall, things had gone up a notch. "I'm going to count to three, and then you need to come and get your shirt on. Oooonnnne.... twoooooo...." followed by a "THUD" follwed by "NO THROWING BOOKS AT DADDY'S HEAD." Dragging Micah by the hand as she tromped along in her pink boots, I slipped my feet into my own sneakers and grabbed the keys on the counter. We were definitely going to be late.

Down the stairs came my husband with a half naked Alyse and her clothes over his arm. Red faced and tight lipped, he handed her to me, and walked away without saying a word. I sat down on a chair and started pulling clothes on her wiggling two year old body. "Mom, I'm thirsty." said Micah. Maybe if I don't acknowledge her comment, she won't be thirsty anymore. "Mom, I need a drink." she asked again. Holding Alyse practically upside down as I shoved her shoes and socks on her feet I said "Get something to drink, then." Grabbing the nearest brush, I started yanking through the tangles on Alyse's head. I was vaguely aware of a cup being gotten out of a drawer and the fridge door opening before a crash, followed by a wail. Whirling around, I see Micah standing in a pool of orange juice that is seeping rapidly toward every corner of my kitchen. So much for her off-white turtleneck. Throwing the whole drawer of dish towels at the sticky, oozing mess on the floor, I dash upstairs and grab a new shirt and pair of jeans for Micah, who is a wailing, soggy mess in the front entry.

By this point, my husband is in the car with the engine running. I hurry both girls, in various states of dress, out the door and into the car. We race to the elementary school where the professional photographer has set-up shop for an afternoon. The family with an appointment after ours is already sitting in the metal folding chairs, waiting. Mr. Photographer quickly arranges the four of us in front of a fake fireplace background when I realize, with horror, that not only is Micah still wearing pink galoshes, but Alyse's hair is only half combed. And I forgot to put on my own makeup. "Say CHEESE!" says the photographer when, just at that moment, my husband tenses noticeably and says under his breath, "I forgot to put a diaper on Alyse." My mind screams "WHAT?!" as the photographer says, "One more!" and I feel something warm and wet on my lap. Merry Christmas.

Day 12: Teach for America

Tonight's writing prompt comes from Roberta Allen's book again. She has listed a bunch of places. I am supposed to choose the one that stands out to me, and write something about it.

an outdoor market
a public schoolyard
a crack house
a university classroom
a room in a transient motel
a base camp in the Himalayas
a war-torn country
an airport waiting room
a burning building
an attic or cellar

Go.

"This must've been the nice part of town, at some time." she thought to herself as she slowed down and pulled into the parking lot. Glancing down at the post-it note stuck to the back of her hand, she glanced up at the hotel. The sign, with it's faded letters, said "ECONOMY INN: EXTENDED STAY HOTEL". The doors were painted a bleak teal, with chipping paint. She stepped out of the small, black Honda Civic and locked the doors. She stepped forward hesitantly, checking the post-it note again for the room number. Four. She walked slowly toward the far end of the hotel, stepping over cigarette butts and last year's autumn leaves that had blown and collected in the corners of this delapidated hotel.

When she had signed up with Teach for America, it had sounded like such an adventure. Two years teaching inner city kids. She imagined herself in the slums of New York or Chicago. Glamorous, well-known slums. She imagined herself as John Keating in Dead Poet's Society--inspiring these youth who surely needed only a little attention to become brilliant Pulitzer Prize Winners who would mention her name in their acceptance speeches.

But she'd been assigned to Charlotte, North Carolina. Who knew it really existed, let alone that it had slums. But she had commited, and so she had packed her bags and come. She found herself in a classroom with tiles falling out of the ceiling. She had to buy her own chalk. She had to lend her students books. And she had discovered that most these youth weren't hungry for the knowledge she had to share. Most of them could care less about literature. Some of them, she believed, probably couldn't read at all. How they had gotten to the 11th grade she could never fathom.

But there had been one. One who, underneith the initial rolled eyes and the jeers, had shown a genuine interest. Who had approached her, a couple months in, and asked to borrow a book. From that moment on, she'd taken an interest in him. Maybe because he was the only one who'd ever shown the remotest interest at all. Maybe because he was her last hope for a Pulitzer Prize-winning student.

But it had been two weeks. No one else seemed to miss him. She felt frightened to bring it up on her own. She did better if she just stayed under the radar here--not drawing the attention of any other teachers or the students. But it had been two weeks. So she'd asked the guidance counselor for his address, and made up some lousy excuse about missing homework and failing grades. The counselor showed no interest, just pointed to a stack of files and told her to help herself.

But now she wondered what she was doing here. There was no one else around. Only an old Chevrolet Caprice in the parking lot. It seemed stupid suddenly. She felt incredibly young and awkward and out of place, standing there in front of the door--staring at the number 4. She could hear a television set inside. The clinking of a fork against a plate.

She raised her hand to knock. Let it fall. Then turned and walked away. Got hurriedly in her car. Pulled out of the parking lot, and hoped that no one had seen her.