Original Fiction

Something Published...

2011-05-06T16:35:00.000-05:00

I know this may not seem huge, but it really is nice to see your own stuff in print! This poem was selected for publication in Rapids Review's Spring 2011 edition.

Dragonflies
By Sandra Wahl

The scent of lake,

this morning’s rain, a touch of fish
and water lilies
mingle with Hawaiian Tropic;
twisted bottle caps and broken shells shine just below the surface of the water.

Emerging from the shells of their former selves,

the dragonflies hang upside down, drying, stretching.
Discarding their fragile larvae husks,
which still cling, empty, to blades of grass,
they spiral together in a buzz of beating wings.

Tumbling,

graceful damsels dance with cannibalistic dragons
in a cloud of iridescent bodies
and undulating black wings
flecked with blue and green.

With the lightest of footsteps,
a tickle on my shoulder,
I’ve been touched by a dragon.
A moment later, he’s gone.

Spring Break... Finally :)

2011-03-14T18:50:00.000-05:00

No one really has any idea how happy I am that it's spring break. I am not going to Florida or California, nor am I flying to Europe or anywhere else for that matter. I am simply, well, taking a break (sigh) - a desparately needed one. This semester I have taken 19 credits' worth of classes at the local college; need I say more?

Between all the writing and lit courses, I've been spending a lot of time writing, so I thought it's about time I post some of it. The piece below is based on a point-of-view exercise. If you'd like to try a random point of view exercise of your own, flip through a good photo magazine. National Geographic or Life are two great examples. Pick a photo that appeals to you - even if you are not sure why. Pick someone or something from the photo and write from that point of view. It can be a person, an animal, or even an object. Use all of your senses to imagine what that person, animal or thing is experiencing and see where it leads you.

Inverted

“Please, please, no! Oh, why won’t you just put me back down?” I cry to myself, knowing these loud smelly creatures won’t understand me even if I could yell more loudly than they are. The big one with the muddy-brown speckles on his face lifts me high into the air, higher than any log I’ve ever climbed over. The entire world around me is swirling into a random pattern of green; trees and rocks are blurring by. My eyes are no longer able to focus; I withdraw into my shell, dizzy. He is spinning in circles and taking me with him.

A taller, less-smelly creature dressed in the color of dead oak leaves approaches us, speaking sharply to the round pink boy with the speckled nose. He drops me abruptly into the mud where I was peacefully minding my own business only a few moments before, only now there is something horribly wrong. The ground thumps with the departing footsteps of the children, and I am left alone, on my back. If I can just reach that rock with my front-right foot, I am sure I will be able to right myself again. Or maybe the fern near my front-left foot.

“Aargh!” I yell. There isn’t anything close enough to hook a toenail into, and there has got to be skunks or coyotes or something else with sharp teeth nearby. “Stupid kids!” I yell again. Someone has to hear me, maybe another turtle. I would even welcome a toad’s company at this point. Now I am flailing around miserably, willing my weight to shift enough to one side to help me back to an upright position, but to no avail. What can I do? Give up? I stop waving my green legs, exhausted. No one is coming to help. Only a little while ago I was content, cool in the mud under the shade of the curling fronds of fern, snacking on a patch of marsh marigolds. Now I am alone, stuck, and the blood is rushing to my head. This can’t be good.

I feel a thumping in the earth. Not two feet, nor four. An irregular step, to be sure. Does that feel like three feet? I wish I could see! I find myself cursing those children and all of their kind. Why can’t they just stay out of the woods? It’s so much more peaceful when they stay away. The steps are growing closer, heavier.

“Well what do we have here?” asks a quiet voice, raspy with age. “Oh my, aren’t you a pretty little painted turtle,” continues the voice.

I turn my head as far to the right as I can, hoping to catch a glimpse of the creature who will probably try to eat me for dinner. It is another tall creature, walking with a stick in his hand, now slowly bending toward me. I hear the creaking joints in the old one’s knees as he stoops lower. He is not loud and boisterous like the children who just a little while ago were so cruel. I feel myself rising off the ground, gently tipping back to my feet. Before I realize what’s happened, the tall one with the stick is continuing on his way.

“Thank you,” I call after him, but I don’t think he can hear me; he is already too far away.

My Top 5 Favorite Writing Exercises, So Far

2010-11-10T10:47:00.002-06:00

It's really amazing how much writing I can accomplish when there's a set deadline and a grade hanging on the finished product. Not, of course, that I really need a huge push to get me to write something. My big challenge is actually finishing these things. The professor of the creative writing class I am currently taking is really big on assigning writing exercises. There are a few which I really like, so I thought I'd share some with you (in random order). Unfortunately, I cannot claim to know the sources for all of these, but as I find them I will give credit where it's due.

1.) Describe the landscape where a murder once took place, from the killer's point of view.
2.) Write from a different point of view: you are a turtle who has been tipped over by a group of children, or an unopened letter.
3.) Describe, in full detail, either a childhood friend or enemy.
4.) Make a list of 20 concrete nouns, and a list of 20 abstract nouns. Now create a list of 20 combinations of the two and use as many of those as you possibly can in a poem.
5.) Describe, in as much detail as you can, a small section of time (for instance, a five-minute wait for a bus or a brief stop at a red traffic light. Be sure you choose a scenario that is no longer than 5 or 6 minutes.

If you try any of these and come up with anything interesting, post the link to your blog in the comments - I'd like to see what people come up with.

Here's one of my own. It was exercise #71 from "What If? Writing Exercises for Fiction Writers" by Anne Bernays. The title of the exercise is "Kill the Dog," and that's just what you are supposed to do. Write about killing the neighbor's dog. It's something I'd never do, so writing about it had never really occurred to me, which is why I think this exercise is so great - it really makes you think.

Willie

The clock’s numbers glowed in dim red light. It was only eleven o’clock in the morning. Still exhausted from working a double night shift at the casino, I pulled both comforter and pillow over my head and tried to drift back to sleep. The usual techniques were not working. Neither counting from one up to ten-thousand and then reciting the numbers backward in my head, nor imagining myself floating in a crystal blue lagoon of tropical water, drifting with the currents would put me back to sleep. The barking continued.
It didn’t matter what he was barking for. A could have been anything, a squirrel, probably. And in the woods where I lived, squirrels were plentiful. They came in all sizes and colors; large gray fuzzy ones, smaller, sleek fat black ones, and tiny red ones. They all screeched at crows and ravens which threatened their nests, but nothing was as obnoxious as the mangy black-lab my neighbor, Larry, kept chained to the clothesline pole between our two trailer homes. Anger and frustration would not allow me to get back to sleep at that point, even if Willy did stop barking. Deciding two hours of sleep would be enough to get me through the day, I threw back the covers and stumbled to the shower, towel in hand.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, I arrived at the post office in Aitkin, about a 40-minute drive north of my home.
“I got this postcard in the mail,” I explained to the clerk, handing over the orange card that had arrived in Saturday’s mail. I hadn’t ordered anything over the internet or phone, but the card indicated that a package had arrived that the letter carrier couldn’t leave in the mailbox.
“Here ya go, Hon,” the clerk smiled, handing me a large white envelope.
I thanked her, slightly annoyed that every woman in this part of the state seemed to think it alright to call strangers ‘Hon’ or ‘Honey’ or some other pet name.
Once back in my car, I opened the envelope, hoping it was something that made the long drive worthwhile.
“A calendar!” I sighed, exasperated. It was not worth the drive. At least by the time I would arrive back home my neighbor should be home from work, so hopefully he would have Willy inside the house or at least keep him quiet enough to allow for a nap.
Larry’s car was sitting in his driveway when I drove past his house, but Willy was still on his chain. He barked a hello, tail wagging as if he really missed me. I almost felt sorry for the dog; Larry lived alone except for that dog, and when he was home Willy was always by his side. It wasn’t Willy’s fault, after all, that Larry couldn’t be there all the time. I really did feel bad that Willy was almost always chained up. A dog like that should really have kids to play with, to go for walks.
Finally home again, and back in my comfy sweats, I curled up on the couch with a novel. It wasn’t anything too deep, just a trashy romance novel – the kind that was too predictable to really get absorbed in – but it would be a good way to wind down before a nap. Before too long I was drifting. Pulling the afghan from the back of the couch, I stretched out to doze off.
That’s when the barking began. Again. My eyes snapped open, the book, which had been resting on my stomach, fell to the floor, losing my place.
“Willy!” I yelled at the closed window. He heard. He turned his head to look at me, still barking. He stood in the dead leaves in the yard, staring at me through the window, barking. The dog had to be retarded, there had to be some physical reason why he wouldn’t stop.
I had already tried everything to get the dog to stop barking. I bought him dog biscuits, I yelled, I even tried shooting him with a BB gun I found for cheap at the pawn shop in Brainerd. Whatever, I sighed to myself. I moved up north to the woods because I really liked the quiet. The solitude of the woods attracted me, and without much of a budget I was surprised to find a trailer for sale that I could actually afford. And it was near a lake, which for me is a huge perk. I love the water. There was one thing that I didn’t care for about living up north in the woods, though. No television reception. I’m not much of a TV person, but I do like to watch the news and the documentaries on public television.
I figured I could drown out the sound of the barking by turning on the television. Ironically, the first thing I saw was a commercial for a device that ceases dog barking. Had I the cash for it, I would have rushed to the telephone to order one. Needless to say, that was not the case. I would just as soon buy a box of ammo for my dad’s old hunting gun.
There was no way around it. Willy had to die. As soon as the thought entered my head, I felt bad. Not that I felt bad about thinking about killing the dog; I thought about Larry, and how that dog was all he had. His wife died a few years ago, how could I think about doing that to him? I dismissed the thought and resolved to talk to him about Willy. I then gathered my work clothes and a hairbrush, and left for work early with the intention of renting a room at the casino hotel in order to get a couple hour’s uninterrupted sleep before my six o’clock shift started.
By six p.m. I was back on the casino floor, schmoozing with the gold-card players, at their beck and call in return for the big tips that supplemented my slot host’s meager $9.46 per hour salary.
“Hiya Hon!” shouted Amy, one of the other hosts from across the high-stakes room. “Holy crap, you like hell,” she added, coming closer. “Didn’t you sleep today? I heard you covered John’s shift this morning.”
“I tried,” I answered, heading toward the host station to apply some more concealer to the dark rings under my eyes. “That stupid dog of Larry’s kept me up with his barking again. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve really slept in months”
“Gotta gun?” Amy laughed sympathetically.
“I’m thinking about it. Seriously. But really, we didn’t have this conversation.”
“I never said a word,” she laughed, retreating to the $20 Wild Cherry machines on the other side of the room where one of her favorite big-tipping customers was playing.
She was right. I did look like hell. I began fantasizing about how the dog would meet its demise. Was it possible to bait bear to bring them near the trailers? Probably not a good idea. I figured that dog was one animal too many just outside the thin walls of my mobile home. Drowning? I’d have to get the dog down to the lake, and the chances of a hunting dog drowning “accidentally” were not in my favor. Poison? That might be the easiest route. What to use? Beyond the bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream in my fridge, the most toxic thing in my house was fingernail polish remover. I highly doubted I could get the dog to willingly ingest acetone, and the smell would be a dead giveaway.
All through my shift I dwelt on the different ways Willy could possibly meet his maker. I waffled back and forth between feeling remorse for a crime not yet committed, and rage over the incessant barking. Being a Monday night, business was slow. I shuffled through the line in the employee cafeteria around ten, still in a sleep-deprived daze. I left a couple hours earlier than my regular six p.m. to two a.m. shift was scheduled, driving home in a zombie-like state. Hopefully I would stay awake long enough to avoid driving into either a tree or Lake Mille Lacs.
When I first began working at the casino, the noise was overwhelming. When I lay down to sleep in the early morning light, I heard the constant ringing of the slot machines in my head. Digital voices haunted my sleep; flashing lights illuminated the backs of my eyelids in shades of red and blue even as I dozed. Now all I could hear when trying to sleep was the barking of one lone dog. The barking echoed through my brain, I was sure I could hear it even when the dog was locked safely in his owner’s home for the night. I hoped that leaving work early was a good thing, predicting the dog should be quiet for at least a few hours before the sun rose.
Once home I was immediately asleep, probably even before my head hit the pillow. I don’t remember falling asleep. I dreamed of barking dogs that wouldn’t stop, and casino lights that kept flashing in my eyes, blinding me. I dreamed of Willy, and the maul Larry kept in the lean-to near the woodpile out back. Willy, covered in sticky, hot blood that gleamed black in the flashing red and blue lights.
The dream was so real; the protesting stretch of back muscles unaccustomed to such use as I swung the maul back over my head, the dull splitting thud as the blade connected with the heavy canine skull. One eye protruded from its socket, the dog fell with an unearthly moan, its ribcage heaving for air. Another blow to the neck, and the dog lay still on the ground, black blood flowing quickly, smoothly onto the dead leaves of the forest floor. The lights, red and blue, flashed in their circular dance, turning the early morning light into a casino circus. Then I slept.
I awoke to brilliant white light streaming in the window. I felt as though I had slept for days. My eyes slowly brought into focus the whiteness of a room that I did not recognize as my own. Stark black bars cutting across white framed windows were the only contrast in the room. Looking down, I saw the pale blue check of a simple cotton nightgown stamped with a hospital’s name.
After four years in this hospital, I have now come to know it as home. And I have finally found peace. I hope Larry forgives me.

Summer's Over, I Guess...

2010-08-23T07:53:00.000-05:00

After getting fired from my job on June 1st, I decided I just needed a mental break. From just about everything. However, now that today is officially my first day back to school I believe that means that summer vacation is over, for me anyway.

At least now that I'm no longer funding my college degree via my former employer's tuition reimbursement program I am free to pursue the degree I'd really rather have. I can now be an English major! Call me crazy, but my biggest pet peeve is when every sentence in a letter ends with an exclamation mark. A close second is receiving a monthly publication for a club to which I belong (which of course shall remain unnammed) and finding a slew of grammatical and punctuation errors which our editor, a state-level official and a supposedly college-educated person, has allowed to slip through like so much river water rushing over a rocky ledge.

That means, of course, that I will probably end up teaching English somewhere to a bunch of unwilling high school kids. Or I will write. So far, I am liking the "English Major with a Focus on Creative Writing" degree. We will see. I will do my generals first. This semester I have signed on as a full-time student with 14 credits, which means I will be a busy girl. But I still haven't managed to find another job, so what the heck. I still have my blogging :)

Dreams - Opening Up the Creative Mind

2010-03-24T06:23:00.000-05:00

I chatted back and forth with a ton of bloggers yesterday, and I think a lot of that was due to my last post. It only seams reasonable that bloggers would be interested in writing, right? I mean, isn't that one of the main reasons we blog, to write?
All of my attention for the past several weeks has been on my writing style and improving my techniques. "Find your voice," seems to be a recurring theme, "write what you know," another. So I've slowly been sneaking in more time for my non-academic writing. Taking a notebook out to my van during my lunchbreak, getting up a little earlier instead of sleeping in, just making that time instead of waiting for it to present itself has risen to a higher position on my list of priorities. One of the authors in Fiction on a Stick, I believe it was Diane Wilson, who wrote "The Body Remembers" (please, Sarah Stonich - if this was you, please forgive me for incorrect attribution) mentioned somewhere that her favorite time to write is right away in the morning, while still in a half-awake, dream state. What a great idea. Normally, when I am in that dreamy, half catatonic state myself, I usually find myself in the shower, just standing under the hot water for at least the first five minutes, ruminating over the bizarre, vivid dreams that I usually have.

I've had a few recurring dreams that I've written into short stories, but I found that one in particular was difficult to finish as a story because the dream was disjointed. That story I will definitely be working on with my writing books in hand. The expert advice may cover that somewhere, but I haven't stumbled across it yet. A simple dream journal is a good place to write down even a short line or two about your nightly delusions before they fade in your memory. The human brain is such a complex creature, I find myself dreaming of things I'd forgotten about. Writing this all down in the morning has really helped me get more creative in my thinking and has stimulated memories that I'd forgotten.

Then again, some dreams are just too crazy to mention. Upon waking up this morning I was worried that mice had built a nest in my lazy susan, the neighbor's cats were loose in the house somewhere - but that was alright because they would catch the mice. But then how would I get the stupid cats back out of my house? Yep - that was a weird one. Not to mention the part where my 17-year old son was so disappointed to come home and discover that his brand-new boxspring had been burned up because someone (it couldn't have possibly been me) had been trying to get the mice out of the house. Hardly worth writing about, someone might think I were crazy if they ever read about it.

Writing a dream journal in the morning is a good thing. Upon reflecting back to what I just wrote, maybe not everyone will want to blog it all first thing in the morning :)

Five Tips For Writers & THE TOUR

2010-03-23T14:29:00.000-05:00

My trip to Open Book was fabulous! I was able to talk my husband into coming along, and afterward he told me he was glad I had twisted his arm. We were treated to a tour of the literary center which now occupies a renovated space comprised of 3 former warehouses in downtown Minneapolis. Jerod Santek, the Loft's Program Director, led the tour which was both informative and interesting. The space alone is impressive; lots of original fixtures remain throughout the building, exposed brick walls complete with vintage advertising slogans that are faded but still visible are divided by modern steel and heavy old timbers. Jerod told us about the programs that are available, from writing classes and mentorships to McKnight awards in the $20,000 range. The environment at the Loft is purely conducive to good writing: a superb coffee shop located on the main floor offers not only coffee but also sandwiches, soups and juice (to name just a few items), the second floor is home to classrooms, meeting spaces and even private studio spaces which are available for rent.

After the tour of the Loft, we were met by Daniel Slager, Editor-In-Chief of Milkweed Press, one of Minnesota's premier publishing houses. Daniel indulged us with about an hour-and-a-half of his time, during which we were able to see the offices and the dreaded Slush Pile. We were also able to have a question and answer time with him, and that was truly something I will never forget. Daniel edited Fiction on a Stick, a collection of short stories by Minnesota writers, the following is a link related to both the book and Milkweed Editions:
http://minnesota.publicradio.org/display/web/2008/12/29/bookselling/

I would need more than one blog post to write about this tour, so I will save the bit about our Q&A with Daniel Slager for my next post. Something to look forward to, right?

On that note, I will leave you with five truths for anyone who wants to write. I can't claim them strictly as my own, since I've heard them in some form or another from various sources.

1. Set aside time each day to write. Write what ever comes to mind, even it seems mundane. Keeping a journal everyday will help, be it about your daily activities, the weather, dreams, whatever - just as long as you keep writing.

2. Read. Not just within the genre you like the best, but read a wide variety of books with varied points of view. That will stimulate your mind and may challenge your way of thinking about things.

3. When writing a story, take a look at what the point of your story will be. Even in a work of fiction, there are usually some underlying themes that an author is trying to promote. Then, while keeping in mind what your message is, draw up an outline that includes major events in the plot (this is easiest if you are writing a story with a linear plot, one that follows a start-to finish, chronological timeline). This is a good place to note where characters enter and leave the story line, and where they may reappear later on. It will help you to avoid becoming confused in a plot which may have some twists and turns.

4. One trick I like to use during the pre-writing process is writing ideas on index cards, in BIG bold letters. You can move those around on the living room floor if you are stuck in a spot where things don't seem to flow.

5. This is an important one: DON'T seclude yourself. Even though it can be a good thing to go to a quiet place to write, get out and try to socialize with other writers. You ARE a writer, even if you haven't completed or sold anything. Non-writers may not realize how important writing is to you, and they may marginalize your work. If you can join a writing and/or critique group, do it! People who are good at critiquing may not be easy to find, and friends might not give you solid, honest feedback. Networking with other writers can also help when you are ready to look for an agent. Do a internet search for literary groups or writing clubs in your area, there are several online if you can't find a local group.

Reliable Resources

2010-03-10T15:40:00.000-06:00

One of my pet peeves about researching anything on the internet is the amount of bad information that is floating around in cyberspace. Over the last few years I have discovered a few really good resources for writers, but there have been an overabundance of deadends and spammy sites as well that can get in the way of real progress. Every so often I will be posting links to the better sites out there, and what better site to begin with than Minneapolis' own literary haven, The Loft. Currently located in the Open Book literary arts center building, The Loft has been around since 1975. Their website is full of interesting stuff, updated regularly, and they offer lots of classes for adults and children alike.

Barring any unforeseen circumstances I will be there next week for a tour of both Open Book and Milkweed Editions, the publishing house that is located in Open Book. Editor-in-Chief Daniel Slager will be talking to our group, so it should be pretty interesting. I've already got his latest book, Views from the Loft: A Portable Writer's Workshop, on pre-order; it is scheduled for release on 8/1/10.

Worth the Effort

2010-03-05T13:58:00.001-06:00

I think I may have mentioned before that I am back in school. I'm taking some writing courses, pursuing an AA in English with a Focus on Creative Writing in addition to my business degree, so I thought to post my essays here. After all, I did write them. This one doesn't exactly count as fiction, but it's all a learning process, anyway. If anything, this course if helping my to develop my focus. It's one thing to just sit down and write, it's another thing to actually follow a writing process.

Here's an essay I wrote, a "persona" paper, on someone I know who has an organic garden. The intended audience for this paper are the students of Emanyatta Secondary School in Tanzania. Since English is not the first language of my audience, I had to be careful in my wording, using proper grammar instead of slang, for instance. I could have given my audience more consideration than I did, so I got an "A-" instead of an "A". It was really difficult for me to keep this paper within the 4-5 page limit, since there's a lot of information on this subject and it's also one I am personally interested in.

Worth the Effort

On frigid winter days like those that we have had recently in Minnesota, I long for warmer months when I will be able to pick ripe, fragrant strawberries from my garden or experience the sounds and smells of the local farmer’s market. More people buy organic produce at outdoor farmer’s markets now than they did twenty years ago. By definition, organic food is “…food produced with the use of feed or fertilizer of plant or animal origin without employment of chemically formulated fertilizers, growth stimulants, antibiotics, or pesticides” (Merriam-Webster Online). Ann Wood, an organic gardener who works at the local market, believes that organic food is not only more nutritious than non-organic food, but is also better for the environment.

One morning, over a strong cup of hot coffee between the church service and Sunday school, I took the opportunity to ask her a few questions about her garden. There were so many things I wanted to know. How did they get started with organic gardening? What does it take to get their produce to the market?

I met Ann and her husband Ben at church. They normally sit a row or two in front of us. Ann has the most beautiful long dark-brown hair that falls well below her waist. When I was very young, there was a popular singer on television, named Crystal Gayle, whose hair hung down to her ankles. Until I met Ann, I had not seen hair that long.

Both Ann and Ben grew up with a family garden. Their parents grew vegetables without chemicals, using composted vegetable scraps and mulch to put nutrients back into the soil. Naturally, when Ann married her husband, they started their own garden at their new home in the country. The area in which they live is mostly expansive fields and marshlands, divided by groves of oak and pine trees. It is the perfect place for growing a garden.

Ann’s love of gardening is sparked by the excitement she gets from holding one small, smooth seed, then planting it with her own hands in the rich dark soil and watching it grow. That one tiny seed may grow into a huge plant. Corn, beans, tomatoes, squash; all the plants in her garden each start out with one tiny seed. After the planting is done, rainwater collected in barrels is carried by the bucket-full to the garden. I could hardly believe she waters almost two entire acres by hand. Ann tells me that they almost always have plenty of water from the rain, so why run the electric pump to draw the water from the well? I thought of my aching back. I’ve watered with buckets before, too. Slim in build, deceptively fragile in appearance, Ann is much tougher than I am.

“Can you see yourself doing this in twenty years?” I ask.

“If I can still physically do it, yeah,” she replied, slender hands fluttering in front of her face as she spoke. “Sometimes it’s hard to get up off of the ground if I’ve been stooped over all day, digging in the dirt.”

She grins, and then pauses to sip her coffee. So it’s not just me that gets sore, I realize. She must really love her garden more than I love mine. Ann loves the work aspect of gardening, and she feels good about the results. When they first started their garden, it wasn’t as large as it is today. As their interest in chemical-free, organic gardening methods grew each year, their garden grew too. Ben’s full-time job with a prairie restoration company has been a valuable source of information on land management for the couple, and each year they have been able to implement new skills and techniques into their expanding plot.

Over the last few years Ann and Ben have been selling their surplus of vegetables regularly at the local farmer’s market. Ann told me that their customers come from every part of the community. Some of their regular customers are old farmers who have sold the family farm to retire in town. A smaller property is easier to care for, but many of the retirees truly miss living in harmony with the plants and the open fields. Buying organic food at the market brings those elderly people into contact with modern farmers, and many believe that eating the fresh, garden-grown food helps to keep them healthy. I realized as Ann told me this that I personally know many of these people from church. Most of them are well into their seventies and eighties, and most of them are still very active and healthy. If their organic diet is a contributing factor to their good health, I would be inclined to agree with their opinions.

Other customers that frequent the booth are young families who have become part of a recent trend to avoid genetically altered produce and food fertilized with chemicals. Over the last few years organic farming and gardening have increased in popularity (Oberholtzer and Dimitri). People in this country are quickly realizing that a diet containing organic food is not just trendy, but it can lead to good health as well. Since Ann grows organic vegetables it would seem natural that her diet would be comprised of all organic vegetables and whole-grains. However, there are some things that can’t be grown in a Minnesota garden, no matter how talented the gardener might be.

Chocolate is one food that Ann admits she would not want to live without. Since the cacao trees that produce the beans necessary for this sweet treat grow in South American rainforests, which are not found in Minnesota, Ann has to purchase her chocolate candy in the local grocery store. Not all processed foods are evil, she reminded me. Peanut butter is another processed food product that Ann would not want to live without.

Processed food has been the focus of much recent scrutiny. Large food processing plants that are responsible for the preparation and distribution of food to large regions of the United States and other countries such as Canada and Mexico have been subject to recalls due to food safety issues. A peanut butter factory in Georgia was found to be the source of a 2008 salmonella outbreak that caused illness in at least 500 people, and also caused eight people to die (Layton). Food safety is another reason why Ann prefers to grow her own vegetables. From the moment they start to plan their garden in the early spring to the summer’s harvest, Ann has followed the growth of each plant on their little farm. By the time the vegetables are ready to eat, she knows that they have not been exposed to harmful chemicals.

The work is more difficult when done completely by hand. Every day the garden needs weeding since they do not use chemical herbicides to kill weeds. Mulched tree bark, straw and grass clippings are put down around plants to help keep unwanted native plants and weeds from taking over their garden and choking out the vegetable plants. When it comes time to bring their produce to the market, Ann and her husband work at a frantic pace to harvest their vegetables as close to the selling time as possible to ensure that their produce will be as fresh as possible. They begin working in the afternoon the day before they go to market. Sturdier crops like carrots and potatoes are picked the night before, until the ravenous hordes of mosquitoes make their work unbearable. The rest of their evening's work consists of washing out the tubs they haul their vegetables in, then washing the vegetables and trimming off extra leaves to make the produce look good for the customers. Once everything is packed into ice and loaded in the pickup truck, they are able to sleep for the night. Early the next morning, before the sun rises above the horizon, the alarm wakes them to finish harvesting the more delicate crops: lettuce, spinach and other leafy vegetables that are prone to wilting. The rest of their day is spent at the market, selling their crops to local buyers who are quick to agree that both the taste of the home-grown vegetables and the thoughtfulness and care that goes into each season’s crop is well worth a longer trip to the market, rather than the shorter trip to the local grocery store.

After learning about what care is taken in the planning, growing and harvest of the organic vegetables in Ann and Ben’s garden, there is no doubt in my mind that the organic produce found at the local farmer’s market is definitely worth the price, even if it does cost a little more money. Although she probably doesn’t even realize it, Ann is making a huge impact in her community with her organic garden. From reducing the general amount of chemicals in our local environment by refusing to use them on her crops to producing tasty, non-genetically altered food for the town nearby, the organic vegetables grown at the Wood’s farm are indeed more nutritious and better for the environment.

Works Cited

Layton, Lyndsey. The Wahington Post. 29 January 2009. 10 February 2010 .

Merriam-Webster Online. "organic." 2010. Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary. 23 February 2010 <>.

Oberholtzer, Lydia and Carolyn Dimitri. "USDA Economic Research Service." September 2009. United States Department of Agriculture. 10 February 2010 .

Yes, I am crazy.

2009-12-22T16:33:00.000-06:00

As much as I complain about not having enough time to do what I really want to do, you'd think I would try to pare down my schedule, rather than adding to it. Not me. I am, as I mentioned, crazy.

I am going back to school to finish my degree in Business Administration that I started years ago and never finished. The economy being what it is, I'd rather make myself an asset than a liability. Classes start on January 11th. At least I chose a couple of easier ones (for me, anyway) to get my feet wet before diving in to the educational waters of the local community college. College Reading/Writing/Analysis and Introduction to Computer Sciences are the two I decided to start with. Who knows? Maybe I will write something worth posting here on my writing blog.

The good Lord knows that may be the only way I actually write anything creatively these days. Between working on things to sell and marketing my Etsy Store, Rock Prairie Designs, and my other agendas (i.e. work & juggling a "home life"), my written work lately has been limited to product descriptions for my store and grocery lists. I have been trying to keep up with my other blogs, especially The Working Mom's Recipe Box - since Christmas baking has made a few more photo ops possible.

We will see - that's about all I can say for now!

Maybe Not-So Original?

2009-09-15T16:18:00.004-05:00

Even when I don't have as much time as I would like to write, I do still read. I have to. It helps me to escape so I can deal with reality :)

As I've been sorting through old stuff in storage, I've been finding lots of old books I forgot I had. I thought to get rid of everything, but I may have to re-read some of these first. First book I came across which I've re-read a few times: Lace, by Shirley Conran. It's a good read. Well-written with a plot that keeps you interested & just enough steaminess to add to the plot without over-doing it.

Another one I found which I forgot I even owned is The Locket, by Richard Paul Evans. He is the same author who wrote the "Christmas Box" trilogy - which is also very good. About all I remember about The Locket is that it's basically a tale of lost love - which is odd I don't remember more of it since I do know I didn't put that one down until I had read it from cover to cover.

I'll have to set the good ones aside until winter starts. The garden will be done with and the yard won't need to be taken care of. Once that wind turns cold I won't want to go outside, anyway!

As much as I love to write...

2009-09-13T16:52:00.002-05:00

There are times when you must decide which path to choose. The path I need to follow at this point in my life is the one which will put food on the table and gas in our vehicles. My husband is striking out on his own (well, not entirely alone - his brother is with him), starting a business. It turns out he is better able to secure work on his own than waiting for his employer to find jobs for each day. Beyond my own full-time job I have started an Etsy store to hopefully supplement our income while his new business gets off the ground.

Needless to say, writing is not paying our bills. While I do enjoy it, it will have to remain merely a hobby at this time. I hope to keep posting here; however, as you may have noticed I have been less than faithful in posting regularly. I have added another blog to my arsenal of written rantings, Rock Prairie Designs. That is where I will be blogging about all of my ups and downs that I have and will be encountering during this whole new business adventure, if you want to take a peek you are welcome! I did feel the need to warn you all that I may not be here as often as I would like.

I haven't placed any Adsense ads on that blog, as I would much rather my readers help support my blog by either purchasing an item from my Etsy store or even just helping to spread the word. So if you ever need a unique gift item or even just a little something for yourself, please stop on in and say hello - even if you purchase from a shop other than my own. Etsy is a great place for crafty people who would like to "Save Handmade" and avoid the masses of generic goods usually found at the typical big-box stores.

Something to work on...

2009-07-22T13:42:00.001-05:00

The following is just a snippet of thoughts on paper, I think I will work it into my Tallulah story:

I became a part of the wind, buffeted by its gusts and currents. My knees pressed close to the gas tank, I clung to the motorcycle’s back as if it were a wild beast charging up the winding mountain road.
Each change in the breeze carried with it a different scent; subtle nuances of blooming wildflowers blended with the heady scent of pinesap. With the sensory acuity of a predator, I could discern the subtle trace of death on the breeze a mile before approaching the rotting carcass of a deer on the edge of the forest.
I was truly alive; adrenaline coursed through my veins as I dodged potholes and leaned deep into the tight curves of the narrow two-lane road. Patches of balmy heat were interspersed with cooler drafts, the scent of rain borne on those cold currents carried the threat of an impending downpour; I was sure to be caught in an onslaught of rain if I didn’t make it to my destination in time.
An icy, wet needle of rain struck my cheek, then another. Just a short way from Rena’s Crawl Inn, I pushed forward, preferring to stay my course through the increasing rain rather than to stop and take shelter under the meager protection of the pine canopy alongside the road.

Tallulah: Chapter One - Revised

2009-07-10T13:30:00.003-05:00

OK, everyone - I have re-written the first chapter, and this is the part
where I will really need your help.

The biker lifestyle is one that I personally know a lot about, but I realize there may be readers out there in "the real world" that will not have a clue as to what I'm talking about when I say "64 Panhead", "Sturgis", or "the rally", for example. From where I sit, everyone I know knows what I'm referring to when I talk about these things. So please, if you have a bit of time on your hands, read the first chapter of my
story and let me know how it hits you. Be honest!

The day was going to be a hot one. The morning’s damp chill still hung near the worn linoleum of the floor, but the warming breeze from the open door was quickly turning the icy beer in front of me into a lukewarm puddle of condensation. I gulped the last third of the brew from its bottle and signaled the waitress for my tab.

A boy of about nineteen years wandered through the open door of the bar. He could have been any kid from town, in worn blue jeans and a faux-vintage concert tee shirt, a mop of sandy-colored hair hanging over his eyes. He scanned the room, eyes adjusting to the gloomy interior. Neon signs glowed red and blue with invitations to drink Budweiser and Miller Genuine Draft. A life-size cardboard cutout of a bikini model on a motorcycle welcomed bikers to the establishment. He thrust his hands into his pockets, shifting his narrow frame uncomfortably. His eyes locked with mine. I stood up to pull the wallet from my back pocket. He strode over to me, and grasped my arm.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am, Grandma sometimes forgets where she is,” the boy mumbled to the waitress, who looked a little perplexed. “C’mon, Grandma, let’s go home.”
“I know perfectly well where I am, and I am not your Grandma,” I snapped, twisting away. I glanced at the waitress as I picked up my leather jacket from the barstool next to the one I had been sitting on a few minutes before. She just shrugged and shook her head.
“You ok, Lu?” she asked me.
“Yeah, Rachel. It’s alright.”

Tossing a twenty onto the bar, I turned for the door. The boy was still there, waiting. He looked familiar; I’m sure I’ve seen him around town.
“Let me give you a ride home,” he offered as we walked out the door.
“No thanks, kid. I got my own ride,” I answered. Without further delay, I stomped out my cigarette butt with the heel of my boot and got on my 1964 Harley Davidson Panhead.
“Grandma, c’mon, it’s me, it’s Scott.”
“What?” The bike started on the first kick, as it did about 75% of the time, the thunderous beat of the engine drowning out his voice.
“I said it’s ME, SCOTTY!”
“Sorry, Scotty. I think you’re confused.” I shifted the bike into first gear and took off. Damn confused kid, how do you forget who your own grandma is? Like I’m old enough to be anyone’s grandma!

Within moments I was back in the wind, my long hair whipping into knots behind me. Normally I would have put a bandanna over it, but I just wanted to get on the road. I always threatened to cut it short, easier to ride with, but my husband would have been heartbroken. He loved my long, blond hair and joked that he would leave me if I ever cut it. Funny, that boy at the bar kind of looked like him, my dead husband…

Pulling onto the long gravel drive to the house, I couldn’t believe what I had just done. It was as if I had gone back to a different time; how could I have forgotten Scotty? I used to call him Scoot, when he was a little boy. The ride sure did me good. The fresh, cool air must’ve snapped me back into reality. This fog I’ve been in lately has to be because of everything that’s going on, I had been so busy! The kid would think I’ve lost it. Shit. I quickly took off my boots and went straight to the bathroom to wash the road dust from my face and hands.

“Good Lord,” I muttered. What on earth was I thinking? My hair was a mess and I looked like hell. Scotty must be pissed off at me. He was still outside with the dog. After getting tidied up, I supposed I would make him a nice sandwich. He’ll forgive me; he’s such a good boy. He didn’t have to come for the summer; when I suggested it to his dad, Scott called me back within a day to say he would.
“Fucking headache.” I tossed down a couple of acetaminophen with a sip of water from the bathroom tap.

I’m still surprised he’s here for the whole summer! That is so cool. His mother probably doesn’t even know. She’d never allow it. She’s such a snobby bitch. I still don’t know what my son ever saw in her. It must have been the money. She was educated, too. But she was from Edina, of all places. They’re such snobs in that town. How did her little Northside boy ever fall for an Edina girl? Well, at least Scotty’s here now. Those kids did something right!

The front screen door creaked open, then clicked shut. He must have decided to come in, after all. “Scotty, I made you lunch. Come eat.”
“What is it, Grandma?” Scott asked, as if nothing had happened. I hoped he wouldn’t ask me why I had forgotten him. I was kicking myself on the inside, still unable to believe what I had been thinking earlier.
“Venison sausage and cheese with Doritos on the side,” I replied, smiling. I set a paper plate down in front of him and poured two glasses of iced tea.
“Thanks,” he said, tearing into the sandwich.
“Are you gonna go hunting with me this fall, Scotty?” I asked from the kitchen sink where I was rinsing off the cutting board. “There’s some good elk in the hills, but I can’t do that myself.”
“I’ll think about it,” he answered tentatively. I haven’t hunted much.”
“That’s ok, kid. We’ll get ya out there yet. Just wait – you’ll see.”
“You don’t go out hunting alone, do you Grandma?”
“Sometimes I do,” I answered, pulling a chair up to the long plank table. “I take the dog with when I go for birds, when I go out for deer I usually go out with my neighbor or their kids. Those big bucks are too heavy for me to move by myself. I’m going to be 64 this year, you know!” I marveled, slapping a tanned hand on the table. “Your dad used to hunt with me. Do you remember that from when you were little? I think you were about nine or ten when you hunted with us for the first time,” I mused.
“Mom didn’t like it,” he remembered aloud.
“Your mom doesn’t care for much that involves me,” I said, softly. “But that’s ok. Your mom is a good woman. She did a fine job of raising you. I think I’m going to go paint in the loft now while the light’s still good.”

“Lu, you can deal with this,” I said out loud, climbing the stairs to the spacious former haymow that is now my studio. “This, too, will pass. I can handle it. I’m a little stressed right now, so that’s got to be it. Once August is over, I can settle back in to my routine. I’ve got three oils in progress and I want to finish them all before the rally. I don’t have to, I want to. There is a difference. I want to at least get those into print so I can do some pre-sales. But I don’t have to.”

I talk to myself too often. The kid would think I was off my rocker if he ever heard me. It’s good that I paint in the studio instead of the house. The main thing on my mind right now is getting some new work finished for my booth. Sturgis is a pretty big deal for me. I really only have to work for one week out of the year, but that’s hardly what I’d call work. I hang out at my booth, meet new people, sign some prints and sell the originals for more than I ever imagined my “little hobby” would bring in. Then the rest of the year I do whatever I want. When I got married my husband called my artistic efforts my “little hobby.” I hated that.

He’d laugh if he knew how much my paintings sell for now. My Widow Money, as I call the Social Security check I’ve been getting every month since my husband passed away, just goes directly into the bank. I never have to touch it, and hardly ever even see it, aside from the growing amount on my bank statement. Every now and then I move things around, invest a little here and there, but otherwise it just sits. Maybe I’ll have to go into a nursing home when I am old and gray, so it’s nice to know there’s a little bit put away “for a rainy day”.

Some of my Widow Money did pay for fixing up my studio, though. Tidying up the sunny, open space with its light oak beams, I realized that this was one of my favorite places on earth. In the evening or on cloudy days, daylight bulbs shine bright enough to trick even the most discerning eye into believing it was a sunny day outside the wide windows overlooking the meadow below. Old oak flooring that had been recycled from an old high school gym provided a clean, glossy alternative to the rough, dirt-encrusted planks they replaced. Original paintings hung on the sheet-rocked, white-painted walls. Prints neatly categorized in the large wire drying rack by identification number and then cataloged in my laptop, this space was truly my own. When the remodeling was completed, I hung a portrait of my dad on his old Army surplus Harley Davidson in a place of honor above my desk.

My dad bought that old bike when he came back from World War II. It was ugly. Dented and looking worn beyond it’s life expectancy, it was painted the worst shade of green I had ever seen. My little sister didn’t like it, either. She even cried when she saw it the first time. My mother, fearing that it was the noise that scared her, held her close, and asked what the matter was.
“Daddy’s motorcycle is so ugly,” she sobbed into my mother’s apron. I remember Mom and Dad laughed at that. I thought she was being a drama queen, but it’s funny now when I look back at it. Within about a year or so, Dad fixed up that old motorcycle so it looked new. And it wasn’t green anymore. He painted it a beautiful candy-apple red, and put a new leather seat on it to replace the old cracked one. That’s how the motorcycle looked in the portrait above my desk; and on it, my dad, like he looked before he got sick.

Suddenly, my cell phone rang, breaking my reverie. I had just gotten started, my first two colors squished from their tubes onto my oversized palette. I managed to grab the phone before “Born to Be Wild” stopped playing. Whoohoo! Another paying customer! I also do portraits of people with their motorcycles, and that phone call was from someone who had grabbed my card during last year’s rally. They would be here in two weeks.

“…And is the bunkhouse still available for rental during the first two weeks on August?” The woman on the phone inquired.
“Well, no – sorry, but I do have a room in my loft, if you don’t mind climbing stairs. Otherwise, I do still have some space open for tent camping.”
“Oh, no – stairs are fine,” she answered politely. “We would like the room in the loft. My husband and I just can’t manage sleeping on the ground anymore.”
“Do you have an email address? I can send you a confirmation if you need one,” I offered.
She gave me her email address and her credit card information to hold the room for her.

I love the summer. It’s busy, chaotic, stressful, to say the least - but its hustling pace keeps me alive! I have open invitations for old friends who camp here on my land, and occasionally if I hit it off with someone while chatting at my booth, I hand out a self-designed brochure or two. The lady on the phone was someone I met at a rally. She and her husband had been traveling cross-country last summer; they planned on visiting the rally every year now since they had both retired. They were new to Sturgis, and had only passed through for a day “so they could say they were there”. I insisted they come back for a longer visit. This place has a way of getting into your blood. Better they camp here, anyway. Some of the other campgrounds closer to the rally can get a little wild, and I just couldn’t see this pair partying until 2am.

I suppose I should mention it to Scott, so he knows before the tents start going up. I’ve been having him mow about 3 acres or so, and the good camping spots under the pines don’t grow grass anyway. Hopefully it won’t get too dry this year, but I won’t pull out any fire rings until they’re needed. Those are easy enough to move with my Kawasaki Mule. My mind was just racing with things I needed to get done, beyond my paintings.

“Pick up more sticky notes at the store when I’m in town next: check,” I said to myself, almost inaudibly. I would work on the not talking to myself out loud part while Scotty’s here. I started another to-do list on the last sheet of the big 4 x 6 ruled Post-It notes, which I absolutely love.

“What? You’re renting a van and a trailer?” Scott asked. “Do you really have that much stuff to haul?”
“Yep. I’ll haul my prints and my portable display in the trailer. The van is for anyone who wants to ride in for the day and get back without ending up crashed or in jail. The trailer I keep here for the week, in case anyone gets stranded and needs a tow.”
“Alrighty, then, next on the list is porta-potties,” Bob announced, running a hand across his balding, graying head. “I talked to the same company we used last year, and they can commit to 12 johns for 2 weeks. Price is up a little from last year, but not enough to bother haggling over. Did you have any problems or concerns before I schedule them?”
“Nope. Sounds good. If I’m not around when they are here maybe Scott can show them where to drop off. Just keep me posted and one of us will be here. Water heater’s still working fine so the showers are good to go,” I checked off another line on my list. “How about the meat?” I asked, moving on the to the next item.
“I’ve got about 400 pounds of hamburger and the same in steaks and roasts. You probably won’t need that much, but you won’t run out!” Bob cackled.
“You’re the best neighbor around, Bob,” I laughed. “Bob’s cattle graze on the back forty, so he donates the meat for dinners,” I told Scott, who was amazed.
“You must not have any friends who are vegetarian,” he smiled.
“Oh, I do.” I smiled back. “I just have a lot of friends!”
"You don't cook for everyone, do you?” Asked Scott. I could see the wheels turning, as if he thought I could magically work a full-time job, transport people to and from the rally, and cook for them, too. Funny kid. Bob just sat back in the kitchen chair, not saying a word; a smile wrinkled his weathered face.
“Who do you think I am, Wonder Woman?” I looked at Bob, shaking my head. He just grinned back, still silent. “I can’t do it all, ya know, Scotty. I’ve got helpers. You’ll see. You’re one of ‘em!”
“So who cooks?” Scott still wanted to know.
I rolled my eyes. “You can cook. Do you want to cook? Because I’m sure Bob’s wife Janey would let ya!”
“Nope,” he replied, grinning. “I’m sure you’ll find other things to keep me busy.”
“Maybe I’ll have you drive the sober van. That’ll teach you to mess with Grandma. Yep, it will,” I sighed, thoughtfully. “But, no. I’ve got other plans in mind for you. You won’t be bored. Okay, back to business now. I’ve made a list of things we need to get for meals. Paper plates, cups …”

After our planning meeting, Bob left for home and Scott left to meet Ashley in town for supper. I was tired, so I just skipped dinner and went to bed. I wasn’t hungry, anyway. I’ve been so busy lately that I haven’t thought too much about food.

The next morning I woke with a splitting headache. It was horrible, like what I could only imagine a migraine must feel like. I wanted to get out of bed to take something, and to pull the shade down. The light was blinding, but my head hurt so terribly I couldn’t move. Forcing myself into a sitting position, it took all the energy I had to grab the wastepaper basket near my nightstand in time to avoid vomiting all over my bed and the floor. I collapsed back into the pillows, exhausted and nauseous. About half an hour later, the pounding in my skull still felt like someone had driven a rusty railroad spike through my brain, but it was tolerable enough to allow me to get out of bed and stumble across the hall toward the bathroom and my bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol. I guessed it was time to buy a new pillow. I should get my eyes checked, too. My headaches were getting worse every morning, but never had they caused me to be physically sick. Just one more thing I will have to squeeze in this week.

“The doctor can see you at 1:45 this afternoon. Will that work?” asked the young woman at the Optometrists office.
“Yes, I think I can make it by then,” I answered. The time was confirmed, the call ended. It was already well after noon. My morning had gotten off to a rough start; I was usually out of bed by 6:00 am, but today I had only just showered and dressed an hour ago. Scott wouldn’t be home before I left; I had sent him over to Bob’s to give a hand with moving some hay bales into the barn. My headache was a bit better than it was this morning; it had now reduced to a dull thud.

A few minutes later, purse in hand, I climbed into the old blue pickup truck to go to my eye doctor’s appointment. I didn’t think I could tolerate the roar of my motorcycle; I was feeling a little dreamy still. Better I just buckle my seatbelt and keep it mellow today.

Janey burst from the door of the white ranch house.
“Bob! Scott! BOB!” she screamed at the top of her lungs as she ran.
Bob jumped down from the hayrack, rushing to see what was wrong. I climbed down the ladder from the haymow, following him into the yard.
“There’s been an accident,” she cried. “Lu’s truck has been hit.” Tears filled her green eyes and rolled down freckled cheeks. “But she’s still alive.”
I just stood there. I wasn’t sure I had understood her.
“Who?” I asked.
“Your Grandmama’s been in an accident, Scott,” she said slowly. “Oh, you poor baby,” she sighed, grabbing me in a tight embrace. Her red hair tickled my nose, but I hugged her back. The moment had a surreal feel to it, and the words were still not sinking in.
“It’s gonna be okay,” Janey breathed, trying to calm herself. “She is alive, she’s been taken to Regional Hospital.”

More From Tallulah

2009-07-02T10:52:00.000-05:00

My cell phone rang, breaking my reverie. I had just gotten started, my first two colors squished from their tubes onto my oversized palette. I managed to grab the phone before “Born to Be Wild” stopped playing. Whoohoo! Another paying customer! I also do portraits of people with their motorcycles, and that phone call was from someone who had grabbed my card during last year’s rally. They will be here in two weeks.

“…And is the bunkhouse still available for rental during the first two weeks on August?” The woman on the phone inquired.
“Well, no – sorry, but I do have a room in my loft, if you don’t mind climbing stairs. Otherwise, I do still have some space open for tent camping.”
“Oh, no – stairs are fine,” she answered politely. “We would like the room in the loft. My husband and I just can’t manage sleeping on the ground anymore.”
“Do you have an email address? I can send you a confirmation if you need one,” I offered.
She gave me her email address and her credit card information to hold the room for her.

I love the summer. It’s busy, chaotic, and a little stressful, but it keeps me alive! I have open invitations for some old friends who camp here on my land, and occasionally if I hit it off with someone while chatting at my booth, I will hand out a brochure or two that I designed with my computer. The lady on the phone was someone I met last year at my booth. She was traveling across the country with her husband, and they planned on visiting every year now since they were both retired. They were new to Sturgis, and had only passed through for a day “so they could say they were there”. I just had to invite them back. This place has a way of getting into your blood. Better they camp here, anyway. Some of the other campgrounds closer to the rally can get a little wild, and I just can’t see this pair partying until 2am.

I suppose I should mention it to Scott, so he knows before the tents start going up. I’ve been having him mow about 3 acres or so, and the good camping spots under the pines don’t grow grass anyway. Hopefully it won’t get too dry this year, but I won’t pull out any fire rings until they’re needed. Those are easy enough to move with my Kawasaki Mule. My mind is just racing with things I need to get done, beyond my paintings.
“Pick up more sticky notes at the store when I’m in town next: check,” I say to myself, almost inaudibly. I will work on the not talking to myself out loud part while Scotty’s here. I started another to-do list on the last sheet of the big 4 x 6 ruled Post-It notes, which I absolutely love. I guess the painting will have to wait for later on this afternoon. Now, I will have to find Scott. It will be a great-big huge help to have him here this summer to help with the campers.

In Case You Haven't Stopped By In A While...

2009-07-01T10:52:00.003-05:00

Or if you have never read my Original Fiction blog, This is the most recent addition to a story I'm writing. It begins with the post, "Her Story", from June 26th, 2009. So if you read the older posts first and work your way to the most current post, that shouls make sense :)

~Enjoy!

Tallulah - Grandma finally has a name :)

2009-07-01T09:18:00.003-05:00

(I decided on a name for Scott's grandma, finally. Tallulah. A little on the outrageous side, a little unconventional. Think Tallulah Bankhead, if you remember any old movies - check her out on Google, she was a pretty interesting character.)

“Tallulah, you can deal with this,” I said out loud, climbing the stairs to the spacious former haymow that is now my studio. “This, too, will pass. I can handle it. I’m a little stressed right now, so that’s got to be it. Once August is over, I can settle back in to my routine. I’ve got three oils in progress and I want to finish all before the rally. I don’t have to, I want to. There is a difference. I want to at least get those into print so I can do some pre-sales at my booth at the J&P lot. But I don’t have to.” I talk to myself too often. The kid probably will think I’m off my rocker if he ever hears me. It’s good that I paint in the studio instead of the house. The main thing on my mind right now is getting some new work finished for my booth. Sturgis is a pretty big deal for me. I really only have to work for one week out of the year, but that’s hardly what I’d call work. I hang out at my booth, meet new people, sign some prints and sell the originals for more than I ever imagined my “little hobby” would bring in. Then the rest of the year I do whatever I want. When I got married my husband called my artistic efforts my “little hobby.” I hated that. He’d laugh if he knew how much my paintings sell for now. My Widow Money, as I call the Social Security check I’ve been getting every month since my husband passed away, just goes directly into the bank. I never have to touch it, and hardly ever even see it, aside from the growing amount on my bank statement. Every now and then I move things around, invest a little here and there, but otherwise it just sits there. Maybe I’ll have to go into a nursing home when I am old and gray, so it’s nice to know there’s a little bit put away “for a rainy day”.

After high school, I moved away from this farm to go to school at the Minneapolis School of Art, and that was a big deal to me. No one in my family had ever even finished high school, but I had earned my degree. My mom didn’t think it was a good idea for me to go to school; she didn’t think I’d ever need any schooling beyond high school. Dad thought it was a great idea, though. He sold off some acreage to pay for it. When that land went up for sale again years later, I bought it back, with money from my little hobby. I just wished Dad had still been around to see that. This land’s been in our family since it was first settled. Most of the paintings I do for myself are wildflowers, trees, and the hills; these are the sights I grew up with. Deer, elk, and occasional buffalo end up in there too, along with the western kingbirds, ring-neck pheasants and other critters I see roaming around the place. The subjects that sell the best are my motorcycle paintings, though.

I started painting motorcycles when I was just a little girl. My dad bought an Army surplus Harley Davidson when he came back from World War II. It was ugly. Dented and looking worn beyond it’s life expectancy, it was painted the worst shade of green I had ever seen. My sister didn’t like it, either. She even cried when she saw it the first time. My mother, fearing that it was the noise that scared her, held her close, and asked what the matter was. “Daddy’s motorcycle is so ugly,” she sobbed into my mother’s apron. I remember Mom and Dad laughed at that. I thought she was being a drama queen, but it’s funny now when I look back at it. Within about a year or so, Dad fixed up that old motorcycle so it looked new. And it wasn’t green anymore. He painted it a beautiful candy-apple red, and put a new leather seat on it to replace the old cracked one. That year for my birthday, my older sister gave me a whole ream of paper and a watercolor set. That motorcycle was the first thing I painted. It was so pretty, shining in the sun; and anyway the dog wasn’t a very good model as she never sat still for long.

More of Scott's Story...

2009-06-30T07:37:00.001-05:00

She refilled her glass of iced tea from a pitcher in the fridge, then topped off my own glass, and went out the back door toward the barn. I picked up the phone and dialed my dad’s cell phone number. Today wasn’t the first time I’d seen her get confused, and when it happened the last time I wasn’t sure if it was bad enough to cause concern; but after the incident earlier at the bar I thought that Dad should at least know.

I was upstairs unpacking a box of school notes, crap, basically – stuff I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep for next year or not, when I got a phone call from Ashley, the girl who worked at the service station in town. She was pretty cute, so I wasn’t disappointed for the interruption. I had met her about two weeks ago, when my car overheated and died in the middle of town. Grandma arrived to save the day, in her old pickup truck. We hooked up a tow strap and pulled it the three blocks to the garage. Since then, Ashley & I had been out a few times, to the lake and just out cruising around town in her Jeep.

The reason for her call today was that Grandma had stopped in to drop off the rest of the money I owed for the new water pump they put into my car. I had earned the money for the repair, Grandma told me, and so she would pay the remainder of the bill. The mechanic let me drive it home before paying since he’d worked on Grandma’s truck before. He said he “knew where to find me” if I didn’t pay up. When Grandma got there she seemed a little confused; when Ashley asked her for the money, Grandma said, “what for?” – like she didn’t know why she had stopped by. So of course, Ashley called me as soon as Grandma took off down the road. I must’ve drove around for a good hour before I spotted her bike at the bar.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, when he finally picked up the phone, just a second before the voicemail would have kicked in.
“Scott,” he greeted me, “it’s about time! We were wondering when we were going to hear from you! Are you getting settled in at Grandma’s?”
“Um, yeah, I am. Are you busy? Should I call back later? How are you and Mom?” I rambled, not sure how to say what I wanted to get across.
“Nope – not busy. I’m just getting back to my desk from a meeting. Mom’s good, busy with work and with planning your cousin’s baby shower – other than that, the usual. How’s Grandma? Are you helping her out with the yard work like I told you?”
“Yep, although she doesn’t like people taking over her work,” I admitted. “She’s pretty stubborn.”
“Really? My mom? Stubborn? You don’t know the half of it, Boy,” my Dad chuckled.
“Hey, Dad, I thought I should tell you, though, I think she’s losing it – you know, she’s forgetting things.” There. I said it.
“Don’t let her fool you, Scott. Your Grandma knows exactly what’s going on. She’s just one-of-a-kind. Maybe even a little eccentric, but she’s far from senile. You’ll see. She’s ok. An artistic-type, you know - doesn’t think on our plane. I talked to her just the day before last, but you weren’t home. Met a girl already, huh?”
“Yeah,” I answered him. I hoped he was right.

His Story/Her Story (continued from previous posts)

2009-06-29T14:39:00.001-05:00

His Story...

When I pulled up the gravel drive to the farmhouse, Grandma was already off the motorcycle and walking through the door. She let the screen door slam behind her. Geez, what do I do? Follow her in? She’d likely bite my head off. Better give her a little while to cool off. The shaggy mutt that always hung around under the porch ambled up to me to get his ears scratched. I suppose I would have a little company while I put off a confrontation with Grandma.

* * *

Her Story...

I couldn’t believe what I had just done. It was as if I had gone back to a different time; how could I have forgotten Scotty? I used to call him Scoot, when he was a little boy. I quickly took off my boots and went straight to the bathroom to wash the road dust from my face and hands.

“Good Lord,” I muttered. What on earth was I thinking? My hair was a mess and I looked like hell. It’s a good thing I cut off my long hair years ago. It would have been impossible to brush the knots out! Scotty must be pissed off as all hell. He’s still outside with the dog. After getting tidied up, I supposed I would make him a nice sandwich. He’ll forgive me; he’s such a good boy.

I’m still surprised he’s here for the whole summer! That is so cool! His mother probably doesn’t even know. She’d never allow it. She’s such a snobby bitch! I still don’t know what my son ever saw in her. It must have been the money. She was educated, too. But she was from Edina, of all places. They’re such snobs in that town. How did her little North side boy ever fall for an Edina girl? Well, at least Scotty’s here now. Those kids did something right!

* * *

Scott

I couldn’t sit outside forever. Hoping she’d be lying down for an afternoon nap as I walked through the door, it occurred to me that I couldn’t get so lucky.

“Scotty,” Grandma called to me from the kitchen, “come here and eat the sandwich I made for you.”

Talk about confusing. One minute she’s yelling at me, denying that she even knows me, now she’s made my lunch? Whatever. I guess it couldn’t hurt to humor her.
“What’s for lunch, Grandma?” I asked, as if nothing had happened. I would play dumb. Let’s see where she takes this.
“Venison sausage and cheese with Doritos on the side,” she replied, smiling, as she set a paper plate down in front of me.
“Thanks,” I said, tearing into the sandwich. It was a favorite of mine that I rarely got at home. Grandma still hunts on her land. When I was little, my dad brought me here, when Mom was away on business. Mom always thought that hunting was unladylike. I never cared either way. Grandma could live off the land, and I always thought that was really cool.
“Are you gonna come out hunting with me this fall, Scotty?” Grandma asked from the kitchen sink where she was rinsing off the cutting board. “There’s some good elk in the hills, but I can’t do that myself,” she hinted.
“I’ll think about it. I haven’t hunted much.”
“That’s ok, kid. We’ll get ya out there yet. Just wait – you’ll see,” she chuckled. I was doubting that I really wanted to be with her while she had a gun. It probably wasn’t a good idea for her to have a gun, let alone go hunting.
“You don’t go out hunting alone, do you Grandma?”
“Sometimes I do,” she said, pulling up a chair at the long plank table. “I take the dog with when I go for birds, when I go out for deer I usually go out with my neighbor or their kids. Those big bucks are too heavy for me to move by myself. I’m going to be 64 this year, you know!” She exclaimed with a laugh, slapping a tanned hand on the table. “Your dad used to come out to hunt with me. Do you remember that from when you were little? I think you were about nine or ten when you came out with us for the first time,” she mused.
“Mom didn’t like it,” I remembered aloud. “Your mom doesn’t care for much that involves me,” she said, softly. “But that’s ok. Your mom is a good woman. She did a fine job of raising you. I think I’m going to go paint in the loft now while the light’s still good.”

Just So You Don't Get Confused...

2009-06-26T14:54:00.002-05:00

I'm good at confusing people, so here's how the two posts below this one should go: read "Her Story" first, then "His Story". This is a new one I'm working on. It's usual for me to have a few different stories going at once, sorry if you're waiting to see how any of the other stuff is going! All in good time...

Have a great weekend!

His Story

2009-06-26T14:53:00.000-05:00

I could feel my ears burning as my 70-year old grandmother sped off on her Harley. I don’t think Mom or Dad realized how bad she’s gotten. This was not how I planned on spending my summer break from college. They told me she could use some help around her house and yard, and she’d enjoy the company. I needed a place to stay off-campus for the summer anyway, and her big old farmhouse wasn’t too far a drive from school. Mom and Dad still live in the house I grew up in, in a suburb of Minneapolis, so they don’t make the long drive to Grandma’s in western South Dakota often.

I just finished my first year as an Environmental Engineering major at South Dakota School of Mines & Technology, in Rapid City. The summer would be mine – or so I thought, until my parents guilted me into staying with Grandma. I didn’t see her much growing up, maybe once or twice a year. My mother felt embarrassed by her. She cussed, smoked cigarettes and drank too much. My mom seemed to think she was above that sort of company. Grandma’s my Dad’s mother. He just says she’s “quite a character.”

So I followed “the character” home in my Buick. I guess she’s got quite the ego, but it kind of hurt when she denied I was her grandson. Does she really want me here for the summer?

Her Story

2009-06-26T14:38:00.002-05:00

“I’m sorry, Ma’am, Grandma sometimes forgets where she is,” the boy mumbled to the waitress, leading me toward the door by my arm.
“I know perfectly well where I am, and I am not your Grandma,” I snapped back at him, twisting out of his grasp. I glanced at the waitress as I picked up my leather jacket from the barstool next to the one I had been sitting on a few minutes before. She just shrugged and shook her head.

Tossing a twenty onto the bar, I turned for the door. The boy was still there, waiting. He looked familiar, I had probably seen him around the neighborhood, I guessed.
“Let me give you a ride home,” he offered as we walked out the door.
“No thanks, kid. I got my own ride,” I answered. Without further delay, I stomped out my cigarette butt with the heel of my boot and got on my 1964 Panhead.
“Grandma, c’mon, it’s me, it’s Scott.”
“What?” I couldn’t hear the last couple of words. My bike started on the first kick, as it does about 75% of the time, and it is pretty loud.
“I said,” he began, loudly, “it’s ME, SCOTTY!”
“Sorry, Scotty. I think you’re confused,” I answered back. I shifted the bike into first and took off. Damn confused kid, how do you forget who your own grandma is? Like I’m old enough to be anyone’s grandma, at that!

Pretty soon I was back in the wind, my damn long hair flying all over behind me, whipping itself into knots. Normally I would have put a bandanna over it, but I just wanted to get on the road. I always threatened to cut it short, easier to ride with, but my husband would have been heartbroken. He loved my long, blond hair and joked that he would leave me if I ever cut it off.
Just then, it occurred to me that he had been dead for some time, now. But how could that be? I spoke with him only earlier that day, when he called from work. It must have been the alcohol. I just can’t drink like I used to, I only had one beer at the bar, with lunch. Funny, that boy at the bar kind of looked like him, my dead husband…

The Rainbow

2009-06-10T22:26:00.001-05:00

This is neither poetry or prose, just something I wrote...

Her tears welled up and burst forth, like an unstoppable tide that rushed from a frothy sea. She cried and she cried like the rain which fell from the sky on a cold spring day. The waters rose, mingled with her tears, until she thought she would be carried away; until one day a single beam of sunlight broke through the maddening darkness.

Soon that lone shaft of sunlight was joined by another, and yet another, until the clouds were gone from the sky, retreating from the chorus of birds and laughter that came with the light. The flood waters retreated, and the tears which had poured so easily, uninvited, also retreated like the rain. A day; then, another day passed. Time moves on, a small drizzle or a quick thundershower now and again, but always after, in the sky a rainbow.

Modern Fiction...Part ? I've lost track...

2009-06-04T17:14:00.002-05:00

Jen had moved to the area for a full-time teaching job at the local high school. Up until March she had been substituting all over the Twin Cities metro area, and welcomed the chance to give up the inconsistency in work and pay. It was now mid June. She had the entire summer to play detective. If it did all come down to being just a product of her overactive imagination, at least she could tell her new colleagues that she’d spent her entire summer vacation studying up on the history of their town. She was sure they would all be impressed, she thought sarcastically, at least for her lack of a social life.

The librarian was a matronly woman, on the verge of passing from middle age to senior citizenry. She wore a t-shirt with flowers and butterflies appliquéd brightly around the neckline. A large plastic nametag indicated her name was Marge. Jen doubted the nametag was a necessity in a town as small as Blue Hill.
“May I help you find anything?” she asked, peering from behind her computer monitor.
“I am looking for information on the history of the area. I just moved here a couple of months ago, and would like to find out more about the wildlife refuge in particular. Do you have anything?”
“I’m sure we do. In fact, we have several old journals in our reference section that were donated by the family of one of our past residents. Other than that, we have newspapers that go back, oh, probably to about 1900 or so. Before that, there wasn’t really a town here, just a few farms and a church,” she said, rising from her wobbly, old office chair. “Most of that land where the refuge is now was taken over by the county,” she confided, lowering her voice. “It’s still a sore spot for a lotta folks around here, let me tell ya. Eminent domain is just theft made legal,” she concluded, peering over the pince-nez readers perched low across her nose.
Marge led her to the reference room, indicated which books would be most helpful and went back to her computer. The scents of decaying paper and mildew intermingled with the faint chemical smell of Pine Sol. Golden afternoon sun illuminated dust motes stirred up as Jen pulled out one book after another, briefly scanning the contents of several before finding one that looked as though it may be of some use.

Another Good Book

2009-06-02T00:26:00.002-05:00

Lately, I've been trying to recover from this awful nagging respiratory crap that I'm beginning to think may be the Swine flu. Well, not really, but isn't it awfully weird when everyone you know starts to come down with the same crud, but it's not like any other cold they've ever had before? Well, I was starting to wonder if it was bronchitis or pneumonia, then it started to go away - until my Hubby passed it back! AARGH! Of course I couldn't wait any longer to put in the garden, either - so I'm sure you can see where this is going. I've been doing more reading than writing as of late, as I've been lounging around on the couch in my p.j.'s. I do still have lots of garbage that I've written, but none that I'm ready to show anyone yet.

One book that I've been reading (of a few - have I mentioned that I like to multi-task?) is The Good Earth, by Pearl Buck. If you haven't read it, I recommend you do. It's about the lives of a rural Chinese man and his family, during the mid-1800's. If you think you've got it rough, take a peek at someone else's life, and you may re-think how blessed you are. I especially like this book because it is a candid look at a culture different from my own, but it is written in a way that is simple to understand; the human condition that surpasses race or religion makes one realize that we are all so much the same, even though we can all be so different as well.

Pearl Buck lived in China, the daughter of a missionary and his wife. She grew up, for the most part, in an area of China where the company I work for has a division, and so I found it very interesting to read the exerpts of her book where she speaks of this area. Kind of weird to think she may have known the ancestors of people I know through work, and that those people were probably inspiration, in part for the characters in this story. Okay, so i have an overactive imagination. But it could have happened! That's why I like to write. If ideas don't leak out of my brain and onto the keyboard, they may get clogged up in there; that would be terrible, don't you think? I would imagine it could cause some sort of breakdown, or something.

Reading - Necessary for Good Writing

2009-05-23T11:08:00.006-05:00

I grew up in a home where reading and writing were a normal part of day to day life. When my paternal grandmother died, we (although we all knew she kept a journal) were stunned to discover how much she had written over the years. There were boxes upon boxes of spiral-bound notebooks, each full to the brim of entries recounting her life. From her childhood in rural Minnesota at the turn of the last century to her life working as a house mother in a sorority on the U of MN campus, all the minute details of her actions and emotions spilled out across the pages of dime store notebooks, keeping her memory alive for her children and grandchildren even years after her passing.

There's so much more to writing than just putting words on paper. In order to write well, it's necessary to also read, as well - and read often! Nothing stimulates the imagination more than exploring another time and place. I do not like to limit myself to one single genre. I've read enough Harlequin romance novels to be able to spot which formula the author has utilized by taking a quick glance at the summary note on the back cover. That phase of my reading life was short-lived; it did not take long before I longed for something more substantial. My mother has an enormous collection of old books. By the time I was in second grade, my favorite books were the dusty old tomes I found on our basement shelves: Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott, Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre, and Gulliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift. In later years I moved on to horror and suspense. I enjoy almost any type of work, as long as it is well-written.

I read some of Valerie Wangnet's posts on her blog, Valerie Wangnet Short Stories and Others, and I strongly recommend reading her work. A little more macabre than the reads I typically pick out, but she writes so well that you would be cheating yourself if you did not stop by her blog and read her posts.

Speaking of macabre, I logged on this morning and saw this on my Youtube page:

Just had to share - I thought it was cool. Have a great weekend!

New Writing Group

2009-05-20T10:58:00.002-05:00

I've seen a lot of posts and comments in other blogs by people who like to write, but either aren't sure where to start or just want a sounding board. If this describes you, please email me at:
mailto:the-critique-corner@googlegroups.com

Not that I want to "run" a group, per se, but I saw a need for something like this and thought, "why not just start a new group?" There are a lot of groups out there already, but my goal for this one is to allow writers of all levels a space where it's totally okay to write something horrible and get constructive criticism without any personal attack on their moral fibre.

I am not, by far, what you would call a "writing expert." My own writing needs work, I will be the first to admit; but feel free to join me, maybe we will get really lucky and get a very patient "expert writer" to join us.

Modern Fiction, Continued...

2009-05-19T06:23:00.002-05:00

Jen’s heart caught in her throat. Hopping down off of Sunny’s back, she led her on foot toward the edge of the trail. Just beyond the edge of the trail there was an old scrap of paper sticking out from under a branch. She was beginning to feel foolish now. Nope, there isn’t a thing out here, she sighed to herself, looking through the trees into the woods. She had no sooner completed the thought when the ramshackle shed in the distance caught her eye.

“No way,” she whispered. Tying Sunny to a tree, she hesitantly picked her way through the undergrowth. The closer she came, she realized it was the place. The shed was the same. However, some other things were different. The clearing was overgrown with scrubby elm trees and ferns. There were no signs of a scuffle – the forest floor looked undisturbed and soft grass grew long in spots. There was a fallen log, though. The one the woman had been laying behind. “How odd,” Jen caught herself saying repeatedly.

She checked her cell phone again. There was still no reception. Sure she would be able to find her way back now, she headed back to her house. There had to be some sort of an explanation for the odd dream, for the coincidence of her finding the shed in the woods.

Five hours after she left the small white farmhouse, she finally returned. Thirty two seemed to Jen to be too old to be chasing through the woods in search of some mystery. Sticky tendrils of hair, which had earlier escaped from her ponytail now clung to her neck. Her deodorant had failed about an hour ago and an uncomfortable rivulet of sweat inched its way down between her breasts, making her bra itchy and unbearable. The mosquitoes were relentless.

There had to be some kind of explanation, she kept thinking to herself. She pondered the possibilities while showering, and then while she was finding some clean clothes to throw on, a solution came to her. First, she would begin by checking out the history of the area, maybe at the county library. After all, she was new to the area. She couldn’t call the sheriff and start babbling about dreams and little children wandering in the woods in the middle of the night. They would have her locked away in the loony bin.

Modern Fiction, continued...

2009-05-14T23:02:00.000-05:00

Jen awoke in the morning with a pounding skull. The flashlight in her hand dropped to the floor, causing the throbbing in her brain to increase. That was such an odd dream…but was it really a dream? She rolled over, pushing a honey-hued strand from her eyes as she looked in puzzlement at the flashlight on the floor. After choking down a couple of ibuprofen with a cup of coffee and a piece of toast, she immediately saddled up to check out the trail she had taken in her dream. There was no way that could have been real. A crazy, vivid dream, no doubt, however, it was impossible. Wasn’t it?

Now she is lost. Once she crossed over the bridge, she must have been turned around somehow. After riding along the path for a while, she tried to cut back through the trees in a few different spots, only to find the brush too thick to get through. There was no sign of a shed or a campsite of any type, no sign of the little girl, either. “No, but you are,” kept echoing in her head.
“Yes, I am lost now,” Jen said aloud. Just then a rustling in the trees ahead caught her attention. Just a squirrel, she sighed as the fuzzy gray animal disappeared into a hollow log. A scrap of white caught her eye.

Chapter 1, Modern Fiction (part b) Work in progress

2009-05-12T06:18:00.002-05:00

They had left the path several minutes ago, and the girl continued to hurry along. “Where are we going?” Jen asked. The girl stopped suddenly. She looked at Jen, raising her finger to her lips.
“Shhh,” she barely whispered, eyes wide. Then she pointed into a clearing just ahead of them. She could see a tiny shed in the arc of light cast by a small lantern. There were two men in the clearing, and they were fighting. Jen stood, frozen. She was certain the men would hear her breathing, her heart pounding. There on the ground there lay a woman, partially hidden behind a fallen log. Dark blood oozed from a wound in her head, matting the blond hair against her cheek. Jen could not tell whether she was only injured or dead. The men continued to struggle. In the dim lamplight, Jen saw one of the men swinging something toward the head of the other man. The weapon found it’s mark, and the victim crumpled to the ground, motionless.

Jen looked to the little girl. She was gone. It was impossible, wasn’t it? She couldn’t have not heard the rustling of leaves, the snap of a twig as she slipped away. She was alone. The lamp in the clearing had gone out. There were no sounds coming from the clearing. Where had the killer gone? A cold fear coiled in her stomach. All she wanted to do was to curl into a ball and disappear.

“This isn’t happening,” she recited over and over again in her head. She found herself running, almost flying, in the general direction of the bridge. Her heart pounded so hard she felt as though it would leap from her ribcage. She had to get help. She had to get to Sunny. She wanted to go home like never before. Finally, she broke through the trees and back onto the path. Never had she ran so hard in her life. Running up onto the bridge, she realized too late that the dew had already started to form, making the old wood slimy. With an awkward outstretched arm, she tried to grab the railing, but missed, hitting her head on the damp boards with an audible thud.

Historical Fiction...work in progress

2009-05-11T06:31:00.002-05:00

I may keep posts a bit shorter from here on out. I am hoping it will help me to keep things more polished & help with the editing. Hopefully you like the shorter sections as well, please let me know what you think. Thanks for reading!
-Sandi

Sara had no qualms about going alone to visit her father in law. While he struck other women as an uncivilized lunatic, Sara knew better. Owen was extremely intelligent, and possessed a dry sense of humor that at first had confused her; after their first encounter she realized she would have to look for the hint of a smile that indicated which of his comments to take seriously. She had been planning her visit to her father in law since the long train ride to Duluth. The journey gave her plenty of time to wonder how far his house had deteriorated since the last time she had been there. It struck her as rather sad; the care he had for his home died with his wife. The house was built for her, as a wedding gift. Their sons and daughter were born there; their oldest son died there, and their daughter ran away from there to marry a foreigner. Through it all the house was at the center of the couple’s family, until the family slowly deteriorated. Then, as Owen was the final occupant, the house seemed to die on the outside, turning within itself as its owner had done.
Since her arrival earlier that day, Sara spent the evening catching up with her mother and her aunt. Lillian always retired to her bedroom early, so Delia welcomed her daughter’s company and the two of them sat up until late into the night, visiting and playing cards. With a yawn, Sara realized it was after midnight.
“I need to go to sleep,” she announced, laying down her hand. “I want to go see my father in law tomorrow, so I don’t want to sleep all day.”
“Would you like me to come with you tomorrow?” Her mother asked. Sara knew she didn’t really want to go.
“Thank you, Mom, but you don’t have to. I’m just going to drop by for a little while to say hello. I wrote to let him know I would be in town, but I don’t think he’ll be expecting me so soon. I will probably go back again in a day or two, he is probably going to need a bit of tidying up done at his house.”

Chapter One - Modern Fiction, Work in Progress

2009-05-09T21:25:00.004-05:00

The following is another story I started writing a while back . It is also set in Blue Hill, however this story is a modern tale.

Her mind went blank. For a moment, she rode through the woods, almost unable to get her bearings. The tree line ahead looked familiar, but then she had thought that earlier. Then when she rode near a lightning-seared tree trunk, the acrid smell of damp burned wood still clinging to it; she knew she hadn’t been this way before.

Dismounting from her bay mare, Jen pulled her cell phone from the pouch which hung from her belt; still no signal. She was beginning to question her decision to ride off on her own. The dream she’d had the night before had been just, well, too vivid for her to ignore. It was downright odd, too the way she’d awoken with the flashlight in her hand. Not like her to sleepwalk.

The dream had started out as if she were really out on a late-night ride. She could smell the sweet, dusty scent of the grain and alfalfa in the storeroom as she entered the barn. Sunny’s warm breath in her face as she greeted her had been so real. Jen saddled her mount and led her out into the cool night air. The full moon illuminated the yard, turning the gravel drive to a silvery blue. Sunny was eager for the exercise, and started out at a quick trot past the front gate.

Jen had only just moved to Blue Hill about three months ago, and so there was still plenty of unknown territory for her to explore. Though preferring to do her exploring during daylight hours, she had been unable to sleep. Within a few minutes, she could no longer see the glow from the front porch light. Just ahead to her right, she saw the entrance to the trail that led into the wildlife refuge. During the day, she had ventured down these paths a few times, and so she thought to go as far as the stream and then turn back home.

The sound of the gently flowing stream was amplified in the still night. She allowed her horse to wade into the shallows and drink. The mosquitoes were ravenous, sinking their hungry syringe-like mouths into her flesh. In a hurry to get back home, she was about to turn back when she noticed the small girl of about eight or nine standing on the bridge, watching her.

“Hello,” said Jen. It was awfully late, and not another soul was in sight.
“Hello,” said the girl.
“Are you lost?” asked Jen.
“No. But you are,” replied the little girl.
Jen could feel goose bumps rise on her arms despite the humid heat of the summer evening. She looked around her, recognized the bridge on which the girl stood and also the large wooden sign which marked the direction to the scenic overlook.
“No, I’m pretty sure I know where I’m going,” Jen answered. “Can I help you find your way? It’s rather late.”
“Follow me,” the little girl said. She had such large dark eyes, set in a white face, which was framed by long dark curls. The girl reminded Jen of an old-fashioned porcelain doll. Her sundress was no more than a white cotton slip, with thin straps that tied above her shoulders.

Jen hesitated. The whole encounter struck her as odd, it being so late. Nevertheless, she tied Sunny to the signpost and followed the child over the bridge and into the woods.

Chapter 2

2009-05-08T22:42:00.003-05:00

My Daughter,

The ice is finally almost melted on The Lake. Do you remember the smells in the air when spring comes to Our Little City on The Lake? I miss you. You should really come to see me now that summer Summer is almost here.

Our Ladies Aid Society is now making quilts for the Less Fortunate Souls in town. We can use all the hands we can get, so you are more than welcome to join us. Pastor has been inquiring about Your Welfare, as have Our Friends in the Neighborhood.

Aunt Lillian has recovered nicely from her fall on the ice just this past April. Cousin Barbara and Her Girls have returned home Home to Boston, where I am sure her Husband is happy to have her Home.

Do you remember the Little Red Boat we used to row about in? A young Gentleman moved in four houses down and offered to buy it, so I accepted his offer. He painted it a jaunty shade of yellow with blue seats. It looks quite Swedish now.

My Iris are blooming. The neighbor lad painted my garden Garden Arch a few weeks ago, and it looks lovely. Do come to see me soon, we can put the vegetables in together.
Your Loving Mother

Sara re-read the letter once she settled into her seat on the train to Duluth. This would be the first time in three years she had been back to her childhood home, and the closer she got to it the more homesick she became. The last time she had come home was shortly after she and John had been married. They took the train together, left the swampy lowlands of Humboldt for the high granite bluffs and tall pines she would forever associate with home. The farther north the train carried her, the lighter the weight in her heart grew. The tracks snaked their way through the rocky passes and over crashing waterfalls. It was wild, beautiful country; not many people chose to call this part of the country state home.

Thankfully, since John’s death, her mother’s letters no longer rang constantly with praises for Sara’s cousin. Barbara this, Barbara that, Barbara dined at the Governor’s mansion, so-and-so dined at Barbara’s. Barbara met the Queen of England and had been invited to high tea. Barbara had married well. Then again, so had Aunt Lillian, her mother’s older half-sister. Lillian’s mother died giving birth to a younger child – a son, who was stillborn. Sara’s grandfather married her grandmother several years after his first wife’s death, thus producing Cordelia, Sara’s mother. And so, Lillian was almost fifteen years older than Delia. Older, wiser, richer, just…better. Or so she thought. Anyway, she is older, mind you, so she tends to need a little help now and again. It is so good of Delia to stay near and help her older sister. After all, it is good for family to stick together. In return, Lillian feels it is her Christian Duty to make sure her little sister and niece are well provided for.

Delia and Lillian were there at the Duluth Depot to meet Sara when she arrived.
“Sara, Sara,” her mother called out, waving her handkerchief, rushing across the cobblestones to meet her.
“Hello, mother,” Sara smiled back, rushing into her mother’s embrace.
Aunt Lillian joined them, slowed by her cane.
“It is so good to see you again, dear,” Lillian cackled, her voice rising. “Philip is going to gather your things and meet us shortly,” she waved a wrinkled hand toward her driver, who was headed in the direction of the baggage car.
It wasn’t long before they were all settled into Lillian’s carriage, on the way to Delia’s home on [?] Street.

From the parlor window, Lake Superior glistened with the late afternoon sunlight. It was now the beginning of June and the ice was almost totally vanished from the frigid waters of the vast lake. Fishing boats could be seen in the distance, rising and falling with the waves as they made their way in for the day. Pelicans kept watch from the Pier near Canal Street, occasionally flapping their enormous wings at the seagulls that got too close to their territory. The city on the lake was far enough north of Blue Hill to make Sara notice the temperature difference. Her Swedish grandmother loved it here; it reminded her of her home in Stockholm, with the fishing boats and the lake. There were many other immigrants here, so she had found it easy to acclimate. The church Sara had attended with her grandmother when she was small gave the service in Swedish. She misses that now.

Their evening meal had been a simple affair of cold ham sandwiches and pickled beets. A chilly breeze still blew in from the lake, especially after sundown. Sarah lit a fire in the hearth while her mother cleared away the dinner mess.
“Perhaps Marie will come to call in the morning. I told her mother you would be arriving this week. She’s pregnant again, you know,” Delia said, peering over her glasses at Sara before sitting down with her crochet.
“Again? I thought she just had a baby boy a month or so past,” Sara replied, one fair eyebrow raised.
“It was four months ago already. I suspect she’s quite surprised herself. She will have her hands quite full. If she doesn’t come by tomorrow we must call on her this Wednesday before the Ladies Aid meeting on Thursday afternoon. You will come with me on Thursday, won’t you?”
Sara hadn’t been particularly looking forward to it. Most of the members of the Ladies Aid were at least sixty and almost all of them had either sons or grandsons who were unmarried. In the short amount of time since John had passed away, her mother had written her at least thirty times in regards to her lady friends’ interested male relatives. At least at Blue Hill that wasn’t anything she was concerned about. Most of the men in that part of her world wouldn’t want to have anything to do a madwoman. The funny thing was all those people in Blue Hill that whispered behind her back had there own little secrets. People would be very surprised to find out the things she’d heard; when one does not talk, it is amazing the things one hears. Especially when people think one won’t really comprehend what is being said. Going mad with grief hardly seemed to be a sin in comparison with some of the other goings on in that town.

With an audible sigh, she sat in one of the matching wing chairs near the hearth. There could be worse things to do during a visit with her mother than to attend a meeting of the Ladies’ Aid Society.
“I suppose I could be polite and put in an appearance on Thursday,” Sara relented.
“Good girl. I knew I could count on you,” Delia smiled. “Many of my friends are eager to see you. They have all been praying for you since you first left town.”
“Since you married that boy,” Sara thought. She knew her mother hadn’t been particularly pleased about her choice for a husband. John wasn’t so bad, her mother had conceded; his family was a bit odd though. Sara couldn’t disagree with her mother on that topic.
“I need to see Papa Brown soon, Mother. It would be rude of me not to,” she decided out loud.
“I am sure Lillian’s man Philip will take you,” Delia suggested. “You shouldn’t go alone. That Mr. Brown is an odd fellow, he is,” she added.
“Mother, I am sure I will be fine. He’s harmless, you know,” Sara replied, shaking her head at her mother. “I will ask Lillian, because it is a rather long walk up the hill.”

Sara hadn’t seen her father in law since about a month after her wedding, when he came to visit them at their new home. With him he brought gifts of all kinds: a Jersey cow (now under the care of Grace and Edgar’s son, Ethan, and his wife Janie), a barrel of salted fish, a bottle of whiskey and several yards of calico, wool, trimmings and other yard goods for Sara to make curtains, clothing and other things for the new house. A very generous man, Owen Brown was, but a little on the eccentric side. He lived alone in a tall, narrow house on a bluff overlooking the lake. A grand house it was when first built, since had fallen into disrepair following the death of John’s mother.

Delia and the ladies of her church group made several attempts to call on Mr. Brown after John and Sara were married. The first time, and not for their lack of trying, they were politely refused entry to the house. Mr. Brown simply stated that he wasn’t up to having company; if he wanted to visit the church he would do so in his own time. On the second attempt, the ladies were informed that God had given up on him, and so Mr. Brown didn’t care to waste his time with clucking hens from the church. This, of course, caused quite a stir amongst the Ladies’ Aid Society. The most stubborn of women, they were incensed by Mr. Brown’s audacity; the following week they dug in their heels, and went up the narrow road to the tall narrow house and knocked upon his door once more.

“Mr. Brown, are you there?” one of the matrons inquired loudly, her knock at the door going unanswered. A small army of women stood upon the front porch. Another minute went by. The knocking grew louder.
“Mr. Brown! We know you are here! Please, Mr. Brown, do open the door!” Insisted the matron, fat cheeks jiggling with each word. The flock of taffeta and silk-ensconced missionaries stood, with increasing impatience, unsure glances passing between several of the women in the group
“Maybe we should go,” suggested Adelaide, the youngest member of the group.
“Like hell we are,” replied Candace, the portly woman at the front of the group. “Mr. Brown! I insist you open this door! This instant! ” She was fairly shouting now. Candace was furious. How dare this heathen man not give her the courtesy of speaking to her, face to face?
Candace had no sooner gotten the last word out, when Owen Brown opened the front door. With a loud gasp, she stepped back, round cheeks flushed.
“Good morning, gals,” Owen greeted them. He stood in the doorway, clutching a too-small towel around his hips, the only article of clothing he wore. A small parade of soap bubbles traveled down his forehead. Wiping it away, he announced, “You’re just in time for my bath.”
“Good day, Mr. Owen,” Candace found her voice, pushing her way through the other women to make her retreat.
“But I was just thinking to myself how nice it would be to have someone to wash my back,” he boomed after her, laughing.
The other ladies were not far on Candace’s heels. That was the last time they attempted to call on Mr. Owen Brown.

Chapter One: A Work in Progress

2009-05-07T21:49:00.001-05:00

Sara is quiet. Very quiet, so no one will hear her. As if there were someone who could. Except for the random encounters with her neighbors, she is always silent. The winter landscape was a desolate white, only a watercolor wash of tawny grasses sprouting from the drifts to interrupt the lonely expanse of snow between the dark forest of pine and the frozen oak savannah.

It is on the edge of this forest where Sara made her home. That seemed a lifetime ago, now. She came here when she married her husband, who had died just after the first year of their marriage. Now she lives by herself, her animals her only companions. It would be easy to blame her husband for abandoning her here in the wilderness, but she has come to love this place, with its solitude. A warm fire and a cup of tea helped to comfort her on nights when loneliness would creep in under the crack beneath the door, and she would sit and think of the dreams they’d shared before her husband got sick. Every night she reads passages from her bible, the one her mother had given her before she left home. God must need her here, in the wilderness, for some reason, she believes. She has yet to find that reason, though.

John the Baptist lived in the wilderness, also. John was her husband’s name. And then she remembers that the Baptist’s head ended up on a plate. And her John is dead, too. But she carries on, her faith as her guide. Yea, though I walk through the valley of death, I shall not fear for thou art close beside me. It was dark the night John died. Dark, and very cold. His breathing had gotten worse, so rapidly the doctor was unable to make it in time. What had started out as a cough had turned into pneumonia, and within a month he was dead. So bitterly cold was that winter that the ground couldn’t be broken. Poor John lay in the shed until the ground would warm enough to accommodate him.

That was the year Sara went mad. After John died, her mother wrote, “Come back home. Sell your house and move back home with me.” Sara’s father died years before, and now she and her mother were both widowed. It made sense. But she couldn’t leave. John hadn’t even been buried. But then, she couldn’t stay. He hadn’t been buried.

And so she made a brief departure, which is to say, took leave of the sane world in which most of us reside. For a little while.

Sara’s closest neighbors were an elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Edgar Polton. They came calling one day; the bitterest chill had retreated enough to allow for short-distance travel. Spring was coming, soon the air would start to warm with the coaxing sun’s increasing light. As they drove their team up the narrow path to Sara’s cabin they beheld a sight which would be whispered about at quilting parties and amongst the townsfolk for at least the next few years.

Sara had managed to dig a grave. Over the course of a week or so, each day she dug a bit deeper, and now it was at least four to five feet deep. She had built a coffin. She was a strong young woman. But she wasn’t strong enough to move John’s corpse into the coffin. And that is what Mr. and Mrs. Polton stumbled across as they pulled into the drive that day.
Sara was kneeling in the dirty snow, sobbing over John’s wool-shrouded corpse. Mud clung to her skirts and hands.

“Why did you leave me?” She sobbed into the shroud, clutching at it with claw-like hands.
“Mrs. Brown! Dear! Mrs. Brown,” cried Mr. Polton, jumping from the wagon as Mrs. Polton climbed quickly down.
“Heavens, dear! What are you doing?” Mrs. Polton questioned frantically, hurrying to the young woman in the mud.
“I need to bury him,” was all Sara could say, and Mrs. Polton gathered Sara up into her arms and half-carried her into the cabin.

Mrs. Polton cleaned her up and put her to bed. And Mr. Polton drove them all to their house the very next morning, where Sara stayed for the following two months. Mr. Polton arranged for John’s burial and a proper Christian funeral when he went into town. He also had his son fill in the hole, which Sara had dug in her yard.

She said very little for the first three weeks she was there. When she did begin to speak again, Mrs. Polton made for an understanding shoulder to cry on. Sara soon began to feel a little better.
“You really should go stay with your mother for a while, dear,” urged Mrs. Polton one day. “It would do you good to be with family. Not that we don’t want you. You’re always welcome here. But I think your momma wants you to go home for a visit.”

“Blue Hill is my home now, though, Grace,” Sara reasoned. She wasn’t eager to outstay her welcome at her neighbor’s home, yet Grace’s maternal presence was a comfort. “I need to go back to my place. You and Mr. Polton have been wonderful. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she added, starting to tear up.

Grace put the pie she had just removed from the oven on a rack to cool. Turning back to Sara, she said, “You’re a strong girl. “You’ll get on. We’re still just down the way.”

And the next day Sara was back at her own cabin. That night, she burned down the shed. Afterward, she read a passage in her bible, “…He is the source of every mercy and the God who comforts us…”

And so, for the next two years, Sara reads her bible every night, finding solace in the Word. During the day she feeds her chickens, cows and horses. She cleans out the stalls and collects her eggs. She goes on living. After a while, she realizes that she has gone on living, and things get better. The whispers in town begin to die down. Most of the talk was pitying, “Poor Sara. Girl almost went mad over her husband’s death. Now she doesn’t talk anymore when she comes to town.” Although some of it, especially amongst the young people, became that of legend. “Did you hear about Mrs. Brown? She’s a witch. She killed her husband, and tried to use him for some black magic but Mr. Polton found her and took the body away. He had the preacher give a funeral and say a prayer and now she can’t use the body anyway so Mr. Brown’s in the cemetery.”

Sara knew she was whispered about. And so now she just stays away. It’s easier that way. She’s too far from town to get there very often anyway.