Notes from the Couch

I'm on the poofy couch listening to Doc and Lucy play Lego Indiana Jones and Riley reading tongue twisters. The yard has been tended to, but the flower beds are asking "What about us?" And I'm telling them to relax because they now qualify as Jungle Chic.

Here's a summary of my vacation:

• 
  
  I love my job, but I think the stress of it all was getting to me. These five days were needed for me to recharge my brain and soul a bit.
• 
  

  

  Buster Keaton's
  Buster Keaton Face

  I've laughed and I've cried...I don't like to cry. I usually can't stop if I start. Doc complains about my "Buster Keaton" face, but sometimes, it's either that or Niagra Falls.
• Things are tough vis a vis ye olde bank account right now. Doc and I are trying to figure out what to do next. We are definately at a crossroads, which people keep pointing out to us. I'm trying very hard to listen well to advice I'm getting from trusted sources. But any move right now is a risky one.
• I'm going back and forth wondering if there really is a God or if this is all just some grand accident of chemistry.
• Riley and I had a disagreement where we both dug in our heels and got mad at each other. But it was nothing a little homemade pizza offering couldn't cure.
• Mostly, even though things are tough, we are all finding ways to laugh a little, sing some, and hug it out.

So, I get back on the merry-go-round tomorrow. I hope when the alarm clock goes off, I'll find that spring in my step again that was missing last week. I know it's there...it just needed oiling.

Oh, and Riley just said, "By the way, Mom, don't come into my room..." I'm off to investigate.

FFF #37 - Clown College Commencement Address

As with juggling, the key to life is to keep the procession moving steady and don't look down. There are days when you're not going to feel like putting that makeup on or pulling on your giant pants. But these are the things you are called to do. You've spent four years here in this safe place, testing your abilities and studying the masters. Now is the time for you to gather your glee and set forth into our sad world to spread joy.

And don't be mistaken; people are going to laugh at you. And not just because you're a clown. They're going to say, "Why be a clown? Why not do something more productive, more practical." Artists everywhere have had to face this question. And you must dig deep into your souls and sort through your own internal prop trunk to find this answer.

But we the faculty at Cleveland Clown College won't send you off without a bit of advice on this matter. We have been here for you these past four years and we can give you some pearls of wisdom that you can carry around under your rainbow wig to rely on when you're feeling like your seltzer bottle has lost its fizz.

In these dark days of bubbles bursting, oil spilling, and war, the world needs a pie in the face. And it needs to be delivered by someone who takes clowning very seriously. We need to be the ones to demonstrate the ridiculous so that people can stop being so serious about everything and see the situation as it is. Once we have a laugh together, we can shrug off the sadness, pick up our rubber shovels and get to work making the world a better place.

We need to bring smiles to faces lest the oppressive weight of it all crush the spirits of our collective souls. It is our duty to make farts visible with powder and to apply our acrobatic prowess to pratfalls to lighten up this universe. For if we do not do these things, the doomsayers win and we are left with a world where flowers don't squirt and handshakes are de-electrified and sadness reigns. These bits of whimsy brighten the world a little bit at a time. And if we continue to brighten the world together, the dark forces lose their grip and we can all shake our heads to clear them and face our problems with spirit and aplomb.

Tell those people who shake their heads at you and mock your life's calling that they can go ahead and scoff. They'll be tied to a desk, while you get to see the world, either in small scale at backyard birthday parties or in the Big Tent. You'll rub elbows with acrobats and lion tamers and ride elephants and unicycles to work while they carpool with grumps and drudge away in a cubicle. And you are charged with producing laughter in the hearts of children of all ages.

But the best part about it is to bring hope and happiness in such an intimate and face-to-face way. And hope and happiness are our beacon that will light the way to a better world. You have been prepared by the best and you are ready to pick up this standard and carry it forth. We the faculty wish you all the best and will be here for you as you face the challenges of clowning.

Thank you, Cleveland Clown College Class of 2010. You have strengthened our numbers and enriched our hearts so that we may all face the darkness with our balls in the air.

Mirth Finding

So, God bless Some Guy, right? I mean, his exhaustive list of blurbs about the people on his blogroll was really wonderful. It brought back memories of a golden age, when blogging was new and exciting.

When I started blogging, it was scary. I had a really tough job where outrageous things would happen to me but if I talked about it to anyone in a format that could be traced back to me, I'd be toast. But I needed to write and I wanted it public. So, I started this blog and called it "Prone to Whimsy" so that I would remember that this is a place for the fun, silly, random stuff that crosses my mind and capture the small moments in my life that reverberated meaning. Things that floated into my day, dipped down and rested in my hands, then floated away again.

But something happened...maybe Facebook, which is so much more instantly gratifying. It allowed me to flit in and out without leaving much substance behind. I still feel kind of cheap when I reduce one of the meaningful moments in my life to a status update.

But back to this blog. I've always wanted my writing to be personal here. I wanted you to know me. I wanted to share the little things in my life, the marvelously mundane. The tag I use to categorize that kind of thing is "A Day in the Life of Flannery" and the last time I used it was in January. So, that's what, over seven months, right? Seeing Chris' post about me and my blog and reading the comments brought all that back home to me. In particular, my throat caught at this one:

"Flannery is one of those rare bloggers who, after you've read her, you'd run up and hug her on first meet because you just *know* her." - Beth

I was presented with proof that I've done what I set out to do. At least one of the people who reads my blog feels like she knows me. But anyone who has started reading this since Janurary probably wouldn't have the same reaction.

Fortunately, I've had Flash Fiction Friday to keep this blog from going completely defunct. But that's my fiction, not my facts. And while it's become very important to me, I feel a kind of loss for the other stuff.

Frankly, I've been resistant to sharing too much here. As you may know, my husband is going through a rough patch. Well, we both are. And I've circled the wagons, closed ranks. I've had to. What do I share here? How do I sort out my own head? How do I find the whimsy again amidst all this strife and angst. It's easier to just let it sit while I play Bubble Pop Party Island and shut out the world.

Well, I'm back, baby. I'm raising the windows and getting a little air in here. I'm shaking off the dust cloths and refilling the larders.

In short, I'm bringing whimsy back.

So thank you, Some Guy and Beth, for turning on the lights.

FFF #36 The Visit

"In the distance I saw all kinds of birds circling over something, but I couldn't tell what from where I was."

"Yes," he murmurred, "Go on..."

"I started walking towards the birds...and then I couldn't see them because I was walking into the sun, but I could still hear them. Eventually the sun sank beneath the horizon and I could make out the shape of a ramshackle house."

"I see," he paused, "Did you enter the building?"

"Yes, I did." I replied.

"What did you see?"

"The house was made of pine boards and roadside signs. It was low to the ground and there was tumble weed. It looked very dark in side. In my dream I knew it was my house. I walked in and found the place overrun with drugged out partiers. There was food everywhere and trash. Some of the walls stripped down to the studs and the toilet was overflowing."

"Go on..."

"When I went into the main room, people were passed out and strewn on old nappy couches. I was very angry and I could fee the bile rising to the top of my throat. I turned toward the fireplace..."

"Yes..." he said, leaning forward, more than mildly interested now.

"Well, a fire started and smoke swirled up and then the brick began to melt away and I could see the sun for a moment."

"And then what?" he breathed.

"The most incredibly large owl swooped in, spread her wings and hovered over the fire. And she was briliantly colored, like a mandala of reds, blues and yellows."

"That's it!" he cried.

"That's what?" I asked, startled by his fervor.

"You have been visited."

"What?"

"I thought that was the case when you came in here...you're aura, it's different."

"My aura?" I asked, blinking at him. My therapist never vered from your standard Jungian stuff; I'd never believed he'd even heard the word aura before. Now he's reading mine?

"Yes," he said, standing up and tilting his head as he looked at me intently.

I fidgeted a bit, uncomfortable under his direct gaze. I don't think we'd ever formally made eye contact before.

"Yes," he repeated, "It is golden..."

"So?" I asked and blushed.

"So, Marina," he said, "A visit from the Mandala Owl...this means that your awareness has expanded and you're psychic powers can be tapped. That she visited you when you were in a state of righteous anger means that you are called."

"Called?"

"Yes, and your golden aura seals it. You psychic vision is clear and you can see for miles. You are integrated...mind, body and spirit and you are ready."

"Ready for what?" I asked, standing, arms akimbo. I was starting to think that Dr. Falk might want to take my place on the comfy couch.

"Marina, Golden Marina," he said, looking at me with a tilted head and a glimmer of unshed tears under each eye.

I blinked.

"Don't you see? Don't you see what a combination like that means? Psychic powers, spiritual protection, righteous anger?"

"I don't see," I replied.

"Ah, yes, but you do see," he said with the smugness of a Zen master. "Close your eyes and let your arms hang loose. Stand with your feet hip-width apart and just breath."

I obeyed. It was dark and I could smell a combination of dust and peppermint. The same smell I'd inhaled every Thursday afternoon for the past three years. My eyes remained closed, but the room lightened. I felt immense pride and hope as I began to see the room, see myself standing with my eyes closed, my arms hanging at my sides and my feet firmly planted on the floor.

Startled, my eyes flew open and I took in Dr. Falk. He was crying in earnest now. He strode towards me and grabbed both my hands.

"Marina," he said, "Thank you...I haven't known the Mandala Owl's presence since your grandmother walked on to the spirit world. I was hoping that you'd have the gift too."

"I...you...Huh?"

"In time, you'll understand your gift. I promise. But for now, we must start your training. I also need to let the elders know of your return.

"I thought I just had some clinical depression issues you were going to help me with." I said as I slumped back down on the couch.

"Those are side effects of your empathic nature," he said as he began throwing items from his desk into a satchel, "They must be treated before awareness can occur. I had to be sure that was the case and it wasn't just textbook twenty-first century angst."

He stopped searching and zipped up the bag. "Come, Marina, we must go."

"Where?" I asked.

"To meet your destiny."


Thank you to Wellesfan for such a compelling starter sentence!

FFF#35 -The Inside Job

"I don't disagree with you, but you have to admit, this puts me in a delicate position," Father Willem replied.

Of course it does, you beast, I thought but didn't say. I shrugged and let him waffle there with between the safe limb he created for himself and the tempting fruit I dangled before him. If I knew anything at all about Father Willem, it was that he would always go for fruit he shouldn't take, especially if he believed he could count on plausible deniability.

"It really is rather clever of you, John," he said, turning his chair toward the stained glass depiction of the nativity and steepling his fingers under his chin, contemplating. "We could put cameras in all of the rooms in the school, including the dormitories...sure, it would infringe on 'privacy rights' but those are very much undefined in the charter, whereas it clearly states 'We shall err on the side of safety, always...'" He stood up.

"Just the presence of cameras alone should deter any student-teacher extracurriculuar contacts and that should satisfy the board that we are taking a tough stance on this issue. Besides, we don't want a full clerical inquiry. Of course the Vatican aren't letting the secular law enforcers anywhere near us, for now. But we can't afford to let a tinge of unseemlinees darken our purity. We don't want to encur the attentions of the Bishop; the red tape alone involved with one whispered accusation could set us back years. We have important work, here, John, to educate the Catholic youth and grow the priesthood. Otherwise, what shall become of us and our important role of religious leadership and moral fortitude? Who shall lead the sheep through the valley? Certainly not the Baptists..."

I could tell he was going to go for it now; he never speechified on a topic that he wasn't going to deliver on. Finally, after thirty years, I will have the upper hand over a man who has dominated my life since childhood.

"Very well, Father," I said. "I'll proceed with the requisition then, shall I?"

"Yes, yes..." he said, distracted as he sat back down and turned towards his computer. "Make it happen as you always do."

I stood up and made my way to the large oak door of his office. This office, once a hell for me was now starting to feel more like a hall of justice. I can remember counting the books in here and recategorizing them in my head while he abused me. For a long time, the scent of office supplies would make me vomit. I had to spend my first turn as an assistant pastor in a church so poor, office supplies were the last thing anyone thought about.

Driven by righteous anger, I graduated a the top of my class in seminary and had many offers to join the most influential churches in the country. My choice of such a poverty-stricken parrish surprised my friends and worried my mentors. But I had visited that poor place in the ghetto and I was moved by its sadness that seemed to mirror my own. I also believed that spending time in the trenches like that would bring me a unique credibilty since I was one of the few that had chosen to walk the walk of poverty and help the poorest among us. That way, fat priests whose indulgences made them walk a fine canonical line would find me a good proxy. They could hire me away so that I could bring my humilty and they could somehow co-opt it for their own glory.

This seemed like a fast track to the top. I had learned what the poortest among us needed and I could work the white-guilt of the richer perishes to create conduits of money and resources and point them to my ghetto of God's forgotten children. I knew this would set me up as an important figure, one who would be a jewel in the crown of any parrish. Having been a victim of Father Willem, I took it upon myself to meet him on his own turf as a peer and take him down for good in such a way that it will look like his fall from grace happened due to anything other than child molestation. Then, I'll have access to his network of other like-minded men without alerting them and foment their clerical demise one by one. I had long given up on the idea that the law, sacred or secular, would have the balls to solve this problem between priests and boys. It has to be an inside job.

Little did Father Willem know that I had been spending most of the term with my students talking about the constitutionality of privacy. We had worked over many Supreme Court cases on the subject. I had also spent the first part of every day with them on the Heroes of Civil Disobedience: Martin Luther King, Jr., Ghandi, Rosa Parks. They are primed for a revolution. Father Willem will not see it coming as he never counted the students as anything other than his sheep for the taking. And I will walk away from here vindicated and ready to take out the next one.

Words That Make You Sound Drunk

My co-worker Wendy and I keep a running list. I thought I'd share it with you and see if you had any further suggestions:

• Fiduciary
• Judicial
• Similarly
• Articulate
• Reciprocity
• Instantiation
• Pedestrian
• Substantial
• Perambulate
• Periodicity

Others?

Doc chimes in...

• He had had a cold in the past.
• penial implant
• douche
• travesty
• wimple

Barbara's had a few...

• perpendicular
• cauterize
• amyotrophic lateral sclerosis
• ... most disease names, really...

Gennifer6 threw one up...

• facetious

Beckeye stumbled over a few...

• Juxtaposition
• Chartreuse
• Mischievous
• Arteriosclerosis
• Goldschlager (and you usually get drunk if you're asking for it) 

Skyler's Dad tied a few on...

• Thudpucker
• Lookie here
• and of course 'Hold my beer and watch this'!

David Barber slurred...Phesant plucker and the Cap'n refused to let us have antepenultimate.

Other co-workers staggered through and coughed up:

• Criticism
• Phlebotomy 
• Ancillary

The Ice Cream Stand - FFF#34

An effort for Friday Flash Fiction #34 where we are to use these words in the story: Sculpture, Culture, Cult, and Cohesive

********

"Here he comes, Lyla!" Wendy whispered as she brushed by on her way to the custard machine.

Lyla looked out the louvered windows to see his black BMW turn into the Kustard Korner parking lot. Her heart raced. She took a deep breath and side-stepped over to the small sink in the back of the ice cream stand. She washed her hands and straightened her bangs with wet fingers. She tugged on her apron so that the top portion pulled down a little bit and you could read "The Cult," which was splashed across the front of her t-shirt in white letters. She had cropped the sleeves and cut a v-neck into the shirt to better display her tan and her dainty cleavage. She bought this shirt on impulse. He had mentioned the band the last time he came to the custard stand and she hoped that wearing it and punking it out would get his attention.

When Lyla turned around to head back to the corner, she could see that a line had begun grown at the two sliding screen windows. As she stepped up to begin taking orders, the end of the line seemed to stretch out and redouble itself before her eyes. She felt like pouting and stomping her foot at the unfairness of it all. It will take forever to get through all these people and he might get in the wrong line!

"Can I help you?" she asked a mother who stood impatiently at the window, her two daughters telling her what they wanted at the same time. Lyla waited while they sorted out their order and stole a glance out of the corner of her eye. She could just see his car from where she stood and was delighted to watch the door open and one tanned leg land on the asphalt.

"We'll take two small vanilla cones...can you put faces and sprinkles on them?" the woman asked.

"Sure," she said tugging her eyes back to the woman. "Three dollars please."

The woman paid with a five and Lyla gave her the change. She hustled over to the custard machine to began filling the small cones with a tower of vanilla. She hit the lever and watched as the cold, creaminess slowly moved forth from the machine. She made small practiced circles to sculpture the coils one on top of the other and finished off with a flick to get a precious curly-q on top. She started the second one and flushed as she remembered the last time he was here. She couldn't stop watching him; the way he licked his cone was criminally sexy. She snapped her attention back to the machine to finish the second cone and headed over to the sprinkle station.

"Did you see him?" she asked Wendy.

"Not yet..." she said craning her neck towards the parking lot.

"Stop!" Lyla hissed. "We don't want to look like a couple of nerds! Be cool."

"Ok, ok," Wendy replied. "Sheesh, this used to be fun and I don't remember you ever worrying about being cool before."

Lyla gave her a look that would melt fudge. Wendy shrugged as Lyla finished making the faces on the cones and spun on her toe and headed back to the window.

"Two small face cones!" she shouted out and looked around as the mother made her way back to the windows. She couldn't see him yet. She handed the lady her cones and some napkins and began to chip away at the rest of the line. It was an endless list of custards, shakes, hot dogs, sloppy joes, and sodas. She and Wendy zipped around within the small confines of the ice cream stand. When it got busy like this, Wendy and Lyla always found a groove. This was their second summer at the Kustard Korner and they were veterans and moved like a unit. Their actions were cohesive and they had some kind of psychic link when it came to ice cream.

Wendy and Lyla high-fived each other when the last big order was finished. Lyla had forgotten about him in the fever of her work. They both turned back and started to head to their respective windows.

"Hey," he said.

Lyla looked up suddenly, her eyes bugged slightly as her heart fell on the floor. There he was before her, rugged and unshaven. His melon Izod pulled tight across his broad shoulders and his white bermudas wrapped his lower half like a present.

"Hey," she exhaled back. "What can I get you?"

"I'd like a medium twist and a face cone for Madison." he tilted his head toward his eight-year-old daughter standing next to him like a fine, cultured rose.

"Sure thing," she said. Wendy sensed the electricity and sent her last customer off. She hurried over to help Lyla.

"Well?!?" she demanded, "What did he say?!?"

"Just 'Hey.'"

"Just 'Hey'?"

"Yeah, and his order."

"Well, here," Wendy said as she took the small cone. "You give him the twist and I'll fix the face cone."

They worked quickly and Wendy handed her the small cone. Lyla took them to the window and didn't have to shout. He was watching her the whole time. She shivered and then leaned through the window to hand the girl her cone. Then she gave him his twist.

"Thanks," he said and smiled. His eyes dropped down to take a sneak a peak. "Hey!" he said, pointing, "The Cult! I saw them when I was in high school!"

"Yeah?" she said.

"Yeah," he replied, "I think I've got one of their CD'S in my car."

"Cool!" she said.

"Funny, I haven't thought about them in years and recently, they keep coming up. How do you know about them? I thought kids these days only cared about Lady Gaga."

"I've never heard of them before. I just liked this shirt." she said, trying to be casual. But she couldn't take her eyes away from his mouth as began to lick his twist. He started on the sides and worked his way around. Then he went in from the top and pressed his mouth into the curly-q, crushing it. She almost fainted right there on the spot.

"That's a shame. They're a really good band, especially when you're a teenager and full of angst."

Lyla giggled, then blushed. She had no idea what angst was, but it sounded dirty.

"Do you babysit?" he asked.

"Um, yeah," she stammered, thrown by his quick change of subject.

"My wife and I are going out tomorrow night and we need someone to hang out with Madison here," he turned toward his daughter and smiled. "I know it's short notice, but, if you're available..."

"Sure!" she said. "I'm here 'til six tomorrow."

"Ok," he said. "I'll pick you up then. We'll listen to the Cult on the way back to my house..." He paused and looked down at her nametag, then smiled, "...Lyla. I'm Jack, by the way."

"Nice to meet you," she said automatically and smiled.

"See you tomorow," he said.

"Bye..." she waved.

Slipping - FFF #33

It was a shortcut that I would regret for the rest of my life. I had planned everything down to the last detail, but for the mayonaise. I hate the stuff myself, which is probably why it didn't leave the store with me when I did the bulk of my shopping. So, I decided to hoof it to the Circle K and get a small jar. I'm sure I'd pay the premium for convenience, but what else was there to do?

It was just a short way to the store and the car was stuffed with all my gear. I didn't want to drive it until I officially hit the road. I dashed out of the front door with my wallet and hit the pavement. It was beginning to drizzle and mist, which I hardly noticed. It was just another day in an era of almost constant meteorological moodiness we'd been experiencing since the beginning of June: Extreme heat, humidity thick enough to slice for sandwiches and precipitation that lingered around like your kid sister and rained down on you if you tried to play outside without her.

I cut through the neighbor's yard and began to navigate my way through the woods that separated their property from the park. It was damp under the trees and the earthy aroma of dead, wet leaves wafted upwards as my feet rumpled their slumber. The wildlife were restless; squirrels chased each other around, mad with the damp. They were probably just trying to get dry for once. I could hear crows arguing as the way began to tilt downward.

I'd taken this shortcut numerous times. Sure, it's a bit steep once you get past the first line of trees, but since there are so many trees, there's always something to grab onto and work your way down the hill. Confident in this knowledge and a feeling the pressure to get there and back, I began to follow my usual path down the slope. Grab a tree with one hand, strike out with one foot, reach to the next tree with the other. It was a sort of arborial hoedown, the rhythm of which was marked in my muscles so that I didn't really have to think about it.

My mind returned to my to-do list. I rethought through it and was just coming to the end of it when I heard a snap and my internal programing was interrupted by a broadcast of a pain. It bleated from my ankle all the way up my leg. My momentum was such that I continued to take one step and then another on the bad foot and fell face forward into a hot mud goulash. I lifted my head and blinked in time to watch my wallet dance down the hillside and land in the creek below.

I hung my head, gasping. I remembered my lamaze training and began to focus on something in the distance. Breath in through the nose, out through the mouth. I couldn't have broken anything, I thought as the pain stopped screaming and started to pout. I lifted myself into the cobra position and pulled my good foot under me. I started to drag my other foot forward, when the pain remembered what it was so pissed off about and began to rant anew.

I dropped down to my elbows and rolled on my side, digging for my phone. No phone. Shit. I could see a tree in front of me that was somewhat substantial. I walked myself there with my arms, dragging my wounded foot behind me. I was able to situate myself with my back against the tree and my legs aimed up the hill to keep the damn thing elevated.

As it began to rain, I had time to pull my ball cap down over my face and consider the implications of my situation. I'll never make it to the camp grounds now. And it was our last chance. We were going to give it one more shot. He took the kids for a week in Mohican State Park and I was to join them there for the weekend. They will have spent the week in a tent, but in concession to my contempt for camping out, he arranged for us to have a cabin for the last couple of days of their trip. I agreed to bring mayonaise and sandwiches and other refrigerated luxuries. We were going to leave our egos and attitudes on the firepile and try to start again. And now I'm a no show and incommunicado.

All the old arguments rafted through my mind. Every complaint he ever had about me floated to the surface for my examination. I began to form a vision of the consequences of this shortcut. I constructed the set, casted and directed our final showdown, complete with lawyers and child psychiatrists. I also imagined the possiblility with this weather and my location, the crows wouldn't have much to argue about in the very near future. Either way I was carrion for scavengers.

Posted for Friday Flash Fiction with David Barber's starter sentence

My Mother Will Be So Proud

Thank you, Beckeye, for choosing my caption to be the winner of your contest. This award couldn't have come at a better time. It's been a long, dark week for me and now that my crotch is on fire, there is light in my life again.

I'm a little lost

It's been two weeks since my Grandma passed away. And I've been able to go about life and do the things that must be done. It's certainly been easier since Doc has picked up the slack and has been working tirelessly around the house (outside and in). But every now and then I dip a toe in the pool of grief and feel the sadness. Sometimes I can withdraw my foot. Sometimes the grief pulls me under.

If you've been a long time visitor here, you know that since this blog started, I've lost my Grandpa, my Aunt Gail, and now Grandma Jean. When I lost Grandpa and Gail, I was working at my old job, which was a nightmare. My previous boss was domineering and manipulative. I basically had to turn off my emotions and go into survival mode to continue to work for her. For four years. The longer I worked there the easier it was not to feel things. This made work easier, but family life...well, I guess it was easier too. I wasn't feeling the pain. Or the joy. But I lost two people who were very dear to me and I couldn't grieve for them. I didn't dare, lest I come completely undone.

Since I've moved to my new job, almost three years ago, I've started to defrost. Here I've discovered I'm able to be myself and react naturally with out running every event through a processor to judge whether or not this reaction or that would cause me more trouble or more work. Over time, I've been able to start feeling things again. This came to a head last month when I got irregular results on an annual exam at the doctor's office.

Of course, I found out about the test a month prior to going back to the doctor to discuss it. So I had a lot of time to really face up to my life and see if it was going in the direction it should be. It wasn't. Inspired by the possibility that I might be seriously ill in the near future and my emotional awakening, I started cleaning my emotional house. As it turns out, the tests results aren't the death sentence I feared. But they were a wake-up call for me.

Since I lost Grandma, I have been feeling the full force of her passing. And it hurts. But I'm ok. I'm a little sensitive about grandma-related topics and sometimes I just want to curl up in one of her blankets and cry my eyes out. But this sensitivity brings about awareness. And it highlights the things about her that I loved and that I will miss. And those things I'm going to pick up and carry with me so that I'll be a bit more like her and then she'll still be with me.

I've started wearing perfume. I cleaned out my purse. Come payday, I'm going to stash a twenty in there and hide it from myself so that I can find it when funds are low. I'm wearing her beautiful nightgowns to bed instead of tee-shirts. I'm paying closer attention to the way my kids act and I want to make sure they are getting enough love and a bit more discipline. I'm standing my ground on personal issues that are important to me. I'm going to be more efficient. And every once in a while, I'm going to call on the river when I've only got three to a straight.

I'm going to do all these things in remembrance of her. I want her memory to be vibrant and three dimensional, close to me. I know she's gone and I'm a little lost without her. But if she were here, she'd tell me to stick close and don't get separated from the family. She'd say, it's ok to be sad but she'd advise that I might want to find something to do to perk me up. And I'll be on the look out for the good stuff while I try to handle the bad. I'll get out of the woods eventually, not as an empty shell, but rather as someone who has fully grieved and has been marked by the experience.

Celebrities Who Appeared in my Dreams: Dale

I was getting ready for some folks to come over for my birthday when Doc popped his head in the bathroom and told me that Dale from Passion of the Dale was here.

"Really?!?" I asked, stunned.

"Yeah," Doc said, "He came all the way from Canada for your bithday."

"Huh," I said and started to put on makeup.

Once I was ready, I tried to decide how to best make my entrance. I went through a couple of ideas in my head before stepping into the garage and declaring, "Wilkommen, bien venue, welcome!"

Dale was sitting on the couch in our garage talking to my Uncle Charlie. He looked up and tipped his beer at me and went back to his conversation. I began to look around the garage and wonder what Dale's impression was. I knew he was judging and that he had an opinion. I was very curious. But this curousity hampered me. I couldn't think of anything to say to him or anyone else in the room. And I felt bad that he had driven all this way to be so underwhelmed. Until, of course the zombies arrived.

Aveatque Vale: Grandma Jean

I’m really glad we are all here together today. More than anything, Grandma Jean wanted us to all be close to her. And never leave. She loved us all so fiercely and wanted to protect us all. She enjoyed our company and never wanted the good times to end. And what she would want, I believe, is for us to be sad today and feel the loss of her and the imprint she leaves in our heart as a remarkable mother, daughter, grandmother, sister, aunt and friend. She would want us to miss her. To remember her and remember what she taught us.

We should also celebrate her life for she accomplished a lot, most times with very limited material resources. Grandma Jean had to grow up fast and she had to learn a lot at a very young age. She was born in Pittsburgh but lived most of her life here in Canton. She told us all of her experiences growing up in a household with, unfortunately, not a lot of adult supervision. It made her tough and independent. It taught her that she had to be responsible and look out for those who couldn’t yet. She told us stories about her rough childhood, but she would tell them in such a way that we could learn from it or be amused. She wouldn’t have wanted us to focus on the heartbreaking parts. She would want us to take away the lesson she shared with us, that we have it in us to overcome adversity and make the world we want to live in. And that we ought to take care of each other.

Having been in charge of her destiny for most of her childhood, Grandma Jean had very little patience with authority and she didn’t trust authority figures. She knew best. She grew tired of school and decided to hit the road at fourteen and go back to Pennsylvania and get a job. She was stopped, of course, and sent back home. But she was determined make her own way in the world and to do it in her own way. She taught us that sometimes, it’s more important to be true to ourselves than to the status quo. For what could faceless authority know better than we do about how to live this live we’ve been given?

When she met my Grandpa, she knew right away she’d met the love of her life. After a short courtship, they spent over 50 years married to each other. Together they created a family that was tightly bonded. And she was fiercely loyal to us all. How many times has she taken us shopping or helped us spring clean? And as she helped us clean, she shared with us what she knew about running a household. She never refused a cry for help and most times, she could hear the cry for help before we could utter it. She would be at our sides, applying her energies to help us. She showed us how to serve others and that it was just part of the family territory.

There were many good times with Grandma Jean. She was an encyclopedia of card games and never said no to a game. She taught three generations how to play hundreds of card games. And when it came to Black Jack or poker, she’d always be there to coach you or to slide some of her change over to your side of the table when you were running low. She showed us how to think, how to be fair, and how to give someone a boost when they’re down on their luck. And winning wasn’t as important as just being happy together.

And she was a dancer. She and Grandpa loved to dance. They took lessons together at Arthur Murray, went to dances and would cut a rug at home too. Some of my best memories include all of us jumping and dancing in her living room. It was heaven to celebrate and cut loose in that house of hers with so many cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents. She helped us be joyful together.

Later in life, she suffered some tough blows. She was heartbroken when her son, Bob, had to leave. He went to Arizona and, for a time, the light left Grandma Jean. But she recovered and we would all get caught up in the excitement of his returns for visits. She lost her sister Donna too soon. But before Donna left us and her health began to decline, Grandma didn’t miss a beat. She helped Donna get around in her wheel chair and made sure she was still enjoying life, even with her disability. She lost Grandpa in 2004 and her daughter Gail in 2006. Heartbroken doesn’t begin to describe the depths of her woe from losing a husband and daughter within two years of each other. But she found joy again with those of us who were still with her. She showed us how to suffer and still live on.

Despite the blows her heart received throughout life, she never missed a chance to love. She doted on her grandchildren and great grandchildren. If you take a look at the memory board, you will see many of the pictures show her with a baby on her lap. I remember her with my children when they were just wee tiny babies and she would hold them, swaddle them, coo to them, dress them up and tell me all she knew about babies. She was a lioness, providing for the young and protecting them with all her strength. She loved us all so much.

Part of her lioness strength meant that she could be confrontational. She stood up for what she believed was right. In particular, she didn’t want us to stray from her and tried to keep us all close. Many of us still remain within a few hundred mile radius from her because life is easier, better with an ally like her in your life. But she would tell you exactly what she thought of your plans to move to New York City or Timbuktu and try to work you over to keep you close. She showed us how independence was good but family was better.

And she watched over her world. I remember her last summer. She was following the story of the sparrows that took up residence on the back porch. She watched them build their nest and told us about how the mother and father birds took turns gathering materials. She let us know when there were eggs and when they hatched. She told us when the couple argued and when the kids were ready to go out on their own. She soaked up the lessons of the creatures around her.

When she did get the blues, they hit her hard. Sometimes a pep talk would help. Often times, she’d have a long bath or go shopping. For sure, a win at bingo would brighten her day. I used to play bingo with her every Tuesday morning at St. Paul’s. I’d get off work at seven a.m. and meet up with her at her house. She’d have had her bath and coffee and was ready to go. We’d go out for breakfast and head over to get the good seats. We’d win here and there but mostly, we’d just enjoy the long mornings together doing something fun. I hope you had the chance to play bingo with her. That was when you got to see her joy and experience her gentle way of showing you how to do things efficiently and easily.

And she was efficient. She worked for years at Nationwide Insurance where she focused on the best and easiest ways to do things. I’ve often heard her speak with fondness of experiences there. There she learned her job and the jobs of her counterparts so they could support each other. She got to travel to Chicago and New York City. She and her sister Donna worked there until retirement, where they received a loving send-off. But Grandma was young yet to retire. She later began helping out at Grandpa’s office, then she took various jobs at Value City and Hills, where she was able to get all the linens she could carry at a discount. She taught us to do what we love and to use our time wisely so that there would be more time for fun, for family.

Grandma Jean had a heart of gold. She was so generous and giving of her time and resources. She wanted to give each of us everything our little hearts’ desired. I’m so sad today that her body wasn’t able to keep up with her heart and mind, because until the very end of her life, she was still worried about us. She still cared how we were and if we’d had success or needed help. Her mind and heart were solid. And she showed us that even bound to a bed; we can still be of use to each other and connected to the world.

So let’s go ahead and cry today. Let’s be sad for our own great loss. Let’s hold hands and embrace. We have lost a teacher, a mother, a grandmother, a great grandmother, an aunt, a friend. In short: We have lost our rock. But what would Grandma do if she saw us so sad? She’d pull us all together at her kitchen table and get us each a pop or a bowl of soup. We could just sit and talk or get a card game going. Without her, we pebbles can band together and be almost as strong as she was. But I believe in my heart, as long as we are together and close, she is with us.

Thank you.

"With the Rich and Mighty, Always a Little Patience" - FFF #31

Submitted for Friday Flash Fiction #31 where the quest was to use the words batch, catch, latch, patch and coriander in the story.


********

"So, ladies and gentlemen," Mr. Coriander paused to light his pipe. "It has been a long weekend, has it not? And I am sure you are all anxious to depart this terrible place and return home. And all but one or two of us shall be able to do just that."

"One or two of us?" Mrs. Henry asked, her hand fluttering to her locket. "Why not all of us?"

"Surely you have guessed that we have all gathered here in the parlour because I now know who killed Mr. Bentley? And further that I believe one of us here in this very room is the murderer!"

"It can't be one of us!" Mrs. Henry gasped, looking around at her guests in all their finery. They were a cool and reserved batch of old money and good breeding.

"And why not? We are all humans who are, if nothing else, animals. When threatened do we not lash out or flee? Are we not all capable of having our mental strings snagged in a patch of madness where all civilized reason leaves us? And the only sensible way forward is to lay waste to one of our fellows?"

"But we are all civilized individuals of good reputation! We do not murder!" Mrs. Henry cried, reddening. She began to worry harder at her locket until the latch broke and the necklace fell into her hand. She looked at Mr. Coriander, furious.

"Ah, but you are wrong, Mrs. Henry." Mr. Coriander said with some satisfaction. "Do you not now wish to do me in? Your prized locket has been broken. I saw rage in your eyes just now. You'd like to bash me in the head with the fireplace poker, wouldn't you."

"You mock me, Mr. Coriander." Mrs. Henry said quietly turning away.

"See here now, you jerk! You can't talk to my aunt that way!" Paul said and he moved quickly to catch the locket that was slipping from Mrs. Henry's hand.

"I can talk anyway I want, Mr. Henry." Mr. Coriander puffed on his pipe, delighted with himself. "I too am a free man of means."

"But I thought we all agreed that the gardener was responsible for Mr. Bentley's death." Paul whined.

"Perhaps you all agreed on that," Mr. Coriander walked toward the mantel of the grand fireplace so that he could stand in nature's own spotlight shining through the parlour's windows. "But I believe differently and I'm prepared to prove it to you right now as we wait for the police to arrive."

"You called the police?" Mr. Galveston asked, finally looking up from his paper. "How common! Usually we handle this kind of thing quietly."

"Usually?!" Mr. Coriander barked and moved out of his good lighting. "What do you mean, 'usually,' Mr. Galveston? Are you in the habit of pinning murders on servants?"

"Yes, quite." Mr. Galveston stated and looked back at his paper. "Paul, would you mind terribly handling this as you handled Mr. Bentley?"

Mr. Coriander began to sputter. He gasped for breath as his face turned green and he dropped to the floor, dead.

"I anticipated you'd ask, Mr. Galveston." Paul said, picking up Mr. Coriander's pipe. "Right before we met here, I lined the mouthpiece of Mr. Coriander's pipe with poison from Auntie's locket. What shall I tell the Inspector when he arrives?"

"Ah the usual," Mr. Galveston sighed. "One of our guests let his imagination run wild. Fancied himself a kind of Poirot after we played at detective with the local murder mystery drama club. Let him know that all is well and that Mr. Bentley escorted our Mr. Coriander back to the city. And don't forget to tip the Inspector well for his trouble. Later, we'll put them both in Mr. Bentley's car and push them over some cliff or other"

"Yes, sir," said Paul, reaching for his wallet.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Galveston," Mrs. Henry cooed. "It's so good to have that all cleared up. Tennis anyone?"

FFF #30 - Breakfast

"Is it me, or does this coffee taste weird?"

"It's you."

"Hmm..."

"Pass me the lemons, would you?"

"I don't have the lemons."

"Nevermind, they're right here."

"You're blind without your glasses."

"You're blind without your glasses; I'm wearing mine."

"This toast is burnt."

"It's just dark."

"I like my toast lightly toasted."

"Well put some butter on it, that'll lighten it up."

"Are you trying to kill me? You know I can't have butter."

"Then make some more 'toast' and let's move on with our lives."

"What did you put in these eggs?"

"Eggs, milk, salt and pepper, mustard..."

"Mustard?!?"

"Yes, mustard."

"What ever possessed you to put mustard in the scrambled eggs?!?"

"I saw Rachel Ray do it."

"She's crazy."

"I like her."

"That figures."

"Let me have the Life section of the paper."

"Here."

"Your horoscope: You may be disappointed in the morning, but don't be concerned you won't have to suffer overlong. Your life will flash by your eyes before lunch."

"You really aren't very nice until we start the second pot of coffee."

"I gave up coffee, don't you remember?"

"It's going to be a long day."

"For some of us...drink up."


Posted for Friday Flash Fiction.