Weekend surprises

I did it. I got to the hamfest and did my turn as VE today. The pain was bearable as long as I didn't move too quickly or the wrong way. We had 23 people in the exam session, which is ten fewer than last year, but still a good number. A few didn't pass, including one older woman, about mid 60s, who cried. She couldn't understand how she could ace the exam online and fail it today. We talked and I gave her a local ham's name to help her study for the General exam. I also talked to her a little while and gave her my name and number so she could call if she needed to talk or study. The more we talked the closer we came to an answer for why. She had memorized the answers on the test online and not the information. Okay, that gave me the info I needed. I gave her a website that mixes up the questions and pinpoints problem areas. She'll make it next time; she almost made it this time. And she felt much better when she left.

We don't get a lot of women in the exam sessions, but the number is increasing, and today I got a surprise. One of the people testing was nervous, so nervous her hands were shaking. I told her she'd do fine and she did; she only missed four (you're allowed seven). She got her General license. When I gave her the good news she said, "Blessed Be," and I was stunned for a moment. I always wear my pentacle with the amethyst in the center; I never take it off. The last thing I expected in a ham radio exam session was a fellow pagan. We shook hands and shared greetings and goodbyes and we both made a new acquaintance, a very nice surprise.

Some of the people taking exams I've seen before and we have developed a bantering acquaintance. And there are the VEs I see several times a year who are determined to end the day with the most zingers. They fail miserably. It's not quite like dueling with unarmed men, but it's close, and it's fun. Since I'm the club's VE contact person, and it's even listed on the ARRL web site, I have gotten to know quite a few people. Being the only female on the local VE team makes for interesting dynamics and a lot of teasing, one of my favorite sports. I even got to see an old friend from up at Woodland Park I haven't seen since last year and that was fun. I invited them all to the book signing tomorrow. Some of them will come out of sheer curiosity and the rest will just spread the word. Hams are worse than old women when it comes to gossiping. In fact, Dean, from Woodland Park, told me he heard about the books through some Yahoo group, but I haven't mentioned it on any Yahoo ham group. We narrowed it down to where and it looks like I have a PR person (ham gossip) out there spreading the word about me. Not a big surprise -- gossips, old women sharing gossip over the back fence. Nothing stays secret for long in the ham community.

I came home, had some lunch, watched a couple episodes of X-Files from the sixth season, started another review book and then took a little nap. When I woke up, my shoulder blade popped back into place and the constant nagging pain lessened considerably. Even my neck is less stiff and my hip is less painful. The shoulder blade has popped out before but not in a long time. As long as I stop riding the couch during naps and stick to the bed, it shouldn't be a problem and I won't need to resort to thinking about popping pills or drinking (as one person on my F-list mentioned) Hemlock.

It's fairly cool outside and the sky is my favorite shade of Colorado blue. I missed the farmer's market today because of the hamfest but there's always next week. There's a nice cool breeze making the blinds dance while it brings the sweet scent of honeysuckle inside and all is peaceful and calm on this beautiful and breezy Saturday afternoon. The only thing marring my otherwise idyllic weekend is the imprint of the Funny Times newspaper that has mysteriously tattooed my chaise and the book signing tomorrow. I'm not a big fan of sitting and watching people walk by me while my pen is poised for signing. I am a lot more familiar with reading my writing aloud to no one in particular; it's how I edit. I'll do the laundry tomorrow morning, the whole load, and finish reading a couple of review books and maybe even put in a few hours of typing operative reports, just a typical weekend. There will be dinner with friends and I'm looking forward to that, but otherwise I'm looking forward to enjoying the usual round of the week and this beautiful weather with the lawnmowers buzzing and thrumming and sending waves of fresh grass scent all through the neighborhood. It's my favorite part of summer.

Fire & ice

Afternoon naps are taking a toll on my poor body. I can barely lift my left arm or turn my head to the left. Sleep was elusive last night because of the pain and discomfort and I forgot to get willow bark tea yesterday. I have to get ready to go to Monument for the hamfest and the ham exams this morning and all I can think about is how much I hurt and how much more I want to go back to bed and sleep this thing out of my muscles. It's like one big cramp down the left side of my body, but I can't give up and giving in isn't an option, not this morning. I have so few days like this that it is difficult for me to imagine it happening, but it has. I'm even contemplating stopping at the store and getting some Aleve, just to give you an idea of what it's like right now.

Not going to the hamfest is not an option. The VE team is counting on me to be there, as are several of the people testing. I also need to pin down the treasurer and get a check for the printer who hasn't been paid in four months. I keep reminding the treasurer and he says he'll get to it, but so far he hasn't gotten to it, so I need to get the check from him today and take it to the printer on Monday. I'm also supposed to help with admissions until 10 a.m. but I'm thinking about blowing that off just so I can have a couple more hours to stand in a hot shower and get some willow bark tea so it can work its magic on my aching body, but that's not really an option either since I have to deliver the seventy issues of the newsletter to the hamfest so everyone has a chance to pick one up and many of the people get there early and leave just as early. I really don't like having no options.

I haven't taken a sick day from work since I started there over three years ago and when I promise to be somewhere I'm there. Today is a different story. Today, I want to find drugs, muscle relaxers, analgesics and sleeping pills and drift on a drug-induced cloud pain- and worry-free while the knots and tangles in my muscles slowly unwind. It's not going to happen. I'm going to get up, take a shower, get dressed and get on the road to Monument.

I'm going to get up.

I'm going to get up.

I'm going ...

You can't blame the train

It happened so fast. You didn't see it coming. You missed the warning signs. They were obvious but you relied on trust and love and got burned. It's like that song. If you saw the train coming and you heard the whistle and didn't get off the tracks, you can't blame the train. It's that way in love and in friendship; you have to keep your eye on things and pay attention. It's the old story of whether or not you can trust a cheater not to cheat, and I'm not talking about diets.

If a friend talks about another friend as if they're dirt or lower than maggots in a dung hill, you need to watch your back. If the same friend trashes a friend over and over one week and then the friend is back in their life the next and everything is beer and skittles (lather, rinse, repeat and repeat and repeat), what makes you think they will treat you any better? You're delusional. This is who they are. Pay attention. Someone who has nothing good to say about their friends isn't going to say anything good about you when the time comes -- and the time will come, or rather the train is coming. Get off the tracks.

There's a big difference between someone who gets angry at a friend and says something nasty in the heat of anger but then apologizes to the friend and to you and doesn't do it again and someone who trashes the friend one moment, gets back with them the next, and trashes them again over and over, ad infinitum, ad nauseam. That is a seriously disturbed person and you cannot trust anything they say (unless it's self serving) because the behavior is a deeply ingrained pattern. It's who they are and always will be.

For instance: Someone I once knew had been best friends with another woman since before they went to kindergarten. When I met the woman and became friends with her, she regularly trashed her "best friend in the world" constantly. At first, it was subtle, little complaints about who brought more food to a joint picnic, whose gifts cost more, how much weight she had lost in comparison, niggling things I brushed off. As we got to know each other better, the complaints got bigger and were more frequent until I wondered why they were still best friends. The other person sounded like she was crazy and delusional and evil so when the woman told me she was spending a week's vacation with her best friend I wondered why. "She cornered me and I couldn't say no." Okay, I can see how a nice person would feel obligated to be nice to someone they've known since childhood. I rationalized.

The train was coming down the tracks.

It bothered me that the woman was nice to people's faces but brought out the claws the minute they were gone as she spilled dirty detail after dirty detail of how they had hurt her, lied about her and destroyed her life (even though she continued to live quite well). With one guy, she said he creeped her out but she continued to invite him over for dinner or out for drinks and dancing and went over to his house on occasion when he hosted dinner. The minute he left, she was on the phone telling me how he disgusted her.

The whistle's blowing and I'm still on the tracks.

She didn't have one good thing to say about anyone, so when I met one of her colleagues from work I was ready for the devil incarnate. He was a personable, intelligent man she greeted with squeals of delight and hugs, sitting down next to him and taking his hand. She batted her eyes at him and giggled at his jokes as though she were a school girl in the presence of a matinée movie idol. This could not be the man she claimed was Satan and always on the make. He seemed uncomfortable every time she sidled closer and touched his hand or his shoulder. He smiled, but it was an awkward, uncomfortable smile as he politely disengaged her hands and shifted his chair away. If the evening had been longer, he would have been shifted out the door of the restaurant.

When we left, the claws came out. "Did you see how he pawed me? I wish he wouldn't do that. It makes me uncomfortable. He knows I'm involved with someone else but he won't listen. He doesn't respect me." I suddenly felt like Linda Blair in the Exorcist when her head spun around.

The train was closer. The whistle was blowing. I was still on the tracks.

I bumped into her colleague when I was having lunch alone one afternoon. There wasn't another table available and he was waiting in line when he recognized me. I invited him to sit since there were three empty chairs at my table. He sat. We talked. We laughed. He walked me to my car and I drove back to work. I didn't know it but the woman saw us.

That night as we ran lines for a play we were both in, I mentioned I saw her colleague at lunch. She acted surprised. The train was gaining speed and I was looking the other way. I heard the whistle but ignored it. "I thought he was nice, very personable," I said.

"Watch out. He just wants another notch on his bedpost. But you should be safe. He prefers thin women with long, thick blonde hair."

The next thing I heard was that I was having an affair with the colleague and trying to force him to leave his wife of ten years and their 5-year-old twins. I hadn't seen him since we had lunch. I called the woman to see if she knew where the rumor started. I got her voice mail. I emailed. No answer. The engineer was hanging on the whistle as the train thundered closer.

I saw her during the tech rehearsal and asked her during a break if she'd heard anything. "I thought you were different. I didn't think you were a home wrecker." She walked away. The prop master pulled me aside. "I heard what she said. Look no further for the source. She's been telling everyone you went after him and have been seeing him at his cabin upstate on weekends." The train hit.

I blamed the train even though I had plenty of warning to get off the tracks. I just didn't think it would hit me. I was naive and trusting and stupid. I've been hit by that particular train a few times and it took me quite a while to figure out why. It's not the train's fault; it is mine. I ignored the signs. I wasn't paying attention. I thought I was safe, but no one is ever safe when they're standing on the tracks in the path of a speeding train. I'm more careful now. I get off the tracks when I heard the whistle blowing.

When someone trashes their friends, even when the venom is hidden in offhand remarks and so-called jokes, they will have no trouble putting you on the list of people to trash. It's what they do. It's the scorpion and the frog. It's the train blaring its whistle while you're still standing on the tracks. They will turn on you just as surely as they turn on everyone around them. If you don't think so, ignore the whistle and stay on the tracks, carry that scorpion across the river on your back and you will find out. I just hope it isn't fatal.

Someone who has little or nothing good to say about people they supposedly love and care about will have nothing good to say about you either if you get in their way. Count on it. Heed the whistle. Get off the tracks because the results won't be pretty and you might end up on the dung heap with the maggots. You can't blame the train.

That is all. Disperse.

Magic water

The skirmish is over. The trash bin was moved to the alley and is now accessible to both houses and it was moved mere minutes after Ms. Stilettos arrived home yesterday. She got the message and this morning there was no fishwife greeting and no calling card on the porch. Sometimes, it takes only a simple reminder to get back on track.

It took a while to get to sleep last night. I was restless; I always am when the weather is unsettled and holding back something big. The something big happened many miles away, but during the unsettled haze of almost sleep a gentle sound worked its magic and I finally fell into a deep well and into Morpheus's arms. It rained. I knew it was coming; I smelled it on the air and I felt it like a heavy weight pressing down on my sinuses. For some reason, ever since I moved to Colorado my sinuses have been more accurate than Doppler or radar in detecting pressure, high and low, and the coming of rain or bad weather.

I don't consider rain bad weather, it's too exhilarating and exciting for that, but last night's -- and this morning's -- rain wasn't of the thunderstorm variety. It was a soft, gentle outpouring that continues to patter down over the leaves and grass like a sensuous bath beneath a trickling waterfall. The sound is soothing and quiet, a subliminal lullaby.

I had hoped it would rain all day, a steady downpour that would soak into the ground instead of rushing through the rain gutters like a sea of otters racing for the rivers and washes, but the rain continues to pitter here and patter there, off and on, like a child playing with a newly discovered faucet and reveling in the magic, sneaking back every time momma's back is turned to see if the magic still works.

For now, I need to drag myself up, get cleaned up and start work. Two more days in this week left to tote the barge and lift the bale before a busy weekend of ham radio swapfests, licensing exams and a book signing on Sunday fill my weekend. Good thing the washing is caught up and I have something halfway decent to wear.

That is all. Disperse.

New neighbors

There seems to be a small glitch in relations between the new neighbor and me. The terms of our leases state that we share a trash bin. I've enjoyed being able to walk across the lot and put my trash in the bin without ambush but then things became a little odd.

Yesterday morning when I walked over to deposit the trash, I noticed last week's trash bag was lying on the ground and the bins had been moved inside the yard behind the gate. I picked up the bag and dropped it and this week's trash in the bin, locked the gate behind me and walked back home. After I dropped off the rent and called the landlord to let him know I had slipped it through the mail slot (he wasn't there), I asked him if I was mistaken about using the trash bin next door. He said no and that he would have to have a discussion with my neighbor since she likes to control the trash situation. He also said it has been a while since this issue has come up and that he would remind her of the terms of the lease. I was satisfied.

Until this morning.

"You bitch!" rang out in the clear morning air as I typed my morning post, followed by the angry clomping of stilettos across the parking lot and the rustling thump of something dropped on the porch. By the time I got to the door, no one was there or in the parking lot, although I'd heard the receding angry stilettos before I got to the door, and the garbage from last week and this week was sitting on the porch in front of the door. I called the landlord again and explained what happened. He told me he hadn't sent a letter to the neighbor yet nor stopped by to speak with her but that would be taken care of today without delay. I thought about introducing myself to my neighbor by way of a letter but then decided not to do that and allow the landlord to deal with the situation. I got dressed and took the garbage back over and put it in the bin. Then I changed my mind and wrote the following:

Dear neighbor,

I would like to introduce myself and to apologize for not having done so sooner. I am Jackie Cornwell and have rented the cottage across the parking lot. I would also like to apologize for not greeting you this morning when you shouted your morning greeting and left your calling card on my porch, but I was unaware of your attentions or that they were directed at me until later. I have, however, shared your gesture with the landlord, Mark.

Maybe you are unaware of the terms of our leases or have merely forgotten we share a common trash bin. Mark has informed and assured me of this fact. Please let this note serve as a reminder and my thanks for your solicitous attentions. I am certain Mark will add his comments in a more direct and personal manner. So, in hopes of getting on better footing, let me thank you again for your visit and include my wish that we can co-exist with the mutual understanding and awareness of the shared cost of trash removal unless it would be more convenient for the bin to be moved closer to the cottage so you will have a place to deposit the trash.

Now that I have introduced myself, I hope you will find it easier and more efficient to call me Jackie instead of "you bitch".

As always...

That is all. Disperse.

Out of the spotlight

It's cooler this morning, but the birds haven't been affected by the lower temps since they're chattering and calling back and forth from the trees. They were flying and circling, dipping and soaring as I walked to the mailbox in the predawn darkness. It's not the rain I want and that keeps falling all around me, but it's invigorating all the same.

This morning, as I eat strawberries and a bowl of frosted mini wheats, I feel like things are coming into focus. The past couple of months have been challenging, but not anything I couldn't handle. I've learned a lot about handling the unexpected over the past two decades and one thing I've learned is not to jump to conclusions. When things are difficult or just not going the way they were planned, there is always the tendency to look for trouble where there is none, to believe someone is out to hurt or malign you when they have no thought of you or your situation. People are far more similar than we realize. The problem is that when a person is having problems the tendency is to see anything and everything pointing directly at us like an accusing or taunting finger. We couldn't be more wrong. It's just like committing some small indiscretion or even a bigger crime and feeling guilty, certain everyone knows and is accusing us. Nothing could be further from the truth, but at one time or another we all tend to be drama queens hogging the spotlight.

It's at moments like these when the only sounds, sights and smells are those of a cool and beautiful late spring morning with the sun climbing through the trees when it's easy to see how myopic things can get. This is what I want and need, this quiet serenity, this island of peace and privacy, these moments with the taste of fragrant fresh strawberries on my tongue while cool breezes finger the blinds, carrying the sounds of bird song and the scent of dew-laden honeysuckle. Anything is possible right now even though there is a day filled with work and chores and errands to be run ahead of me. Because of these quiet and peaceful moments, nothing else matters; everything will fall into place and get done and the world will spin along and focus on someone else.

Deflating balloons

A friend called on Saturday and said she was furious because someone was talking about her behind her back. She detailed all the things that were said and I started laughing. She got angry with me. "Why are you so upset?" I asked her. "None of it's true. It's so far off the mark the person must be talking about someone else or just blowing smoke."

"You're right." She laughed. "I didn't see it like that. All I saw was someone being nasty and mean."

"If it isn't true, don't sweat it." We both laughed at how ridiculous most of what was said was. "That person should write fantasy. They have a great imagination."

I've been there. Someone attacks and the immediate reaction is defense and counter attack. It's a waste of energy and time, especially when the claims are specious. Even if what someone says hits in the general vicinity of the target it's not worth fighting about. It's a lot like someone attacking physically. If someone throws a punch or gets a running head start to tackle you, it's much simpler to side step and pull them on through, adding their weight to their trip. Falling on your face on the cold hard ground isn't much fun and it tends to take the wind out of one's sails, not to mention scraping the hands raw and bloodying the nose or possibly banging some sense into a rock hard skull; striking cement or rocks have a tendency to do that. And it messes up the clothes something awful. Grass and blood stains are nearly impossible to clean.

I'm a pacifist and words are my weapons of choice, although I know how to throw a dagger and wield a sword when the occasion warrants. I'm also a very good shot with rifle and handgun and I hit the center of the target with bow and arrow 99/100 times, but for me those are hobbies and pastimes and not something I do in the usual course of human interaction because someone could get hurt, obviously not me, but someone else. I have yet to meet the person who is worth one second of my life behind bars or even one penny of my hard earned money.

When my friends or family complain about someone at work or around town that irks them or about whom they spend most of the time griping and complaining I always ask the same thing: How does it affect you? If someone is goofing around and not doing their work, it's their problem. If someone is lying and gossiping about you or someone else, maybe they have no life of their own and need to borrow yours to make them feel better. They're small and bitter people not worthy of the time and effort expended by getting angry and upset. Consider the source. If someone goes out of their way to bug you, ignore them; they will go away. Mayflies do eventually die. If someone is always complaining about their work, spouse, health, pain, or whatever and they don't want help, walk away. Fights need a minimum of two people to really work -- shadow boxing does not count.

I recently read something about water off a duck's back and that's what cruelty and gossip and taunts and someone else's garbage needs to be -- like water off a duck's back. Keep your clothes clean by side stepping and ignoring someone else's attempts to draw you into a fight. It's not necessary to have the last word, unless it's goodbye. No one can affect you adversely if you don't let them. So what if they complain about their aches and pains? You don't know whether or not they are in pain and saying they don't know either is presumptuous. Some people need to gripe like the rest of us need air, food and water. They aren't happy unless they're making someone else unhappy or stirring up trouble, so why not let them have the trouble all to themselves? Walk away. It's not always easy to do, but it does get easier with practice and it certainly boosts the immune system, clears out the airways, keeps the eyes moist and the muscles toned when you laugh at them.

As Professor Lupin taught the young witches and wizards of Harry Potter's Defense Against the Dark Arts class, "Riddikulus!"

Sunday morning gossip

A fresh, warm bagel with salmon cream cheese and sun-warmed strawberries for breakfast started my day. I dawdled over movies and shopping at the farmer's market yesterday so I didn't get everything done I needed to do. I got up with good intentions, started the last loads of laundry, fixed some breakfast, checked email and unloaded the dishwasher. Lots to do. Lots to do.

At the top of my list is finishing a story I need to have done by tomorrow, find an article for the ham club newsletter for the front page, finish the newsletter and email it to the printer, finish two more review books, write the reviews and shoehorn in some operative reports. I think that about clears out my day. At least I have food in the fridge and a treat in the freezer I'm doing my best to leave until the sun burns the clouds to tattered ribbons and sends the dew and puddles steaming into the blue.

I left the windows open all night, all of the windows, and the air is fresh and cool. It must have rained. The birds woke me gossiping just. It sounded like all the birds in the neighborhood got into the debate. The crows joined in with razor-edged caws, taking as always the opposing side while the blue jays squawked with laughter. Cousins can be so cruel. Chickadees added pointed comments and the sparrows giggled from the shadows. It was a free-for-all no one could have slept through, not even Rip Van Winkle.

The dryer clicks and hums. The kitchen faucet drips . . . drips . . . drips. A flock of birds chatter as they roost momentarily in the trees, picking up gossip to pass along their route, asking about the best spots for worms and bugs, and in the distance traffic groans and shudders on the main streets, tires moaning and slashing down the damp, dark pavement while in my mind characters jostle for attention and ideas churn and fingers stumble over the keys, anxious to be turning pages. Everything around me is industry and motion as the last vestiges of Morpheus's influence tug at my eyelids and my body, urging a different position, something more relaxed and peaceful, taking advantage of the cool, moist air, urging me to let everything go and drift on the swells of dreams and tides of sleep. The sun bursts through the heavy lowering clouds for a bright brief moment and then sinks back into the deep softness with a yawn and sleeps.

In hopes of sunshine showers

When the butter hit the hot pan the smell of clover and grass and something indefinable sprang up from the pan and woke my senses. I use unsalted organic butter and not margarine and the smell is heaven. Bacon crisped in the skillet on one burner while I poured beaten eggs into the other skillet sizzling with fresh butter. The room smelled of hickory and maple and clover and grass and so much more I was overwhelmed, a sense offense of the loveliest kind.

I must remember to get sea salt or find wherever I tucked the salt grinder because the eggs would have been nicer with a touch of salt and pepper and probably some nions, garlic, peppers, celery, and a bit of cheese would not have been out of place. My taste buds are on alert since I have to go to the grocery story this morning and stock up. The cupboard is bare and the refrigerator beginning to look quite bleak. I've been focused on work and unpacking and laundry and not doing much cooking until this morning reminded me of what I've missed. The farmer's market opens in a little while and I intend to cruise the stalls and pick up the first fruits of the season, and a few vegetables, too, while my senses are still alive and hungry for more.

And there are more books to read and review, a whole box full of them, one of which I finished the other night, a frothy Xian romance in Amish country. The tale has high flown ideals that don't quite make it where the ink hits the page with its clichéd romantic stereotypes and villain. The author needs to get out and about more and read more about the subjects she uses for her book. It's all right in its way and has a few decent moments but the story gets lost in garbled language and it seems the author isn't quite sure whether she is writing a literary or a genre novel.

On that note, I have a couple of stories of my own to finish this weekend that I've piddled about with for far too long, long enough that the characters are disturbing my sleep when I want to travel elsewhere during the dark hours while my body energizes for another day of work. It's annoying, but I shouldn't have put them off so long. Sometimes my job sucks the last bit of juice from my fingers and my brain and leaves me nearly phobic when in proximity to the keyboard. But I did relax a bit last night and watched Stardust a second time. I had no idea Neil Gaiman had such range and such a light touch with fantasy. I've always thought of him as primarily a dark urban fantasy writer whose work borders on horror and encompasses much broader concepts. Time to check out more of his work -- if I can find a little time.

The movie is a delightful mix of allegory and fantasy and the cast is wonderful. Clare Danes does a creditable and believable British accent but Michelle Pfeiffer edges a bit into American, although on the whole she is on the mark. There are the usual elements of witches and princesses and princes and pirates and enchanted supernumeraries but each is remarkably well fitted to the story as a whole and doesn't over shadow the main characters. They are more of a generous pinch of spice and herbs at just the right moment. The whole is imaginative and momentarily heavy on the saccharine without being over powering, such as during Yvaine's discourse on love. The whoopsie Captain Shakespeare is both frightening and endearing with his mincing, lisping playacting in front of his mirror during a battle on deck in his pink dress while fluttering a pink ostrich feather fan with muscular and tattooed hands, proving once again that DeNiro is versatile and has an excellent sense of comic timing. Even as a time ravaged witch whose beauty crumbles the more magic she uses, Pfeiffer is enchanting and Danes is ethereal and irritating and marvelous as the fallen star. Danes provides the perfect foil for Charlie Cox's Tristan who grows from wide-eyed youth to determined hero during the course of the adventure.

So, as the cool late spring air drifts through the house and clears out the fug of weekday working frustration, I am going to luxuriate in a warm shower, wash my hair with lavender and rosemary, begin a load of laundry after I dress and venture out into the sunshine with bright hopes for a sprinkle of rain to wash away the cobwebs and provide a cooling draught for my marketing trip.

That is all. Disperse.

Unexpected moments

Is there any scent to rival the green growing world warmed by sunshine and carried on cool breezes? I don't think so. I opened all the windows and took a deep breath and everything started tingling from my toes all the way up my spine to the roots of my hair. It's a glorious day with an arching Colorado blue sky and new leaves dancing in the breeze, casting seeds pods and pollen over everything like a dusty golden cover. The temperature is perfect and the breeze smells of life and excitement. Passing conversations fling themselves onto the winds and carry through the window full of laughter and emotion. Sunshine strained through the leaves cast glimmers of light and shadow onto my shoulders and the breezes lift my wet hair and send cooling kissing across my shoulders. And it's just another day, another glorious and beautiful day. What a gift.

Liar's diary

When I began journaling again it was to have somewhere to vent and talk things out and leave some mark of where I'd been. Years ago, a friend said she kept a journal, too, but not to record the truth. She wrote down things the way she wanted them to be seen so that people would think a certain way about her and so she could exaggerate her husband's abuses. She hoped someone would read what she wrote and believe it all. Since reading and reviewing, Liar's Diary I realize there are many people who use journals to create an image, something that never occurred to me.

In many ways, some journals, and blogs in this technologically marvelous world, are like first dates. A person dresses up, wears makeup and puts their best self forward in hopes of being seen as special and gifted and desirable. Keeping a journal/blog that exaggerates the good -- or the bad -- points of life and recreates history is nothing new and is very much like a liar's diary full of half truths and fantasy. Some of the blogs and journals I've read have been so fantastic they should be published; they exceed what even the best writers have crafted. Conversations that never occur, relationships woven out of thin air, friendships and rendezvous with lovers, mates and partners that never occur, buying a flower and taking a picture and saying it's from a loved one or a child when there is conflict in the home and the child barely speaks, cards, letters, and lives imagined on the virtual page, all designed to create an image.

The best lies contain just enough truth to be believable and there are people blogging who are adept at making a little truth go a long way while the masters sell wholesale lies readers swallow whole. It's like a quote that keeps coming up: Fiction writers are paid to lie. It does pay to lie. People see you the way you want to be seen and the author of the lies begins to believe what he writes, like a self fulfilling prophecy. In some places it's called delusion and in others it's called creative writing. But what happens if the imagined life taking form on the page never takes shape in the real world? I guess it's time for medication, a quiet environment and maybe a wrap-around jacket and a private room with padded walls and floor.

At heart, I'm a journalist of the old school, a sort of literary Sgt. Friday: "Just the facts, ma'am." Maybe that's why I have to wrestle fiction to the page. It's not black and white; there are always shades and gradations of color. For me, writing life's incidents is about marking the moment with a cairn of truth, even when the truth is difficult to read or remember.

As I unpacked the boxes of journals and put them on the shelves in my office, I thumbed through a few. Moments I had forgotten, places I'd been and things that seemed so important to me at the time came back in vividly colored emotions. It brought to mind talking to my mother after not having seen her for several years when she told me she didn't know I was so unhappy and in so much pain back then. She doesn't remember that though I lived in the same town just a few miles from her she didn't see me or visit. She was so wrapped up in her own life she didn't have time to look outside herself or beyond the confines of her world to see me. Visiting only at family gatherings once or twice a year, it's difficult to catch more than a glimpse of anything in the chaotic whirl of food and activity crammed into a few hours. Of course she didn't see how I felt. How could she? A few moments out of time in a house full of people is not an atmosphere conducive to opening up and having a heart to heart talk or baring one's soul, but there's always the journal.

Does anyone really want to tell people that they haven't had sex with their partner for weeks or that when they do have sex the passion and excitement have given way to perfunctory and mechanical motions? It's better to make people believe the thrill is still there and love is always in the air. It wouldn't do to write that most conversations end in shouting matches, that in a week's time a handful of words are exchanged or that every day is a power struggle. Can't have people finding out that even though you claim to be perfectly happy and content you're still chasing after an ex-lover because you're afraid to let go. Throw in the occasional bout of depression, a rant here and there and no one will know the depression is constant and that rage is the only emotion in your repertoire.

Everyone gets tired. No one escapes boredom or discontent for long without the patience of a saint or anti-depressants and mood enhancing drugs, or at least that's the story from the fella on your shoulder. You tell yourself that everyone gilds the lily until the lily can no longer support its golden head on its slender stalk. Even the networks and news services do it. Then again...

There's nothing wrong with a small and quiet life or one that is filled with unexceptional work and old friends who do nothing more spectacular than call occasionally to chat or share their views on books and movies and the niggling moments of life. There's something comforting in companionable silence and a social calendar filled with lots of space. Contentment takes so little effort and time and is as unremarkable as a past life herding goats or fixing meals and raising a family. Ant hills are not filled with queens.

In my old journals are simple moments and jazz riffs of philosophy and religion and the occasional small insight in the changing kaleidoscope of life. It's not about an airbrushed or computer generated image that smooths out wrinkles, plumps up sunken cheeks and sagging breasts or punctures cellulitic deposits and compresses fat. It's about life: gritty, heartbreaking, wondrous and mundane life, a collection of high and low and unremarkable moments that show who, where, what, why and when. It never occurred to me it was anything else.

Physics and dreams

I had my head stuck in books on Chicago politics and stem cell debates and only came up for air to sleep and to venture our during territory days. I enjoyed the fireworks but I must remember to get out before the farmer's market closes up. I forgot it opened last weekend. I'm ready for them next weekend with brand new canvas bags that should last at least as long as the old ones lasted, and that's a long time, nearly 20 years.

Sometimes I can't believe how fast time warps by, not just in terms of days but years. It's almost like dreams where events covering days, or even weeks, happen in an hour or two, about the length of time it takes for my bladder to fill and the physical urge to make its way into my dreams, using in terms of finding toilets, sitting on them and having nothing happen while I feel like a dam about to burst. I get up and go to the bathroom, which is usually crowded and without stalls, in the middle of momentous events, like curing cancer or telling someone off in a particularly inventive manner. It's also a bit of a problem when I have to stop kissing someone, or doing other salacious and X-rated things to them, to go sit in that public and increasingly crowded bathroom. There's nothing more troubling than being in the midst of solving a gruesome murder and being whisked onto the seat of the oh so public toilet again and again. At about that time, the message gets through to my brain that it's time to put away the mental toys and go to the bathroom before an embarrassing moment spreads warm and wet beneath me, through the 800-thread count cocoa-colored sheets and to soak into the pillow top of my fairly new and very well maintained mattress, guaranteed to haunt me on breathless August nights when I toss and turn in a heated flush. Definitely not fun.

As I write about this now, I wonder if the land of fairy isn't the land of dreams. The time difference is similar, but in reverse. A few minutes in fairyland is the same as months or even years in earth time. It's like dreams and fairyland are opposites, opposing poles that could be equally charged and thus repel like magnets set end to end. That would put the waking world in the middle, pushed and pulled by the forces of dreams and the power of faery.

I've been working on a faery story with physics as the basis of fairyland set at the event horizon of a black hole where the time dilation effect is a mathematical certainty, or at least so physicists theorize, but a dwindling black hole ravaged by time and its own weight so that it's gravitational effect would be diminished and growing weaker, much like the belief in faeries and the like. If faeries live near black holes then what would be the opposite of a black hole where the time dilation is also opposite? If I can figure that out, I may be able to come up with a story that encompasses the physics of faeries and dreams and where humans are affected by both. Too bad I have to work because this requires some research and I don't have the time this morning. I have lots to do and I don't want to be up until midnight or past again this week. I need my sleep and I've been sleeping so good lately with the window in the bedroom open wrapped in a soft and comfy sheet while the plastic on the garage roof next door crackles and snaps in the wind. Now, if I could only figure out what that pulsing electronic beep is, I could go to sleep sooner and wander along dream paths that will carry me to the answer to my literary questions.

That is all. Disperse.

Unreliable truth

Memory is like a worry stone or a coin in the pocket you keep rubbing and rubbing, imprinting your desire and vision onto its surface. Maureen Murdock and several other writers whose books I've read over the past year point to the same thing, that memory is subjective and colored by emotion and the stories we tell.

Case in point is the story of George Washington chopping down a cherry tree and, when asked, said, "I cannot tell a lie. I chopped down the cherry tree." It never happened. The story, which has become legend, was fabricated by the minister who wrote a biography of Washington and, when turned down by a publisher, spiced up the book to include that legendary tale, among others, to illustrate the point that Washington was an honorable and truthful man who should serve as a model of behavior. The same thing has been done to demonize, as well as to honor, most notably in the stories we tell about our acquaintances and ourselves. It's the old game of Chinese telephone. Tell a story at one point in a circle of people and pass it along. Does it remain the same?

In relationships, more fights have started over differing memories than anything else and at least one person in the relationship is determined to paint their partner black to gain control or to keep a metaphorical sword of Damocles hanging above their partner to keep him in line and, more often than not, to stoke the fires of jealousy, anger, rage and discord whenever possible. It wouldn't do for the guilty party to become too comfortable or to think the fight is over because it's not. In the eyes and mind of the controlling partner, the fight is never over, and the story changes over time, sometimes subtly and other times more obviously, adding misdeed upon misdeed until the original fault mutates into a moment of horror or evil so black as to taint everything from that point on when it should have been forgotten and left in the past.

I watched my mother dig up ancient dirt on my father, reminding him she was a saint and he a sinner because he made a mistake decades before. It's the same story for many people who have been guilty of some fault or flaw or misstep and have seen the light and become saints -- at least in their own eyes. None are more zealous in uncovering and digging up dirt than a sinner who has seen the light and moved from their wicked ways to the moral high ground, their detractors gaining a new coat of blackest evil along the way that makes the former sinner shinier and more saintly by comparison. Those acquaintances that come into the newly sainted person's circle of influence long after their checkered past has been weighed down by their recent conversion to virtue and never know the real story, hear only the unreliable truth of self-aggrandizing memory. In schools, it's called history.

During a discussion of past misdeeds between newly formed and slightly older acquaintances, one of the former acquaintances said she didn't believe something because it was the same every time she heard it. One of the newly formed acquaintances said, "Isn't that the definition of truth?" "No," she said, "it sounds like it's rehearsed."

Have we become so used to hearing the constantly edited unreliable truth that when the truth is told it is unrecognizable? Is no one willing to dig beneath the layers of exaggeration and confabulation to get to the heart of the story or is everyone so lazy and gullible they will accept anything at face value? Considering how the media keeps rewriting history and constructing carefully shaded versions of events to advance a private political agenda, it looks like truth is quickly going the way of the dinosaur. Truth has become a malleable instrument to spread hate and demonize former friends and acquaintances to build up the texture and imperviousness of the mask many people choose to wear.

Like Judge Roy Bean's soiled doves who, once they became respectable, wanted every new and single female out of town who didn't measure up to their jaundiced and crooked views of respectability. The former soiled doves were determined to forget their pasts while finding new and more creative ways to explain away what once they embraced with conviction and delight, smearing more layers of dirt and filth over the bosom companions they once claimed they would stand by through thick and thin.

Luckily, time is on the side of truth. No matter how many layers of filth must be scraped off, the truth has a way of coming out, usually at the most inopportune moments. It's no wonder people are so angry and full of rage. Somewhere inside, the fear that the truth will come back to bite them in the tender bits gnaws at them. No matter how a story changes, as long as one person knows the real story without the embellishments and exaggerations and outright lies, the unreliable truth will be an edifice built on shifting sands with the tide is coming in.

Details, details

Life settles into a familiar rhythm so quickly, into a yin and yang, moving to and fro, working, sleeping, eating, handling chores and the unexpected spills and quicksilver moments that bring tears, smiles, sadness and laughter to every day. It takes so little to interrupt the rhythm and leave a void, a feeling of confused bemusement.

The raucous birds argued and gossiped, their cries and conversations carrying through the windows to spear directly into my dreams this morning, to rouse me from a discussion about writing, about a particular writer whose work is good but doesn't go far enough because there are no veins opened. Depression is a good subject, one guaranteed to prick the emotions and set trembling the emotional candle flame but only when the writer digs deep, opens a vein and engages his heart, and thus ours. Nothing written is any good unless it affects the emotions, engages the reader in such a way the experiences become familiar, echoes of personal experience, even if a faint echo. It's not that difficult to learn the mechanics of writing: punctuation, spelling, sentence construction, plot arc, characterization, movement, etc. That can be taught. There is no teacher for reaching the heart of a story, for playing the emotions. It's the different between a violinist or pianist with technical superiority and one who fudges and slurs their way through the difficult passages and still wrings tears or teases smiles from the listener.

I've read stories that were technically bad and yet the story held my interest because the writing had heart. The author made that most painful of sacrifices and opened a vein on the page. And there are movies when the actors say their lines well, imitate the emotions like a mime but fail to inhabit the character or the scene, becoming two-dimensional and flat. That is not to say that bombastic gesturing and emotional fireworks are necessary to draw the audience in; sometimes it is quite the opposite. A soft voice, minimal gestures and sometimes the way a person holds himself, his body language more eloquent than any deftly delivered line is all it takes to make the character, or the writing, come alive. That cannot be taught. It must be lived, learned and internalized.

I've always been a technically good writer, but until I let down my guard, broke through the thick glass wall between me and the audience and opened a vein, my writing was nothing special. It's the same for many well known writers. Technical superiority and experience in writing confers the belief that anything can be good, but it is a false sense of superiority and it's fairly easy to tell. Unfortunately, most of the publishing world is unaware that technical superiority is no substitute for writing with heart, writing that engages the senses with characters that live and breathe as though caught in an unguarded moment. Anyone can write and just about anyone can be published, especially these days when publishing can be a cheap operation, but the shining literary moments when characters inhabit all dimensions are few and far between. Those are the characters and writers that become classics, regardless of genre. Think about it for a moment. Go back through your memory files and list the characters that leap forward. Then reread their stories and I'll bet you find what it is that makes them special. That is what writing is about. That is what writing should be.

I guess what kicked off this literary reverie was a surprise in my mailbox yesterday. I received a check for another anthology containing one of my stories. The book will be available at the beginning of July: Cup of Comfort for Cat Lovers. I drove over to cash the check and ran into a friend who surprised me with a gift, a housewarming gift: four wine glasses in four pastel shades, the very ones I've been eyeing for months. Serendipity. A thoughtful gesture from a caring and intuitive friend.

A moment like that can't be planned nor can the reactions. It's a magical surprise in the familiar rhythm of every day life with heart. The feelings of surprise and delight and the happiness of giving a gift to a friend can be manufactured and retold on the page, but it's the emotions behind the details that set the tone for the characters and the story. It's always in the details.

Like the sound of children going to school in the morning while the birds scold and chatter in the trees as the sun rises over the horizon and fires the trees with gold and crimson, when they're gone they leave a void, a sense of dissonance in the daily rhythms that something is missing or just different. It takes a while to define the missing element, to probe the tiny space where it once fit so securely, before a new rhythm falls into place. It is those moments between one rhythm and another, the emotional blip on the screen, that makes life special and surprising, and it is the writer who notices that transcends the mechanics and gets to the heart of the story and the audience. It's all in the details.

Poison ivy and karma

It's a beautiful sunny day and children are arriving at the school across the street. They sound excited and they should be; this is the last day of school. Children's voices at play, the scrape and thunk of boys skateboarding in the parking lot outside, laughter and voices rising in contention, these are the sounds of my mornings and early afternoons here.

Yesterday, I sat outside on the deck with a book breathing in the smells of summer and basking in the sun and the sounds. Warmth on my arms and legs and a cool breeze filled with bird song was just what I needed after a double shift of typing operative reports while I waited for the postman. I didn't realize he had come and gone since the mailbox is down at the street and I was engrossed in my book of essays. I did happen to notice what looks like poison ivy surreptitiously extending a long stem out from the profusion of budding plants that have sent runners up the side of the window at the front of the house, purple buds that looked like clover but are beginning to look more like unfurling sea anemones waving in the breezy currents. I looked closer at the extended fingers of the buds and I think they are petals tightly curled and soon to burst forth when the rest of the stubby purple budlets grow. The plants could be clematis after all, but I don't think so. They don't look like the deep purple jackmanii that used to twine around the post below the lantern at my house in Columbus that opened to show the ringed gold at its heart. I'll know soon enough what they are and I can wait. I'm used to waiting.

It's cool and the sun is hidden behind a cloud, casting the view out the window in shadow and it's nearly time for me to get to work. I'll have another hour or so outside on the deck when I finish and the afternoon is barely begun but I realize I cannot sit out there on the deck much longer without a chair or lounger or some kind of comfortable cushion. It's beginning to dawn that I have a deck where I can sit and read or eat or just enjoy the rain, the cooling breezes and the warm, radiant gaze of the sun whenever I like. It's a whole new way of thinking, of feeling, of being and I'm not quite used to it, but I will get used to it just the way I get used to all the changes in my life -- like losing another member of my family.

Last year, Dad died at the beginning of spring and his brother's wife, Peggy, followed in the autumn. Uncle Don, Dad's brother, was devastated. He had been with Peggy longer than any other women he had married or lived with, and there were many of both. Uncle Don was put in ICU a few days ago with congestive heart failure. The doctors wanted to do another heart cath on him and were sending him to Cincinnati but changed their minds yesterday, releasing him from the hospital. The doctors said he has maybe three months. Mom said, "He's 83. He has had a good run," with that tone that says she's ready for him to leave her home. There's also her unspoken question, "Why is he still alive when my husband is dead?" I have no answers for her, except that it was time for Dad to leave. He always knew when to leave before the host and hostess announced loudly and pointedly, "It's getting late." Dad didn't need such overt signals or reminders. He was a very classy man. Uncle Don? Not so much. Uncle Don is as hardy as poison ivy and as tenacious as a weed and I do not doubt he will last longer than three months. Mom would not like to hear that, especially since he's staying with her and Carol.

Carol says she's running an old folks home and sometimes it seems that way with Mom carping at Uncle Don, raising her voice to near shrew and fish wife levels because he's deaf, while Uncle Don blithely continues making beautiful placemats and watching television. He occasionally tells Mom she's too loud. He's not afraid of her and he is not dependent on her good moods, not that Mom actually has many good moods, but Uncle Don is definitely cramping her style. Mom doesn't like being out of the limelight or even slightly to the left or right of center stage. So Mom mutters and walks out of Uncle Don's hearing range to carp and complain, reminding everyone that he doesn't understand the meaning of pain and he's not so bad off as he makes everyone think. Uncle Don does tend to whine a bit and make a little more of his aches and pains than Dad did, but my father was a stoic. Uncle Don is not. And he is not a martyr, unlike Mom who has martyrdom down to a fine art she has honed over decades of constant and consistent practice. Mom is a poor substitute for Peggy but I think Uncle Don is the Universe's way of visiting a little karma on Mom. There's no doubt in my mind the Universe has a sense of humor, like hiding poison ivy among the profusion of purple buds and greenery in the railroad tie planter at the front of the house next to the deck where it can reach out its sticky poisonous fronds and tap me on the leg to leave a trail of blistering fire on anyone but me.

Life is a wonderful mix of excitement and sadness but at least there is excitement to temper the sadness and sadness to remind me of the excitement I've known and will know again.

Pictures of home

The first load of groceries are bought and put away and I'm still a little shocked by the cost of it all, though I didn't get that much. Ah, well, everything costs more these days with the government putting more stock in growing corn for ethanol than in growing food for people to eat. Throw in the cost of importing food from other countries where farmers have been encouraged to grow specialty crops for export instead of crops to feed their people and that is indeed a dilemma.

This is also the first time I've had to decide between paper and plastic. I chose paper. I need to replenish my stock of canvas bags since mine have gone missing. I used those bags for nearly twenty years before it was the fashion to be green simply because it was easier to carry groceries home and fewer things I had to worry about throwing out in the trash. They were sturdy and capacious and I carried them everywhere I moved since I bought them. The canvas bags were also great for stuffing full of books and computer equipment and stowing in the trunk with each move, packing full of gifts and for filling with laundry to go to the laundromat, etc.

Here's a glimpse of some of the cottage.

A new article

I know few of you are ham radio operators, but you might find this article of interest.

That is all. Disperse.

Quick shot

Ants in the bathroom to be eradicated by cinnamon oil. Dry kitchen floor and new hose on washer that does not spew water all over the walls and floor. Most of laundry caught up and done. Dryer keeps popping breaker and shutting off electricity. Someone coming over to fix that problem. Probably just a faulty wire. Paid bills. Took out trash. Folded and put away dry clothes. Errands to run this morning. Updated address on ham radio license this morning because I forgot it before this morning. License now not in jeopardy. Still not getting forwarded mail which is being returned to sender with a notice that the forward is out of date; I only put it in on May 9th and it's already out of date, and yet they keep forwarding magazines. What is wrong with this picture? This makes check for recent reviews late so I had to call my boss at Author Link and make sure she had the new address, which I sent three weeks ago, and let her know my check may have been returned if the new girl in the office, the one that can't seem to get it together and get checks out in a timely fashion, did not change the address. Now off to shower, change into clean clothes and run errands before I have to be back here to work and make more money.

A word to the wise: Reading my journal is no guarantee you'll find out what you want to know. Maybe it's time you called.

That is all. Disperse.

Housework

I have clean clothes and I wish I had a clothesline. It's just one more thing that makes me wonder if I'm in the wrong time. It's no secret that I hate housework, but to be completely accurate I only hate certain aspects of housecleaning. I don't mind vacuuming or dusting and the smell of lemon Pledge makes me a little nostalgic. I love to cook but I hate doing the dishes, which isn't a problem now since all I have to do is load them in the dishwasher and turn it on. Wouldn't you know it? I have some pans and pots that are not dishwasher safe. I'll have to be more careful when I shop. I don't mind cleaning the bathroom but I'd rather not have to do it very often. And, for some reason, I like doing the laundry and hanging the clothes on a line and even ironing.

I'm having some problems with the new washer. It's electronic and I wish now I had opted for the kind that uses a dial you pull, turn and push instead. I went to bed with a problem on my mind that kept buzzing around my mind all night long, but I think I've figured it out. The hose needs to be connected to the cold water connection instead of the hot water connection and that's why it won't run when the rinse is set to cold. I'll fix it after I finish work this afternoon. As soon as I finish writing this, I'm going to take the sheets out of the washer and drape them over the railings on the deck. I hope it doesn't bother the neighbors too much, but I'm looking forward to the smell of sun and fresh air laced with lilac beneath me when I sleep.

I am a creature of my senses and my sense of smell is the keenest of my senses, although touch and taste run a close second, with hearing and sight tailgating. I revel in my sense of smell, especially when it becomes as much an intimate pleasure as it is a simple pleasure, and it's about to get a big dose of happiness in a couple of weeks when the farmer's market opens. That will be a feast for all my senses and I plan to spend part of every Saturday down there picking and choosing and indulging myself. I've decided to start canning and freezing the summer's bounty.

Preserving food is something else I enjoy as much as hanging fresh washed clothes in a line and I get a bonus: those activities are green, or so I've read. For me, it's not so much about being green (See, Kermit? Everyone wants to be green.) but about doing things that bring pleasure and save a few dollars. If I owned this place, you can be sure there'd be plans to convert to solar energy in the works and I'd have a clotheslines somewhere even if I had to dig up part of the parking lot to make it happen. Yes, it's physical labor but that's not a bad thing.

Memories of my grandmother pushing her clothespin bag along the line, a few clothespins in her mouth, while she hung out Grandpa's snowy white shirts and charcoal trousers, sheets, pillow cases, blankets and her dresses and unmentionables, remind me of the little ironing board that Grandpa found for me so I could iron play clothes for my brother and sister and myself. I'd help Gram take down the clothes, burying my nose in the fresh, sun-warmed towels and sheets and filling my heart and lungs with spring, summer and fall. The dryer was only for those days when it was too rainy or too cold to hang out the wash. Gram even let me help sometimes when she did the laundry in an old wringer washing machine, reminding me not to let my fingers get too near the heavy rollers that squeezed out the water when I fed in the pointed ends of cloth. I was very careful and never let the rollers get hold of me.

When the clothes were dry, Gram sprinkled the sheets, pillowcases and Grandpa's white shirts with water from a pop bottle that had a sprinkler stuffed in the mouth of the bottle and then rolled them up and laid them side by side in a big plastic bag. When she finished sprinkling the clothes, she pulled them out one by one, snapping them open with a flick of her wrists and ironed each one. The smell of sunshine and fresh air intensified in the heat as she worked quickly: collars, cuffs, sleeves and body of the shirt. She worked her way through the bag full of rolled up shirts and sheets and her dresses and aprons in no time, emptying the bag and filling the collapsible metal rack with crisp ironed shirts, dresses and aprons and piling the sheets on the table to be carried upstairs and laid in the linen cupboard.

Mom learned something from Gram about the sprinkling part but she seldom got around to the ironing part before mildew speckled the moist cloth in the bag. She picked out the few things that hadn't been invaded and ironed them but the faint scent of mildew hid among the folds when she ironed the clothes. The mildewed clothes went back into the washer. Mom was so glad wen permanent press clothes and polyester fabric came out because it meant she didn't have to sprinkle or iron the clothes any more. I was glad, too, since it meant no more mildew tickling my nose when I huddled under the covers or hugged my pillow in the night. Mom preferred a career to housework.

I prefer an income to starving or living on welfare and food stamps, and I certainly prefer someone else to clean the kitchen and do the dishes, but I could live very happily knowing I had laundry to do that would soon fly in errant breezes under a warm sun to capture the smell of spring warming to summer and cooling to the smoky scent of autumn.

Real writing

It's quiet this morning, except for the sound of the refrigerator which is pretty empty right now. I've been up for hours and have caught up all my email and the usual morning rounds, including fixing a typo in my last post mentioned by a fellow amateur radio operator and newsletter editor in Las Vegas who wrote that he didn't know I was a real writer. I had to smile at that, especially when he said he didn't mean to offend me. It's a comment I've heard a lot over the years and my definition of real writer has changed quite a bit as I grew as a writer and as a real writer.

To most people, a real writer is someone who has their name on a book as sole author and to others a real writer is someone who has published hundreds of articles, discounting any writer who has ghost written a book or article or contributed a chapter to a book or a story to an anthology. Many well known writers were not considered real writers because they wrote books for Young Adults (YA) or because they didn't write literary novels, and this is something I have addressed before, and probably will again.

To put it simply, a real writer writes. So why do so many writers feel the need to justify themselves with lists of their accomplishments (other than for a bibliography or to land a job) and credits over and over? Is it because they don't think they are real writers or are they just looking for yet another pat on the back as validation of what they should already know? Or is it the knowledge that if they don't constantly remind people of what they have done they will be forgotten and overlooked? In a way, it's like choosing from a menu at an Oriental restaurant: One from column A, one from column B and two from column C.

Harper Lee only had one book published, a book that continues to sell. She wrote another book that purportedly was no good, but that does not change the fact that she is a real writer. And I could continue listing writers, and poets, published posthumously that are real writers. Where the rubber hits the road, a real writer writes. That includes editors of newsletters who write and edit articles month after month and are never recognized for the job they do. It's all about the writing not about anyone else's perception of what a real writer is or isn't because someone will always find a way to exclude someone else to make themselves feel better and point to their own accomplishments as the only accomplishments worth noting, and that is all about jealousy and fear. The fear is that another writer is better than they are or more prolific.

Some writers are technically better than others but that doesn't make them better at everything. Every writer has something they do well and, if they're smart, the more they read and write the better they will become. In the end, it's not about who is a better writer or more prolific but about the writing itself. The writer's job is to tell a good story or present information in a clear and memorable way. The rest is details. Even good writers make mistakes and fail to tell a good story or leave the reader scratching his head wondering what happened, but they keep writing and reading because good writers know that in order to continue growing as a writer they must also read -- voraciously. Writing is not created in a vacuum, just as the knowledge a writer gains is not worth much if it isn't shared and built upon.

I am a writer, not because I have written X number of articles and stories or been published in X number of books, but because I write. Like I said, it's simple. A real writer writes.