Personal Prose

Happy Holidays, everyone! Here is a little Christmas story I wrote.  OK, maybe the main character is a little like me.  Diane

           Mary had failed Spanish in the seventh grade, and was so traumatized afterward that every time she tried to utter even a few words of a foreign language, her tongue would stick to the roof of her mouth and she would itch all over. Although as an adult she loved foreign travel, she gave up on trying to speak the local language and always stayed where the staff spoke English. And she never, ever strayed outside her comfort zone where she might be forced to consult the translation dictionary she always carried, unopened and pristine, in her backpack.
           Then last November, she and her husband Don visited their favorite resort in Playa del Carmen, Mexico, on the Caribbean Sea. Their room had a thatched roof and a balcony with two hammocks overlooking the turquoise sea. It was exquisite. Although the employees spoke English, they all smiled and said, “Hola,” when they passed guests on their way to the pool or the restaurant. It took her several days, but eventually Mary tried returning the greeting. “Hola,” she would say, careful to leave off the “H” and pronounce each syllable distinctly, with a slight rise in inflection at the end, almost like asking a question. Nobody laughed, so she continued with that one word. Hola. Hello.
           In the afternoons she and Don strolled on the Quinto Avenida, where the shops sold tee-shirts describing it as the “other” Fifth Avenue. This vibrant shopping area, running parallel to the beach for a couple of miles, was festooned with Christmas lights shaped like chili peppers. The shops sold everything from cigars to silver to pottery to food to clothing. Hawkers stood in front of each store and called out to tourists from all over the world in heavily accented English. “Senora, please take a look in my store,” or “Hey, lady, I give you a good price.”
           Years earlier she’d learned to politely respond, “No, gracias,” without making eye contact, and to keep walking. During their week-long stay the rebuff came more easily, although she couldn’t roll the “r” in “gracias” the way the locals did, and her neck itched a little. She never tried to buy anything, sure she’d be overrun by aggressive salespeople who would sell her trinkets she didn’t need at prices she couldn’t afford just because she was too timid to resist.
           But, during the week, she kept imagining the joy of returning home and embracing her grandchildren. They would never think to ask, “What did you bring me?” but she would know she hadn’t bothered to buy anything for them, even though potential gifts abounded on the Avenue. It was unbearable. So, on their last day, she gathered up her courage and decided to buy Christmas presents for the grandchildren.
           The concierge coached them on haggling. “Never take the first price stated by the merchant. Offer only what you think something is worth.” Mary took a deep breath, and she and Don started down the Avenue. The first shop they came to carried the plastic Spiderman mask she knew one grandson would like. Nothing in any of the shops had a price tag, though. When she asked how much it cost, the saleslady declared, with a straight face, “Twenty-five American dollars.” Far too much for a plastic mask. She tentatively offered $15 and was met by a flurry of indecipherable Spanish, apparently implying that the low offer was an insult. Eventually they agreed on $20, still too much, but what could she do?
           A couple of stores later she’d managed to purchase a Batman cape for $10 and was beginning to like haggling.
           There was one more gift she wanted to buy before she could return to the resort and enjoy an icy margarita ringed with salt: a Mexican fiesta dress, with colorful embroidery and a twirly skirt for her very feminine granddaughter. She only had a $20 bill left, though, and without price tags, she had no idea if it would be adequate.
           She and Don wandered down the Avenue, trying not to look too interested while at the same time intending to buy a size 8 girl’s dress. The first store they stopped at didn’t carry size 8, so they moved on. The second store had a nice variety of sizes and styles. “What color would she like?” asked the merchant, a handsome man of around 30.
            Don gave her a wink and wandered off to buy a Cuban cigar. She was on her own. “Pink or purple,” she said, resigned to listening to the entire sales pitch. She finally chose a dress and they began to haggle.
          “$40,” the salesman insisted.
          “No. $20 is all I have.” She pulled the bill from her shorts pocket and waved it around. After several back and forths, and after she’d walked away and been enticed back, he relented and took her offer.
Instantly, they became best friends. As he packed up the dress he tried to assure her that it wouldn’t get smaller in the wash. His English was serviceable, but he didn’t know the specific word. So he used his hands, moving them from wide apart to closer and shaking his head.
            “Shrink,” she said, finally understanding. “It won’t shrink.”
           “Yes.” He beamed. And then, more thoughtfully, he tried out the word. “Shwink. Is that right?”
           She showed him how it looked, sticking out her lips to start the word and then pulling them back to finish it. “Shrink.”
           He tried again and again, each time saying it the same way, laughing when he got it wrong. She laughed with him, and showed him over and over how to say the word. When her package was ready he handed it to her, but there was a furrow in his brow. Clearly, he was thinking about something. She waited.
            Finally he said, “I think I’ve got it now. Here goes.” He set his lips exactly as she had set hers and burst out, loud and clear and proud of himself, “SHWINK!”
          She hesitated, caught between wanting to leave and feeling the responsibility to continue helping him speak the word correctly. Finally she said, “Good enough,” and, without worrying about whether she could roll her “r’s”, added, “Gracias. Feliz Navidad.”
.           Riffling through her dictionary, she headed up the Avenue. Her body didn’t itch at all.

Posted in Writing | No Comments » | December 21st, 2011

Of course it is, if you copy someone else’s words verbatim. But not if you use their words as a springboard to your own writing. I once attended a writing workshop where the teacher suggested we try to imitate the sentences of writers we like, as a way of learning to write and finding our own style. So I decided to try this with a paragraph from a wonderful book, “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running,” by Haruki Murakami.

Here’s the original paragraph, from page 89. He is describing the winter in Cambridge, MA.

“Once Halloween is over, winter, like some capable tax collector, sets in, concisely and silently. Before I realize it the river is covered in thick ice and the boats have disappeared. If you want to, you could walk across the river to the other side. The trees are barren of leaves, and the thin branches scrape against each other in the wind, rattling like dried-up bones. Way up in the trees you can catch a glimpse of squirrels’ nests. The squirrels must be fast asleep inside, dreaming. Flocks of geese fly down from Canada, reminding me that it’s even colder north of here. The wind blowing across the river is as cold and sharp as a newly honed hatchet. The days get shorter and shorter, the clouds thicker.”

Wonderful paragraph, right? He’s a master at evoking a mood. So I gave it a try, describing winter here in Colorado. Here are my paragraphs. I’m not as good as Murakami, so my paragraphs are longer. Note that I began the first two sentences with his phrases, and then took off on my own.

“Once Halloween is over, winter, like a campground host, careful and deliberate, sets up a secure tent, because it’s going to stay a long while. Before I realize it the trees are bare and all manner of nests become visible: the eagle nest in our backyard cottonwood is empty of the babies that entertained us in the spring, poking up their scrawny necks and yellow beaks for whatever food the mother swooped in to feed them; squirrels swagger up and down the tall elms, tails waggling, fighting over smaller nests that will become dry places to nestle as the winter progresses; and abandoned robin’s nests dangle in the elbows of apple trees. We are likely to find them on the ground after one of our winter Chinooks, the overbearing Southerly winds that bring out any latent craziness in people and wreak havoc on anything loose: lawn furniture forgotten from summer, dead branches, abandoned bird nests.

Flocks of geese fly over on their route to warmer climes, reminding us that we are camping alone this season. But they don’t possess a leather recliner with a crocheted afghan to position just so before a picture window from which to watch the snow as it falls soft on the ground, nor do their nests contain a fine woodstove to keep them from freezing, and they don’t know the joy of tramping outside to shovel a walkway and returning to the warm and inviting kitchen, where a cup of steaming hot chocolate awaits. They’ll be back, the geese, in the spring, but we campers settle in to watch old movies, ski and snowshoe, and snuggle beneath our down comforters, content.”

I found this to be an extremely useful exercise. My sentences tend to be simple declarative sentences, without much texture. I’m trying to learn to write longer, more interesting sentences, and this exercise helped a lot. What do you think about the exercise?

Posted in Writing | No Comments » | July 18th, 2011

My grandmother – Mamaw, we grandkids called her — cooked for days. By the time we arrived on Thanksgiving morning, the freezer in the back entryway was covered with pies. I can remember always having a couple of pumpkin pies, chocolate crème, apple pie, and often a blueberry pie to round out the bunch, just in case somebody wanted something out of the ordinary. She also had at least one cake sitting up high on a cake plate out there on the freezer, more often two.

When our family arrived, after driving an hour through the dingy landscape of Southwestern Virginia, my grandparents’ house was like an oasis of light and fun. We would drive through the long driveway and stop outside the gate. I would run ahead into the house. “Mamaw, Mamaw, we’re here.”

And there she would be, in a house dress, her old black shoes and stockings rolled up just above her knees, an apron around her waist. She was a large woman, tall and stocky. She would always be sweating – something went wrong with menopause, I heard later – but I always just thought it was her way. When I asked her once why she always seemed so hot when the rest of us were cold, she just answered, “Oh, pshaw, I guess God just made me that way,” and she would laugh loud and long at herself. Remembering now, I wonder if she was miserable and never mentioned it. Often she would have a smear of flour on her nose, and her eyeglasses would be speckled with grease.

When she saw me her face lit up, and she would yell to my grandfather – Papaw – “Buddy, they’re here.” When I was little she would sweep me into her arms and press me against her large bosom, and I would sniff in her grandmotherly fragrance as my feet dangled off the floor. When I was older, she squatted down and enveloped me with the same vigor. I will never forget how her face brightened when I came in the door. Later, I realized her excitement wasn’t for me personally, but I was just the first one in the door.

My parents came in and my brother, and there were hugs and exclamations of how good we all looked. My grandfather usually didn’t get out of his chair in the living room, and we all trooped through the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the living room to say hello. We were met with a much restrained greeting. He often shook my hand formally, but I do remember him smiling.

After a while the rest of the family came. My aunt Wilma, her husband Bob, and their daughter Bobbie Jean were usually next. Bobbie Jean was only a year younger than I was, so we played together. My Uncle Curtis and his wife and daughter usually came last. Connie was about the same age as my brother David, seven years younger than I, so the two of them played together.

When everybody was there, the sound level was very high. Years later, when I brought my five year old son Joel to Thanksgiving dinner, he was so intimidated by all the chaos that I found him hiding under the bed. People told jokes, played board games, watched television, and cooked, all at full volume. Kids ran in and out of the rooms playing. We had to watch out not to fall on the grate above the coal furnace, though. Once when I was very young I did fall, and not only skinned my knees and hands but burned them as well. My grandmother felt so bad about that that she got rid of the coal furnace and covered up the grate.

At last the food was ready, the table set, and everybody gathered round. My dad asked the blessing, and we all dug in. We kids had to eat in the kitchen, and that wasn’t any fun at all. The real excitement was in the dining room, where everybody talked and laughed uproariously. Our family was storytellers. I remember my dad telling about how during the war he and my uncle Bob drove over a mountain and had to patch the tires about fourteen times before they made it home, because rubber was in short supply. Or my uncle Curtis telling how things were going in the company store at the coal mine where he worked. Everybody was happy that he had gotten out of the mine and into the store, and I heard my first tales about “scrip” from him, along with stories of unions and hard times. Of course, we kids could hear everything from the next room – probably they could hear them the next farm over, more than a mile away. What a treat it was to finally get old enough to be accepted at the grown-up table.

For food, we had a huge turkey and a ham, with the obligatory gravy made at the last minute by my sweating, flour-dusted grandmother. That gravy was wonderful, and she taught me how to do it, and by the time I was a teenager I had taken over the gravy making. We had dressing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, peas and onions, cranberries, some kind of fruit salad, and Mamaw’s famous green beans that she grew and canned for just such occasions. There were rolls and corn bread, a tray of tomatoes, onions, and pickles, and more. We ate on her old flowered china, and consumed gallons of sweet iced tea and perked coffee. The food was so plentiful that it covered not only the 10-foot table but the sideboard behind it, and some woman was always getting up to bring in fresh bread.

We ate until we couldn’t eat another bite, and still Mamaw would urge us, “Why, you didn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive. Why don’t you have some more turkey?” She was impossible to contradict, so we usually ate whatever she suggested, hoping she would turn her eye to someone else so we could stop. But eventually she had to give up. We were stuffed.

The men would ease out into the living room to turn on the ball game and talk politics or farming. And after all that work to prepare the food, the women would be left with dirty dishes. All of us would bustle around and try to make order out of the chaos. Aunt Lucille busied herself cleaning the plates of food, Aunt Wilma put food away anywhere she could find an empty space, often stacking bowls or platters two or three high, and my mother would bring us the dishes to wash. My grandmother always washed, and she sang while she washed. “Oh the old rugged cross, on a hill far away,” in a warbly, old-fashioned voice. I always dried the dishes. I was also supposed to inspect them to make sure they were clean. With everything going on, my grandmother frequently missed dirty spots, so these dishes were returned to her. Anybody else would have apologized for being sloppy, but not her. She would just laugh and tell me her eyes were getting too old, good thing I had young eyes, and that she would “give it a lick and a promise” and maybe do better the next time.

At last the dishes were done, and our stomachs had digested enough to have room for dessert. We ate pie in the living room, balancing the plates on our laps, groaning from the exquisite pain and joy of forcing another morsel of food into our mouths. Of course, then we had to wash those dishes.

By this time it was dark. Night came early, but our house was rocking. Curtis’ family would leave, but the rest of us played games, at least those who were willing to leave the football game. Mamaw was the first to suggest that we play a game of Scrabble. She was hands down the best Scrabble player I have ever known, and she nearly always won. Or we would work a jigsaw puzzle, or play the card game Uno. For a few years the most popular game was Chinese checkers. Somewhere between three and six of us would gather around the now empty dining room table and play for hours. Papaw would nod off in front of the tv, sleeping through all the bedlam.

At last the evening drew to a close. I always got tired of playing before Mamaw did, and that was true until she was in her 90s. My parents said goodbye several times before we were able to pry ourselves away and actually walk out the door. My brother was often asleep and had to be carried, but I stayed awake until the ride home.

What a great day it was to be with family, to hear the stories, eat the food, and have the fun we did every year. Traditions are made of this expected structure, so that we can sink into what we know. My parents moved to Florida when I was 15, so these occasions were not as regular after we moved as they had been before. My immediate family developed our own traditions and they were fine, but never quite as vivid as the ones with my grandmother and all the extended family. She made Thanksgiving, and every day, magic. I am grateful to have known her, especially on Thanksgiving.

Posted in Writing | 2 Comments » | November 28th, 2010

I haven’t posted recently because I’ve been obsessed with writing my second novel (more on that soon).  I need to say how really challenging it is to do the needed research, park myself in a chair for long hours on a daily basis, and know just how bad my first draft is.  But that’s a writer’s reality.

I was thinking about why I do this.  I have always written, and always wanted to write a book.  I have an academic manuscript sitting in a box in my garage.  I gave up after getting several rejections — how naive I was back in the 90s.  But I didn’t really want to write academic books.  I wanted to write novels.  But I couldn’t think of a plot. 

After struggling with this for several years, I finally decided that maybe it was time for me to focus my energies in a direction that was more fruitful.  Then, sitting in Quaker Meeting one Sunday, I had an idea.  How would God speak to the human race?  Through computers?  Phone lines?  No, I decided, it would be the way it had been done before — through writing on rocks. 

That led me to develop a short story idea, and I went away for a three day solo retreat to write the story.  I worked diligently on the idea, and just before leaving the retreat, I sat outside and enjoyed the warm spring air and trickling brook.  I was pleased with my story and mulling about where I would submit it.  Then I heard a voice inside me, saying … “This is too big for a story.  It needs to be a book.”

I was startled, not sure whether I was hearing from God or my own inner voice.  Regardless, I responded, “But I don’t know how to write a book.”  The answer:  “You’d better get started, then.”

I was speechless, and overwhelmed.  But I couldn’t ignore this strong voice telling me to turn the story idea into a book.  So I did.  I got started, learning to write fiction, learning about story arcs, about dialogue, about using setting as a character, chapter lengths.  You get the idea.  It was a huge undertaking, and took me three years and eight drafts, as well as a stint wih a developmental editor.  But the book is finished now, and you can read the first chapters on my web site. 

But I haven’t been able to find an agent or publisher, as yet.  So I decided, rather than continuing to struggle, to move on.  And here I am, learning with every word I write, and loving it (also hating it, wondering why I ever got myself into this thankless profession as I struggle to find the right words).  Still, I wouldn’t be any other place, or doing any other thing.  That conversation with a higher power changed the course of my life.   

I find myself wondering if other people have had experiences that changed their lives, especially as regards to writing.  Please let me know, okay? 

Posted in Writing | No Comments » | March 19th, 2010

Yesterday was the 21st day of the diet I started earlier in the month, and the end of my commitment to it.  So this will be my last post regarding weight loss.  Time to reflect on what I’ve gained (or lost) from this project.

I lost only four pounds, and I had hoped to lose more.  I did follow the eating plan, except for the day a week we had “off.”  Four pounds is four pounds, though — better than I have done on other diets, so I’m not completely discouraged.  The eating plan is a good one.  Mostly vegetables, raw or cooked, and the meal plans were delicious.  I will follow it, maybe not quite as religiously as I did for three weeks. 

I’ve learned that I’m sensitive to wheat.  Having a clean system without dairy, soy, or gluten, I discovered that my morning congestion is gone.  I haven’t taken an antihistimine since the diet started, and it’s a wonderful feeling to — pardon me — have no postnasal drip.  Reinstituting my morning raisin bran brought on congestion, itching of my throat, and a generalized yukky feeling.  So the raisin bran went into the trash, and I won’t have it again.  Sad, but real.  I’d rather have a clear throat than the joy of eating wheat.  Oh, well. 

My stomach hurt much of the time, probably because I ate larger portions than before.  In an effort to stave off feeling deprived, I think I overate.  Maybe that’s why my weight loss wasn’t what I’d hoped.  Anyway, now I can eat more intuitively instead of following menu plans, and hopefully return my digestion to what it was before the diet. 

I’m proud, though, that I followed through with my commitment.  I now know not to mix protein and starch at the same meal, to eat closer to the earth, to let go of dairy and gluten (not sure about soy yet), and to cook with coconut oil.  I have enjoyed many new recipes that will be an ongoing part of my diet and experimented with foods that I wouldn’t normally eat.  So, all in all, it was a good experience, and I will incorporate much of it in my regular eating plan.  Hopefully, I’ll continue to lose the extra weight, or at least feel that I am doing my best, and accept myself with the extra pounds. 

Next, I’ll talk more about writing.  Lots of good ideas for those of you who want to write the stories of your life! 

Posted in Weight loss | No Comments » | January 28th, 2010

I’m cranky today.  My stomach hurts, probably from all the different foods I’ve been eating.  I don’t have much energy.  Oh yes, I’ve lost three pounds in the past week, and I’ll continue with the eating plan.  But I’m reminded that this is a real change in my eating, and it’s going to take a while until my body adjusts.  I guess this is when many people quit a diet, when it gets hard.  The enthusiasm for cooking new foods is over and I want to get back to my life, where I know what to eat and don’t have to consult a daily list of menus.  But I made a commitment to do this for 21 days, and I resolved to have a massage when I’ve lost another 1.5 pounds.  Ooh, I can feel that massage oil being massaged into my tired muscles!

Fortunately, we get a day a week “off” every week from the diet, when we can eat anything we want.  That’s today.  When I heard about that I thought “Oh, no, not me.  I will continue on as hard as I can.  I won’t need any days off.”  But I do.  Today I had my lovely raisin bran for breakfast instead of steamed veggies and an egg.  It was heavenly!  And after the appropriate lunch (soup, salad, and salmon), I blissfully enjoyed two — count ‘em, two — small pieces of dark chocolate.  Funny, it was all the rebellion I needed.  We are going out to dinner tonight, and I’m considering having a glass of chardonnay.  But I’ll decide at the time, and I suspect I’ll eat lightly and appropriately.  After all, I really do like my new way of eating.  But I’m eagerly awaiting having someone serve me food instead of having to cook it myself. 

By the way, does anybody reading this have comments for me?  Have you succeeded in losing weight on a diet?  What helped?  What got you through the process?  If you failed, have you considered what went wrong?  Any suggestions for me? 

Posted in Writing | 1 Comment » | January 13th, 2010

“If you want to lose weight, add more oil.”  “Coconut oil is the best kind of oil to cook with.”  “Saturated fats are required for the nervous system to function properly.” 

These are just a few of the mind-blowing ideas that were tossed out during our marathon, five-hour class yesterday.  Three hours of lecture and two hours of cooking class.  Both were fascinating.  I took notes as fast as my fingers could fly across the paper, and felt like my mind had expanded so much it would fill the room.  Everything I thought I knew about proper ways of eating was turned on  its head, but with good research support and theory behind it.  And it makes good sense, more than the low-fat, high carbohydrate diet that I’ve slowly gained weight on for the past umpteen years. 

So, I’m a convert to Charley Cropley’s way of eating.  I buy it.  So far I’ve lost about a half pound every day, and other than feeling overly full quite often, I’m doing fine.  Charley has dedicated his career for the past 30 years to teaching people how to eat themselves healthy.  And the food is fantastic.  I do still miss my carbos, though, and the people who are having to stop caffeine are struggling.  Thankfully, I stopped that years ago. 

Posted in Writing | 2 Comments » | January 11th, 2010

Any dieter has to deal with the biggest bugaboo — deprivation. One can’t diet while at the same time eating the same way as before, hence the need to deprive oneself of something one really wants. In my case, chocolate and other carbs. But what’s the point, if you don’t have the self-control to succeed on the diet? Might as well just continue eating as before and feel smug that you haven’t failed at anything recently.

OK, I’ve deprived myself of some things. But I’ve been overeating the things that are allowed, and feeling full all the time. This came about mostly because I heard a woman at the class talk about how she had done this class before and was hungry all the time. I resolved not to be hungry, so I’ve chowed down on steamed veggies, coleslaw, Asian vegetable soup, and so on. Believe me, it’s been plenty to eat, actually more than I ate before I started to diet. Last night I was so full that I felt like I’d just eaten Thanksgiving dinner — had to waddle to the couch and lie down for the evening. Not what I had in mind.

Yes, I’ve lost a pound since this started, but today I’m having to deal straightforwardly with the idea of deprivation. It’s why most people don’t succeed on diets, because they can’t stand the feeling of deprivation. So I decided to eat more reasonable portions today. And, guess what, a little hunger actually feels better than being stuffed. Onward!

Posted in Writing | No Comments » | January 9th, 2010

I made it through the first day of the — agh! — diet. Actually without too much trouble, after I had an apple. Something about fruit that makes life worth living. I didn’t make it through South Beach and Atkins because they didn’t allow fruit. I checked this out before I began this new eating plan, and I think I can handle it. Really, what harm is a little Granny Smith apple, in the long run? None, especially if it keeps you from eating chocolate, which it did me.

I wonder how the other 140 people in the class are handling this. The second class is on Sunday, and I’ll find out. There’s actually more to the class than following an eating plan. This is a mind-body-spirit class. The diet is the eating part. The mind part involves journaling, which I decided to do on my blog instead of in my journal. The spirit part is moving regularly. I committed to doing some form of movement every day for 20 minutes. So far, so good.

The second day hasn’t been quite as hard as the first, so far.

Posted in Writing | 1 Comment » | January 8th, 2010

Is it too late to wish everyone a happy new year? By now you’ve probably made your resolutions and broken at least half of them. What is it about this time of year — such good intentions, such lousy follow-through?

I’ve decided to do something about that and take a weight-loss class. This is in Boulder, run by Charley Cropley, called “Food is Your Best Medicine.” It involves four class sessions over a month, and 21 days of a weight loss program. So I decided to write about my experiences with the program instead of writing about writing, at least for the next 21 days.

Today is Day 1. The first class was on Tuesday evening, and we had to buy $100 worth of food — mostly veggies, but a little meat, and NO carbs! — and we had a day to gorge ourselves on our favorite foods before beginning the program today. So yesterday, while I was cooking for literally hours to be prepared for today, I gobbled chocolate and drank a half bottle of wine. It was my last time for 21 days to have these delicacies, and I am determined to succeed.

Today has gone well so far. Breakfast was two poached eggs and steamed veggies. I have to tell you that I have never in my life eaten steamed veggies for breakfast. But it was delicious. Lunch was beef stew and coleslaw. Good enough, but not very satisfying. I needed carbs! Chocolate, bread, cookies — anything but that food that was oh so good for me. I ended up eating strawberries and almonds, which were on the approved list, and I’m doing ok so far.

Stay tuned to see how my resolution to lose weight follows through. Will I make it? What are your experiences with weight loss programs?

Posted in Writing | No Comments » | January 7th, 2010