Writing Prompt: Tomorrow

Last week I visited my sister-in-law to take pictures of her, my niece Catherine, and my brother's dog, Sophie, to send to my brother at bootcamp. In the golden light of the late afternoon sun, I shot myriad photos. Our family's farmland stood as a backdrop for most of them. I will be posting some of them throughout the next few days. I imagine my brother weary and physically drained, opening a letter on his bunk as the pictures pore out on his lap -- his gorgeous wife, his beautiful daughter, his sweet dog poised in front of his home. They will call to him and tug at his heart. They say no one knows what tomorrow looks like, but I study this picture of my niece and I see into the future and the woman she will become. I bet my brother will see it, too, and it will make his heart break a little bit more. He will feel both love and longing and he will look forward to coming home.

Writing Prompt: Picture the face of tomorrow. Write about it.

Writing Prompt: A Day at the Dog Park

Today was girl's day out. For my pugs that meant a couple of hours frolicking at the dog park. For me and my mom it meant manicures and dinner out. Our local dog park (when I say local I mean thirty miles away) has a big dog and small dog section. Today, both were pretty full. My pugs got to meet a 9 month old Maltese named Abby; a terrier mix named Remy who has blonde fur on the top of her head that looks like a mohawk: a min-pin/Chihuahua cross named Kirby, who also happened to be the star athlete in the group; a pug/Chihuahua mix (also known as  Chug) named Farrah; a pug/terrier cross named Iggy; two miniature poodles name LiLi and Tussa and more.

I loved watching the dogs interact. Most stayed fairly close to their owners at first, maybe going over and sniffing each other if someone looked interesting, but if one started running or went to catch a ball they all eventually joined in. My pugs, in typical pug fashion, were not the greatest of athletes, but they gave it the old college try. Alfie, stood like the nerdy kid on the playground, taking everyone in and then suddenly prancing up to the cool kids in an effort to fit in. Waffles was more like one of those weird, arsty girls that keeps to herself. She joined in when she wanted to, but spent most of the time roaming the fence looking to make her prison attempt. She broke the boundaries of the class system, ignoring the various cliques and idling over to King Kirby whenever she felt like it.

The owners were as equally diverse and from all walks of society. I met a math teacher, a woman who couldn't pay her rent, but was checking her cellphone to spring a death row dog, a couple who purchased their pretty puppy from Craig's List, another who had saved a rescue. One woman had gotten her poodles from a breeder. As varied their lifestyles and paths to their animals were, they were all obviously united in their love for them. And, as I sat in the sun, watching the dogs run and play and the people come and go, I realized we are all players on a giant playground -- all wanting to have fun and each alternating between the cool kid and nerd at times.

Writing Prompt: Where did you fit in on the playground? Were you the nerd in high school? The bully? The cool kid? The weirdo? Write about it.

Standing Tall

In this day of social media,

Facebook "likes" and Twitter "retweets"

We still write in the desert,

Shout in the wind.

It is an act of faith

--part hubris, part hope

That we expect anyone

--to listen.

Like a tree falling in the forest

It has never been

the sound that matters,

It is the growth,

standing tall before the inevitable

leap into the abyss.

We are fools if we think

no one hears.

We are one body,

Our every movement

Stirs our neighbor

Even if we cannot witness it.

And, still I wait

For the thud and the clamor

Not content with my own noise.

We yearn for thunderous applause

Even when it comes in a whisper

Gliding on cat paws across the

velvety forest floor.

"I see you," it says.

That is enough.

All in a day's work...

I greet my student Don at the library. He looks cool and crisp in a blue Oxford shirt. Probably in his late sixties, Don has been one of my students since I first started teaching memoir. Officially retired, he still serves as a librarian at Lebanon College. I greet him and documentary filmmaker Duane Carleton. We are to go across the green to the Ledyard Charter School for a showing of Carleton’s film, Overtaken by Darkness, about the 1986 murder of golf pro Sarah Hunter in Manchester, VT. As we walk, I chat with Duane about his film and his reasons for making it. Tall with long brown hair pulled in a ponytail and nerdy wire-rimmed glasses, Carleton seems amiable. We laugh and crack jokes about Stephen King and Duane’s own film, as we have to walk through the cemetery to get to the entrance of the school. Duane tells me how he saw King interviewed on Letterman last night. “He’s written a play with John Mellencamp,” he says, launching into details.

We climb the staircase where we are greeted by the head instructor and led into a room with familiar school desks. Duane and I joke about just how familiar they are. Their wooden surface is bolted to the molded chairs, a well for pencils carved into the wood. “I had these chairs in school,” says Duane. “Me, too,” I declare.

Don and the teacher test the DVD on her computer as students help clear out the desks and replace them with comfy chairs for the viewing. That’s what they call them; “comfy chairs,” and they do indeed look more comfortable than the desks. We sit in them and begin introductions when two representatives from the Lebanon Police Department step in. Don has invited them to come and I am pleased to recognize one from my interview and article on the force a couple of years ago. My brother, Paul, away at Boot Camp for the National Guard, is a Lebanon Police Officer, so I proudly introduce myself as Paul’s sister. After the film and a lively discussion, I have the opportunity to chat with the officers.

“How’s your brother?” they ask. “Have you heard from him?” I give them the details from Paul’s last letter. He leads the squadron in cadence and to church, has qualified as an expert marksmen. They jokingly say he has “a voice like Jesus” and alternate between calling him Vin Diesel and Old Man. He is doing well, but has a challenge dealing with the emotions of some of the younger men. He realizes that some our younger than his own 17-year-old son, Christian.

“I’ve heard about you,” the acting chief tells me. “Oh, oh,” I say. “From reading the article,” he explains, and I feel suddenly proud because it is my reputation and not my brother's that is grabbing his attention. We leave the meeting satisfied. Don has had the opportunity to share about the college and I may even get some perspective memoir students out of the day.

It is a good day work wise. Don and I grab a bite to eat at the corner restaurant and chat about our common interests – the college, Don’s writing, mutual friends. Full and happy we part ways. I walk toward my car when I remember that I want to check out two dogs I saw in a storefront window for another article I am doing on dogs in the workplace. As I gather my phone from the car, I glance another big dog. The curl to his tail suggests he’s an Akita, but he lacks the upright ears and his head is square. I turn and stroll toward the dog and its owner, asking, “What breed is your dog?”

“Akita and maybe St. Bernard,” he answers. I ask to pet the dog and gush to the owner how I was off to see about some shop dogs. “He’s a shop dog, too,” I’m told. I take the man’s card and promise to call him next week, happy to have another lead. I cross the street and grab another card from the store owner of the two dogs I saw in the window. Another article underway.

Today, I like my job. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed, often pulled in too many directions. Today, I wouldn’t give up any of my work. The teaching, the writing, this blog, all feed different parts of me. At the end of the day I loaded my car and drove home, tired but satiated. Tomorrow I will worry about how to get everything done. Today I am thankful for work I love.

Glee

I pull up the driveway. The sunny yellow house seems to smile coyly, peeking from behind a canopy of trees. A small olive valise, held closed with a green bungee cord, sits in front of the steps, like a passenger waiting for a bus. It looks as happy as the house. I am its ride. I am here to pick up the suitcase and my friend Joan to indeed take them to a bus stop, where she will catch a ride to New York.

I walk passed the suitcase into the house where four fawn pugs make a pile in the wooden box by the stove. Our friend Norma is there to housesit. The cool, dark room offers reprieve from the sun, but it is no less happy inside than out. Gryffindoor, Joan’s youngest pug at almost a year, appears at the top of the stairs, whimpering because he knows I am here and he wants to see me, but he has not yet learned how to make it down the steps. I peer around the doorway and look up the darkened stairwell to see his black form silhouetted against the light from the Florida Room. Joan is uncharacteristically on time. She pops out of the bathroom, sporting her cheerful orange tank with peek-a-boo cutout above the chest and crisp white jeans with shades of orange cuffs.

SONY DSC

She breezes about the room as Norma chatters and I laugh, the mood festive. Sometimes Joan gets frazzled before a trip, but she is relaxed today. She grabs her overnight bag and heads for the door as I promise to call Norma when Joan boards the bus. We go outside and I stop to chase a butterfly to nab its picture. Standing on the slate wall, I grab a shot. Norma offers a hand to help me down. I skip passed the suitcase, grabbing the handle and pulling it behind me to the car. We make the drive to Burlington, to the UVM campus, where Joan will catch the Megabus, talking all the way. The day is bright both inside and out.

The bus stop sits amidst a garden of flowers and we no sooner take our place than we our joined by another passenger – a dark-skinned woman, named Betsy. She talks animatedly with Joan, flashing a large grin, one eyetooth missing. “I’m just Betsy,” she announces. “Not Elizabeth or Bettie or anything else.”

Other passengers approach and the woman moves to talk with them. I delight in watching Joan. As a concert pianist she has traveled the world many times over and yet she turns to me with childlike glee announcing that the bus is supposed to be a double-decker. “Should I try up top?” she asks with an eager smile. When it finally pulls up, I note that the blue bus with golden orange lettering matches Joan’s own ensemble, now topped with jean jacket. “Did you plan it that way?” I ask.

She smiles, practically prancing to the rear of the bus to load her suitcase. She reminds me of my five-year-old niece Tori, cheerful, childish energy wrapped in a charming shell. Their eyes twinkle the same way. Joan hops on the bus, choosing the lower level after all and I watch as she makes her way to the back. “I feel like I’m seeing my kid off,” I shout as she drifts out of sight. I catch a glimpse again as she sits down, pressing her face against the glass and making a funny face. I wave goodbye to my friend, a smile plastered to my face. I know why I like this lady so -- she retains her sense of wonder. I hope I remain that young. I hope every trip always seems brand new.

I stand in the shadow cast by her and the bus, realizing such glee is infectious. It draws me back to the sunny yellow house and its occupants again and again.

SONY DSC

Writing Prompt: Gardens

I do not plant my own garden, but I revel in the gardens of others. Across from my house, in an island of pavement is a small grassy triangle. Members of the community maintain this small, patch of earth each spring by planting flowers that change as the season progresses – evolving from tulips and daffodils to daisies and irises. I await the arrival of the first buds each year, seeing them rise as the sun ascends and shares its warmth with us. It is my signal that spring is upon us. Every time I see her, I rush to inform one of the women in town, the one who helps tend this garden, how much it means to me. She seems thankful, if sedate, as I gush over the flowers.  Her own lawn is equally adorned, so perhaps she cannot digest just how much I appreciate her efforts, how tied I am to those blossoming patches of color across the lawn. They have been a backdrop for photos of my nieces and nephews, a garden hideaway to retreat amidst the fairies, a place to witness their inner men and women emerge as they strike magical poses well beyond their years. It has allowed me a reprieve from computers and deadlines, a minute field in which to roam for 10 minutes, camera in hand. It has been a place to say goodbyes, a train platform to see my dying dog off to another world.

Vader died a year ago June 1^st and for the month leading up to his death, my nieces, nephews and I would frequently tote his limp form, along with his constant companion, his stuffed “Humpie Doggie” across the road to sit him in the flowers and allow him a few moments of sun. His body carved out a small sunken dent in the hollow of the flower bed and I imagine I see it there still, although the flowers this year have arranged themselves in a different pattern. There are yellow irises now, tons of them, although last year I remember varied colors. It would be easy to say that the color has faded since Vader’s death, but it is not true. I miss him, but the world is warm and golden. Waffles and Alfie frolic in the back yard and wait eagerly by the gate as I water the tomato plants my father chose to plant this year. Life wilts and grows, ebbs and flows.

The grandmother of the boy I loved is dying in the garden room of the local hospital where my grandmother, too, passed away. He and his cousins make plans to fly home for her funeral even while she remains alive. Our lives are busy and do not slow, but the world is green and full; the sky blue with marshmallow clouds. If we had a choice, we would not leave it today. We would sit in the garden and enjoy it a spell, feeling the warmth on our faces, reveling in the life around us.

I try to remember this. So on the anniversary of his death, I visited Vader’s tree on our front lawn; the place where I had rested with him in the hours before his death, looking up at the leafy canopy, embracing the light from the sun. I stretched out on the dirt and grass, not caring if my dress clothes became grass stained and soiled and I looked up once again – thankful for his small life and all the life that has occurred in the year he’s been gone. I sat up and stared across the lawn at his garden, thinking how tall my nieces and nephews had grown in a year, how much life had changed – my niece Ellie was only a baby in a basket when she visited last Memorial Day, now she is a rambunctious toddler – “go, go, go” is her catchphrase. I got Waffles once Vader was gone, joined a Writer’s Group, gave a reading, welcomed and bid farewell to three classes of students, started a blog. I traveled to Laguna Beach, Washington D.C., Woodstock, NY. My brother went off to boot camp and my Mom had a cataract removed. I wrote articles and stories, drew pictures and paintings. My niece spoke my name. Life is full. We bud and we bloom. We bid goodbye. And, on a good day we are aware of it all and thankful for our gardens.

Writing Prompt: Return to a memory from last year. Write about it.

Golden World

Since our reading at Hubbard Hall, I’ve basked in a warm glow. Today, as the sun shone golden, filling a cerulean sky that reached downward to kiss a green world, my life seemed a sunny haze. I’ve been on the move, traveling to appointments and to the airport to fetch my father, but all this seemed secondary compared to the sun and warmth and color.

Business Card

I had some new business cards made up a month ago in anticipation of Blogpaws and the Creative Sparks reading at Hubbard Hall. The new cards not only feature graphics from my blog, but also a QR code that when scanned take people to either a reading of the story I shared at Hubbard Hall the other night or the animation of my Dogs Dancing at the Carousel collage. Here, is the card that leads you to the story and a video of what you see if you scan the code. This way those of you who were not able to come, will be able to share in what I read.

Creative Sparks

Heaven will be a little bit like this. People I care about will be there – mingling, laughing, sharing. My nieces and nephews will be running about, doing cartwheels in the grass. Dogs will dance around us. The light will shine brightly, the sun warmly. We will burst forth with creativity. I will speak about what is meaningful to me and people will listen. I will have a voice and delight in it. We will swap stories and guffaws with equal gusto. I will soak it all in.

Our reading at Hubbard Hall last night was a little bit like this for me. My mother, sister-in-law and my niece and nephew followed my best friend and me, the two-and-a-half hours to Cambridge, NY. My other friends, Joan and Jane, traveled from Waitsfield, Vt. to be there. Our friend, Leslie, who owns two of Joan’s pugs, and lives in Cambridge came out for an evening to hear me share a story about Joan and her pug puppies and letting them go to new homes. Six writers read posts from our blogs that we have been working on over the past year with our mentor, Jon Katz, as part of the Hubbard Hall Writers’ Project. Jon read an excerpt from his forthcoming book, The Second-Chance Dog: A Love Story. We exhibited our artwork, photographs, poems, stories, animations and writings at a reception prior to the reading. It was a night to shine and bubble forth, because in sharing our stories we encourage others to share theirs.

When I finished, I received high praise from my 12-year-old nephew, who rushed to tell me that I was very descriptive. “I could picture everything you said. I could see it,” he said. What other acclaim could I need?

Some called us brave. And, I admit my heart was thumping as I approached the podium to read my work. But, to me this was a moment to relish – a chance to be heard. I think everyone wants a voice, although not everyone wants to stand up in a room full of people to hear it manifested. The night before the reading, I had the opportunity to eat dinner with Jon Katz and his wife Maria. Jon said he doesn’t get nervous in front of crowds and that a child he dreamed of an opportunity to express himself in such a way. I understood what he meant. I have not dreamed of crowds, but of being heard. I have craved it.

When I studied religion in college, I was drawn to the image of John the Baptist, the solitary voice crying in the wilderness. The beginning of my Master’s thesis addresses this image, asking, why John the Baptist? This is what I wrote:

“Always I return to "the Voice." It is the thing to which the gospel authors return as well. Laden with symbolism, it cries out in the pages of the New Testament long after the man himself has disappeared. Can I reconstruct a man from his voice? Can I hang bones and skin and IDEAS on the words "repent, and be baptized?" Sometimes, I think, I resist telling his story, my story of his story, because I am content with his voice...the echo of his voice...the IDEA of his voice..."

It was my own voice to which I was drawn – the need to have one.

Last night, I shared my story of Joan and her pug puppies and was able to capture a moment of the love and melancholy, compassion and stewardship I have seen present in her life among pugs. I spoke about her unconventional lifestyle – transforming from concert pianist to a widow living on a mountaintop in Vermont with 10 to 14 pugs. I spoke about my respect for her in-your-face ability to live life her way and my desire to do the same. My fellow writers shared actual love stories and equally compelling tales of love manifested in parenting and caring for parents or patients, coming out as artists and poets.

Like a prophet, proclaiming his truth, we tried to share ours. Perhaps our stories weren’t revolutionary, but for the five minutes that I read and the hour that I listened to the others share, it felt a little bit like Heaven. There are many reasons to be nervous about speaking up in front of a crowd, but I think there are many more reasons to be nervous not to speak at all. Words give birth to creation. They are creative sparks.

Rehearsal

The Hubbard Hall Writers Project met tonight to rehearse for our reading tomorrow. We sat in a still, barely lit room listening to each other read. We each spoke too fast or mumbled a bit or looked down at our papers too much as we worked out our nerves and prepared to share a taste of what we had been writing this past year. Some of us were more nervous than others; some are more used to the spotlight, but we shared “a creative spark” for which the reading is entitled, and a desire to give it voice.  I was struck by the diversity of the pieces and how differently they sounded when read aloud by their authors, than the blog posts we are used to seeing online. Themes ranged from a love story to memories of the year Kennedy was shot to the state of healthcare, today. The voices were distinct, the writing sound. We have much of which to be proud.