Of Sand and Water and Sky
Sunday morning at the beach.
Not at the Big Lake (if you’re from around here, you know that means Lake Michigan).
No. We chose a quiet beach. Man-made lake. At a State Park.
We pulled the black mini-van (dubbed “Minnie” by my daughter) into the parking lot. One other vehicle parked there.
“See. This is why I love this beach,” I said to my husband. “Empty.”
Three row boats with pairs of fishermen. One man walking along the beach. His wife, skin browned to a shade only accomplished by many hours in the sun. With baby oil.
And us. My husband and me. Our babies who have recently taken the shape of kids. Smart, loving, kind kids.
Yes. We are blessed.
I spread a beach blanket on the sand. Sat down on it. Watched a few of my kids grab shovel and bucket to dig for treasure. Another child jumped up and down. Happy to be on the sand. To feel its warmth on her feet. I dug my toes in, letting the grains of sand that can’t even outnumber Abraham’s descendants rub against my skin.
Then my husband lunged into the water. Splashing. Dipping under the surface. Inviting us to join him. They ran to him. Then one stopped short of the cool water. He looked out. Then to me, still on the towel.
My cue.
I got up. Slipped off my cover-up. Pretended that I didn’t feel exposed in my bathing-suit. Stepped into the water. To my ankles. Shins. Knees. Thighs. Waist. Chest.
Lowering myself into the cold, but refreshing water, I played with my kids. Splashing them. Holding them in my arms as I bobbed up and down. We watched the sea gulls fly over, dip to the water to catch a minnow lunch.
“Come ride my back,” my husband called to them.
He swam with all of them cheering for their “sea horse”.
I leaned back into the water. Spread my arms wide. Let my feet float up to the surface. Moved along the water on my back. The grace of movement in water that I can never achieve on land.
The sky above. Blue. The kind of blue that makes your heart swell just a little. For something that was pure. Easy. Like swimming on your back in a quiet lake.
Not a wire around me. No sound of television or car or technology.
Just the clear blue above me. The sound of whooshing water in my ears. The weightlessness of floating.
A hymn of creation.
A psalm of simplicity.
A chorus of thanksgiving.
To the One.
Who painted the sky.
Scooped out the lakes.
Set to life the sea gulls.
The minnows.
The fishermen.
The man walking on the beach.
The woman, tanned to brown.
My children.
My husband.
And me.
Silence
I get tired. Just weary. The noise has just become too much for me.
Here it is. 11:00 at night. And I can’t stand any more clamor.
My desk is right next to the air conditioner that hangs out the window. As blazing hot as this summer has been, it has blasted more hours of the day than not.
And the sound is too much.
I had to turn it off. Thankful for a cool evening. If 75 F can be considered cool. These days it sure is.
The relief of silence causes me to sigh. Shake my head.
And think.
Election year. Polarizing politics. Chic-Fil-A. Marriage equality. One man. One woman. Obama-care. Occupy. Off shore investments. Tax evasion. Culture wars. Iran. Afghanistan. Bringing the troops home. Leaving them there. Veteran’s benefits. Taxes. Lobbyists. Climate change. Drought. Gas prices. 2012 Olympics. Lack of security. Michael Phelps.
Please, let me stop before I end up getting sued by Billy Joel for copyright violation.
So much noise. So much fear. Stress. Pressure. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. All the time.
And I need a break from it.
Or maybe I need to be a break.
Here’s what I mean.
Perhaps in this noisy, sound bite culture, I can be a piece of calm. A balm for those bruised and battered in this war between cultures.
A safe place.
I commit to you, right in this moment, that I will be silent.
Oh. You think I mean I’m going to stop talking.
No such luck.
But I will be silent. I won’t contribute to the noise. I will laugh. Cry. Share conversations. Write. Sing with my kids. Say weird things in my sleep (that might be good for a post on another day). I will use my voice to lift up. Encourage. Discuss. But not create noise.
Because, in this time of my life, I find that it is much more important to listen to the sound of God’s voice. And He says, “Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in all the earth”. (Psalm 46:10)
Loud Talking At The Coffee Shop
All I wanted was to sit in the coffee shop and write. This novel needed my focus. Typically, a coffee shop is a good choice.
Especially a coffee shop within an Indie Book Store. At 3:30 on a Wednesday afternoon.
At least you would think that.
But. Well. No.
As I ordered my mocha (ah…mocha), I heard a voice. A female voice. Shouting.
I paid. Smiled at the barista. Found a table with a plug nearby. Began writing a very emotionally charged scene.
“NOW, HOW DO I CHECK MY HOTMAIL ON THIS THING?” the loud, shouting woman…er…yelled. “THERE ISN’T A BUTTON FOR IT.”
I tilted my head and raised an eyebrow (a move I learned from my college choir director).
“WELL, I SENT THEM A MESSAGE THAT I WANTED TO BE ABLE TO CHECK MY HOTMAIL ON MY COMPUTER AND ON THIS THING.”
I turned. Hoping that if she saw me look at her, she’d get the point. Her companion, poor lady, sat inches from the yelling woman. An e-reader on the table. Both woman hovered over it. The companion spoke. But I couldn’t hear her.
I’ll tell you what I did hear.
“SO ALL I HAVE TO DO IS TOUCH THE SCREEN LIKE THAT? NO, LET ME DO IT. IF I DON’T DO IT MYSELF I’LL NEVER LEARN.”
And.
“WHERE DO I BUY BATTERIES FOR THIS THING? LOOK. IT’S ALMOST OUT OF BATTERIES.”
And.
“OH. I TOLD THE MAN WHEN I BOUGHT THIS THAT I DIDN’T WANT FACEBOOK. YOU KNOW ALL THE KIDS OUT THERE. ALL THEY CARE ABOUT IS FACEBOOK THIS AND FACEBOOK THAT. I JUST DON’T WANT ANYBODY SEEING EVERYTHING I DO ALL DAY LONG. YOU SHOULD GET OFF THE FACEBOOK. IT’LL KEEP YOU FROM GETTING THAT JOB YOU WANT. YES IT WILL.”
And, so, my writing stalled.
I complained on Facebook. Maybe that was just to spite her.
I sighed. Rolled my eyes. Wished that her battery would just die…Die…DIE!
“LOOK AT THAT. SEE. THAT BATTERY DIED. DO I GET ANOTHER BATTERY AT MEIJER’S?”
It’s “Meijer”, by the way. And, no. You plug “that thing” into the wall.
But I didn’t correct her. Or offer my helpful hints.
I rejoiced.
Her battery passed away and I would get some sweet writing time in before my meeting.
But, not so fast.
“OH. DID I TELL YOU ABOUT THE LAST TIME I WENT TO THE GYNECOLOGIST?”
Friends. That isn’t made up. Even as a fiction writer, I never would have taken that twist in the story.
“WELL, AFTER HE…(part of this was omitted because I love you all and don’t want to subject you to it)…I WAS GETTING DRESSED. AND YOU KNOW HOW I WAS OUT OF BAND-AIDS AT HOME? YEAH. I RAN OUT OF BAND-AIDS. ANYWAY. I LOOKED IN THE DRAWER BY THE STIRRUPS AND FOUND SOME OF THOSE REAL NICE BIG BAND-AIDS. I TOOK A COUPLE HANDFULS BEFORE I LEFT. YUP. JUST STUFFED THEM IN MY PURSE. WELL. I PAY ENOUGH FOR HIM TO EXAMINE ME ALL THE TIME.”
At this point, I decided that she was going to die. In my novel, at least. No. Not at least. Only in my novel. Not in real life. No. Not in real life.
After a few more minutes of…
“THIS ICED TEA TASTES LIKE PEACHES.”
And.
“DO YOU MIND SCRATCHING MY BACK? RIGHT THERE. YEAH. THAT’S NICE.”
And.
“HAVE YOU READ THAT BOOK? OH. I DON’T REMEMBER THE NAME OF IT. NO. I DON’T KNOW WHO WROTE IT. WELL, I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT’S ABOUT EITHER. I HAVEN’T READ IT. HAVE YOU READ IT?”
She finally left.
And the coffee shop became nice and quiet.
I wrote my emotionally heavy scene.
Sipped my mocha (ah. mocha).
And reminded myself that nothing is wasted. All can be used.
Hence, this blog post.
Tell me about a moment like this. Have you encountered a loud talker? What do you do when someone is being rude? Do you clam up (like me)? Or do you tell them to stick a sock in it? Let’s share some fun stories.
Breathe
Last year, just about this time, I felt like I was suffocating.
I could barely catch a breath as a writer.
It felt as if I had run about 20 miles without taking a single breath.
My novel wasn’t finding an agent. I felt relatively uninspired.
Like an old pea you find that rolled under the fridge months ago. Shriveled up. Dry.
I wrote a few good short stories. But each of them hinted at despair (like this story, recently on The Burnside Writers Collective).
I needed a breath. Something to remind me that I’m a writer. And that it isn’t selfish/petty/audacious/vain to pursue that life.
My good friend (and writing gal pal) Amelia Rhodes and I were determined to find a writer’s conference to attend.
So, we went to Google. Good old Google.
We found The Breathe Christian Writers Conference.
I need to tell you, that conference became a turning point in my writing career.
Each workshop I attended nailed the point that I am a writer. That it is a holy calling. That God can use me as I write stories about broken people. People who need redemption. And love. And compassion. And mercy. That the words I use are important. That the Holy Spirit is my inspiration.
Each person I met made me fall in love with the West Michigan writing community. A community that has become more like a family. A family that cheers us on. Shares meals and hugs and advice.
I’ve been to big conferences. They’re good. I’ve learned a lot.
But, I have to say, there is something special about Breathe. I grew as a writer. A friend. A servant of God.
I believe that it was because of the intimacy of the event. The welcoming smiles. The hugs. The new friendships.
At the end of the conference, we all exchanged business cards.
I didn’t expect to hear from many of them again. Perhaps a few. I expected our friendships, our community, to be limited to the conference each year.
But that’s not what happened.
Amelia and I both forged relationships with the people at The Breathe Conference. Not just Facebook friendships. No. The kind that is deeper. More authentic.
Real relationships.
True community.
Church. The Body of Christ.
As a writer, I breathed deeply.
If you are a writer, or suspect that you may be, this is a great conference. Full of encouragement, instruction, and opportunities to meet others like you, it is well worth the trip and the VERY reasonable registration fee. This year’s conference will be held in Dutton, Michigan (right by Caledonia…south of Grand Rapids).
October 12 and 13 are the dates to mark on your calendar. Register before August 15 to get the early-bird rate of $110 (which includes dinner on Friday night, lunch on Saturday, and coffee…yes…that is an important detail). After August 15, the rate goes up to $135. Still reasonable. But, hey, that’s $20 you can spend at Inspired Novelties instead (shameless, Susie. Seriously).
We’d love to see you. This is a conference for writers of all skill levels, genres, and from all over. It’s worth the trip, for sure!
Olivia–short fiction
The idea for this story was born after reading THIS POST by John Blase at The Beautiful Due. If poetry is your thing, you should be reading John Blase. His verse is good for the soul.
Olivia
Twila used the tip of a long, acrylic fingernail to push the “unlock” button on her key-fob. Flipped her long, platinum colored hair.
“Hey, Olivia,” Twila called, pulling open the door of the SUV. “Come on, honey.”
The girl slumped out of the house. All long legs and arms. Too big of feet. Stringy hair. The awkwardness of twelve years.
“Come on, honey,” Twila said, waving her daughter over with a bony, too tan hand. “Let’s go. We gotta get your school clothes.”
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Whatever,” she sighed.
“What?” Twila jutted out a hip. Thrust her fist to it. Made her artificially plump lips smash together. “You just want me to go pick out all your school clothes for you?”
“Yes.” Olivia rolled her eyes back the other way. Stood, shoulders rolled forward. Gawked at her mother. “You go do it.”
“No. You want to go. Come on.” Twila put her high-heeled foot up into the truck and hefted herself in. “Come on, girl.”
The girl climbed into her side of the truck. Shut the door. Buckled her seat belt.
“I knew you wanted to come,” her mother said, looking in the rear view mirror. “A girl can’t resist shopping for clothes.”
“Whatever.”
The drive to the mall took them nearly twenty minutes. Twila sang along with all the boy bands and pop divas on the radio. Bopped her head. Smiled at all the cute boys she passed.
Olivia stared at her big, flip flopped feet. The scabbed up toes. The hair on her legs that she’d need to start shaving off. She just couldn’t figure out how to ask her mother for help. Twila didn’t seem to notice.
She was too busy with her own smoothly waxed legs. Pedicured toes. $200 shoes.
“Honey, what look are you going to go for this year?” Twila switched off the radio.
“I dunno.” Olivia swiped overgrown bangs from her eyes.
“Oh, come on. You have to know what look you like. Do you want to be a hipster? Or a prep? You’d look real cute as a hippie chick. You know. Kind of a Bohemian look.”
“Whatever. I don’t care.” The girl looked out the window. The world swirled by her faster than she could track with her eyes. “I like blue.”
“So, you just want blue clothes?” Twila’s tone turned. The tone Olivia knew better than the sticky sweet, buddy one of only seconds before. “Really, Liv. Nobody’s going to even see you unless you stick out. Make a statement.”
“I don’t care.”
In silence, Twila found a parking spot. Turned off the engine. Climbed out of the SUV. Slammed the door.
Olivia hesitated before following her mother.
The lights in the mall were too bright. The music too loud. The smells of candles mixed with fried food mixed with the cologne that the trendy stores pumped through the vents.
Every store looked the same.
Twila thrust variations of the same pair of jeans at her daughter. The same cut of shirt. The same style of shoe. Over and over. It dizzied Olivia. The bags, busting with fabrics, weighed her down as she walked through the mall.
Half of the clothes were for Twila.
And each item purchased, every credit card swiped, set in more and more emptiness into Olivia. More space in the chasm between her and Twila.
“You would be so pretty if you just wore more pink!” Twila would say.
Or.
“You know, my daughter just HATES getting dolled up,” she’d say to the cashier. “Do you know how many times people mistake her for a boy?”
Or.
“That shirt would look better if you had some boobs.”
Olivia followed her mother. The bags nearly dragging on the floor.
Twila charmed a security guard into carrying a few of the bags to the truck.
Olivia rolled her eyes.
On the drive home, Twila stopped at a fast food joint. Ordered a shake for Olivia. A Diet Coke for herself. She parked the truck. Watched her daughter drink the thick ice cream.
“So, here’s the thing,” Twila said. “You’re acting weird.”
Olivia sucked on her straw. Looked at the vents that pumped out cold air.
“No. I’m serious, Liv.” Twila looked in the rear view mirror. Puckered her lips. “It’s like you’re upset about something.”
“I’m fine.” Olivia put her shake on her lap. Felt the ice cream turn into a boulder in her stomach.
“Well. It’s like – well, I feel like it all started when your dad left.”
Olivia stared at her mother. “You mean when you kicked him out?”
“We just didn’t love each other anymore.” Twila sipped her soda. “You can’t understand that kind of thing. You will when your get married someday.”
Twila looked at her daughter.
“So. Are you going to be cool about things?” she asked. Flipped her hair. “It’s not like anyone blames you.”
Olivia tried to put her shake in the cup holder. Missed. It spilled all over the floor. On her legs. Her dirty flip flops.
“Damn it, Olivia,” Twila yelled. “Geez. I just had this truck detailed.”
“I’m sorry,” Olivia mumbled. “I’ll take care of it.”
Twila grabbed a tissue from her purse. Wiped a spot of ice cream from her daughter’s leg.
“Don’t touch me!” Olivia screamed.
The two looked at one another. Both surprised.
Twila started the SUV. Drove the two of them home. Fast. Recklessness of rage. The radio as quiet background music.
Olivia slumped in her seat when they drove up to their house.
The lights were all off at the house.
The big house.
Six bedrooms. Three and a half baths. Formal dinning room. Breakfast nook. Gourmet kitchen. Three stall garage.
For just the two of them now.
Large enough for them to live different lives. Together. Apart.
Twila parked in the driveway. Left Olivia to carry the bags. To clean up the spilled milk shake.
She clip clopped her high heels to the front porch. Marching. Waved her arms to turn on the motion sensor lights.
Olivia watched her. Looked at her mother. So thin. So artificial. A woman who had so much. But had nothing.
Twila stopped. Turned to look at her daughter.
“Well, you coming in? Or you just gonna stand there staring at me like an idiot?”
The girl grabbed hold of the bags. Walked, almost ran to catch up with her mother.
She noticed something on the sidewalk. A lump of brown and gray. Were they feathers?
“What’s that?” she asked, putting the bags on the ground. “See that, Mom?”
“You know, I spend all that money on you and you don’t say a word. Then there’s a dead bird on the sidewalk and you get all stirred up.” Twila kicked the dead bird into the grass. “Gross.”
“What should we do with it?”
“Leave it, Liv. Some cat’ll come get it or something.” Twila unlocked the front door. “Come on. Pick up the bags.”
Olivia obeyed. Carried the burden of expensive clothes. Walked to the front door. Turned her head to look at the bird. Its body in the grass.
Sat on the step.
Mourned the death of a lonely little sparrow.
In Black and White
Have you ever read a novel that stabbed you in the heart? Convicted you for something you had no idea was an issue in your life? Left you sobbing (no, really, sobbing) at the last words?
Well. That happened to me the other day.
I was reading “Zora & Nicky” by the gorgeous and fabulous Claudia Mair Burney.
Claudia is a Michigan native…so you KNOW I love her.
Claudia has tattoos (which is how I met her)…so you KNOW we can get along.
Claudia is a a painter….so you KNOW I want to be her when I grow up.
But, really and truly, Claudia really got to me with this novel.
She showed me beauty, hatred, racism (yes, even in the North, even in these modern times), characters using hands and feet to be Jesus to others…mercy. Claudia showed me so much grace and mercy and love in this book.
I cried for the beauty. Because it was so much bigger than I am. And I cried for the shame of all the ways that humans hate and marginalize one another. When, all the time, we are each the very image of the Creator who loves us so very much.
Please, do me a personal favor. Go over to Amazon and order this book. I’ll make it easy for you. Click HERE.
This book is going on my shelf next to some of my all time favorites. Yes. I have favorites. And this is one of them.
Tell me, what book have you read that tore you up in a good way? How did it change you?
And The Winner Is…
Monday I put up a give away here on the blog. You would enter to win a fabulous piece of jewelry from my Etsy Shop, Inspired Novelties. Fun, right?
Come here.
I have to tell you a secret.
It was really a ploy to raise funds for The Manasseh Project. (read about them HERE).
And, know what? It worked.
Thanks to everyone for helping me support this great cause. I’m continuing to raise funds for this organization through the rest of July. 50% of the purchase price of each item on my Etsy shop goes directly to them.
It’s a good thing.
Now. I’m sure you’d love to know who won the fabulous jewelry of their choice.
Well…
The winner is….
Jennifer “Bear” Gusey!
Congrats, Bear. Go ahead and pick out anything from the Etsy shop.
And, even though you are receiving the jewelry for free, I will still put 50% of the purchase price of whatever you pick into the funds for The Manasseh Project!
Check back later today to read about something that made me cry.
In both a good way and a bad way.
Don’t make me cry by not coming back to read that post.
Thanks, friends.
Reading is FUNdamental
It is a regular site in my home. To see my three kiddos sitting together on the couch with books. My daughter often reads to her brothers. I often sit with them. Sometimes I read to them. Sometimes I let them “read” to me (my daughter reads well…but she still loves being read to).
It is a gift to introduce your children to the joy of books.
I once heard someone say that he doesn’t read to his kids. It hurt my heart. The reason he didn’t read to them? Not because he didn’t have time. Not because he didn’t enjoy it. No. It was just too “frustrating” for him.
Ah. So tragic.
Reading with kids is among the greatest joys. I derive more pleasure from sharing a story with my children than nearly any other family activity.
We are a family that reads.
As a family, we are reading through L. Frank Baum’s “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz”. My kids love it. They’ve never seen the Judy Garland movie. So, they are hearing the story with fresh ears. Without the pictures of what Dorothy was made to look like.
What are you reading as a family? Do you read together? What is your favorite summertime book?
I think it’s just about time for a give-away!
Starting NOW you may enter to win one item from my ETSY shop. (It’s called “Inspired Novelties”…all items are inspired by literature and the people who write that literature). Remember, 50% of all the money I bring in from my Etsy shop goes to The Manasseh Project for the whole month of July.
Here’s how you enter.
1. Comment on this blog post answering the questions above.
2. Subscribe to this blog to get it in your email box (look to the right of this post). Leave a comment telling me you subscribed.
3. Share this post on Facebook. Tag me in the post so I see that you did it!
4. “Like” me on Facebook by visiting HERE. If you already like me there, tell me in a comment below.
5. “Pin” one of the items from Inspired Novelties on your Pinterest board. Add the link to that pin in a comment.
BONUS! Here’s a shameless plug. I’m trying to raise as many funds as I can for The Manasseh Project. So…if you purchase something from my Etsy shop, you will get 5 bonus points toward winning a free item. You can’t beat that. If you have already purchased something this month (July, 2012), leave a comment reminding me and you will get the 5 bonus points. That’s 5 extra points for each purchase. Not too shabby.
Ready? Go!
The winner will be announced on Wednesday. You have from now until Tuesday, July 17 at 11:32 pm to enter.
I’ll Be Watching You
When I was a kid, I loved staring at people. Problem was, my mom told me that it was rude. (To be fair, I’ve taught my kids that, too). Pity. So many interesting people in the world. So many stories to tell about them. Or at least stories to make up.
Seriously.
Don’t believe me?
Let me tell you about some of the people I saw on our latest trip to the zoo.
-A BIG Braveheart looking dude with tattoos of “Where the Wild Things Are” on his calves and big old gauges in his ears. That’s not the interesting part. It was the barrette and camouflage kilt. No. I didn’t ask if he was a true Scotsman (if you don’t know what that means, ask your mother).
-A zoo keeper who was, at the time, feeding the penguins (who were singing with joy at his delivery of fish). A calm man, this zoo keeper. He whispered to the happy birds. Pointing them to the spot where he meant to feed them. Amazingly, the went where he pointed. After he sat with them surrounding him, he seemed to coo at them as he handed them each fish after fish. What a job. Right?
-A man in the frog exhibit who, seriously, was very happy to be there. His Kermit the Frog t-shirt said it all.
-A tall woman who spoke to the bears as if they were her best friends. Asking them what they ate for lunch. If they were to warm. If they didn’t just want to get into their water and swim around for a bit. The bear whisperer.
-The young woman wearing sweat pants (SWEAT PANTS IN A DROUGHT????) and walking with quite the…ahem…hip swaying. On the tukhus, it read “Good” on one side and “Luck” on the other.
I could go on.
I just love watching people. Observing them. Staring at them.
Yes. It does sound creepy. Right?
But it’s how I find characters. How they laugh. Or hold their cigarette. How they talk to a friend, family member, significant other. If they hold the hands of their kiddos or let them run independently. How they flip their hair when looking for attention. And on. And on. On and On.
I’ve been known to stalk interesting people in the grocery store (the inspiration for one story). Or to wear my dark sunglasses so that my subjects have no idea they are being observed.
Okay.
I admit it.
That does sound creepy.
But it is necessary.
Flannery O’Connor (one my writing heroes) once said, “The writer should never be ashamed of staring. There is nothing that does not require his attention.”
Well. Now you know.
If you catch me staring, I’m finding a new character.
Beware. 🙂
Drought — Short Fiction
The sun scorched grass prickled in her bare feet. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. As she walked across the yard. Just a couple steps to the fence. To the shady spot under the old tree. She never could remember what kind of tree it was. Just knew it was big. And that when it stormed she feared it would topple down and crash into the roof of her house.
“Storm,” she thought. “Wouldn’t mind a good storm.”
Some kind of bug landed on her foot. She kicked her foot in the air to make it hop away. Locust or grasshopper. She never cared to know the names of insects. Never mattered much to her.
“Ain’t been no rain round here in so long,” she said out loud. Hearing her own voice caused her to start a little. It’d gotten so deep and rough over the years. “All that smokin’ makin’ me sound like a man.”
Holding the pack of cigarettes in her hand, she tapped the hard box on it’s head against the meat of her hand. One-two-three. One-two-three. One-two-three. Pulled the tab and ripped the plastic off. Peeled off the foil from inside the box. Grabbed one cigarette by the filter with her long fingernails. She felt the paper between her lips. Dry lips. Everything dry. Brittle. Flicked her lighter and inhaled.
“Too dang hot out here to be smokin’.” She pulled on it again. Licked her lips with a dry tongue. “Ain’t had no rain.”
There she stood. Under that old tree that she couldn’t identify. Kicking at bugs whose names she didn’t know. Smoking cigarette after cigarette. Listening to the sounds of cars on the highway.
After awhile, she didn’t know how long, the sounds of neighbors disturbed her smoke time. A radio turned up far too loud. Playing Country Western music.
“Don’t make no sense to me,” she said out loud. “Dang music just sound like noise. Ain’t nothin’ like what I always played. Give me them honky tonk songs any old day.”
She couldn’t remember any of the songs. Didn’t know the names of the musicians. Just hummed a tune. But didn’t know how she knew it.
Splash. Scream. Giggle. Yell.
“Dang that pool.” She tossed her cigarette butt to the ground. Watched the thin ribbon of smoke as it went out. “All them kids make me crazy when they’re in that thing. Waste of water if you ask me.”
Sploosh. Crash. Laugh. Cry.
“Here we’re in a drought and they use up all our water in their dang pool. So them kids can just look at each other in their bathin’ suits.”
She stooped to pick up her cigarette butts. Careful to keep them from marking up her shirt with ash. Held them in the palm of her hand.
“Hey,” yelled one of the kids. “Watch this!”
Smack. Laughter. Cheers.
“Morons,” she grumped.
***
She stood at the kitchen counter. Needed to eat something. The doctor told her she couldn’t skip meals anymore. No matter how she felt.
“Too hot for eatin’,” she said, cutting into a tomato. “And all I got to eat is a dang store boughten tom. Can’t even grow nothin’ in my garden. Too dry this year.”
Bright, red slices on her plate. Thick mayonnaise dolloped on top. She sat down at the table. Brushed aside a few crumbs from breakfast. Or maybe dinner the night before. Ate her lunch with the background sounds of the kids in the pool. It made her feel lonely.
Turned on the T.V. Watched her stories, she called them. Soap Operas. Sat in her easy chair and tried to resist smoking. She hated for her house to smell like an ashtray.
“Stephan,” the girl on the screen with the white blond hair said, writhing at the man. “Our love may be forbidden, but it doesn’t make it any less real.”
“I know that, Lindsay,” the man said, turning from her and facing the screen. “Don’t you think I know that? It’s the only thing I know.”
She sat in her easy chair, sighed, shook her head. Imagined that his words were all for her. That his arms wrapped around her. Held her tight. That he took her to bed. Kissing her passionately.
But that was where the fantasy ended. Where the scene in the Soap Opera ended. She seemed blocked from what happened next.
What had happened? That one time. With…what was his name?
“What was his name?” she asked the T.V. “Seems I can’t remember no one’s name.”
She remembered the baby, though. Didn’t want to. Turned up the T.V. to drown it out. That baby. The one she didn’t get to keep.
“Lindsay, run away with me,” Stephan said, holding her. Touching her blond hair. “We could just disappear. No one would need to know where we went.”
“I can’t, Stephan.” She turned her head away from him. “I would lose everything.”
“Lindsay. I love you.” Dramatic music. Fade to dark. Commercial.
“Sick of washing your dishes before you wash your dishes?” the announcer asked.
She got out of her easy chair. Grabbed her pack of cigarettes and sat on the front porch. Lit up. Watched the cars drive past. Thought about her baby.
The baby. The one who never grew right. Came out already broken. She never did get to hold him. Or her. She didn’t remember. Had she even named the baby? Would she ever know?
The kids from the swimming pool walked by. Took up the whole middle of the road. Cars had to stop and wait for them to move to one side. Bare feet on concrete. Must have been hot. One of the girls looked over. Smiled at the woman. Waved at her.
The woman inhaled the cigarette smoke. Held it in. Tried to smile a little. Blew the smoke out her nose.
“Maybe my baby was a girl,” she thought.
The kids passed by. She heard Stephan and Lindsay talk again. Heavy music underscored their voices.
Made her lonely. Not having anyone to talk to.
“Been so dang dry,” she mumbled. Put out her cigarette against the porch.
The day her baby was born, it rained. She didn’t know why she remembered that. But it rained hard against the window of her hospital room. She’d watched it between contractions and pushing. Dark clouds. Bright lightning clashes.
After the baby came out the room got quiet. No rushing around of the nurses. No congratulations. No crying baby. Nothing.
“Wish we could get some rain.” She shook her head. Closed her eyes. Lit another cigarette. “Just need a little rain.”
Lindsay screamed from the T.V. inside. Screamed Stephan’s name. Over and over.
“But I loved him!” she screamed. “How could you?”
The baby’s face didn’t look like a face. Flesh. Formed wrong. She couldn’t even hold the baby. Couldn’t stand it. Had she cried? Screamed? Shook a fist at God and asked why? She didn’t know. Couldn’t remember.
“I loved that baby,” she whispered.
Flicked the ash off her cigarette. The black and gray fell into her dried up rose bushes. She stared at it. The way it looked like dust on the browned petals. The way the blooms hung their heads.
“Just wish it would rain a little.” She pulled on the cigarette again. “Here all the flowers is dyin’ off and them neighbor kids fill up that big old pool with water. Don’t make no sense.”
Soft, flowing music played from the T.V.
“Farewell, my love,” Lindsay said. Voice thick with the grief. “I knew we could never be together in life. But perhaps in death.”
The music intensified.
The girl came walking back down the sidewalk. The one that waved and smiled. Still wearing her bikini. But she came alone. Holding two ice cream cones.
“Hey, there,” the girl called to the woman. “Sure is hot today.”
“Sure is.” The woman shoved the ash end of the cigarette into the porch.
“You want some ice cream? I got some for you.”
“I guess so.”
The girl walked across the front lawn. Handed the woman a cone.
“I hope you don’t mind vanilla.”
“That’s okay.”
“I didn’t know what kind you would want.”
“I like it just fine.” The woman licked where the ice cream was melting. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The girl looked at her. Smiled.
“You wanna sit here?”
The girl sat down. Too close to the woman. Their legs touched.
“My name’s Harmony. Like the music thing.”
The woman nodded.
“I live down the road,” Harmony said. “You know, the little peach colored house. We just moved in last month.”
“I know the house.”
“My friends? The ones I was with? Well, they told me you don’t have people that stop by much.”
“Yup.” The woman licked her ice cream. “Don’t have nobody visit much.”
The two sat on the porch. Eating ice cream. Biting into the sugar cone. The sound from the T.V. in the background. When she finished, the woman pulled a cigarette from her pack.
“Don’t suppose you smoke, do ya?” she asked, lighting. “Cause if you do I’d let you have one.”
“I’m not old enough.”
“Right. That’s right. You ain’t.”
Harmony finished her ice cream. Looked at the woman and smiled.
“It was nice meeting you,” she said. “See you later.”
“Yup. See ya around.” The woman watched Harmony walk down the sidewalk toward the peach house down the street.
She felt a drop of rain on her foot.
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