A Straight Line

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“Damn!” I swat at another mosquito and rub the raised red bump on my leg where a winged hellion has already drawn blood. “Damn, I hate doing this.”

Kneeling on the grass, dirt pile in front of me, garden tools discarded for the minute, I try to remember something. But between the sun beating on the top of my head, the little toad dancing between my shoeless toes, and the itching of my bug bites, I can’t retrieve what my brain and soul are dying to tell me. In fact, I feel a lecture coming on, one of the worst kinds, because it’s coming from myself. If only I could concentrate and get the nagging thought out of the inner reaches of my mind.

I sit all the way down now on the tickly grass, smiling. I’m like that Harry Potter character, what was his name? Dumbledore, or something like that. The high priest of Hogwarts, the school for witches. Anyway, Dumbledore needed to show Harry one of his memories, and he used his wand. I can’t exactly remember how (my memory really is getting bad – should I be worried?) but I think he put the wand in his ear ? and then cobweb-like strands came out, each a memory to be sorted out and re-lived.

Ugh, I don’t know if I really want to figure out what memory is niggling at me. I have that sinking feeling that it won’t be a good one.

I toss my head, shaking away all those cobwebbed memories, and get back to work. So far I’ve dug 30 holes for the 36 impatiens I bought at the nursery. Six more holes to go, but as I stand up to look at my hard work, I realize that my line of holes running down the garden is crooked. Crooked!

“I hate this!” I yell. Henry the dog, who’s been watching my so-called gardening attempts for the last 45 minutes with a bemused expression on his face, stands up suddenly, worried. I rarely raise my voice, and Henry probably figures something is mighty wrong to get me so riled up.

Husband thinks so too. He jogs over to me from the other side of the yard. He’s already raked an acre, pulled up 100 weeds, and planted a dozen herbs. I’m a slacker! A slacker!

“Uh, Pam. Lovie. You need a straight line.”

Okay, that’s it. I will either murder him, or leave him forever, right on the spot. Or both? What was wrong with doing both?

Instead, I watch him, engineer that he is, return from the garage with a roll of string and run a straight line from one end of the garden plot to the other. My holes are more crooked than a bad mouthful of teeth.

I gnash my own teeth and curl my hands into fists. “I am not redoing those holes. It took me almost an hour to dig them. I am done. Through!”

Husband begins to laugh, and I look around for something to throw at him. A shovel? A rake? Instead, I demand, “What’s so funny?”

“You said the exact same thing last year.”

“Last year?” I repeat, beginning to see where this is going.

“And the year before, and the year before that,” he continues, not seeing the glint of madness begin to creep into my eyes. “Every year you race to the nursery and buy exactly 36 pink and red impatiens…”

I glance over at the flowers – yup, pink and red.

“And every year,” dear, clueless hubby goes on, “you get mad at the mosquitoes and dirt and sweat running down your back, and you say you’ll never do this again.”

I am not laughing along with said husband. I’m too angry with myself. He’s right – how do I not learn from my past experiences? In the winter I chirp on and on with friends about how much I love to plant the pretty pink flowers and watch them grow and beautify the yard, and then when it’s time to really get down and dirty and do the deed, I hate it!

“I’m going in to wash up,” I now say to the man.

“I know,” he says. “Cause every year I end up planting your flowers.”

I smile at him then, happy. Because that’s the other part of the experience I now remember.

He always cleans up after me!

Sore Toes

/ roughwighting / 4 Comments

Rejection is one of the hardest things for humans to contend with, I think. (I added I think because the rule is to never end a sentence with a preposition. Obviously I think whatever I’m writing here – it’s my blog!)

Oh, can you tell I’m a bit testy today? I’ve received a rejection from a potential agent. She seemed quite interested in my book: the plot, the characters, my writing style, the ‘suspense’ genre, and even in me, the author. I tried not to stand on tiptoes while I waited for her yay or nay, but my toes were quite sore by the time I received her rejection the end of week 2 (an impressive turnaround from delivery of my 300 page manuscript and response – usually writers must wait months to hear back. That’s a lot of sore toes…).

The agent wrote an encouraging letter, ‘don’t give up,’ and ‘try someone else, maybe I’m wrong.’ Well, I’m paraphrasing since I can’t find the letter she sent. Not that I’m a sore loser or anything; it must be stuffed in the pile by my writing notebooks.

But what hurt was her handwritten addition at the top. “Sorry, I just didn’t care enough to turn the pages.”

OUCH. Tell me I used horrible grammar. Chastise me for using 1.8 instead of double spaced lines. Question me on the choice of the Caribbean for one of the book’s settings. But please, please don’t tell me my book wasn’t compelling. Over the best year, 8 different reviewers have sung praises about my Meredith, and Gregory, and Parker, and all of them complained that they stayed up all night because they couldn’t put the book down.

So who’s right? Everyone. We read what we love, most of us, and we love different genres, points of views, and tones. One of my friends reads only edgy books, the kind where a character lets off a swear word every other line, and at the end of the book, no one comes out happier, or wiser, or better off. Another friend can only stomach romances (the sexier the better); a colleague only reads books of action, action, action. Please, no character development or metaphor or universal theme!

So I picked the wrong agent. I need one who likes the idea of action and theme, of characters who contemplate midst the kidnappings, killings, and chaos. Sweet kisses and lonely lust. And, a happy ending.

For me, a happy ending is a necessity. Otherwise, we’d all be standing on sore toes for a long, long time.

A Renewal

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Back when I was still living in New England and my boy was a senior in college, we decided on a road trip. I had high hopes of mother/son time, but the drive began in silence.

As I maneuvered in the harsh steady rain, my 21-year-old breathed slowly and steadily, sound asleep as the car whipped through the Connecticut highway puddles. We were on our way to Delaware, a 7-hour drive in good weather, to visit my father, Sean’s grandfather. I had been amazed when Sean offered to lose a weekend at college, one of the last few remaining ones before he graduated in a month. When I picked him up from his Boston campus at 10 a.m., the rain began to plop plop plop. Sean had always been a sucker for the rhythmic motion of a rainstorm. It put him to sleep when he was a child, and here he was, no longer a boy, sandpaper fuzz on his face because he’d been up all night finishing a paper, head tilted sideways in a posture of child-like vulnerability, mouth open, eyes closed to dreams I’d never know.

Every week I’d call Sean when he was in school, conversation difficult because the background noise was always deafening.  I could just see those randy young men skidding down the fraternity house hallways like half grown pups, drinking, laughing, shouting at the top of their throats just because they could. Sean must do that to, but at home, he was always just quiet. When he offered to drive with me to Pop Pop’s, my first thought was “ah ha! I’ll have him all to myself. Now he’ll talk!” But instead, he was snoring, and I was holding myself as stiff as a board, hovered over the steering wheel like an old woman protecting a treasure, trying to see at least four feet in front of me as we raced 60 miles per hour in the messy storm.

An hour later, the rain lightened up, and as if on signal, Sean yawned and stretched and looked out the window. “Oh, this isn’t too bad,” he said, and I would have strangled him except my two hands were clenched on either side of the wheel.

“Hmmmm,” I muttered.

“What have we got here?” Sean asked as he turned to the back seat and inspected the cooler I had wisely brought along. Not only had I stocked it with casseroles and a cake for my dad, but also sandwiches and drinks for our lunch on the drive down. “Wow Mom, you’re awesome,” he said as he brought out a ham and Swiss cheese sub and two diet cokes.

“Hmmmmm,” I replied a little more lightheartedly. I surfed through the radio stations, trying to find some music that we both would like.

“Wait, I have a better idea,” he said, and he reached in his backpack and pulled out his portable CD collection. Oh no, I moaned to myself. With my luck, it would be rap or some avant-garde music that I’d absolutely hate. I never could determine Sean’s music taste. One minute he listened to Beethoven, the next minute to Eminem. The music began. Classic Beatles – the HELP CD. I looked at him sharply.

“You don’t have to…”

“I love this CD, Mom,” he said. We both began singing the words out loud and out of tune: “I’ve just seen a face I can’t forget the name or place ..”

“You listen to this at college?” I asked as we laughed with the last note.

“All the time,” he said. “You got me to appreciate good music. Growing up, thanks to you, I never heard anything but the Beatles and classic 60’s rock and roll. It’s the best.”

I nodded my head in agreement.

“You okay Mom? Want me to drive a little?”

“No, I’m fine. Just a little worried about Pop Pop.”

“Yeah, that’s why I wanted to come. I don’t get to see him that much. We’ll just hang out with him, play Checkers, take him to the grocery store, play more Checkers, watch him smoke…”

“You okay with that?”

“Yeah, and it will help you out. I didn’t want you driving down here by yourself. And it gives us time to talk. We never have time to just talk, you know? I’m too busy with school, you’re busy with your work and writing and stuff. I’m worried. What if I don’t find a job? What if I have to come home? I’ll die….

We both laugh here.

“And after four years at an expensive college, I end up being a waiter? I’m worried. And I’m not dating anyone because I don’t know where I’ll be and that’s stupid to get interested in someone when who knows what the next year will bring. You know? Why didn’t I listen to you guys and go for an engineering degree? I don’t know, I wish you’d made me….”

He went on and on. And on. I listened to the Beatles, listened to my son talk like he was 8 again, and felt renewed as a mom, renewed as a friend to my growing up son. The sun suddenly burst through the clouds, and my eyes got a little wet.

“Mom? You okay?”

“Just need my sunglasses,” I lied. And then I listened some more.

 

Silly Love Songs

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You’d think that people would have had enough of silly love songs.
But I look around me and I see it isn’t so.
Some people wanna fill the world with silly love songs.
And what’s wrong with that?
Id like to know, cause here I go AGAIN! ( McCartney)

Way back when, Paul McCartney sang the question that I wonder about now. “What’s wrong with silly love songs?”

As I write my blog and listen to readers’ reactions, I find myself worrying. “Do they think this is all so trite? Are my vignettes too ‘behind rose-tinted glasses’ for this edgy time we live in?”

A good (male) friend stated to me, “I subscribe to your blog. Now I have to read about ‘female’ things.’ Really? Writing about moms and walks on the beach and sunset evenings with a loved one are ‘female things’?

Another responded with a statement about my “perfect life.” Oh no, that couldn’t be further from the truth. But I do like to pay attention to the rainbows in life, as well as the sun peeking behind the clouds, the laugh emerging from the tears, the rip roaring guffaw after a friend’s comment, the comforting hug of a friend, the deliciousness of a child’s embrace, the succulent sensuousness of a kiss from a long-time lover,  the overwhelming surprise over the beauty of a baby.

But what’s wrong with silly love songs? (Or silly stories about the joys in life?)

I’d like to know, cause I plan on writing about them, AGAIN.

And, as Paul McCartney sang at the end of his verse:

It isn’t silly, no, it isn’t silly, love isn’t silly at all.

Weekend Zen

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Weekend S.F. Bay sunset

As the sky darkens on a Saturday night, walk me into the house, put a little music on the CD player– Rosemary Clooney, Enya, Vivaldi, the Beatles Rubber Soul– and let the fresh S.F. summer fog meander through the open window. Yes, I’m beginning to get there.

Make the telephone stop ringing, at least turn the volume of the voice mail way down, turn the oven on 350 degrees preheat, open up my closet door so I can change to my well-worn black leggings and soft cotton lavender top. Help me find my rumpled gray socks, and lead me toward the kitchen. Yes, I’m getting there.

Give me an excuse to make my homemade brownies – my son and his family are coming tomorrow for dinner, a friend’s birthday in a day, a neighbor’s dog is sick — and I’ll start to crack the eggs and melt the semisweet chocolate squares, stir in the sugar, drop in a teaspoon of vanilla. As the sweet smells of baking brownies waft through the house, I feel myself getting there.

Husband bangs into the house, racing against the fading light, washes his white-speckled hands under running water, and smiles. He’s had his Zen day out in the yard, pruning, painting, puttering. He kisses me like he means it, then asks in almost the same breath ‘what’s for dinner?’ I point to the eggplant he’s just brought in from our garden, and pick up four round, red, luscious just-plucked tomatoes. ‘Eggplant parmesan?’ I suggest. He hops once with excitement and runs upstairs for a shower. I’m so close I can feel the aura of contentment surround me like a warm coat on a freezing day.

I peel the purple fruit as I listen to Rosemary sing soulfully about love. I dance around the kitchen with a tomato, stopping short as I see the look of concern in my dog’s searching brown eyes. I slice the tomato, feed him the ends, and know he will now love me forever. Then I dip the eggplant slices in egg and breadcrumbs. The telephone rings, and with a sigh, I answer. I smile, though, as soon as I hear my daughter’s voice, just checking in, ending with ‘love you mom.’ Seconds later, my clean-faced husband checks out my dinner preparations, opens a bottle, and hands me a glass of garnet-red wine. ..we toast – “love you” – clink glasses, and I see the colors change around me – the clear lucid light of reality becomes fuzzy with soft rose and warm ivory tones. I’m there. I’ve reached my weekend Zen, and I take a deep breath and soak it in before answering the call of the oven timer.