She Who Must be Obeyed

 

I’m

Here she is--Queen Sparkle

Here she is–Queen Sparkle

being subjugated , put down and ordered about—by my 15 pound Yorkie-poodle mix dog, Sparkle. Perhaps it’s the name. If I had called her Wendy or Cutie or Moxie or, well just about any other name, perhaps she would not have assumed the role of the Queen of the Household.

I think her power has increased dramatically since my husband passed away. After all, she had him well trained and then she was left with just me—the one who thought that she was in charge. So now Sparkle had a real challenge on her paws. How to get “mommy” (yes, I answer to that) to do the Queen’s bidding.

It started out slowly. First it was demands to be petted for long periods of time. Okay, I could do that once or twice a day. Now, I get a few minutes off each hour from the petting duties.

I used to like to sit on a recliner to read for a while. I can’t do that anymore. Why not, you ask.

Well, it’s because Sparkle wants me to sit on the end of the couch with her while she lolls around so I can pet her for the required hours of petting. If I don’t do this—she sits at my feet and whines in a tiny, annoying voice. (Thank God I never let my daughter whine like that! H-m-m. Do you think I’m onto something?)

Of course there are also the required walks—I do try to exert some control over that—until she comes up and bends her expressive ears back and cries and vocalizes her approximation of “out.” So off we go for our half hour to 40 minute jaunts while she does all the regular doggie stuff and sniffs every square inch of the route. A few times I tried to encourage her to try to wait a while. Do not do this at home if you have a dog! I have an emergency “doggie –diaper” pad in the utility room for emergency use. Well, it seemed like any procrastination my part was an emergency for a while. When Sparkle would see the tell tale evidence , she would  look up at me with her big innocent eyes , cock her teddy bear face my way as if to say, “Who did THAT?”

We usually top the day off with a very active play session in the lanai which consists of me cheering her as she catches various toys mid–air, runs around—and get treats. Lots of treats.

I’ve thought of getting her one of those cute little doggie shirts and having “She Who Must Be Obeyed” emblazoned on it. But I think she would fight wearing it, and then chew it up. Just like the adorable red dress I got her for her first Christmas and all the bows and scarves the groomers put on her. Sigh.

But when we finally turn in for the night, she cuddles next to me, gives me doggie kisses –and I’m happy to know that I have her with me. Of course, I curtsy before I get into bed—royalty you know.

 

 

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The Ice Queen

 

Pain surrounded her every day. She saw it in their faces, heard it in their voices. Sometimes when she administered medications or wheeled them into a treatment room, she wished she could go somewhere else—anywhere but this place.

Many patients were wizened and confused from aging; their faces like the little apple dolls she saw at craft festivals. Others, the younger ones, were wasted from disease, their faces gaunt with skin drawn over their cheekbones.

She had to ignore their whimpering pleas, “Not again, nurse, please let me be.” At times like that she couldn’t talk, her voice would begin to break and quiver. She never said anything, knowing that tears would overcome her. She feared her tears. She imagined them flowing like a waterfall rushing over a steep cliff, carrying her away. Then she would no longer be capable of healing.

 

At one time she could force her feelings into the little box she had created in her mind. Even when her patients’ bodies seemed broken and drained of all humanity, she told herself that she was an angel of healing and that they would die without treatment.

Now there were nights when she couldn’t sleep, her patients’ suffering haunted her and kept her awake. On those nights she would rise from her rumpled bed and drink glass after glass of wine until their voices were stilled and the pain in her soul was muted.

 

 Sometimes she took out old photo albums. Her favorites were the ones in which she smiled and seemed happy. In a few of them she had her arms around someone who had been part of her life then.  Those days, those people and their names  had faded from memory.

 

One early morning, as dawn lit the eastern sky with pink, lavender and blue, she wondered if ice water had replaced the warm blood in her veins. She examined her hands, half expecting her skin to be covered with a silvery frost.  Yes, she was made of warm, soft flesh. She pinched herself. Yes, she felt pain. She traced the light blue veins on her arms that showed through her seemingly transparent skin. Yes, she was human—made of flesh and blood. Placing her hand on her chest, she felt her heart beat.

 

Tears welled in her eyes remembering the day when a patient with hands like claws had desperately begged, “Just let me die.” The nurse had gently pried the woman’s gnarled fingers off her sleeve and had given the old woman yet another injection. After a few minutes, the woman had fallen into a fitful sleep, and the nurse hoped it would be the last time she would have to push a needle into that withered arm.

 

Lately, it had become just about impossible for the nurse to ignore their pleading eyes, to loosen their desperate grip, to turn an un-hearing ear to their supplications.

 

As the nurse sat in the early morning listening to bird song, she was overcome with weariness. 

 The nurse knew the day was coming when she would have to leave the pain and suffering behind. She prayed that it all would become a memory; and she would have to force herself to recall their anguish.

Then she could be human again. And maybe, just maybe, she would smile. And she would let the sun warm her, and the ice water in her veins would thaw.

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If you are looking for my latest post, “What Not to Say to a Widow,” I am sorry, but I decided to remove it. I don’t want to offend anyone.   I received two messages that indicate that the post could be offensive. That was not my intention. I was trying to use black humor to make a point about being widowed. Sorry for any inconvenience.

There will be a new post in the next day or two.

Thank you.

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War Is Declared

Author’s note: This is a short , short story based on an incident in my novel, Loving Christy. Hope you enjoy it!

 

 

It was Friday night, the first night of her new job waitressing at O’Malley’s Bar and Grille, and Sandy was nervous.

Entering the bar, she quickly joined the staff sitting around a table in the back dining room.  Tom, the bartender and manager, introduced her to everyone.

“Sandy’s going to be helping out on weekends as a waitress,” he said nodding toward her. “So, this is the setup. You and Peggy work the dining room at your assigned tables. Peggy’s going to give you the fifty-cent tour, and show you how it’s done. Right, Peggy?”

Peggy looked Sandy up and down. “If you say so. It ain’t exactly rocket science. You take orders and bring food, and make sure you get the money.”

Ignoring his ace waitress’ cavalier attitude Tom continued, “I’ll show you how to order at the bar. Okay?”

Sandy nodded, wiping her sweaty palms on her pant leg.

“Don’t worry; it doesn’t get too busy until around six. And the rush ends by eight-thirty,” Tom said.

Peggy smiled smugly. “C’mon, green horn. Let’s get started.”

The restaurant soon filled up, and Sandy found herself rushing from bar to kitchen to dining room and back again. She thought that she had the routine down, but every time she went to pick up an order, Peggy beat her to the platters of food, insisting they were for one of her tables. Soon Sandy’s customers were complaining that they were waiting too long to be served. She apologized over and over again and finally resorted to offering free desserts and extra refills on the drinks to quiet their complaints of being slighted.

Meanwhile, Peggy sailed around the room like a queen visiting her subjects, flirting with the men, planting a baby pink lip-sticky kiss on the older men’s bald heads.

Tom called from the bar, “Sandy, here’s your order for number five.”

When She started to reach for the drink, Tom leaned forward and narrowing his eyes, said, “You’re embarrassing us, girl. All I hear are complaints. Maybe this job is too hard for the likes of you.”

Sandy’s shoulders slumped. The pace was so hectic; she didn’t have a moment to catch her breath.

“And how many free desserts have you served? You’re paying for them, you know.”

Suddenly Peggy charged up and began to load the beers and soft drinks onto her tray.

“O-h-h-h, no, you don’t,” Sandy said firmly. “This isn’t your order.”

“Try and stop me,” Peggy answered, flipping her straw-like bleached blond hair.

Sandy elbowed Peggy out of the way, quickly picked up her order, and delivered it to the waiting couple. The wife, a bulky woman who wore knit pants and a sweatshirt with Buffalo Sabers emblazoned on it, scowled and said. “Finally! We could a died of thirst waitin’ for you.”

Sandy wanted to snap at the woman—and her husband who wore a baseball cap with the Buffalo Bills logo. Instead she bit her lip.

“Sorry ma’am, I’m new and I’m just learning.”

“Well, next time we’re askin’ for Peggy. At least she can get the food out before midnight.”

The woman shifted her bulk on the chair. Sandy saw Peggy scurry across the room with yet another tray laden with food.

“Oh shit,” she snapped.  The woman looked startled.

“What did you say, miss?”

“She’s got my orders again!” Sandy said angrily, as her tray fell to the floor. It clattered. Everyone in the small dining room sat at attention.

“You witch, give me those!” Sandy shouted as she lunged toward Peggy.

“Help someone! She’s gone crazy!” Peggy screamed frantically.

Sandy grabbed at the tray Peggy held in front of her like a shield.  She yanked the tray toward her, and the plates started to slide toward the floor. Peggy righted it, and pulled hard in her direction. Sandy countered with a solid tug. The plates clattered and filets of fried fish the size of a baseball mitt became airborne. Both women watched, mouths agape, as the fish spiraled toward them. They ducked, sending the large tray clattering to the floor while Cole slaw, macaroni salad, French fries, rye bread and butter rained down on the nearby tables.

The patrons screamed and covered their heads with their hands. A few of the women held up overstuffed purses like umbrellas.

Other diners sat with their forks frozen in mid air.

Tom emerged from the bar, his face scarlet. Sandy thought she saw a pulse throbbing on his temple.

“What the hell are you two doing? Pick up that mess. And serve these customers.” Tom’s voice was filled with rage.

No one breathed in the silent room.

Both women bent down and scooped up mashed fish, slimy macaroni and limp French fries.

Hours later, after the frenetic rhythm of the dining room calmed down, Tom cornered Sandy and Peggy in the service area of the bar. A few of the regulars were seated on high stools, drinking beers and badgering each other.

“Listen you two. The only reason I didn’t throw your sorry asses out of here earlier is because it’s hard to find help.

Peggy sneered. “You ever think of paying better?”

Tom glared. “Another night like this and you’re both out on the street. Think about it, ladies—there’s only one other job where you get take-home pay the day you work…is that what you want to do? Everyone can be replaced.” He strode away.

Peggy leaned forward and, with her face inches from Sandy’s growled, “I can make your life pretty miserable, tightass. And if you think tonight was bad …well, I’ve been known to send other waitresses home crying for their mommies.”

Sandy wondered if working at O’Malley’s would be worth the hand-to-hand combat in the war Peggy just declared. Feeling the dollar bills in her pocket, the tips she had earned that night, she imagined the money piling up, paying for new clothes, and maybe a car.  Grabbing her bottle of water, she raised it as if proposing a toast.

“Don’t worry, Peggy. I’ll be back and ready for combat tomorrow. Cheers!”

 

 

 

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My Brother Tommy

 

My brother Tommy died on March seventh. He was only 62 year of age—much too young to leave this earth.

He battled cancer twice and had a heart valve replaced about 15 years ago. He survived all that, only to succumb to a virulent blood infection. It seems unbelievable that something that ought to be curable wasn’t. That he fought his way back from really frightening things like a rare cancer and then lymphoma only to die from an infection. But that’s what happened.

He left behind a daughter and a wife, the two people he loved most of the many people he loved. He left behind a family mired in grief, trying to make sense of the unthinkable.

He left behind a grieving community of students and fellow professors at Canisius College in Buffalo where he taught for many years. He was eulogized in several newspapers and on Face Book. His students posted tributes to him everywhere— there are at least three tributes to him on You Tube. They held a memorial service the day after he died. My brother’s legacy is incredible. And yes, it is a comfort.

But the fact remains that he no longer walks this earth. He no longer has his list of questions to be asked. He no longer writes long posts on Face Book, full of humor, literary references and practical wisdom, and music and poetry. He no longer will arrive at a family gathering with a joke disguised as a story. He no longer will meet with students to give them advice and guidance. He no longer will hold one of our baby great nieces or nephews in his arms and coo at them, telling them how smart, how beautiful, and how loved they are.

Tommy will never rave over my sister’s cooking, or ask how she manages to make dinner every Sunday for the whole family.

I’ll never receive an email from him telling me that he thinks I’m wonderful, that he wishes me nothing but the best. That a song he heard reminded him of me. He’ll never ask me how my late husband and I managed to get through Dan’s final illness.

No, his voice has been silenced.

His wit, his love of the people around him, of life, of literature, his thirst for meaning, his love of God –all that made him who he was—is now memories. We will keep Tommy alive in stories that we will tell one another: In the posts on Face Book that are colored by grief, in the tearful telephone calls, in the photos we share, the moments we recall.

Pranks he pulled, games we played, silly moments, a rare argument, tumble over and over again, like a never-ending cascade of snapshots through my mind.

 

My husband’s death six months ago followed by this unthinkable loss, has cast me adrift. I feel like a rudderless boat, floating on a sea of loss, confusion, and sorrow. I am buffet by waves of ennui, too sad to do much more than I have to do. Just getting through the days that become weeks and soon will be months.

I am like a swimmer paddling frantically for the shore. Afraid of drowning in the grief that numbs me.

 

 

 

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The Beach

 

Stress has been the constant drumbeat in my life for a long time. For the last several years, I helped my husband cope with cancer—the first one almost 6 years ago— the one he survived. And then about a year ago he was diagnosed with a second, new, cancer that ultimately took his life. Sprinkled in those years were some other health issues, deaths, and usual problems of daily life. Like most people, I did the best I could to cope.

Both my husband and I loved the beach—I found the action of the waves as they send watery fingers reaching out to the shore to be soothing. It’s as if the ocean is taking my anxiety and pulling it away and washing it out to sea.

Whenever one of us needed a break, Dan and I would head to the beach

Both of us slept better at the beach, and reveled in the soothing sounds of the ocean and breezes. It was our haven and a place we delighted in. We went to the beach because we loved it, too. Not just to deal with stress, but for renewal and to revel in the power of the ocean and the sun playing on the waves, shimmering like diamonds.

We often talked about moving closer to the beach—imagining a beach-bum existence where we would spend days digging our toes into the warm sand and learning the moods of the ocean. We dreamt of watching the full moon rising over the sea; something we happened upon serendipitously at Vero Beach, a favorite destination.

We never moved to the beach—it was a dream unfulfilled. When my husband was diagnosed with lung cancer a year ago, we vowed that we would make that dream come true when he recovered. Alas, that too, was a dream.

I still go to the beach when life gets to be too hard—when friends disappoint, when I am faced with situations that I can’t control, and especially when I need to connect with God. That’s where I feel God’s presence most strongly.

I often go by myself. In some ways, I prefer the solitude. Company would be nice, especially at dinner—but I like to be able to set my own schedule or lack of it.

When I was in Catholic grade school, we sang a hymn that had this refrain, “Shoreless ocean who shall sound thee, they eternity is round Thee, Holy Trinity, Holy Trinity.”

Sitting on the beach, or walking along looking for seashells, that hymn becomes my conscious thought.  And then peace washes over me and I find I am energized to face another day, another week, another month and maybe even another year.

 

 

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Discussing My Novel

 

“…fiction is like a spider’s web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners.”   Virginia Woolf

 

 

I had a unique experience recently. My book club, the Pageturners, chose my novel, Loving Christy to discuss.

I pondered how to handle this discussion. Being a former teacher, my first inclination was to ask pointed, challenging questions that honed in on setting, theme and character development, much like I would have done with my students. Thankfully, common sense prevailed. Thinking back on the many wonderful discussions our club has had over the last nine years, I knew that I should trust this intelligent, insightful group of women.

My book club is almost ideal—everyone reads the selection, everyone comes prepared to discuss the book, and everyone participates. In fact, we rather pride ourselves on our in-depth discussions. We are not one of those groups who agree they liked the book and then order lunch. We meet in one another’s homes, carefully select books, and research the author before we gather to discuss the book.

So, the stage was set.

But I must admit that I was a little nervous—what if they didn’t like the book? What if the smattering of bad language (in context) was offensive? What if they thought I had completely missed the mark with this novel?

I decided to share the interview that I wrote as part of my publicity packet to start the meeting.  Those questions set the groundwork—where did I get the idea for the story, where did the characters come from, why did I write the story?

What ensued was an in-depth discussion of the characters, the setting and the theme. It was a revelation and a joy. My book club sisters had insights into the story that surprised even me. They saw the characters as well drawn and believable.  They had empathy for Peggy, the down-on-her luck antagonist. They related to Christy’s struggles—most of them came of age at the same time. One woman pointed out descriptive language that appealed to her.

It was a wonderful experience for me as an author. I write to communicate—and this discussion authenticated me as a writer in a way I have never experienced before.

When my book club sisters left my home that day, I felt joy and excitement.

Yes, it would be exciting to hit it big—to be a household name and make oodles of money. But, in truth, this discussion was the payback I really wanted—to know that my little novel, a story that insisted on being written, resonated with other people, brought them hours of pleasure, and forged connections among women of differing backgrounds.

 

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My Novel Has Arrived!

My novel, Loving Christy is now a reality!

I know that because there are three boxes of books stacked up in my living room waiting to meet  their new owners. I am slowly, but surely, distributing the books to those who pre-ordered them. (You can go to Amazon.com and download it to your Kindle, or buy it at either Amazon.com or Barnes and Noble.com.)

Evidence of the positive feedback I’ve received from people who have read Loving Christy on already can be found at the Amazon web page that features my book. (Just type in Loving Christy.)

How does it feel to be a “real author,” one with a tangible book to my name?  Truthfully,I have mixed feelings about it.

Writing a book is not for sissies—it’s really hard work and you have to be willing to accept criticism—lots of it. Before you begin writing a book, you must commit to it, because you’ll live that book every waking hour of your day. The book will literally occupy most of your thoughts. You’ll spend hours putting words on paper, rereading them, rewriting them and then agonizing over them. You’ll spend days and weeks and months making your characters come to life.

Then there’s the research. Writing about a place or time that you have never experienced requires extensive research to capture the flavor of your setting.

The plot must make sense—it must be plausible and have enough action and believable events to move the story along. In modern writing there is no greater sin than breaking the commandment to “show, not tell.” That means using dialogue and action to let the story unfold, instead of making statements.

Did I mention that you have to do all of this using fresh language and not relying on cliches?

And you must write at least 70,000 (yes—thousand) words to even try to market the book.

After you have labored on the book, then the real fun begins—trying to get an agent. Writing query letters are a skill, and to make it even more interesting, every agent has different criteria. If you don’t follow his or her criteria to the letter, you can expect that the agent won’t spend even 60 seconds reading your cover letter. All of your hard work is destined for the “circular file.”

Finally,  you have an agent or a publisher!

The real work begins now…

An editor is assigned who will comb your book for flaws and faults—that you must correct.

Eventually, you’ll receive a draft that you must read to find any flaws that slipped though. After that, another draft arrives and  you read the novel again, to make sure as many corrections were made as possible.

Somewhere along the way, a cover is designed which (hopefully) you will like.

Finally the day comes when several boxes of books (which you have paid for in advance) arrive on your doorstep . You look at them and realize that now you must sell them…you must create buzz about your novel!

All by yourself.

Then a magical thing happens, someone reads your book and sends an email, writes a review on Amazon.com, or tells you how much they liked the book.

And like an addict looking for a fix, you find the half-finished manuscript you started. And you begin writing the next novel.

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Thanks to Ginger Allain for the wonderful author page she designed for me.

You can visit my author page at: http://www.squidoo.com/loving-christy

You can order copies of Loving Christy from me at kglascott230@gmail.com.

 

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Happy Holidays

 

Sorry, Merry Christmas people, I’ve decided to make the change to saying Happy Holidays.

Let me explain.

Yes, I love Christmas and believe that it is actually the birthday of Jesus Christ—to me, it is a holy day. One of many holy days that are celebrated during the winter months: Hanukah, Kwanzaa, Winter Solstice and so on. Each day is legitimate to those who celebrate it.

So I think it behooves me as a Christian to honor other traditions, to acknowledge that my holy day isn’t the only one.

I also believe that Christmas has been co-opted by merchandisers and other profiteers. That bothers me, because I think it has replaced the sharing of Christmas with wholesale consumerism and greed.

Now, I do draw the line at calling Christmas Trees Holiday Trees or Christmas cookies Holiday cookies and so on. We wouldn’t tolerate calling a Hanukah Menorah a Holiday Menorah, would we? And I must admit that parodies of the “Twelve Days of Christmas” leave me cold. Using Christmas Carol melodies as the basis for songs to encourage gift giving (which I heard on a Target ad) offends me. Recordings by name artists of Christmas Carols where they torture the beautiful melodies and words are offensive because they use songs that are actually hymns to sell records. I am sure that many of those melodies are public domain which means that the artist pays no royalties to sing them—once again using Christmas to make money.

So, if you are a Christmas person and I know it, I will wish you a Merry Christmas. But I think the generic Happy Holidays is much more suitable for those I encounter in the business of living—clerks in stores, servers in restaurants, personnel in offices. That way, I know I am wishing them well for whatever holiday they celebrate.

Merry Christmas to all of you! Enjoy your holidays!

 

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It’s Trash Night Again?

“Take out the papers and the trash!”

If you are of a certain age, you’ll remember these words from a popular song in the 50’s.

This has become my new anthem.  Our trash  goes out every week on Monday night, and I consistently forget to do this annoying, but necessary task.

This is what happens: I clean up the kitchen, maybe do some laundry, walk the dog, read a little, play a few word games on the I Pad, check emails,  and then work on my writing.

Finally, when the clock reads way too late, I realize that I better go to bed or I won’t be able to function in the morning. So, I close up the house and tell Sparkle ( my dog) that it’s time to go “night –night” ( yes, I talk baby talk to her).

And then, like a thunderbolt in a cartoon, I remember that ( oh God!) I forgot to take out the trash. The next twenty minutes are spent scurrying around the house collecting trash, making sure the refrigerator is cleaned out, wrestling the trash  can and  the recycling box out to the curb. All the while I am doing this, I sing the refrain from that 50’s hit song  to myself.

Then the next morning, I drag the huge trash can ( which is almost as tall as I am)  and the recycling box back into the garage.

Every week I resolve to do this onerous task earlier in the evening. When my husband was still alive, he would sometimes not take the recycling out or not empty the waste basket in the den which contains only paper. I would accuse him of being selective in removing the trash. When I was a kid, I thought that taking the trash out was gender identified—it was a boy’s job, not a girl’s job. If I was called upon to it, I would resent having to do something that  my childish mind-set dictated  that girls’ shouldn’t have to do.

So, now I’m on my own. Obviously I don’t want to live in a house with trash—no matter how late it is when I remember it. So, I do it—like everyone else.

Maybe I’ll remember this task at an earlier time some week.  Maybe it will become  a routine. And  then I can adopt a new anthem.

 

News Flash!!

My novel, Loving Christy is available right now on Amazon.com., Barnes and Noble, and  available for Kindle. If you would like a signed copy, you can email me at kglascott230@gmail.com.

 

 

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