Open Mouth and Insert Foot

Before I dedicated my mornings to writing, I woke to Live! with Regis and Kelly. Legendary showman Regis Philbin routinely bantered with his energetic, down-to-earth co-host, Kelly Ripa. The pair spent weekday mornings sharing the details of their ordinary moments and extraordinary lifestyles. They rehashed what they did the night before, described where they ate and which Broadway show they had seen, and revealed how they handled common family concerns. Additionally, they offered sports commentaries and kept viewers abreast of the latest breaking news. In as much as Seinfeld was plugged as “a show about nothing,” I considered Live! with Regis and Kelly to be a show about anything. I was impressed with the hosts’ ability to simply talk to one another while multitudes of people tuned-in to hear their dialogue. For years I was entertained as I watched the pair interview guests and converse with ease over just about any topic that came to mind. They had a talent that I admired and a skill that I never mastered.

Speaking in front of even a small audience of friends has repeatedly proven to be against my better judgment. I’ve learned through wobbly knees, rapid heartbeats, trembling hands and a quavering voice that I’m among those suffering from a fear of public speaking. Luxuriously, I dodge the podium as much as possible. Unfortunately, there are some casual, unavoidable social settings, which make me uncomfortable too. I’m afraid that I may say something that doesn’t make sense or that could be taken in a way I don’t intend.

My worst fears were realized during a recent visit to my husband’s workplace. Of all people, he knows that my thoughts may evolve into untrustworthy utterances. He’s witnessed them, unscreened and with just enough whimsy to embarrass me, leaping from my mouth. Yet despite his understanding of my quirky nature, he bravely took me around to say hello to some of his co-workers.

First, I asked one woman if she had been to lunch yet. Under normal circumstances, that would have been an innocent question. My husband and I were, after all, on our own way out to eat. It was the topic on my mind. But before I could take the question back, I remembered that my husband had rescheduled a business lunch meeting, with this woman and another co-worker, so that he could take me out that day instead. Ugh! I received an awkward stare and flat response from the woman that, no, she hadn’t been to lunch. At which point, I probably should have invited her to go with us, but I wasn’t picking up on any warm and loving vibrations. Redirect: “So, are you ready for the holidays…?”

Moving on, slowly behind my husband, I resisted the urge to drop to all fours, tuck my tail between my legs, and bolt for home. Instead, I followed his direction and was led to meet and greet more people. I gained a little confidence when someone I knew joined us on our quest to minimally disrupt the diligent as we paraded throughout the building. I should have anticipated, however, that the sense of safety provided by larger numbers couldn’t protect against self-inflicted torture.

We found friendly and familiar Andy sitting inside his office. He’d worked with my husband for years, but I hadn’t had many opportunities to interact with him. Spying family photos on a ledge, I walked towards them to have a better look at Andy’s young children. An adorable girl about the age of five was clearly his daughter. She looked so much like him. My brain processed what I knew of Andy and came to rest on the fact that he had both birth and adopted children. Before I could form a more constructive statement, I heard myself blurt, “Oh, she’s so cute! Is she your daughter?”

I swear there was no inflection on “your,” and I think I could have recovered from that question. But my husband, being no help whatsoever, was already laughing and interjected, “Does she look like the postman? Or did that picture come with the frame?” Ugh! I rambled on and hoped no one could hear me through all the noise being made. “I mean, is she from your own loins…?” Awkward joined now by archaic. Darn those Bible studies!

Can’t we go to lunch yet? I wondered. More frantically, I inwardly pleaded, Beam me up Scotty! A moment later, I was ahead of my husband and fleeing to the safety of the elevator. We were getting closer and closer to the exit. I was nearly free from faux pas. Then I heard him quite seriously ask, “So, do you want to go say hi to my boss before we leave?”

Dancing on Stilts

The paradigm shift was like a blast to the heart of me, peeling back the shadows that have long lingered, filtering in the sun and enlightening my mind. It hasn’t happened at the best time. The shift starts to move, its future on stilts. A small man with dollar signs for eyes looks up at me poised to run the sharp and wicked teeth of a saw across my newly born legs. I don’t know which way I’m going but I know I want to get there.

A step forward and I’m racing to catch up momentum carrying me, my balance precarious. I stop, hop and readjust. The stilts are very uncomfortable. I try again when a fork in the road appears before me. Which path do I take? There’s the black one. It’s poured and rolled to perfection, the double yellow line telling me not to cross, to stay on course, my destination is directly ahead. I see a sign adjacent to the road written in gold telling of untold riches dead ahead. The other road is uneven, made of dirt, rocks and clay, the dust a cloudy mass, making the road barely visible. I inch forward and test the road with a single stilt. I watch it disappear and pull back quickly, stumble, and nearly fall.

A sudden breeze brushes my skin and it carries a familiar young whisper. Should I turn back? No. But I answer, sending my voice on the same wind. A sense of calm turns the voice away and I look back to the path. The way is clear. There are large gaping holes and no lines of sight to help me on my way, no signs telling me what might wait for me ahead. These boarders meander to mysterious pockets of forest calling me, small voices daring, beckoning me to enter. What lay in the hidden knolls, waiting for discovery? My heart tells me to go.

Hugging one stilt, fortifying my choice I look ahead before I move. From this height, what I see on the craggy path makes me smile. Letters large and small paint a picture of wild passion. Structures thin and wide made from the trees, burst above the canopy dotting the landscape opening wide the sounds like a hurricane. However, each comes with trappings and danger, my mind spinning with the flux of images, the barrage of letters making my mind spin and my fingers twitch. Are they trying to tell me something? My breath hitches and my heart races but I look further ahead trying to see where it all ends. The images change to ones of hope and love. I reach for them, want to grab hold, and never let go, their light embrace a wish in my heart, each a start helping build something beautiful and lasting.

Then I look down and see the small man. He smiles and I shiver, his small flat and pointy teeth seeming huge as if I were seeing them through a magnified glass. He taunts me. He knows my weaknesses.

“Leave me alone!” I yell, stumble, and right myself quickly, the wake and power of my words causing a ripple in the vast line of trees.

The little man laughs. I make my way to the dirt road.

The little man claws at my stilts with one hand, banging the terrible saw on my tall wooden legs. I wobble and tip back. Bending at the waste, my momentum carries me toward the road. I hold on tight afraid I’ll meet the ground.

If I fall, will I be able to get up again? To find the end of this journey where I can start a new one, it is a chance I have to take.

I, jump, and lift my legs dancing out of his reach trying to flee, kicking him away. In a flash of light, he is below me again banging and banging and banging, laughing. He forces me one way when I’m leaning, reaching for another. I kick him off again and run, gripping tight to the handles of the stilts praying I won’t fall and I’ll find my way.

When the uneven road connects with the burden attached to my feet, I sigh with the reprieve. I am careful. My balance strengthens. My confidence grows. The dirt road is mine and the little man is far behind, but I still feel him watching. My eyes look to the road ahead. My dreams are there. I don’t care that it is laden with potholes and dust storms. I will dance around the ruts and cover my eyes through the storms until I get to the destination that awaits me.

Organizing Your Work

inspiration

“Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple and learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen.” – John Steinbeck

What should you do with the dozens of writing ideas you have acquired from reading blogs and books on writing? If you’re a typical writer, you keep notebooks, 3 X 5 cards, envelopes, napkins, and even sticky notes handy to jot down any ideas as they come to you.

Learning to handle those ideas isn’t easy. There may be apps that will help you stay organized, but I’m a pen-and-paper person. So an app suggestion would fall on my deaf ears – for now anyway. I’ve learned to handle my numerous notebooks and random pieces of paper in a more organized fashion using folders. For example I maintain separate folders for:

  1. Each of my short stories
  2. Character, business, and place names
  3. Descriptions of interesting locales, occupations, and hobbies
  4. How to write mysteries articles
  5. How to write romance articles
  6. How to develop characters information
  7. Plot ideas, titles, and dialogues
  8. And each of the novels I’m working on

In the past I simply dumped any writing not relevant to what I was working on at that time. Never again. I no longer dump ideas, which may not work in one story but could be used in a future manuscript. One phrase from my “Titles” folder with an idea from my “Romance” folder combined to create the beginning of the romance manuscript that I started some time ago. It’s still a work-in-progress. Of course, this story has its own folder.

What suggestions do you have for organizing your writing?

Cruise’n for a good read

Whatzit

by John McCarthy: Twitter – Pinterest

I recently retuned from a cruise along the Caribbean on the Disney Fantasy. Eight days off the grid—no internet or cellular connection—is a vacation in and of itself. One of the best activities during this time was lounging in a wicker chair with an unobstructed view of the ocean. I read 2.5 books of the 3 paperbacks I brought for the trip. It was reassuring to know that if I’d run out of books to read or the ship got delayed at sea, there were more books to be had on Deck 11, Midship at Whozit’s & Whatzit’s.

Normally this particular “bookstore” would not make my destinations to visit, and write about. But everything is relative to where you are. A ship at sea has only so many places you can go. One person’s swim store is another’s bookshop. On first view, the store provides all things for the beach and pool experience—towels, swimsuits, sunscreen, goggles, and more. Everything is efficiently crammed into a space that is approximately 20 feet by 6 feet.

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The single carousel with books and magazines blends into one corner of the store, almost unseen by passersby. The bottom shelves hold popular magazines, while the top shelves showcase novels. Most are romance novels, followed by a small selection of mystery/thrillers. Unfortunately, no fantasy or science fiction was available. One carousel of reading material may seem limited, but when you’re on vacation, off the grid, the choices simply contain treasures to explore that you might otherwise not make the time for. On a cruise, time to do nothing is a wonderful opportunity to try out a new novel that you might otherwise ignore.

If you’ve gone on a cruise, what was your reading experience like? Which ship did you take, and where did you go? Did you bring books or ebooks? For those of you, my wonderful readers, who have not gone on a cruise, it’s time to experience the amazing time of doing nothing—and read.

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Patti’s Mother’s Car Keys

Whenever I had lunch with friends, I used to tell the following story in order to keep the conversation going:

The story is about my secretary, Patti, her mom, Eleanor, and her car accident. Patti’s mom was over ninety years old but she looked as if she was only seventy, with a slim and attractive figure. People passing by stopped walking to take a second look at her and many of them exclaimed, “wow”.

Her hair was colored to a very light brown and in the summer she wore one-piece dresses with flower patterns reaching almost to her ankles and tightened her waist with a wide black leather belt. In the winter, she usually wore black pants with different colored sweaters over a white blouse. Her clothes were not designer, but she was always fashionable.

Her smile was especially unique without making any sounds but spread on her face. She walked on her tiptoes, almost falling down to the ground, but in a sense it looked like she was dancing all the time. Her daily activities had slowed down over five years ago but she never missed 9:30 a.m. mass.

Patti’s mom reminded me of Rose Kennedy, who was a devout Catholic. She had a healthy life and never missed daily swimming in the pool and mass, despite several heartbreaking tragedies.

Her daily activities started after a light breakfast of coffee, orange juice, oatmeal and one piece of toast. Following mass and errands she carefully reviewed her afternoon schedule for grandchildren’s birthdays or their graduation parties. She did not miss even one of the great grandchildren’s events, even though she could not remember all their names. Religiously she returned phone calls from friends out of state and her youngest sister, Peggy, and her youngest brother, Bob. Peggy had a home in Michigan and Florida. Her husband had knee replacement surgery a couple of years ago and was still not completely recovered. She learned that Bob, her youngest brother, and his wife, Emily, planned to take a cruise on the Mediterranean for his 80th birthday.

If Patti’s mother was still alive she would not have been able to sleep after learning that her oldest son, Bill, has just been diagnosed with Leukemia. She would be visiting him every day instead of attending any birthday or graduation parties.

Her activities were not limited to family and relatives. She was very active in her senior circle, played with the bell ringers in the church choir, met monthly with the Pax Christi group from church, played the organ, sometimes went on calls weekly with a partner for St. Vincent de Paul. Until the last two years of her life she was a communion minister at church, taking communion to shut-ins at a local nursing home every week.

The most enjoyable thing for her was to play cards with her surviving brothers and sisters. After playing cards they all shared a potluck dinner with a glass of wine. Another rewarding experience for her was when she served as clerical help during her eldest daughter Jeanne’s campaign for mayor of Troy. She did not wipe away her tears over the late night news of her daughter’s election as mayor. Just let them run down her cheeks.

In the late afternoon her daughters stopped by her condo, checking her medicine, food and necessities. All of her seven living daughters took turns with this. What a fortunate woman she was! Patti made Impossible Pie, Chicken a la King, Shrimp Scampi, Beef Stew, Lasagna, and one of her mother’s favorites, Chicken stir-fry.

Before going to bed she would watch the 6:00 p.m. NBC news and work the crossword puzzle from that day’s newspaper. Sometimes she would write short notes about church and local news to out of state friends and her sons and daughters.

She loved to go to visit her daughter, Rita, in Indianapolis, Indiana. She enjoyed the changes of scenery on Highway 94 West and 69 South, passing by Coldwater, Fort Wayne and the G.M. Truck Plant. In the spring the corn was knee high and in the autumn it grew tall with brown color along with soybeans and Maple trees changing colors. Another thing that she enjoyed very much was having lunch with her daughter Jeanne at one of the local Chuck Muer restaurants.

As soon as they entered the restaurant’s heavy swinging doors with a carved crab on each door, Tom, their waiter, greeted them in his usual friendly fashion, “Hello, Grandma and Mayor Jeanne, and how are you ladies this afternoon?” They were almost regular customers on Sundays.

“Fine and you?” Jeanne answered politely.

“Fine, fine, fine”, Tom said in a rush in order to wait on his other tables. Tom anticipated their regular orders, “Two cups of tea with sugar, no milk and no lemon”. Then he left before getting a “yes” or “no” response from either of them. He was back rather quickly with their drinks and took out his order pad ready to take their orders.

“Just a minute, let me look at the menu today. Instead of ordering the same thing, grilled tuna steaks, I will look at the menu.” Grandma was in a demanding mood and expressed the following without saying a word, “Tom, do not rush us.”

Now Tom sensed that today Grandma and Jeanne had lots of time to enjoy their Sunday afternoon lunch and so he quickly said, “Take your time. I will be back.” He pretended he was not rushed, then he disappeared.

“Jeanne, what are you going to have?”

“Mom, I am thinking grilled white fish and soup instead of a chef salad.”

“And I will have grilled swordfish with Caesar salad,” her mother responded.

“Sounds good, Mom.” Jeanne just easily approved her mother’s choice. They enjoyed Chuck Muer’s bread, fish patties, crispy Jewish crackers, their main dishes, tea and spending a pleasant afternoon together.

Patti’s mother drove her 1986 Olds Cutlas Ciera just to church for morning mass and running small errands within a five-mile radius.

One weekend when Patti came into the office her face was almost as red as a fire engine and she was almost out of breath. I thought she was sick or something terrible had happened. For a minute I just stared at her.

Finally her first words came out, “My mom had a car accident” with stress and almost shivering with concern.

“So, what happened?” I almost screamed my question, but in a split second I knew that if Patti came in to work, rolling her eyes, then it wasn’t that serious.

“She is fine, but all shook up,” Patti continued.

“Of course, understandable,” I responded. “Is she in the hospital?”

“No, she did not get hurt at all.” Patti’s excitement did not decrease as she continued. “My mom hit a city tractor pulling into the grocery store parking lot. I guess that she did not see them as they were pulling out.”

“A city tractor?” I repeated. “What happened to your mom?” I was trying to calm myself. “Your mom was responsible?” I tried to lower my voice but almost burst out laughing and repeated, “a city tractor?” Then, one more time I repeated, “a city tractor?”

“Her car has a little damage in the back but everything is ok.” Patti was quiet for a minute.

“Then what’s the problem?” I filled the gap.

“My mother’s main concern is losing her driver’s license. That’s why she is all shook up.”

Ah, Ah, now I understood. I spoke again to myself.

“Patti, did the police come and give her a ticket?”

“No.” Patti’s answer was short.

“Was there a lot of damage to the city tractor?” I asked.

“No, and my mother’s car only has a scratch and a small dent on the back bumper,” she explained.

“Then there is no problem.” I tried to comfort and calm her.

“But she thinks that she might lose her license. She called my sister, Jeanne the mayor, and asked for her advice and help. Jeanne helped to have the car repaired because a good friend owned a collision shop.” Patti finished by saying that soon “everything would return to normal”.

Since her mother had eleven children and many grandchildren and great grandchildren, Patti has many nieces and nephews. It seems that almost every day Patti has more news about her family, going into the army, getting married, having babies, divorcing, starting a new business or getting a new job. The list is endless. It puts me in mind of one of our Korean proverbs, “The wind never died away at the tree that has many branches”. This is a perfect description for many relatives.

Patti’s mom was driving to church and attending mass every morning again. A couple of months later Patti was excited again and came into my office barely able to control herself. She was lucky that she did not fall in front of my desk. I waited until she started to talk.

“Patti, let’s have a cup of coffee,” I offered. “I’ll just get it.”

Patti started to talk. “Kook-Wha, my mother got her license renewed.” With an extremely unhappy expression she continued, “They shouldn’t give it to her.”

“Patti, she looks so young for her age. Everybody thinks she is only around 70 years old.” While I commented I pictured her face and figure from a few months earlier when she was in our office. At that time I praised her mother’s smile and beautiful summer dress that had a floral pattern.

“But they are wrong to renew her license again for a 90 year old lady. She got her license in 1946 just before her 40th birthday. My mother and my sister, Rita, both got their licenses that summer.” Patti was so agitated in her opinion that I could not interrupt her and she continued. “Our family might have a meeting and take her car keys away from her. Maybe the Secretary of State’s office missed looking at her date of birth and only looked at her personally and, luckily, her eyesight was good enough for driving. She was perfectly qualified to drive (renew her license) in the State of Michigan. She goes to mass every morning. That’s a problem. Somebody else will have to take her everywhere she goes.”

“Of course”, I interrupted her thinking that when my mother asked for a ride, her expression was almost ashamed because she thought that she should not have to ask for help.

“My mother does not know that we are having a family meeting about her car keys. If she knew she would think that her life will be ending soon.” Patti finished her talk about her family taking the keys away.

A couple of months later Patti told me her mother was grumpy and did not talk with her for a few days. Her mother stayed in bed doing crossword puzzles because the family took her car keys away from her.

Patti assured me that the family did the right thing for her mother and for other people. “The family does not want to see other people get hurt because of my mom.”

Sure, that is true, “but, but” my “but” could not make a conclusion. In my mind I saw Patti’s mother’s beautiful face covered by gray clouds and tears running down her cheeks.

Patti’s mother passed away at the age of 97, two years after she surrendered the privilege of holding her car keys, with many, varied, colorful and bittersweet memories left to her children.

* Much of this story is true, but not all of it.