“Hey, behind you,” I whisper to my husband. “There’s a woman writing.”
We’re sitting along the wall in what I’m calling “our spot.” I seem to default here when I come in; the light is good and I’m out of the way from the main path. My husband finished his mocha coffee latte drink a few minutes ago and is checking something on his phone. I glance over his shoulder and see a woman writing.
I don’t know how I know that she’s writing something personal, but I do. Maybe it’s the slouch her shoulders, determined but relaxed. Maybe it’s the slow way her hand moves, the pause she makes, deliberate yet light and free. She’s focused but not intense. Is it a story? Journaling? A project?
I’m curious.
My husband half turns, that way, when you try to casually stare without being obvious. I’m staring directly at her. She doesn’t notice me.
“I can’t tell,” he says.
Neither can I, but it’s time to leave.
“I want to see,” I say.
The exit is behind me; there’s no reason for me to move in her direction. I stand up and shrug my coat on. I make my go-to excuse, and I say it loud enough so that if she was listening, she wouldn’t be suspicious.
“I’m going to use the bathroom before we leave.” That door is in front of me, so I can conveniently walk past the writing woman.
She is writing Thank You cards.
The cards are white, but they don’t have that white embossed shiny-matte, off-white texture of wedding cards. Her cards have Thank You in black, neutral font. The text is friendly and readable, not some flowery script but not a dull Garamond or Times New Roman. There’s a color design clustered in the center around Thank You–flowers, I think–but the style is neither masculine nor feminine. There’s a stack of cards next to her in a non-descript box with a flimsy plastic lid that you’d find in a Hallmark store. It looks like she’s writing with an ink pen, nothing fancy but higher quality than you’d get in an office supply store.
I see all of this in about 5 seconds, maybe 10. Staring can be creepy, and there’s no time to casually chat. I don’t want to disturb the magic. She’s intent and focused and fortunately doesn’t see me staring at her and the table full of notecards.
I walk out. I don’t bother to fake-stop in the bathroom.
I think of this now because it’s April, the month of so many things: National Poetry Month; Camp NaNoWriMo; National Rebuilding Month; Testicular Cancer Month, Autism Awareness Month, and National Card and Letter Writing Month.
I started writing letters to my friend about two months ago. These are notecards from Target $1 Spot. The 8 cards are all the same design with the word “Gratitude” on the front. I bought them because they’re a friendly peach color with matching envelopes.
So far, I’ve received no letters in return and I don’t expect any. I write as if we were talking side by side and, yes, I write them when I’m in coffee shops. These small cards aren’t intimidating because there’s only room for a thought or three, just short and fun. And now I discovered a whole movement.
There’s a campaign calledWrite_Onwhich distributed 10,000 free writing starter kits to encourage people to write a letter a day in April. I’m not a fan of setting daily deadlines; to me, it’s a setup for self-failure if you miss a day. Regardless, I signed up for and received one of the kits.
The six-card kit includes envelopes for mailing–as a papercrafter, I can say that including envelopes is the polite thing to do. There’s stationary with envelope, stickers, a colorful inspiration booklet and a gelly roll pen. I’m a writer. I like paper. I like pens. Any letter writing I do, once a day or not, spreads more joy than if I didn’t write at all.
I’ll never know what that woman was writing or thanking people for, but do I need to?
You drive by an intersection and take notice of a weathered and worn wooden cross poking up from the ground. Around it are faded silk flowers, some tattered stuffed animals, burnt candles, and remnants of hand-written notes that resisted being carried away by the wind. You know someone died in that spot and someone else has been grieving there.
During a vacation to Chile a couple years ago, I saw elaborate memorial structures placed alongside many of that beautiful country’s roads. The shoulders were sporadically adorned with what looked like tiny, dollhouse-sized churches. Some were wooden, but most were little concrete buildings built upon concrete foundations. Inside, there were framed photographs, crucifixes, printed prayers, figurines, and candles. Flowers flanked the outsides. One display was remarkably huge—about six-feet square, with a foot-high iron gate enclosing the entire display. That one was further from the road than others I’d viewed, and I’m guessing it was on private property. Each miniature building I drove past, however, seemed to be permanently affixed to the ground.
In Chile, an animita is a place where people mourn the deceased, petition for help, and give thanks for answered prayers.
I remember that as a teenager I watched old western movies. Whenever one of the good cowboys was shot to death, his comrades did all they could to bury him. If they were on the run and in a hurry, they quickly covered him in rocks. If given a little more time, they dug a shallow grave, covered the body in dirt, and marked the site with a makeshift cross.
People have been memorializing the dead for centuries. Egyptian kings have their pyramids. In India, the Taj Mahal houses the body of an emperor’s beloved wife. Here in the United States, the wealthy erect mausoleums too, although they are admittedly much smaller. All of us will die, but only some of us will plan for our inevitable demise.
In the 1980s, a popular advertisement encouraged people to select the ingredients they wanted on their pizzas by answering: “What do you want on your Tombstone?” It made a normally serious topic light and fun . . . and, in particular, tasty. It was genius. The Tombstone Pizza Company name wasn’t easily forgotten, even all these years later. The ad worked in part because it made us face our own mortality for just a moment while we pondered how we wanted to be remembered. What would people say about us after our deaths?
Built in 1846, William Eddings Baynard’s mausoleum is the oldest standing structure on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina.
Frankly, if we don’t convey careful instructions or plan ahead of time, we aren’t the ones who decide what goes on our pizza or what gets written on our own granite tombstones. Let’s hope that the immortalizing words associated with us end up being written by someone who abides by our wishes or at least likes us enough to say nice things.
You can learn a lot about a person by visiting his or her gravesite. For some reason, that fun isn’t high on the list of any of my friends and family. Rarely does anyone ever want to join me in a stroll through a graveyard. Yes, I’ve actually asked family and friends to do that, especially during travel to foreign countries. Most often, the closest I come to walking hallowed ground turns out to be nothing more than a chance drive-by encounter on the way to some other point of interest.
The one time my husband, his sister and her husband humored me, we delicately tip-toed around the fresh, loose soil of above-ground graves in a church cemetery on the Leeward Island of St. Kitts. We visited long enough for me to take several photos.
An eternal resting place on St. Kitts overlooks the Atlantic Ocean.
When I noticed that my companions weren’t walking alongside or trailing behind me, I realized that they didn’t share my curiosity over the differences in Kittitian burial customs from those in the United States. I saw that my family was lingering near our rental car and I figured it was time to go. We hopped back into the new Honda CRV. Then we accidentally drove over a metal industrial anchor of some sort. After incurring over two thousand dollars in repair costs to the rental car, certain relatives don’t want to stop at cemeteries with me anymore.
That’s one explanation for why I, more cautiously, poked around the internet this month and found a variety of interesting memorials to share with you.
Elijah Jefferson Bond, the patentee of the Ouija board, was buried in an unmarked grave at Maryland’s Green Mount Cemetery in 1921. Eighty-seven years later, a Ouija board collector, enthusiast, and expert, Robert Murch, successfully located Bond’s grave.
Games can’t be played forever, or can they? (Photo, courtesy of Ryan Schweitzer, via findagrave.com)
Murch obtained all the necessary permissions and funds needed to erect a memorial headstone. He commissioned a clever and befitting design to honor the deceased Mr. Bond. Bond’s once unmarked gravesite could have been permanently forgotten, but that’s unlikely to happen now that he has an intriguing monument.
Yet, I wonder: would Bond have chosen to rest beneath a granite version of a game that encourages conversations with dead people?
Someone is bound to ask him, via a Ouija board, although it won’t be me. I don’t want to open that creepy door to the spirit world.
Princess Diana is buried on a private island on her Spencer family’s property. A temple inscribed with her name faces the island. Her brother’s words memorialize her this way:
We give thanks for the life of a woman I am so proud to be able to call my sister. The unique, the complex, the extraordinary & irreplaceable Diana whose beauty both internal and external will never be extinguished from our minds.
I think all those complimentary words would be well-received by Diana. The temple, in my opinion, is a bit much, but she was a princess. Most people wouldn’t expect anything less than extravagance like that for a woman loved throughout the world.
Another ideal tribute honors author Walter Lord. His gravesite is identified by a stone bench, inscribed with the names of his best-selling books, one of which was A Night to Remember, about the sinking of the Titanic. The welcoming setting invites visitors to rest for a little while, maybe even with one of Lord’s popular books in hand.
President Richard Nixon began his presidency with words that were later placed on his tombstone. It’s intriguing that his grave is absent a lofty title or noteworthy achievement. Instead, there’s simply a humble quote: “The greatest honor history can bestow is the title of peacemaker.”
That’s a nice thought for us mere mortals to aspire to.
The land beneath the dome in Jerusalem is revered by Christians, Jews and Muslims, although for different religious reasons.
Covering a rock where Muslims believe Muhammad ascended to heaven is a shrine known as The Dome of the Rock. In Jerusalem, it stands out from all other buildings. There’s no mistaking the ornate memorial, topped in gold. During a trip I took to Israel in 2014 with my church-family, Christians were not welcome within the shrine’s doors, so we appreciated the splendor from afar.
That was okay with me. I had another, personally more meaningful, tomb to visit. This other one, known as the Garden Tomb, was literally fit for a king. Not because it was extravagant or ornate or covered in gold. It was none of those things. There was nothing fancy about this other tomb. It was simply a cold, barren cave with a hard, stone floor. It was a tomb that long ago may have been customized to accommodate Jesus’s body. Some people believe that the King of Kings was too tall for His borrowed burial space and it had to be chiselled and lengthened to accommodate His height. Others more simply acknowledge that the Garden Tomb’s characteristics match historical records of Jesus’s burial.
Either way, this place in Jerusalem is where people come to pay homage to Jesus and to pray. I entered the solemn tomb and stood with my pastor and his wife. My pastor was weeping. In that moment, I recalled the torture Jesus endured before His death. I cried too. If anyone deserved a shrine or a temple, it was God incarnate Who sacrificed His life for the redemption of my sin.
The Garden Tomb. (Photo, courtesy of Chris Bixby)
The grounds surrounding Jesus’s burial tomb are full of flowers and plants, and there are many sitting areas that inspire personal reflection and prayer. Nature’s beauty helps comfort us in our grief. But the stark reality is that we mere mortals die. Those left behind visit gravesites, leave flowers, tenderly care for the little plots of earth where our loved ones rest. We continue in conversation with those departed. Our greatest comfort, however, comes from knowing we’ll see them again.
Before His own death, Jesus predicted, “We are going up to Jerusalem, and everything that is written by the prophets about the Son of Man will be fulfilled. He will be handed over to the Gentiles. They will mock him, insult him, spit on him, flog him and kill him. On the third day he will rise again.” (Luke 18:31)
“Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen!” (Luke 24:5-6)
Jesus has no tombstone that screams accolades. The most obvious hint of His importance, royalty, and divinity was added years after His burial place was discovered. Where a stone once blocked His tomb’s entrance is now a wooden door with an inscription: “He is Risen.”
Indeed. Conquering death is worth celebrating. “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed” (Jesus’s words from John 20:29.)
Exercise is hard work. Running, in particular, is tough to get started. I can find lots of reasons not to get ready until there is not enough time to do it. Yet when I do get dressed and step outside, and run…the feeling I have afterwards is one of appreciation. It feels good to have run a route. The energy gifted from the exercise helps me write.
Writing can be similar for many would be writers. Crafting essays and literature is a dream that many share, but few pursue on a regular basis. The major excuse is “not enough time”, but like exercise, we can find 20 minutes out of a day to write. Also, an added benefit is that one can write anywhere and at any time. There is no reasonable excuse not to write, unless one is not truly interested in writing.
Writing is a muscle that requires frequent exercise. For some, starting slow is okay, so long as the practice happens along a routine such as 20 minutes four times a week or 10 minutes daily. Start slow to be smooth, and smooth will become fast. Ignore the voice in your head that finds sudden interests in doing chores that you normally avoid.
The writer athletes at Deadwood Writers share posts based on regular exercise of word-smithing. Many would tell you that their start with writing was erratic. “Post monthly? Really.” These athletes, including myself, at one time enjoyed watching and thinking, without actually pursuing. What you’ll find in the recent posts game-time displays of athleticism that writers do. The effort and study of words is a constant drive so that each month’s post is smoother than the previous one. The purity of writing, like exercise, is not winning accolades—the purity of writing is to become better at it during each run.
Hope you enjoy the efforts of our deadwood writers. May they inspire you to comment and continue your writing journey.
It really does come down to games, Dominos or not.
This afternoon is my writing time. I’m sitting at a table against the wall under the lamp shade so I have light to type by. I just finished two Americanos, light on steamed milk. The first Americano had a smidge of gingerbread syrup to spice up the holiday season, and the second was just straight up. You’d think I was a serious coffee drinker, but, really, I’m just a novice who latched onto some impressive-sounding coffee name. I feel like I belong here.
Tuscan Cafe: environmentally friendly
I’m gathering my laptop and notebook to leave when a guy and a boy walk in and sit at the small circular table by the window. From what I overhear, he seems to be a Big Brother to the 13-year-old 8th grader.
I’ve got plenty of room on my rectangular table for everything I have, so I stop packing up and pull out my journal to record the moment.
BB leans forward and asks, “How’s the relationship with you and your brothers?” That’s what makes me think Big Brother in the first place. That and the time is now 3:30pm, which is just after school.
I overhear BB say he likes that the boy plays Minecraft, that “…it’s a game that requires you to work as a team.” I don’t know the game, but I feel like I should. I’ve heard it enough in pop culture media. Note to self: look that up.
Now BB teaches the boy how to play Dominos. This is significant because last night I watched my Season 2 DVD set of Major Crimes. The last episode I saw is what I call the Lost Horizons episode. Tim Conway plays the episode’s main character, Howard. In one scene, he flirts with the female lead, Capt. Raydor, mentioning Dominos.
Howard: “I could teach you to play Dominos, but I, uh, don’t have my Dominos with me.”
Capt. Raydor: “I already know how to play Dominos.”
Howard: “I bet you do.”
At the same time, in another room, Lt. Provenza questions someone else who talks about Dominos.
Provenza says, “It always comes down to Dominos.”
So here I am, watching BB teach the boy to play. I don’t know how to play Dominos, actually. I know how to match numbers but not the rules of scoring. I also know how to stack them in a row so they all fall down. Who plays Dominos?
I half listen as I write and half watch without trying to stare directly at them. I want to hear BB explain how to play. The big window gives me an excuse to look in that direction. If we accidentally make eye contact, I can glance over at the bike chained to the tree or the church across the street or the cars driving by on Center Street. I could even turn my head to the left and stare at the long, roomy wooden table that divides the coffee shop into thirds.
Coffee drinks and games: together time
My husband and I play games in coffee shops, usually Yahtzee in various Starbucks. It’s a Travel Yahtzee game we, ironically, bought at Starbucks a few years ago when they promoted toys and activities among their products. We have Travel Scrabble from that time, and we’ve bought other portable games through the years. These are our “date nights” because we get out of the house, spend time together and drink coffee. A long table like that one would be roomy, but distant. We choose cozy tables like this one I’m at or the one the guys are sitting at now.
I miss any Dominos explanation over the mellow music playing overhead, but the discussion of games continues. BB: “I wasn’t good at Tetris when I was young.” Now I have a frame of reference of the guy’s age. He’s a child of the 80s.
Then BB asks: “Is that coffee making you tired?”
Boy: “Yeah.”
Thirteen years old and introduced to coffee. That’s our society today.
BB and boy wrap up their visit and pack up the chunky white tiles into a snap-close metal box. I never hear how to play Dominos, but the game box looks like it was the original BB had as a younger guy.
I’ve seen some people play games in coffee shops. Last week, at Miracle Coffee, two women had a pile of board games, they looked old, worn and well-loved. Gathering their games up when we arrived, they saw us pull out our Travel Yahtzee. We all got talking about board games. They may have mentioned that there is a Triple Yahtzee game out there, a game I vaguely remember, like maybe I had it as a kid. Maybe I still have it. I’ll look through my childhood toy box in the basement.
Classic board games have become “the thing” these days. The box designs look retro, but they’re all too new, looking fake. I believe in using authentic items. In scrapbooking, I use the real photo, scan a copy if it’s precious and irreplaceable. In mixed media art, I incorporate real tickets, tea bag tags, and cancelled stamps. Because of this, I prefer original game boxes that hold the authentic game.
Games are a good thing, old or new, especially if they bring us together.
It’s the middle of November; how are your resolutions or yearly goals progressing?
I am incredible. My NaNo word count is a work in progress.
This is the heart of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), the month where every writer and would-be writer suddenly finds the time to write 50,000 words in 30 days. Accomplishing this feat results in nothing more than bragging rights and the messy first draft of the novel you’ve been meaning to write. How do we make time now when we didn’t have one spare moment in the past 11 months?
The holiday season kicks off, too. If you’re a crafter, the stress of making Christmas cards is here because only 37 days remain until Christmas. To you chefs, the Thanksgiving meal is 8 days away. Other celebrations and holidays are a few weeks from now. What happened to your New Year’s Resolutions?
Oh, right. Those.
Why do you let everything and everyone else get in the way of your plans? How can you change that?
Schedule writing time, and I mean put it in your calendar. Would you miss a doctor or dentist appointment? What about your child’s football championship? Are you planning to miss your child’s trumpet solo at the musical recital? Writing time–or anything else–is a meeting with yourself. It is important, so block that time off in your calendar.
Set a timer for every activity you do, then switch to something new when the alarm sounds. I’ve heard that tip before, and I blew it off as corny…until I tried it. In increments of 23 minutes, I can wash a load of laundry, take a short walk or exercise, empty the dishwasher, catch up on one social media outlet, reply to some emails, or write a few dozen words.
Set deadlines. If you have a project due at work, do you blow it off and say, “I’ll get to it when I can.” There are unpleasant consequences for doing that. If you’re moving, you have boxes packed and mail forwarded by your departure date. I bet you don’t ignore such timeframes, so set a goal for yourself and stick to it. No excuses.
Reward yourself for completed tasks. If you have something good waiting for you at the end of a journey, you’re more likely to finish. Rewards don’t have to be big and expensive. Buy yourself something goofy from the dollar store. Get yourself a bouquet of flowers, one piece of Godiva chocolate, your favorite craft beer, or a coloring book. Tuck individual rewards you’ve listed in sealed envelopes, and choose one at each milestone you set. Surprises are extra-fun. Whatever you choose, be kind to yourself. If this is the first time you scheduled time for yourself and you didn’t accomplish everything, still reward your effort.
Small, simple changes: that’s how resolutions become accomplishments. “Losing weight” can only be accomplished by first “eating more veggies” followed by “climbing stairs at work for exercise.” That’s why NaNoWriMo is successful: 50,000 words at 1667 words per day. You can make small changes now, even if you’re feeling overwhelmed by the holiday season. Take time and test yourself by doing something you love. Write. There’s always enough blank space on the calendar to fit that in, even if it’s only five minutes.
Living by example, come back next month to see how this writer has handled life, the universe and everything else.
Tuscan Cafe
