Country Bumpkin

I miss living out in the country. Being surrounded with nothing but cornfields, wheat, or soybeans. Having a clear view of a sunrise and sunset. I miss the quiet. The country is so serene and wide open. There is no thrum of traffic at night. Instead you hear crickets and katydids, or the belly of a bullfrog croaking. You can see stars for miles without another building jutting out into your view. The deer are comfortable being watched from your picture window while they graze and their baby fawns skitter about. A herron ocassionally decides to perch poolside - a midway stop to the next pond.

Our current residence is in a nice neighborhood. We're just outside of a village in a fairly simple, mature housing track consisting of three connecting roads just under a mile long. The average yard is about half an acre to an acre in size. The properties are divided up, sometimes by nothing more than a row of bushes. Others only by a contrasting shade of green lawn forming a line between the Smiths and the Jones's. Silence in our neighborhood is non-existent. There is always a dog barking, or a lawn mower buzzing, kids playing, cars driving by. There's constant noise and motion. Because it's a mature development, the trees are full grown and lush during the summer. During the fall, the roads are beautiful kaleidescopes of color. For the most part, every house is well-kept, preened and pruned. It really is a nice area... but it's not private. If I stand out my back door and call my dog inside, my voice carries like I'm yelling through a megaphone. I'm paranoid about being naked in my own house because I'm afraid a neighbor or passerby will catch me in a window. Even I can see activity through my neighbors' houses, wether I'm on a walk or getting the mail. In fact, I know that the house across from us has a tv that's always on upstairs - always. In the middle of the night, it's on. How do I know? Because if I get up to pee in the middle of the night, I can see their window through my window on my way to the bathroom, and there's the tv on, flashing through whatever show is on at the time. The other weekend, my husband was peeking through the blinds at the neighbors because a sheriff's car had pulled into their driveway! Of course, then we start speculating as to why the sheriff is there, coming up with all kinds of ridiculous reasons. Like I said, no privacy.

This all has prompted me to start looking for a different home, which causes so many other decisions that have to be made. We've been so lucky to have village electric - CHEAP electric and moving out to a more secluded area means less public amenities, not only electric, but possibly water, sewer, cable even! Oh, for the love of Pete, what will we do without cable?! Nevertheless, my search has begun for a 3+ bedroom, 1 and 1.5+ bath, 2 car attached garage home, complete with master bedroom and bath, fireplace, back deck, updated kitchen and at least two acres of land out in the country. Phew...really, I'm not asking for much. I just want to go back to being a country bumpkin.

Sundays

I think Sundays have always been my favorite day of the week. As a child, it meant heading to church and then Grandma and Grandpa's for an early dinner. Usually all of the Aunts, Uncles, and cousins would be there as well. Besides eating and chatting together, my brothers and I, along with all the cousins would entertain ourselves outside, no matter the weather. If it was winter, we'd skate on the frog pond out back, if it was any other season, we were out splashing in mud puddles, playing house, running away from the boys and the garden snakes they had collected, or pretending to be cheerleaders with branches from a flowering bush (that I can't recall the name of) as pom poms. We were so adventurous and imaginative. If we weren't running around, we were playing cards or a game of Sorry with Great Uncle Jim, my Grandpa's brother who was always excited when he got someone to play with him.

Sundays have changed since then. Both Grandma and Grandpa have passed on to their next life.  My parents are grandparents and I am an Aunt. Still, the day usually includes good food, thanks to my talented husband, much needed relaxation and time with family as often as possible. There's no schedule, no routine. It's just a day to regroup and prepare for another week ahead. It's the one day of the week that I feel absolutely no obligation to do anything. It's a day that brings back fond memories and offers a sense of comfort. It may be the day before starting another busy week, but to me Sundays will always be sacred.

What's your favorite day of the week?

Things to come...

A sudden gust of wind swept through Feena's bedroom, causing not only the homework on the desk in front of her to swish swiftly to the floor, but each of the six glowing candles she had placed around the room to simultaneously extinguish into fingers of smoke. As much as she tried to ignore these repeated occurrences in the past two weeks, they always had the same effect. Her heart was racing and she'd been holding her breath, finally letting her lungs release the panic trapped inside. Not wanting to give in to the twisted path her life was suddenly taking, she ran for the door and slammed it shut behind her. Tugging at her shoulder-length, black hair, she tried to steady her breathing. She knew she wouldn't be able to ignore it. The longer she tried, the worse her head would throb until she was in excruciating pain. Reluctantly, she went back into the room and slowly made her way to the bedside drawer. As she pulled the worn leather journal from the dark, intricate golden scroll work caught what little light shown through the bedroom window. Sighing, she plopped herself on the bed and untied the velvet strings that fastened the journal closed. Her fingers trembled as she pinched the ribbon marking a page and pulled it open. Just as she feared, another new entry appeared. Dated in the past like the previous entries, it began, Thursday, May 9, 1824. Caleb and I have discovered another carving today. I fear that it appears to be even more malevolent than the last.

Friends

Everyone at some time or another needs a friend to talk to. The term "friend" has always bothered me though. It seems too vague a description. I have over 300 "friends" on facebook, but am I in constant contact with all of them? No way! I haven't even seen some of them since high school. Some of them I've never actually met in person, we just became friends because of a common friend.

The definition of "friend" seems to vary depending what resource you use. Some define it as simply an acquaintance, others someone you have an affection for, someone who you know, like and trust, someone who is supportive, etc. Realistically, there are huge ranges or degrees of friendship. Don't the more important friendships deserve a different word then? I think they should. It doesn't seem fair to call a friend that I have not seen in years the same as the friend I see at least twice a week. They are both my friends. Oh, he's just a friend. Hey, friends, how are you all? Ehhh... <squinching> Even adding "best" or "close" friend doesn't seem to do justice. There should be some greater hierarchy.

In Mandermania, "friends" would simply mean anyone who is not an enemy. Even strangers may be friends if they have no opposition to one another. Perhaps they would be referred to as something as simple as "fa." They're just fa, someone you know, but not well. Then you would have those that you connect and interact with more closely - the friends you check in on and care about, know more personally. Those would be called "fa-la." Last but not least, you would have those rare friends you trust completely and have a true affection for. Their the friends you consider part of your family. Those, of course, would be fa-la-las, as in, "Oh, yes! We're fa-la-las!" and the person asking would say, "Wow! They must really be a great friend because you practically sang a song when I asked about them!" =)

Writing, writing, writing...

The most common advice I've been given to become a good writer is to write something every day. It's one of the reasons I've started this blog. The challenging part becomes what to write about. I'm interested in creative writing, so naturally I'd like to write something that is unique every day or find a different way to describe something that seems very normal. Have you noticed that good creative writers do not write the way we speak? They use descriptive language, they try to avoid cliches, they incorporate as much of the senses as you can so you can "see" what they're writing about. It's much harder than you think - try it. Grab a scenic picture from a magazine (or just one you have handy) and write down the best description you can about it and then put the picture away. Have someone read your description and roughly sketch it on a piece of paper. (Forget about the art skills - they just need to draw a rough idea.) Compare their sketch with the picture. Was it close? (If you are trying this, do not read on until you've finished!)

Congratulations if you did well. Do you feel like you thought of everything? How about:
The time of year?
What do you hear?
What does it smell like?
What is the temperature like? Is it hot and dry? Humid?

Another great piece of advice I've been given is to take note of details. Not just any details, but distinct, odd, or unique details - details that will capture the reader. This can add so much more believability to your writing. It can also add intrigue and curiosity. Collecting distinct details can even give you an idea for a character. For example, let's say you see someone who seems to stand out in the grocery store because they are wearing silver rings on every finger. That may be a character trait. Or, let's say that you're envying a co-worker's black high heels and to top it all off, the bottom of the heels are bright red. Another great detail! One you may not be able to just conjure up while you're free-writing. How about an intricate drawer knob or door handle, the beaded pull on a lamp, a bruise on an apple that's in the shape of bird, a stranger walking by humming a tune that you haven't heard in ages - they can all contribute to creative writing! The possibilities are endless and we all know how eager we are to share weird sightings and occurrences with friends, so why not write them down! You never know, someday they may be a part of the next best seller.

A Mandermania Addiction

I have an addictive personality. When I really like something, it's hard to stop from indulging. I have always loved reading, but my latest addiction is reading books that are part of a saga or series. (Is there a plural for series? Seri? Serieses?) I suppose the Twilight Saga by Stephenie Meyer really got the ball rolling, but before that was Frank McCourt's Angela's Ashes. After Twilight I was hooked on Stieg Larsson's Girl with a Dragon Tattoo, then Richelle Mead's Vampire Academy, and now Robert Jordan's The Wheel of Time.

There is always a sense of accomplishment when you finish a book, but when it's really good, don't you find yourself wondering about the characters and wanting to know more? It's why I enjoy reading so much. It leaves so much up to the reader's interpretation. Yes, the speaker gives you descriptions - tall with brown, straight hair and emerald eyes. A dimple in only the left cheek. But, ultimately the reader forms an image of what that translates to. One that can really change the more you find out about the character. Have you ever read a book and then went to see the movie only to be totally disappointed that the love interest looked nothing like you imagined? Or that it left out your favorite line or scene?

I'm hooked on sagas because there's more. I don't just get a taste and then have to give it up. I get to follow along on the next part of the journey, especially in the case of The Wheel of Time since there are 14 books and I'm only on number 4! I get to a part now and just shake my head and think, Light! Perrin, what were you thinking?! It's another world to wonder about and compare to reality. It brings out the "what if's" and "what's to come?" For me, there's the whole other aspect of studying the literature and how the author came up with such a great plot or character. Where in the world did they get their ideas and resources or the names for the fictional things and places? It's amazing! Maybe someday I'll have my own Mandermania series out there for you all to read. Until then, happy reading!

Not Just Any Ditty

I wish I knew how to play an instrument. My grandpa was amazing with music. He could pick up any instrument and play it like he'd been born with it in his hands. My father and brother play guitar and some of my favorite memories are sitting around with my parents and brothers singing together. Music has always been a huge part of my family life. To this day, getting together with my father's side of the family means good food and good music. It doesn't take long for an aunt or cousin, niece or nephew to start begging for a song. The group forms it's semi-circle, ready to clap and sing along. Most of the songs we all know by heart and those we don't still find us making up our own and laughing at the results. The night grows later and we all seem to have a hard time pulling away and acknowledging the inevitable end to such fun. Alas, the players fingers are raw from the strings and their voices come out like croaks instead of trills.

Music is a cure-all for me. No matter what sort of emotion I am feeling, I can always count on music to aid or contribute to my sentiments. It's fuel, a driving force, it's a calming aphrodisiac, it's a lamenting dirge to wallow in, and I love it all. I was actually named after a song. Amanda, by Don Williams, and when my parents sing it to me, my heart swells. Still, my favorite song is the one they wrote together. Naturally, they call it "Our Song" and it goes like this:

Well, I've been sitting here, thinking of you,
and the days to come
And what'll I do when they get here?
And what'll I do if you're not here beside me
To show me the way, and to hold me
And hear you say, it's all right dear,
There's nothing to fear, it's all right dear
You're safe here - by me.


And I'll say, dear, let's get married
And we'll move away from here
Have children to hold to
And children to scold to
When they're bad
We'll be good
And we'll do what we should
To show them our way


When we're old and we're gray
We'll look back and we'll say
Remember the good times
And remember the bad times that we've had
Isn't it sad to go that way?

John E. Kingdollar, 1978

I love you Mom and Papa! xoxo

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My Heart is My Home

At the risk of sounding cliche and mushy, today my husband came back home from traveling all week for work and I was so excited to see him. We have been together for over 15 years and married for 9 this May. I've heard many refer to their significant others as their best friend, but I often wonder just how "friendly" they are toward one another. I can say without any hesitation that my husband and I are often best friends and worst enemies. The reason being that we know each other so well that we can't slide anything past the other. I know the difference between when he is utterly silent because he's happy and when he's biting his tongue because he's furious. He knows that when I say something is "fine" that it is absolutely not fine and I want him to ask me how I really feel. We both hate being apart and prefer to do things together, whether it's something as mundane as grocery shopping to the more exciting vacations and sight-seeing.

He fell asleep on the couch across from me tonight and I watched the comforting rhythm of his chest rising and falling. This is one time that my husband is actually at peace. When he's awake he is always moving. He's a planner, a worry-wart, the one in the relationship that stresses about the little things. So when he sleeps, he looks amazingly different. The clef on his brow that he constantly furrows is soft and smooth. His long eyelashes are any woman's envy. Hi body is relaxed and vulnerable, not all tense and perched forward, anxious. He's truly relaxed.

It's not often I have the opportunity to see him sleep. Being as active as he is, he's not a napper. Myself, on the other hand, I can will a nap whenever I have the spare time. Have you ever watched your other half sleep? I know we've all had the experience of awing over a slumbering baby or a nest of kittens all curled up, but what about your spouse? Something changes when they sleep. What never changes for me is how much I cherish him. He has become a part of who I am and when he's away my home feels empty. He is my heart and today my heart came home.

Summoning Spring

As some of you may know, New York can be notorious for a frozen, thirty degree day followed by a sunny and sixty degree day. Today we were blessed with beautiful sunshine and temperatures in the mid-fifties. Being mid-march, it would be foolish to assume that spring has arrived. Still, the sound of mud sucking at my boot heels on squishy ground and the bright green fronds of crocus and tulips pushing through the thaw always excite me. The air smells different. The colors outside are changing from gray and white to browns and greens, the sure signs of a season resurrected. 

My mother pointed out the forsythia behind their house tonight, "See how there's just the faintest tint of color?" "The pussy willows are showing too," says my father. Just these small observations make me eager for warmer weather. Spring. Newness. Birth. Suddenly I feel this need to prepare, to be ready. Is this why we feel the urge for spring cleaning when the weather breaks? We're like mother birds preparing our nests, discarding the old and preparing for the new. Are we ready? Is it time to plant? Bring out the lawn chairs, the picnic tables, the grill - thank God for hamburgers and how did we manage through winter without potato or macaroni salad?!

The most prominent observation with this particular change of season is the clear and blatant cycle of life. From a frozen, stark, empty earth - one similar to death - springs new life. The cycle begins again, as with everything. Perhaps it's meant to be a reminder. One that is so obvious that we never seem to notice except to start making plans for the next season. This too shall end, my friends. This too shall pass...

Autumn Campfire

A congregation of fiery flames – the only source

of light in this church of starless night.

Smoky incense of cherry and cedar,

embers pulsing red and orange.

Wood cracks and pops, falls into

vanishing heaps of gray ash, erasing

a history, a life, and I wonder about

my own life and ashes.

Ashes scooped up and heaved into

mounds in the brush near old friends – the ash tree,

the willow still whimpering,

the crab apple dipping heavy branches and

offering bright fruit as homage. The silent

morning after bringing blessings of

rain and a small whisper of smoke.

First published November 20, 2010 by Eunoia Review