tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47047681955289990872024-03-05T04:21:39.848-05:00Away We GoNancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.comBlogger652125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-54204695727384770852012-02-09T06:25:00.004-05:002012-02-09T06:25:48.838-05:00Moving on Up!I've moved, y'all!<br />
<br />
After almost five years at Away We Go, I've got new digs <a href="http://www.nancymcampbell.com/">here</a>.<br />
<br />
Go, on, click on over!<br />
<br />
Thanks so much for your reading and your support.<br />
<br />
New site: <a href="http://www.nancymcampbell.com/">nancymcampbell.com </a><br />
<br />
<br /><br />
<br />Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-29285603726356561132012-01-17T09:31:00.001-05:002012-01-17T09:31:11.118-05:00Title and TaglineKimchi on Toast: Accidental Adventures in Asia<br />
<br />
(The prompt for Remembered this week is to write a title and tagline from a moment in one's life.)<br />
<br />
<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></a>Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-63984546273455898852012-01-10T09:25:00.001-05:002012-01-10T09:25:21.356-05:00The ConfederacyI once had a job that felt like a shrunken wool sweater.<br />
<br />
I was a teacher-mentor, meaning that I was supposed to teach teachers how to teach.<br />
<br />
I was twenty-nine. New to Maryland. And the kicker? I was assigned a school where the average teacher had been at the school for at least fifteen years. <br />
<br />
People ducked under their desks when they saw me coming.<br />
<br />
When I met with my director, she asked me to come up with some professional goals. I slid a piece of paper across the table, on which I had typed, "Grow thicker skin."<br />
<br />
We both laughed. She took her reading glasses off, and tapped them on the table. "It's a good goal, though. You need to learn that being liked isn't important. Nobody likes me." Then, she winked. "Welcome to the Confederacy."<br />
<br />
It was technically The South, so people said things like that. <br />
<br />
Her words followed me, as I made my power-points about differentiated instruction, and set up spreadsheets for staff meetings. I watched the students, engaged in learning, gossiping in the hallways, and lingering by classroom doors, and felt a separateness I had never experienced in a school setting.<br />
<br />
I cried in my office, and ate my dried turkey sandwich at my desk.<br />
<br />
I watched a co-worker teach a lesson, and her energy pulsed through the room. The students forgot to be bored, dropped the swagger, and smiled.<br />
<br />
I cried in my office again, and imagined that in another life, I would be friends with that teacher.<br />
<br />
One afternoon, as I was graphing data from the most recent assessment, I cried. I felt the failure, coating me from head to toe. My skin was still thin, and now I could hardly see it anymore.<br />
<br />
I told my principal, "I cannot do this job anymore. Can you get me a job in the classroom?"<br />
<br />
The following year, I was teaching sixth grade. With thin skin, and at last, a smile. I had rejected The Confederacy.<br />
<br />
<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></a>Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-20552610507480219632012-01-04T23:54:00.002-05:002012-01-05T13:18:11.811-05:00An Epitaph"When I die," she says, "I want it to be a big party. Lots of drinking, dancing, and happy memories." She smiles, perhaps picturing the bubbles in the champagne flutes. "What about you?"<br />
<br />
"I don't care," I lift my finger to signal the bartender. "I'll be dead."<br />
<br />
A frown. "Well, that's awfully generous of you."<br />
<br />
My Newcastle arrives, icy and brown. "What do you mean?"<br />
<br />
She raises her voice, as the bass player begins tuning. "I mean, aren't you worried that your funeral will be all, you know....tacky?"<br />
<br />
I take a draw of my beer. "Once again. I won't care. I'll be dead."<br />
<br />
She raises her eyebrows. "I see. So, anything goes?"<br />
<br />
"Pretty much."<br />
<br />
"Sometimes, I don't get you at all." She studies the bar menu, tapping her fingers against the stained plastic cover.<br />
<br />
I turn to the Penguins game, flickering above her head. At least this game makes sense.<br />
<br />
"Are you going to say anything?" She drops the menu, flicks her hair behind her shoulder. <br />
<br />
I exhale. "About what?"<br />
<br />
"Nothing."She twists her earring, "It's just..." I watch her lip tremble. "It's just that I would be the one planning it." <br />
<br />
I touch her hand, and our eyes link, "And I'm sure you would do a good job. Look. Here's what I want. A powder blue coffin. Chik-Fil-A trays at the reception..."<br />
<br />
I watch her jaw relax as the joke unravels. She leans into me, and grins. "I'll line up the forties. For everybody to pour some out for you."<br />
<br />
"Nice!"<br />
<br />
She laughs, and her throaty music fills my empty space. "As you're lowered into the ground, I will blast 'Don't Fear the Reaper' on my ghetto blaster." <br />
<br />
<br />
"And my epitaph?" <br />
<br />
She arches an eyebrow. "He had to have more cowbell." <br />
<br />
I have never loved her more.<br />
<br />
In my <a href="http://writeonedge.com/2012/01/3-songs-that-inspire-my-writing/">vlog for Write on Edge</a>, I said I would base this prompt on a song from <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INgXzChwipY">The Smiths</a>. Inspiration is a funny thing; it came from<a href="http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/80a71ef8cb/more-cowbell"> here, </a>instead.<br />
<br />
Be sure to check out the amazing epitaph-inspired prompts at Write on Edge. <br />
<br />
<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></a>Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-36051019075632196472012-01-04T07:27:00.004-05:002012-01-04T07:32:00.412-05:00Exercise Dependent<i>I think I'm going to write about fitness and my evolution regarding fitness here on Wednesdays. </i> <br />
<br />
I used to know a PE teacher. She was a cheerleader for a major, Pac-10 University, and made many appearances on ESPN making the #1 sign for the cameras.<br />
<br />
She was also an athlete, with the abs and sculpted arms to prove it.<br />
<br />
Lazy English majors like myself rarely encountered such folk, being too busy devouring plates of cheese fries and discussing the merits of The Naturalists. So, she was a delightful little foreign creature, like spending time with a Hobbit.<br />
<br />
One day, over smoothies (of course!) she said, "Nancy. Don't freak out." Her eyes widened. "But I'm afraid I'm becoming Exercise Dependent."<br />
<br />
I snorted. "What? Like, that's a disorder or something?"<br />
<br />
She nodded her head, "Yes! Like my friend, Becki. She worked out three hours a day, and if she didn't, she started crying. She walked around the Gamma house, up and down the stairs, for hours."<br />
<br />
I frowned. "That sounds like she was anorexic. Or depressed?"<br />
<br />
"She wasn't anorexic. She ate like you do."<br />
<br />
I took another sip of my Jamba Juice, shifted my legs. "But depressed for sure."<br />
<br />
"Yes," she said, "She's <i>dependent</i> on <i>exercise</i>. Get it?"<br />
<br />
"Yes," I said. <i>Not even a bit</i>, I thought. "So, are you depressed?"<br />
<br />
"No," she said, "I just decided to do Pilates yesterday! And I loved it! So, now, I'm totally exercise dependent."<br />
<br />
I bit my tongue, and thought about buying a cookie. <br />
<br />
She watched me, a grown woman wearing overalls, and said, "So, what do you think?"<br />
<br />
I walked back to the table, steaming cookie in hand. I broke off a piece. "Marcy? I think we'll get through this."<br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>(This does not negate the reality of exercise dependence, which I've learned, is a real thing.)</i>Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-27416990710692960552011-12-20T20:04:00.004-05:002011-12-20T21:53:59.169-05:00Draped Like a BenedictionWhile in the bitter midst of his second time out, my youngest decided to tear all the sheets off his bed.<br />
<br />
Walking into his room, I saw the mess, and my chest caved. The heaviness. Oh, the heaviness.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, there's so much to carry. So much to clean.<br />
<br />
I should have made him make his own bed. Or, even better, left him to sleep on a bare, cold mattress. That would be all Love-and-Logic-y.<br />
<br />
Unmake your own bed, now sleep in it. <br />
<br />
Instead, I chose new sheets. The soft, dove-brown flannel ones, adorned with pirates. I smoothed the loose creases, fluffing his pillow, and folding over the top sheet and comforter.<br />
<br />
An invitation.<br />
<br />
I thought of my mother, and how she did the same for me. Soft, yellow sheets, draped like a benediction. My favorite doll nestled close by, waiting for my midnight embraces. <br />
<br />
And so, I made his bed. I wanted him to know that even when he's angry, he will still have a soft, warm pirate-sheeted place to fall.<br />
<br />
<br />Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-82729627467941410712011-12-15T20:57:00.001-05:002011-12-15T21:16:50.241-05:00Fluttering and Light"Three, two, one," I counted out the change, and slid it across the counter.<br />
<br />
He cupped his hand and scooped the pennies in. "Thank you," he said. "Room for cream?"<br />
<br />
"No," I said, "I take it black. Like my men."<br />
<br />
My hand flew to my mouth. A nervous half-bark, half-snort escaped. <br />
<br />
Raising his eyebrows, he handed me my cup. "Surely you can't be serious."<br />
<br />
I rubbed my finger around the lip of the cup. Once. Again. He crossed his arms across his green apron, leaned back, and smiled.<br />
<br />
A challenge. I twisted a curl, and stepped forward. My hand rested on the counter. "Oh, but I am." I took a sip, "And don't call me Shirley."<br />
<br />
I held my breath, watching the words float from my mouth to his ears. They flapped their little syllabic wings. Would they soar? Or plop?<br />
<br />
He ran his fingers through his dark hair; his green eyes sparkled. "Well," he said, "It looks like I choose the wrong week to quit sniffing glue."<br />
<br />
The coffee warmed my hand, as I felt his words. Fluttering, gossamer and light.<br />
<br />
It's good to be gotten. <br />
<br />
"Well, I'll see you then," I said.<br />
<br />
"Looking forward to it."<br />
<br />
I stepped into the chill. The warmth never left my cheeks.<br />
<i><br />(With mad props to the classic film, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0080339/quotes">Airplane.) </a></i><br />
<br />
And, of course, the folks at <a href="http://writeonedge.com/2011/12/red-writing-hood-68/">Write on Edge</a>, would brought this prompt to the table:<br />
<br />
This week, we’d like you to write a post – fiction or creative
non-fiction – which begins with a countdown. “Three, two, one.” You pick
what the countdown is for. The ideas above are just suggestions. Use
your imagination and have fun with it!<br />
<br />
<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></a> <br />
<br />Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-42027427246556702742011-12-12T19:55:00.002-05:002011-12-12T20:00:32.688-05:00Cleaning House"I got off the phone with Blue Cross Blue Shield today, " he says, collapsing into the sofa. He rubs his forehead.<br />
<br />
"And?" I place my nook on the armrest, attempting to give him my full attention.<br />
<br />
He talks of forms and figures, furrowed brows and forgotten details. For months now, he has helped his father sweep up the debris and fragments of his mother's life.<br />
<br />
Insurance. Medical bills. Retirement. He works the gnarls from the knot. He tries to be gentle, but he still must tug. Strain. <br />
<br />
Last Monday: "I had to tell them she's deceased," he said, spooning spaghetti in bowls. <br />
<br />
Yesterday: "The hospital sent a postcard to Mom today, inviting her to a Bone and Joint Health Seminar."<br />
<br />
I forced a smile, "I guess she's not going."<br />
<br />
He shook his head, "Yeah."<br />
<br />
I hold his hand and try not to study his features too intently. I annoy him with my furtive glances, as I scan his face for crumbling. <br />
<br />
I want to dump the bucket, and let the water flow into every corner of her house. I want a flood. An outpouring. A release. <br />
<br />
But he needs containment. Checks on paper, and creased, crisp envelopes.<br />
<br />
He is mourning. He is cleaning house.<br />
<br />
And I am trying my hardest to let him do it his way.<br />
<br />
<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></a>Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-62083512302886739012011-12-06T09:13:00.001-05:002011-12-06T09:32:56.026-05:00Control<br />
<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></a> <br />
<br />
<br />
"Nancy. We're going. Get in the car."<br />
<br />
I took a furtive sip of my mudslide, which Emily had poured into a Big Gulp cup. My stomach twisted as I settled into the backseat of the convertible.<br />
<br />
"Woooo!" squealed Jessica, "That's my jam!" She lifted her hands in the air as Prince's "Pussy Control," blared from the speakers. I ducked---my seventh grade students were <i>everywhere. </i><br />
<br />
My husband had said, "You should go out with Steve's girlfriend, Marcy. She's a lot of fun."<br />
<br />
He would be hearing about this. Or maybe not. <br />
<br />
I took another long sip. A bit of ice clogged in the straw. I wiped my hands on my jeans, and tried to smile, laugh. I could be fun, too. <br />
<br />
"Ahhhhh. Pussy Control!"" screeched Marcy from behind the wheel. We approached the intersection.<br />
<br />
"We're almost here, bitches!" She took a quick left, and rear-ended a truck. A thud. An air bag. And Prince singing, "Better sit your ass down." <br />
<br />
"OhShitOhShit," mumbled Marcy. She was sober, yes. But also an Air Force Airman. The Big Gulp cup rested heavy in my trembling hands. <br />
<br />
The rear ended car drove away, as Marcy paged her boyfriend.<br />
<br />
We sat in the parking lot, the marquee reading, "Home of Thunder Down Under."<br />
<br />
It was to be my first trip to a strip club. But the universe, or perhaps Prince, had taken control.Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-51900775827363072082011-11-28T22:18:00.001-05:002011-11-28T22:54:39.397-05:00UncoiledHe tenses before the starting line, all forty pounds of him. Fiddling with the safety pins attaching his race number to his track suit, he shifts from the front to the back of his feet.<br />
<br />
My son is five years old, and about to compete in his first road race---a turkey trot. One whole mile. And I am running with him.<br />
<br />
With a shot of a gun, we start. "Keep your pace," I remind him, "Not too fast, not too slow."<br />
<br />
"Okay, Mommy," he says, his fists curled into tight little clamshells, his arms pumping with each step.<br />
<br />
We press forward. <br />
<br />
He reaches for my hand, "My legs are getting tired." He coughs as the road crests like a wave. <br />
<br />
"Just keep going," I say. "We're almost to the top. And you know what comes next?"<br />
<br />
"What?"<br />
<br />
I squeeze his hand, "You get to race me back home. Maybe you'll even beat me."<br />
<br />
He grins, and we round the corner. "Okay, Buddy," I say, "It's all you."<br />
<br />
I expect him to take off, fueled by fearlessness. Instead, he lets go of my hand, and strides besides me. "Do you want to race?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"No," he says, "I want to finish with you."<br />
<br />
We run through the final corridor, alive with whistles and cheers. He gazes from one side to the other, smiling. Uncoiled, like a loose spring.<br />
<br />
Our feet stamp across the finish. They drape a medal around his neck.<br />
<br />
He looks up from our hug, and says, "Okay, Mom. Now it's your turn to race."<br />
<br />
I line up once more, and run five more miles. For him. For me. For our tomorrows.<br />
<br />
<i>Some say a photograph steals the soul. This week, show us yours: take us
into the moment that photograph was taken. Show us who you were then
and what the photograph means–in 300 words.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>There are many pictures of me running. I like to think that my son watched me compete, watched his father run marathons, and learned that running is just what people do. The pics from <a href="http://npoj.blogspot.com/2011/05/playing-in-mud-and-making-more.html">this post </a>may have inspired him. </i><br />
<br />
<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-76110792571038599492011-11-15T01:17:00.001-05:002011-11-15T07:23:04.310-05:00Ponderous and StrangeThe baby folded into me, her breath soft against my neck. Little grunts and pink-fleshed fingers, ponderous and strange.<br />
<br />
Her mother smiled, "You're a natural."<br />
<br />
I raised my eyebrows, "I don't know." I held my breath as I shifted my feet, "I'm not sure I'm a baby person."<br />
<br />
"I don't believe that for a second," she said, "When are you going to have one of your own?"<br />
<br />
I glanced at Paul, at his long graceful fingers as he sliced the onions for the stuffing. So meticulous. Never rushed, "Well," I sighed, "If I could guarantee that my kids would be just like him, then I would have them tomorrow."<br />
<br />
She frowned. "You're pretty great, too."<br />
<br />
Images sprouted from the silence. Of crying jags and Zoloft. Heaviness. Yearning to fade into the sheets, soundless and insubstantial.<br />
<br />
Her baby nestled against my sweater. "I've had a hard year. I really miss Arizona. I hate my job. I've been---" I used the official terminology, "struggling with depression."<br />
<br />
She placed her hand on my knee. "That's hard."<br />
<br />
I blinked, fighting the waves that came in such ferocious bursts. "Yup."<br />
<br />
"But, Nancy?" I gazed into her eyes. "Aren't you glad that you were born?" <br />
<br />
Inhaling the softness of that head, I couldn't help but say the truth, "Oh, yes. Most of the time, yes."<br />
<br />
A year later, she held my newborn son in her arms.<br />
<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></a>Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-49743482715900618522011-11-10T10:36:00.000-05:002011-11-10T15:44:16.522-05:00Red Writing Hood: Snow Day<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>We're doing dialogue this week for <a href="http://writeonedge.com/">Red Writing Hood.</a> Here's the latest edition from Janie, my teenage superhero. This week, she's talking to her mother about her newly discovered powers. </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I begin tugging at a hard piece of skin, waiting
for it to yield and give. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Stop that,” Mom says, without looking my way. She slows to
a red light. “So, I got my first power when I first turned 14. Just like you.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She says it matter-of-factly, as if saying, “I
got a peppermint mocha at Starbucks.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Go on,” I say. “What
is it?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She flinches. “I don’t have a power any more. But I used to
control the weather.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I choke on my Diet Pepsi. “Shut UP!” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She tucks a stray
hair behind her ear. “You know how you
wear your pajamas inside out when you want a snow day?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“And put a spoon under the bed,” I add. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She frowns, “Never heard of that one. Anyway, I had a huge
report due. On Margaret Sanger.” She pokes me in the shoulder. “The founder of
Planned Parenthood?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Okay, Mom. Whatever
you say.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“I have failed as a feminist.” She pulls into the parking lot of Chiptole,
shaking her head. “Failed. You really don’t know who she is?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“MOM!” I screech. “I don’t care!” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Watch yourself,” she says. “So, I hadn’t done any research.
No note cards. No trips to the library. Nothing.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Why didn’t you just go to Wikipedia?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She ignores me. “The project was due the next day. It wasn’t
happening, and your grandmother would murder me if I came home with a F.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Grandma spent her days shooting chipmunks from her back
porch. Mom wasn’t exaggerating. I
gulped. “What did you do?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The only reasonable solution. I went to bed, and told the
skies to bring a snowstorm to cancel school. And I wore my pajamas inside out. ” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I snort. “I’m sorry Mom. You grew up in Wisconsin. That’s all it ever
does--snow.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, Janie. Normally that would be true.” Her voice turns
to a whisper. “But it was almost Memorial Day. And it only snowed in Mill River. They were swimming in the river the next town over.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
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I open my mouth, and close it again. “Global warming?” I squeak. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“No,” she says. “And honey? That was only the beginning."<o:p></o:p></div>Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-83996686067327787442011-11-09T19:50:00.002-05:002011-11-09T19:50:51.551-05:00RefillingSo, we got a dog.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39V7UdlECsv5X06lt9R-f_DmaAp6iT8Kji9fNTSd81aP8EGDQoAxQ-W0N1IK36r-nYyioU4mpHrTzxEDC6B9tt7FVDhep7NcGl-mvZmB4ANX0hb6CuWKS3I981IROyYkxO_lJP4urkeQ/s1600/IMG_1125.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39V7UdlECsv5X06lt9R-f_DmaAp6iT8Kji9fNTSd81aP8EGDQoAxQ-W0N1IK36r-nYyioU4mpHrTzxEDC6B9tt7FVDhep7NcGl-mvZmB4ANX0hb6CuWKS3I981IROyYkxO_lJP4urkeQ/s320/IMG_1125.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Her name is Eucy. It's short for Eucalyptus.<br />
<br />
Why now? Because when I drove from place to place, I yearned.<br />
<br />
This year has been so hard for our family. Full of joys, yes. But, yet, even in the times when my belly ached from laughter, I felt pinpricks of guilt, reminders that things were not as they should be.<br />
<br />
After my mother-in-law died, I dreamed of a velvety head. I wanted something pure and soft and warm to love. A fresh, furry start.<br />
<br />
And now? My heart is refilling. When I watch the boys race around the backyard, red-faced and exuberant, I smile. And in the evening hours, I rub her belly and listen to her soft, grunty sighs.<br />
<br />
My heart sprouts from the darkness. Verdant. Persistent. Facing the future, with a new leash on life.<br />
<br />
<br />Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-42574181714676546792011-11-03T22:33:00.002-04:002011-11-04T08:03:39.902-04:00Returning<br />
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<o:p><i>For this week's <a href="http://www.writeonedge.com/">Write on Edge</a> prompt, I thought I would share Janie's<b> </b>musings about her mother. Janie is my<a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/"> NaNoWriMo </a>protagonist. </i></o:p></div>
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<i><a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></a></i></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p><br /></o:p></b></div>
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Each morning, while the rest of the world orders their
lattes and updates their status reports, my mother returns to the womb. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She tucks her hair into a ponytail, and scrubs her hands
until they tingle. Next, she rubs in the sanitizer, feeling the burn in each
parched cuticle. The latex gloves seal
the remaining world off with a single, practiced snap. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The doors whish; she enters. Pressing her face against each artificial womb, she greets the babies by name. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Keston. 29 weeks, 2 pounds. Intubated. Miranda. Group B Septis. Gregory. The surviving twin. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She holds their translucent, paper-thin fingers, and speaks of moon bounces, sunsets, and peppermint ice cream. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As she exits the hospital, she whispers each name, so
the stars will hear them, and know that they were real. <o:p></o:p></div>Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-82029111423763904422011-10-30T19:04:00.000-04:002011-10-30T19:05:37.484-04:00The Majesty of West African Peanut Soup<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><i>I posted this almost exactly a year ago. This week's<a href="http://writeonedge.com/"> RemembeRed</a> seemed like a good fit, as we're talking about memory and recipes. </i></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><i><br /></i></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><i><a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></a></i></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><i><br /></i></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">The boys and I went hiking today. The woods burst with little fireworks of wonder. We saw bald eagles. Grasshoppers. We collected leaves in a little bag, We held our breath and listened to the wind and the trees as they whispered their wisdoms.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">The kids hardly complained. This, in itself, is a revelation.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Later, I dropped off soup for my friend. She is having a baby tomorrow. How odd to write such momentous words so matter-of-factly.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">She has a secret comet. For months, she's been watching it with open-mouthed wonder, as it illuminates the sky, leaving a silken trail of light. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Tomorrow we will see it with her.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">The only way to address this majesty is to make soup. Really, the only way, sometimes, to address the majesty of this world, period, is to make soup. To create warmth and richness out of water and vegetables. To simmer, soak, stir, and taste. To eat until you are full.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2rNo55B9rqg/TMCN5tIA73I/AAAAAAAAB7I/_UwtelpSP88/s1600/IMAG0502.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #cc3300; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2rNo55B9rqg/TMCN5tIA73I/AAAAAAAAB7I/_UwtelpSP88/s400/IMAG0502.jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.496094) 1px 1px 5px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.496094) 1px 1px 5px; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>West African Peanut Soup</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>(This yields a gallon, but can easily be halved). </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b><br /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>4 cups onions, chopped</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>2 tbl oil (peanut or vegetable)</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>1 tsp cayenne (or other ground chilies) </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>2 tsp ginger root, grated</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>2 cups carrots, chopped</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>4 cups, sweet potatoes, chopped (up to two cups white potatoes can be substituted)</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>8 cups vegetable stock or water</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>4 cups tomato juice</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>2 cups smooth peanut butter</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>2 cups scallions or chives, chopped</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>sugar (granulated (optional). </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b><br /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>Method: </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>1. Saute the onions in the oil until just translucent. </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>2. Stir in the cayenne and fresh ginger</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>3. Add the carrots and saute a couple more minutes</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>4. Mix in the potatoes and stock or water. </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>5. Bring the soup to a boil, and then simmer for 15 minutes, or until the vegetables are tender. </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>6. In a blender or food processor, puree the vegetables with the cooking liquid and the tomato juice. </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>7. Stir in the peanut butter until smooth. </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>8. Taste the soup. Its sweetness will depend upon the sweetness of the carrots and the sweet potatoes. If it's not there naturally, add just a little sugar to enhance the other flavors. </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>9. Reheat the soup gently, using a heat diffuser (if needed) to prevent scorching. </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>10. Add more stock, water, or tomato juice for a thinner soup. </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>12. Serve topped with plenty of chopped scallions or chives. </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b><br /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>Vegetarian, unique, and delicious. Enjoy! </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b><br /></b></span>Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-86726223900658288772011-10-27T11:10:00.000-04:002011-10-27T13:16:43.675-04:00No AthleteI have PE first period. If I were a vampire, seven fifteen would be the end of a long day of sucking. But since I'm me, there's ever-so-much suckage to go.<br />
<br />
My polyester shorts itch as I sit on gym floor; the air smells of basketballs. I hope I don't have to touch one. Yesterday, I couldn't pay attention in algebra, swimming in the rubbery stench still festering on my hands. That grime, working its way under my fingernails.<br />
<br />
Mrs. Harris stands in front, wide legged, her meaty hands resting on her hips. "We're doing the mile today," she barks, "You have twenty minutes to do it. Athletes do it in four."<br />
<br />
I knew all about milers. When Dad was still alive, he used to perch me on his lap, watching track and field on NBC Universal. "Roger Bannister broke it first," he said, as we watched the runners, all sinew and motion, arms and legs pumping towards glory. "Maybe you'll break it someday."<br />
<br />
"I will, Daddy," I rubbed the side of his face, scratchy and warm. "I'll beat you!"<br />
<br />
"We'll see," he replied, kissing me on the head, "Maybe you will"<br />
<br />
Mrs. Harris blows her whistle, and herds us to the track. The November wind bites my bare legs. Heather and Lauren laugh, arms interlinked. It seems so natural, the way other kids bunch together, mingling like wild grass. Meanwhile, I play with my cuticles and pretend to tie my shoelaces.<br />
<br />
Daddy used to do track workouts. He blurred around the circle, as I collected dandelions on the sidelines. I was in charge of Gatorade. I held the bottle for him, as he panted, hands on his knees, sweat dripping onto the black asphalt. "Thank you, Janie-Girl," he said. Sometimes, he let me have a sip.<br />
<br />
I haven't been able to touch the stuff since the accident.<br />
<br />
"Okay, folks, line up!" Mrs. Harris blows her whistle. I stare down the track, and decide I'm going to take the full twenty minutes.<br />
<br />
I'm no athlete. <br />
<br />
Meet Janie. She's the heroine of my <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/">National Novel Writing Month</a> project. She's also the subject of this week's prompt for <a href="http://writeonedge.com/">Write on Edge</a>.<br />
<br />
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<br />Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-70760382277263758532011-10-25T11:55:00.001-04:002011-10-25T11:57:14.445-04:00Lady LibertyThe music piped up---Madonna's "Like a Virgin"---as we walked in a circle in front of the judges. I grinned, hearing the music forbidden in my home, and then remembered who I was.<br />
<br />
I was Lady Liberty. A statue. And statues do not smile.<br />
<br />
I paced, holding my flashlight torch aloft, resting my foil-covered dictionary just so. The green makeup itched, but I did not scratch.<br />
<br />
I had this. My competition was a handful of punk rockers---Melissa, Jennifer, and Tiffany, all wearing the same costume, purchased at Smitty's, along with a can of pink glitter hairspray. Throw in Mike as a Ghostbuster, Joseph as Han Solo, and Amanda as an old lady, and the Best Costume ribbon was mine.<br />
<br />
The music stopped. Mrs. Weimann, the PE teacher, thanked us all for attending the Halloween carnival. The muscles twitched in my upraised arm. I glanced at the blue ribbon resting on the table, pictured it on the bulletin board in my bedroom. <br />
<br />
"In third place, the award for best costume goes to Melissa the punk rocker!" My head turned as Melissa squealed, running to collect her award. Tiffany and Jennifer exchanged looks. She would pay for this later.<br />
<br />
"In second place, the award goes to...The Statue of Liberty!" My arm crumpled down, and the blood pumped to my starving hand. I collected my prize; the red ribbon drooped in my grip.<br />
<br />
"In first place, the award goes to....The Where's the Beef lady!" Amanda jumped up and down, a smile cracking her artificial wrinkles and age spots. She held a styrofoam plate with a large hamburger bun and tiny foam burger in the middle.<br />
<br />
She collected her ribbon, and grinned as Mrs. Weimann said, "We all agreed that this was the most creative idea!"<br />
<br />
Sure. Wearing a <i>dress </i>is really creative. Copying a commercial is <i>so original. </i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
I walked past her, as the punk rock girls cooed, "Amanda, this is <i>so cool. </i>You are <i>so funny</i>."<br />
<br />
I wanted to cry, but I did not. Because I was Lady Liberty. And statues do not cry.<br />
<br />
<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></a>Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-80074286932908562942011-10-21T11:30:00.000-04:002011-10-21T11:30:09.498-04:00My StephenHis fingernails, still etched with blue-dough. His chubby hand stiffened, then collapsed. The earth groaned and swallowed my Stephen away.<br />
<br />
<i>This week, we invited you to compose a text–160 characters–that would either elicit or express fear.</i><br />
<br />
<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></a><br />Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-14046556008583784902011-10-17T22:42:00.003-04:002011-10-18T17:04:11.913-04:00Muzzle Loading SeasonWhen I'm visiting my husband's family in Wisconsin, glorious absurdities fly from my mouth.<br />
<br />
Growing up in suburban Phoenix, I never got to ask questions like, "How did bear hunting season go this year?" or "Tell me about the time Grandma drowned that pillowcase of feral cats."<br />
<br />
And yet, when in the Northwoods, I'm just making conversation.<br />
<br />
I beg people to tell me the story of the Muskie that ate the hapless fisherman's big toe. And, of course, there's always talk of logging accidents. It isn't Christmas until we hear about Gundersen's two mile trek to his pickup. Sans legs.<br />
<br />
I ask these questions out of genuine awe. All of the women in my husband's family ride horses, sew, plant at least an acre of vegetables each summer, and dress their own deer. Leisure activities include running 5K snowshoe races over frozen lakes, and kayaking through raging currents. With their children.<br />
<br />
When we have a Mid-Atlantic "snowstorm" of two inches, I race to Giant with all the other drones, stocking up on bread, milk, and toilet paper. Meanwhile, the Wisconsin family cuts another cord of wood with an ax, and pulls some home-canned pickles from the root cellar. While wearing short sleeves. <br />
<br />
I sometimes wonder what would happen to me if we moved to the Northwoods. Would I die? Or would I learn how to make venison meatballs and round my vowels?<br />
<br />
I hope it would be the latter. <br />
<br />
And yet, I know I still have a way to go. When I was up there in late September, the leaves were already dusting the earth's shoulders. The ground froze each night. And conversation turned to deer season.<br />
<br />
"Tell me about it," I said. "And don't leave anything out." <br />
<br />
"Well," replied a cousin, "First there's bow season. Then mentor-hunt. Next there's rifle shoot. And then there's muzzle-loader season."<br />
<br />
"What's muzzle-loader season?" I pictured deer in muzzles. Who took the time to muzzle the deer first? And why? <br />
<br />
The cousin stared. A moment stretched between us. Then, he replied, speaking as one does to such a question, "It's when you shoot the deer with a muzzle loader." <br />
<br />
"Right," I said. "Obviously." I did not ask what a muzzle loader was. <i>Obviously</i>. <br />
<br />
I sat in my lawn chair, listening to the Black River bubble away. I daresay it was laughing at me. I took a sip of Leinie's (from the can), and changed the subject as only a city girl can.<br />
<br />
"Tell me again about Grandpa's arm-wrestling days."<br />
<br />
And then, I listened. With each syllable, I become more rooted to this family, and this golden-kissed land.<br />
<br />
<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></a>Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-58594585973672602532011-10-11T10:08:00.003-04:002011-10-11T10:10:27.956-04:00My CocoonThe crisp envelopes rest on my dresser. As they have for five days.<br />
<br />
Condolences. Phrases etched from heartstrings to ballpoint. <br />
<br />
And I haven't been able to open one.<br />
<br />
Since we returned home, I've cocooned myself, wiping noses, packing lunches, and changing the subject.<br />
<br />
I embrace the tasks, and pull away from the embraces.<br />
<br />
And the envelopes rest on the dresser.<br />
<br />
My husband and I discuss health insurance, retirement, and death
certificates. We can clean up these twigs and branches, ignoring the
hole on the side of our house.<br />
<br />
But the envelopes wait, the voices trapped within.<br />
<br />
It's time. I open a package, and find yellow Narcissus bulbs inside.<i> "Plant these. And when they bloom, remember your mother." </i><br />
<br />
And, holding that promise in my hand, I smile. And cry, a little.<br />
<br />
I leave my cocoon. It is a cold, bright world, full of tomorrows.<br />
<br />
<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></a>Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-74115942459314332842011-10-04T22:30:00.000-04:002011-10-04T22:30:53.990-04:00Pushing Towards ForeverWe stood on the edge of the wooden platform. Amber and red jewels drifted from the lobes of the trees, stirring in the wind before resting on the ground. <br />
<br />
I held his shoulders. The river rushed beneath our feet."Your grandmother will always be in these waters," I said."And she'll always be with you." <br />
<br />
He pondered this, a divot creasing his front brow. And then, cupping his hands, his voice rang out. "I love you Grandma!" <br />
<br />
The wind sighed, and the water continued to push toward forever.<br />
<br />
My hands shook as I pressed his body to mine. All was salt and held breath.<br />
<br />
"Mommy," he whispered, "She said 'I love you, too.' "<br />
<br />
And in that moment, I knew it to be true.<br />
<br />
<i>*With much love to my mother-in-law. Rest in peace. * </i><br />
<br />
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<br />Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-53841973625568409132011-09-20T09:55:00.001-04:002011-09-20T09:56:50.566-04:00The Trees of the Field.The trees gaze down on the two figures. One is perched on a blue bicycle. He clutches the handlebars like a prayer, a small wrinkle creasing his forehead. The larger figure crouches beside him, whispering, hoping. <br />
<br />
Their heads part, and the dance begins. She grips the seat and begins to run. His wheels spin, as she sprints, gripping his sweatshirt. "Don't let go! Don't let go!" he yelps. All is motion, as her shoes thwack the asphalt. Her heart pounds. His face melts into motion. <br />
<br />
She lets go. He glides, an unwavering, elegant line. She runs behind him, raising her hands to the heavens. <i>Don't let go</i>, she whispers. <i>Don't let go</i>. <br />
<br />
The oaks and willows observe his journey, whispering encouragement through age-old groans and whispers. He streaks down the road, all red hoodie and propelled bravado. When ready, he glides to a stop.<br />
<br />
She gasps, finds her footing. The world, once more, has shifted. "Mom," he says, "You've got yourself a bike rider!"<br />
<br />
And the trees of the field clap their hands. <br />
<br />
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<br />Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-71815276907559676402011-09-16T07:11:00.000-04:002011-09-16T11:54:40.593-04:00Mate for Life"It's like this, " Jake said, casting his line into the bay. He swallowed once, then ran a hand through his hair. The line hit the water like an exclamation point. "Your mom's leaving me."<br />
<br />
I turned away. The silken fishing line glinted in the sun. "I know," I mumbled. "I'm not stupid."<br />
<br />
"No, you're not," he said. "In fact, you're too smart for your own good." He reached into his front pocket, pulled out a Camel. With a practiced flourish, he lit the end, and passed it. <br />
<br />
The smoke burned my throat. "Of course she's sending you clean up her mess," I said.<br />
<br />
He shook his head. "What else is new?" <br />
<br />
Nothing was new. Mom stepped out on Jake, and he put up with it. Same fucking story. Last week I saw her in action. From the back of the school bus, of all places. We were driving past the Fastop, and there she was, straddling some guy's motorcycle. Big loser guy with long blond hair. She was laughing, wearing a top with her tits falling out. So fucking disrespectful. <br />
<br />
And Jake just took it. He put food on her table and raised me and my brother, all the while smelling another man's stink. And now, since she's found her next Prince Charming, I guess it's out with Jake, in with the newest step-dad.<br />
<br />
Which sucks. Jake at least took me fishing and passed his cigs. He talked to me, instead of hollering like Mom. I stubbed out my butt. "I think the fish got your line." <br />
<br />
"Little fucker," he said, gripping his own cigarette between his back teeth. "You know none of this is your fault." He reeled in the line, and released it again in one seamless motion.<br />
<br />
I watched an osprey flying to its nest, a flapping fish crushed in its beak. Those birds manage to mate for life. My stomach twisted, looking at it "Of course it's not my fault my mom's a fucking whore." <br />
<br />
"Watch your mouth, boy." He leaned in, and I could smell the Michelob on his breath. "She may not be perfect but--" his eyes darted to his feet, "she's what you've got. She's <b>all </b>you got."Our eyes caught, and I understood exactly what he was saying. <br />
<br />
"Yes sir." I watched the waves lap up against the pier, smacking the weathered wood. I choked on each weighted syllable.<br />
<br />
"So, I'll see you around, right?" he lied. "Maybe go fishing?" <br />
<br />
I couldn't stand to look at him. "Sure," I said, "You know the number."<br />
<br />
I knew he would never call. And that our connection would snap, like a fishing line. It would sink into the waters, soundless and forgotten.<br />
<br />
<i>We're writing about heartbreak at Write on Edge. </i><br />
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<i> </i><br />
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<br />Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-21630330034466064792011-09-13T22:06:00.000-04:002011-09-14T06:47:11.760-04:00My Auntie MomentThis is me in 2005:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqsecnwAD9BPF2zvSMdRL85mSZPuylj4m4fIAG0qw5dWc9aOeDttNokSM4HgY8T13k8RXZjX4J28cHF8Ql6nqDUa5gBRjfkhaLhbSYwdt9OjlMXaSuPCKvuei04ib8jXrSTkSzum7OQic/s1600/100_0412.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqsecnwAD9BPF2zvSMdRL85mSZPuylj4m4fIAG0qw5dWc9aOeDttNokSM4HgY8T13k8RXZjX4J28cHF8Ql6nqDUa5gBRjfkhaLhbSYwdt9OjlMXaSuPCKvuei04ib8jXrSTkSzum7OQic/s400/100_0412.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
This is me about two weeks ago:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1loBHPgPyzWZ5F6NjOaBqWUTNTHG4-QYFUB2QJ9l-wcoM3s6ThmFtWQeIDmHp34FE31_mGpllb66HPo9t-NbJ4YIlavSiFwgDVJDpiBeSK5o4i_CbkjeVrA3I5kgMhQcgCOgEX4RWbvA/s1600/IMG_0925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1loBHPgPyzWZ5F6NjOaBqWUTNTHG4-QYFUB2QJ9l-wcoM3s6ThmFtWQeIDmHp34FE31_mGpllb66HPo9t-NbJ4YIlavSiFwgDVJDpiBeSK5o4i_CbkjeVrA3I5kgMhQcgCOgEX4RWbvA/s400/IMG_0925.jpg" width="400" /></a> </div>
(You must ignore my face here. This was at the height of <i>no-power-for-days-Hurricane-Irene </i>and I thought it would be funny to compare myself to those <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorothea_Lange">Dorthea Lange Depression Era photos</a>. After all, a few days without <i>TMZ</i> is <b>exactly</b> like the Dust Bowl.) <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJshFGU_EHGKRLCjhvAYxn6TxiTrA2qVuc0YRhPFH86ojuwtOkcsuTK1Pc5EiMsNZlgIvuA5lDZ8qET0PQUtAMy6ANLKv4qBfkhh6k0Ibgih3Bjr7UUrzS8Hge86uIkKAWDrVLcGRtd4U/s1600/IMG_0925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gzKMt-nIdbU/TnABuPInT2I/AAAAAAAACDE/fgW95eFTZgM/s1600/deperaphot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gzKMt-nIdbU/TnABuPInT2I/AAAAAAAACDE/fgW95eFTZgM/s400/deperaphot.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Uncanny, yes? </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I post these two pictures because when I look at the top shot, I'm reminded of one simple fact: <i>I felt fat and ugly that day. </i>My arms were too big, my face too round, and my eyes too squinty. As my husband and I toured the Cherry Blossoms on a stunning spring day, I crossed my arms and scowled, trying to hold in the sagging and bubbling, that toxic flesh spilling from my clothes.<br />
<br />
I was so stupid. I mean, <i>just look at that rack</i>. My boobs didn't know what (or, more specifically, who) was going to use 'em and abuse 'em. My belly didn't know it would be stretched until it was as taut as a timpani, and just as ponderous. Twice.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Lamott">Anne Lamott </a>talks about loving her body. She calls her saggy upper thighs "The Aunties," and speaks of how she treats these funny body parts as one would treat a revered, beloved aunt. You, know, the silly one that wears straw hats and orders Gin Fizzes? She rubs delicious lotion on her Aunties, and let the sun rest on them whenever she can. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I love that. And I had an Auntie moment of my own right after my oldest was born. It was my first postpartum shower. My stomach sagged, my feet were like two balloons, and I was so weak I needed to grip the shower bar. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And yet, when I bent over to shave my legs, <b>I could do it.</b> For the first time in forty weeks, I could touch my toes without hitting that block of baby. I could move, unencumbered and so very light. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My body was mine again. And it was more than enough. It was beautiful because I had it back, and finally realized what I had lost. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And when I looked at my son, I was awed at what it could do. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I can't say that every day is perfect. But I am confident enough now that I can post a frowning, less-than-perfect photo online. A photo of days without hot water or flat irons. A photo of a middle-aged dame who will never again be as young and foolish as that miserable woman in the first shot. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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And thank God for that. </div>
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<br /></div>
<i>This post is linked up with <a href="http://www.justbeenough.com/the-little-voice/">Just Be Enough.</a> For every 20 linked up posts, <a href="http://www.bellflowerbooks.com/" target="_blank">Bellflower Books</a> will provide a memory book to a woman fighting breast cancer through <a href="http://crickettsanswer.startlogic.com/" target="_blank" title="Crickett's Answer for Cancer">Crickett’s Answer for Cancer</a>,
and help bring a smile to courageous women giving it their all, every
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Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704768195528999087.post-27547527436412577112011-09-08T23:18:00.003-04:002011-09-09T07:22:46.903-04:00Pruning SeasonFor the <a href="http://writeonedge.com/red-writing-hood/">Red Dress Club</a> this week, we were to write about jeans. If you look really hard, you'll see that I mentioned them. I think that totally counts.<br />
<br />
I'm writing fiction this week, inspired by the <a href="http://npoj.blogspot.com/2011/09/red-writing-hood-returning-favor.html">non-fiction piece I wrote previously.</a><br />
<br />
Concrit is always appreciated. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
After the hurricane, Donny found me temp work with his Uncle Robbie. Tree removal--you know, chainsaws, tearing up shit. A regular Redneck Christmas. <br />
<br />
It's was all under the table, of course--I'm not bonded or trained. But Robbie sent my skinny ass up trees anyway, while he sat there on his, holding the ground down. Not that I was complaining. Hell of a lot better than being at home. And cash was cash.<br />
<br />
We were working at the Scallon place. The storm smacked them like a motherfucker, throwing shit around, hollering and carrying on. Kinda reminded me of my stepdad.<br />
<br />
Robbie scratched his gut, then spat some chaw on Mrs. Scallon's driveway. An oak had fallen from behind her house, the top branches dangling like a question mark over her front porch."Get on the roof, Eli," he grunted, "Take care of it."<br />
<br />
"Yes sir," I mumbled. I wiped my hands on my jeans, leaving streaks of sweat on the denim. I adjusted my belt, and hoisted myself up.<br />
<br />
I scanned the tree, studying the pattern of the cut, the fissures along the surface of the bark. I couldn't help but smile. You know how some people see a statue in a block of stone? I can look at a fallen tree and see its whole sad story. Where it's overburdened. Where it's still strong. You need to prune it with care, trimming away the branches and the rubble. Give it a little hope.<br />
<br />
"What the fuck are you doing up there?" Robbie yelled. Mrs. Scallon's kid popped his head out the window. "Stop thinking of your boyfriend and get to work!"<br />
<br />
I jerked my head, my gloved hands clamped into fists. The only thing stopping me from telling the fat fuck where to shove his chainsaw was the kid, still looking out the window. His little hands were cupped under his chin, staring at the Bobcat as if it was made of magic and chocolate bars.<br />
<br />
Kids. They don't need any pruning yet. They just bend in the wind.<br />
<br />
They'll learn soon enough.<br />
<br />
For the sake of the kid, I didn't beat Robbie's ass. I cleared the tree, and then cleared three more. At the end of the day, I took his goddamn money.<br />
<br />
I promised myself not to piss it all away. Again.<br />
<br />
You see, I'm getting out of here. It's pruning season. <br />
<br />
<br />Nancy Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04313721217543578257noreply@blogger.com13