tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56691969556611943682024-03-13T12:18:32.201-07:00Vee WorthyWriter of paranormal, fantasy, sci-fantasy, Young Adult, and romance.Veehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247100626399681194noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669196955661194368.post-58536345496228878012012-12-30T10:17:00.002-08:002012-12-30T10:17:55.121-08:00Bicycling with Dogs.<span class="userContent">This morning I popped a front wheelie on my bicycle like a freaking professional! Not on purpose. Had my German Shepherd Arwin out biking with me on the leash. When she put on the brakes to do a dump on the pavement, I hit the front brake too hard and whoa! Rear wheel popped nearly straight up. Bucking horse habits from my horse breaking days came to my rescue: I stiffened, pushed back on the handle bars, leaned back and avoided a faceplant into the pavement. Rear wheel thumped back to the ground. Arwin finished her dump with a guilty cringe. </span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /> She does this almost every time we bike, no matter how I try to prevent it. "Go outside" before we leave the house. Check. Stop about where she's done it before. Check. Stop at the empty lot a little further along. Check. No, she absolutely must poop while running. <br />
<br /> If she wasn't a dog, I'd think she'd taken life insurance out on me and was trying to kill me.</span><br />
My husband's dog,Vinetta von Karthago, on the other hand, was a complete lady. She stayed in the sweet spot to my right like a particularly skilled dancing partner. She gave me a glance out of her lovely eyes that said "I need to go pee, please." We pulled over to an empty lot and she did her thing.<br />
<br />
Two small dogs busted out of their yards and yapped after us. Vinetta, female dominant German Shepherd Dog that she is, ruffed her shoulders and rear with fury. I wouldn't let her stop and bite the two ragamuffins chasing us, a small dog in two pieces isn't a pretty thing. She obeyed her alpha and continued trotting, but was so very peeved at me she wouldn't even look at me when I praised her for obeying. <br />
<br />
I think a breakfast of chicken thighs and beef liver made both of them feel better about life. <br />
<br />
What do you feed your dogs?<br />
Do you ever take your dogs biking or running? <br />
VeeVeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247100626399681194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669196955661194368.post-88296260410912648682011-12-17T11:21:00.000-08:002012-02-02T15:31:51.759-08:00Uniqueness<span class="ft"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">How do you catch</span></span><span class="ft"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;"> a unique bunny </span></span><span class="ft"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">rabbit</span></span><span class="ft"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;">? </span></span><span class="ft"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">You neek up on it</span></i></span><span class="ft"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></i></span><span class="ft"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span><span class="ft"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">How do you catch</span></span><span class="ft"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;"> a tame bunny </span></span><span class="ft"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">rabbit</span></span><span class="ft"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;">? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The tame way: You neek up on it!</i></span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;">My sixteen-year-old foster daughter is Autistic, and though she understands most of what people say, she has great difficulty getting her interior thoughts out into the exterior world in the form of speech. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She struggles to verbally connect with the society around her. She also constantly repeats what people say to her—this is a condition called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">echolalia</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;">Her big blue eyes are sharp: she sizes up a newly introduced person within minutes and--drawing quick conclusions about their personalities from looks, mannerisms, and the timbre of their voices--she gives her new acquaintance a shockingly accurate nickname. The names she gives are based on characters from TV shows or cartoons, and while the gender may not match up, the personality traits are always there. And she will seldom, thereafter, use your real name. I will forever be "Betty", from "The Rugrats", an obnoxious but well-meaning woman with twin girls. I prefer to think she calls me "Betty" not so much for being obnoxious, though I admit I can be like that, but because I now have "twin" sixteen-year-old girls, as my biological daughter is the same age.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;">My foster daughter nicknamed herself "Mowgli", after the orphan boy raised by a variety of animals in "The Jungle Book." This makes me think that perhaps she sees herself as lost in a confusing jungle, raised by creatures very unlike her, while bravely making the best of things no matter how hard life gets. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;">Mowgli is a very different little bunny. Nevertheless, one way in which she is most unique, to me, has nothing to do with her disabilities. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even nicknaming people is not unheard of for people with Autism, as they like to assign personal meanings to the bewildering world around them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;">No, one of the things most unique about Mowgli is she never seems to get lost. She's a two-legged GPS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I, on the other hand, once lost my motorcycle in the ginormous parking lot at the Castleton Square Mall, the biggest shopping mall in Indianapolis, and had to search for about four hours before I found it. And I still get lost in the parking lot at the grocery store.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ask Mowgli all the time, "Where did we park?" She points and then leads the way to our car as unerringly as a compass needle points to magnetic North.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;">She also knows where every McDonalds is located in the city of Anchorage. I swear. Ask her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Would you point in the direction of the nearest McDonalds?" I ask. She stabs the air with authority. I turn around and drive in that direction, and sure enough, there's the golden arches. Amazing. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;">"Large caramel frappe, please," she tells me in her crisp, singsong voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;">How about you? What can you do that other people don't seem to do as well, or can't do at all? <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt;">Can you multiply factions in your head? Do wild animals come to you for help? Would you please leave a comment and tell me in what way you are unique?<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
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</div>Veehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247100626399681194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669196955661194368.post-17277907233745989702011-09-19T19:53:00.000-07:002011-10-27T10:44:44.722-07:00Two Life Lessons I Learned the Summer I Was Twelve.<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Courier New";">1)</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 7pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></i><i><u><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Don't ride your pony on the boardwalk</span></u></i><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 1em 0px; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I grew up in the Ozark Mountains, back when that was a remote place to live, similar in some ways to how the Alaska bush country is now. The nearest neighbors to our tiny house were down a fair distance down a narrow dirt road: two miles in one direction, and four miles the other way.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">When I was twelve, I rode my bareback pony to the nearest town called Morrow, which was ten miles away. We went at a gallop most of the way, and when I arrived, sticky horsehair clung to my tan legs. My long hair was so tangled, my fingers got stuck when I shoved it back. I threw my shoulders back and let my bare feet swing in time with my pony's strides. Ten miles was a long way to ride by myself! </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">The store had a marvelous boardwalk that ran the entire front it. </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I couldn't resist forcing my pony to climb up on it. <i>Clompty-clomp.</i> Back and forth. Hop off the boardwalk. Hop back on the boardwalk. Pete's hoof beats echoed with joyful magic--until Mr. Reed sprang out of his store and thumped my pony in the butt with a broom. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I stayed on Pete's back through his amazing circus pony sideways leap off the boardwalk into the middle of the street. A slow-moving car stopped short of running into us and honked, which didn't help Pete's mood. He charged into town yards, head tucked to his chest to evade the bit.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Whoa Pete! Whoa!" He pinned his ears back and tore through grass and flowers, throwing hoof-shaped dirt clods behind him.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">People yelled and shook fists at us, "Who are you! I'll call your mother!" Like I'd answer that while clinging for dear life to the back of a pissed-off pony. (Not that I'd answer at any other time, either.) It took a mile, stampeding back the way we'd come, for me to get Pete under control.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I never rode my pony on the boardwalk again, but did we ever return to town? Let's just say you can't trust a twelve-year-old girl and her pony to stay out of trouble.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: -0.25in;"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2)<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></i><i><u><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Take care of your shoes, because your feet need them.<o:p></o:p></span></u></i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The summer I was twelve, I had no shoes at all. My mother, peeved at me for destroying the cheap canvas sneakers she always bought me, the only pair of shoes I owned, told me: "You can do without shoes this summer and learn to appreciate what my hard-earned money buys you!" <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This didn't seem fair. I was a country girl. I fed livestock, chased escaping pigs, rode my pony and went hunting. These activities can be hard on any kind of shoes, but three-dollar sneakers don't stand a chance.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Okay, so shoeless that summer, one day I chased a baby rabbit out into a small field that'd been brush hogged, which is how Arkansas farmers clear fields of weeds and bushes so grass can grow between the rocks. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 1em 0px; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I was out in the middle of the field, I stopped to notice two things: the baby rabbit had disappeared and the bottoms of my feet were on fire. Dry and </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">splintered brambles lay so thick on the ground no grass had managed to grow, to push up through the graveyard of briars. </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Some of the branch-sized stems were studded with barbs as big as my little finger. How I'd managed to run into the middle of this field of dead thorns without excruciating pain is a mystery to this day.</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 1em 0px; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">The only way out was the way I'd come in.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Thorns impaled the bottoms of my feet with every step. I had new revelations concerning the suffering of Jesus Christ and his crown of thorns. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I moaned, squealed, and wept as every step reaped thorns piercing and sticking to the soles of my feet. </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I stood on one foot and lifted the other high to remove a harvest of briars. </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I must have resembled a wading crane--that cried.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After I got out, I sat for a while on the edge of the field and cradled my screaming, bleeding feet. Then walked a mile back home on bleeding feet through the woods and down the gravel road.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I learned to take off my shoes while running through mud puddles or feeding farm animals in the rain. They lasted forever, that next pair of shoes, until my big toe ate its way out the dirty canvas tip. Even my thrifty mother could see I needed a new pair before the condition of them fatally embarrassed her.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Today, I will sometimes look in my closet and count the pairs of shoes in there. And every one cost more than three dollars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Veehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247100626399681194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669196955661194368.post-47229871232644754942011-07-04T13:12:00.000-07:002011-12-17T10:06:39.924-08:00The Train to AdventurelandThinking about what I wanted to make for desert, I remembered the pound cake I used to make often when I was a teenager. I do recall some of the ingredients: a handful of lard, which was the perfect proportion in my smaller, girl's hand. How could I measure it now with a woman's hand? The recipe called for a whole lot of eggs and sugar. The ingredients don't seem different from any other pound cake in existence, other than its antique measurements, but in my memories it was delicious beyond other cakes. <br />
<br />
I am curious—was the cake genuinely that good, or does memory give the cake a seasoning that cannot be recreated? I wanted to call my mother for the ingredients; the cake must surely be in her special, handwritten collection of recipes. But she's off on a wonderful trip, so I cannot call her and ask. <br />
<br />
My mother taught me how to cook. Not like a chef or a gourmet, but with a practicality common to the women of her era who grew up in Arkansas during the Depression, when food had to be filling and stretched to feed a large, hardworking family. She taught me how to boil, fry, bake, grate, and mash potatoes. How to scrub off garden dirt, peel and chop the vegetables we grew, and make them into a meal that kept body and soul together.<br />
<br />
She taught me how to slaughter chickens, though I could not bring myself to twist their heads off like she did. It took a stronger stomach than mine to spin the chicken in a circle and snap my wrist so the head popped off and the body flopped a bloody, headless dance on the ground. Later in life, when I was a Little Rock police officer, I saw steaming fluids flow thick from a dead man onto the frozen ground. I did my job and didn't throw up, despite the awful coppery smell--but I never learned to be as tough as my mother killing chickens. <br />
<br />
She showed me how to dunk the decapitated chicken in steaming hot water, yank it out, and pluck until my aching fingers were reddened and caked with stinking, wet feathers. This activity brought on discussions of the wicked carpetbaggers, who invaded the South after the War Between the States. <br />
<br />
"When those evil carpet baggers, those fat deceivers, were caught by the townsfolk, they'd be tarred-and-feathered-just-like-this." We held our hands up in the air and shook them, laughing as the feathers stuck like glue. And so I learned Southern history while I plucked chickens. I didn't miss TV or want to play a game. The game was work, and it was fun. <br />
<br />
I grew up in Northwest Arkansas, which may be a southern state, but the wet winter wind hacks you to the bone, like cutting a chicken with a wide-bladed cleaver into pieces for frying. The wet cold is worse than Anchorage's snowiest nights, which is where I live now. <br />
<br />
When the wind howled and the trees cracked from shackles of ice, we made hot chocolate to warm us from cheap cocoa powder and milk, stirring and stirring so it didn't scorch on the bottom of the pan. We made chocolate and peanut butter fudge the same way, stirring with patience and a long handled spoon. My mom's always kept her patience in bushels and baskets full, while I don't possess half as much. <br />
<br />
I called Mom long distance a couple of days after her eighty-second birthday this April, and she started talking about her childhood and parents. <br />
<br />
"When I was a little, I didn't know there was a Great Depression, because I had everything I needed. My parents made mistakes, but I always knew they loved me. Even when I ran through mud puddles in my good Sunday shoes and dress, ruining them, and they got so mad, I knew my mama and father loved me. Back then," she explained, "most children, the lucky ones, had clothes and shoes they only wore on Sunday, which were carefully preserved until they were outgrown. But I was a careless girl, and ran through mud puddles again and again in my shiny black Baby Doll shoes despite Mama's yelling. My frustrated mother, your grandmother, picked a slim branch from a peach tree and had at my legs in a fury until my legs bled in a dozen places. I cried and promised 'I'll never do that again.' And then <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my Mama cried</i>," my mother laughed in her old woman's raspy voice, "and promised 'I'll never to do that again'—because she'd picked a switch from a peach tree in her haste. Everyone knows a green peach switch cuts the skin. She didn't switch me, much, after that."<br />
<br />
That awful punishment became Mom's fond memory of her mother's faithfully sworn word. Forgiveness was at the heart of my mother, in the same way stubbornness is at the heart of me. I got more from my father than my mother in that regard, but I'll not talk about him just now.<br />
<br />
On Mother's Day, my mother called me and we resumed our chat. <br />
<br />
"One night, I went out with my friends and we sang around a bonfire. This was before I dated your father, and it was a lot of fun." A chill breeze ghosted over my skin as I listened to her descriptions of the blazing fire in front, and the icy cold creeping up her back during an autumn evening spent with people who had old-fashioned names. People she'd never mentioned before.<br />
<br />
"You used to sing with a women's group, the Sweet Adelines," I said. "How long did you do that?"<br />
<br />
"Oh, a few months, but you don't want to hear about that."<br />
<br />
I always got the same answer. I am fifty-one years old, and I still don't know much about my mother's short singing career. I think my father disapproved. Her parents raised her to be an obedient wife, so she quit what she loved and went back to raising babies and keeping house. That was the way of her generation. My mother seldom sang in my childhood, and I cannot remember the exact sound of her singing, only the haunting beauty of it. <br />
<br />
Mom's memories turned to thoughts of her own mortality. She feared being helpless and forgetful. "I pray God will take me in my sleep," she told me.<br />
<br />
"That's something we all wish," I said. "But with your comparatively good health, that can't be soon. You're eighty-two years old, and still independent--still mow your huge lawn and keep your house neat as a pin. You drive your old truck to church, the store, and doctor's appointments. Geriatric horses should hope to be so healthy." <br />
<br />
She laughed again, but it held notes of sadness. <br />
<br />
"Will you ever have horses again, do you think?" <br />
<br />
"I don't know," I said, now sad myself. "Not if I stay in Alaska. Too much snow."<br />
<br />
"I wish you lived close by." <br />
<br />
"I would like see you, but I can't fly out right now," I said, instead of also wishing to live close by. Even if my family and I moved away from Alaska, I didn't want to live in Arkansas--crawling with snakes, and chiggers in the boiling hot summers. The knife-edged winters were no better.<br />
<br />
"You should fly out this summer. I'll take you on a nature cruise out of Seward, where you can see whales and seals," I offered.<br />
<br />
"My bones are too old for that long flight," said the woman who mowed an acre-sized lawn every week.<br />
<br />
I resolved to save up enough to fly out this fall and see her. That is the time to visit, when the heat of summer has cooled and the leaves turn red, gold and yellow, more vibrant than autumn here.<br />
<br />
After we hung up, I believe she decided a trip of her own would be the thing to make her feel better. Mom made plans to take the train to Adventureland, ordered a ticket, and packed her bags without telling anyone. When it was time, she waited all alone for it to come into the station. I'm sure it arrived just as she'd expected it, not a minute late--the train wouldn't dare do differently. She stood straight, climbed in, and though I wasn't there, I am sure she sat in her seat, folded her hands in her lap, and didn't look back. <br />
<br />
Yes, I think Mom told God how she wanted to go. He listened and granted her prayers. She had a brain aneurism on a Saturday. She passed out, was found unconscious that evening, and the ambulance took her to the hospital. She never woke up, and died on Monday. My mother went soft, and my gratitude for her gentle passing resembles happiness, though I am truly sad.<br />
<br />
I know Mom's having fun out there, on her great adventure, seeing old friends while trying new things. I miss her, though she probably hasn't missed me yet. <br />
<br />
I wish I could remember how to make the pound cake of my childhood. But I can't call and ask her for recipes or advice, because there aren't any phones out there.Veehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247100626399681194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669196955661194368.post-59825872594466725392011-04-21T13:10:00.000-07:002011-04-21T13:10:56.815-07:00Justice and Injustice.I don't know how many of you have been involved in lawsuits, but the fact is, they seldom satisfy either side. I've been involved in a couple of civil suits, from a small claims court to a couple of larger civil court cases, all of which I won, if you want to call it "winning" when the judgement is in your favor but you still feel like you were a possom on the road and you've been run over by two pickup trucks and a semi-tractor trailer. I've never had to defend myself in court due to criminal charges, but I can well imagine how that might go if I were an innocent person in the wrong place at the wrong time. <br />
As this little video points out, Justice is more expensive than Injustice:<br />
<a href="http://bit.ly/igDAPU">http://bit.ly/igDAPU</a><br />
<br />
So, if something bad happens and you need to go to court--good luck. <br />
I think we should go back to fighting duels with pistols at dawn. The misery is over faster and the results are about the same.Veehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247100626399681194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669196955661194368.post-86345635403500680312011-02-03T23:17:00.000-08:002011-03-07T12:01:34.587-08:00Some Evil Being is Retro-aging My Brain.I have not been able to say or write anything right today. I'm hoping this blog comes out different, dang it! <br />
<br />
I've been talking and writing emails like a teenager all day. <br />
<br />
Email to another writer today: **I know ur going 2 hate my critique. So if u want me 2 help more tell me.** <br />
<br />
Whoa...who got the paddle out on my behind recently? (<em>No one who matters.)</em><br />
<br />
Spoke to my daughter's teacher on the phone. I held it together for a semi-adult conversation, but as soon as I got off the phone: "Stupid teacher. A-number-one creeper." <br />
<br />
Hubby, who is home sick with the flu and semi-delirious with fever gave me a sharp look. <br />
<br />
"YOU used to be a teacher too, Vee. Why are you talking like that?"<br />
<br />
For cryin' out loud. It's Wallace Nagell's fault. That fourteen year old loud mouthed "Little Person" is taking over my fifty-one year old body. I'm possessed. Now, why didn't that happen when I was writing about the 8,000 year old brilliant alien scientist king? True, he was a predatory alien who ate humans, but damn...the great stuff I could have been spouting out. How tesseract tunnels work. The calculations necessary for warp drive engines to power galaxy-hopping starships would've made me a wealthy woman with the gratitude of the entire EARTH. <br />
<br />
But NO, it's the four-foot-tall fourteen year old who's in the driver's seat and spouting his nonsense. <br />
<br />
I sound crazy, don't I? (The other voices in my head say, if I'm crazy, at least the meds will be good.)<br />
<br />
Okay, going to listen to "Hot Mess" by Cobra Starship again. That's Wallace's theme song. He's still at the wheel, the little hot mess. The "problem child, runnin' wild" in my head.<br />
<br />
'Night all.Veehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247100626399681194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669196955661194368.post-86973942273280227452011-01-02T13:39:00.000-08:002011-01-11T10:56:37.625-08:00I Read 8 Young Adult Novels in 10 Days (And this is what I learned.)Cheryl Lynn gave me a gift certificate for Tidal Wave books in our writing group's Christmas gift exchange. (The perfect gift for me, thanks Cheryl!) In fact, the gift certificate was almost lost entirely as it nearly burned its way out of my pocket before I could make it to the bookstore. <br />
<br />
Some of the books I bought were YA books. I also went to the library and checked out an armload of YA books with the help of my daughter Autumn and the fantastic children's section librarian, Jane. I've read several in the past, but felt I needed to read some more in this genre, particularly ones that have been very popular in recent years, as I am plotting out a Middle Grade or Young Adult book now. So I read 8 books popular with teens and tweens in the last 10 days. <br />
<br />
Things I discovered by reading so many YA books all at once:<br />
<br />
1) There must be sidekicks who are also kids in YA books. To be used as: *foils, *someone who represents <br />
the hero's "conscience", *the 'other half' of the actual protagonist's soul, *to do the bad things the hero <br />
can't do, etc.<br />
<br />
2) Adult sidekicks are too weird to be useful.<br />
<br />
3) There is less layering and far fewer subplots. (I already knew about the subplots.).<br />
<br />
4) Things my writing group might chastise me for (in the spirit of good, helpful critique only) crop up in <br />
amazing abundance in YA books. The number one thing that caught my eye, and which most of us would <br />
criticize in a manuscript: children who seem to be too wise, too witty, too knowledgeable, or too cynical <br />
for someone of that age group. The number two thing I see is...adverbs.<br />
<br />
Any thoughts on that?Veehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247100626399681194noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669196955661194368.post-41844018794498800322010-12-23T18:12:00.000-08:002010-12-23T18:12:17.837-08:00Hallelujah Chorus -Quinhagak Village, Mostly Yupik, AlaskaHallelujah Chorus -Quinhagak, Alaska <br />
<br />
These folks are cute. A great sense of humor coming to you from snowy, Southwest Alaska, off the Bering Sea.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=LyviyF-N23A">Hallelujah Chorus -Quinhagak Village, Alaska </a><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSy-71B5VWnzVgpmE4-hiICskueCEp--" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSy-71B5VWnzVgpmE4-hiICskueCEp--" /></a></div>Veehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247100626399681194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669196955661194368.post-84882345428735745422010-11-26T11:03:00.000-08:002011-04-21T12:43:02.063-07:00Did Your Parents Censor? Did your parents censor what you read and watched on TV and at the movies? <br />
And did that parental protection keep you from worrying about monsters when they turned off your bedroom lights and wished you sweet dreams? <br />
My parents never censored anything I read or watched. That might have been why I spent so many nights of my pre-teen years with my head under my covers, making sure not even one toe-tip peeked over the edge of the bed. It's amazing how ordinary household blankets had a force-field protective power, so the monsters didn't get their claws on me and eat me. Covering myself up so I wasn’t monster-chow led to a lot of sweating in the summer, but I still have all my toes, ears, nose and fingers to this day, thanks to the power of the Blanket-Shield.<br />
I remember being not merely afraid of the dark, but absolutely terrified. An open closet door was a potential portal for things with more teeth than hair to come slithering into my room and devour my tender pre-pubescent bod with big bloody chomps. Any skittering I heard might be tiny monsters under the bed, which would eat me up with their tiny mouths filled with needle teeth. <br />
I admit I had these fears about monsters and turning the light off in my bedroom up until I was about twelve. What happened then was I had a hard time at school, and endured so much bullying that I felt I had more in common with the hideous monsters drooling under my bed than any similarity to my classmates. I also felt, if it’s dark, then a monster might not be able to see me any better than I could see it, so I might be able to run away or even get the drop on the thing. <br />
I lived on an isolated farmstead in the Ozark Mountains—Skylight Mountain to be exact. Occasionally when I woke up at night I’d crawl out of bed and go for long walks in the dark without a flashlight. The night became my friend; it hid me in a soft and friendly darkness when I snuck out to hike under the stars while my parents slept. The monsters, if they could see me at all, seemed more like potential companions than fearsome predators.<br />
I read my first sensual scenes when I was thirteen. Romance books weren't the original culprits for introducing sex to my young, curious mind. Sci-fi led the way with sexual content and suggestive themes, particularly Robert A. Heinlein and “Glory Road. The main character, Oscar, saw his future wife, Star, on a nudist beach and described her naked body in intense and loving detail. <br />
Star, as Oscar discovered <em>after </em>he married her, was his own great-great-great grandmother. She was immortal as well as scandalously immoral, or she seemed that way to a thirteen year old mountain girl who attended a small Southern Baptist Church on Hale Mountain. <br />
I spent some time analyzing: What degree of sin, how much portion of guilt, should be assigned to to someone who married his ancestor? Was this genetic relation really any different from marrying a second or third cousin, which was perfectly legal everywhere? So “Glory Road” ambushed me with moral evaluation and philosophy, through the romantic elements so common in Heinlein’s work.<br />
Is it any wonder at all, with the books I read and the movies I watched, that I’d someday come to write about the beautiful monsters? And try to persuade you that, in my world, the society of monsters might be more comfortable than your human peers? If one of my monsters was under your bed, you’d want to invite him or her to keep you company on top of it.<br />
I write about aliens with sharp teeth and tentacles who are beautiful and desirable. You don’t think that’s possible? Oh yeah, trust me, I can make you see the monsters through my eyes and you will want them.<br />
What did parental censorship, or lack of it, do for you when you were a curious youngster? What did you read and watch that affected you the most profoundly?Veehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247100626399681194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669196955661194368.post-82808070900584239582010-08-25T15:52:00.000-07:002011-04-28T20:55:41.768-07:00How Writing is like Coon Hunting.How Writing is like Coon Hunting. <br />
<br />
<br />
Have you ever been coon hunting?<br />
<br />
I grew to adulthood in the Ozark Mountains, in the NW corner of Arkansas. The country folk used to coon hunt in the woods up there and probably still do. <br />
<br />
Coon hunting happens at night. During the day, they hole up somewhere, so there's no use hunting before the sun goes down.<br />
<br />
The guys all met for the hunt in pickup trucks, the beds loaded with leashed dogs crowded against coolers full of ice and beer. Just good ol' boys out for some fun with guns. Greeting and heckling each other, they put beer on the tailgates as one of the most important preparations for the hunt. <br />
<br />
"Hey Harry, nice to see you and your tomboy!" they greeted my dad. He waved. I said nothing, only hefted my rifle, knowing I could outshoot most of these men even when they were sober.<br />
<br />
After they gulped a few alcoholic beverages, the guys unleashed their hounds. Gathering up our guns, we ambled after the mob of canines disappearing into the night-dark forest.<br />
<br />
The men reminisced about good dogs that'd died, naming them with gruff reverence. Jake. Molly. Tri-Sally who'd gotten run over by a tractor, too tough to die, running almost as fast as her pups on her remaining three legs. Good dogs. Their memories lived on in their descendents running for us that night. <br />
<br />
"Do you remember Old Blue?" asked a gray haired man, his worn shotgun an extension of his wiry arm. "He never let a coon get an even break." I was unsure if he was talking about hunting. The edge of meanness in his words made me uneasy. A couple of men beside him laughed like they did when whispering dirty jokes.<br />
<br />
The hounds' chorus signaled they'd found a coon trail and gave chase with tones so pure they sounded like church bells pealing in God's woods. Their voices rang of life and death and the saving or escaping of it. We quickened our pace. <br />
<br />
When the dogs treed the coon, their voices changed. Their barking became angry. We know you are up there, and our people will blast you into Heaven. Some of the hounds summoned their masters, Come-come. We have him. <br />
<br />
Everyone hurried to where the dogs had the coon treed, guns clutched in their arms, flashlights and lanterns swinging, splashing light on the trees. Despite their lights, several men trip over roots and leaves anyway. Me, I was a twelve year old girl. I didn't have a flashlight to light my path and didn't need one. My .22 rifle cradled in my arms was all I needed. I ghosted over the ground like a deer.<br />
<br />
We arrived at the oak where the dogs leapt and thrashed the trunk with their paws, tearing the bark. A Bluetick and a Redbone tried to climb like cats. The Bluetick made it up as high as I was tall, only to fall back to the ground amidst the milling pack.<br />
<br />
Men and boys circled the tree with their flashlights; the beams lights riffled the branches, searched for the eerie green-reflected light of coon eyes above our heads, but no eyes were seen.<br />
<br />
I waited on the outskirts of all the flailing lights and stomping boots. I didn't want any beer drinking idiots to step on me and knock me down in their hunting frenzy. I wondered, if they sighted the coon, would one person shoot it? Or would the poor coon end up with more holes than hair?<br />
<br />
Even as a young girl I knew you needed a good, seasoned hound to guide the younger dogs. Coons are clever creatures who probably studied with foxes some time in their distant ancestry and taught those red guys their tricks.<br />
<br />
Coons who have been hunted before know all kinds of tricks to use against dogs. One of their favorite tricks is to urinate or defecate on the tree they first climbed, and then jump from the wispy branches of one tree to another, until they come to a spot where the branches are too far away. They are forced to ground again, and this is where the dogs could pick up his scent. If there are seasoned old coon hounds on the hunt, wise to this trick, the ruse doesn't work for long. But because I was out with a bunch of red necks whose main intentions were drinking beer away from their wives and swapping stories, we didn't have one experienced tracker in the bunch. We had a pack of adolescent pups barking up the wrong tree and no wise old hounds to show them the correct way of doing things.<br />
<br />
The men encouraged the hounds to cast about the tree and showed them how to work in circles. Bob grabbed his black and tan by her leather collar and dragged the gyp away from the decoy spot to areas several yards away, shoving her nose at the ground to show her where coon scent might be found. After several false starts, a dog found the trail where the prey had returned to the ground. Rallying the pack, she launched into the dark woods.<br />
<br />
Now this is how writing is like coon hunting. A seasoned writer knows when she is barking up the wrong tree. Experienced writers start casting about in overlapping circles from where they got lost to where they might pick up the story trail again. But a less experienced writer--like me--gets confused. I leap at that tree--my chapter--and try to climb it, but I can't seem to keep going. I've completely fallen for that decoy shit.<br />
<br />
Around and around, I circle the spot where I got lost, positive this is the writing path I'm supposed to continue. If only I could glimpse my story staring down at me with glowing eyes for just one moment…but the reality is, the story has moved on and I need to find where it came to ground. Sometimes I have to drag my writing self away from the decoy by the collar until I start questing for the new scent on more than mere instinct. Or my critique partners see I'm on a false trail and help to redirect me. Eventually I find the scent trail and take off again.<br />
<br />
Beer doesn't help in hunting for coons. However, I do find a Mike's Hard Lemonade helpful while I ponder the best way to solve my writing problem. I'm drinking a Mike's black cherry right now. Yum! <br />
<br />
Oh, and I never DID shoot a coon. Those guys were the best beer drinkers and the worst hunters I've ever seen.Veehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247100626399681194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669196955661194368.post-70547775656446455182010-08-03T11:47:00.000-07:002010-08-25T23:55:01.275-07:00Writers are Ghouls!<p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">Writers are ghouls. We pretty up our nasty habits with labels like “literary” or “commercial” fiction. We call using our life experiences “enhancing” our stories, but we are cannibals. We take our experiences, good, bad, or the confused in-between visceral things we can’t name, and craft with every piece of them like Native Americans use a slain buffalo. Hide, guts, meat, bone, teeth…nothing’s wasted.<?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">I once gave CPR to a young man who committed suicide by throwing himself head first off the balcony of a restaurant in downtown Anchorage. The second story balcony from which he’d fallen didn’t seem to be high enough to kill anyone, but he’d thrown himself over the railing head-first.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">I’ll use that experience in my writing someday. Make good use of the image of everyone standing around, not offering to help. I just stood there too, gawking at the young man who seemed dead, not redeemable for a come-back-to-life coupon, with the dark blood thick under his head within a few blinks.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">A twenty-something woman in a white dress leaped from the crowd, got down on her knees on the asphalt parking lot next to the spreading blood and began resuscitation attempts. Breath, breath—compress, compress, compress…<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">Shame rolled over me. I had CPR training too, but I hadn’t even thought to help until she threw herself into battle. I found myself kneeling on the other side, not sure how I’d gotten there. “How can I help?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">“You breathe for him, and I’ll do the chest compressions,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">I tilted his chin, pushed on his forehead, pressed my mouth over that youthful, clean-shaven skin. I blew, heard gurgles in his chest, tasted blood and cigarettes in my mouth. I thought of stopping, it’s a good excuse to stop. But The Samaritan in White kept compressing the young man’s chest. Not a man…a boy, really, he didn’t look old enough to buy beer. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">Pulled in the wake of the Samaritan’s courage and determination, I continued to blow into the young man’s mouth when it was my turn. The world narrowed to only us and our hard labor to nurture whatever life might remain in the boy after he’d done his best to be dead. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">I searched for a spark of life in that slack face every time I raised my head, and knew he was surely dead from the blood that spread like sand from an hourglass until red flowed under the knees of the little Samaritan In White. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">My breath started to crackle in my lungs. My allergies were reacting to the cigarette residue on his lips. I coughed, blew, coughed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">“Trade me places,” I said. “I can’t keep breathing for him. He’s been smoking, and I’m terribly allergic.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">We traded. It was hard to keep the rhythm going smoothly. She was so much better at it than I was. “One, two, three…” The Samaritan helped me keep count of the compressions, it was easy to lose track when my own breathing lagged far behind.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">The ambulance arrived, and we ignored it. We kept up the rhythm we’d worked out like two parts of a CPR machine, until two EMTs ran up to us, saying in stereo, “We’ll take it from here. You can stop now.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">Feeling dizzy, my lips burning and swelling, I stood on trembling legs. My husband took my arm, urged and supported me away from the center of my temporary world. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">“Are you okay?” my husband asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">“No,” I said, and leaned into his side. He slung a heavy arm around me and we watched the EMTs put a hand air pumping on the boy’s face. They loaded him up in the back of the ambulance so fast I was envious of their speed. I’d done my best, but I couldn’t match their professional skills. I chided myself, <i>You and the Samaritan in White did the best you could. </i>I stared over at my teammate, the better half of our CPR machine, but could only see her back.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Her group of pretty friends, twenty-something boys and girls bent around her like groupies, charming and solicitous of her wellbeing. She led her group away across the parking lot without a word or a glance in my direction. My chest was too tight to call out and ask her name. Tell her mine. I’d disappeared, already forgotten, my usefulness ended.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">Eric helped me get to the pickup where it was parked on the street, and I climbed inside with his assistance. My lungs were gummed up and I could barely breathe—<i>snap, crackle, pop</i>--like Rice Krispies. I scrambled around in my purse which I hadn’t taken into the restaurant with me, found my inhaler and took three hits like a junkie, breathing as deep as the band around my chest would allow. My lips were on fire, and when I rolled the window open, the chill autumn air couldn’t cool them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; TEXT-INDENT: 0in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:';">Yeah, I’ll use that someday. I’ll be in anguish. I will taste the blood of a hero or an enemy in my mouth. I’ll have a partner who’ll leave me bereft. My lips will catch fire, and my chest will go tight again, as though it’s filling with lead a teaspoon at a time. That moment will be cannibalized in dripping red bits. Perhaps I’ll throw whole chunks and severed fingers curled like question marks into the pot to stew. What are those floaty things? Push them back in. Taste for flavor--not enough blood. Give it another stir with my big writing spoon. Let the stew simmer until done. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Veehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247100626399681194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669196955661194368.post-21801748007475878272010-07-14T11:32:00.000-07:002010-07-14T12:19:30.571-07:00Do hearts still pump when the body is decapitated?Oh, the gruesome things writers get into, all in the name of research. After reading one of my scenes, my husband asked: "Do hearts really keep beating after the head is removed?"<br /><br />"They do in the movies."<br />"And the movies are so accurate."<br />"Point taken." I write it down as another fact to check.<br /><br />It is incredibly hard to find out whether or not hearts continue beating after the body is decapitated. At this point, I have only found an old historical reference to a heart beating after capitation, but it was ridiculous. A heart kept beating an hour after decapitation? With what blood flow? Wouldn't lack of blood pressure cause the heart to cease long before then?<br /><br />I'll get back with you on this newsflash...does the heart, or does the heart NOT continue to beat after decapitation? Stay tuned!Veehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247100626399681194noreply@blogger.com0