Works Always in the Works

I have a series of which I have written six books. Because my timing is absolutely wretched, they will most likely never be published unless I do it myself.  I might, one day, but right now, I don't have the time to do all that I would need to do to make such a thing worth while much less successful.  

After receiving a rejection but with excellent feedback, I decided to attempt another rewrite.  I've spent the last two weeks editing books 1 and 2. As with every time I open the files and dive back in, the story pulls me. My heart and soul went into these characters and their lives, and it is sometimes painful to me that I am the only one who has met them, who knows their struggles, their shortcomings, their saving graces. The main character reflects quite a bit of me, and many times I have written her experiences and thoughts with tears burning my eyes and throat.

I'll have to think about it more, but I may post chapters or scenes here.  Camellia's story is dark, and most people don't do dark. 

For tonight, I will just share one of her thoughts: 

Loneliness was a catching illness.  I am an adult.  I am strong, physically and mentally.  The loneliness shouldn't get to me, but somehow, it always does.
 

EA* Imitates Life

I had not played Sim3 in about 3 years, but when the house was struck by lightning just before Christmas and we had no internet, I got back into it. I made Sims for myself, Fluffy, and Spawn. At the point when this conversation occured, I was top level in the science career, Fluffy was a gardener/inventor, and Spawn was a firefighter (We have since all retired and are awaiting the Grim Reaper.).

Me: I hate that I just now realized they'd added that you could be a teacher. I would've made my Sim do that since I'm actually a teacher.
Fluffy: Well, you can always re-start your game, try again.
Me: And go through raising Spawn all over again? No.
...
Me: I should've made you a teacher, too. I mean, what else are you going to do? I don't know, if I could get a job that paid well enough, you could be a stay-at-home dad.
Fluffy: Really? If I did that, I would take care of the house and even do home improvements. I actually enjoy that kind of stuff when I'm not also having to work.
Me: Sure, and I actually enjoy teaching. 
Fluffy: I am so in love with you right now.
Me: Of course, that means we could never leave the south because we wouldn't be able to afford to live on one salary anywhere else.
Fluffy: Buzzkill.

*For you non-gamers, EA is Electronic Arts

Real Life Updates

1) Last Sunday, Spawn turned one. We held a large party (in my opinion) of family and friends. It went better than I expected - all the children had a good time, no one had a meltdown (including Spawn). It was stressful, but it was good.

In the time I spent with Spawn and looking through pictures of the party, I noticed how interested in other children Spawn has become. He needs friends his age, but every time I think about putting him in daycare or a mother's day out, I think a) I don't have the money for that b) Spawn is so healthy and I know he will be sick all the time if he's in daycare c) Once I find a full-time job, he'll have to go to daycare, so I should just enjoy having him home and teaching him myself while I can.

I keep telling myself I just need to try to enjoy him while he's little, especially since he will probably be my only child. Taking care of him can be so exhausting. It's hard when you need a break or you just want to go out, see friends, or shop and you can't.

2) Friday, I received my signed contract for Fairest. It has been put on Eternal Press' publication schedule for May of this year. I've returned my author information sheet, so now, I'm just waiting to hear from the editor about suggested changes or corrections.

I'm amazed by this little book. I started it as a NaNoWriMo project in 2010 and gave up after 15,000 words. In 2011, I added a few more chapters before I gave up. I moved on to other projects for a while before I made up my mind to finish it. Unlike most of my other works, this one is stand-alone. Those other stories, even if I have finished entire books of them, are still unfinished. I had a chance to complete something with Fairest. In summer of 2012, I did. It was fulfilling to finally FINALLY finish something. It has a beginning, middle, and end.

I spent some time editing it and tried querying in September. When it received no interest, I sent it off to friends and had another go at editing it. Then, on a whim, I decided to look for publishers instead of agents. It's not easy to find YA publishers who take unsolicited works, but Eternal Press does and did! I was so used to rejection that I had to read the email twice before I realized they wanted my book!

3) I have applied for twelve jobs across the southeast. I am qualified for all of them, but I well-qualified for three of them. As a female and with my work experience, I should be a prime candidate.

It may be too early to worry about, but I'm torn over whether or not to move. There is a position at my current school, one that I could easily learn what I don't already know, one where I already know everyone, am respected and like, but it is administrative. I'm not wild about having to evaluate co-workers and grad students. I'm not sure I can tactfully deal with parents, one of many reasons I will never teach high school again. Before I had Spawn, I was too sympathetic. Now, I have almost none. All of my patience and caring are spent by him, and I don't know if this would be a good thing or a bad thing for my job.

On the other hand, I don't enjoy research. I see it as necessary for my career, but I'm not passionate about it in the way I am about my actual career. This administrative position comes with no research, but the pay and workload are terrible. Having said that, there is a similar position at another school that has competitive pay and workload to that of someone in a regular professorship. But do I want to move?  Do I want to leave my friends and family? Yes and no. Yes and no.

4) I spent the last three days proofreading Fluffy's dissertation. He finally sent off first drafts to his committee last night. Now, he just needs to set a date and time to defend and make a power point. Why is this more stressful for me than my own defense?

I love everything about this.

Where the Wild Things Hunt

Foreword: I often have dreams of my shadow. He (my shadow is male) usually tries to kill or absorb me, so I generally wake from these dreams feeling panicked and at best uncomfortable. This one...well, this one was different. I was my shadow.  

          Shadow stood on the edge where the dormant grass met the rip-rap-covered bank.  In the bay, the water gently lapped against grayish rocks.  Rusty water, made less inviting by the bright sunlight.  Through oval glasses he didn’t need, he stared at the ferry as it approached the docks.  He’d been compelled to wear them, putting on the face of an intellectual.  People stereotyped glasses-wearers as geeks, nerds, and squares long before Velma began single-handedly solving mysteries for the gang.  He could play off that for the day.

          Looking to his left, Shadow recognized the teenaged boy sitting on a tripod stool in front of an easel.  He knew that the boy painted ocean scenes in watercolor, all the same shade of blue but with different concentrations of the color.  Several empty tubes of acrylic lay scattered around the boy’s feet and on the easel two cups – one for water, one for paint. 

          The boy moved the brush over the paper with inhuman speed, starting in the upper left and working his way to the lower right.  He didn’t wait for it to dry.  As soon as one was finished, he flipped the paper over the top of the pad to reveal a fresh, white sheet.  Always intrigued, Shadow walked over to stand behind him and watch as the boy transferred the world onto paper.

          “Sea, sea, sea, sea,” the boy murmured over and over as his arm jerked and hitched.

          Shadow couldn’t understand how such uncontrolled movements made something so beautiful.  The result was a surprisingly realistic rendering with exquisite detail to the tiny crests of waves.  For only a moment, he took the pad from the boy and flipped through the paintings.  As he flipped, Shadow saw the nebulous blob that marked the position of the ferry make steady progress toward the dock.

          “Sea, sea, SEA, SEA.”  The boy grew increasingly agitated.

          “Yes, I know,” Shadow said to him and returned the pad.  “It’s the only thing you see clearly.”

          “Sea,” the boy sighed and resumed painting.

    

          Shadow took the ferry to the island.  It was a small boat, and the waves were rough, but since the trip was uneventful, he tuned out for a while.  He never noticed the young woman, no more than twenty, staring at him with large blue eyes rimmed with black liner.  She longed for a hat as she fought to keep her pageboy-cut hair out of her eyes.  Eventually, she settled for holding each side of her hair in her fists. 

          Beyond the draw of a handsome face, she marveled that Shadow’s hair hardly moved.  The wind picked up only a few strands and twice saw him scratch at the stubble on his face.  Other than that, he didn’t move, and she wondered how anyone could be so still for so long.  She thought that, if he embraced her, her ear would rest just over his heart.  

 

          On the island, Shadow stared into the forest while the others set up camp.  The young woman spoke to him, and he greeted her, letting his eyes pass over her face to record it for future reference.  Her eyes, hope and good will seemed to arrow out of them, and he wondered if other things – hate, fear, lust – would also come through them, not only transparently but forcefully so.  He gave her a half-smile and a half-laugh, which she returned with a wide, guileless grin.  Clingy, he thought and walked away from her to the main tent.

          Fourteen feet-by-fourteen feet, the tent stood in a patch of evergreen needles just large enough to contain it.  Two adjacent sides had both the flaps and screens unzipped and tied open to allow easy access.  A long table and several camp chairs were already set up, along with two laptops, a scanner, and a printer.  Shadow gave the equipment the same treatment he’d given the young woman. 

          “You can try,” he said quietly and left to set up his own tent.

         

          He was up, sitting in a chair in the main tent and listening to the night.  A man’s scream cut off abruptly.  Snapping, snapping, rending, gurgling growls of satiation.  More screaming.  His lantern was on, and soon, the surviving five people clustered in the center of the tent, looking to him to know what to do.

          “Did you see it?” one horrified man asked of Shadow.  “It was eight feet tall!”

          “Furry, too?” Shadow asked, his smile haunting his face again.  He stood and turned up the lantern.  “With lower tusks, large black eyes, and a nose that’s almost comically human.”

          The man poked his head out of the flap of the tent and never had the chance to scream before the snarling thing outside batted his head off his shoulders.  His body dropped to the ground, and the young woman, beyond terror, darted to Shadow’s side.  She tucked her head under his arm and dug her fingers into his shirt.

          “What are they?”  Her skin was cold, and she quivered with the rush of adrenaline.

          “Wild,” Shadow answered.  When the beast poked its head into the tent, the young woman looked up at him, searching for an answer, for deliverance.  Shadow passed a hand over her short, soft hair and removed his glasses.  “Hungry,” he added.  As he breathed warm air onto the lenses, the beast leapt.          (2011) 

The Old Woman Who Lived in a Vinegar Bottle

I first heard this story in either kindergarten or first grade. I love old European fairy tales, Grimm's and otherwise (and I love re-telling them). They teach children all sorts of life truths and lessons. There is one that is unspoken but undeniably true: Never trust a fairy.

THERE once was an old woman who lived in a vinegar bottle. Don't ask me why. It was a common old vinegar bottle. Maybe a little larger than most, but, still, it made for a very small house. The old woman would often sit on her front steps and complain. "Oh, what a pity! What a pity pity pity! That I should have to live in a tiny house such as this. Why, I should be living in a charming cottage with a thatched roof and roses growing up the walls. That's what I deserve."

           One day a fairy happened to be flying overhead and she heard the old woman's complaint. "I can do that," thought the fairy. "If that's what she wants...that's what she'll get." And to the old woman she said, "When you go to bed tonight, turn round three times and close your eyes. In the morning, just see what you shall see."

           Well, the old woman thought the fairy was likely batty, but she decided to give it a try. When she went to bed that night she turned round three times and closed her eyes. When she opened them again in the morning ... She found herself in a charming cottage with a thatched roof and roses growing up the walls! "It's just what I've always wanted," she said. "I know I will be so happy here." But not a word of thanks did she give to the fairy.
           The fairy went north and the fairy went south. The fairy went east and the fairy went west. She did all the business she had to do. Then she began to think about that old woman. "I wonder how that old woman is getting along. The one who used to live in the vinegar bottle. I think I'll just stop round and see."

           When she got to the charming cottage the fairy found the old woman sitting and complaining. "Oh, what a pity! What a pity pity pity! That I should have to live in a tiny cottage like this. Why, I should be living in a smart row house with lace curtains at the windows and a brass knocker on the door! That's what I deserve!"

           "Well," said the fairy, "I can do that. If that's what she wants ... that's what she'll get." And to the old woman she said, "When you go to bed tonight, turn round three times and close your eyes. When you open them again in the morning, just see what you shall see."

           The old woman didn't have to be told twice. She went right to bed. She turned round three times and closed her eyes. When she opened them again in the morning, she found herself in a smart row house with lace curtains at the windows and a brass knocker on the door. "It's just what I always dreamed of!" she said. "I know I'll be so happy here!" But not a word of thanks did she give to the fairy.
           The fairy went north and the fairy went south. The fairy went east and the fairy went west. She did all the business she had to do. Then she began to think about that old woman. "I wonder how that old woman is getting along. The one who used to live in the vinegar bottle. I think I'll just stop round and see."

           When she got to the smart row house, there sat the old woman in her brand new rocking chair ... rocking and complaining. "Oh, what a pity! What a pity pity pity! That I should have to live in this row house with common neighbors on either side. Why, I should be living in a mansion on a hilltop with a manservant and a maidservant to do my bidding. That's what I deserve!"

           When the fairy heard this, she was much amazed. But she said, "Well, if that's what she wants ... That's what she'll get." And to the old woman she said, "When you go to bed tonight, turn around three times and close your eyes. When you open them again in the morning, just see what you will see!"

           The old woman turned round three times and closed her eyes. When she opened them again the next morning ... She found herself in a mansion on a hilltop with a manservant and a maidservant to do her bidding! "This is just what I've always deserved," said the old woman. "I know I will be so happy here!" But not a word of thanks did she give to the fairy.
           The fairy went north and the fairy went south. The fairy went east and the fairy went west. She did all the business she had to do. Then she began to think about that old woman. " I wonder how that old woman is getting along. The one who used to live in the vinegar bottle. I think I'll just stop round and see."

           But when she came to the mansion on the hilltop she found the old woman in her velvet chair ... sitting and complaining! "Oh, what a pity! What a pity pity pity! That I should have to live in such a drafty old mansion. Why, I should be living in the palace. Oh, yes, I should be the queen with musicians to entertain me and courtiers to bow to me. That's what I deserve."

           "Good heavens," thought the fairy. "Will she never be content? Well, if that's what she wants ... that's what she'll get." And to the old woman she said, "When you go to bed tonight, turn round three times and close your eyes. When you open them again in the morning, just see what you shall see!"

           The old woman could not wait to go to bed that night. She turned round three times and closed her eyes. When she opened them again the next morning, she found herself in the palace and she was the queen, with musicians to entertain her and courtiers to bow to her. "Oh, yes! This is what I've always dreamed of. I know I will be so happy here!" But not a word of thanks did she give to the fairy.
           The fairy went north and the fairy went south. The fairy went east and the fairy went west. She did all the business she had to do. Then she began to think about that old woman. "I wonder how that old woman is getting along ... the one who used to live in the vinegar bottle. I think I'll just stop round and see."

           When she got to the palace there sat the old woman on her throne ... sitting and complaining! "Oh what a pity! What a pity pity pity! That I should be queen of such an insignificant little kingdom. Why I should be Empress of the Universe. Oh, yes, Empress of the Universe! That's what I really deserve!"

           "Well!" said the fairy. "There is just no pleasing some people! If that's what she wants, that's what she'll not get!" And to the old woman she said, "When you go to bed tonight, turn round three times and close your eyes. When you open them again in the morning, just see what you shall see."

The old woman hurried to bed that night. She turned round three times and closed her eyes. When she opened them again the next morning, she found herself right back in her vinegar bottle! "And there she shall stay!" exclaimed the fairy. "If she can't be happy here, she won't be happy there. For, after all, happiness comes from the heart! Not from the house!"

Karma Police

           "Arrest this man."
           I believe in karma, as I have felt the wheel roll over me too many times to ignore it. When I hear about people who prey on the pain or loss or generosity of others, I know that at some point, the scales will balance. I'm sure that isn't much comfort to those who were the victims of deception, but it is something.
           With each day comes new tragedy. People come together to aid their fellow man, but there are always a greed-driven few looking to make a buck off tragedy. I'm going to tell you a story about one such person.
           Fred, let's call him, started graduate school the year I came back. Though his undergraduate record wasn't stellar, he received a full ride (tuition waiver, stipend, book money, housing allowance) at the department's expense. An older student with a wife and seven-year-old daughter, he wanted to get his PhD, try to better his position in life, etc.
           He'd never taught before, and if you've never taught before and have no training, it's in your best interest to seek the help and guidance of a veteran. Fred did not. The first semester, he was never on-time to class. Several times, he never showed, forcing other teachers to fill-in for him and leave their tutoring spots. He was always late to do his floor hours, practically hid while in the lab, and left early.
           Because of him, the lab director made a new policy that all the workers had to swipe in and out, like punching a time clock the same way the students did. She claimed that the information collected would be used for the department chair to decide who got benefits and how much in following semesters.
           When Fred learned of this, his work ethic improved. He asked for help, called or emailed people to cover for him, and so on. And we did help him and cover for him, even when he didn't repay us or failed to show for the shift he swapped with us.
           After his first semester, he lost his stipend but not because of his shoddy work. No, his grades were too low. As graduate student in our department, you can't make C's, and if you make too many B's, the department will cut your funding in favor of giving a better student and worker more benefits.
           Since his family depended on the money and he had 18 graduate credit hours, the department head took pity on him and kept him as a part-time instructor (same work load). Because of his lack of teaching skills, he was put in a course with no instruction time. He couldn't possibly teach his students wrong because there is no teaching in that class. All he had to do was show up, and of course he didn't.
           Now, you might be thinking, "So he's a dirt bag. I'm not seeing how this should exact karmic retribution." I'm getting there.
           Right around spring break, he just disappeared. The two people in the department who were friends with him couldn't get in touch with him. Finally, he answered an email from the department head stating that his wife was in the hospital.
           She had some kind of stomach bug. He spent two days nursing her before deciding it was too severe and took her to the emergency room. They said it was a bug, sent her home, etc. When she wasn't better five days later, he took her back, and she was diagnosed with a bacterial infection so rampant that the antibiotics couldn't fight it. After another week, she died.
           We were shocked and appalled for him. In this day and age, in the United States, how could this happen? Well, it does. Every day.
           We covered his classes. We covered his hours. We sent food, money, cards, flowers. We asked after funeral arrangements. Then, one of his friends saw him out one night with his wife! Here, we were supporting him while he grieved for the loss of the love of his life and the mother of his daughter, and she wasn't dead. She hadn't even been ill.
           Even though there are people like Fred out there, who will use and abuse the goodwill of others, we should still extend it to those in need. Even if we can't be sure that the need is real, giving and helping is what a decent human does. If you've been burned, please don't let it discourage you. Just think of it as good karma.

Memorial

          On the way to my parents’ place, there is a rather large pine tree growing close to the edge of the road.  In my largely rural hometown, houses and roads are built as to intrude upon nature as little as possible.  Lined with pines and hardwoods, the road to my parents’ neighborhood is hilly, and so it has narrow shoulders with steep drop-offs in many places.

          What makes this one tree so special?  Someone died by it.

          I met Amber at one of the infamous “Tupperware” parties where she proudly showed us the Silver Bullet (think metal, vibrating tampon) she purchased, with car adapter.  She was twenty then and had a fun personality to make up for the fact that she didn’t inherit the same good looks her older sister had.  She loved male strippers and could be heard above the rest of the ladies, hooting and shouting for the over-tanned man in a star-spangled banana hammock to, “Yeah, take it off, baby!  Come earn my money.”

          Amber was an alcoholic who also happened to be addicted to Oxycontin, two things she had in common with Kevin, her boyfriend of four years.  She spent the next few years of her life in a co-dependent relationship, bouncing between jobs with her parents threatening to throw her out of their house, and her two closest friends begging her to get clean.  Eventually, she broke up with Kevin and kicked the booze and narcotics. 

          It turned out the drugs were easier to give up than the boy.  A few times a month, they would hook up, and then she got pregnant.  When she was sure, she called him. 

          He picked her up around eleven on a Friday night, drunk, but where I’m from, driving drunk is a sport almost as popular as football.  They drove to a cul-de-sac in her neighborhood and talked for a few hours.  When she told him she intended to keep the baby, he promised to get clean and marry her.  They loved each other.  Kevin wanted her to go home with him, and she agreed.            

          The old pine is at the top of a steep hill, across the road and a bit left from where her neighborhood exits onto the main road.  Kevin, traveling at escape velocity, hilltopped and smashed the passenger side of his Mustang into the pine.  He woke up two weeks later, but Amber died on the scene.

          It’s been several years now.  The area where the car struck the tree can’t grow bark anymore.  The exposed tinder attracted beetles and has grayed and flaked with time.  I wonder if that’s how Amber’s parents feel. 

          Every Christmas and on her birthday, friends staple her picture to the tree, lay flowers at its base, and leave candles, and I wonder if any of them give her grave the same loving treatment.  I feel as though the scarred tree alone is a hard enough reminder to her parents.  They see it whenever they leave the neighborhood to go to work or church. 

          Drive down any highway in my neck of the woods, and you’ll see similar roadside memorials.  “Somebody died here.  Remember that.”  I’m not sure what purpose that serves.       (2011)         

Urban Renewal

          The A-frame across the street from the Salvation Army Store has been many things.  In my memory, it was first a cleaners.  I seem to recall seeing lots of things in plastic - herrings hanging to dry.  I don't recall the name.
          Next, it was a nail salon.  It now had a sign.  Nails! it proclaimed with a bottle of polish to the side.  Strange, I never saw a car parked there.  The owner most likely lived within walking distance, but with no car in the lot, the place looked vacant.  In a town like this, there is something off-putting about a business with no cars in the lot.
          Two summers ago, the building hosted Hot, Hot, Hot Wings and the sign had a flaming chicken with bugging eyes in full squawk.  That is a chicken going ape because it was engulfed in fire.  Again, no cars in the lot and no visible people in the building.  It had such potential, but it seems no one wants to eat in an empty restaurant.
          Now, the place is Abracadabra Jail Bonds complete with unlocked handcuffs on the sign.  It's only three blocks from the county jail, but with a competitor on the same block as the jail, Abracadabra is surely doomed. I wonder what it will be next.    (2010)

Surprises

          With my grandparents no longer living in their house, it has fallen on my mother to see that the place doesn't fall into disrepair or get robbed. Each week, she ships furniture to various relatives. Each week, she calls me and asks, "Do you want [...]?"
          Last week, she went to oversee the dredging of the pond. This pond is actually across the highway from the house, and only a metal guardrail and three foot-wide bank separates it from the road. The purpose of the dredging was to recover a truck that crashed through the guardrail. When they pulled it out, they found another car...with a body.
          "They finally identified him," Mom said. "The man has been missing for over a year, so at least his family has closure."
          It's just strange to think that a dead guy was pulled from a pond where I used to fish as a child, where I once came upon a black racer, and not knowing it wasn't poisonous, blindly ran through the woods and bolted across the highway without looking. My father caught me up in his arms -  something he rarely did, as I tended to run to my mother.
          I've been terrified of snakes ever since then.

Pickers

          While watching American Pickers, my mother asked me, "Do you think it's possible to ever really understand someone else's perspective?  If someone grew up being told the sky was brown, do you think you'd ever convince them that the sky is blue?"
          I said, "I think most people accept what they're taught without question.  When they encounter something outside their experience or contrary to what they believe, they either ignore it or violently oppose it."  I watched as teary-eyed old man made a deal to sell one of his many antique bicycles.  "Maybe not.  Maybe people are more willing to explore, but the ones who aren't just yell louder."  I looked back at her and half-grinned.  "Trying to help a lost soul, are you?"
          "Always.  And you?"
          "Always." Even if it's only my own.
(12/25/2010)

Over the train tracks and through the hood

          On my way to my parents' house, I passed a house where my childhood best friend's husband lived.  It's a square cinder block house, the kind where one side of the block is coated with ceramic asbestos paint.  It's a terrible puke-mint-green color with a white door, no shutters, and no shrubbery.  It  looks naked without those things.
          He hated the house, called it The Cracker Box both because it was the approximate size of a cracker box and because many people in the small, conservative community considered him and his *gasp* divorced mother to be white trash.  His mother is a first rate Hell-bitch.  She once broke her ring and pinkie fingers by slapping him with her rings turned so that the stones were inside her palm.  He came to homeroom bleeding from three cuts on his chin and laughed when I told him.  She was mean and tough but had to be. She had a strong-willed boy to raise with no help from family.  She refused all government aid.
          She waited until after he graduated from high school to marry her long-time "boyfriend."  When she did, she moved out to his lake house and sold The Cracker Box.  It's now Don's Pawn Shop.  A large fluorescent sign with a giant pistol on top pokes out of the lawn to let potential customers know that cash for Christmas is only a sale away.  It's one of the most ridiculous things I've ever seen.  Someone I cared about lived there, grew up there, lost his virginity there, and now there's is a giant pistol on top of a sign in the front yard. 
          I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
(12/25/2010)

A Mother's Laughter

          It was spring, and the Bird Carver and I were standing on the sidewalk where it dead-ended into the parking lot.  He was ready to go home for the day, having already set his box of tools, along with the soldering iron, in the back of his van.  The second and third rows of seats had been removed in preparation for his trip out of town.
          The barn owl he'd completed rested in bubble wrap amongst other boxes.  He said he could get $2500 for it, and I whistled, to which he nodded.  I had to admit, when he'd glued the eyes in place and set the bird upright, the owl came to life.  I'd flinched slightly, and my skin chilled a bit.  The eyes were the type that seemed to follow you.  The black pupils reflected the overhead light but nothing else, truly fitting for a predator.
          "Your wife's going to?" I asked as we stood together enjoying the afternoon sunshine.
          "Oh, she can't resist the feel of cash in her hands," he said, rocking back on his heels and then forward again.  "These craft shows give her a chance to talk nonstop."
At that moment, a cocoa-colored Buick surged up the steep drive into the faculty lot and aimed for the free spot where we stood.  He grabbed my arm and pulled me back protectively.
          "Watch out for this crazy old hag in the Buick," he warned in a distasteful tone.  He caught my grin only moments before the driver waved at me.  "Oh, please, please tell me that's not your mother."
          "Um," I said, snuffling in an attempt to deflate the laughter bubbling inside me.
          Embarrassed, he turned from me and walked briskly to his van.  Still grinning, I went to the Buick.  My smile deepened my mother's, even as her brows flicked down in question.
          "He just called you an old hag for driving a Buick.  He thinks he insulted me."
          She looked at the back of his van as she put her own car in reverse and then stomped on the brake so she could laugh - a loud, unrestrained, open-mouthed "Ha!"  Still smiling, she pressed her hand over her lips and settled into a smile that showed teeth.  With one more quick pop, she backed up the car and then headed down the drive.
          I hadn't heard her laugh like that in a long time.     
(12/16/2010)

The Bird Carver

          I sat across his desk from him as he used his soldering gun to burn texture onto wood.  It had changed drastically from the previous day.  It had been a rough-cut hunk of white oak, a piece he'd scavenged after lightning killed the eighty-year old tree.  After ten hours of carving, gouging and sanding, the hunk took on the form of a small bird.  Today, he added the feathers.
          He wore two sets of glasses - his usual pair and his bifocals.  He peered through both sets, studying his work.  Next to the soldering gun, he had a small gouge, and in a piece of soft pine, he had stuck the legs.  They were made of copper wire that he meticulously cut, twisted, and etched until every crease of "flesh" and the curves of the tiny claws were just so.  He made everything but the eyes.  Those, he ordered from a ceramic eye company.
          He spared the book on his desk a look, making sure that the layering was coming along as it should.
          "I'm glad you decide to stay another year," I said.
          "My wife wants me to retire so we can take cruises," he said.  "I suppose I can carve just as well on a boat deck as in this office."
          "At least she won't make you give that up."
          "Oh no.  She knows a cash cow when she sees one."  He shook his head, his brow drawn down.  "I used to make all sorts of things and just give them away, and one day she put her foot down and said I should make money off them.  It's in her blood; she can't help it."  His wife was Vietnamese.  He made so much off his carvings that he had to get a business license and report his income to the IRS.  "I think it was when I made a violin for one of the doctor's children that she insisted I charge for it."
          I blinked deliberately.  "You made a violin?"
          "Yes.  I'm going to make a guitar for him," he gestured to the office next door, "out of the same tree this came from," he waved the bird.  "It's his tree, so I'll give him a discount."
          I shook my head.  "So, what are you feathering today?"
          "A youth grosbeak."
          He leaned forward and let me take the bird while he turned the book around for me to see.  One side of the feathering was complete, and I could see exactly how the bird would look once he painted it.  He would spend a day layering, dabbing, and washing color over the body until it was perfect.  Then, he would paint the legs, pop them in, and add the eyes.  When he finished, it would look as though a real grosbeak was perched on his pine block -  a perfect replica.  It would go for $200, easily.
          "May I look?" I asked, pointing at the book.
          "Sure," he said, taking the bird from me and sliding the book over the desk.  The motion sent a spill of curlicues over the edge of the desk.  "I suppose I'll be chided for that," he murmured as he looked down at the mess.
          "Well, you have to do something to pass the time until the whistle blows."
That made him smile.  He liked to compare the job to something blue collar.  He'd been in it for over twenty years but only recently felt pressure to stay in his office a required number of hours every day.  It was just another reason to call it quits.
          "We punch our time cards like the sheepdog and coyote," he said.
          When we weren't working, he carved and I read, or we sat together and talked.  One day we sat outside and watched as a hawk tried to pluck a squirrel from the side of a pine tree.  I was rapt as I watched the tree rat wait until the last possible moment to scoot around the tree, just out of the hawk's grasp.  The raptor would squawk, fly back, adjust, and fly in again.  We stood watching for so long that we grew bored and went back in the building.
          Now, it was too cold to stand outside comfortably.
          "I saw a crow dead on the side of the road on my way in this morning," he said.  "Strange business.  Crows are too intelligent to get killed in the road."
I looked up from his book on North American bird species.  "I saw something on Discovery about how crows in some city or another would drop nuts into crosswalks and let cars run over them.  They watched for when the people would cross and knew they would be safe to retrieve the nuts."
          "It's nice to have someone that enjoys learning around this place."  He grinned at me, and I chuckled.  We were, after all, in a building on a college campus.  "What are you looking for?"
          "A particular type of black bird," I said, turning the book around to him.
          "Did it have a breast of burnt orange and a light yellow beak?"
          "No, its breast was cream."
          "Oh, then it was a regular blackbird and not an oriole.  Did you kill it?"
          "No," I said, stunned.
          "Pity," he said, picking up the soldering gun.  A curl of smoke and the scent of charring wood filled the office.  "Terrible birds, blackbirds.  They rob bluebird nests.  Did you know?"  I shook my head when he looked up at me.  He nodded.  "They aren't native.  Some moron thought it was a brilliant idea to bring to America every bird Shakespeare mentioned in a play or poem.  They call them starlings, trying to give a trashy bird a better name.  Kill every one that you can."    
(12/12/2010)