The Assignment - Write a scene in which a character speaks politely or enthusiastically but whose thoughts run in strong contradiction. Characterize the listener by appearance, action and dialogue.
She sat there, transfixed by her own reflection in the mirror, preparing for what was internationally recognized as "the biggest day of her life". A day only to be eclipsed by the birth of gorgeous, bouncing, bundles of baby joy, as has been repeated to her by generations of women far and wide her entire 26 years. Yup, there she sat. The Bride. Covered in what felt like miles of silk charmeuse, freshly manicured and pedicured in a color that only seemed natural to beauty pageant contestants, southern debutantes or corpses, coiffed within one inch of her life, waxed the remaining half inch, dieted a.k.a. starved for the past 6 months and wearing what felt like 10 pounds of wire and straps they called corsets (more like 21st century chastity belts undoubtedly created by men). Without a knock, a flock of women exploded into the room rushing towards her like an out of control cotton candy machine - pastel yards of fine tulle, silk, chiffon, satin and - tumbling over itself to catch a glimpse of the bride on her "special day".
"OHMYGOD! Isn't she GORGEOUS!!!" squealed a woman covered in a pale rose version of the same silk charmuese. She leaned over with an undeniable bounce to embrace The Bride with squeak and a giggle.
Crinkling her nose and bringing her hands together in front of her face like a good girl, The Bride smiled back.
"What was I thinking picking THAT color?" she wondered horrified at the site in front of her.
"Simply a picture" gasped and older woman standing before her, hands clasped, as if admiring a work of art in the finest museum.
"I have never seen a more beautiful bride," wept her mother into her Great Grandmother's handkerchief.
"There goes my something old..." she sighed internally, but smiled politely at her mother.
She was hoping that her mother would noticed the sadness in her eyes, shoe everyone from the room and have that mother daughter talk she had always wanted, longed for. The one that started with "Is everything alright darling? Are you sure you want to do this?" where she would then burst into tears, confess her dreams of travelling the world, learning Portuguese while sipping Ribatejo in a tiny fishing village, going diving in the Great Barrier Reef, photograph lions in Kenya, learn to sew, compose her first novel while sleeping with countless beautiful, shallow men for the sake of her art among other frivolous adventures.
"Isn't the fabric of her dress simply decadent" her mother coos.
No dice.
"We had it flown in from Milan. Only the best for our special girl" her mother beams. This was WAY more about her mother than it was her. But frankly, aren't all weddings?
"Darling?" her mother quietly asks turning toward her
"Yes?" The Bride looked at her breathless with anticipation. Could she be wrong? Did her mother see inside her fragile shell?
"Are you happy?" she asked
Silence.
"Darling? Are you ok" her mother’s face changed from one of excitement to concern.
Silence.
"DAMMIT! Why won't I speak?!" she scolded herself.
"I'm wonderful, mother. Happy as can be. This is the best day of my life." she smiled widely, like a perfect bride on the eve of her most special day.
"WHAT WAS THAT?!?" she shocked even herself.
Her mother, visibly relieved, lovingly placed her hand on one side of her daughter's cheek and leaned down to kiss her forehead and said "I'm so happy for you my darling". With that she pivoted around to face the assembly and suggested that they give The Bride some peace and quiet before the festivities begin. As quickly as they rushed in, they were gone. Her mother's was the last face she saw before the door closed with a firm thump. Again, silence.
Just then, visions of Runaway Bride with Julia Roberts and verses of Eat Pray Love began to swirl in her head.
"Isn't Julia Roberts suppose to star in that too?" she thought "God, life according to Julia Roberts movies, how pathetic is that?" she joked to herself while inspecting her lipstick, trying to break the tension.
"It's just nerves." she assured herself.
"No it's not" said a voice she recognized, yet unfamiliar.
Scanning the room feverishly, she realized that the gaggle had all departed.
"Ok, now I'm just going nuts" she dabs yet another layer of powder on her impeccable face.
"No you're not" the voice insisted.
"Who...What..." she tentatively asked.
"You" the voice replied "I am You.'"
"And YOU are telling me that I'm not going crazy?" she scoffs.
"The truth of who you are is never crazy" the voice calmly explained.
"My Truth. My truth is that I have a room full of guests and family and vendors and wedding planners and my childhood priest..."
"What about David?"
"What about him?" she argued
"You didn't mention him."
"That goes without saying" she brushes off.
"Does it?"
"Are you saying I don't care about David?!" she gets defensive
Silence.
"Because I do, he's a wonderful, caring, loving, beautiful man. He loves me. He's good for me. Everyone wishes they WERE me."
Silence.
"Hello? Are you still there" she asks agitated at the nerve of...herself.
Silence.
A knock at the door interrupted her thought. A woman with a silver bob, a clip board and a walkie talkie slowly enter the room. It was Yvette, her wedding planner. She hears the refrains of Pachabel's Cannon and the soft chatter of her 200 guests in the background.
"It's time" Yvette smiled.
Yvette must have seen hundreds of brides just like her. With doubts. With mixed emotions. For a moment she contemplated confiding in Yvette. She fantasized making her an accomplis to her planned escape. You know the one. There are countless movies, books and even television commercials all about it - the bride runs through the front doors of the church, veil caught in the wind, diving into the first cab/limousine/convertible driven by a gorgeous mystery man that crosses her path, to ride off into the sunset with her newfound freedom, the world at her feet.
"Ok Julia. Get a grip. Everyone wishes they were you. " she shook herself back to reality.
She got up, smiled widely, grabbed her bouquet with the extra white lilies because they were her favorite, and followed Yvette out of The Bride's Room to the front of the church where she stood behind the intricately carved oak doors.
"I CAN have it all AND be a wife, right? RIGHT?!" she pleaded with the voice in her head.
Silence. Except for the collective sound of the congregation drawing to their feet at those heavy wooden doors swung open, welcoming her to her life.
As she glided up the aisle, Portugal, Kenya and the beautiful, shallow men dropped away like discarded toys on Christmas morning - replaced by newer models, new adventures and new dreams. She glanced over at the adoring man on her right who gave her hand a little extra squeeze. He loved her. She was lucky.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here..." began her childhood Priest.
"Oh God help me..."
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
I'VE BEEN PUBLISHED!!!
Ok, so I don't know if being posted on your work's external blog technically qualifies as published but hey, I'll take it. YOU HAVEN'T BEEN PUBLISHED NOW HAVE YOU!? Ok, so maybe some of you have. Bygones. It's my moment, step off bitches!
Anyways...Here's where you find it:
"Black Googler Network Visits New Orleans"
http://www.google.org/ or http://blog.google.org/
* as I stated in my prior post, this is an edited version of my actual submission. For the original post, complete with a bit more "passion" see my post dated Monday, September 29th.
Anyways...Here's where you find it:
"Black Googler Network Visits New Orleans"
http://www.google.org/ or http://blog.google.org/
* as I stated in my prior post, this is an edited version of my actual submission. For the original post, complete with a bit more "passion" see my post dated Monday, September 29th.
Monday, September 29, 2008
New Orleans - 3 Years Later
Ok, so this isn't homework - technically - but I was honored to be part of a small group of dedicated folks who traveled down to New Orleans post Hurricane Gustav. I was further honored to be asked to recount my experience in the Official Google.org Blog. The post you see below is my "orginal" submission. The official entry will be shorter and more journalistic in style, but I wanted to find a place to preserve the initial integrity of the piece. Enjoy!
On August 29, 2005 the lives of thousands of residents of the Gulf Coast region of the United states were changed forever. At the same time, millions of Americans watched in horror as the wind, rain and flood waters wiped away the homes, business, history and lives of thousands of its own citizens. On August 30, 2005 a record number of volunteers flooded Disaster Response and Governmental agencies, churches and local outreach organizations with calls to find out how they could help. I was one of those volunteers and what I experienced changed my life forever.
Three years later, much of the region still stands abandoned. Repair of city infrastructure, community rebuilding, and tourism (the primary economic source for this part of the nation) is slow if not stagnant in much of the region. But there is hope. As part of the Black Googlers Network (BGN), on September 5, 2008, 32 colleagues and I were set to deploy to the region for what was initially slated as a Katrina Rebuilding Outreach Trip, whose focus quickly changed to a Gustav Recovery Mission. As New Orleans slowly came back to life, we stood side by side with the proud and resilient residents of this amazing city to help them repair the lives they worked so hard to (re)build, sending a clear message that they are not forgotten.
As our group planned to deploy so quickly after Hurricane Gustav, most agencies were still shut down as all of their employees were evacuated to other parts of the country. One of the notable exceptions to this was an organization I had worked with during my previous visit, St. Bernard Project. St. Bernard Project is a nonprofit, community-based organization that began rebuilding homes in August 2006 (boasting an amazing 177 projects to date) that were damaged by floodwaters from Hurricanes Katrina and Rita in St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana - a working class community and one of the hardest hit parishes of the city as it is located a mere 5 miles from the now infamous Industrial Levee. I contacted the projects co-founders, Zach Rosenburg and Liz McCartney, two former Capital Hill attorneys, who were delighted to hear of our dedication to help in any way we could and used this as a springboard to get their team back into action. They communicated the importance of our visit, not only from a hands-on perspective (32 able bodies equaled significant progress in three separate homes), but the message it would send to the community and the world.
This experience affected my colleagues and I in a way that no article, news story or documentary could. Many of them remarked at how, three years later, much of the area still lies in the same state it did the day after the flood waters receded. But the overwhelming highlight of the trip was that at each build site, the families whose homes we were lovingly returning to their former grace, stopped by to say hello, offer their humble gratitude and recount the stories of survival that we have all become too accustomed to. Andrea was the owner of the home I was rebuilding. She was the mother of two small children and was anxious to return a sense of normalcy to all of their lives. She shared pictures of her life before the storm and photos of the devastation immediately after. She told us of the time her adventurous son wandered into the deep grass behind her home only to come face to face with one of the indigenous deadly snakes in the region. Fearless as young boys are, he curiously inspected the snake, only to be whisked up by his attentive mother just as the serpent was preparing to strike. The issue was, this snake's venom could kill a full grown man in 20 minutes. The closest emergency room, as a result the devastation, is over 45 minutes away. Meeting Andrea put a face on the tragedy for us. She reminded us that even with all of the progress made to get people back into their homes, communities are fractured with basic services and business opportunities still notably absent.
The Idea Village is an organization hoping to change this. By spear-heading innovative change and accelerated growth in the affected region, they hope to return a sense of community to the embattled New Orleans region. During our visit, BGN was fortunate enough to be able to assist with the development and launch of their 504ward $100,000 business plan competition (launching September 25, 2008) by employing our business savvy, creative thought processes and Google product knowledge. This competition hopes to capitalize on the 5,000+ young people who have flocked to New Orleans since Katrina and leverage their natural talent and resources to rebuild this struggling community by soliciting ideas on how to develop a strong foundation of entrepreneurial ventures and resources. A small group of Googler's also met with the New Orleans Downtown Development District who work with organizations such as The Idea Village. Their discussion centered around the city's plans to better market New Orleans as a potential center for medical research, arts, culture, and tourism, as well as to attract new businesses and economic talent. The Idea Village's motto is "Trust Your Crazy Ideas", but I don't see anything crazy about wanting to rebuild one of America's greatest and most historic cities.
On the final day of our trip, I took a few of my colleagues to the most effected area of New Orleans - the Upper and Lower Ninth Ward. This was the area most devastated by the hurricanes as it sits on low-lying land precariously close to the the Mississippi river. This area is notably absent of life in most of its neighborhoods, as there is little or nothing for them to come back to. But as you drive through you see a few signs of hope: children riding bikes, families and neighbors barbecuing on the front lawns of their homes (many still tattooed with the post storm FEMA markings) and a few bold projects such as the The Musician's Village and Brad Pitt's Make it Right project. These things remind me not to view New Orleans with sadness or pity, but with respect, dignity and a pledge to offer a hand in their greatest time of need. In our case, 64 hands.
"We must build a new world, a far better world - one in which the eternal dignity of man is respected." - Harry S. Truman
On August 29, 2005 the lives of thousands of residents of the Gulf Coast region of the United states were changed forever. At the same time, millions of Americans watched in horror as the wind, rain and flood waters wiped away the homes, business, history and lives of thousands of its own citizens. On August 30, 2005 a record number of volunteers flooded Disaster Response and Governmental agencies, churches and local outreach organizations with calls to find out how they could help. I was one of those volunteers and what I experienced changed my life forever.
Three years later, much of the region still stands abandoned. Repair of city infrastructure, community rebuilding, and tourism (the primary economic source for this part of the nation) is slow if not stagnant in much of the region. But there is hope. As part of the Black Googlers Network (BGN), on September 5, 2008, 32 colleagues and I were set to deploy to the region for what was initially slated as a Katrina Rebuilding Outreach Trip, whose focus quickly changed to a Gustav Recovery Mission. As New Orleans slowly came back to life, we stood side by side with the proud and resilient residents of this amazing city to help them repair the lives they worked so hard to (re)build, sending a clear message that they are not forgotten.
As our group planned to deploy so quickly after Hurricane Gustav, most agencies were still shut down as all of their employees were evacuated to other parts of the country. One of the notable exceptions to this was an organization I had worked with during my previous visit, St. Bernard Project. St. Bernard Project is a nonprofit, community-based organization that began rebuilding homes in August 2006 (boasting an amazing 177 projects to date) that were damaged by floodwaters from Hurricanes Katrina and Rita in St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana - a working class community and one of the hardest hit parishes of the city as it is located a mere 5 miles from the now infamous Industrial Levee. I contacted the projects co-founders, Zach Rosenburg and Liz McCartney, two former Capital Hill attorneys, who were delighted to hear of our dedication to help in any way we could and used this as a springboard to get their team back into action. They communicated the importance of our visit, not only from a hands-on perspective (32 able bodies equaled significant progress in three separate homes), but the message it would send to the community and the world.
This experience affected my colleagues and I in a way that no article, news story or documentary could. Many of them remarked at how, three years later, much of the area still lies in the same state it did the day after the flood waters receded. But the overwhelming highlight of the trip was that at each build site, the families whose homes we were lovingly returning to their former grace, stopped by to say hello, offer their humble gratitude and recount the stories of survival that we have all become too accustomed to. Andrea was the owner of the home I was rebuilding. She was the mother of two small children and was anxious to return a sense of normalcy to all of their lives. She shared pictures of her life before the storm and photos of the devastation immediately after. She told us of the time her adventurous son wandered into the deep grass behind her home only to come face to face with one of the indigenous deadly snakes in the region. Fearless as young boys are, he curiously inspected the snake, only to be whisked up by his attentive mother just as the serpent was preparing to strike. The issue was, this snake's venom could kill a full grown man in 20 minutes. The closest emergency room, as a result the devastation, is over 45 minutes away. Meeting Andrea put a face on the tragedy for us. She reminded us that even with all of the progress made to get people back into their homes, communities are fractured with basic services and business opportunities still notably absent.
The Idea Village is an organization hoping to change this. By spear-heading innovative change and accelerated growth in the affected region, they hope to return a sense of community to the embattled New Orleans region. During our visit, BGN was fortunate enough to be able to assist with the development and launch of their 504ward $100,000 business plan competition (launching September 25, 2008) by employing our business savvy, creative thought processes and Google product knowledge. This competition hopes to capitalize on the 5,000+ young people who have flocked to New Orleans since Katrina and leverage their natural talent and resources to rebuild this struggling community by soliciting ideas on how to develop a strong foundation of entrepreneurial ventures and resources. A small group of Googler's also met with the New Orleans Downtown Development District who work with organizations such as The Idea Village. Their discussion centered around the city's plans to better market New Orleans as a potential center for medical research, arts, culture, and tourism, as well as to attract new businesses and economic talent. The Idea Village's motto is "Trust Your Crazy Ideas", but I don't see anything crazy about wanting to rebuild one of America's greatest and most historic cities.
On the final day of our trip, I took a few of my colleagues to the most effected area of New Orleans - the Upper and Lower Ninth Ward. This was the area most devastated by the hurricanes as it sits on low-lying land precariously close to the the Mississippi river. This area is notably absent of life in most of its neighborhoods, as there is little or nothing for them to come back to. But as you drive through you see a few signs of hope: children riding bikes, families and neighbors barbecuing on the front lawns of their homes (many still tattooed with the post storm FEMA markings) and a few bold projects such as the The Musician's Village and Brad Pitt's Make it Right project. These things remind me not to view New Orleans with sadness or pity, but with respect, dignity and a pledge to offer a hand in their greatest time of need. In our case, 64 hands.
"We must build a new world, a far better world - one in which the eternal dignity of man is respected." - Harry S. Truman
Thursday, September 25, 2008
The Kitchen
The Assignment - The Kitchen
Part 1: A young woman walks into her family's kitchen. Her boyfriend is about to come over to meet her parents for the first time (or some other joyful occasion of your choosing.) Describe the way she might see the kitchen: the table, the linoleum, the curtains, whether the place looks clean or dirty, flawed or perfect. Essentially, try and show how she is feeling about the event through the descriptions of the objects. If she is nervous, or happy, or excited. Feel free to use adjectives, of course. ☺
Part 2: Exact same kitchen. Same young woman. She is now coming home from the funeral of her mother. Describe the kitchen, repeating many of the objects: linoleum, curtains, etc. But now how does her current emotional state change the way these same objects look? How can you use the environment and her interaction with it, or observation of it, to allow the reader an indirect illumination of her emotional interior.
One thing to consider during this exercise, allow her to have ambivalence. She isn't just sad about her mother, she isn't just eager about the boyfriend. She may have many conflicting emotions about these events, perhaps even seemingly contradictory ones, as in life.
Part 1
"Ok, just breath..." she says to herself as she paces over the well worn black and white, checker board linoleum of the kitchen of her childhood home. Deciding that she didn't want to be responsible for a race-track shaped oval in the center of the floor as a result of her neurotic behavior she decides she would call her best friend to help calm her nerves, but on her way to her purse inadvertently trips over one of her mother's gardening clogs tucked not so neatly under the chrome rimmed, red kitchen table.
"Crap!!!" she lets out a wail as the table, catching her full weight, lunges forward with a high pitched screech.
"Ughhhhh.." she sighs in exasperation as she slumps into one of the coordinating red vinyl chairs shoving aside the bowl of red delicious apples. Most people loved her parents quirky 1950's diner inspired kitchen, but just this once she would LOVE for them to be normal. You know, the pine-farm-table-whitewashed-cabinets-apple-pie-cooling-in-the-window, kind of normal that she had seen so many times on those home design magazines.
"I wonder what type of kitchen John grew up in?" she pondered. John was her boyfriend of 10 months who, in what she was beginning to believe was a lapse in judgment, was coming over to meet her parents for the first time.
"I wonder if Dad still hides the good booze in the old fashioned bread canister?" she thought, as her mind raced in an effort to placate the inevitable anxiety she was convinced this meeting would entail.
"Don't be ridiculous, alcohol is not the solution." she argued back to herself in a manner that would have made Betty Ford proud, as she placed a carefully manicured finger nails firmly between her carefully painted lips. Nail biting was a habit she had outgrown after the age of 17, a habit only reserved for the most stressful of times in her life. Like now. Nail biting used to bug the hell out of her mother when she was a teenager.
It's probably why she did it for so long. She used to sit in this same chair, at this same table, doing her homework after school as her mother, clad in a white lace apron that not so coincidentally matched the curtains above the sink, would lovingly prepare the evening's meal. Despite being 1985, songs by Frankie Valley, The Four Tops and Elvis would blare out of single speaker of the 1950's era single band radio as her mother bopped along cheerily to the beat of a bygone era. In all of her teenage, aqua-neted, Frankie Says Relax, angst, she used to hate that. On occasion her mother would walk away from the roast du jour from her latest Betty Crocker cookbook and try to get her to dance just as she was trying to dive into the most complicated algebraic nightmare of a math assignment known to man. God she REALLY hated that. So much so, that it would send her into a nail biting frenzy to the dismay of Peggy Sue.
"You know the first thing many people notice about a woman is her hands..." her mother used to tell her without looking up from the meatloaf squishing between her long, slender fingers.
"You know the first thing many people notice about a woman is..." she would begin to mock in a high pitched tone "HER BRAINS!!! I'm trying to study, can't you see that!" she used to rage back slamming the book shut.
"Or her bad attitude..." her mother would crisply but calmly respond under her breath as she would glide over to the refrigerator, to retrieve whatever ingredient she needed. She used to swear that that beast must be cooled by ice blocks it was "so old".
"You just don't get me!" she would begin her rant "You just don't get what is important to me. Just because you choose to stay home and have no life, don't make it difficult for me to do better things with mine!"
Her mother always absorbed this terse commentary without uttering a word. This type of interaction inevitably ended all manner of discussion between the two of them. For the remainder of the afternoon they would sit in silence, with the notable exception of Paul Anka or Bobby Darren, until dinner was ready when their opposing worlds retreated back to their respective corners.
Suddenly her cell phone rang in her purse, snapping her back to the present. She calmly pushed herself away from the table, walked over to the counter missing the clogs this time and grabbed her phone. It was John. He was calling to see if there was anything he could pick up on his way. There was nervous excitement in his voice. He was really looking forward to meeting her parents, seeing where she grew up, what it was about this place that made her the wonderful woman that she is. The caring tone of his voice always made her smile. As he carried on about his day, wondering out loud about her family and what they would want to know, her mind began to wander. If this kitchen, in all of its embarrassing red vinyl, checker board, 1950'sdoo wop glory, was part of what made her a "wonderful woman" in his eyes, it must somehow, be...wonderful.
"Wonderful...." she thought to herself for a moment, letting the word roll around in her head as if hearing it for the first time. Wonderful - a word she once would have never associated with her life growing up in that little red kitchen.
"Baby, you alright?" John asked sensing she had long disappeared from their conversation.
"Yeah, I am" she answered "I really, really am."
Part 1: A young woman walks into her family's kitchen. Her boyfriend is about to come over to meet her parents for the first time (or some other joyful occasion of your choosing.) Describe the way she might see the kitchen: the table, the linoleum, the curtains, whether the place looks clean or dirty, flawed or perfect. Essentially, try and show how she is feeling about the event through the descriptions of the objects. If she is nervous, or happy, or excited. Feel free to use adjectives, of course. ☺
Part 2: Exact same kitchen. Same young woman. She is now coming home from the funeral of her mother. Describe the kitchen, repeating many of the objects: linoleum, curtains, etc. But now how does her current emotional state change the way these same objects look? How can you use the environment and her interaction with it, or observation of it, to allow the reader an indirect illumination of her emotional interior.
One thing to consider during this exercise, allow her to have ambivalence. She isn't just sad about her mother, she isn't just eager about the boyfriend. She may have many conflicting emotions about these events, perhaps even seemingly contradictory ones, as in life.
Part 1
"Ok, just breath..." she says to herself as she paces over the well worn black and white, checker board linoleum of the kitchen of her childhood home. Deciding that she didn't want to be responsible for a race-track shaped oval in the center of the floor as a result of her neurotic behavior she decides she would call her best friend to help calm her nerves, but on her way to her purse inadvertently trips over one of her mother's gardening clogs tucked not so neatly under the chrome rimmed, red kitchen table.
"Crap!!!" she lets out a wail as the table, catching her full weight, lunges forward with a high pitched screech.
"Ughhhhh.." she sighs in exasperation as she slumps into one of the coordinating red vinyl chairs shoving aside the bowl of red delicious apples. Most people loved her parents quirky 1950's diner inspired kitchen, but just this once she would LOVE for them to be normal. You know, the pine-farm-table-whitewashed-cabinets-apple-pie-cooling-in-the-window, kind of normal that she had seen so many times on those home design magazines.
"I wonder what type of kitchen John grew up in?" she pondered. John was her boyfriend of 10 months who, in what she was beginning to believe was a lapse in judgment, was coming over to meet her parents for the first time.
"I wonder if Dad still hides the good booze in the old fashioned bread canister?" she thought, as her mind raced in an effort to placate the inevitable anxiety she was convinced this meeting would entail.
"Don't be ridiculous, alcohol is not the solution." she argued back to herself in a manner that would have made Betty Ford proud, as she placed a carefully manicured finger nails firmly between her carefully painted lips. Nail biting was a habit she had outgrown after the age of 17, a habit only reserved for the most stressful of times in her life. Like now. Nail biting used to bug the hell out of her mother when she was a teenager.
It's probably why she did it for so long. She used to sit in this same chair, at this same table, doing her homework after school as her mother, clad in a white lace apron that not so coincidentally matched the curtains above the sink, would lovingly prepare the evening's meal. Despite being 1985, songs by Frankie Valley, The Four Tops and Elvis would blare out of single speaker of the 1950's era single band radio as her mother bopped along cheerily to the beat of a bygone era. In all of her teenage, aqua-neted, Frankie Says Relax, angst, she used to hate that. On occasion her mother would walk away from the roast du jour from her latest Betty Crocker cookbook and try to get her to dance just as she was trying to dive into the most complicated algebraic nightmare of a math assignment known to man. God she REALLY hated that. So much so, that it would send her into a nail biting frenzy to the dismay of Peggy Sue.
"You know the first thing many people notice about a woman is her hands..." her mother used to tell her without looking up from the meatloaf squishing between her long, slender fingers.
"You know the first thing many people notice about a woman is..." she would begin to mock in a high pitched tone "HER BRAINS!!! I'm trying to study, can't you see that!" she used to rage back slamming the book shut.
"Or her bad attitude..." her mother would crisply but calmly respond under her breath as she would glide over to the refrigerator, to retrieve whatever ingredient she needed. She used to swear that that beast must be cooled by ice blocks it was "so old".
"You just don't get me!" she would begin her rant "You just don't get what is important to me. Just because you choose to stay home and have no life, don't make it difficult for me to do better things with mine!"
Her mother always absorbed this terse commentary without uttering a word. This type of interaction inevitably ended all manner of discussion between the two of them. For the remainder of the afternoon they would sit in silence, with the notable exception of Paul Anka or Bobby Darren, until dinner was ready when their opposing worlds retreated back to their respective corners.
Suddenly her cell phone rang in her purse, snapping her back to the present. She calmly pushed herself away from the table, walked over to the counter missing the clogs this time and grabbed her phone. It was John. He was calling to see if there was anything he could pick up on his way. There was nervous excitement in his voice. He was really looking forward to meeting her parents, seeing where she grew up, what it was about this place that made her the wonderful woman that she is. The caring tone of his voice always made her smile. As he carried on about his day, wondering out loud about her family and what they would want to know, her mind began to wander. If this kitchen, in all of its embarrassing red vinyl, checker board, 1950'sdoo wop glory, was part of what made her a "wonderful woman" in his eyes, it must somehow, be...wonderful.
"Wonderful...." she thought to herself for a moment, letting the word roll around in her head as if hearing it for the first time. Wonderful - a word she once would have never associated with her life growing up in that little red kitchen.
"Baby, you alright?" John asked sensing she had long disappeared from their conversation.
"Yeah, I am" she answered "I really, really am."
Part 2
Apple Pie. She finally got her apple pie. More apple pies than she knew what to do with in fact. They must have heard it was her favorite. Or someone was reading over her shoulder as she glanced through those home design magazines. Instinctively, she carefully took one of those apple pies from her mother's prized chrome rimmed table and placed it in the window above the sink. She stood there for a moment and just stared.
"I can't remember the last time she even made an apple pie" it occurred to her as she stared at its golden flaky crust. She closed her eyes and felt a small smile grow across her face as she allowed the aroma of crisp ripe apples, cinnamon and sugar to float into her nostrils, absorb into her olfactory receptors and activate the part of her brain that brought her back to a better place and time.
Apple Hill was one of the Sunday trips they used to take when she was a child. No matter what was going on in their lives - school assignments, deadlines at work, or even the coveted home town football game that was NEVER televised except once a year - her mother would pile both kids, the family dog and her cranky husband (who cursed under his breath at the thought of missing THE game) into the family car and made their way 90 minutes into an alternate reality involving pine trees, fresh mountain air and orchard after orchard bursting with apples at their peak of ripeness. Golden Delicious, Granny Smith, Gala, McIntosh, and the king of all apples - Red Delicious. Her brother and she loved this day. They would run mach speed out of the family wagon into the orchards after the family dog, laughing and frolicking, feeling freer than any other time in their young lives. Their father would stroll up casually soon after with a couple of baskets instructing them "have at it" as he snuck off back to the car to catch a few seconds of the game before her mother inevitably discovered his diabolical plan, gave him "that look" as he slammed the car door and followed her off to find prized antiques or the latest in country crafts. At the end of the day everyone would just seem a little happier - her brother on the verge of losing it after ingesting a world record number of apple fritters (8 being his personal best), her father rosy cheeked and glassy eyed after one too many "samples" of apple wine, and she after finding the world's best hot cider than warmed her from the inside out and made her think of her favorite holidays such as Thanksgiving and Christmas. Her mother never seemed to have purchased a thing, eaten more than her share or tried to scold any of us for each of our hedonistic displays that inevitably resulted. She would just smile, pile us all back in the car, take the keys from her father and guide them safely home the 90 minutes from whence they came, back to their reality.
As she and her brother grew older, she a sophomore in high school and her brother far away at college, these annual trips seemed to suddenly stop. So did the connection with her mother. Some called it inevitable growing pains and teenage angst. She often wondered if there was some magic spell that Apple Hill placed on them that kept the mother and daughter bond intact. Whatever it was, they seemed to never get it back. Now days they would argue over life choices (her mother felt she worked too hard and never made time for family, friends and hobbies), children (she felt her career was in an upward trajectory and children would only derail it) and eventually, her mother's treatment. Her mother opted out of the third round of chemotherapy. The first two rounds had cost her her hair, her energy, her vitality, her livelihood - this was all after the cancer had taken her breasts. Her mother died peacefully in the arms of her beloved husband 3 months later. She was working when she received the call from her brother who had traveled with his wife and three daughters to be by her side.
She turned away from the apple pie in the window and stared across the room as tears filled her eyes. Everything was exactly the same as it had always been - the "beast" stood humming near the back door, the red chrome rimmed tables contained its trademark bowl of red delicious apples, the black and white checkered floor intact minus a few markings of time. But yet, everything was different. The single speaker dial radio was silent, with refrains of Frankie Valley and Elvis only a faded memory. The double oven that finished countless meat-loafs and Thanksgiving turkeys was eerily cold. It was as if the life she had formerly known, had never existed. Tears streamed down her face, as she allowed her head to fall into her hands for comfort.
Once composed, she instinctively looked down at her hands. They looked just like her mother's. She had never really stopped to notice that before. She had spent most of her life trying to escape her mother's ideals, her advice, her guidance and at times her shadow. But there, in that little red kitchen she realized that it was impossible.
She knew what she had to do. She drug one of the red vinyl chairs from the table, missing her mother's ever present gardening clogs, in front of "the beast" in order to reach the high cupboards above it. Shaking slightly, she removed her shoes, climbed up on the chair, reached inside this seldom opened cupboard and grabbed down a well worn copy of her mother's favorite Betty Crocker cookbook. She carefully climbed down and she flipped through its time faded pages and placed it carefully on the counter. Walking slowly to the chrome and red table, she picked up that bowl of ever present red delicious apples and began peeling.
"I'm going to make and apple pie..." she thought to herself.
And somewhere, her mother smiled.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
You created a monster
Yes, I'm talking to you! All of your endorsements (T'Allegra - you're so funny, T'Allegra - you should really write a novel, T'Allegra - I want to be just like you...) has deluded me into thinking that maybe, just MAYBE, I DO have talent for this crazy little thing called the written word.
So check back here often (or whenever you are suffering from insomnia and need a quick fix of soma to send you off into the land of sugar plum faries) to check out some of my work.
Hold onto your hats folks, it's gonna be a bumpy ride...
So check back here often (or whenever you are suffering from insomnia and need a quick fix of soma to send you off into the land of sugar plum faries) to check out some of my work.
Hold onto your hats folks, it's gonna be a bumpy ride...
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