Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Charm: 4th Increment
Herein lieth the end of the first chapter--the easiest part of the whole freakin' mess to post! ;)
###
“Don’t worry. I’ll be down in a minute. Of course, if you want to, you could just go on outside and wait for me there . . . if that makes you more comfortable.”
Claire said, “You don’t understand, Becca! Something made a noise downstairs. I hardly want to go through the downstairs to go outside.” Nervously, she crossed the landing again and looked down toward the main floor. Human or not, she wondered again and realized that she would be just as afraid whether it was human or ghost. If it were human ... what human?
“You could come up here?”
“Nah. I’ll just wait here for you.” Pausing, she looked down into the dark recesses of the house again, and then she added, as an afterthought, “How come in horror flicks they always have the girl run up the stairs? I always said I would never run up.”
Becca chuckled. “If you come up here, you aren’t running. You’re joining me.”
“But once up there, there is nowhere to run.” Claire tried to reason with herself. As for a human, perhaps a caretaker investigating the car in the drive, who would care that they were in that house now, anyway.
Long silent minutes passed by and she looked up the stairs wondering about Becca.. She hadn’t taken this long looking at anything in the rest of the house and now the silence above became as disconcerting as the silence below. “What are you doing up there?”
“There is a huge pile of stuff up here ... old papers and things ...”
“Becca, let’s just go. If you buy the house you can look later.”
“They might not be here later.”
Claire’s shoulders dropped in disappointment, and she exhaled every iota of air she had in her lungs, feeling the anxiety building. She’d broken out into a cold sweat and had goose-bumps on her arms. She could feel the hair prickle beneath her sweater. But, relenting on her previous determination not to go upstairs, she decided she’d rather be with Becca than standing here alone while some unknown something down below stalked her. Gingerly, she took the first step up just in time to see Becca step out of the attic doorway, shadow-like in the faint light. Claire breathed a sigh of relief, but strained to make the apparition she saw above solidify into her friend, Becca. “Are you ready to go yet,” she asked hopefully.
“Yeah. I’m calling the real estate agent on this one, for sure.”
Becca closed her eyes in relief, calming.
As Becca met Clair on the landing, she looked her over, and said, “Dang! You look as though you had seen a ghost!”
“I thought I did for a moment. I think it’s pretty spooky here ...”
“It is all in your head. There aren’t any ghosts. But if you imagine them, they’ll come.” She smiled. “See? We’re just fine. We can go now, though.”
As the two stepped out the back door Claire filled her lungs with fresh air. And, because she’d felt like a thief exploring the house this way, breaking and entering and all of that, she was especially relieved when Becca pulled the door closed with a solid thud behind them.
The two stood out on the back stoop and looked out over the land. The house, situated as it at the crest of the hill overlooking the valley below. In the distance, beyond sight and beyond a forest of trees, was the river. The house had been the original ranch house for all this land, now sold off, and on the property were a couple of small outbuildings, and a decrepit barn.
On the left, in the back, beyond the oak tree, was a small family plot. An old bent wrought iron fence surrounded a few lonely looking weather stained headstones. The gate stood open and hung crookedly. Tall grass threatened to hide everything.
Becca mused, “We ought to take a look around.”
Claire groaned. “Can’t we just go? You can explore them later with the real estate agent. I mean, you are going to have to pretend as though you haven’t already taken a look around the place, aren’t you? You are sure you are going to call the agency, aren’t you?”
“Sure. But while we are here, we might as well. It’ll be interesting to see if there is any old stuff around in any of them.”
“Old stuff?” Claire wished that she could just go sit in the car and wait.
But Becca was already heading down the back steps and through the tall grass toward the first of the old outbuildings. Claire followed to the edge of the walk.
Becca found the door to the place was padlocked. She took a moment to try to peer in a dusty window while Claire remained close to the house, watching her. A moment later and Becca was striding toward the barn enthusiastically.
“That old barn looks as though it’s about to cave in, Becca.”
“I know. Isn’t it awesome? For a while in college I used to go around the countryside photographing old barns. The older, the better. I even had a few displayed in an art gallery for a while. A lot of people love old barns.”
“Yeah, I remember. You’re good at photography. But if it is all the same to you, I’d rather look at your photos than the real thing.”
“It won’t take but a few minutes to look this place over.”
Claire watched the barn swallows swooping in and out after Becca vanished through the door. It looked typical enough. There couldn’t be much to it.
As Becca returned from the barn she tilted her head in the direction of the grave yard, “Want to come on out and explore that with me? Didn’t you used to make a hobby of visiting old graves and doing rubbings of the headstones?”
“Oh, that was only one summer when I went east with the family. I was just bored.”
“Well, come on. You can at least look it over with me–“ She stopped a few feet in front of Claire, tilted her head slightly in the direction of the graves and smiled. .
“Okay . . .” Claire dragged out as she stepped onto the narrow walk obscured by grass. The angle of the walk changed as they walked down the slight incline. The grave yard had been positioned on a natural outlook from which the hill fell away quickly to the valley below. It had a windswept and arid aspect to it–somehow spookily uninviting in Claire’s mind.
With its ornate wrought ironwork, topped by s-curved spear shaped points, the yard itself overgrown, the head stones moss and lichen stained, some tilting slightly and at odd angles to each other it seemed to have suffered more neglect than the interior of the house. It was the classic family plot.
The broken gate screeched as Becca pushed it open sufficiently to walk through. Claire followed her a little more closely now than she had before. Becca began to examine the various headstones, sometimes pointing out a name, or, in the case of a baby that was born and died the same day, the year. Her little grave was marked by a tiny childish angel not more than two feet high and she’d not been given a name. The most recent grave, the headstone rectangular and of plain polished granite, in the modern style, belonged to a Gertrude Mason, and the date of her death was in 1974. In comparison to its more ancient neighbors, it felt out of place. Most of the graves, however, shared a similar date, as most had died in November of 1902. And all but Gertrude shared the same last name:
Once back in the car, Claire asked, “Did you notice the dates on the headstones?”
“Yeah. I’m curious now. I want to know how and why and all about them.” Becca fastened her seatbelt and turned the key. The little car hummed to life.
“Its so sad that they all died within such a short time of each other. I wonder what they died of ... “ Claire had to grab the side of the seat again, as Becca stepped on the gas and the car bounced out of the rough drive and across the rutted gravel road, spitting gravel against the undercarriage.
“There were a number of deadly diseases that were common at that time.”
“We could check out the records, I suppose.”
“I’d like to do that. I will, just as soon as I get the time.”
“Let me know what you find out. I don’t know about you, but I started feeling really weird about the place once we took a look at the graves. The family plot was like the icing on the cake though, after the house, I mean. I was already spooked and then when I saw all those headstones I felt almost as though the house is a ... a memorial to them ... as though it has been kept just for that purpose ... as though it is a headstone itself–a marker for the whole family.”
“Interesting that you should say that. I was sort of feeling the same way.”
“There is a bleakness about this whole hill, too. It seems like a lonely place. I don’t like it.”
“I do. I like it more than ever. But I know what you mean about how lonely it feels. Hopefully, that is a sensation that will vanish just as soon as I stir things up by moving in. It fits right in with all that I most value–about lives lived and people who came before us. That’s why I’m a history buff, I guess.”
“How strange. I’d always just looked at antiques and old houses like things, just things. I never really thought about the people who lived in them and used them the way that you apparently do.”
Becca leaned back in the seat and smiled in a satisfied way, negotiating a curve in the road,. “I almost feel as though it is calling to me. I’ve never had such a strange feeling about a place before. Like ... I belong there ... and it isn’t just because I love old houses, I’ve been to plenty of them. This one seems to be almost calling to my very soul.”
“You are creeping me out!” Claire gave an exaggerated shiver. “And I’ve got goose bumps, too, just thinking about it. The place was strange enough for me without your saying that.”
Becca chuckled. “Silly. There aren’t any ghosts. There is no such thing. If you expect to hear noises, you will. If you see a fog, it is probably just a film over your eye. For me though the house is like a news story. I think of real people. I want to ferret out their lives. I can almost see them in my minds eye. Especially now that I have names and ages from reading the headstones. At any rate, I like to unravel those stories and I do whenever I can. I’ve even thought about compiling a book about it and I’ve kept notes on past investigations I’ve done.”
“I wish you'd investigate that horribly loud sound I heard when you were on the third floor--it had to be something big. Like a door was slammed . . ." Even now the hairs on the back of Claire's neck tingled against her collar and the memory seemed somehow to be prescient of things to come.
Claire said, “You don’t understand, Becca! Something made a noise downstairs. I hardly want to go through the downstairs to go outside.” Nervously, she crossed the landing again and looked down toward the main floor. Human or not, she wondered again and realized that she would be just as afraid whether it was human or ghost. If it were human ... what human?
“You could come up here?”
“Nah. I’ll just wait here for you.” Pausing, she looked down into the dark recesses of the house again, and then she added, as an afterthought, “How come in horror flicks they always have the girl run up the stairs? I always said I would never run up.”
Becca chuckled. “If you come up here, you aren’t running. You’re joining me.”
“But once up there, there is nowhere to run.” Claire tried to reason with herself. As for a human, perhaps a caretaker investigating the car in the drive, who would care that they were in that house now, anyway.
Long silent minutes passed by and she looked up the stairs wondering about Becca.. She hadn’t taken this long looking at anything in the rest of the house and now the silence above became as disconcerting as the silence below. “What are you doing up there?”
“There is a huge pile of stuff up here ... old papers and things ...”
“Becca, let’s just go. If you buy the house you can look later.”
“They might not be here later.”
Claire’s shoulders dropped in disappointment, and she exhaled every iota of air she had in her lungs, feeling the anxiety building. She’d broken out into a cold sweat and had goose-bumps on her arms. She could feel the hair prickle beneath her sweater. But, relenting on her previous determination not to go upstairs, she decided she’d rather be with Becca than standing here alone while some unknown something down below stalked her. Gingerly, she took the first step up just in time to see Becca step out of the attic doorway, shadow-like in the faint light. Claire breathed a sigh of relief, but strained to make the apparition she saw above solidify into her friend, Becca. “Are you ready to go yet,” she asked hopefully.
“Yeah. I’m calling the real estate agent on this one, for sure.”
Becca closed her eyes in relief, calming.
As Becca met Clair on the landing, she looked her over, and said, “Dang! You look as though you had seen a ghost!”
“I thought I did for a moment. I think it’s pretty spooky here ...”
“It is all in your head. There aren’t any ghosts. But if you imagine them, they’ll come.” She smiled. “See? We’re just fine. We can go now, though.”
As the two stepped out the back door Claire filled her lungs with fresh air. And, because she’d felt like a thief exploring the house this way, breaking and entering and all of that, she was especially relieved when Becca pulled the door closed with a solid thud behind them.
The two stood out on the back stoop and looked out over the land. The house, situated as it at the crest of the hill overlooking the valley below. In the distance, beyond sight and beyond a forest of trees, was the river. The house had been the original ranch house for all this land, now sold off, and on the property were a couple of small outbuildings, and a decrepit barn.
On the left, in the back, beyond the oak tree, was a small family plot. An old bent wrought iron fence surrounded a few lonely looking weather stained headstones. The gate stood open and hung crookedly. Tall grass threatened to hide everything.
Becca mused, “We ought to take a look around.”
Claire groaned. “Can’t we just go? You can explore them later with the real estate agent. I mean, you are going to have to pretend as though you haven’t already taken a look around the place, aren’t you? You are sure you are going to call the agency, aren’t you?”
“Sure. But while we are here, we might as well. It’ll be interesting to see if there is any old stuff around in any of them.”
“Old stuff?” Claire wished that she could just go sit in the car and wait.
But Becca was already heading down the back steps and through the tall grass toward the first of the old outbuildings. Claire followed to the edge of the walk.
Becca found the door to the place was padlocked. She took a moment to try to peer in a dusty window while Claire remained close to the house, watching her. A moment later and Becca was striding toward the barn enthusiastically.
“That old barn looks as though it’s about to cave in, Becca.”
“I know. Isn’t it awesome? For a while in college I used to go around the countryside photographing old barns. The older, the better. I even had a few displayed in an art gallery for a while. A lot of people love old barns.”
“Yeah, I remember. You’re good at photography. But if it is all the same to you, I’d rather look at your photos than the real thing.”
“It won’t take but a few minutes to look this place over.”
Claire watched the barn swallows swooping in and out after Becca vanished through the door. It looked typical enough. There couldn’t be much to it.
As Becca returned from the barn she tilted her head in the direction of the grave yard, “Want to come on out and explore that with me? Didn’t you used to make a hobby of visiting old graves and doing rubbings of the headstones?”
“Oh, that was only one summer when I went east with the family. I was just bored.”
“Well, come on. You can at least look it over with me–“ She stopped a few feet in front of Claire, tilted her head slightly in the direction of the graves and smiled. .
“Okay . . .” Claire dragged out as she stepped onto the narrow walk obscured by grass. The angle of the walk changed as they walked down the slight incline. The grave yard had been positioned on a natural outlook from which the hill fell away quickly to the valley below. It had a windswept and arid aspect to it–somehow spookily uninviting in Claire’s mind.
With its ornate wrought ironwork, topped by s-curved spear shaped points, the yard itself overgrown, the head stones moss and lichen stained, some tilting slightly and at odd angles to each other it seemed to have suffered more neglect than the interior of the house. It was the classic family plot.
The broken gate screeched as Becca pushed it open sufficiently to walk through. Claire followed her a little more closely now than she had before. Becca began to examine the various headstones, sometimes pointing out a name, or, in the case of a baby that was born and died the same day, the year. Her little grave was marked by a tiny childish angel not more than two feet high and she’d not been given a name. The most recent grave, the headstone rectangular and of plain polished granite, in the modern style, belonged to a Gertrude Mason, and the date of her death was in 1974. In comparison to its more ancient neighbors, it felt out of place. Most of the graves, however, shared a similar date, as most had died in November of 1902. And all but Gertrude shared the same last name:
Once back in the car, Claire asked, “Did you notice the dates on the headstones?”
“Yeah. I’m curious now. I want to know how and why and all about them.” Becca fastened her seatbelt and turned the key. The little car hummed to life.
“Its so sad that they all died within such a short time of each other. I wonder what they died of ... “ Claire had to grab the side of the seat again, as Becca stepped on the gas and the car bounced out of the rough drive and across the rutted gravel road, spitting gravel against the undercarriage.
“There were a number of deadly diseases that were common at that time.”
“We could check out the records, I suppose.”
“I’d like to do that. I will, just as soon as I get the time.”
“Let me know what you find out. I don’t know about you, but I started feeling really weird about the place once we took a look at the graves. The family plot was like the icing on the cake though, after the house, I mean. I was already spooked and then when I saw all those headstones I felt almost as though the house is a ... a memorial to them ... as though it has been kept just for that purpose ... as though it is a headstone itself–a marker for the whole family.”
“Interesting that you should say that. I was sort of feeling the same way.”
“There is a bleakness about this whole hill, too. It seems like a lonely place. I don’t like it.”
“I do. I like it more than ever. But I know what you mean about how lonely it feels. Hopefully, that is a sensation that will vanish just as soon as I stir things up by moving in. It fits right in with all that I most value–about lives lived and people who came before us. That’s why I’m a history buff, I guess.”
“How strange. I’d always just looked at antiques and old houses like things, just things. I never really thought about the people who lived in them and used them the way that you apparently do.”
Becca leaned back in the seat and smiled in a satisfied way, negotiating a curve in the road,. “I almost feel as though it is calling to me. I’ve never had such a strange feeling about a place before. Like ... I belong there ... and it isn’t just because I love old houses, I’ve been to plenty of them. This one seems to be almost calling to my very soul.”
“You are creeping me out!” Claire gave an exaggerated shiver. “And I’ve got goose bumps, too, just thinking about it. The place was strange enough for me without your saying that.”
Becca chuckled. “Silly. There aren’t any ghosts. There is no such thing. If you expect to hear noises, you will. If you see a fog, it is probably just a film over your eye. For me though the house is like a news story. I think of real people. I want to ferret out their lives. I can almost see them in my minds eye. Especially now that I have names and ages from reading the headstones. At any rate, I like to unravel those stories and I do whenever I can. I’ve even thought about compiling a book about it and I’ve kept notes on past investigations I’ve done.”
“I wish you'd investigate that horribly loud sound I heard when you were on the third floor--it had to be something big. Like a door was slammed . . ." Even now the hairs on the back of Claire's neck tingled against her collar and the memory seemed somehow to be prescient of things to come.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Charm: 3rd Increment:
Just as Clair prepared to walk into the foyer, she heard the Becca say, “Oh, Claire! You have got to see this staircase. It’s perfect. Just imagine this room all clean and bright and repainted.”
Coming around the door jam, she looked up at the staircase to her right. “It is. This could be featured in Southern Living.”
“Well, I don’t think it is that spectacular. But it is charming in a small way.”
The room was fused with a different colored light than that of the dining room. It came in through both the beveled and frosted glass of the front door and from a smaller stained glass window on the first landing. “Is that window on the landing a Tiffany?”
“I can’t tell. Probably an imitation. But it is lovely, in any case.” Becca said, exploring the recess behind the stairs.
Brushing back by Claire, Becca asked, “Did you see that back room? A study, I think, judging from all the built in book shelves. It still has the old pot bellied stove they used to heat it.”
“No ... I didn’t see it,” Claire said glancing down the hallway toward the invisible door to it. “I’ll pass.”.
“You saw the parlor ... er living room? Charming, but a bit smaller than I’d like.”
“They didn’t use them often, did they?” Claire answered.
“You should at least stick your head in the door. Take a look at that tile around the fireplace.”
“Maybe ... really, Becca, I ...”
“Oh, never mind. You can see it later after I move in.”
Becca stood for a moment at the bottom of the stairs. As she scanned the room, her eyes flitted from feature to feature, pausing longest on the lovely newel post and the hand rail, “I love to speculate about what it must have been like to have lived in a place like this when it was new. Can you imagine? I’d say this dates back to the late 1890's. Wouldn’t you? Everything in this house is so original and so like it would have been, that I can almost imagine the ladies all dressed up in those cinched in dresses with leg-o-mutton sleeves . . . and maybe a row of tiny buttons all the way down the front of the bodice. I think they wore big bows at the nape of their necks at about that time. Very romantic.”
“Sometimes you surprise me, Becca.”
Becca focused a sharp, appraising look on Claire, “How’s that?”
“Do you ever even wear a dress? I’d never guess that you had a romantic streak.”
“I simply love history, Claire. If we don’t have a sense where we’ve been, then we won’t have a sense of where we are going, either. I simply believe we ought to preserve the past as much as we are able.”
Claire said, observing the wallpaper that was peeling away from the walls just inside the door and grimmaced.
Becca smiled tolerantly. “C’mon, let’s go upstairs and see the bedrooms.” She grasped the rail and launched up the first few steps.
“Okay. Let’s.” Donna’s stomach dropped as she saw Claire climb the stairs taking two at a time. “It’s a wonder that you have never broken a leg. How can you possibly run up the stairs in a house this old? I don’t think I can carry you if one of those treads break and you fall through.”
“You won’t have to. They’re sound,” Becca said as she vanished at the top of the stairs. “I haven’t seen any evidence of leaks, no ruined ceilings ... this place looks as though it has been taken care of ever since it was built.”
“Correction. The outside has been cared for ever since it was built. It looks like nothing has been done inside.”
“That’s what makes this house such a treasure. I can make an effort to match the patterns and colors on the wallpaper and actually restore it. I’ll bet the paint outside is even in the original colors, even if it is more than a hundred years old.”
Claire had only managed to climb half the stairs before she had the next verbal update. “Oh! A sitting room. It’s lovely. It even has a fireplace. And the master bedroom is roomy.”
Claire finally gained the top step and nearly ran into Becca coming out of the master bedroom. “Don’t fail to take a look out the door in the bedroom. It’s the sleeping porch. Amazing!”
“I will.” Claire said without conviction. Her eyes followed Becca until she vanished through the door of another bedroom. She heard Becca’s voice echo in the empty room as she exclaimed, “Nice!”
Claire entered the master suite, glanced around it swiftly as she hurried through and merely glanced through the window onto the sleeping porch. It looked dreary to her with all twelve windows covered, the dark green shades pulled closed.
As Claire exited the master suite, she entered the hallway just in time to see Becca’s feet tripping up the stairs. She heard the hinges squeal above as Becca passed through the doorway at the top.
Claire approached the newel post and leaned across the rail, craning her neck so she could look up. It was dark and unwelcoming with just the faintest tint of green light issuing from the landing above..
The hairs on the back of Claire’s neck tingled and she felt a chill. She could hear the slight creaks and pops above her head as Becca walked through the room over her head. Remaining stock still, all Claire’s senses intensified. The house seemed to become full of sound, as the slightest sound echoed hollowly through the entire house. Behind her, she heard a slight scratching noise. ‘Mice in the walls’ she thought, but turned toward the sound curiously. At that moment she felt as if something were watching her. Another chill clawed up her spine.
“Bang!” Clair jumped. Something in the downstairs, like a door slammed shut or as though something heavy hit the floor, the sound reverberating through the house. Claire’s heart raced and she pressed her hand over her heart and gasped for air. Turning hesitantly, eyes wide, she glanced fearfully down the stairs, holding her breath to listen.
Below, she could see only the quiet circle of bare wood flooring at the base of the stairs. Nothing moved and she didn’t expect it to. But the shadows beyond her vision seemed thick and hazy. First, she began to lean over the rail to see more of the foyer, but, frightened by her sense of imbalance, she turned back to the attic stairs. She called up to Becca, “Would you hurry? Something made a huge noise downstairs. Maybe we aren’t alone anymore.”
Coming around the door jam, she looked up at the staircase to her right. “It is. This could be featured in Southern Living.”
“Well, I don’t think it is that spectacular. But it is charming in a small way.”
The room was fused with a different colored light than that of the dining room. It came in through both the beveled and frosted glass of the front door and from a smaller stained glass window on the first landing. “Is that window on the landing a Tiffany?”
“I can’t tell. Probably an imitation. But it is lovely, in any case.” Becca said, exploring the recess behind the stairs.
Brushing back by Claire, Becca asked, “Did you see that back room? A study, I think, judging from all the built in book shelves. It still has the old pot bellied stove they used to heat it.”
“No ... I didn’t see it,” Claire said glancing down the hallway toward the invisible door to it. “I’ll pass.”.
“You saw the parlor ... er living room? Charming, but a bit smaller than I’d like.”
“They didn’t use them often, did they?” Claire answered.
“You should at least stick your head in the door. Take a look at that tile around the fireplace.”
“Maybe ... really, Becca, I ...”
“Oh, never mind. You can see it later after I move in.”
Becca stood for a moment at the bottom of the stairs. As she scanned the room, her eyes flitted from feature to feature, pausing longest on the lovely newel post and the hand rail, “I love to speculate about what it must have been like to have lived in a place like this when it was new. Can you imagine? I’d say this dates back to the late 1890's. Wouldn’t you? Everything in this house is so original and so like it would have been, that I can almost imagine the ladies all dressed up in those cinched in dresses with leg-o-mutton sleeves . . . and maybe a row of tiny buttons all the way down the front of the bodice. I think they wore big bows at the nape of their necks at about that time. Very romantic.”
“Sometimes you surprise me, Becca.”
Becca focused a sharp, appraising look on Claire, “How’s that?”
“Do you ever even wear a dress? I’d never guess that you had a romantic streak.”
“I simply love history, Claire. If we don’t have a sense where we’ve been, then we won’t have a sense of where we are going, either. I simply believe we ought to preserve the past as much as we are able.”
Claire said, observing the wallpaper that was peeling away from the walls just inside the door and grimmaced.
Becca smiled tolerantly. “C’mon, let’s go upstairs and see the bedrooms.” She grasped the rail and launched up the first few steps.
“Okay. Let’s.” Donna’s stomach dropped as she saw Claire climb the stairs taking two at a time. “It’s a wonder that you have never broken a leg. How can you possibly run up the stairs in a house this old? I don’t think I can carry you if one of those treads break and you fall through.”
“You won’t have to. They’re sound,” Becca said as she vanished at the top of the stairs. “I haven’t seen any evidence of leaks, no ruined ceilings ... this place looks as though it has been taken care of ever since it was built.”
“Correction. The outside has been cared for ever since it was built. It looks like nothing has been done inside.”
“That’s what makes this house such a treasure. I can make an effort to match the patterns and colors on the wallpaper and actually restore it. I’ll bet the paint outside is even in the original colors, even if it is more than a hundred years old.”
Claire had only managed to climb half the stairs before she had the next verbal update. “Oh! A sitting room. It’s lovely. It even has a fireplace. And the master bedroom is roomy.”
Claire finally gained the top step and nearly ran into Becca coming out of the master bedroom. “Don’t fail to take a look out the door in the bedroom. It’s the sleeping porch. Amazing!”
“I will.” Claire said without conviction. Her eyes followed Becca until she vanished through the door of another bedroom. She heard Becca’s voice echo in the empty room as she exclaimed, “Nice!”
Claire entered the master suite, glanced around it swiftly as she hurried through and merely glanced through the window onto the sleeping porch. It looked dreary to her with all twelve windows covered, the dark green shades pulled closed.
As Claire exited the master suite, she entered the hallway just in time to see Becca’s feet tripping up the stairs. She heard the hinges squeal above as Becca passed through the doorway at the top.
Claire approached the newel post and leaned across the rail, craning her neck so she could look up. It was dark and unwelcoming with just the faintest tint of green light issuing from the landing above..
The hairs on the back of Claire’s neck tingled and she felt a chill. She could hear the slight creaks and pops above her head as Becca walked through the room over her head. Remaining stock still, all Claire’s senses intensified. The house seemed to become full of sound, as the slightest sound echoed hollowly through the entire house. Behind her, she heard a slight scratching noise. ‘Mice in the walls’ she thought, but turned toward the sound curiously. At that moment she felt as if something were watching her. Another chill clawed up her spine.
“Bang!” Clair jumped. Something in the downstairs, like a door slammed shut or as though something heavy hit the floor, the sound reverberating through the house. Claire’s heart raced and she pressed her hand over her heart and gasped for air. Turning hesitantly, eyes wide, she glanced fearfully down the stairs, holding her breath to listen.
Below, she could see only the quiet circle of bare wood flooring at the base of the stairs. Nothing moved and she didn’t expect it to. But the shadows beyond her vision seemed thick and hazy. First, she began to lean over the rail to see more of the foyer, but, frightened by her sense of imbalance, she turned back to the attic stairs. She called up to Becca, “Would you hurry? Something made a huge noise downstairs. Maybe we aren’t alone anymore.”
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Lenten Exercise:
Last year a group of us began walking a mile a day through Lent and blogged about it HERE. Later, our little group went on with other walking challenges throughout the year. A few stubborn souls persisted although, shamefully, I wasn't one of them. I was feeling far from inspired as a writer and my walks weren't diverse enough. On the other hand, I didn't ever give up on my walking and I credit the blog.
At any rate, I am renewing my challenge and rejoining the active life of the blog.
At any rate, I am renewing my challenge and rejoining the active life of the blog.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Lenten reflection (journal entry)
On the first day of Lent, I decided that I would give up surfing the Internet and computer time except for writing and research. So today I bought a cup of coffee and drove out to the lake--it is a beautiful windy spring day--and parked where I could watch the seagulls, and reflect on my life. I'm at a crossroads and I'm sitting at the intersection trying to decide which way to go.
I've enumerated my thoughts, but they are not related, necessarily, one to another:
1) My first thought on rising this morning, and first thoughts are always significant, was a rather idealistic one where I could now choose to dispense with the baggage and accumulated deletrious of my life, the things that hold me down, and actually live into my ideals. The funny thing is that through all the apparent changes throughout my life, my actual ideals have changed very little. Things want to cling to me, to follow me around, to burden me and drag me into their grasp. And some of them are huge! Like my house. And these things define me. The things that are hardest to escape from are the heirlooms and this house is full of them.
2) This is a question that could have many answers: What about my near future? It seems that I need to get a job, to pay my own way, to educate my son and continue to provide him with the opportunities that suit his talent. A lot could be said about the state of my marriage--where I would be perfectly pleased to go on as we are, but I think I've been mistaken as to how satisfactory that would be for my husband for whatever strange, unexpressed, incomprehensible reason, while at the same time he holds on.
3) I was thinking of self-denial and realized that self-denial can be as much of a self-indulgence as anything.
4) In looking ahead, I realize that I don't want to let the world frame my vision. Money is necessary for sustenance and security, but the act of earning it can be a trap that derails us from more important and independent action--the right individual course for each person. This is a great concern for me because I already feel that I don't fit in with society in general. If it weren't for my situation as defined by motherhood and property that can't be shed overnight, I'm much more inclined to go into a life of solitude. So, as crazy as this sounds: what would the simplicity that I would like to embrace cost?
5) We see no further than our focal point. How often is our attention framed by a view that is focused on the same vista? I realized this as I was driving out to the lake and drove past some huge new houses that have been built near the park. Something is always grabbing our attention and holding it. Houses built with a view are a big selling point, but how often do we stop and take a look out that window? I actually do have a beautiful view toward the back where we are situated on a hill that overlooks the river with no apparent obstructions--so I know what I am talking about. I do take a look every now and then, admiring a sunset or watching the clouds, but for the most part, my attention is focused within these walls and is limited by them. Even when I look out the window, some nearer focal point is likely to grab my attention.
6) This may seem odd, but I am seriously inclined to enter into a monastic community. I think I should investigate that possibility. Obviously there are others who are drawn to that life--and of course, it fits with my belief that I really no longer fit in with the rest of the world, I hear a different drummer. The biggest drawback according to my personality? Silence in the presence of others. I'm good at silence alone.
7) On being a writer, which I am naturally because I am simply inclined to put words on paper. This is another facet of my life in which my own ideals have been derailed by misplaced focus. I think I need to take a step back and let my writing come into focus, spending some time on reflection--and the reflection itself may be the part I've been misplacing.
As I drove past a meadow where black angus cattle were grazing, I remembered that part of my life before Ike was born and the man who filled my heart and hopes. That story of his dreams lost through fear, a life that failed, a square peg in the round hole that society creates, and his story is more universal than the small town and the small life he lived. More people now are finding themselves falling through similar cracks--as I am. The world is becoming less tolerant of diversity--like a housing addition, automatons living "scheduled" lives, rules and limitations imposed by norms that are increasingly narrow. As I age, I see that this is a world created for people with good vision, for example, and so at all times a large number of people are living lives hindered by visual handicaps. And so, it seems, that my focus here is on a life lived in obscurity and one that left no lasting mark on the world--as the majority of us do--and the pointlessness of our existence dwindling into a derelict end. I see a barn falling in on itself in the midst of tall grass, the land consuming it. I became most aware of this as I watched my own father's life cave into Parkinson's disease as all that he ever took pride in was taken from him, his strength, his knowledge, his intelligence and his memory and even, finally, his dignity, until death, that great equalizer, grabbed hold of him and took him. I'm still in the shadow of the "slippery slope to the nursing home" frame of mind. And how can I help it when the last twenty years of my life has been framed by it?
In short, I don't think I have quite pinpointed my "Vein of Gold" as Julia Cameron would say. I don't know if I am avoiding it because it frightens me and I can't face it or if I have another, happier one waiting inside me for me to pry it loose.
I've enumerated my thoughts, but they are not related, necessarily, one to another:
1) My first thought on rising this morning, and first thoughts are always significant, was a rather idealistic one where I could now choose to dispense with the baggage and accumulated deletrious of my life, the things that hold me down, and actually live into my ideals. The funny thing is that through all the apparent changes throughout my life, my actual ideals have changed very little. Things want to cling to me, to follow me around, to burden me and drag me into their grasp. And some of them are huge! Like my house. And these things define me. The things that are hardest to escape from are the heirlooms and this house is full of them.
2) This is a question that could have many answers: What about my near future? It seems that I need to get a job, to pay my own way, to educate my son and continue to provide him with the opportunities that suit his talent. A lot could be said about the state of my marriage--where I would be perfectly pleased to go on as we are, but I think I've been mistaken as to how satisfactory that would be for my husband for whatever strange, unexpressed, incomprehensible reason, while at the same time he holds on.
3) I was thinking of self-denial and realized that self-denial can be as much of a self-indulgence as anything.
4) In looking ahead, I realize that I don't want to let the world frame my vision. Money is necessary for sustenance and security, but the act of earning it can be a trap that derails us from more important and independent action--the right individual course for each person. This is a great concern for me because I already feel that I don't fit in with society in general. If it weren't for my situation as defined by motherhood and property that can't be shed overnight, I'm much more inclined to go into a life of solitude. So, as crazy as this sounds: what would the simplicity that I would like to embrace cost?
5) We see no further than our focal point. How often is our attention framed by a view that is focused on the same vista? I realized this as I was driving out to the lake and drove past some huge new houses that have been built near the park. Something is always grabbing our attention and holding it. Houses built with a view are a big selling point, but how often do we stop and take a look out that window? I actually do have a beautiful view toward the back where we are situated on a hill that overlooks the river with no apparent obstructions--so I know what I am talking about. I do take a look every now and then, admiring a sunset or watching the clouds, but for the most part, my attention is focused within these walls and is limited by them. Even when I look out the window, some nearer focal point is likely to grab my attention.
6) This may seem odd, but I am seriously inclined to enter into a monastic community. I think I should investigate that possibility. Obviously there are others who are drawn to that life--and of course, it fits with my belief that I really no longer fit in with the rest of the world, I hear a different drummer. The biggest drawback according to my personality? Silence in the presence of others. I'm good at silence alone.
7) On being a writer, which I am naturally because I am simply inclined to put words on paper. This is another facet of my life in which my own ideals have been derailed by misplaced focus. I think I need to take a step back and let my writing come into focus, spending some time on reflection--and the reflection itself may be the part I've been misplacing.
As I drove past a meadow where black angus cattle were grazing, I remembered that part of my life before Ike was born and the man who filled my heart and hopes. That story of his dreams lost through fear, a life that failed, a square peg in the round hole that society creates, and his story is more universal than the small town and the small life he lived. More people now are finding themselves falling through similar cracks--as I am. The world is becoming less tolerant of diversity--like a housing addition, automatons living "scheduled" lives, rules and limitations imposed by norms that are increasingly narrow. As I age, I see that this is a world created for people with good vision, for example, and so at all times a large number of people are living lives hindered by visual handicaps. And so, it seems, that my focus here is on a life lived in obscurity and one that left no lasting mark on the world--as the majority of us do--and the pointlessness of our existence dwindling into a derelict end. I see a barn falling in on itself in the midst of tall grass, the land consuming it. I became most aware of this as I watched my own father's life cave into Parkinson's disease as all that he ever took pride in was taken from him, his strength, his knowledge, his intelligence and his memory and even, finally, his dignity, until death, that great equalizer, grabbed hold of him and took him. I'm still in the shadow of the "slippery slope to the nursing home" frame of mind. And how can I help it when the last twenty years of my life has been framed by it?
In short, I don't think I have quite pinpointed my "Vein of Gold" as Julia Cameron would say. I don't know if I am avoiding it because it frightens me and I can't face it or if I have another, happier one waiting inside me for me to pry it loose.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
When did it begin: Very beginning & Ultimatum:
I'm searching for a way forward while holding onto the ideas that I've had. This is truly a discovery draft but meets my daily requirement. Note that I never write straight through a story incrementally so the very first post for this story was, "I hate this place." But to read it somewhat in order: the first section here, When did it begin, I hate this place, the second section here. Confusing, huh? And if the idea continues to appear to have merit, each small segment would probably be expanded into a chapter. Its a rather strange veiw into the creative mind, perhaps.
*****
Driving home on a sunny day in early fall--one of those perfectly glorious days when the weather is exceedingly perfect--Grace felt her physical misery and wondered again, as she had so many times, what could be causing it. She ran her bitter-tasting tongue over her dry, rubbery lips and questioned how it could happen that her lips were chapped when the heater hadn't even been turned on yet. The symptoms mystified her--and her doctor.
For one, when she had these spells, her urine would take on a hue not unlike ethanol--red-orange and heavy. Culturing it turned up nothing, no infection, no bacteria. And yet, mysteriously, the antibiotic did seem to work. Logic said that it couldn't. Grace remembered the conversation with the nurse:
"Your culture was negative, but doctor says to go ahead and take the antibiotic. That's all you need."
Grace paused as questions raced through her mind, confused, she asked again, "What do you mean, it was negative?"
"You don't have an infection."
It seemed as though the nurse's words stopped dead before reaching her understanding. Was it possible? The pain and the blood had stopped the day she began the antibiotics. It was the same old story, test after test came out negative. She'd gone through the barium radiological proceedure [find out name of test]. She'd suffered one blood workup and all came back good--not counting a slightly high cholesterol ratio [?].
All through the fall and into winter the symptoms increased. The other set of symptoms took center stage for a while. For a woman who hated salt, salt seemed to be oozing out of her pores. Her lips tasted salty and the microhairs around her lips seemed to become caked with salt crystals. With the salt came cold sweats that started at the roots of her hair and flowed down through her body. She couldn't even figure out where all that salt could come from. The most frightening thing about this set of symptoms was that when she rested sometimes her nerves would jerk spasmodically and the jerks could be so hard that twice she suffered back injuries from them. At night, she would drool and sometimes it felt as though spittle was gathering at the corners of her mouth and she would have to wipe it away--whereas she'd never been a drooler. Terrified, she never spoke to the doctor about these symptoms in hopes that they would just go away. Her greatest fear was the possible onset of multiple schlerosis. If that was the case, the diagnosis would come too soon, she thought.
*****
(flash forward to another chapter)
Hurrying to get her teeth brushed before leaving for church, Grace took a swig of mouthwash. It burned. She spit it out and rushed to rinse her mouth. Several handfuls of water didn't seem to stop the burning sensation. She grabbed a toothbrush and applied a squirt of toothpaste and began brushing her teeth vigorously. Half way through her bottom teeth, she suddenly saw she'd grabbed her son's toothbrush. As though she could undo the mistake, she stopped brushing and rinsed it thouroughly, placing it back in the toothbrush holder. Her own toothbrush was in the other bathroom. She'd forgotten. But really, she thought, what good would brushing do, anyway. She rinsed again.
After drying her mouth she saw the bottle of blue mouthwash on the vanity. Her first thought was of her son--what if he used it? She held it up to the light and noted, with a grimmace, that it was only half as blue as it ought to have been. Instinctively she dumped it. The blue liquid raced down the drain. It all happened so quickly that Grace hadn't ever thought of saving it. She needed evidence--just in case.
On her way out the door, as she donned her green jacket, she cooly said to her husband, "That's it. I warned you. I said just one more time and I would leave. Thanks for the mouthwash!" And she grabbed the doornob and hurried out without giving him a chance to respond--or not.
Later, while sitting in the church, she felt the burning creep up into her left nostril--on the side she had not brushed. The creep went up, buring her eye. The burning felt as though it would cause her nose to bleed. Just in case, she wiped the bottom of her nose when she felt a hint of dampness gathering there. 'I'm such a fool!' she thought. 'To think I let him get me again.'
*****
Driving home on a sunny day in early fall--one of those perfectly glorious days when the weather is exceedingly perfect--Grace felt her physical misery and wondered again, as she had so many times, what could be causing it. She ran her bitter-tasting tongue over her dry, rubbery lips and questioned how it could happen that her lips were chapped when the heater hadn't even been turned on yet. The symptoms mystified her--and her doctor.
For one, when she had these spells, her urine would take on a hue not unlike ethanol--red-orange and heavy. Culturing it turned up nothing, no infection, no bacteria. And yet, mysteriously, the antibiotic did seem to work. Logic said that it couldn't. Grace remembered the conversation with the nurse:
"Your culture was negative, but doctor says to go ahead and take the antibiotic. That's all you need."
Grace paused as questions raced through her mind, confused, she asked again, "What do you mean, it was negative?"
"You don't have an infection."
It seemed as though the nurse's words stopped dead before reaching her understanding. Was it possible? The pain and the blood had stopped the day she began the antibiotics. It was the same old story, test after test came out negative. She'd gone through the barium radiological proceedure [find out name of test]. She'd suffered one blood workup and all came back good--not counting a slightly high cholesterol ratio [?].
All through the fall and into winter the symptoms increased. The other set of symptoms took center stage for a while. For a woman who hated salt, salt seemed to be oozing out of her pores. Her lips tasted salty and the microhairs around her lips seemed to become caked with salt crystals. With the salt came cold sweats that started at the roots of her hair and flowed down through her body. She couldn't even figure out where all that salt could come from. The most frightening thing about this set of symptoms was that when she rested sometimes her nerves would jerk spasmodically and the jerks could be so hard that twice she suffered back injuries from them. At night, she would drool and sometimes it felt as though spittle was gathering at the corners of her mouth and she would have to wipe it away--whereas she'd never been a drooler. Terrified, she never spoke to the doctor about these symptoms in hopes that they would just go away. Her greatest fear was the possible onset of multiple schlerosis. If that was the case, the diagnosis would come too soon, she thought.
*****
(flash forward to another chapter)
Hurrying to get her teeth brushed before leaving for church, Grace took a swig of mouthwash. It burned. She spit it out and rushed to rinse her mouth. Several handfuls of water didn't seem to stop the burning sensation. She grabbed a toothbrush and applied a squirt of toothpaste and began brushing her teeth vigorously. Half way through her bottom teeth, she suddenly saw she'd grabbed her son's toothbrush. As though she could undo the mistake, she stopped brushing and rinsed it thouroughly, placing it back in the toothbrush holder. Her own toothbrush was in the other bathroom. She'd forgotten. But really, she thought, what good would brushing do, anyway. She rinsed again.
After drying her mouth she saw the bottle of blue mouthwash on the vanity. Her first thought was of her son--what if he used it? She held it up to the light and noted, with a grimmace, that it was only half as blue as it ought to have been. Instinctively she dumped it. The blue liquid raced down the drain. It all happened so quickly that Grace hadn't ever thought of saving it. She needed evidence--just in case.
On her way out the door, as she donned her green jacket, she cooly said to her husband, "That's it. I warned you. I said just one more time and I would leave. Thanks for the mouthwash!" And she grabbed the doornob and hurried out without giving him a chance to respond--or not.
Later, while sitting in the church, she felt the burning creep up into her left nostril--on the side she had not brushed. The creep went up, buring her eye. The burning felt as though it would cause her nose to bleed. Just in case, she wiped the bottom of her nose when she felt a hint of dampness gathering there. 'I'm such a fool!' she thought. 'To think I let him get me again.'
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Revisiting St. John of the Cross
As I approach the anniversary of the events of Ash Wednesday of last year and the Great Peace that followed, I reflect back on that journey as I wonder what this year will bring. I haven't felt much need to write about faith this past year. I did at times, but it seemed to have a sameness to it that bothered me. My way forward has seemed unclear and as though I am inching along my path. I have felt that I have not been doing enough and as though I have not served God well and I have felt especially lonely not to feel any driving force through the grace of God. I have examined myself in ways that I never thought I would examine myself. I have lost all sense of envy of others--except as I would imitate them--noting my admiration of their opportunities, energy or inspiration instead. God's Great Peace has not left me feeling unloved but unmoved. Even as Lent began last year I felt sure of one thing, and it sort of bends a bit of scripture: Be still and know that I am God. And so I did.
Even when I felt the quickening of life again at the end of Lent last year, much of my past practice still held little luster. Meditation, which I think I had always come to naturally, had lost all appeal for me. I said my prayers dutifully, but I've been dissapointed by my ability to remember to work at following St. Benedict's Rule more enthusiastically. I've continued to be a little bit wishy-washy about my path.
Last week I loaned my priest the book that I had been studying, Traditions of Christian Spirituality. While I still have a dozen new books in my reading library that are begging me to read them, I noticed that Dark Night of the Soul had fallen onto the floor somehow. I picked it up, checked the marker in it--which may be my first Reading as lector--and then began to reread it. I hadn't read it for a good four years. It is a thin volume, at any rate.
It is a tedious read because the only copy I could find was an older translation. I had even intended to buy a better copy sometime. At any rate, it wasn't long before St. John had brought me to where I am on my journey. I recognized it. I am walking the path of purgation of the senses. Without remembering St. John's advice, I have actually followed it--or instinctively followed it.
So, that is where I am. And, again, one of those ancient mystics have pinpointed my path and thrilled me with their wisdom.
Even when I felt the quickening of life again at the end of Lent last year, much of my past practice still held little luster. Meditation, which I think I had always come to naturally, had lost all appeal for me. I said my prayers dutifully, but I've been dissapointed by my ability to remember to work at following St. Benedict's Rule more enthusiastically. I've continued to be a little bit wishy-washy about my path.
Last week I loaned my priest the book that I had been studying, Traditions of Christian Spirituality. While I still have a dozen new books in my reading library that are begging me to read them, I noticed that Dark Night of the Soul had fallen onto the floor somehow. I picked it up, checked the marker in it--which may be my first Reading as lector--and then began to reread it. I hadn't read it for a good four years. It is a thin volume, at any rate.
It is a tedious read because the only copy I could find was an older translation. I had even intended to buy a better copy sometime. At any rate, it wasn't long before St. John had brought me to where I am on my journey. I recognized it. I am walking the path of purgation of the senses. Without remembering St. John's advice, I have actually followed it--or instinctively followed it.
So, that is where I am. And, again, one of those ancient mystics have pinpointed my path and thrilled me with their wisdom.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
When did it begin?
It was just a routine morning, a routine act. Grace unscrewed the sprayer-head from the automatic coffee maker. As she pulled it out, she saw that it was completely full of white stuff. It puzzled her, so she examined it more carefully. It looked almost like a clump of flour had gotten stuck in the center of it. It was fine enough stuff that it should have gone through the sprayer holes. Still puzzled, Grace went to the sink and held it under the stream of water from the faucet. It washed out easily with no scrubbing or rubbing whatsoever. After rinsing it, she held it up and examined it, ensuring that all the holes were completely clean, and returned to the coffee maker to finish cleaning it.
Following that discovery, she noted as she wiped down the lid to the resevior that there was an unusual build-up of what seemed to be calcium deposits around it and on the plastic grid the water was poured through.
It was only later that the mystery began to take shape in her mind. As it did, the initial and most horrible thought that continued to haunt her whenever her thoughts ventured in that direction was her worry about her own sanity. Was it possible?
An hour or so later, she returned to the coffee maker and lifted the lid to the resevoir again and peered down into it where the still evident excessive lime buildup under the grid could be seen. She regretted her haste and thoroughness in cleaning it earlier. Careful examination netted a very thin line of white residue along the raised outer edge of the resevior. Grace licked her finger and rubbed it off, then touched it to her tongue. It had a salty flavor, saltier than she would have expected, but then she wasn't in the habit of tasting lime buildup on coffee makers.
Truth just wouldn't quite dawn on her for quite some time. When it really began to take solid shape in her mind was while in the midst of other household cleaning chores, she was searching through the cupboard beneath the sink for some misplaced bottle of cleaning fluid, when she noticed a large box of trisodium phosphate that had taken front and center. The logic of that defied her--how can a box of harsh soap that is only used as a painting prep take front and center? Finding what she was looking for, she returned to work, but the box of soap didn't get forgotten. Finally, curious to solve the mystery, she returned to the kitchen and pulled the box from beneath the sink, examined it, wondering, then repeated the moistening of the tip of her finger and touching a bit of soap dust inside the lid, then touching it to the tip of her tongue, tasting it. Her taste memory kicked in--it had that same slightly salty flavor as the supposed calcium deposit that had come off the plastic so easily earlier that morning.
That's where she left the problem for a couple of days. Every morning, she drank her usual two or three mugs of coffee. But that third morning, while wiping down the outside of the coffee maker, she noticed a fine white powder on the shiny black base. It reminded her of the discovery she'd attempted to hide from herself a few days before.
She paused and looked blankly at the machine trying to imagine a way that a white powder--say it was flour--had landed there near the heating element pad. Then slowly, almost with trepidation, she unscrewed the sprayerhead again and peered into its black interior. What she saw there was quite different than what she had seen a few days before.
In the very center there were several small clear floppy looking crystals. There was no confusion whatsoever that it could possibly be a sudden influx of calcium deposits from the water. If her mind could stagger, it did at that moment--she'd only cleaned the coffee maker three days before. They were clearly different than anything that she had ever seen before. The mystery that had seemed so insane, so deniably crazy just three days before, instantly crystalized itself into something real.
Following that discovery, she noted as she wiped down the lid to the resevior that there was an unusual build-up of what seemed to be calcium deposits around it and on the plastic grid the water was poured through.
It was only later that the mystery began to take shape in her mind. As it did, the initial and most horrible thought that continued to haunt her whenever her thoughts ventured in that direction was her worry about her own sanity. Was it possible?
An hour or so later, she returned to the coffee maker and lifted the lid to the resevoir again and peered down into it where the still evident excessive lime buildup under the grid could be seen. She regretted her haste and thoroughness in cleaning it earlier. Careful examination netted a very thin line of white residue along the raised outer edge of the resevior. Grace licked her finger and rubbed it off, then touched it to her tongue. It had a salty flavor, saltier than she would have expected, but then she wasn't in the habit of tasting lime buildup on coffee makers.
Truth just wouldn't quite dawn on her for quite some time. When it really began to take solid shape in her mind was while in the midst of other household cleaning chores, she was searching through the cupboard beneath the sink for some misplaced bottle of cleaning fluid, when she noticed a large box of trisodium phosphate that had taken front and center. The logic of that defied her--how can a box of harsh soap that is only used as a painting prep take front and center? Finding what she was looking for, she returned to work, but the box of soap didn't get forgotten. Finally, curious to solve the mystery, she returned to the kitchen and pulled the box from beneath the sink, examined it, wondering, then repeated the moistening of the tip of her finger and touching a bit of soap dust inside the lid, then touching it to the tip of her tongue, tasting it. Her taste memory kicked in--it had that same slightly salty flavor as the supposed calcium deposit that had come off the plastic so easily earlier that morning.
That's where she left the problem for a couple of days. Every morning, she drank her usual two or three mugs of coffee. But that third morning, while wiping down the outside of the coffee maker, she noticed a fine white powder on the shiny black base. It reminded her of the discovery she'd attempted to hide from herself a few days before.
She paused and looked blankly at the machine trying to imagine a way that a white powder--say it was flour--had landed there near the heating element pad. Then slowly, almost with trepidation, she unscrewed the sprayerhead again and peered into its black interior. What she saw there was quite different than what she had seen a few days before.
In the very center there were several small clear floppy looking crystals. There was no confusion whatsoever that it could possibly be a sudden influx of calcium deposits from the water. If her mind could stagger, it did at that moment--she'd only cleaned the coffee maker three days before. They were clearly different than anything that she had ever seen before. The mystery that had seemed so insane, so deniably crazy just three days before, instantly crystalized itself into something real.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Street Church:
Father Jake posted one of the most moving posts I've seen in a long time yesterday. It reached right into my heart and made me want to do more for the people who have fallen through the cracks of our society. In some ways it was an eye-opening read for me. Here is the link to the article: Street Church.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Charm, increment 2
Claire joined her on the walk. “I have to admit, it does have charm. Victorians are beautiful, but I dread even thinking about living in one as drafty as they are. Not to mention all the expensive repairs it could take, like dry rot and termite damage.”
“Old houses are one of my soft spots. Nothing that is built now can touch the quality of craftsmanship.”
“Nobody can argue with that,” Claire responded, thinking that arguing with Becca was always a waste of time.
“Well! Let’s take a look at the rest of it.”
Claire gave Becca a wilting look. “The grass is hip high.”
“So?”
“Tics and things. You know?”
Claire caught a glimpse of Becca’s azure eyes sparkling beneath her errant bangs as Becca grinned with ornery enthusiasm. Claire felt her heart drop, feeling the old tug of anxiety about what Becca might be planning next. It took her back to a thousand similar moments when the two were best friends in grade school. Then Becca said the same old thing she always said at times like this, taunting Clair with her old challenge, “Where is your sense of adventure?” Briskly turning away, Becca added, “You don’t suppose we can find a door or a window we can get in through, do you?” She started off down the walk to the front door, swiftly.
“You don’t mean to break in here, do you? We aren’t kids anymore!”
“Sure, I’ll break in if I find a way. The porch is amazing. Look at all those spindles in the railing–each one had to be hand turned!”
As Becca stepped onto the porch, Claire could hear the heavy creak of the unused porch boards. “Are you sure they didn’t have mass production by then?” Claire asked as she tried to avoid the touch of the heads of tall clumps of grass that leaned across the narrow walk.
The tall grass was still retained a tint green from the end of the summer. A wind ruffled through the branches of the line of cedars along the driveway and the slight whistling sound gave her goose bumps and reminded her of the ghosts that were said to be here.
The first thing Becca did was to try the door nob, but the door was firmly locked. She bent over to peer into the interior through beveled glass panes in the double front doors. When she’d found a clear spot to look through, she cupped her hands around her eyes to block the light so she could look in. “The foyer is lovely! How perfect! ... How typically Victorian!”
Claire stood patiently behind her at the top of the first step, not even sure of putting her weight on the old boards, as she waited for Becca’s next move. Becca didn’t pause long before she’d turned back toward the steps and practically bounced off the front porch, brushing past Claire in her enthusiasm.
Becca stepped farther out into the yard to view the front one more time, and said, “Too bad they’ve drawn all the shades. It gives the house a blank stare look.”
Claire, standing on the walk, said, “I think it makes it look even more creepy. What could be more creepy than a house on the top of a windswept hill, taller than it is wide–as though it belongs in a city like New Orleans–with all the windows black in broad daylight. It looks so . . . so lifeless.”
Becca stepped off to the side of the house, ignoring the tall weeds that brushed her elbows and not even looking where she was going as she gazed up at the house. Claire made her way carefully, picking through the tall grass and examining the ground in front of her before taking each step, blaming her slowness on her own short legs as compared to the long strides that Becca could take due to her own long skinny ones.
“Look at this massive old oak!” Becca exclaimed as she approached the back corner of the house. “What a beautiful shade tree.”
Claire muttered, “Uh huh,” inaudibly, she could care less about old shade trees, but Becca didn’t seem to notice as she vanished around the corner of the house, her shuffling in the deep pile of leaves making a whooshing sound as she walked.
Claire rounded the corner just in time to see Becca try the back door. It didn’t budge, but Becca stooped as though examining the lock, then tried again. When it didn’t open, she paused, looked up at the house with a determined expression, then tried again with both hands, shaking the door hard.
“You aren’t really going to break in, are you?”
“I don’t think it is locked. I don’t see the bolt.”
“What if you break something. That old wooden door might just give if you ...”
Just then Becca threw her weight against it and Claire gasped. The door gave way, the windows rattled and the rusty old hinges squealed as Becca pushed it the rest of the way open. As soon as Becca was through, she vanished into the black interior of the enclosed porch.
“We’re in!” she shouted victoriously. Are you coming?”
Shaking her head at her friend’s temerity, Claire shuffled through the remaining leaves and mounted the stairs to the door grasping the old iron rail next to the steps as though she could pull her unwilling feet toward that gaping black doorway.
On the threshold, peering into the darkness she could hear Becca’s steps echo back hollowly, the floor creaking and popping ominously beneath her weight. Claire paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark. Ahead she heard Becca exclaim, “Oh, what a perfect old cast iron stove! This whole kitchen is original ...”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Oh, quit gushing. Who would want original.” She tried to follow, waving at unseen cobwebs as she walked gingerly into the kitchen. “I thought you hated dirty houses. This place is so filthy that I can smell the dust. And who knows what else ... mold? Rodents?” The chill that crept down her spine stuck and caused her to shiver. “It’s cold in here.” She barely caught sight of the vague form of her friend in the faint green light that filtered through the shades as Becca passed through into the next room.
“I dunno. The house isn’t filthy. Its just dusty. The air isn’t foul, it is just stale from being locked up.
“Wow! Look at that chandelier. Crystal, even.”
Claire grimaced when she heard even more of Becca’s enthusiastic praise for the old house and wished something truly awful would turn up to discourage Becca and end her own misery.
Rubbing her upper arms briskly as she followed Becca into the dining room, she scanned the room suspiciously and said, “I think it would be too much work. Every room would have to be fixed up before you could even begin to move in.” She saw Becca go through another doorway, and added, “Would you wait up?”
“What is taking you so long?”
“I’m just being careful. How do you know these old floorboards aren’t rotten.”
“Oh, they are as solid as the day the house was built!”
“I suppose that is why they pop and creak with every step?”
A few slivers of light filtered in through the old green pull shades that hung on the three narrow windows, side by side, on one side of the room. Old wallpaper hung in strips, the print so browned with age that the pattern was almost indiscernible. Heavy mahogony woodwork dominated the room. The doors through which Becca had gone, were a pair of French doors with beveled glass panes that shattered the narrow streaks of light from the windows into tiny rainbows. Claire admired the fine old leaded crystal chandelier–not a broken or missing prism evident–even if she wouldn’t dare let Becca know that she did.
Becca had vanished completely, although she could hear her footsteps and an occasional creak of floorboards from somewhere to her left.
“Old houses are one of my soft spots. Nothing that is built now can touch the quality of craftsmanship.”
“Nobody can argue with that,” Claire responded, thinking that arguing with Becca was always a waste of time.
“Well! Let’s take a look at the rest of it.”
Claire gave Becca a wilting look. “The grass is hip high.”
“So?”
“Tics and things. You know?”
Claire caught a glimpse of Becca’s azure eyes sparkling beneath her errant bangs as Becca grinned with ornery enthusiasm. Claire felt her heart drop, feeling the old tug of anxiety about what Becca might be planning next. It took her back to a thousand similar moments when the two were best friends in grade school. Then Becca said the same old thing she always said at times like this, taunting Clair with her old challenge, “Where is your sense of adventure?” Briskly turning away, Becca added, “You don’t suppose we can find a door or a window we can get in through, do you?” She started off down the walk to the front door, swiftly.
“You don’t mean to break in here, do you? We aren’t kids anymore!”
“Sure, I’ll break in if I find a way. The porch is amazing. Look at all those spindles in the railing–each one had to be hand turned!”
As Becca stepped onto the porch, Claire could hear the heavy creak of the unused porch boards. “Are you sure they didn’t have mass production by then?” Claire asked as she tried to avoid the touch of the heads of tall clumps of grass that leaned across the narrow walk.
The tall grass was still retained a tint green from the end of the summer. A wind ruffled through the branches of the line of cedars along the driveway and the slight whistling sound gave her goose bumps and reminded her of the ghosts that were said to be here.
The first thing Becca did was to try the door nob, but the door was firmly locked. She bent over to peer into the interior through beveled glass panes in the double front doors. When she’d found a clear spot to look through, she cupped her hands around her eyes to block the light so she could look in. “The foyer is lovely! How perfect! ... How typically Victorian!”
Claire stood patiently behind her at the top of the first step, not even sure of putting her weight on the old boards, as she waited for Becca’s next move. Becca didn’t pause long before she’d turned back toward the steps and practically bounced off the front porch, brushing past Claire in her enthusiasm.
Becca stepped farther out into the yard to view the front one more time, and said, “Too bad they’ve drawn all the shades. It gives the house a blank stare look.”
Claire, standing on the walk, said, “I think it makes it look even more creepy. What could be more creepy than a house on the top of a windswept hill, taller than it is wide–as though it belongs in a city like New Orleans–with all the windows black in broad daylight. It looks so . . . so lifeless.”
Becca stepped off to the side of the house, ignoring the tall weeds that brushed her elbows and not even looking where she was going as she gazed up at the house. Claire made her way carefully, picking through the tall grass and examining the ground in front of her before taking each step, blaming her slowness on her own short legs as compared to the long strides that Becca could take due to her own long skinny ones.
“Look at this massive old oak!” Becca exclaimed as she approached the back corner of the house. “What a beautiful shade tree.”
Claire muttered, “Uh huh,” inaudibly, she could care less about old shade trees, but Becca didn’t seem to notice as she vanished around the corner of the house, her shuffling in the deep pile of leaves making a whooshing sound as she walked.
Claire rounded the corner just in time to see Becca try the back door. It didn’t budge, but Becca stooped as though examining the lock, then tried again. When it didn’t open, she paused, looked up at the house with a determined expression, then tried again with both hands, shaking the door hard.
“You aren’t really going to break in, are you?”
“I don’t think it is locked. I don’t see the bolt.”
“What if you break something. That old wooden door might just give if you ...”
Just then Becca threw her weight against it and Claire gasped. The door gave way, the windows rattled and the rusty old hinges squealed as Becca pushed it the rest of the way open. As soon as Becca was through, she vanished into the black interior of the enclosed porch.
“We’re in!” she shouted victoriously. Are you coming?”
Shaking her head at her friend’s temerity, Claire shuffled through the remaining leaves and mounted the stairs to the door grasping the old iron rail next to the steps as though she could pull her unwilling feet toward that gaping black doorway.
On the threshold, peering into the darkness she could hear Becca’s steps echo back hollowly, the floor creaking and popping ominously beneath her weight. Claire paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark. Ahead she heard Becca exclaim, “Oh, what a perfect old cast iron stove! This whole kitchen is original ...”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Oh, quit gushing. Who would want original.” She tried to follow, waving at unseen cobwebs as she walked gingerly into the kitchen. “I thought you hated dirty houses. This place is so filthy that I can smell the dust. And who knows what else ... mold? Rodents?” The chill that crept down her spine stuck and caused her to shiver. “It’s cold in here.” She barely caught sight of the vague form of her friend in the faint green light that filtered through the shades as Becca passed through into the next room.
“I dunno. The house isn’t filthy. Its just dusty. The air isn’t foul, it is just stale from being locked up.
“Wow! Look at that chandelier. Crystal, even.”
Claire grimaced when she heard even more of Becca’s enthusiastic praise for the old house and wished something truly awful would turn up to discourage Becca and end her own misery.
Rubbing her upper arms briskly as she followed Becca into the dining room, she scanned the room suspiciously and said, “I think it would be too much work. Every room would have to be fixed up before you could even begin to move in.” She saw Becca go through another doorway, and added, “Would you wait up?”
“What is taking you so long?”
“I’m just being careful. How do you know these old floorboards aren’t rotten.”
“Oh, they are as solid as the day the house was built!”
“I suppose that is why they pop and creak with every step?”
A few slivers of light filtered in through the old green pull shades that hung on the three narrow windows, side by side, on one side of the room. Old wallpaper hung in strips, the print so browned with age that the pattern was almost indiscernible. Heavy mahogony woodwork dominated the room. The doors through which Becca had gone, were a pair of French doors with beveled glass panes that shattered the narrow streaks of light from the windows into tiny rainbows. Claire admired the fine old leaded crystal chandelier–not a broken or missing prism evident–even if she wouldn’t dare let Becca know that she did.
Becca had vanished completely, although she could hear her footsteps and an occasional creak of floorboards from somewhere to her left.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
W.I.S.H.
I've been so distracted of late that this challenge sneaked up on me even though I had intended to advertise it and promote it in order to invite others who write to join in on the challenge.
Writing
Isn't
So
Hard!
So, flustered as I am, it is really important to me to revise my NaNoNovels and get the CRAP off my hard drive! I have this nightmare scenario where I die and somebody reads this trash. So, I want to improve the quality of the trash. After both the NaNo's that I won, I felt that my novels both had redeeming plots developing by the end of the month, I was even excited about them, but both contained and estimated 30,000 words of blather that I poured on the page to meet my daily minimum. I hope that my estimate turns out to be high and there is more to redeem the novels than not.
My personal challenge is to derive or produce at least one thousand words of 1st Draft quality writing from the Discovery Draft beginning with my 2005 novel: Charm
That first increment that I posted took very little effort. Future days may well be hair pulling events and I may end February without a hair left on my head.
Writing
Isn't
So
Hard!
So, flustered as I am, it is really important to me to revise my NaNoNovels and get the CRAP off my hard drive! I have this nightmare scenario where I die and somebody reads this trash. So, I want to improve the quality of the trash. After both the NaNo's that I won, I felt that my novels both had redeeming plots developing by the end of the month, I was even excited about them, but both contained and estimated 30,000 words of blather that I poured on the page to meet my daily minimum. I hope that my estimate turns out to be high and there is more to redeem the novels than not.
My personal challenge is to derive or produce at least one thousand words of 1st Draft quality writing from the Discovery Draft beginning with my 2005 novel: Charm
That first increment that I posted took very little effort. Future days may well be hair pulling events and I may end February without a hair left on my head.