Foreign Language of Friends

I’m Buried in Books — What a Way to Go!

January 9, 2012 by admin

I’m buried in books today. Surrounding me are piles of The Foreign Language of Friends as I ready them for book contests. Entry forms are accompanied by stacks of one, two, or three copies, depending on the requirements of the contest. It’s a busy time of year, with plenty of deadlines early on. I also got the crazy notion a few days ago to enter Blood & Loam into Amazon’s Breakthrough Novel Award contest. That means getting all the polishing done in the next few weeks, all while I have to leave my home periodically to let possible buyers parade through. I tell myself I must be crazy, but I have made it a rule to follow my intuition at all times, so I’m up for the challenge!

On my iPad, via Kindle, I’m reading Twin-Bred by Karen Wyle, a wonderful sci-fi book. In Wyle’s fictional world, humans are cohabiting a planet with a species called Tofa, and prejudice and miscommunication abound. In a special project, human and Tofa babies are gestated in host mothers as twins, in the hopes that the special twin bond will help the two species learn how to bridge their differences. It’s a good read, and I especially love the scenes of the little kids as they start to grow up and play, acting like the little kids they are, and not the world saviors they’re expected to become.

Karen is part of my online writing group, the Blooming Late gals of She Writes. If you’re a woman over 40, come on over and visit if you get a chance. There’s a lot of talent in this group!

In addition, Julia Cameron’s new book, The Prosperous Heart, came out last week. Like her masterwork The Artist’s Way, the new book offers simple exercises to unblock us, this time from blocks to prosperity. Though the use of money is examined, this is more a book about feeling that sense of having “enough” in our lives.

I bought it mainly because I want Julia to keep doing what she’s doing, but I didn’t think there would be much for me. I was wrong. These gentle but powerful exercises are already starting to unlock parts of my brain, giving me new and surprising ideas for marketing my work as well as the work of other writers who deserve to have readers find them. Though Cameron’s process is spiritual, it is also practical, which appeals to my active left brain. The book does NOT promote positive thinking, but rather positive action. As I go along, I’ll keep you posted on my progress with this 12-week program.

Speaking of positive thinking, Barbara Ehrenreich, author of the laudable Nickel and Dimed, has written some not-so-positive things about the positive thinking movement that now pervades our workplaces, churches, and financial institutions in her book Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking is Undermining America. In coming days, I’ll write more about this book, which I’m still “chewing” on. I don’t agree with all of it, but she makes some excellent points that are worth examining.

Finally, as I promised last week, I’ll write more about Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles. Last week, when I wrote about my weight loss intentions for the year, some readers resonated with my fear of success. “Why do we do that?” a reader asked. Well, maybe we can figure that out. Pressfield’s book provides a great foundation for examining this block, which seems particularly difficult for women. Whether we’re losing weight, writing books, or have other goals, Pressfield’s advice can help us move beyond self-sabotage.

At any rate, these and other books that I’m reading should make for some lively discussion. What are you reading?

Back In the Saddle

November 28, 2011 by admin

Good morning, everyone! I hope you had a great Thanksgiving with plenty of friends and family around. Most of our gang gathered at the home of my brother-in-law’s mother (follow that?), and we included my stepdaughter on a Skype call that allowed her to participate in the gathering, even though she lives in New York City.

As you know, I took a few weeks off from blogging. I had my hands full, and something had to give. Problem is, it was hard to choose. I’m lucky enough to fill my days with activities that I love to do…and the blog is high on the list. I love the immediacy of blogging, which balances the endless revisions that novels require. I enjoy “meeting” fellow bloggers and readers as we exchange ideas, both personal and political. While the hiatus allowed me to get various projects off my plate, it also made me a little grumpy! It feels great to be back.

In the past few weeks I have finished (and won!) NaNoWriMo, finished the layout to the print version of The Foreign Language of Friends, and got the house in order so we can sell it. We have purchased a home in Washington State, and I’ve been coordinating long distance with inspectors, learning about retaining walls and fault lines. Hubby worries that the house will one day go tumbling down the hill. Since it’s been there since 1936, I doubt it, but today the foundation inspectors will let us know for sure.

I would like to give a shout-out to my fellow Houston NaNoers, who provided cheers and encouragement during the month of November. NaNo is truly a wonderful experience where writers of all ages come together to help each other. I had the privilege, in fact, of doing a “write-in” with a couple of teenage girls in our new hometown. Despite the age difference, we were thrilled to find each other and to sit together as we worked on our novels.

This week I’m going to share my thoughts on Dr. Andrew Weil’s book Spontaneous Happiness. I figure I’ll also have plenty to say about the holiday shopping season, which began with a roar of…pepper spray? Really? As usual, I’ll recommend a blog and post some fiction, too.

Thanks again to all of you who have hung in with me and been so supportive during my time off. I hope to continue to develop this blog to provide content that is meaningful, interesting, and thought-provoking for women at midlife. To that end, if there is anything you want from me that you’re not getting, please let me know! I would love to hear from you.

Free Friday Fiction: The Foreign Language of Friends, Ch. 9

November 11, 2011 by admin

Good morning, everyone! Greetings again from Washington State. We seem to have found the “perfect” house. We saw it online first and were excited about it, but this time the pictures actually match the hype! Of course, there’s the little matter of selling the house in Houston, but that’s another story. In the meantime, these photos are a little gift ordered up by the local chamber of commerce. 🙂

PT Full Moon — Full moon reflecting on the water

Meanwhile, the ladies at The Foreign Language of Friends are getting more stressed out about their lives. In this chapter, Ellen starts to recognize the value of having someone to talk to. If you’re just joining this blog, I post new chapters each Friday…or, you can purchase the entire book for the low, low price of $1.99 on Amazon.com! A print version will be available soon.

CHAPTER NINE – JUNE 28

After the latest emergency room scare, Ellen’s father returned to the nursing home, his hip not broken, though he was badly bruised. She reminded herself that the fall was not serious, but it didn’t ease her worries. She spent the bulk of the day working on the new writing job, then decided to visit her parents to make sure they were okay. Part of her wanted to keep working and avoid facing them, but her sense of duty overruled. She scolded herself for her resentment. After all, she no longer had to care for them 24/7, right? Yet she felt bone weary. Though she had always assumed she would have children, she felt relieved not to have that responsibility, too. Just an hour, she told herself. Go see them for an hour. You owe them that much. Eventually, she coaxed herself outside, to the car, and over to The Venice.

Taking a deep breath, she opened one of the ornate double doors and went inside. She listened to the sound of her shoes clop, clop, clopping on the shiny floors. She regretted changing from her usual shorts and tank top to a slacks outfit with pumps, wishing she didn’t feel the need to impress the staff. Did she really think that dressing up would make her look like a better daughter, not some mean ungrateful child who put her parents away?

The building nearly shouted its scrubbed bacterial-free environment. Sunlight streamed in, some of it shining in the eyes of the residents, whose wheelchairs hadn’t moved since after breakfast. They were lined up along the walls, staring vacantly ahead, many of them restrained, and no one seeming to pay attention to anything but their own mysterious inner thoughts. From time to time one of the residents screamed. Even so, the entire staff looked oh so cheerful, and how was she today, and wasn’t it a great day? Ellen wanted to throw up.

Heading toward her parents’ room, she reminded herself to be grateful. The Venice offered her parents care that Ellen was ill-equipped to provide. Cleaning women bustled up and down the halls all day. Her parents were fed well, with meals far more sumptuous than Ellen could ever conceive of, much less execute. It ought to be good, for all this place costs. Thankfully, her parents had lived a frugal lifestyle, so staying in the home was not a problem. They had always played by the rules, working hard, sacrificing, putting away for a rainy day. She wished they had saved a little less and celebrated life a little more. They had always planned to travel but never did, and by the time they were ready Mother’s disease had robbed them of their opportunity. Her father gave up after that, leaving Ellen to suddenly play the role of parent to the people who had raised her.

She found them side by side, in their wheelchairs, holding hands, smiling like shy children who have fallen in love for the first time. Ellen breathed a sigh of relief. At least they knew each other today.

“How are you doing, guys?” she asked, keeping her voice bright and cheery. Must be the effect of this place, she thought. I’m starting to talk like the staff.

“Hello,” her father said, leaning his forehead toward her as she kissed it. “They’re not very nice in this place. I seem to have hurt myself, and now I can’t walk at all.”

“What happened?” she asked, though she already knew. She had learned to play this game with her parents to find out how well their brains were working on a given day.

“I’m not sure. I think someone pushed me,” he said. “There’s a man down the hall who has tried to break into our room, and I think it might have been him.”

“Is that right?” Ellen asked. She pulled up a chair, studying her mother, who sat silently, staring at nothing. “Mom, is that what happened?”

Her mother turned toward her, gazing at Ellen with vacant, gray eyes. “Are you the girl who’s bringing me my lunch?” she asked. “Because if that’s the case, I want you to make sure it’s hot this time. The food is never hot.”

“No, Mom, it’s Ellen.”

“Ellen who?”

“Your daughter.”

“Oh?” Her mother studied Ellen more closely. “I don’t have a daugh-

ter.” She recoiled, her childlike face filled with suspicion. “Who are you, really? What do you want from me?”

Ellen stepped back at the sound of her mother’s agitation. It wasn’t the first time that her mother didn’t recognize her, but she had never lashed out before. “Sorry,” she mumbled. Rattled and helpless, she stood up and backed away, not knowing what to do. Before she knew it, she had rushed out of the room and run to the nurses’ desk. She stood there, wide-eyed, feeling suddenly foolish.

“Oh, hi, Ellen,” said Virginia. The head nurse, who looked to be in her mid-fifties, had been reviewing a file, where every page lay in perfect alignment with the others. When she saw Ellen, she closed it and placed it in a basket. Every item on her desk had found its perfect place, with nothing extraneous creating clutter. Ellen knew Virginia to be a no-nonsense woman who had worked at the facility for years and always spoke with authority. “Your father is doing much better than expected. He must have amazing bones for a man his age.”

“He’s pretty bruised, though.”

“Well, remember the CAT scan that they did – all clear, so he’ll be fine. All that bruising will be gone in a few weeks, and he’s already forgotten what happened.”

“He thinks he was attacked,” Ellen said ruefully. “He’s getting paranoid.”

Virginia closed the file she had been working on and stood up, a knowing look on her face. She walked over to Ellen and placed one hand on hers. “It’s part of the process, dear. It doesn’t happen to everyone, but it’s not unusual.”

Ellen swallowed hard to try to rid herself of the lump in her throat. “And Mother? She was afraid of me today.”

“I know. That one’s harder because she’s so young. Your father could go on for years the way he is, but your mother…You can’t take it personally, Ellen. She just can’t help it. I’m so sorry. This must be so hard on you.”

“Yeah.” She bit her lip, knowing she could say no more without choking up. She thanked Virginia and left the facility, wincing less at the sound of her shoes, knowing that the real noise was the guilt in her own head. When she got to the car and turned the key in the ignition, she knew she couldn’t go home just yet. She decided to drive to Sláinte before going to her quiet, empty home. A nice chamomile tea would calm her down.

She was surprised to find Julia there, sitting alone, Spanish book on the table, her fingers flipping absently through the pages, a melted iced tea next to her.

“Julia?” Ellen asked.

Instantly, Julia’s face changed, and a bright smile appeared. “Ellen, it’s great to see you! Would you care to join me?”

“Sure,” Ellen said. “I’ll get some tea.”

“I’d be happy to upgrade if you want. The wine is pretty good here.”

“Oh, I don’t…” Ellen thought about her day and decided to abandon the anti-Alzheimer’s campaign, at least for a day. She hadn’t had a drink in, how long? A couple of years? But stress wasn’t good for the brain, right? “Sure, yeah, that sounds good, actually. Tell you what, I’ll buy the first round. What do you want?”

“Oh, just get the happy hour white for me, that will be fine. And thanks.”

Ellen stood in line for the drinks, amused that Julia wanted the cheap drink when everyone knew she could afford the best. Maybe she thinks I’m poor, she thought, then pushed the negativity from her mind. Julia knew this place, so she knew the wine. There would be no reason for her not to get what she wanted. When her turn came, she ordered two of the whites and paid ten dollars, plus the coins in her pocket for the tip jar. After she threw them in, she realized that she hadn’t paid attention to the amount. Was it enough? Too much? Doubtful, she pulled another dollar from her wallet and dropped it in, just to be sure.

“Studying hard?” Ellen asked as she took a seat and handed Julia her glass.

“Thanks for the drink. Well, not really. I thought it would be good for me to come out here, that maybe I could focus more than at home, but everything blurs together. Class is harder than I thought.” She sipped the wine and smiled. “I’ve had great wines all over the world, but this is one of my favorites. It comes from a little winery not far from Austin.”

“It is good,” Ellen agreed, and truthfully. “That’s really tasty.”

“Cheers,” Julia said, raising her glass. “Or, I guess I should say, salud. I guess I’m learning the important words, anyway: vino and cerveza. I’ll be able to drink freely in any Spanish-speaking country.” They both laughed. Then Julia’s face turned serious. “You look like you had a rough day,” she said. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Ellen stared at her glass, thinking. No one knew her story. She had no family to tell, and there was no point bringing it up to work contacts. No one ever talked about anything personal. “I’m not sure,” she said, finally. “I mean, I guess it wouldn’t hurt anything, but I don’t know. I don’t know you that well.”

“Well.” Julia cleared her throat. “Look, you’re right. We don’t know each other well. But maybe that’s a good thing. And, despite how some of our fellow classmates have decided to judge me, I really am a good listener. Try me.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Ellen said. “Mickey seems very sweet, but she’s young, and it sounds like she has some things on her mind. I’m sure you were just the nearest target.”

“I suppose,” Julia said with a wry smile, “but it still hurts. I have had a lucky life, I know, but I need friends, too. I have bad days and fears just like everyone else. Money doesn’t change that. But let’s not talk anymore about me. What about you?”

Ellen took a sip of wine, taking in Julia’s statement. “I guess I never thought of it that way. I mean, you’re right, we all have needs.”

Julia nodded. “Thanks for recognizing that. It means a lot to me. But you…what is it?”

“My parents both have Alzheimer’s Disease,” Ellen said. She wondered if she had ever said those words aloud before. “I put them in a nursing home recently, and they’re not doing very well. Today my mom accused me of lying about being her daughter.” Tears welled in her eyes, and when she looked at Julia, she saw tears in hers, too.

“Oh, no, that’s so sad. So that’s what you were talking about that first night in class.”

Ellen reddened, remembering how she almost didn’t go back to class after that. “I guess it sounded pretty weird, huh?”

Julia took another sip of the wine. “Not weird, just…well, maybe a little. They have a great cheese plate here. Want to split one?”

Ellen nodded, laughing a little. “Sure, I guess…telling this story is new to me. I mean, yes to the cheese plate.” They both laughed again, and she felt herself relaxing a little. “But as you can imagine, I’m a little nervous about the whole thing. I’m only thirty-five, but I may have a ticking time bomb inside of me, and yeah, that scares me a lot.” She took a deep breath. “A lot. Listen, I’d rather you didn’t tell the others, okay?”

“It’s just between you and me,” Julia said, holding up her glass for a toast. “To new friends and to keeping confidences. And hope for a future when science understands Alzheimer’s.”

“Salud,” Ellen said, and they drank together.

They sat in Sláinte for hours, eating cheese, ordering more wine, and sharing. “So, what made you sign up for class?” Ellen asked.

“The brochure,” Julia said, rolling her eyes, and they laughed again. “Seriously, I needed something to do. My husband travels all the time — he’s been spending more and more time in Paris these days – and I get sick of playing tennis all day, to tell you the truth. I love it, but I would like a little more from life.”

“Why not study French?” Ellen asked.

Julia stared at her wine glass. “Hmm, that’s a good question. Well, we’re also looking at getting a little place in Belize, so Spanish would come in handy there, I guess. French would make more sense though, ultimately, wouldn’t it?” She looked up at Ellen, her eyes wide with confusion. “I’m going to have to think about that. I mean, I could say it was Belize, or I could also say that Spanish comes in handy in Houston, but that isn’t really the truth. I don’t know. It sounds crazy, but I’m a little sick of Paris. I can’t believe I’m saying that.”

“I’m sorry,” Ellen said.

“Why, what did you do?”

“I don’t know. I feel like I brought up something painful. You seem so sad.”

Julia grinned, and her facial muscles relaxed. “No, I’m glad you brought it up. I don’t know the answer to your question, but I’m happy you asked. I think it will help me to think about it. But I have a question for you, my friend.”

“What’s that?” Ellen asked, taking another sip of wine.

“How come you apologized for something that wasn’t your problem?”

Ellen nearly spat out the wine. “Oh, God, I did, didn’t I? It’s a bad habit I have. When Daddy started going downhill, he would get really agitated. At first I argued with him, but then I learned to keep the peace. I would just say ’I’m sorry’ to him until he calmed down. I’ve been doing it for so long now, that it’s practically a reflex. I’m sorry I said I’m sorry.” At that, both women started to giggle.

“We’re a mess!” Julia said, gasping the words out through her laughter.

Ellen glanced around and saw that some of the other customers were looking their way, some curious, some grinning. “Oh, Lord, everyone’s looking at us. They probably think we’re really drunk or something.”

Julia held up the empty bottle that they had graduated to when they realized that one glass wouldn’t cut it. “I think we are,” she said, and they descended into another round of giggles.

“We should get Mickey and Claire drunk,” Ellen said. “Then maybe we could all get along.”

Julia nearly shrieked with laughter. “Could you imagine Claire Malone out of control? Now that would be something to see!”

“Mickey, too. So young, yet so uptight. Scary.”

“We probably shouldn’t talk about our study group this way,” Julia said. “It’s not very nice.”

“Nope,” Ellen said. “But let’s do it anyway. I like them, don’t get me wrong. They’re just – I don’t know. Whose idea was this study group, anyway?”

Julia raised her hand. “That would be me. But you know, I do this a lot. I throw people together at dinner parties, and everyone ends up happy about it. I’m sure we’ll all find a way to get along.”

“If we don’t kill each other first,” Ellen said. Then she looked at her watch.

It was eight o’clock. “Oh, my God,” she said. “I still have to get some work done tonight. Julia, it was great. Thanks for being here.”

“My pleasure,” Julia said. “I enjoyed the company.”

As Ellen left, grateful to have walked, she wondered how long Julia would stay at Sláinte. Julia had everything, and yet she was still alone. The money is nice, Julia had admitted, but it doesn’t mean I don’t bleed.

We all bleed, Ellen thought. Every one of us. We are all lonely in our own way, and we all carry burdens. Understanding that somehow made her own feel lighter.

Signs of Winter

November 7, 2011 by admin

Monarch Feeding — We keep plenty of milkweed in our yard for the Monarchs to munch on.

Good morning, everyone! Now that we’ve set our clocks back, can winter be far behind? Another sign is the Monarch migration — yesterday we saw five Monarchs flying around our back yard, and I’ve included the proof! Hubby and I were eating lunch when they showed up, and I left my homemade bean burrito half eaten to run outside and grab these pics.

We continue to see signs of another sort. These are signs that our idea to move is a good one. Yesterday at the grocery store, we chatted with a young woman who was selling wine — from Washington State. She grew up here but spent several years there and loved it. Later, we walked to our favorite little coffee and wine bar. Hubby ordered a Montepulciano wine, and he noticed that the importer is located in Seattle. The guy waiting on us grew up in Seattle, and we chatted with him, too. It just felt as though we were surrounded by people affirming our decision.

Signs, of course, are always subject to interpretation. A few days ago I was blindsided with my first bad review ever. I’m probably breaking some rule of writing and blogging to bring it up, but this is an example of something that could be seen as a “sign” to give up. However, I see something different — which applies to everyone, whatever your unique dream is.

Two Monarchs — We saw five in the yard yesterday, but I couldn't get more than two in the shot at the same time.

After my initial shock and hurt, I gathered my spirits and my fellow writers to discuss what had happened. I realized that though I have produced three books now, this is my first bad review — and that’s pretty fortunate. I also remembered that I like my story, and I’m still proud of it. I think the “sign” was, in part, to learn to ask for help. Part of the job of a novelist is to invite readers in advance to read the book and be willing to write reviews. I’ve been reluctant to do that.

If I am to be successful as a writer, I need to toughen up a little. I found an article about the bad reviews of some well known, classic literature. Apparently I’m in good company!

I could have crawled under a rock, but I decided to try harder to seek out my audience. At some point, when we are pursuing our dreams, we have to believe in what we are doing, whether or not someone else agrees. As the man says:

“You’ve gotta dance like there’s nobody watching,
Love like you’ll never be hurt,
Sing like there’s nobody listening,
And live like it’s heaven on earth.”
― William W. Purkey

There are days when I feel as though no one is watching — or, in this case, reading — but I write because that is what I do. I write because I have stories to tell. I write in the way that the Monarchs migrate, year after year, because winter is coming.

Monarch Watch 3 — Nothing cures the blues like a little butterfly watching.

Free Friday Fiction: The Foreign Language of Friends, Ch. 8

November 4, 2011 by admin

Good morning, everyone! I’m deeply enmeshed in NaNoWriMo and have drafted more than 11,000 words so far! Yay! In addition, I am nearly done with the layout for the print version of The Foreign Language of Friends, and next week I’ll do yet another round of revisions on Blood & Loam. It’s a full, busy month, but also a lot of fun.

Thanks for coming over for yet another chapter of The Foreign Language of Friends. Last week, Julia’s character sparked additional conversation, and we’ll see more of her story here. Mickey’s troubles are going to assert themselves, and she’s going to project a lot of anger onto Julia.

If you like what you’re reading, I invite you to consider investing the modest $1.99 to purchase the book…and please, I could use some reviews. Many thanks!

***

CHAPTER EIGHT – JUNE 27

One by one the students filed in to the classroom. Rita Martin always loved the beginning of the semester, when students still felt eager and hopeful that they could learn a new language. Soon enough they would start to disappear, and she never knew for sure who would last, though some were shaky from the start. But sometimes they surprised her.
Claire arrived first and marched up to Rita. “I’ve made a list of questions,” she said. “I also have ideas about ways to speed up the class. When can we talk?”
“Buenas tardes,” Rita said. “¿Cómo estás?”
Claire frowned, impatient to get to the point, but apparently decided that cooperation would bring the faster result. “Bien, gracias,” she said. “¿Pero, mis preguntas?”
Rita never lost her smile. “Your questions are important, Claire, but part of what I teach here is the culture as well as the language. If you are going to work in business in Latin America, you must do so with good manners.”
“Fine. Muy bien. ¿Y tú?”
“That’s ‘y usted,’” Rita said. “I am the teacher, so you will always use the formal form with me. Now, why don’t you have a seat? We will keep busy this class, I promise you. You will leave tonight with more knowledge than when you arrived.”
Claire took her seat with a sigh, which Rita ignored. Ellen strode in with the bulk of the other students, head down and glancing furtively for the seat most suitable for hiding. Mickey ran into the same desks she’d hit the week before, and Julia brought up the rear, rushing in at the last minute, frantically offering apologies.
“Okay,” Rita said, unperturbed, “Let’s begin.” The din of the room fell quickly to silence, save only for the sounds of books and notebooks opening. “We’re going to go through a lot of vocabulary today, so be prepared for a quick pace. For now, though, let’s practice our greetings.” She strode into the circle as students continued to settle themselves into their seats. From the center of the circle, she turned and pointed at each student at random asking questions. ¿Cómo está? ¿Cómo se llama? Mucho gusto. ¿De donde es? With each turn she became more of a dancer, twirling and animated, challenging each of them, correcting, cajoling, encouraging.
After about ten minutes of this, she said, “Bueno, bueno,” and clapped. The students reacted with nervous laughter, having survived this first test.
“Now, we count. Mickey, why don’t you begin? One to ten.”
Mickey tried leafing through her book, but Rita stopped her. “You can do this,” she said. “Do your best. It’s okay if it’s not perfect.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mickey said, dropping her eyes. She closed her book with a nervous bang, causing it to fall on the floor. Julia picked it up for her and whispered, “You’re fine. Remember, we studied this on Saturday.”
“You’re right. I can do this. Uno, dos, tres, cuarto…”
“Cuatro,” Rita corrected.
“Sí. Cuatro, cinco, um. Seis. Um.” Mickey looked up at Rita, her eyes wide with terror. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember the rest.”
“Claire,” Rita called.
“Siete, ocho, nueve, diez,” Claire said, her voice mechanical. She tapped her pencil and took a quick glance at her BlackBerry.
“Perfect. Remember, class, it’s the repetition that will help you in the end. The more you practice and listen to the recordings, the more you’ll remember. Let’s keep going, shall we? Who’s next?”
Rita saw students come and go for years, and students like Mickey generally didn’t last long. She always hoped to find ways to keep them from getting discouraged, and sometimes they worked, but more often than not students at Mickey’s level would leave before they could have a breakthrough.
Ellen, shy as she was, participated easily in the next several exercises. Rita expected Ellen to be prepared, but if she had offered a “most improved award” since the previous class, she would have given it to Ellen. At the break, Rita decided to ask her about it.
“We formed a study group,” Ellen said. “Well, Julia did, anyway, and some of us went along with it.”
“Bueno,” Rita said. “Excelente. I can see you already have more confidence. Who else is in the group?”
“Mickey and Claire.”
Rita did her best to hide a look of surprise. Claire didn’t seem like a joiner to her. “Ah, so you have a place to practice,” Rita said, nodding at Mickey, who had started to walk over.
“Yeah, it does help, I have to admit,” Mickey said, then added, “I’m still not sure I can learn this stuff, but it’s nice to have people trying to help you.”
“Sí, sí. Mickey, Ellen, I think this is wonderful. I wish more of my students would do such a thing. Where is Claire, anyway?”
“I think she’s outside on the phone,” Mickey said. “She said she’s working on some big deal and needed to call her assistant.”
“At this hour?” Ellen asked. “Wow, I don’t think I would like that job.”
“Julia, would you like to join us?” Rita asked. “I’ve heard that you’ve instigated a study group.”
Julia walked over, smiling but somehow more subdued than usual. “Guilty as charged. I thought it would be fun,” she said. “But may I ask you something, Señora?”
“Yes, of course, what is it?”
“Well,” Julia said, suddenly engrossed in the carpet at her feet, “Most of the time when my husband and I travel, we’re staying at a resort or a nice hotel, and I’m not really sure how I’ll get to use the language I’m learning. The staff always speaks flawless English. I know Mickey has been on some volunteer trips, and I wondered if you had any advice if someone like me wanted to do something like that.”
Mickey stared at Julia. “You? Really?”
“Why not me?” Julia asked, indignant.
Mickey reddened and looked away. Ellen jumped in and said, “I don’t think she means you’re not the type. We’re just a little surprised, that’s all. If you wanted to do some volunteering, I think that would be great. What do you think, Señora?”
Rita started to open her mouth, but Mickey jumped in instead. “Look, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, okay? I had a horrible time. I didn’t understand anything, and I don’t think I did anyone any good. I wish I could run off and just have a good time at a resort or something. Some people just don’t know how good they have it.”
Julia’s eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing.
Rita put her arm around Julia’s shoulders and gave Mickey a scolding look. “We’re here to explore,” she said, doing her best to keep her voice soothing. “We all have our reasons for being here, and sometimes they change as we go on. We shouldn’t judge each other. Mickey, I’m sure you did more good than you know, though I can understand why you were uncomfortable. That’s why you’re here, ¿verdad? And Julia, if you want to consider volunteering, I have a lot of resources for you to look at. Send me an e-mail, and I’ll help you as best I can. Now, ladies, shall we get back to class?”
Mickey and Julia stared at each other, faces guarded, like fighters in the ring, then broke and took their seats.
Mickey’s outburst had surprised all of them, and Rita wondered how long Mickey’s frustrations had been building. She had seemed so passive before, but the change didn’t surprise Rita. It helped, as a teacher, to have raised children herself, and Rita recognized a phase that her own daughter had gone through, perhaps more as a teenager, but it was clear: the girl was trying to get out from under the shackles of other adults. Rita just hoped she could keep the class intact long enough to get through Mickey’s phase. She also hoped that Mickey would see the other women as helpful support, and not more of the enemy.
The group settled in as the break ended, with one empty seat that Claire filled after class reconvened, offering a quiet “sorry.” Despite her impeccable appearance, her pale skin and puffy eyes suggested exhaustion. The word “haggard” came to mind.
“Now, we learn to tell time,” Rita said. She taught them additional vocabulary, such as de la tarde (in the afternoon) and medianoche (midnight). She explained the use of singular and plural, as in “it’s one o’clock” (es la una) and “it’s two o’clock” (son las dos). She followed her explanations with more rapid-fire review.
As students began to tire, the remainder of class felt disjointed, as though the difficulties that had emerged during the break controlled the rest of the class. Julia’s responses were hesitant, Mickey’s almost nonexistent. From time to time Rita noticed Ellen whispering in Mickey’s ear, and she chose not to confront her about it. Mickey obviously needed calming down. Even Claire, with her spotless professionalism, faded in and out of paying attention and seemed to struggle visibly. By the time it was over, Rita needed a drink. She always looked forward to class, but some nights she wondered why.

***

Mickey stomped out of class as soon as it ended. Who did Julia think she was, anyway? That rich bitch could do anything she wanted. Mickey didn’t know if she felt angrier that Julia lived a life Mickey only dreamed of, or that Julia was stealing onto her turf. The volunteer trip, though difficult for Mickey, set her apart from the others, and she wanted to feel special. She knew in her heart that part of volunteering was to encourage others to work with her, but Julia…well, didn’t she have better things to do, like deliver orders to her servants?
Unaccustomed to the rage that welled up inside of her, she decided to run the path around the campus, even though darkness had fallen. The path was well-lit, and joggers customarily traveled it well into the night. Mickey ran underneath the tree canopy, her nose catching wafts of pine as they fought for their place among the majestic live oaks. She knew that Doug would worry, but she didn’t care. She needed to blow off steam, and she hoped that running would help. Already, Julia’s pained face haunted her as shame rose to match the anger. She’s been nothing but nice to me, Mickey reminded herself. It’s not her fault that I have such a sucky life.
Her anger had arisen well before class, first becoming noticeable right when she got home from work. She had opened the mail to discover a notice that they had exceeded their limit on one of their credit cards. Doug had ordered a few more electronic toys. He never bothered to check with her, or to check the account balance, or to think about his spending ahead of time. He wanted the bright shiny objects, so he bought them, and then left her to clean up the mess. He was more than happy to let her parents contribute to their support, even if it meant following their rules. After just six months of marriage, their arguments about money had escalated.
Footfall by footfall, Mickey admitted the truth, as though she drew it up from the very ground that she ran on. Julia had already proven herself to be friendly, kind-hearted, and generous. She had organized the study group and seemed eager to keep it going, checking with each woman individually after class to make sure she was coming. She did not avoid Mickey after their altercation. At the end of class, she reached out to touch the younger woman’s shoulder and said, “Look, I didn’t mean to offend you, and I’m sorry if I did. I hope you’ll stay in the group.” Mickey had nodded, already ashamed in spite of the anger she still felt.
Running along the path, Mickey felt herself calming. She ran until her legs threatened to collapse underneath her. As she finished, her skin drenched with summer sweat, she felt cleansed, renewed. She was ready to go home and to face the real problem: a life that was not her own.
Doug jumped up from his chair as soon as she came in the door. “Honey, I was worried sick about you! Why didn’t you call?”
Although her anger toward Julia had dissipated, her anger toward Doug erupted with laser focus. She didn’t want to have this discussion. She just wanted all the problems to go away so they could be a happy newlywed couple, and her first words were, “I’m sorry. I should have called.”
“You better believe it! I didn’t know what to do. I even called your parents to see if you had gone over there for some reason.”
“My parents? You called my parents?” Anger turned to rage, and she knew that once again, she would not be able to contain herself. Nor did she want to. Without saying another word, she walked over to the stack of bills and handed him the overlimit notice. “You’re lucky I went for a jog before I came home,” she said. “Care to comment on this?”
He studied the notice, then handed it back to her. “What do you want me to say?” he asked. He didn’t sound angry or challenging. More than anything, he seemed helpless.
Mickey sighed. “Look, we don’t have a lot of money, and we need to stick to our budget. You have to know what’s going on with the bills and not just leave them to me.”
“But you’re the organized one,” he said, his doe eyes soft and pleading. “Besides, that’s part of your job. You know how I am. We men are more about the big picture. You’re the one who needs to keep me on the straight and narrow. We’ll be fine. You just need to relax a little. Once we’ve both finished grad school, we’ll both be making a lot more money.”
Oh, God, she thought, not that again. “I don’t want to start talking about grad school right now. It’s just one more thing that everyone wants me to do. Besides, it’s off the subject. We were talking about your spending habits.”
“Whatever. Anyway, your parents have offered to help us out. Maybe you shouldn’t have so much pride and let them give us a hand. There’s no need for us to suffer. Come on, Mickey, let’s just go to bed and forget about all this. It will work out.” He reached out and pulled her to him.
She melted momentarily once his strong arms surrounded her, but stopped and steeled herself against her attraction. “We’ve talked about that, too, and you know how I feel. I’m trying to have an independent life, and between you and my parents I keep feeling like I’m stuck in childhood. There are always conditions, no matter what they say, and you knew this before you married me. You seem to think it’s going to be different now, that I’m going to change, and I’m not. I want us to stand on our own two feet.”
“Fine,” he said abruptly. “I’m going to bed.” He turned around and left her standing there, still holding the notice.
“Doug!” she called. He did not respond. Don’t go after him, she told herself. He always did this, always walked away when he felt threatened. Over and over she had followed him, begging, giving in to him every time. Every time she did, he won.
When did it become a competition, all about winning and losing? She had seen the signs before they married, but he hadn’t been so stubborn then. He seemed to want what she wanted. She had asked him pointed questions about finances before they married to make sure they were compatible, and he’d always given her the right answers. Now, it seemed, he had changed the rules of the game.
She curled up on the sofa and turned on the television, keeping it low so as not to disturb him. It was always about him and his needs. These things always ended with some sort of negotiation, except that he never seemed to give up anything. He would go to her parents, and they would end up lecturing her. They would write a check that he would deposit before she came home. Was she wrong? Her mother had lectured her about marriage. “The man is in charge,” she said. “The woman is to submit to her husband. I honestly don’t know what we’re going to do with you if you refuse to learn this.”
She fell asleep alone on the sofa, waking once in the night, briefly, to turn off the television. The sofa felt good, and she decided to stay there. She covered herself with an afghan that she kept draped over the back of the couch, a homemade wedding gift from her mother, hoping that sleep would bring happy dreams to counter the nightmare of the marriage trap that was now her reality.

It’s Book Day! Free Book Offer Today!

November 1, 2011 by admin

FREE BOOK OFFER AT THE END OF THIS BLOG ENTRY!

Good morning! I’ve started my Day 1 of NaNoWriMo and have, so far, about 2,200 words for the day. I’m hoping to hit 5,000 today to get rolling. There are a few days this month where it will be tough to get in a good word count, so I’m trying to start out with a full head of steam. Good luck and happy writing to those of you who are participating!

I’ve been so busy with The Foreign Language of Friends that I don’t always tend properly to another wonderful project of mine. In 2009 I edited Patchwork & Ornament: A Woman’s Journey of Life, Love, and Art by Jeanette Feldman (my late mother-in-law). Originally I had planned to put Patchwork together just for the family, but the longer I worked on it, the more I felt that others might enjoy it, too.

Patchwork went on to win an Indie Excellence Award for Best Memoir of 2010. Feathered Quill and Midwest Book Reviews gave it five stars on Amazon. But it is the comments we receive from individuals who read it that mean the most. As Jenny tells the story of her life in bite-sized essays, poems, and stories, readers reflect on their own lives. Somehow, Jenny’s warmth shines through, and readers feel as though they are having a conversation with her, as opposed to just reading someone else’s life story. Originally, I had planned to make the book just for the family, but I felt its magic as I worked on it, convinced that others could relate to her story.

Briefly, Jenny grew up in poverty during the Great Depression. In the South Bronx, where she lived, there was little hope for the future, but through the power of art, she gained a broader perspective on the world — one that allowed her to transcend poverty, even though she would never realize commercial success as an artist. Patchwork & Ornament includes several full-color photographs of her work.

Here’s an excerpt, from which the title is derived. Enjoy! A FREE BOOK OFFER FOLLOWS THIS EXCERPT!

Patchwork and Ornament
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Why are your artworks so ornamented, when you love cubist and minimalist art?

Shopping Bag — One of many homemade shopping bags - a piece of art on its own

When asked this question I was intrigued and decided to write about it to clarify my answer to myself. I found the answer in my early childhood, from the lives of my grandmother and mother and from the apartments they lived in and decorated.

My aunt, my uncle, their son, and my grandmother lived in a three-room apartment on Freeman Street in the Bronx. There was one bedroom, another room that acted as a dining room/bedroom for my grandmother, and a kitchen with an eating area where the family actually ate their meals.

The floor in each room was covered with printed linoleum, each in a different pattern with no attempt to match or to complement the other. The floors needed to be covered and covered cheaply, and that was that.

The dining room made the biggest impact on me. That was where our family would sit together for holidays or on our infrequent social visits. The linoleum floor in the dining room resembled a version of a Persian rug, with deep reds and blues. My aunt and grandmother made curtains from a heavy, textured cotton called cretonne that was printed with palm trees, exotic tropical flowers and fruits. The cushions on the dining room chairs were each made of different fabrics and colors. Again, nothing matched anything else in the room.

Dishes in the china cabinet were parts of sets, piled together in random fashion. The table was large and covered in a white cloth embroidered in the center and edged with machine crochet lace. A cut crystal bowl filled with fruit sat on the sideboard, and a small beveled glass mirror hung at a height that reflected no one’s face. One would need to twist and bend in order to achieve such a glimpse. This was a room put together in bits and pieces over a period of time by people who did not care one iota about the way anything looked. They were poor immigrants struggling to survive in the cold depths of the Great Depression. They put together a home using what was at hand and went to second-hand stores for the rest.

Collage — Many of Jenny's artwork pieces had a "collage" look to them.

My grandmother was another strong influence. An Orthodox Jew, she wore a proscribed shaitl, or wig, of what looked like red horsehair. A more unattractive wig has yet to be designed. She made dresses for herself styled like muumuus, with a round neck, long sleeves without cuffs, and the hem just short of floor length. She wore a white apron that covered her almost completely from one hip to the other and was tied around the waist. As parts wore through, she patched it with any fabric at hand. She would do the same to the bosom of her dress when her heavy breasts wore the material to shreds. She wore these patched clothes anywhere at all, whether shopping the outdoor markets on Jennings Street or visiting us.

My mother, whose financial situation was much more precarious than my grandmother’s, would never wear patched clothes, never. Bitterly ashamed of her status in life, she tolerated neither raggedness nor patches. She would alter clothes, setting a new waistband into a dress or skirt to lengthen it, or making a shirt from a too-short dress, or attaching a wide velvet border to a coat when the longer look came into fashion. She made curtains, too, comforter covers, tablecloths edged with printed ruffles and seat cushions to match, and most of our clothes and doll clothes from scraps.

I was exposed to cubist and abstract art at Cooper Union, which gave me a different perspective from my influence at home. For a time I restricted myself to the severity and discipline of such art. I loved it. I found peace and order in the strictures of abstract art. At that time, I needed those elements to help structure my life.

Still, looking at great paintings in the Metropolitan Museum of Art and in the Museum of Modern Art opened me to possibilities in combining textures and colors. And of course, the streets and buildings of Manhattan provided the greatest design class of all. Signage, posters, billboards, shop windows, people dressed in every fashion possible, cars, buses, vendors on street corners; I lived, worked, and studied in a vast collage environment.

As time passed, my work and my life became more dense and complex. More ornament, more richness became evident in the work, and storytelling, which has always been pleasurable to me, became important to the visual work. Instead of fighting and trying to work back into abstract or minimalist art, I went towards the new development, using ornament as narrative.
I see in the work I do, in the manner I have furnished our home, the effects of all these experiences. My childhood world of family influences grew to include, as in the manner a collage is made, layers built up from the complexities of my life, one over the other revealing like pentimento, ghosts of previous experiences.

***

FREE BOOK OFFERS!

Buy an e-book copy of The Foreign Language of Friends from Amazon and post a review by November 30, and your name will go into a drawing for a free copy of Patchwork & Ornament OR a free copy of the print version of The Foreign Language of Friends (your choice).
Buy 1, Get 1 Free! Purchase a copy of Patchwork & Ornament by November 30 and get a free, signed print version of The Foreign Language of Friends.

To claim your free book, provide proof of purchase (such as a confirmation e-mail from Amazon). If you’re going with option one, please let me know which review is yours.