Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Something About A Train Whistle

I heard a train whistle this morning. I often do. It sent me off on another writing tangent! Below is the result.

Susan heard the train whistle far in the distance. It was a familiar sound and a lonely one. She had heard the muted blare twice a day, every day for years, a mournful call into the early morning and then later, in the evening, just as the sun was sinking behind the coastal hills.
When Susan was younger she had imagined what excitement she would feel if she could step onto a train and venture to an exotic place she had never seen. Aw! What a time she would have if she could traipse the hills of San Francisco or frolic on Ocean Beach on a foggy day. She would pull off her stockings and splash barefoot in the foamy surf. She would buy saltwater taffy, the kind that would stick to her teeth allowing her to savor the sweetness. She would ride a cable car, clutching on for dear life, and relish the damp air rushing through her hair.
It happened only in her dreams though.
For sixty-five years, Susan had lived on her parents’ ranch that lay far north, away from the city, away from the shore. She had no friends, for no one lived within thirty miles of her. And, of course, she had never loved a man; she’d hardly even spoken to one. She went to town once a month with her mother, jostling along in a wrecked, pick-up truck for miles to buy supplies. This occurred for years until her mother died one day, right out of the blue. Her father followed soon thereafter so Susan lived alone in a silent world, save for wildlife that frequented the place. Red tailed hawks, deer, rabbits, and coyotes were her only companions and isolation bore in on her.
To tell the truth, she was weary of it all, but did not have the wherewithal to change a thing. She had only her books, her drawings, and her imagination – those comforts, and the train. With each call of the whistle, she managed to conjure a new invented adventure. Without that hooting cry beckoning so predictably, she might not have gone on, so she welcomed it. Something about the wonted train whistle set her mind free.






Monday, October 27, 2014

Getting Noticed

A little More Writing Practice . . .

Julie Lou had always wanted to be noticed. From the moment she was a small child, on a regular basis, she stood on the stone steps that led to the small, disheveled apartment where she lived with her mother and sang. Her repertoire was quite small, but that didn’t matter. She didn’t have to get it right for it to be perfect, at least in her little mind. Julie Lou had learned only a few songs, some at the Baptist church four blocks down, and a few more from Miss Greenwood who taught kindergarten at her school three blocks in the other direction. She sang about God on Sundays, and school, dogs, rain, and spiders the rest of the week. The exception was Saturday when she did not sing at all. It was the only day her mother was home and she set the rules.
“Too many folks out there on the street on Saturdays,” her mother had warned her. “Don’t want you getting snatched up right off the front stoop by some hoodlum up to no good.”
Julie Lou pulled her lips tight and said nothing. She could have filled her mother in on a few occasions when she had been led away, just around a corner or two, and then returned by someone else needing attention.
And so it went for Julie Lou, who could not help herself. Air was not enough to keep her alive. She needed song and had enough to keep her occupied, the tunes stuffed in her head day and night. They mesmerized her. It didn’t matter that she forgot the words to her songs more often than not; a melody was all she needed. Words would settle in her mind like fairy dust and swirl haphazardly into a refrain that she belted into the street before her. In most cases the stories she wove into song were simplistic and sweet, reflecting only one thing: her miniscule world, but that was changing, because as she had grown older, others had begun to notice.
What counted most was her voice that was amazingly clear and strong drawing folks to her magically. Even the most aloof passersby would be drawn to the crowd that bunched around Julie Lou when she sang. As a teenager she had blossomed even more, unpretentiously absorbing the attention until a day deep in December when a man wearing a heavy, wool overcoat stepped up to her, took her hand, and offered her more than she ever could have imagined . . .



Sunday, October 26, 2014

Wondering What’s Inside – A Little Writing Practice

Rick and I walk our dogs three miles every day. Often we see one, particular fellow with his dog, tagging along beside him too. The man is very friendly, his dog well behaved, and we’ve been told that they walk six miles a day. They are quite the pair! Today after we saw them, I began wondering about the man. I decided to make him my writing topic for the day.  What I’ve written below is not true. It’s all fiction, aside from the dog’s name. We’ve been introduced to Abby, who truly is this guy’s best friend.

William was a grown man, yet he was sitting on a swing at the children’s playground like a little boy. He was simply resting though and perhaps reminiscing about days gone by. The brief respite was welcome for he had been walking for some time. He and his German shepherd rescue dog trekked through town six miles every day without fail. The two were pals and the two were growing old together. William was sixty-eight and his dog was eight and a half. They had been hiking side by side for eight years straight and neither of them ever tired of the routine.

The park where William and his dog, Abby, now rested was on their regular route and had become a frequent stopping place. William often paused there to take in the lovely scenery. Trees were abundant especially bordering a narrow creek that bulged with water after winter rains or dried to a trickle in the heat of summer. Every season brought welcome changes that delighted William’s senses -- budding trees and cool breezes in spring; stifling air and hot sun that blistered the pavement in summer; nature’s paintbrush washing the place in autumn colors; and winter with icy winds and biting drops of rain. Abby, his furry friend, always by his side, adapted to each season without so much as a whimper.

William also loved to watch little children play at the park. They created castles in the sand, plopped over the swings on tiny tummies, or ambitiously climbed the money bars, swinging one-handed amid squeals and giggles. Many children frequented the park -- pint sized toddlers, barefoot boys, and little girls wearing leotards and tutus. Parents always hovered nearby. William understood. Times had changed since the days when he was a boy, since the days when his mother would set him on the front stoop by ten o’clock in the morning and lock the door behind him. She had work to do, books to read, and naps to take. He was a nuisance.

Though it had been decades ago, the childhood memory was as vivid as if it had been yesterday. The past was gone though and along with it his mother, dead now, and barely remembered. She had, William realized now, begun it all, for he had wandered the neighborhood as a child, usually alone, and always lonely. The pattern had been set then it was clear, for he continued it now, with one significant difference. He was no longer by himself. He had Abby, his pup, and his constant companion.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

A Poem to Welcome You
                                                                                                           

I was thinking about Alex this morning. 
This poem is the result.

Welcome

You are always welcome.
Come to me any time.
I want you here
Even though you are not.
At moments unexpected
Memories move me
To cry,
Laugh,
Cherish what was,
Accept what is,
And step forward.

You are always welcome.
Come to me any time.
I need you here
For my heart is cracked.
Memories mollify,
A magic fix
To calm,
Comfort,
Cherish what was,
Accept what is,
And step forward.

You are always welcome.
Come to me any time.
You warm my spirit,
So cruelly crushed
For long, sad yesterdays.
Memories sustain me now,
And with sad joy
I can hold you still,
Cherish what was,
Accept what is,
And step forward.                
                                                Judith DeChesere-Boyle – October 21, 2014 – For Alex




A Poem to Welcome You

I was thinking about Alex this morning. This poem is the result.

Welcome

You are always welcome.
Come to me any time.
I want you here
Even though you are not.
At moments unexpected
Memories move me
To cry,
Laugh,                                                                                   

Cherish what was,
Accept what is,
And step forward.

You are always welcome.
Come to me any time.
I need you here
For my heart is cracked.
Memories mollify,
A magic fix
To calm,
Comfort,
Cherish what was,
Accept what is,
And step forward.

You are always welcome.
Come to me any time.
You warm my spirit,
So cruelly crushed
For long, sad yesterdays.
Memories sustain me now,
And with sad joy
I can hold you still,
Cherish what was,
Accept what is,
And step forward.                
                                                Judith DeChesere-Boyle – October 21, 2014 – For Alex




Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Autumn In The Form Of Character

Today I created Katherine. I didn’t know anything about her until I cranked her out on the computer in the early morning on this beautiful, fall day.

Katherine woke up early, earlier than usual actually, for no specific reason at all. Sleep had eluded her for some time, so she gave in to the insomnia that often plagued her. She thought too much. That was the problem, she surmised. With so many years behind her, she had issues to consider, plans to make, and memories that would not give her peace. They weren’t bad memories particularly; in fact, some were quite sweet, but they all pestered her enough to make sound sleep a luxury she had not been able to enjoy for some time now.
Crawling from bed, she wandered slowly to the window to watch as the night slipped away giving way to morning. Though the sky began to lighten, the sun was hidden behind a mantle of dark clouds. It would rain. She was sure of it. Her body told her. At seventy-eight, she had become acutely aware of aches, twinges, and niggling pains that had become her constant companions. The onset of fall made her even more cognizant of her plight.
Cooling weather, harsher breezes, and intermittent precipitation were the culprits that exacerbated her persistent discomfort. Yet Katherine loved autumn with falling leaves that skittered randomly along with the wind, and filled her world with such a range of colors -- oranges, reds, purples, and shades of green and brown -- that it almost took her breath away. She relished the smell of acrid smoke issuing from fireplaces across the valley, the crunch of leaves beneath her feet when she walked the crooked path next to Bear Creek, and the angles of light that created shadows and obscure shades that did not exist when the summer sun was high in the sky.
This was a spectacular time of year. Now, on this misty morning, she realized for the first time perhaps why it was her season. She was autumn herself, tired and fading a bit, but still lovely, for she had created a life that mirrored the seasons themselves. She always was ready for spring’s new beginnings, adored basking in bright, summer sunlight, found satisfaction in her beautiful and present fall, and would patiently wait for winter that surely would come, taking her along with it.


Sunday, October 12, 2014

A Guy And His Dog

Yesterday I attended the very touching California Fallen Firefighter Memorial in Sacramento, where my son, Alexander J. Stevenson’s name is engraved alongside the names of over twelve hundred other firefighters who have died in the line of duty in California. When my husband and I arrived home, our two dogs greeted us as though we had been away forever. It was sweet. Thinking about them, the memorial, and Alex, brought back memories of Comet, Alex’s dog for seventeen and a half years. She was a pit bull/ridgeback mix and was awesome! Alex loved her dearly. We all did. Because this mixture of musings was on my mind, I decided to share two passages from my memoir, Tumor Me – The Story Of My Firefighter, on my blog today. They truly tell about a guy and his dog.

-----Three days after Alex’s second craniotomy (12/05), he crawled out of bed, wobbled down the hallway, and vomited copiously onto the kitchen floor. He was in a great deal of pain as well. We rushed him to the emergency room, not knowing if he would make it through the night. A CAT scan revealed no brain bleed and we were sent home. My husband and I then took matters into our own hands. The passage below describes what happened once we were back at our house.
 Excerpt from Part Two:

Rick carried old Comet in his arms to Alex’s bed. Her eyes were wide and I believe she must have wondered where Rick was taking her and why. He placed her gently on Alex’s bed and she stirred a bit, unsure of why she was allowed this luxury.
Alex’s eyes had been closed, but when he felt the presence of his dog, he opened them. “Comet!” he said, in a voice so filled with joy and gratitude that I knew, without a doubt, that Rick’s decision to bring Comet in to be by Alex’s side was simply ingenious. Alex lifted his arm awkwardly to pat his beloved dog, and then he closed his eyes again, snuggled deeper under the blankets, and in what seemed only moments was asleep. 
We let Comet stay with Alex for quite some time and then carried her back out into the family room to her favorite dog cushion. She, too, fell asleep instantly.
This then was the origin of another little miracle. When I went in to check on Alex early the next morning, he was awake, alert, and free of pain. The following day, he was up and anxious to move around. I actually took him to the Wherehouse that day to buy some new CDs and a movie or two. Whether it was the pain medication, simply the passage of time, or the power of Comet’s love, I have no idea. I like to think, however, it was the dog.

-----The following event occurred four months following the December night that Comet showed what “best friends” dogs really are.
Excerpt from Part Three:

Alex experienced another heart-breaking loss about this time. Comet, his cherished dog, who was seventeen and a half years old, became gravely ill. It seemed as though she had lived long enough to be Alex’s companion during the summer he was on chemotherapy and to wait for him through his second surgery. She had given him her unconditional love for years, and had shared what little strength she had to give at the precarious moment, a few months earlier, when we did not know if Alex would survive the night. She had done her duty as Alex’s best friend. She was ready to go.
“Alex, Comet can’t get up,” I told him. “I need to take her to the vet.”
“Wait, “ he said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He was in North Highlands. It was an hour and a half drive.
“She’s really sick,” I said. “I’ll call and see when I can get an appointment.”
As fate would have it, the vet could not see Comet until the following afternoon. While I did not want her to suffer, I was somewhat relieved that Alex would have time to spend with her. I called to tell him.
“The vet can’t see us until tomorrow afternoon,” I said, “so don’t rush too much. Rick and I are right here with Comet. She’s sleeping now.”
“See you soon,” Alex replied, his voice thick. I was sure he was mourning her loss already. “I have to pack my meds and a few things and I’ll be on my way,” he added.
When Alex arrived, he went straight to Comet’s side and held her in his arms. She was so frail and weak by then. Her eyes were closed, and her breath was quiet and shallow. He patted her head (the lucky pit head he had called it) and gently, and painstakingly tucked her under several blankets before he went to bed.
“Good night, baby girl,” he whispered, planting a kiss on her velvet head.
In the early morning he was beside her again, petting her back, caressing her muzzle, and telling her what a great dog she had been. He was right. This little Marin County Humane Society puppy had been an absolute prize.
As the morning inched into noon, Alex stayed with his dog, finally picking her up in his arms and carrying her down the back steps of our house to the field below where, when younger, she had loved to tear around from corner to corner like a wild coyote. Alex cradled her in his arms, her feet askew, and her head lolling on his shoulder. He was talking to her as he walked around the field, and I can imagine him thanking her for being such a great pet.
We drove to the vet soon after in two separate cars. Alex was going straight back to Sacramento after the appointment. He needed to grieve alone, I suppose.
 One quick injection silenced Comet’s breathing that afternoon. She died with her snout in Alex’s hands. I stood by, touching her foot, my eyes too filled with tears to see.

             Tumor Me - The Story of My Firefighter is available on Amazon.com