It’s That Anticipation Time Of Year

With the baseball playoffs in full swing, I have been plagued with anticipation and to some degree it’s annoying. Yet, the fact is, the emotion, if indeed I should call it that, has reared its ugly head and I’m rolling with it.

We all anticipate. It’s part of who we are. Remember as a child anticipating Christmas, or the Easter bunny, a birthday party, or Halloween? I’m sure most of us can remember looking forward to our first trip to Disneyland as well as the first time we took our children there. We carried with us intent and expectations that such a venture would be wonderful, and quite likely it was. On the other hand, what about those annoying moments waiting for a root canal at the dentist’s office or weighing in at the doctor’s? Anticipation takes on new meaning then. I remember anticipating with sheer joy and excitement the birth of my children, although when the time came, I did not expect such pain, at least the first time around. Thank goodness the discomfort didn’t last forever, and the joy of motherhood took precedence.

In a much different scenario, how many times have we waited anxiously for a phone call or message from a new and special someone? Emotions resulting from such anticipation are very different depending on the outcome! As I’ve grown older, I have found myself trying to push away the feeling of anticipation almost as if it were an enemy, for at times it has brought disappointment and frustration. If a person doesn’t look forward to something does that relieve the possibility of regret? Does it eliminate exasperation and disillusionment? I suppose the power of anticipation is in one’s desire, and perhaps even courage, to possess it. It embodies hopes and dreams. It carries too, however, the risk for disappointment, doesn’t it? So, why do we take the chance? Why anticipate at all? Does it make us stronger to weather the storm, to bask in delight if the result is positive, or to buck up and show our toughness if it is not? I really am not sure.

I suppose it might be prudent to ask an expert or two. The Nats, the Dodgers, the Cards, the Giants, and a few other baseball teams quite likely would be able to speak to this issue right about now, and I’m quite certain a great many fans could do so as well. So, here’s to anticipation! Like it or not, it’s going to be around for a while.

Mind Blogging

Sometimes blogging is a pain! Who cares what I have to say? Some people do. Some read every word. Some don’t read a thing. Writing, whether a blog, a poem, or a novel exercises the mind though and in that respect is very important.

I knew from the moment I woke up this morning that I would write today, probably a blog first, and then I would work on my new novel that is over 23,000 words along. I’m enthused about the current book I’m writing because it is a bit different from past works. I have crafted new characters, new settings, and new scenarios that have surprised even me as they have developed. The magic of writing, at least for me, is that it occurs all the time. I do not have to be in front of the computer pounding the keyboard to write. Threads of a story often are created in my mind. I wind them up there and unravel them later, not knowing for sure at times how they will twist into the storyline. Once created, characters pull on those threads and in that respect, appear to write the story too. Sound crazy? Maybe.

I spoke with a friend who is an artist recently. Her creativity comes out on canvas. I asked her if she always had a plan. “No,” she said. “I may think I do, but putting acrylics or watercolor to a canvas or paper does not always work out as I had anticipated. And,” she added, “some paintings, that I think are awful from the beginning, turn out to be my best work!” I appreciated hearing that, because so it is with writing. I’ve written blogs that I think are marginal to say the least but for some reason they “reach out” to folks. Others that I think have real substance have had little response, which speaks to the fact that we all view art differently. I suppose the point is for my friend to keep painting and for me to keep writing no matter what others think. It’s what we love to do. It’s what we must do. It exercises our minds.

Walking the Path

            I began to write this morning with two names in mind: John and Sally. The paragraphs below are the result:

John met Sally at the garden gate just as he had for months. At the horizon, the sun blazoned, a gigantic ball of yellow light lifting upward into a lightening sky. The scene had been the same on more mornings than John could count that summer; yet each day had been different too, shaped by nuances that only a shrewd observer would distinguish. It wasn’t always sunny, however. In early spring some days had been dark, with clouds swirling ominously in angry circles; others brought light drizzle that moistened the pair’s faces and flattened their hair. John liked the rain, but not when it peppered him and his girl with heavy drops that stung and forced them into flimsy shelter at the wide base of one of the maple trees that lined the path ahead. Why, in winter, he recalled, the two had even trampled over crusted soil, frozen inches deep beneath their feet. Flurries of snow had swirled haphazardly around them at times on days that were so cold that their cheeks chapped red and their fingers tingled even inside thick, woolen mittens.

This day, though, was one hundred and eighty degrees from that frigid memory. Already the cool night air had given way to warmth that most certainly would intensify. John knew this walk would leave them sticky with perspiration and ready for a tumbler of iced tea when they reached the cabin where Sally lived with her aging mother.

Sally’s fingers slipped comfortably into John’s as they always did when they began their trek. They walked side-by-side, arms brushing, with her stride just short of his. They were together, in sync in every physical way for a time, until their hands separated and they moved apart. It was not unusual for John to forge ahead while Sally lingered alone, stopping to pick budding flowers or simply to gaze into the deep woods that teemed with wildlife.

That’s it! What will happen to John and Sally? It’s a question for another day.

A Snippet From Big House Dreams

I saw a quotation the other day that reminded me of the importance of appreciating each day and of valuing the people whom we love. It’s so easy to take things for granted. All right! I know that is a trite statement, but I understand it to be true. Here is a short passage from my first novel, Big House Dreams that, I believe, relates somewhat to the words in the quotation.

Melanie’s life had been rough from the beginning and Sheila truly wished better for her friend. Of all the girls, Melanie was the one who had held on to her principles and likely would until the day she died. Sheila could picture her even at this moment trudging home from work to a house that was unkempt and stale, smelling of camphor and alcohol as her mother sought a bogus remedy for her illness. The welfare doctors had diagnosed her with liver cancer too late for treatment. She had only months to live. Melanie chose not to burden anyone else with the news, so alone she cared for her mother and watched as her father’s anger at the life he considered a rotten mess selfishly turn a deceptive direction. He would be gone for days, leaving the two women alone. Melanie did what she could to preserve her mother’s dignity in her final days. She bathed her gently with warm, soapy sponges and combed her thinning hair, knotting it into a bun at the back of her neck. She patted her emaciated hand, fluffed her pillow and said, “It’s goin’ t’ be okay, now. Just rest a bit. Think ‘bout a good time when ya’ had the world by the tail! Remember your happiest day.” She would close the bedroom door then, wander into the kitchen, and numbly prepare soups or stews that lasted for days and provided sustenance for her mom when she was at work. She watched her mother’s skin dry into a paper-thin, yellow-grey hide that stretched over a skinny frame. Her face became a skeleton mask with eyes sunken deep into eye sockets that were flamed with deep purple and red. It was no wonder Melanie didn’t smile. She was the sole observer of her mother’s decline and her heart cracked a bit more with every passing day. It would be several months before the end came.

Experimenting

I had no idea what I would write today. I simply sat down at my computer, selected a name, Anna, and began. The following is the result.

Anna woke up early, much earlier than usual, and stumbled toward the kitchen in search of salvation. Armed with a steaming cup of freshly brewed tea, she sat quietly at the wooden, kitchen table and stared through a filmy window at the barren lawn that lay brown and neglected in the winter cold. At the far edge of the expanse were trees, naked, dark, and appearing like a line of still and silent sentinels barring anyone’s entrance to the place. It was a tranquil setting even in its coldness for it bore the face of familiarity, and to that end, calmed Anna’s anxiety.

Today was the day. She would tell Liam the truth and she would do it the only way she knew how, by writing. She reached for the pen and paper she had garnered from the library just last evening and began. Her intention had been real even the night before, but words had failed her then. She could not let that occur again, for if she did, she would be trapped and launched into a world she feared she could not abide.

She remembered Liam’s words, sincere, serious, and spoken weeks earlier. “I want you to marry me, Anna. Please say you will. I’ll take you away from this place. We’ll live in the city where you’ll have all you could ever wish to have. I have the means. I’ll make you happy.”

Liam’s eyes had bored into her. They were dark and shining with emotion. Anna had been swept up in the moment by his candid plea. In some ways he must have been as vulnerable as she, for his lip quivered and his fingers were clutched together awkwardly.

“He is handsome indeed,” Anna had thought, “unnervingly so.”

“All right,” she had whispered. “I will. I will.” It was a lie.

Anna had watched uneasily that day as Liam left her house, the one her father had bequeathed to her five years before.

“I’ll be back in two weeks,” he told her, planting a tender kiss on her cheek.

She was to be ready. She was not.

So it was then, in the morning stillness, Anna’s pen touched the piece of parchment to put into words what she could articulate no other way. She began to write: “Dear Liam, It is with admiration and regret . . . “

People Who Serve

This morning I’ve been thinking about the people who serve us. Both Facebook and the local media have been inundated with stories about recent fires in California. The state is so dry and parched it seems to be a tinder box ready to blow up with a single spark. It’s scary. People are losing their homes, wild animals are being killed or displaced, and the land is being ravished, left charred and blackened. It is so sad to see. We are lucky in California to have many brave individuals who work, work, work until they are ready to drop. They risk their lives to protect people, pets, and property. Firefighters truly are heroes and deserve every bit of respect from the public that they are given.

Others who serve are not always as admired. Police officers are often maligned or criticized and in my view do not deserve such disrespect. (I’m still a bit incensed about receiving a ticket a few years ago for that “California stop” though!) Unfortunately a few incidents are blown to such proportion that investigations are hampered and facts are pushed aside, buried by emotional outbursts. I definitely am not saying all officers are perfect; mistakes and misjudgments are made. However, the public does not walk in their shoes. We do not see what they do every day. The police have to deal with myriad seedy, corrupt, dishonest individuals daily. When we need them, when disaster or tragedy strikes, who comes to the rescue? Police officers (and firefighters) do. They make the world a safer place; they too put their lives on the line every day. Where’s all the hoopla when one of them is “taken out” by some misguided killer? Maybe we need to be more appreciative.

Finally, I want to mention teachers who work very hard and receive inadequate pay that is incommensurate to their education and dedication. I know this one! I taught for twenty-nine years. While it may not jump out to the average person as true, a teacher can be a hero too. One need only remember Columbine and New Town (and other such tragedies) when teachers gave their lives to save their students. Sometimes just a kind word, a smile, a pat on the back, or a call home will do the same, sending a student off in the right direction. I have the utmost respect for teachers (and, again, not all are perfect), but they, as with firefighters and police officers have a calling. Despite many frustrations, most find joy in their career. As many of us have voiced, “Teaching is not a profession; it’s a lifestyle.” It IS all consuming.

My intention is not to leave out anyone. Nurses (amazing), doctors, and so many other people provide service to us. Being a hero of sorts in any occupation takes perseverance, a real sense of responsibility, and commitment. People who possess these attributes make our world a better place.

I’m not sure why this came to mind today, but it did, and I simply wanted to put it on paper.

Here’s a little poem . . .

Inside of Me

Sometimes

I want to go

Inside

And stay.

Outside

Is tough

Hard

Conflicting.

Inside

Is easier.

Not one

Person

Is allowed

Inside.

Just me.

So have at it

World.

Go on about

What you do.

Argue.

Annoy.

Ignore.

Love. Hate.

Inside

Is safe.

Good thoughts

Sweet memories

Have a home here.

No harm done

In the sanctuary

That lies

Within me.                                                    

Judith DeChesere-Boyle, September 2014