First Snow

I woke to beauty this morning. Our fall turned suddenly to winter. The kids were dressed, and out in the first snow of the season, before I could say good-morning. First snows are always special, for they define the essence of lovely. I haven’t had time to get tired of winter, and all the leaves have fallen and been raked up. There is a hush over our glen, as if nature is holding its breath—at our house, broken only by the laughter of children at play. Today, the snow is fluffy and feather light, drifting down slow, as if the snowflakes are afraid to end their heady downward journey.

And then as I watch, the flakes change, fall harder, faster, straighter to the ground. They are smaller now, no longer downy soft. The thermometer has inched one degree higher and I know what will come next. But it doesn’t seem to matter. I’ve captured the beauty of the moment, and for now, will hold it close to my heart until it captures me again.

Sunday Classifieds

Lost: Aspiring writer seeks focus and drive to finish novel started 6 months ago.

For that matter, seeking inspiration to write at all.

Winter blues have set in with a vengeance.

Desperate for help!

Solutions and thoughts gratefully accepted via comment box.



Photo snagged from here with my thanks.

The Spirit

Todays Sunday Scribblings prompt reminded me of the very first scene I ever wrote for 'The Novel'. Here is some more of Ian's life. It takes place three years earlier.

Scotland, Summer 1744

Ian Cameron slowly ran his try plane down the rough wooden board that would soon make up the frame of the Currach he was making for his younger brother. The Crannghail would be covered with the cured seal hide his mother and older sister were making and would provide Brian with a sturdy fishing boat.

Working quietly on the rocky shore of Loch Duich, the summer sun burning overhead, he welcomed the monotony that brought a hypnotic peace to his troubled mind. He had only a month before he left to go back to Edinburgh to finish school and much to get done and settle. His thoughts drifted lazily as he worked. He was eager to finish his classes, debate again with his tutors, see his friends and get back to the city. At the same time, he was anxious to leave his mother, sister and brother well provided for and safe…a difficult if not impossible task.

Ian stopped working and looked up at the water of the Loch. Today its deep blue was sparkled with sunlight. The hills across the loch were a deep hazy green. He heard a dog bark and looked down the shore. A young woman was walking barefooted toward him along the water’s edge, the dog gamboling into the water and racing back to her. The heat from the rocks shimmered up into the air distorting her image. As he watched, she stooped to pick something from among the rocks. She was dressed in a simple white gown with lace at the collar and hem. Absent-mindedly he continued to smooth the wooden frame his mind half-distracted by the girl, and half by the growing heat of the noonday sun. He wondered why she was alone. Where were her folk? These were dangerous times to be out without an escort. She continued to walk closer, stopping at intervals to look at something, or throw a stick for the dog to chase.

Suddenly, she was standing in front of him. Not four feet away. Mouth agape he crossed himself quickly for he saw that she was no ordinary girl. Light shimmered and shifted around her and she seemed almost transparent. He might have thought himself dreaming but for the fact that she spoke.

“What are you doing?” She asked in an oddly accented voice.

“Are you a spirit?” he answered vaguely wondering if he had been out in the sun too long.

“Humm?” She cocked her head to one side, a frown on her forehead. Dark chocolate colored hair fell over her shoulder.

“Are you a spirit?” he asked again, this time in English for she obviously didn’t understand Gaelic.

“No, are you?” She asked quickly giving him an oddly questioning look. “What are you making?”

Ian did not know if he should answer the questions of a Faery girl. He picked up his try plane and continued to smooth the wood. The girl came a little closer and continued to watch him work as she dug her bare toes into the sand. After a time she spoke again.

“I found a couple of interesting fossils on the beach just down the way. You can have one if you want.” She reached out a hand and laid a small rock in the shape of a snail on the frame in front of him. “I think they’re bivalves.” She paused placing the other rock in the pocket of her dress and then asked again, “What are you making?”

Not wanting to seem rude, he answered. “A Currach…it’s a boat for my brother.” Stunned that he was having a conversation with a spirit-faery-angel he surreptitiously pinched himself to see if he was awake. It hurt, so he was.

“It’s not very big.” Bright hazel eyes took in the small frame. “Don’t you think it’ll sink in a storm?”

“He won’t be using it in a storm.” He said, miffed she dared disparage his project. He wondered if he aught tread carefully as faeries were well known to have capricious tempers.

“Hummph…” she looked skeptical. “Well, it’s pretty small. It wouldn’t hold up in a storm and he would die… it happens all the time.” She paused looking out across the water. “That’s how my parents died.”

Ian just stared at her. She talked strange. Who knew that spirit-faery-angels had parents who died? He watched as she took a step closer and ran her hand over the freshly smoothed wood. He cleared his throat.

“Sorry about your Mum and Dad.” He said.

“It’s OK.” She looked up and shrugged. “I don’t usually mind. This wood is beautiful. I’m sure it will be a perfectly wonderful boat. “Stepping back she dusted her hands on the edge of her gown. “When will it be done?” The raucous cry of a gull momentarily distracted his attention.

“Ian, time to go lad.” a voice called from behind him. Ian turned to see his Uncle James jump down from the steep bank that lined the shore by where he sat.

“Coming.” He called. He turned back to answer her question and say goodbye but the girl had vanished.

“Taken to talking to yourself have ye lad?” said his Uncle coming forward with a smile. “Ye know what they say…”

“Did you see her Uncle? Which way did she go? The girl. The girl I was talking to.”

“There was no one here but you laddie—actin’ strange.” His Uncle reached out a hand clapping his nephew on the shoulder. “Come on. Ye’d best come along out of the sun now. And don’t be telling yer Mum about yer hallucinations as she’s got enough to worry about just now.”

Reluctantly Ian stood. He picked up the small rock sitting on the Crannghail and tucking it quickly into his Sporran, grabbed his kilt. As he turned to follow the older man he asked, “Uncle, what’s a fossil?”

An Investigative Pilgrimage or A Story in Comments

This story started at my friend Sunshine’s blog Word of the Day where every day she posts a new vocabulary word for readers to use in a sentence. Somehow, in the course of growing our vocabulary, Sunshine, BJ and I developed some characters and a story grew organically from the comments. I see this as a pilgrimage of sorts—the writing—how a story comes to be with characters created and set in a world to begin their own journey.

I bring you into this story as the King of England has sent our heroine, Princess Amelia, to a kibbutz in Palestine. She is looking for a missing ambassador. Word of the Day words are underlined and due to the nature of ‘commenting’, each sentence, while advancing the story line, has it’s character names spelled out in full. A few minor changes were made for story consistency. All historical misrepresentations are solely the fault of this author.

While at the kibbutz, Princess Amelia met with General Akim Baeder. Dressed in a bright red military uniform and seemingly oblivious to the squalor around him, he was the most narcissistic person she had ever met.

When questioning General Baeder about his knowledge of the missing ambassador, Princess Amelia made an oblique reference to her ongoing investigation of a certain blackmailer.

General Baeder’s information about the missing ambassador had thus far proved useless. Not wanting to let down the King, Princess Amelia arranged a ride to Jerusalem with a passing caravan of Bedouin tribesman. They would escort her to the English embassy for the paltry sum of 6 shillings.

Riding on a camel with a band of Bedouin tribesman didn’t exactly qualify as high class travel, but to Princess Amelia it was high adventure indeed.

As they rambled through the Judean countryside, Princess Amelia reflected that life on the back of a camel had certain disadvantages—getting down for bathroom breaks for example.

Arriving in Jerusalem by way of the Zion Gate, Princess Amelia wondered if the Jews thought it sacrilegious that Muslims had built the al-Aqsa Mosque upon Temple Mount.

Jerusalem was crowded and dirty. Princess Amelia knew she needed to find a clean place to stay so she headed for the embassy to get a recommendation. She knew she had the tacit approval of the king for her investigation but she was concerned that embassy personal would look askance at the fact that she was an unescorted woman.

Her fears unfounded, Princess Amelia heaved a sigh of relief. She had been met at the embassy by a jovial junior staff member with the unbefitting name of Regulus Campbell. Reggie—to his friends—directed her to a lovely hotel where she now found herself ensconced in the ultimate comfort—a bath.

Arising the next morning, Princess Amelia found herself possessed by the most curious sense of wanderlust. Jerusalem spread before her like a jewel in the desert and she longed to explore every nook and cranny. Unfortunately, there was the missing ambassador to find. Slowly she turned from her balcony and went to call her maid.

Just as she was about to ring for her maid, Princess Amelia heard a knock on her door. Clutching her wrap close she went to see who could be calling at this time of day. Upon opening the door, she was astonished and befuddled as a tall stranger stumbled into her room and collapsed upon her unmade bed. He looked deathly ill, his skin an alarming xanthous color, and he moaned piteously as he clutched his abdomen.

For a moment, Princess Amelia stood in shock looking at the stranger on her bed. “Good sir,” she said. “You are obviously very ill. Allow me to call a physician who can help you to your room.”
“No!” He groaned, clutching his belly. “You must help me. I’ve heard of your investigative skills and I need your help to catch the yegg whom I have been chasing for three months.”

Princess Amelia always pursued her investigations with zealous enthusiasm and the thought of a new challenge filled her with giddy delight.

Princess Amelia quickly rang for her maid who summoned a physician for the ill man whose name was Paulus Akbar. Between moans, Father Paulus told of his work as a monk searching for stolen objects and explained how abstinence, fasting, and prayer had let him to her door.

A beleaguered looking doctor dressed in a shabby waistcoat and jacket arrived just as Father Paulus was telling Princess Amelia of the theft of his monasteries sacred reliquary. It was a devastating loss for his order as it contained a fragment of the true cross of Christ.

Despite her enthusiasm for a new investigation, and after assessing the situation, Princess Amelia spoke with candor to Father Paulus. She told him that no investigation could take place until he was well and that in the meantime, she still had a missing ambassador to find.

The task of finding a missing ambassador would daunt even the stoutest of hearts but Princess Amelia felt only excitement as she left the hotel for the embassy that morning.

Walking through the markets of Jerusalem, Princess Amelia was amazed at the variety of goods offered for sale. The smell of freshly baked bread enticed her to the stall of a man dressed in an eclectic array of clothes. He wore powder blue breeches with a bright purple waistcoat. A Bedouin style overcoat, sandals, and turban completed his ensemble.

Her first meeting at the embassy was with Regulus Campbell. Unlike the man in the market, Princess Amelia could see that Reggie was a fastidious stylist. Dressed impeccably in breeches, waistcoat, and jacket, he was the very vision of fashion.

Walking towards the embassy drawing room, Princess Amelia delightedly accepted Reggie’s invitation to luncheon. Missing breakfast that morning due to Father Paulus’ precipitous arrival, and a brisk walk through the market had served to give her a gargantuan appetite.

Over Lunch, Princess Amelia told Reggie of her hapless investigation into the disappearance of Ambassador Hastings.

Princess Amelia also told Reggie of Father Paulus and his fear that the thief he was chasing was an iconoclast intent upon destroying priceless relics and works of art.

After a satisfying luncheon, Princess Amelia and Reggie wandered into the salon. Deep into a discussion of possible leads, Amelia confided her desire to jettison the many clues she was pursuing and start the investigation anew.

By now Princess Amelia was desperate for a break in her investigation. She missed her home in England and while Jerusalem held the promise of many adventures, she was anxious to return to the problem of Lady Chadwick and her blackmailing husband. She queried Reggie as to possible actions she could take that would provide the kinetic event needed to break open the case and lead to the discovery of Ambassador Hastings.

Regulus Campbell, while interested in her investigation, had a rather laissez-faire attitude and Princess Amelia realized that he was not going to be as much help as she had hoped. Beginning to despair she would ever find Ambassador Hastings she left the embassy to return to her hotel. As she walked down the wide stone steps to the street, a group of ragged urchins hollering and shouting in Arabic encircled her. The leader, a lad of about eight years with bright black eyes, surreptitiously pressed a scrap of paper into her hand before he and his gang ran down the street and were lost in the crowd.

Puzzled, Princess Amelia reflexively clutched the note tight in her hand as she gazed down the street after the urchins. Glancing down, she slowly unfolded the dirty paper and brought it close beneath her glasses squinting at the tiny print. “If you wish to find your ambassador,” the note said, “see Father Mark at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre after mass tomorrow.” Ecstatic and hoping this would prove the break she needed; Princess Amelia silently sent a prayer of thanks to the magnanimous soul who had sent her the note.

To be continued at Word of the Day…

The Late Great Jacob 'Big Dumb'

I hadn’t intended to post this week…my heart just wasn’t in it. Even when I saw the prompt it didn’t hit me for a moment how appropriate it was…I don’t know how they did it but many thanks to Laini and Megg for posting it. I have been working on this tribute for a few days never getting very far because it was just too painful…

I wanted a dog. I had just taken the entrance examination for medical school and while awaiting the admission process, I’d decided to move to Eastern Oregon where my parents now lived and had a rental house. The house had a big, fenced back yard with plenty of room for a puppy to run and I rationalize that I needed a friend. I agonized over ads in the paper. What I really wanted was a mastiff—big, gentle, and playful. Unfortunately, my budget didn’t run to the nine-hundred dollars that a mastiff would cost so in the end I got Jacob. Half-German Sheppard, Half Rottweiler. His parents, both purebred, had somehow gotten together accidentally and at one-hundred dollars, he was within my budgetary means. Easily the friendliest and most energetic of all his littermates, he immediately caught my attention. Before long, I was in love.

When I left Portland for my parents place, he rode in the car beside me, gleefully sticking his nose out the window feeling the warm air across his muzzle. He was the happiest dog I had ever met—a goofy attitude toward life reflected always in his eyes. A conscientious ‘mama’, immediately upon our arrival, I found a veterinarian and he had a checkup and vaccinations. I listened carefully to the portly elderly doctor extol the dangers of ‘people’ food and promised never to feed it to my ‘baby’.

Jake was an easy-going dog. He happily adopted the two stray kittens I took in a few weeks later, grooming them as if they were his own puppies. We went to dog training school and while he may not have been the smartest dog in his class, he was the most enthusiastic. Our lives settled into a lovely routine. In February of the following year, I met and started dating a handsome young man who also had a dog and together we had fabulous adventures. In the spring I started getting letters back from medical schools and found that my college guidance councilor was an idiot as all of the schools to which I applied except three, only accepted students from Montana, Idaho, Washington or Alaska. However, by this time I was seriously infatuated with the young man and considering changing my plans to go to medical school (there is a very high rate of divorce in med school).

In October, Jake and I moved back to Portland and bought a house with a nice yard in the suburbs. The nice young man and his dog soon followed and before long, we were a family. Jake was no longer a puppy now. He had grown tall and taken the body of his German Sheppard mother, with the coloring of his Rottweiler father. It was a lovely combination. I had kept my promise to the doctor and as an adult, Jake wouldn’t eat table scraps. You could give him the choicest piece of steak and he would daintily take it in his mouth, walk a few feet and drop it on the floor. Our friends and family remarked that he was the strangest dog.

Despite the fact that he had grown and was no longer a puppy, Jake couldn’t settle down. He was still a puppy at heart. He never walked sedately; he bounded and bounced—a goofy grin on his face. Kevin, the nice young man, jokingly called him ‘big dumb’ because he was such a silly idiot at times.

A few years later, a beautiful baby girl joined our family. Jake adopted her and became her greatest protector while at the same time, gracefully and a little sadly taking a back seat to the baby. He never lost his puppy like demeanor throughout his 13 years with me. He was ever loving and loyal—the bestest of friends.

We had known for months that he wouldn’t last the winter…he was an old man—91 in human years and his hips had bothered him greatly this past year. He could no longer go for walks or climb the stairs into the house. The past two weeks brought a progressive worsening as winter started to set in. He was incontinent and embarrassed about it, unable to get outside through the doggy door. Worst of all, he finally lost his bounce.

He died on Monday and I miss him horribly! I miss him coming to greet me no matter what time I got home. I miss his goofy grin and the way his tail would wag like crazy at anything you said as if he knew exactly what you were saying. I miss his bounce. There is a hole in my heart that I know will heal in time but for now, I’m just sad and I miss my dog.

Of Work, Storms and A Full Moon

I woke up Friday morning and knew instantly it was going to be the weekend from HELL—a perfect storm of moon, weather and work. Reports from the national weather service had been dire for the past four or five days with weatherman using words like ‘white-out conditions’, ‘heavy snowfall’, ‘high winds ’, ‘blizzard’ and ‘Arctic cold front’. Most reports said driving would be difficult if not impossible.

Under ordinary circumstances, I would be ecstatic. Dancing and singing “Here comes the snow…do…do…do…do” (Think the Beatles here). I’d do the ‘Happy Dance’ and jump into snow clothes with the kids for joyful trompings through a pristine white wonderland. Hot cocoa and cinnamon toast upon our return from adventures in the wild outdoors. We would be exhausted, but elated, that our longed for snow had finally arrived. Unfortunately, these were not ordinary circumstances. I was due to work the whole weekend.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I haven’t worked in conditions such as these but the dire weather report was topped off by a full moon at its perigee and as any nurse or cop will tell you, it is no myth that a full moon always brings out the ‘crazy’ in people. Last night the moon was almost 18,400 miles (30,000km) closer to the earth then usual making people even a little nuttier than normal.

I left for work at my usual time of 11:45 in the morning. I have a thirty-mile drive and it usually takes me about 35 minutes to get there. The pictures above and below, I took shortly before leaving for work.

It started snowing lightly when I was half-way to work and by the time I arrived it was snowing heavily. The ER was ‘quiet’—a word we never use while in the ER for superstitious reasons—when I arrived with just one cardiac patient who was on discharge. That of course was about to change.

The first call that came over the dispatch scanner was for an ‘unknown injury accident’ on Hwy 95 south of the Long Bridge. Minutes later a second and third accident were dispatched. Both police and dispatch scanners were suddenly spitting out directions and further reports. The police scanner informed dispatch of multiple slide-off’s and then reported that a fire truck dispatched to an accident scene had also slid off the road. A call came in that there had been a head on collision on Hwy 2 blocking both lanes, extrication required. This was followed by a call from a local rest home that a resident had fallen and they were sending the patient for a routine exam. A PA from Montana phoned that she was sending a patient with a critically low sodium level and a call went out for a cardiac patient in Priest River. Within the hour every ambulance and fire unit in the county were dispatched and calls were stacking up. Medics were asking dispatch which scenes needed priority attention. After that, I mostly lost track beneath the on slat of walking wounded. Between patients, I phoned family members who were traveling and encouraged those who called to stay home.

My supervisor let me go home an hour early, as she knew I had a long commute and she had adequate staffing due to some unanticipated discharges from the ICU. I brushed about 5 inches of snow off my car and headed out. An hour and fifteen minutes of white knuckle driving and I was home safe.
The rest of the pictures are from when I got home and what I found upon waking this morning.

I’m off now for more of the same. I have three more days in this work cycle and I know they’ll be interesting. Come Tuesday morning however, you’ll find me in my snow clothes doing the ‘happy dance’ with 10 glorious days of freedom!

PS. The total snowfall accumulation thus far...12 inches. Yea!!!

Revenge

Today’s Sunday Scribbling prompt fell right in with a scene I was writing for ‘the novel’, so here’s to the tradition of writing and all the fun and gratification it offers us.

Scotland, 1747

Tradition dictated immediate revenge—a life for a life. Ian glanced over at Alec who sat hunched over his bowl of stew near the hearth. Grief had etched lines in his youthful complexion and he looked grey with fatigue. They were both exhausted and Ian imagined he looked no better. A hard and bitterly cold ride from Oban had been met with the heartbreaking news that they were too late. Uncle James was dead. Knifed down by a McLaren blade, his body desecrated and tortured.

Outside, December winds whipped freshly fallen snow into drifts as icy cold draughts penetrated the thick stonewalls of the castle. Occasionally a particularly strong gust would rattle the tapestries but otherwise all was quiet save scrape of spoon against bowl. It was near to midnight as he and Alec sat vigil with their uncle’s body. The witching hour his granny called it. A time for ghost’s and spirits.

He looked up as his cousin Francie entered the hall, her eyes red and puffy from crying. “It’s up to you Ian. It’s your responsibility,” she said as she sank laboriously into a chair near the hearth. Ian watched as she ran her hand over her belly, heavy with child. Instinctively he hunched lower in his chair. “The clan looks to you now. For leadership. I know it’s not what you were expecting but it’s what’s right and proper.”

He sighed and returned his gaze to the fire. “You know he was like a father to me Francie. I always thought your brother would be laird. I didn’t even aspire to it.” He ran his fingers through his hair, a headache beginning to brew. An overwhelming sadness, coupled with resignation settled over him. Another senseless death—there had been too many. “Did Angus bring a name when he brought the body?”

“Roland McLaren.”

Ian felt the weight of a thousand years of Scots tradition crash down on him at her words. He knew the man. Had raised a pint with him over business in Edinburgh. Liked him well enough to call him friend. He looked to Alec still hunched by the fire before returning his gaze to Francie. “Was Angus sure it was Roland?” He asked.

“Yes.” She replied. “When will you leave?”

“First light, I suppose.” He shut his eyes and leaned his head back in the chair.

“Will you take the men?”

“No. Alec and I will go alone.” He replied his eyes still shut. “Roland’s a friend, Francie. I have to give him a chance to answer the charge.”

“He killed my father in cold blood Ian!” she retorted. “If you won’t do it I’ll find someone who will!”

Ian jerked up in his chair and pinned Francie with a glare. “That’s all I’m willing to give you Francie. I won’t kill a man on an accusation. I want to hear his side before I decide what’s to be done. I mourn our uncle too. If revenge is to be had it’s for me to decide and that’s final.”

Small Beauties

It is winter in more ways than one, thought Johanna as she stared out across the newly fallen snow from inside her room. She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment noticing how the reflected light turned the insides of her eyelids a brilliant pink. Opening her eyes again she looked away from the window and around her room with it’s sterile white walls and institutional hospital bed. Today she couldn’t see the small beauties.


Her sixtieth birthday—the irony of it struck her again. She’d had a speech to give that evening on the importance of good nutrition in early childhood. New study data to go over, a graduate student to mentor, papers to grade…a busy day planned. A day I didn’t get to live, she thought. The end of her life really. She remembered the paralyzing fear and confusion when she realized she could not feel her left arm. The agonizing pain that struck her head so suddenly she fell to the floor unknowing for a time. The awakening in darkness and frantic desperate scramble for the phone to call an ambulance. But worse, the desperate knowing that this was the end. Knowledge is an evil thing sometimes.


That had been ten years ago. It seemed like fifty some days, trapped as she was in this wheelchair. She stared down at the rolled white washcloth limply clenched in her left hand. She could smell the sweaty rancid odor of death. Her nails were getting a little long, maybe she’d ask the aide to trim them. Thank-goodness tomorrow was bath day. Anymore it was the highlight of her week. She loved the sensuality of the warm water running over her skin. When she’d been a whole person she’d bathed everyday. Now she was a half person and got a weekly bath…she tried not to think about it for it was an issue that could make her fall.


In her mind, everyday was walked on a precipice. On either side the deep abyss of depression with its siren’s call of darkness. The trick was to not fall. She’d fallen many times and the climb out was agonizingly difficult. One never knew what it would be. Yesterday it had been the Jell-O. Lord, how she hated Jell-O. They served it here practically everyday. Where was the apple pie, chocolate cake, blueberry cobbler? If only they knew how it was made, she thought. It had been one of her favorite nutrition labs to teach. Grinding up the cow hooves and bones, purifying the collagen, adding flavoring. The ‘eeww’ factor for the students had always struck her as funny…and she was sure none of her students had ever looked at Jell-O quite the same way again.


Today the snow had helped her climb from the abyss. A thing of beauty, she thought. So fresh and bright and new. It dazzled her senses. Beauty was her saving grace in this lifeless place. It was her most often request. “Bring me something beautiful.” She’d say to her caregivers. Her windowsill contained a cornucopia of beautiful things…a bluebird feather and a small purple stone, a prism with its rainbow splashes of color, a small book of poems and a twisted piece of driftwood. Her small beauties.


Her thoughts drifted, tomorrow was her birthday. She’d be fresh and clean from her bath…she gazed at the bright light out side, suddenly brighter. She looked away and blinked her eyes rapidly, transported dreamily back—back to when she was young and whole—to when she had her whole life in front of her. She remembered the laughter, the loving, and the birth of her daughter. It is over, she thought. Lovingly she gazed down at the bit of sunshine that Dr. Gibson placed in her arms. Pure beauty. Yes, she thought, winter is a lovely season to be born.

Of Beads and Ears and Gratitude

I was in the shower when Sami burst into the bathroom. “Mom! Zach stuck a bead in his ear!” I don’t know if all seven year olds have a propensity for drama but it is Sami’s forte. “You have to come right now! He can’t get it out!” I heaved a sigh of exasperation—peaceful, uninterrupted showers had vanished at her birth, right along with my serene and tranquil life. “Go tell Zach to come see Mama.” I said hurrying now to finish my shower.

A few minutes later, three-year-old Zachary wanders nonchalantly into the bathroom. “Hi Mom.”

“Zach, did you put a bead in your ear?”

“Nope. Sami did.” Yeah right, I think, wondering if this is all just a story or if he really does have a bead in his ear.

“What color is the bead?” I ask. Details are good. The more consistent they are the more likely the story is to be true.

“Red.” He states very unconcernedly.

“How big is it?” I ask.

“Like this one.” He hands me a tiny white bead about two or three millimeters long. Great! I thought. Where there is one bead you are guaranteed to have more. He most likely does have a bead in his ear.

“Why’d you stick a bead in your ear buddy?”

“I didn’t. Sami did.” Likely story. I smile.

A short time later, I was dressed and ready for battle with flashlight in hand. It is practically impossible to see into a child’s ear canal without an otoscope but I was going to give it my best shot. Zach had consistently pointed to his left ear when asked which ear the bead was in so fine—we would start with the right. A few long moments filled with squirming and squiggling and I caught a glimpse of a shiny tympanic membrane. Good. Now I had something to compare the other side too. Over we go. “Zachary James! Hold still!” Nothing but darkness.

I went in search of a brighter flashlight. After about ten minutes of looking, and a holler at my husband asking if he knew of where the ‘good’ flashlight was, I gave up. The ‘good one’ could be anywhere. My littlest child has been fascinated with flashlights for some time now and was infamous for stealing and hiding them. I asked him if he knew where the flashlight was.

“I think…maybe…at Nana’s house?” He has the ‘I’m just an innocent little child’ look on his face and anything missing is always at my mother’s house. Ha!

Resignedly, I sat him back on the table and gave the left ear another go. Eureka! For a split second, I glimpse a red bead sitting cross-wise in the ear canal. OK. We’ve verified there is a problem and here is where I felt profoundly grateful. I am an emergency room nurse. My training in the ER had prepared me for just such a dilemma. We did not have to go to the emergency room, which is 32 miles away. I grabbed a small syringe and a glass of warm water and a few minutes later out popped the little red bead. Crisis averted.

A big sigh of relief—he hadn’t even cried. How grateful I am when little solutions like this work as they should.

Strangers

They are all strangers.
Pressing in around me
Closing off my breath.

Sidelong glances, judgment,
Revulsion in their eyes.

No Emergency.
Twitch of coat or skirt
Quickening of step.

Pass by swiftly,
Hurry down the hall
Noises, clashing, laughter
Too loud, too loud!
Rocking, rocking.
No. No.

Running, shuffle, run.
Towering, ominous sky buildings
Crashing down.
Raining.
Sirens.
Hide.

Where? Looking,
Bright lights,
Blue men.
Trapped.
Strangers.

This is my first attempt at poetry/prose. Constructive criticism gladly accepted!

Change

Change is every minute, every hour, every day and every season.

A butterfly flaps his wings in—my daughter spins the globe. “Now you have a place to put it Mama.” I start over. A butterfly flaps his wings in Bulgen, Mongolia—where my finger landed—starting the wind that brings change—our first snow, so briefly here and now gone. It marked a change in our thinking. From fall to winter. The kids dragged out their boots and snow-pants and spent the morning changing the pristine landscape to one crisscrossed with trails. We head to town. They have haircuts today, and come home changed from how they left.

It has been a week of change. Both locally and globally. A season of change—the adventure is seeing what will happen next.

Writing on my computer, I hit spell check before posting this. Oh! A spelling error. I hit the change button.

Scandal

“Betty, you’ll never believe what I just heard.”

“Marge. I swear you always have the most delicious gossip. Do tell.”

“I was just down at Truman’s Department store—getting David some new shoes—and I ran into Doctor Bakers nurse. You know Helen…she never could keep a secret to save her life. Well! You will never believe. I mean never, believe what she just told me.”

“What?”

“Deputy Scott is pregnant!”

“Really? Our first woman sheriff’s deputy and she’s not even married. A fine example to the community she’s setting.”

“I know. But that’s not even the best part.”

“It gets better?”

“Unbelievably. You know all the training courses she was supposedly going to up in Portland?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well. Seems she decided she would rather get pregnant on the county dime. Helen said she went out every night—looking for a sperm donor! She picked the best-looking fella she could find and asked if she could have his baby. Can you believe it? The nerve. I mean really! It’s absolutely scandalous!



This very short sketch is, with a few details changed, based upon a scandal I remember from childhood. At the time, the thought that a woman would go to a bar and pick a father for her baby was shocking. That she would do so with a gay man was even more so. She had two babies with him, went on to marry, and as far as I know, had a wonderful life.

In today’s society, very few things scandalize anymore. Think about it. A president’s affair? Nope. Your priest’s love of little boys? Nope. Your congressional representative soliciting sex in the airport bathroom? Nope. Your Wall Street banker causing the economy to crash? Nope. What would truly scandalize you?