Writer’s Island-Time Travel

Too fast.  That’s what I think about time.  It travels much too fast.

Remember how the days once crept by, every minute larger than life and filled with opportunities~for play, for laughter, for being with friends, for having fun.   Did you ever once give a thought to time running out, to not having enough of it?

When was the moment you first noticed the swift passage of time?  For me, it as my 16th birthday -and I need a calculator to determine exactly how long ago that was.  There’s a Polaroid picture of me in an old photo album somewhere, leaning in to blow out the candles on my cake,  dressed in the plaid skirt of my school uniform, my long hair in two brown braids draped over my shoulders.  Truthfully, I look more like 6 than 16 in that picture- yet I recall looking in the mirror that day and thinking, “Someday you’ll be old.”   Old like my mother – who was all of 45 at the time.  Old like my grandmother, who was 63. 

Looking back on all the years since then, who could have believed they would travel by so swiftly, a blur of college, and marriage, and motherhood.  Like fast motion photography, it sped past me-my life-leaving me standing here in the chill wind of ghostly memories.  I brace myself each day, digging my heels into the earth to keep myself grounded firmly in this moment, whatever it might be.

Oh, I know I’m one of the lucky ones.  I’m healthy, and strong, I’ve never faced mortal illness or danger, my family is rife with long lived women, and, thanks to advances in modern science, I could conceivably count more years than any of them. 

Yet those years fly by so swiftly, and there is still so much left to do.

There’s a poem by A.E. Houseman, set to music by Ralph Vaughn Williams…Lovliest of Trees, it’s called.  It’s a beautiful, lyric song, which many of the high school girls choose to sing as a festival piece.  It goes like this…

 Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride,
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

If you do the math, the narrator of this poem is 20 years old, lamenting the thought of “only fifty more” springs.  It makes me smile to hear teenage girls sing this song, trying to grasp this idea of a finite amount of time in which to savor the cherry blossoms. 

Well, I’ve had fifty springs, and more besides.  And they seem to roll around more quickly every year, those cherry blossom months.  Soon, another long Michigan winter will be past, the robins will return, and the sun will warm my skin.  I’m grateful for that, although it reminds me again of this swift network of time I’m traveling through.

So excuse me while I go wander the woodlands…there are cherry trees to savor.

written for the writer’s island 

Writer’s Island -Friendship

“A bottle of beer,” Kathryn thought, her eyes drawn to Paul’s muscular arm giving Cody’s weathered tennis ball one more toss. “I’ll take him a cold beer, and then I’ll tell him.”

Kathryn rummaged through the fridge, shoving aside milk, orange juice, and several bottles of Chardonnay chilling on the shelf. There must be at least one bottle of Corona, left from last weekend when Paul had helped her spread mulch in the garden.

Yes! there it was. She grabbed it quickly, pried off the cap, and threw open the back door.

“You thirsty?” she called out.

Paul looked up and grinned. “You bet!” he said, dropping the ball and rising to meet her.

Kathryn gazed appreciatively at his long legs, jet black hair and olive complexion, the slight swivel to his hips when he walked, and the radiant 1000-watt smile he always greeted her with.

“Thanks, friend,” he said, raising the bottle in mock salute.

“My pleasure, ” she replied.

Friends like Paul certainly didn’t come along every day, Kathryn thought. Since they met two years ago at Lyon Oaks dog park, he had become an amazingly important person in her life. He and Rosie, his Akita, were like family. Paul was always there to lend a helping hand with projects around the house, to watch Cody when she had to travel on business, and had even proven invaluable while she cared for her mother during these last months before death.

“That one’s a keeper, Kath,” Treesa would say, her sallow complexion and hollow eyes brightening at the sound of his voice. “You’d better not let him get away.”

“Mom, we’re just friends,” Kathryn insisted, busying herself smoothing the sheets on the hospital bed or checking the medication dispenser. “I’m sure Paul has much more interesting prospects than an almost- 40 year old professor.”

“Friendship can turn into something more, you know,” her mother would respond slyly.

“Not this time,” Kathryn stated. “Now, are you up to taking a walk around the yard before it gets too chilly?”

Darn her mother, Kathryn thought, sitting down on the porch step next to him, she had been right as usual.

Both dogs came to join their respective masters, Cody flopping down on the grass and rolling onto her back, her red tongue lolling from the side of her mouth. Rosie was more refined, and positioned herself next to Paul like the perfect sentinel, blue eyes fixed on him with reverence.

For most of her life, Kathryn’s dogs had been her best friends. Having this friendship with Paul had been a marvelous new experience for her. She loved hanging out with him, joking around or talking seriously, working on projects around the house or playing with the dogs. It was great having a human best friend for the first time.

She took a deep breath, and glanced over at him sitting companionably beside her in the sun.

How was her best friend going to feel when he found out she was having his baby?

~this friendship story will eventually end up in The Wedding Dress, the novel I’m writing for NaNoWriMo. For other thoughts on friendship, go here

Writer’s Island-The Stranger

Once it had been Anna’s favorite time of day, this hour just after supper when the sun was settling in behind the stand of pine trees in the western fields, the length of the front porch cast in cool shadow. She would come outside after helping Mama wipe the dishes, pour pitchers of water over the huge ferns swinging gently from the rafters, and settle into the rocking chair, book in hand, ready to read until dusk overtook her page.

Yet ever since Clayton had been gone, Anna’s restful evenings on the porch had been spoiled. She felt anxious sitting there, the long dirt road leading from town staring her in the face, the road that might bring an ominous stranger bearing the worst of all possible news.

Eleven months, fourteen days since Clayton left with Harrisburg’s First Militia and sailed across the Atlantic to France. Anna smiled sadly, thinking of the dreams she had once harbored about France, her imagination filled with ideas of love and romance. And now, it could be the place where her beloved Clayton lost his life, fighting in this horrible World War that made no sense to her or anyone else in their small town.

Anna glanced nervously at the dusty road, squinting for a moment against the sun’s glare. Her imagination was now preoccupied with tales she’d heard of smartly clad soldiers in dress uniform, black armbands adorning their sleeves, soldiers that always came in pairs, politely knocking on your door, hat in hand, to deliver news that would shatter your life forever.

Turning quickly away, Anna grabbed up the heavy glass pitcher that served as a makeshift watering can and hurried down the steps toward the back yard pump.”There’s no use in thinking about such awful things,” she firmly lectured herself. “I just have to believe with all my heart and soul that Clayton will come home safely.”

And so it was that Anna remained busy refilling her pitcher, pouring fresh water into each ferns dusty bed, while the sun eased itself lower into the evening sky ~ so busy that she almost didn’t see the lonely figure trudging toward her, dressed in the unmistakable khaki colored puttee’s that looked so odd on boys barely out of knickers and more accustomed to overalls.

Catching sight of this stranger, Anna literally felt her heart sink, powerless to stop the pitcher as it slipped from her hand, shattering in a million shards of glass on the wooden floorboards. The seconds passed like hours, her gaze fixed on this solitary man coming ever nearer, until the first glimmer of recognition began to dawn.

This lonely figure, thin and long legged, one arm swinging familiarly at his side, the other – wait, the other caught up in a sling!-but there, definitely there, and yes, the shock of blond hair catching the last flicker of sunlight. This was no stranger, she realized. Impossible as it seemed, it was Clayton.

He stopped abruptly when he caught sight of her slender body come flying off the porch, and he continued to stand stock still while she raced over the yard and down the road to meet him, heedless of any rules of grace or propriety, her dark hair unloosened from its pins and streaming in the breeze behind her.

“My God in heaven!” Anna cried, throwing her arms around him, almost pulling back in surprise at the frailty of his body, aware that she could feel every rib as she pressed her own sturdy torso against him, and then pulling him even tighter into her chest, willing him to take strength and sustenance from her.

Clayton’s one good arm enfolded her and he buried his face in the fragrant smell of her clean, sun warmed hair. Anna felt a deep shudder pass through him, and she pulled back, raising her eyes to meet his.

And then her heart sank once again.

Staring off into the horizon beyond her were not the bright blue eyes of the boy she had loved and sent sailing off to war, determined to lead the victory charge for freedom. These eyes were empty and dim, filled with nothing at all like hope or pride.

They were the eyes of a stranger after all.

for more stories of strangers, go here

Writer’s Island-Renewal

Treesa cast a critical eye on her reflection, turning sideways to avoid the morning sun pouring into the sewing room.

“You’ll never remake this dress to fit me,” she said, plucking at the delicate ivory fabric hanging loosely from her slender waist. “It was a stupid idea for me to wear your wedding dress anyway.”

Anna managed a gentle “tsk” from around the mouthful of straight pens gripped between her lips. What made her daughter such a worrier? she wondered. Always determined that things wouldn’t work out, that nothing would go her way.
Sighing, Anna reached underneath the dress and folded at least two inches of fabric toward the inseams. Such a “skinny minnie”, too, picking at her food, turning up her nose at the hearty meals Anna prepared for the family’s table.

Of course, with all this food rationing, Anna thought, it’s no wonder she’s wasting away to nothing. Since the States had entered the war two years ago, Anna was hard pressed to cobble together anything fit to eat. Treesa’s delicate appetite had waned even further, faced with dishes like Spam Casserole, Oatmeal Loaf, and boiled beef tongue.

Anna could feel Treesa’s impatience as she knelt beside her, lovingly caressing the folds of fabric as she continued to work. She smiled, remembering the excitement with which she and her mother had shaped this gown from yards of satin, the tremble of her mother’s hands as she sewed the last of the 100 pearl buttons, the shiver of anticipation Anna had felt as she imagined Andrew unbuttoning each one on their wedding night.

Treesa’s deep sigh roused Anna from these pleasant memories.

“Really, Mother,” she said, “shouldn’t we give up on this once and for all? I’m perfectly happy to wear the floral tea dress I had for Aunt Rose’s birthday.”

“You will not be married in some garish flowered, short dress!” Anna exclaimed. “I don’t care whether it’s wartime or not, or that “all the other girls” are doing it. You have the opportunity to wear a perfectly beautiful, traditional wedding gown, and that’s what you’ll do.” She jabbed one last pin roughly into the fabric, offering a silent apology to her precious dress.

“Well, at least get rid of this silly sash,” Tressa complained, grabbing a fistful of the pale blue satin ribbon wrapped twice around her waist. “No one would use a sash on their wedding dress in 1943!”

“Fine,” Anna muttered, trying not to think about the way Andrew had gently placed the ribbon against her cheek, comparing the delicate blue material to the shade of her eyes. Young people have no appreciation for history, she thought, for tradition, or cherishing the things that matter. Rising from her knees, trying desperately to keep the annoyance from her voice, she released Treesa from her obvious discomfort.

“You can take off the dress now,” she said, smoothing her red serge skirt and tucking a pincushion into the pocket of her apron. “I’ll have to start work on it right after dinner if there’s to be any chance of finishing it by Saturday.”

Anna glanced at her daughter, who continued to stand motionless before the mirror. The sun had shifted slightly, leaving the girl standing in the midst of one solitary ray, as if a spotlight were shining directly from heaven, setting her auburn hair alight with sparks of reddish flame, illuminating the satin where it lay in gentle folds.

Tears jumped into Anna’s eyes-such a beautiful girl was her Mary Teresa, she thought, catching her breath. About to start a new life with a young solider off to war, embark on a future that held only God knew what. Could wearing this dress bring her the kind of love Anna had felt for her Andrew, a love that would ignite a spark of light and happiness into those dark, shadowy eyes?

At last Treesa turned from the mirror, meeting her mother’s teary gaze. “You know,” she said, smiling slightly, “perhaps there’s still some life in this dress after all.”

Anna grinned, briskly wiping a tear from her cheek. “There most certainly is,” she agreed. “Plenty of new life to go around!”

for more stories of renewal, go here

Writer’s Island-The Key

“What key are we in?” the musician will ask, inquiring about the tonality of the piece of music she’s preparing to play. For singers, the key is vital, because it will determine whether the notes are too high or too low for the voice to produce. As a pianist, I’m also interested in key – music in certain keys has more “accidentals” than others, notes that have to be changed from the normal progression.

Most musicians have their “favorite keys.” Personally, I like the major flat keys, especially D flat. My fingers seem to naturally fit into that five flat pattern, and the tonality is especially pleasing to me, rich and full, with just a hint of melancholy.

Of course, it’s not difficult to see the corollary between life in general and a musician’s relationship with key. We all have certain patterns that best fit our moods, our inclinations, our desires. For some, life in C major, the simplest, most efficient of all keys, is perfect. While others thrive on life in g-sharp minor, with every key an accidental at least once (and don’t even ask me to explain double-sharping!)

Not surprisingly, I prefer my life to be similar to my favorite key. D flat major falls just slightly above “easy”, and is slipping toward challenging on the scale. Tonally, it’s pleasant, yet interesting, evocative yet accessible. And, as Goldilocks would say, it fits me “just right.”

Perhaps the key to happiness then, is identifying that “just right” tonality for your life. Naturally it’s fun to experiment with other keys once in a while. I’ve gotten great satisfaction from mastering a piece in the key of C flat major, even though my brain felt like it was solving one long algebraic equation the entire time I was playing it!

But I’m always happiest when I return to the “tonic” – home base, in musical terms. After spending the day meandering through life, like a jazz pianist will wander from key to key, following some wild, unexpected path so far from where he originally began, I’m comforted to find my way home, and let those odd chord progressions resolve into my own natural tonic “do”. The place that feels just right to my fingers and to my heart.

more keys are available on writer’s island

Writer’s Island – The Gift

“Everyone is gifted – but some people never open their package.” Unknown

Gifts – what else can I write about, except the abundance of them in my life? Anything less seems churlish and ungrateful, as if I’m embarrassed by the surfeit of riches piled in this package I’ve been opening for the past 51 years. A family that cherishes me, a husband who supports me in every possible way, a son who has grown up well and strong with a family of his own to love ~ a wealth of gifts indeed.

In truth, I wonder sometimes whether I deserve them when the world around me is rife with suffering and want. How-and why-have I been so “gifted”? And I try to remain properly grateful, in the hopes that my acknowledgement of good fortune will keep me safely encsonced in its favor a just a while longer.

Of all my good gifts, perhaps the one that is most key, most valuable and cherished, is the gift of my mind, my memory, my ability to read and write and reflect. It is this particular package that I open so gratefully each time I turn the pages of a book, sit at the piano to play, pick up a pen to write, open my mouth to speak. Because I have seen first hand what it means to lose this gift, in this terrible stealthy disease that’s sweeping the nation and robbing thousands of people each day of their memories and thoughts.

“A mind is a terrible thing to waste.” This slogan for the National Negro College Fund bears truth for the entire human race. “Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my mind the most,” is another humorous version, seen on greeting cards and refrigerator magnets. It brings a smile, but, in reality it is far from funny.

The gift of thought- it’s priceless. I hope I’m putting mine to good use.

For more on gifts, go here

Writer’s Island – My Imaginary Life

The older I get, the less I imagine what life could be like. Writing those words, I feel a little uneasy. Because although my real life is just fine, perhaps I shouldn’t be content to settle for “fine” ~perhaps I should be reaching toward some far more fulfilling and creative life, setting my sights on the stars, like I did when I was a teenager.

Just recently, events have occurred that should have drawn me up short, should have sent warning bells resounding in my ears about the finite nature of my time on this world. Events that, by rights, should spur me into a frenzy of action to accomplish all the things I want/need/hope to do. You know all the sayings – life is short, here today, gone tomorrow, make hay while the sun shines. I should be busy pulling out all the stops to make my imaginary life a reality, now, while I still have the time.

Then again, why should I be presumptuous enough to even imagine a better life than the one I have? After all, I have a loving and healthy family, a safe home, plenty of food and water, cars and clothes, and luxuries far beyond what most of the worlds population could ever imagine. What right have I to yearn for more than this?

Ahh, but its human nature to want more than we have, isn’t it? Human of us to expect the world, to see the ever greener grass, to dream ever more fabulous dreams.

So, enough prevaricating. Here goes:

In my imaginary life, I always see myself living in an old, historic home out in the country, a home near enough to water that I can walk my dogs through the woods each day and listen to the sound of a babbling brook talking in my ear. I’m surrounded by books and music in this house, and I have plenty of time to indulge my love of words and notes each day. I will write – novels perhaps, or memoirs, even biographies. I will play – a chamber group, of friends and musicians, well known and very popular in the community and surrounding towns.
In this imaginary life, my family is all nearby, so I can see them whenever I want – in fact, they come in and out of the house at will, my grandchildren bringing me handfuls of flowers plucked right from my own garden. I see myself wandering the woods in well worn jeans and soft sweaters, coming in from walks to hot coffee in the winter and mint-sprigged iced tea in the summer. I picture Jim and I sitting on our porch at night, watching the fireflies twinkle over the meadow, sipping wine as the sun goes down.

It’s not a fancy imaginary life, is it? And, in fact, after all these rambling thoughts, I have come round to describing a life that’s not really all that diverse from the life I have right now. Does this signify a lack of imagination on my part? Does this mean I don’t dare to dream?

Probably not. It may be that I’ve simply already forged a good life into existence. Rather than spending time imagining something different, I would do well to enjoy and enhance all the good things about the life I already have.

~to read about others imaginary lives, visit Writer’s Island