tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35128162024-02-06T17:56:01.285-08:00Rambling with IshaVenting the thoughts in my head before they drive me insane...Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.comBlogger2261125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-22271134050935805202011-08-01T15:13:00.000-07:002011-08-01T15:13:17.255-07:00Livie and Jason - an exerptBy the time she reached Magnolia and Sims, the rain seemed to be letting up. Given the fervor with which it had been coming down, "letting up" was definitely a relative term, but Livie felt a sense of relief anyway. If nothing else, the wind had died down, and rain was no longer pelting her in the face. <br />
<br />
She was adjusting her umbrella, trying to maximize the coverage, when her cell phone rang. Oh, crap. She contemplated letting it go to voice-mail again, but Jason would start to worry if he didn't get through to her soon. Besides, he had a big presentation in the morning. Even with the time difference, he was probably ready for crash. She flipped her phone open.<br />
<br />
"Hi there." She tried to sound like she had been sitting at home waiting for his call. She hadn't mentioned her plans this morning over breakfast, and telling him now would just wreck his concentration. This was an important trip for him, and he needed to have his head in the game.<br />
<br />
"Hey, babe!" She could hear the smile in his voice. "I finally got you. Where've you been all night? I've called, like, 3 times. I was starting to worry."<br />
<br />
"I guess I've had my phone on mute. Sorry." The lie rolled off her tongue with disturbing ease. "How was your trip?"<br />
<br />
"Smooth and uneventful, just like I like it. Except that I had to sit next to Farty Jim for the second leg. Ugh. That man needs to see a doctor." Jason laughed. "It wasn't so bad though. Did you know he's started brewing his own beer? He invited us over for dinner in a couple of weeks when this batch is all ready."<br />
<br />
It was just like Jason to become friends with the ugly duckling of the office. Misfits and strays, in both animal and human form, were drawn to him as if by magnets. He had no idea why, but Livie understood. She'd been drawn to it herself, hadn't she? Jason had an air of patience and understanding about him that appealed to those creatures that had faced primarily ridicule and rejection in their lives. Although he had a wickedly sarcastic sense of humor, he was unfailingly kind. He had a way of teasing that made you feel included instead of ostrasized. No doubt, "Farty Jim" knew about and embraced his new nickname with the same good humor with which it had been bestowed. That's just how things worked around Jason.<br />
<br />
"Sounds like a plan," Livie said. "Just let me know when so I can put it on the calendar."<br />
<br />
"Sure thing, Liver." Her heart twinged a little at the carefree affection in his voice. "So what's happening with you?"<br />
<br />
Her mouth and ears continued the conversation with him, sharing anecdotes about the cat and listening to more in depth descriptions of his trip, participating in the kind of rambling, aimless conversation that couples so often have with one another. Her mind, however, was busy chastising her for getting herself into this situation.<br />
<br />
It wasn't that she was unhappy. Her life with Jason was almost exactly what she had hoped it would be. They had been married for nearly 10 years now, and they still held hands whenever they walked next to each other. They rarely argued, although financial discussions tended to get tense. They were still intensely interested in each other and could talk about a great number of subjects at length: politics, religion, current events, daily life, sex, aspirations, family, and so on. As a child, dreaming about married life, these were the yardsticks against which she had measured her visions. <br />
<br />
"Guess what I did during the lay-over in Chicago." Jason's challenge broke through her thoughts.<br />
<br />
"I bet you headed to that hot dog place, Big Dogs, as soon as you got off the plane and had yourself a foot long with everything on it," Livie replied with certainty. He wouldn't have set foot in the Chicago airport at lunchtime without including Big Dogs in his plans.<br />
<br />
Jason laughed in affirmative. "You know me too well, darlin'. You know me too well."<br />
<br />
Perhaps that was the problem. Everything was just exactly what she expected. After college, her life had followed a well-delineated path, like a train on railroad tracks that may curve this way or that slightly but never sharply enough to upset the engine. After a decade of travel, these tracks had become too predictable. The weeks came and went with numbing regularity. The alarm woke her to the same worn comforter and pale walls each morning. Her closet held the same clothes and the cat made the same demanding cries for food. Each day brought its own combination of the same chores she'd been doing for years, dishes needing washing, laundry needing folding, floor needing sweeping. Even the volunteer work she had taken on to fill her days had become predictable.<br />
<br />
"So then, the head guy, he says 'Well, I'd like to get this done as soon as possible.' As if the rest of us were just sitting around on our thumbs, you know?" Livie could tell by Jason's tone that he was twisting the top of the hotel bedspread into little volcano shapes in front of him.<br />
<br />
"Did you spit in his eye?" she asked, knowing that it would make him laugh. The rain had nearly stopped now. She stuck out a hand and watched the drops roll across her palm.<br />
<br />
"Almost," he chuckled. "Almost. I did ask him exactly which part of the evaluation process he wanted me to skip in order to make the new deadline. That brought him up short."<br />
<br />
Jason's schedule might change from month to month, but essentially he chugged through the same series of stations - observation, write up, presentation, follow up - for each company that hired him. He could be counted on to send a postcard from each city he visited. The majority of the time she could guess what was written on the back just by looking at the picture. It was a form of finishing each other's sentences (which they also did on a regular basis), she supposed. After years of shared experiences, she had grown to anticipate his jokes and references. She recognized the twists and turns of his mind almost as well as she did her own. For example, she could hear in his voice that he was winding down, reaching the edge of his energy reserves.<br />
<br />
"Well, it sounds like you've had quite the day," Livie said. "You should probably get some rest, so you're ready to go to battle again tomorrow."<br />
<br />
"You didn't tell me about your day," Jason countered. "Tell me you didn't waste away from loneliness all day."<br />
<br />
This was her opportunity to come clean. She could just tell him about the phone call she had received and they could both have a good laugh over what Harold had suggested. Talking about it, bringing the evening's events out into the light, would disperse the mystery. Her current plan of action, so exhilarating up to now, would be revealed for the foolishness that it really was, and she could head for home (stopping for a pint of Ben and Jerry's Phish Food on the way). She could return to the comfortable cocoon that was her life.<br />
<br />
"Oh, I didn't do anything but lounge by the phone, pining for you, my dear," she said. "And I'll do nothing but the same until you call me tomorrow night." After a few brief expressions of love, they both hung up. <br />
<br />
She didn't want to be a caterpillar, safe in a cocoon, trusting that each day would be just as boring and predictable as the last. She wanted to do something shocking and dangerous. She wanted to feel adrenaline in her veins. She stepped out of the doorway that had sheltered her though her phone call, and resumed her journey along Magnolia Street. Thunder growled menacingly as the rain began to come down in earnest again.Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-37814032194110062822011-04-18T17:29:00.000-07:002011-04-18T17:29:00.381-07:00The Letter - Quick Write 4/18/11 Wrote the bare bones of this in 20 minutes. Then spent another 40 adding detail and flushing it out. It has potential, but I'm not sure I want to write another story with violence in it just yet. And this Frank is just brimming with violence, no?<br />
<br />
- - - - - <br />
<b>The Letter</b><br />
<br />
He had worked at that soul-sucking company without complaint for ten years, and this was the last straw. Frank stared at the crisp, white paper in his hand in disbelief. He had remained loyal to Lakes for 37 years. Despite every degrading and insulting demand they had thrown his way - pay freezes, reduced hours, a revolving door of incompetent, overpaid middle managers - he had tried to see things from the company perspective. He had accepted every pathetic excuse they had given him. <br />
<br />
"Times are tough all over, Frank."<br />
"I understand, Mr. Pickford."<br />
<br />
"There just aren't enough hours this week, Frank."<br />
"Maybe next week will be better, Mr. Pickford."<br />
<br />
"It's too bad for the guys who used to work the line, but without that new sorting technology we would lose our edge. Then there'd be no jobs for anyone, Frank."<br />
"Of course, you're right, Mr. Pickford."<br />
<br />
He had bent over backwards for that damned company for 2/3 of his life, and this was how they chose to repay him? Less than 100 words (even counting that jackass's pompous signature) on a single sheet of copy paper? Perhaps he had simply misunderstood. He scanned the brief paragraphs one more time. <br />
<br />
<i>Dear Mr. Miller,<br />
<br />
This letter is to inform you that you no longer qualify to receive health benefits through Lakes Recycling and Waste Management. Health coverage is provided to full time employees only, and since your hours have averages fewer than 40/week for the last 6 months, we will be reclassifying your position as part time effective September 1st.<br />
<br />
Please contact the Human Resources department at (723) 555 - 8832 if you have questions regarding this change to your employment status.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
James L Pickford, Jr<br />
Senior Management<br />
Lakes Recycling and Waste Management</i><br />
There was no chance of misunderstanding. The meaning was crystal clear. His reward for being a cooperative and understanding employee was to lose what few extra hours he could pick up, the minimal dollars they brought in, and his insurance all in one carefully crafted letter. With the news from Helen's recent appointment still weighing on his mind like a lead blanket, their timing couldn't have been more perfect. <br />
<br />
Frank tossed the offending letter on the table and stood up. Grabbing his jacket and slapping a baseball cap on his head, he headed out the back door. What the hell was he going to do now? Frank didn't have an answer to that question yet, but one thing was certain. Someone was going to pay.<br />
<br />
He stomped his way across the yard toward the shed. Helen's cat, Greta, saw him coming and high-tailed it for the bushes, hissing resentfully at his intrusion onto her hunting grounds. He and Greta had a hate/hate relationship, and that was just fine with him. He paused to insert a key into the padlock holding the shed's door closed. Used to be that you didn't have to lock up everything you owned. Now you couldn't leave a potted plant on the porch for fear some neighborhood brat would steal it and try to smoke it. The lock popped open, and Frank nudged a brick in front of the door to keep it ajar.<br />
<br />
The light was bad inside the shed. There was only one window, and that was so thickly covered with dust and grime that it reduced even the brightest summer sun to a murky gloom. Frank had originally intended to hook the shed up with electricity, but those bastards down at city hall did everything they could to keep the average Joe from understanding their convoluted building and renovation codes. By now, he knew the inside of that shed like the curve of his wife's hips. It was familiar, comforting. No point in changing things this late in the game.Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-46494997723156749572011-04-18T17:25:00.000-07:002011-04-18T17:32:55.131-07:00Guest Author!This story was written by a (secret) guest author. I think it's fabulous. I particularly like how REAL the characters are - even shy little Doris - in such a brief story. Leave a comment and let my guest know what you think. :)<br />
- - - - -<br />
SHIRTS<br />
<br />
Tyrone had worked for the company for ten years, and this was the last straw. This memo. This attack.<br />
<br />
He gripped the memo so tightly it crinkled as he leapt up, shoving back his chair all eight of the inches it took for it to smash into the cubicle wall. A quiet "whoa!" slipped over the wall accompanied by the clatter of falling pens on the other side. He stood a moment, staring into the overhead fluorescents as he ran over the lines in his head. He glanced down at the page again.<br />
<br />
... and hawaiian shirts ...<br />
<br />
Hawaiian shirts! Fuming, he stomped out of the cubicle and into the narrow walkway, elbowing aside Doris from the mail room. She stumbled back a step, bumping another cubicle, and gawked at his retreating form. The cubicle's inhabitant, Steven of the malodorous tuna sandwiches, slowly raised his head over the wall to see. Tyrone ignored it all, pounding forward toward the elevator. More heads popped up as he went, the commotion slowly attracting the attention of the entire office. By the time he reached the elevator doors, a small forest of quizzical heads had sprouted in his wake.<br />
<br />
He stabbed at the "up" button four times in quick succession - Ha - Wai -Ian - Shirts! Righteous indignation boiled over and he couldn't hold still. He paced back and forth in front of the doors, pausing every few seconds to roll his eyes or sneer at the crumpled paper in his hand.<br />
<br />
The elevator was slow. Above the doors, the 9 winked out, and, after a long moment, the 8 glowed. Tyrone froze and stared up at it for a couple of seconds, then resumed pacing.<br />
<br />
How many times had Frank come in in a Hawaiian shirt, blazing with tropical color and life, daring the office to just try to drain the life out of him? How many times? And now this memo?! Tyrone looked down at his own green sweater-vest, coordinated striped dress shirt, muted slacks. Respect. Respect is what this is about. Hawaiian shirts!<br />
<br />
Six.<br />
<br />
A polite cough turned Tyrone around, and Doris smiled shyly at him with a twinkling wave. "Is there something wrong, Tyrone? You seem kind of agitated...," she trailed off, putting her arms behind her back and almost toeing the floor like a six-year-old.<br />
<br />
Tyrone put his hands up a moment, started a shout, then caught himself. He looked down at the paper, up at the "5" glowing above the elevator, then back at Doris, who looked one snippy remark from jumping out a window. He pushed up his glasses, exhaled a sigh, and pointed to the memo. "Yes... there is something wrong. There is something wrong here at Jemason Incorporated, and it's rotting employee morale and driving customers away and probably making half the executives drink themselves to sleep every <br />
night!"<br />
<br />
His pace accelerated and volume rose with each word, until he was stabbing the page with an index finger to punctuate it. Again, he caught himself. Another deep breath, a hand through his hair. "Okay, I'm sorry. This has got me a little worked up..."<br />
<br />
As he searched for words, Doris pointed at the memo and offered, "Is that the dress code memo? It doesn't seem too strict to me-"<br />
<br />
"Strict?! Hawaiian shirts!" He stabbed it again, tearing a hole right through the word "Friday". "Of course it's not too strict! This vicious assault on corporate efficiency allows Frank, or any Johnny-dress-crappy with a closet full of eyeburn to wear Hawaiian shirts three days a week! This. Will. Be. Changed. This company can't afford to lose me, I'll tell you that right now."<br />
<br />
Doris shrank before his withering rant, glancing left and right as if seeking someone to tag in. Plenty of people were watching, and more were listening, with their heads ducked out of sight, but none close by. When he finished and took a breath, Doris edged away backwards, mumbling what quiet platitudes she could find for a crazy man.<br />
<br />
The elevator dinged and silently slid open. Tyrone glanced back at it, watched Doris retreating, then sit his lips into a grim line and turned. He strode into the elevator with the pure purpose of a holy crusader.Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-55999037134697805372011-02-08T14:52:00.000-08:002011-02-08T14:52:05.062-08:00Meh.I have spent the last 30 minutes trying to write something worth reading, and it's not working. I don't feel smart or funny or thoughtful or interesting today. Today I just feel mean. I feel like pulling my sister's hair. I feel like sneaking up behind someone and knocking the books out of his hands just so everyone will laugh. I feel like throwing rocks at the windows of an abandoned house just so I can hear the pieces rain down, knowing that someone else is going to have to clean up the mess. I want to punch my hand through the wall or knock over an entire bookshelf or take a baseball bat to someone's mailbox. I want to do something that will release this nasty, ugly, angry feeling that is boiling up inside me.<br />
<br />
You are probably wondering what could possibly be making me feel this way. Perhaps a poem will help me explain.<br />
<br />
- - - - -<br />
No Damned Good Reason<br />
<br />
Because the sleeves on this sweater are just a little bit too short.<br />
Because the sun was shining right in my eyes.<br />
Because the returns register is located way in the back corner at Kohl's.<br />
Because my iPhone has been cracked for 2 years.<br />
Because someone hurt my feelings.<br />
Because I can't see around that gas guzzling SUV in my way.<br />
Because people are careless.<br />
Because I am careless.<br />
Because I had to take the compost out yesterday.<br />
Because I don't have the words for what I'm trying to say.<br />
Because my lips are chapped.<br />
Because those blueberries aren't as sweet as I'd like.<br />
Because a car speeding through the parking lot almost hit me.<br />
Because my computer locked up.<br />
Because there has been a slightly tweaked muscle in my neck for 10 days.<br />
Because I can't have that thing I want.<br />
Because I can't have lots of the things I want.<br />
Because there's water damage on the bathroom ceiling.<br />
Because I burned my tongue on hot tea this morning.<br />
Because I forgot to floss.<br />
Because gas is so ridiculously expensive.<br />
Because a text message woke me up 2 minutes before my alarm went off.<br />
Because my hair-tie isn't working right.<br />
Because iTunes keeps shuffling through depressing songs.<br />
Because I can't think of anything to write.<br />
Because I don't live on a Hawaiian island.<br />
Because I don't feel appreciated.<br />
Because I am shallow enough to feel under-appreciated.<br />
Just because.<br />
<br />
- - - - -<br />
<br />
Whatever. I know that life is good. I know that I am lucky. I know that I am loved. I know that there is no damned good reason for the way I'm feeling. At the moment, that is all irrelevant.Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-36846502165122403232011-01-21T13:10:00.000-08:002011-01-21T13:26:04.036-08:00Great ExpectationsI have been working with children for as long as I can remember. My first experience in a classroom was when my baby brother (Hi, Ty!) was in kindergarten. I traded my study hall period for an hour of helping in his classroom. I read with them, played with them, helped them complete activities, and listened to their stories. I was in 7th grade at the time. I have held some kind of education related position every single year since then.<br />
<br />
Many of the things I do today are the product of hard work, practice, and dedication. Some skills were mastered relatively quickly. I've been walking and talking (to varying degrees of success) for 30+ years. I took to reading like a duck to water. Some were developed slowly over many years. My sewing skills have improved through the repetition of 2 decades. Mathematics and writing are still works in progress. The fundamentals of teaching - understanding what is going on inside the minds of children and being able to communicate new ideas to them - are skills that I don't remember learning. Teaching is what I was born to do. It is my purpose in life, and it is a part of me at a cellular level. <br />
<br />
Anyone who's had the dubious pleasure of carrying on a conversation about education with me will be able to tell you that I am more than a little opinionated on the subject. I have very strong feelings about what education is, how it should be done, and what is wrong with our public school system. I am very passionate about all things relating to the welfare of children and the molding of our future generations. Despite my lack of personal hands-on experience, I have some very distinct ideas about parenting, as well, although I am the first to admit that theory and practice are two very different animals.<br />
<br />
All that is preface for me to admit that I am a snob when it comes to teaching. I have very high standards when it comes to adults interacting with and holding influence over children, especially when said adults are supposed to be trained experts. If you wish to be a part of this thing that is the very core of my being and the reason for my existence, you better be ready to give it your A game. I have no patience for people who treat teaching like a hobby or a 40hr/wk obligation. <br />
<br />
What does it take to be a teacher I will look up to? I'm so glad you asked! I've arranged it into a nice little acrostic poem just for you! <br />
<br />
- - - - -<br />
<b>T is for teamwork.</b><br />
As a teacher, you are one small part of the team that is guiding each child into adulthood. You have to be able to work within the spectrum of teachers they are going to experience from kindergarten through high school and beyond. You have to be be willing to share ideas with and get ideas from the other teachers you work with every day. Teaching is too big a job to be contained within one single person. The only way to make the most of the collective knowledge, experience, and abilities of the educational system is to keep lines of communication in good repair.<br />
<br />
Most importantly, you have to understand how to be an effective member of each and every Parent-Teacher-Student triangle of which you are a part. This includes accepting the weighty responsibility of your chosen profession. As the "professional" within this triangle, you will be held to a higher standard in the areas of self-control, knowledge, ability, and leadership. If you don't want to do your fair share (and often an large part of someone else's fair share), teaching isn't the job for you.<br />
<br />
<b>E is for enthusiasm.</b><br />
Politicians and businessmen are doing their best to drain the fun and wonder from schools and turn them into factory floors. Students today are subjected to insanely high levels of testing and stress within our educational system, leading to feelings of anxiety, frustration, fear, and depression. Teachers must be able to reach through all that and convince their students that school is a positive place to be and that the process of learning is rewarding. Kids have an amazing ability to see past your facades and into your true feelings. If you don't truly enjoy your job or the material you are teaching, they will know that and it will influence their willingness to cooperate with you.<br />
<br />
This doesn't mean you can't have a bad day. Even the most enthusiastic teacher will have an off day. Children know what it is like to have an off day or make a mistake, and they can be very forgiving as long as they trust that in your heart of hearts you are enthusiastic about what you are sharing with them.<br />
<br />
<b>A is for accuracy. </b><br />
<b> </b>Obviously, the foundation of accuracy is having knowledge. This means being a life-long learner. Good teachers see themselves as continuous students. They take classes. They read. They talk about politics, religion, and the many other complexities of humanity. Good teachers reach outside their comfort zone to explore uncharted territories and make unexpected discoveries.<br />
<br />
Being accurate isn't about how much information you can hold in your brain, though. If it were, I'd be screwed. I will freely admit that there are a great number of things that I do not know. For one thing, I have only studied tiny bits of a very small number of the subjects available to humanity in the 21st century. For another, I do not have a very good memory, and I'm sure that I have forgotten the majority of those things I have studied. Accuracy in teaching is often about your willingness to say "That's a very good question that I don't know how to answer. What could we do to find out?" coupled with your legitimate interest in the answer. <br />
<br />
Accuracy is also about being able to gracefully admit to being wrong. There are going to be times when a 9 year old knows more than you about a particular subject. You and your ego have to be able to acknowledge their expertise and admit your own ignorance. This must be done carefully, however. There is a fine line between allowing kids to see that you are still learning and making them think they can't trust you to know what you are talking about.<br />
<br />
<b>C is for curriculum.</b><br />
Developing a curriculum that works for your style is one of the most important jobs in teaching. Unfortunately, the textbook companies have such influence over schools that teacher prep courses often focus on how to follow a teacher's manual rather than how to truly develop lesson plans. A teacher's guide can be a great resource, especially as new teachers are finding their footing, but it makes me cringe to see experienced teachers moving day by day through a mass produced curriculum with little to no regard for the actual progress of their students. <br />
<br />
Good teachers know how to tailor their lessons to meet the needs and interests of their students. They recognize the individuality of each child in their care, and know how to blend those unique individuals into a working whole. Good teachers make their lessons both motivating and meaningful. They can break a concept down into components small enough for students to master while simultaneously allowing students to visualize that concept's importance within the big picture. Teachers must know their students and their standards like the back of their hand, but they must be able to make adjustments on the fly. When curriculum planning is done correctly, the teacher has found that perfect balance between preparation and improvisation.<br />
<br />
<b>H is for heart.</b><br />
<b> </b>In my opinion, this is the most important component of teaching because this is the driving force behind everything else. Being a teacher means adding a new batch of children to your family every year. It means expanding your heart to include each name on your roster. Not just for the time that they are in your class, but for the rest of your life. If you are doing it right, you will suffer from empty nest syndrome every June as your hatchlings fly off and leave you. You will wake up in the middle of the night wondering whatever happened to that poor little guy from 5 years ago. You will feel pride whenever you run into or hear news about a former student. You will brag about them to your family and friends because they will be a part of your family and your heart forever.<br />
<br />
Like all parents, good teachers also experience frustration and anger. If your students don't disappoint you or upset you occasionally, you aren't investing enough of yourself into your teaching. If your students are failing tests or neglecting their work or tuning you out, you should be driven to do whatever it takes to find a solution. This means digging deeper into the causes behind these behaviors. It means thinking outside the box and calling on every resource at your disposal. Teachers have to be able to morph frustration and anger into the fuel needed to keep going until something works.<br />
<br />
It is vitally important that your students feel your pride and learn to trust that you care about them before you express your frustration or anger with them. It is equally important that they understand that your pride and frustration aren't mutually exclusive.<br />
- - - - -<br />
<br />
There you have it - the five elements that I feel are absolutely necessary for quality teaching. I recognize that it isn't possible for any teacher to excel in all these areas at all times, but the teachers I respect the most are the ones who recognize the value of these aspects of their job.<br />
<br />
I should add that time, while not actually mentioned by name, is woven into each of the 5 aspects above. <b>It takes time</b> to communicate, to care, to plan, to learn. Good teachers come in early, stay late, and spend a significant portion of their weekends and their often envied vacation time working. Teaching isn't just a hobby. It's not even just a job. It's a lifestyle. And it takes a special kind of person to life it.Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-50664150749723399012011-01-19T10:09:00.001-08:002011-01-19T10:09:54.242-08:00Front PorchThe entrance to my humble modular home is still accessed by the same temporary set of wooden steps that were put in when the house was first pieced together 6 years ago. I believe that the expectation was for us, the first owners to actually take up residence within, to replace those temporary steps with something more permanent. A deck, perhaps, or maybe a nicely formed set of concrete steps. Unfortunately, those expectations couldn't stand up to the aggressive combination of apathy and penny-pinching that guides our home maintenance program.<br />
<br />
Most days, firmly entrenched in the GO GO GO mentality that is so prevalent in our society, I hate those steps. Did I say hate? Hate doesn't carry enough emotion. I abhor and revile those steps, with their wobbling treads and peeling paint. I despise their penchant for impaling my fingers with splinters. I loathe the way the nails slowly work their way out of the wood, striving to snag unsuspecting shoelaces and pants seams. I detest the railings and their hidden unreliable nature. When I look at them with the eyes of a consumer, a rat racer, a participant in the one-up-man-ship of neighborhood living, I wish every day that I could replace those dilapidated steps with something that more closely resembles the elaborate dreams in my head. Occasionally, however, the scales of materialistic desire fall from my eyes, and I am reminded how comfortable my steps really are. This morning was a perfect example of this kind of clarity. <br />
<br />
By 8:00, the sun had risen past the redshank bushes on the top of the hill and begun it's march across the sky, unseasonably enthusiastic for a January high desert morning. Under this energetic glow, the front porch warmed up quickly. The dogs, who had been baking happily on the top step until I opened the door, swirled excitedly around me as I settled my bottom on one step, feet on another. Uncontainable in the sheer joy of human company, tongues swabbed my chin and noses pushed their way under my hand. <br />
<br />
I gazed out over the piece of land I call home. A long, green hose snaked its way from the spigot at the corner of the house, through the legs of the lawn table (lonely now that all its chairs have been banished to the garage), to the base of one of the currently dormant lilac bushes. A slight breeze danced softly through the tops of the redshank, but the air at ground level was undisturbed. A bluish haze of mountain, trustworthy and solid, stood guard in the distance.<br />
<br />
I could smell the ground and the bushes, the dogs and the house as they all soaked in the sun. For a brief moment, there were no far off cars, no barking neighbor dogs, no planes zooming overhead. There was just the peace of being exactly where you are supposed to be, surrounded by the things that bring you joy. There was just home, and there is no place I love more. <br />
<br />
Broken down, old steps, and all.Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-22258002618573705592011-01-10T10:15:00.000-08:002011-01-10T10:21:29.822-08:00Belief SystemHaving <a href="http://www.facebook.com/LordChickenMaster/posts/190945274256277?ref=notif&notif_t=feed_comment_reply">a fascinating discussion</a> <i>(depending on the security settings in place, you may or may not be able to follow that link)</i> via FaceBook regarding religion, progress, and the future of humanity. Got me thinking about my personal belief system. The Religion of Sol can pretty much be boiled down to the following:<br />
<br />
"All I can do is live my life the way I believe it should be lived for the good of as large a <a href="http://www.cracked.com/article_14990_what-monkeysphere.html">monkeysphere</a> as possible and with as little hypocrisy as possible, and hope that everyone else will do the same."*<br />
<br />
I know there's a lot of room for interpretation there, and as my dear Uncle Neil pointed out, "Hope isn't enough.", but that is the foundation upon which my daily decisions are made. And isn't that what religion is all about?<br />
<br />
<i>*I know that it is the epitome of gauche behavior to quote one's self, but I wanted to remember this. And I'm pretty gauche even at my best.</i>Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-73187975918410517722011-01-09T13:35:00.000-08:002011-01-09T13:35:53.857-08:00TattletaleWhen we were rearranging furniture a few months back, we finally decided to get rid of a couple of old living room chairs. Hand-me-downs from Mike's parents (as much of our furniture is), they are short, squat things of a indeterminate beige coloring. When we bought our first house, I purchased slipcovers for them to disguise the way the cats had shredded the backs into non-existence. Choosing the least hideous of the patterns available was a challenge, so for some time they were short, squat things covered in giant blue cabbage roses. Most recently, they have served the sole purpose of providing comfortable seating for the quatrain of cats that own us. If you, yourself are owned by even a single cat, I'm sure you will understand why it took us so long to act upon our desire to dispose of these chairs. Having experienced a full and productive existence, the chairs were finally moved to the garage, the purgatory our belongings end up in for that endless period of time before we finally load them in the trailer and take them to the dump.<br />
<br />
But this isn't just a story about chairs. This is mostly a story about my dogs, Trooper and Wiggles. Trooper is a 7 year old black lab mix. He has a stocky build, huge paws, and a head shape that makes people ask if there is pit bull in his lineage. (Maybe? I don't know.) He has a sweetly serious temperament, taking everything I say to heart. Although he doesn't pick up commands as quickly as his sister (Mia) did, once he understands what I want of him, he does it without question or complaint. The only thing he won't do, no matter how much I command, suggest or cajole, is set foot in water. You would think a lab who experiences 100 degree temps every summer would love getting wet, but Trooper would rather roast to death than put one paw in the wading pool we provide for them. <br />
<br />
Wiggles, on the other hand, loves the water. She not only stands in the pool, she lays down and rolls around in it. Wiggles is a black lab/retriever mix. She's probably about 3 years old. She appeared out of nowhere a couple years ago, a mostly grown, not quite starving pup who was desperate for some love and attention. She would climb over our 6 foot chain link fence (as just about any dog in the neighborhood, including my own, can apparently do) and cavort with Mia and Trooper for awhile before we noticed her, causing her to climb back over the fence and run off. This went on for several days before I finally told her that if she wanted to stay with us she had to stop reminding Mia and Trooper how easy it was to climb the fence. I put the training collar on her and did a few laps showing her what I meant. She was a quick learner, needing only the beeps and my tug on the leash to get her to understand. "She's a smart one," I told Mike. Ha! I spoke too soon.<br />
<br />
Wiggles is well meaning and eager to please, but she's a far cry from smart. Lucky for her, she is ridiculously adorable. As soon as she sees you, her whole body starts to wag (hence the name) and she immediately starts searching the vicinity for a stick or rock or blade of grass or something to hold in her mouth. Her life would be perfect if she could spend every waking minute and most of the sleeping ones jammed up against a human being who would consent rub her chin nonstop until the end of time. Being a youngster, she is full of energy and loves to play. Her favorite game is Annoy the Hell out of Trooper. She bumps into him, bites at his legs, runs circles around him, and generally does all the things an annoying little sister would do to inspire an older brother to lose his cool and start chasing her in circles. She's very good at this game.<br />
<br />
Although I am the Alpha of my little pack of canines, Trooper is the second in command. He eats first, he has the best territory, and he is the first to chase off the cars that occasionally drive past our house. Wiggles constantly challenged Mia's status in the pack, probably because she knew Mia was sick, but she never challenges Trooper's authority. He is the clearly established dominant. Except for one thing.<br />
<br />
Here's where the chairs come in. During the recent <strike>rainy</strike> monsoon season at our house, we let the dogs reside in the garage for a couple of the wettest, most miserable days. During that time, Wiggles discovered The Chairs. You can tell that's how she thinks of them, with capital letters. She loved The Chairs and spent the remainder of the rainy days snuggled down in one or the other. By the time the rain stopped, she had grown so attached to The Chairs that it broke her little heart when she was once again restricted to the out of doors, chair-less. Every time I would open the garage door to fill their food bowls, she would sneak inside and hunker down on one of The Chairs, pleading with her sweet, brown eyes for me to let her stay there. Finally, I gave in and moved The Chairs out into the kennel area. She and Trooper both prefer to sleep on the chairs than in the igloos unless it is exceptionally cold and windy. Even then, Wiggles will often stay on The Chairs, causing me to fret about her well-being and cover her with a blanket. (I know... I know... ) <br />
<br />
Somewhere along the line, Trooper decided that he liked one of The Chairs better than the other. Perhaps because of the feel of the cushions. Perhaps because of the way Wiggles had gnawed an arm of the other one to destruction. Perhaps because of some doggie reasoning that I will never know or understand. Whatever the reason, Trooper only likes to sleep in His Chair. Wiggles, being the brattiest of bratty little sisters, immediately decided that she, too, preferred sleeping in His Chair. And since she is usually the first to settle in for the night while Trooper is still securing the property, she is often in His Chair when he wants to go to bed.<br />
<br />
He's the bigger, stronger dog who has been here longer <b>and</b> has a higher standing in the hierarchy of our pack. You'd think he could handle this. You would be wrong. Instead of making her move, he sits next to the chair and barks. Not the 3 note bark that he uses to warn trespassing cars and animals of his presence. Not the howling bark that he uses to commune with his coyote brethren. One single, sharp bark. I have secretly observed him doing this through a window. He is sitting in front of her, but he is barking in my direction. He wants me to know that she is in His Chair. If he happens to see me moving around on the other side of the window, he runs over to the edge of the kennel, stares intently at me, and repeats his one sharp bark.<br />
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The first time this happened, I was confused. Was he hurt? Had something gotten in the yard? Had I forgotten to feed them? Then, I suddenly recognized the tone of his bark. I recognized it from my years in the classroom, my hours of playground duty, and my own personal experiences with younger siblings who liked to take my things and drive me crazy (and whom I may have, on rare occasion, tortured in return). I knew exactly what he was trying to say.<br />
<br />
"Mooooooooooooooom! Wiggles won't get out of my chair!"<br />
<br />
My dog, Trooper, is a tattletale.Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-53377027303086640232011-01-08T14:23:00.000-08:002011-01-08T14:23:11.043-08:00Book Review - The Name of the WindI am a fan of fairy tales - always have been. Partly because I'm a dyed-in-the-wool romantic, and nothing makes a romantic's heart weep like the will-they-won't-they relationships found in fairy tales. Partly because I was taught quite early in my childhood to always root for the underdog (<i>Let's go, Mets!</i>), and the heart of all fairy tales is the path of an underappreciated, misunderstood youngster who faces poverty, injury, loss, illness, and certain death in order to defeat evil. Mostly because I am drawn with every fiber of my being to a good rhythm, and there isn't a genre within the realm of the written word that can influence the tide of one's heart-blood like a fairy tale. <br />
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A well-written fairy tale makes you feel like you're sitting around a campfire that is just barely staving off the darkness and wilderness of night, going over the events of the day with people whom you can implicitly trust to have your back. It speaks to your mind's ear in the voice of a road-weary gypsy story-teller. It finds the right balance between the expected - the magic of threes, the foreshadowing, the black hat-/white hat elements - and the unexpected - the surprising twists that fling our hero(ine) into and out of trouble with such abandon. Fairy tales leave you wrapped in a patchwork quilt of emotional aftermath: elation, melancholy, fury, and of course, hope.<br />
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There are a great number of fairy tales written specifically for adults. One of the best that I have come across is <b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Name-Wind-Kingkiller-Chronicles-Day/dp/0756405890/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1294524997&sr=1-1"><i>The Name of the Wind</i></a> by Patrick Rothfuss</b>. <i>(Aside - I would guess that this book is officially considered a 'fantasy', but it felt very fairy tale to me.)</i> Imagine <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Harry-Potter-Sorcerers-Stone-Anniversary/dp/054506967X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1294525129&sr=1-1"><i>Harry Potter</i></a> (<i>exceptionally bright hero chafes under limitations and rules of youth</i>) meets<i> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Princess-Bride-Morgensterns-Classic-Adventure/dp/034543014X">The Princess Bride</a> </i>(<i>an innocent yet smoldering, star-crossed romance</i>) meets <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dragonlance-Chronicles-Trilogy-Gift-Set/dp/0786926813">DragonLance</a> (<i>feudal setting filled with burly peasants who gather at inns to discuss the nearby forest's potential for evil</i>). It has adventure and science and magic and beggars and mead and candles and headmasters and maidens and copper coins and lutes and jealousy and keys and a maybe-dragon. In short, it is exactly the kind of story in which I want to immerse myself for hours upon hours at a time.<br />
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I have only a few complaints about this book. The first is that it was a mere 722 pages long. I devoured it in the course of several unintentionally late nights, and I am now slavering for more. The second is that, in the fashion of many great fairy tale/fantasy stories, this book is really just a large part of the whole story. It ends rather abruptly and leaves the many threads of the story all loose and dangly. This would be fine, if not for my third complaint. Thirdly, the second book in the story has yet to be released. <i>(According to his <a href="http://www.patrickrothfuss.com/content/index.asp">website</a>, it is expected to come out in March of 2011.)</i><br />
<br />
I am in agony. If you have any affection for fairy tales or fantasy stories, you should get your hands on a copy as soon as you possibly can. My misery needs some company.Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-81383929050096872682011-01-02T13:40:00.000-08:002011-01-03T12:48:40.827-08:00My MiaIt's been several months now since my Mia lost her battle to lymphoma. I started writing this shortly after I learned she was sick and as she got worse, I didn't have the strength to finish it. I don't want to leave her story untold, though, so here it is...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgExuFNijzpQz6I6MwiJkzupN65cvaIFHBnpjUWBRkgjijLEUWT1_Tws5iPKjE5QyDWJAevAFxc3RWAvkCGIbswi5rAzuhwhrB3weyN3yTkB_ddlKWGJGReA4Oq_x-8OOu09uz8/s1600/23May2009+032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgExuFNijzpQz6I6MwiJkzupN65cvaIFHBnpjUWBRkgjijLEUWT1_Tws5iPKjE5QyDWJAevAFxc3RWAvkCGIbswi5rAzuhwhrB3weyN3yTkB_ddlKWGJGReA4Oq_x-8OOu09uz8/s320/23May2009+032.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
I first met Mia when she was just a few weeks old. She was one of the puppies born to my dear friend Ann's dog, Shammy. I don't specifically remember Mia as an individual, so much as I remember the whole wriggling, wiggling, tumbling mass of puppies in Ann's laundry room. I do remember being surprised to find that Shammy, a yellow lab who is so pale she is almost white, had given birth to an entire litter of puppies that were such a dark brown that they looked black except in the most direct sunlight. At the time, I lived in a tiny house on a tiny lot next to a street that was often used by drag racers late at night. I enjoyed playing with the puppies but knew that I wouldn't be taking any of them home with me.<br />
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Another woman and her daughters were there visiting the puppies at the same time. They ended up adopting the runt, Mia, and one of the males, whom they eventually named Trooper. I figured that was that.<br />
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Two years passed.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj80l5wTHYGf1RqpGl1dNsGZB6iCh7gATaPuBdacIGRsMCyaLklnMm8NAF55bfwHtfybCTZEbMzDPCK3TpPflXTWHq6grePCuBHSubavdmKvxF_0Ls5lzuqPN4dRN1X6kPixNCi/s1600/23May2009+039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj80l5wTHYGf1RqpGl1dNsGZB6iCh7gATaPuBdacIGRsMCyaLklnMm8NAF55bfwHtfybCTZEbMzDPCK3TpPflXTWHq6grePCuBHSubavdmKvxF_0Ls5lzuqPN4dRN1X6kPixNCi/s320/23May2009+039.JPG" width="240" /></a>One day, at work, Ann came to me, distraught. She had just learned that the puppies (now 2 years old) were being sent to the pound. To make matters worse, when they were turned in to the pound it had been reported that they were acting aggressively towards people and other dogs. (Although I don't know for sure, I suspect this was a complete falsehood. They play loudly and they try to sound tough when someone comes near our property uninvited, but they don't have an aggressive bone in their bodies.) This meant that instead of trying to find them a new home, the folks at the pound were going to have them put down. Knowing that I had just recently moved to a new home on a completely fenced 2 acre lot, Ann asked if I would foster Mia and Trooper while she worked to find them a new home. Assuring Mike that it would just be temporary, I managed to get him on board.<br />
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They arrived at our house on a Saturday. Ann and her husband helped us reinforce the fenced outdoor cat-run, and they settled in. I quickly realized that these rowdy, untrained labs were going to be hard to place. Not wanting to set them up for failure, I had to admit to potential adoptive families that they barked at anything that moved, dug holes all over the yard, went nuts when they saw the cats through the windows, climbed both under and over the fence to roam the neighborhood, and didn't know a single command. They jumped up on people, loved to tear open garbage bags and throw the contents about the garage, and even jumped onto the roof of my car (leaving some nice, deep gashes that nearly gave my father-in-law a heart attack when he saw them). They were beautiful labs with energetic, friendly personalities, but their bad habits were daunting.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghW9smA0IUagmYX9ELL1CXc4rPnWqCQAji32wRk7lfxWERUYyPHrGrrHvjxL2ALD8ZFBZ0Hg3lFfkSsHmoYIBHK-1QbTq5vPcLsDAbiviG34mozKFZLdfyc8mEoIo5L4zqo2ty/s1600/7Aug2009+019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghW9smA0IUagmYX9ELL1CXc4rPnWqCQAji32wRk7lfxWERUYyPHrGrrHvjxL2ALD8ZFBZ0Hg3lFfkSsHmoYIBHK-1QbTq5vPcLsDAbiviG34mozKFZLdfyc8mEoIo5L4zqo2ty/s320/7Aug2009+019.JPG" width="240" /></a>After several months of fostering, I starting thinking of them as "my" dogs. By that time, I had started teaching them to come when called and to sit on command. They were learning to jump next to, rather than onto, people when greeting them. After many nights with me hiding near a window and throwing penny-filled soda cans toward the kennel, they were learning to limit their barking to appropriate times. Eventually, I admitted to myself and my husband that I had no intention of letting them go. A big reason for that was the events of the Fourth of July.<br />
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<br />
From the very beginning, Mia was an independent thinker. She did what she wanted, when she wanted, and how she wanted. She had spent the first 2 years of her life as the leader of the pack (Trooper may have been bigger, but he recognized that she had all the good ideas and followed her loyally), and wasn't going to hand over her crown easily. She also had built up a fair amount of mistrust for humans. Although she was friendly enough, you could tell that she was just waiting for something bad to happen. Shortly after the dogs moved to our place, Mikey was doing yardwork. He picked up a large branch to toss it onto the brush pile, and Mia, on the other side of the yard, immediately dropped to the ground in a defensive position. Later she did the same thing when a male friend of ours was using the hose to water the garden. It took her almost a year to lose that reaction to men she perceived as "armed".<br />
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Trooper quickly accepted us into the pack, but Mia treated us like company for a long time. On July 4th, 5 months after they came to live with us, was the first time that she really let her guard down around us. Mia, like many dogs, was terrified of sudden noises. She didn't like hearing gunshots, or even loud hammering, in the distance. Imagine her terror then, when the fireworks started. At that point, we were still keeping them on leash whenever they were out of the kennel since they had a bad habit of disappearing over the fence as soon as our backs were turned. Trooper and I were sitting on a rock, and Mikey was walking Mia around the yard as we waited for the show to start. After the first crash of fireworks, Mia began pulling frantically at the leash. She didn't stop until she had made her way over to my rock and into my lap. She spent the entire 20 minutes huddled up against me. <br />
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From that point on, Mia gradually entrusted me with the role of pack leader. She would (mostly) do what I asked, often with a wry look that said "Alright, but that's not how *I* would do it", and she never gave up the habit of trying to climb into my lap - all 55 pounds of her - when she was nervous. The next 3 years were fabulous. Mia and her brother went from barking, digging, chewing, escaping visitors to being two of the best dogs I have ever known.<br />
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In February of 2010, Mia started walking funny. At first we thought she was having muscle or joint problems, but eventually, as she gradually lost the ability to control her hind legs, we determined that there was something pressing on her spine. Suspecting a ruptured disc, she had the first of what ended up being many, many procedures. Instead of the disc material he expected, the surgeon found a mass that allowed the doctors to diagnose her with small cell lymphoma.<br />
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We threw everything we could at the disease. She had a 4 week course of daily radiation treatments, followed by several different forms of chemotherapy. Mia and I were at one vet's office or another several times a week for the next 7 months. Through that time, she accepted everything we did - poking, prodding, traveling, medicating, restraining - with the same faith she showed me on that Fourth of July. She trusted me completely. I will always be honored that my Mia, a dog who knew her own mind, was willing to put that kind of trust in me.<br />
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On September 20th, Mia let us know that she was ready to move on, even if we weren't ready to let her go. Her calm acceptance of the truth was the last lesson that she shared with me. I still have Trooper (and my dear spazzy Wiggles), and I know that I will share my home with many dogs as the years go by - I'm a sucker for an animal in need - but I don't think I will ever love another dog in quite the same way that I loved my Mia.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-55176501481440536392011-01-02T12:19:00.000-08:002011-01-02T12:19:37.179-08:00Excerpt #4Took 3 hours to slog my way through 1000 words today. I have been away from the story for too long, and I lost the emotional thread. I think I finally found it in the last two paragraphs...<br />
- - - <br />
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"I don't want to hear your whining excuses," Robert snapped. He brought his arm up as if he were going to backhand his son. For the first time since the door had closed, Karin moved. She took a single step, putting herself between her brother and her father's outstretched hand. Her heart beating loudly in her ears, she faced her inebriated father. She spoke slowly and calmly, fear betrayed only by a slight breathiness in her voice, "That's enough. They were right to cut you off. You need to leave now, before you do something you can't take back."<br />
<br />
It took all the courage she had to stand there, ramrod straight, while her father debated his next move. Slowly he put his arm back down by his side and took a step backward. Before he turned to leave, he uttered six words, shoving them into her heart like knives. "I expected more from you, Rini." The stress and adrenaline of the situation finally overwhelmed her, black roses blooming across her vision. By the time her world stopped spinning and her breathing returned to normal, he was gone.Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-4859458882980231392011-01-01T15:13:00.000-08:002011-01-01T15:13:00.106-08:001/1/11January 1st. <br />
<br />
The eldest child of the year, piled high with the responsibility of all our hopes, dreams, and wishes. The one day when potential shines brightly without the tarnish of inevitable failures or disappointments. A time for us to shake off the mud and grime of the previous year and start fresh. January 1st is here once again, challenging us to forgive ourselves for the mistakes of the past 12 months and renew our faith in our own ability and motivation for the next 12. <br />
<br />
Perhaps it's because I am an eldest child myself, or perhaps just because I have an affinity for organizing and planning (I feel there might be a correlation between those two...), but I have always enjoyed the turning of the year. My chosen career path provides me with a nice vacation during which I can recharge my batteries and build up the energy to try, try again at this thing called life.<br />
<br />
I gave up on 'New Year's Resolutions' several years ago. I hate the black-or-white quality of resolutions. There's no wiggle room and no opportunity for redemption. Once you've eaten that first extra bowl of ice cream, skipped your run for the first time, or smoked that first cigarette, you are a failure until January 1st rolls around again. I can't handle that kind of pressure. Instead, Mikey and I take time around the first of January to evaluate the facets of our lives - work, health, home, relationships, fun, growth, etc. What are we doing well? What do we need to work on? What would make us healthier, happier, kinder, better (and let's be honest, wealthier) people? Most importantly, what small steps we can realistically take to make these ideas for improvement a reality?<br />
<br />
Coming from an educational background, and having plenty of experience with IEPs, I tend to think along those lines for my goal planning. Having had the idea of SMART goals drilled into me during many in-services and staff meetings, I try to make each goal:<br />
<blockquote><b>Specific</b> - know exactly what you hope to accomplish and why<br />
<b>Measurable</b> - plan how are you going to know when you have reached your goal<br />
<b>Attainable</b> - make sure you have (or can get) access to the tools and resources needed to reach your goal<br />
<b>Realistic </b>- stretch yourself to reach new heights, but don't set yourself up for failure<br />
<b>Timely </b>- identify time frames for your goal (or better yet, for small chunks of your goal)</blockquote>Some years, I have actual write out goals, complete with baselines and progress markers. Other years I simply jot down notes regarding my goals. Sometimes having my goals posted somewhere visible is motivating and others it is just intimidating. Sometimes I share all the specifics of my goals with others so that I feel some obligation to continue making progress, and other times I keep them to myself in order to avoid jinxing them. The documentation is less important (for me) than the process of really thinking about where I am and where I'd like to be. No matter what my goals are or how they manifest themselves on a given year, it is always interesting when January 1st rolls around, and I get the opportunity to meet the new "Me". The "Me" who is 365 days older and ready to carry the responsibility of yet another year's hopes, dreams, struggles, and potential.<br />
<br />
With that in mind, here are a few of my 2011 goals (you'll notice that this year was a "jot them down" kind of year). Last year was a year of starting many new things that brought me feelings of joy, contentment, and success, so this year many of my goals consist of not letting those new things lapse. I know these don't look like SMART goals... but that's because nobody but me cares about the details! You're welcome.<br />
<br />
<b>Health</b>: run on a regular basis, regular dental/optometry/gp visits<br />
<b>Home</b>: chore schedule, spend more time with dogs/cats, work on yard maintenance<br />
<b>Family</b>: remember birthdays/holidays in timely manner, maintain regular contact, save for a trip to MN<br />
<b>Work</b>: finish masters, maintain/strengthen social networking, budget time more wisely, give time/energy to school/students as needed<br />
<b>Fun</b>: make Etsy items, read more, continue actively connecting with friends, make weekend trips a priority<br />
<b>Growth</b>: write more, practice acceptance/forgiveness<br />
<br />
I think these goals should keep me busy for the next year. I can't wait to see what 2011 has in store for me. What are YOUR goals for the new year?Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-26019523896891445902010-11-24T09:25:00.000-08:002010-11-24T09:25:13.043-08:00Excerpt #3It's been a while since I shared anything, so here's a taste of a different character. <br />
<br />
- - - -<br />
<br />
Karin sat at her customary table in the teacher's lounge. With one hand, she lifted a slice of homemade pizza to her mouth. With the other, she made a series of purple circles on the paper in front of her. She shook her head and looked at the woman sitting next to her. "I don't know why I bother copying those stupid spelling lists each week, Dani. It's clear that no one is looking at them" She tossed her pen down in frustration and gave the pizza her full attention. "Just think of the savings to my budget if I just stopped." She laughed. "And just think of the endless stream of irate calls I would get!"<br />
<br />
Dani laughed. "How dare you not supply a word list for my little darling to ignore?" she said in her best snooty parent voice. She pointed her fork, complete with ranch dipped tomato slice, in Karin's direction and continued, "I pay taxes that fund this school. I help pay your salary. I'm practically your boss, and if I say I want extra copies of the spelling list so I can line my bird cage you have to give them to me!" She emphasized her words with a flourish of the fork that sent her tomato slice flying across the room. Karin and Dani dissolved into laughter.<br />
<br />
"Seriously, though," Karin said. "My kids are averaging about 63% on their spelling tests lately. I've got to do something. That's just not acceptable."<br />
<br />
Her phone began to vibrate in her jacket pocket. Pulling it out, she could see that it was her brother Alex calling. Of course. She'd been home all weekend without a peep from anyone. It was only when she was working, when talking was inconvenient or impossible, that her siblings ever tried to reach her. She glanced at the clock and sighed. With 10 minutes left of her lunch break, she figured she should probably see what he needed.Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-58931685709229095942010-11-07T18:03:00.000-08:002010-11-07T18:03:11.795-08:00Another excerptAlex's second accident was significantly less dramatic. It had happened a couple of years later just before hunting season. It had been a beautiful summer, and the deer population was thriving on the ample greenery. Despite his vigilance in the falling darkness, Alex was surprised by the buck that flung itself out of the bushes that lining the road. He stomped on his brakes, and flung his arm out automatically to protect the stack of pizzas on the seat next to him. The deer flashed its white tail and disappeared into the woods on the other side of the road. Alex pulled over to inspect the damage. Unfortunately, forward momentum had caused the pizzas to fold themselves up at the front of the boxes. In some cases a traumatized pizza could be saved with some careful maneuvering, but these were unsalvageable.<br />
<br />
Alex had called the restaurant to let them know he would be needing replacement pizzas. By the time they were ready to go, Terry had already finished documenting the incident in his file. "You better be careful, Alex," he had warned. "This was your second accident. You've got to make it the next 18 months without an accident, or you're outta here.<br />
<br />
Alex made it 17 months, 4 days, and 21 hours.Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-71976953496893586392010-11-03T11:05:00.000-07:002010-11-03T11:05:24.111-07:00An excerptMr. Howard settled back in his chair. "I'm not about to hire someone I can't trust, but I'm also not about to lose a good employee to malicious gossip. How 'bout you shed some light on your side of these stories and let me decide for myself? Let's start with your most recent job. Wasn't that over at the cannery in Marsden?"<br />
<br />
- - - - - <br />
<br />
The Marsden Cannery had been a disaster. Desperate for some income, Alex had let an old high school buddy talk him into taking a job stacking pallets on the loading docks. He had only been there a few weeks when he overheard Vinnie Henderson, one of the warehouse managers, shouting at another employee.<br />
<br />
"What are you, retarded?" Vinnie yelled. "Sometimes I think you must be an ass dressed up in people clothes, 'cause that's how fuckin' stupid you are. How many goddamn times do I gotta tell you to put the red pallets on the right and the green pallets on the left? Fer'chrissake, Big Eddie. Use yer fuckin' head." Big Eddie cowered as Vinnie threw the red pallet he was holding down with a crash and stormed out of the room. Big Eddie stared at the door for a moment before picking up the offending pallet. He looked at it carefully for some time before taking a hesitant step toward the pile on the left. He paused and glanced at the door through which the angry manager had just disappeared.<br />
<br />
One look at his furrowed brow and downturned mouth made it clear that he didn't know where to put the pallet in his hand. Big Eddie's distinctively rounded face and upward slanting eyes made it obvious at first glance that he had Down's Syndrome. He came over from the Frost Lake Group Home a couple of times a week to sweep up and help with the pallets. He had been one of the first to welcome Alex to the cannery, and they had quickly become friends. Alex walked around the corner and greeted Big Eddie with a smile.<br />
<br />
"Hey, Big Eddie! How are ya?" He slapped Eddie playfully on the back. "Did you catch the Twins game last night? How 'bout that last minute homer?"<br />
<br />
Big Eddie's face lit up. "Hi, Alex," he said. "Yes, I watched the game. I always watch the Twins. I was afraid they were going to lose, but then they didn't. Did you watch the game?"<br />
<br />
"You know I did," laughed Alex. "I'm just like you. I always watch the Twins." He looked at the pallet that was still in Big Eddie's hands. "You want a hand with that, Big Eddie?"<br />
<br />
The frown returned to Eddie's face. "Red pallets on the right. They both start with "r"." There was a touch of defiance in the eyes that met Alex's. "I'm not stupid. I'm good at remembering things."<br />
<br />
"I know you are, Eddie. I know you are," Alex said. "You're the only one who knew what Ramirez's batting average was last year, aren't you? Vinnie just got upset."<br />
<br />
"I'm not stupid," Big Eddie repeated. "I don't know why he has to be so mean to me. It's not fair for him to yell at me when they're all the same. I am putting the red pallets on the right." Eddie's voice shook slightly.<br />
<br />
"Don't worry, Eds," Alex said. Suddenly a thought occured to him. "Hey, Big Eddie, what color are my shoes?"<br />
<br />
Big Eddie looked down at Alex's lime green Converse sneakers. "That's a silly question, Alex. Your shoes are red." Suddenly he frowned again. "Aren't they?"<br />
<br />
"I think I know what the problem is, Big Eddie. Has anyone ever told you that you were color blind?"<br />
<br />
Eddie laughed. "I am not blind, Alex. I can see!" He laughed again at the sheer ridiculousness of Alex's question.<br />
<br />
"Not blind, Eds. Color blind. That means that your eyes can't tell the difference between certain colors, like red and green. Lots of guys are color blind. It's no big deal." Alex smiled at Big Eddie.<br />
<br />
"It is a big deal! I don't like to be yelled at." Eddie's voice rose. "I don't like when Mr. Vincent says those things to me." At that point a truck had pulled up. Before heading back to work, Alex had assured Eddie that he would come up with a solution. Before that had happened, though, Big Eddie had had another run in with Vincent Henderson, manager extraordinaire. <br />
<br />
Once again, Alex had heard Vinnie yelling from the warehouse floor. "Dammit, Eddie. I've had it with your dumbass mistakes around here. I don't know why we let a retard like you in the building. Pick up that fuckin' broom and clean this mess up. Then get the hell out of here. I don't want to look at your stupid face anymore." Vinnie stood over Big Eddie as he fumbled with the broom and dust pan. Eddie widened his stance and bent at the waist, reaching down to push the collected debris into the pan.<br />
<br />
Alex tensed as Vinnie, a nasty gleam in his eye, leaned back against the wall. Vinnie slowly lifted his right foot and aimed it at Big Eddie's butt. Everything suddenly seemed to be in slow motion as Alex broke from his hiding place and sprinted the short distance across the floor. He tackled Vinnie to the ground just as Vinnie's foot connected with Big Eddie's behind. All three men went sprawling. Big Eddie landed heavily on his knees in the pile of garbage he had been trying to pick up. The manager flew a short distance before hitting the warehouse floor with a thud. He slid into a stack of precariously balanced pallets which spilled noisily across the floor. Alex landed on top of him.<br />
<br />
"What the f...?" was all Vinnie had time to shout before Alex landed a solid right hook on his jaw.<br />
<br />
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Alex yelled. He was winding up for another punch when he was dragged off the manager. Adam and Frankie held him back while Donovan leaned over Vinnie and pulled him to his feet. A couple of ladies Alex didn't know were talking to Big Eddie and helping him up. "Always yelling at Big Eddie and treating him like dirt. You oughta be ashamed of yourself." He shook his arms free and looked around. "Did you all see what he just did? He kicked Big Eddie." The rest of the warehouse employees looked at each other and shook their heads.<br />
<br />
"We were all in the breakroom, Alex," said Adam. "We just came out 'cause we heard the crash."<br />
<br />
There were murmurs of agreement from those standing around. Vinnie, having recovered from the shock of the sudden attack, faced Alex. "You are in a whole heap o' trouble now, buddy! You just wait until I write this up. You are gonna get fired so fast, you're head'll spin." <br />
<br />
Alex knew that the upstairs bosses would never believe the word of a brand new employee with a questionable employment record over that of a long time manager who also happened to be the big boss's son. "Don't bother writing up your damned report, Vinnie. I'll save you the trouble. I quit. But you can be sure that I'm going to be letting the folks at the group home know what I saw here today, and someday you're gonna get caught. You better watch your back." He tossed his work gloves to Donovan and headed toward the breakroom. "I'm outta here."<br />
<br />
After clocking out for the last time, he stopped by the table where Adam and the rest of the guys were finishing their lunch. "Hey, Adam. Do me a favor? Tell Big Eddie that the red pallets have numbers etched into the sides, but the green ones don't."<br />
<br />
That was pretty much the end of the story. The next day, he had called the Frost Lake Group Home and told them what had happened. They had thanked him for the information and said they would talk to Big Eddie. About a week later, he had gotten a threatening letter from the cannery's lawyers basically telling him that there was no evidence to back up his story and if he shared it with anyone else they would sue him for slander. They also made a big deal out of how generous they were being by not charging him with assault. Since he had already made sure that Big Eddie was protected, and he couldn't afford any trouble, he had kept silent about it since then.<br />
<br />
- - - - - <br />
<br />
"Well, son?" Alex snapped out of his thoughts. Mr. Howard was looking at him oddly. "I asked about what happened at the Marsden Cannery. Anything you want to tell me?"<br />
<br />
"All I can say, sir... I mean, Jake, is that I had a difference of opinion with one of the managers there. I let my temper get the best of me and I made some bad choices. You can trust that it won't happen again."<br />
<br />
"Hmmm." Mr. Howard looked as though he were going to press the issue, but apparently decided to let it go. "Alright. What about the job before that? What happened at the Cub Foods? The owner, Jeff, is a poker buddy of mine. When I asked he said you seemed to think you only had to show up for work when you felt like it."Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-45708227932839945992010-10-16T11:30:00.000-07:002010-10-16T11:32:14.633-07:00Writer's BlockThey say you should write what you know.<br />
<br />
What I know is people. I know deep, multi-dimensional, imperfectly perfect people. I see the outer shell that they share with the world, and I feel the inner workings that they strive so hard to conceal. I understand the fears and joys and struggles and celebrations and mistakes and successes that make them who they are, and I love them for all of it. <br />
<br />
I know sensitive, intelligent, real life people who may or may not appreciate me writing about what I know.<br />
<br />
I have a story in me. I know that I do. I have a tale to tell that will speak to others and evoke emotion. I have a story about people. <br />
<br />
And one day, I hope to be able to write well enough to express the beautiful imperfections of my people in a way that clearly shows how their lives have awed and inspired me. That their mistakes are part of what make them so dear to me. In a way that illustrates just how deep my love for them truly is. I want my people to see themselves from my point of view.<br />
<br />
Someday, my word magic will be strong enough to tackle this task.Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-65342272757231489472010-10-05T10:36:00.000-07:002010-10-05T10:42:35.807-07:00The Visitor - Quick Write 10/5/10(25 minutes of writing, 5 minutes of editing. The first half of the first sentence was the prompt.)<br />
- - - -<br />
<br />
<i><b>It was late on a Thursday evening</b></i>, and Janice was just getting home from the gym. It had been a long and frustrating day. She was exhausted and very much looking forward to putting on her pj's, flopping down on the couch, and communing with a bowl of chocolate ice cream. As she fumbled with the key for the outer door, she noticed a slight movement out of the corner of her eye. Resisting her body's initial "fight or flight" reaction, she crouched down on the stoop and peered into the darkness. The dim light above the door was unable to pierce the gloom around the bushes. She couldn't see anything.<br />
<br />
"Hello? Is there somebody down there?" Instinctively, she tightened her grip on the key-chain in her hand. If the noise turned out to be something dangerous, she could use a key as a weapon. After several moments of silence, the lure of her cozy apartment overcame her curiosity. She stood up.<br />
<br />
There was another brief rustle from bushes, and a tiny orange kitten poked his nose out of the darkness. <br />
<br />
"Mreow?" The kitten had clearly been on his own for some time. His ribs were evident along his sides, and the fur on his belly was matted with dirt. His starved body gave him the appearance of a bobble-head doll. "Mew!" Janice knelt down carefully to avoid startling the furry little visitor. She slowly reached her hand out toward him, but resisted actually touching him. The kitten took a quick step backward and huddled closer to the ground.<br />
<br />
"Don't worry, little one. I'm not going to hurt you." Janice kept her voice low and calm. The kitten inched toward her, and gently touched one fingertip with his nose. He twitched backward slightly, but held his ground. "Aren't you a brave, little sweetheart?" Janice continued to croon to the kitten until he decided she was safe. Suddenly, he threw his entire body against her hand. He rubbed his bobbley head against her fingers. Looking up, he opened his tiny mouth. "Mew! Mreow! Mew!" She could see his pink tongue and sharp little baby teeth.<br />
<br />
Janice swooped the kitten up in her hands and snuggled him to her face. His whiskers tickled her chin as he nuzzled her neck enthusiastically. "Poor baby! You must be starving! Let's go inside and get you some yummy milk. Then we can give you a nice bath and get you all cleaned up." The kitten began to purr loudly in agreement with this plan. Janice retrieved her keys and gym bag from the steps where she had dropped them and opened the door. "What are we going to call you? Such a handsome, orange kitty needs a good name! Hmm... maybe Rex or..." As she and the kitten disappeared into the golden light of the entryway, her voice faded away. <br />
<br />
Suddenly Janice was feeling a lot better about her day.<br />
<br />
- - - - <br />
I made a conscious effort to write a positive, upbeat story today. I also made an attempt at having a clear beginning, middle, and end. I really enjoy these quick writes, but I think they allow me to get away with lots of build up (something that comes easy to me) while completely avoiding any kind of climax (something that is very difficult for me). These exercises are supposed to be helping me develop my writing, so I'm going to try to make myself stretch a little more in the future. Of course, Mikey says I should just take a page from Stephen King's book and have a giant spider come in and attack everyone. (Has anyone else noticed that a large percentage of his stories end that way?) :)Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-43002052066701670202010-10-04T13:41:00.000-07:002010-10-04T15:44:59.948-07:00Billy's Escape - Quick Write 10/4/10(As usual, the first sentence was the prompt, and I spent about 20 minutes writing and 5 minutes editing afterward.)<br />
- - - -<br />
<br />
<i><b>The poison was coursing through the tall man's veins.</b></i> He look at Billy in shock and swayed slightly from side to side. The spent syringe fell from Billy's numb fingers. The clatter it made echoed through the cold, concrete room. <br />
<br />
Time stood still for an eternity. <br />
<br />
Finally, the tall man reached out his right arm and tried to take a step toward Billy. His left leg gave way, and he crumpled to the floor, his arm still outstretched. Billy stared down at the long, lifeless body that for so long had controlled his entire world. He knew he should run, get away, put as much distance between himself and the brutal events of this place as he could, but his feet refused to move. The tall man seemed to be controlling him still. Billy felt as though he would be frozen here, next to the tall man's body, forever. Eventually, the tall man would be missed - at work, if not at home - and the police would be called. They would find Billy here, discover what he had done, and lock him away in a deep, dark cell forever. Just like the tall man had always said would happen.<br />
<br />
"NO!" Billy jumped at the sound of his own voice shattering the unnatural stillness. That slight movement was enough to break the tall man's hold on him. He had been through too much to give up now. With his own shout still echoing after him, Billy turned and fled.<br />
<br />
Daylight was just beginning to fade as Billy burst through the entrance of the building. He glanced around without slowing and veered off to the right. He circled around the enormous building and lost himself among the abandoned junkyard, boarded up metal shops, and dimly lit warehouses that were so prevalent in this area. He ran until he thought his lungs would burst.<br />
<br />
Just when he thought he couldn't force his legs to take another step, he spotted a familiar corner. Within minutes, he was climbing the rusted chain-link fence surrounding the old, forgotten playground where he had so often sought refuge from the tall man's temper. He climbed up the ladder of the splintered climbing equipment. Panting in equal parts exhaustion and relief, he threw himself into the nest of newspapers and leaves he had so long ago made for himself at the top of the slide. <br />
<br />
No one ever came to this park. Billy figured that everyone had forgotten all about it as the industrial park had slowly devoured the housing tracts that used to occupy these blocks. Comforted by the isolation and lulled by the hum and rumble of the few factories that were still struggling against their inevitable demise, Billy closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.<br />
- - - -<br />
<br />
I'm starting to think that I spent too much time in my youth reading Stephen King and Dean Koontz. Every story starter seems to suggest horrific events and terrifying people. I am glad I don't have to write the rest of this story because I am afraid to find out what horrors the tall man inflicted on our poor Billy.Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-16931981274901388812010-09-30T08:56:00.000-07:002010-09-30T09:27:08.361-07:00How They Met - Quick Write 9/30/10(I did my writing bright and early this morning! The first sentence was the prompt and I gave myself 20 minutes.)<br />
- - - -<br />
<i><b>The old man walked along the long slow curve of the highway, whistling to himself.</b></i> Thunder rumbling in the distance warned of a coming storm. Somewhere in the miles ahead, he'd have to find some shelter, but for now he was content to make his way slowly on, his worldly possessions safely tucked away in the worn, old army green rucksack he had slung over his shoulder. He half-heartedly stuck out his thumb as cars zoomed past. <br />
<br />
"Nobody stops for hitchhikers anymore," he thought to himself. "It's a sad state of affairs when everyone is too darn concerned with their own busy lives to worry about an old man walkin' along the road by his lonesome." He shook his head sadly and continued on his way. <br />
<br />
His faith in humanity was restored, at least temporarily, when a light blue Mazda with Nevada plates pulled over to the shoulder just ahead of him. He jogged up to the passenger side door and peered inside. A skinny kid, dressed entirely in black, peered over his sunglasses and grinned. <br />
<br />
"Hey, man. You need a lift?" The old man smiled back gratefully.<br />
<br />
"Like peanut butter needs jelly!" he said. "Mind if I throw my rucksack in back there? I swear it gets heavier with each mile." He tossed his rucksack behind him and settled into his seat. "So. Where we headed, son?"<br />
<br />
The kid laughed. "I thought maybe you would know. I've kinda run out of people who will answer my calls, y'know? I was drivin' along wondering what I would do, where I would go, when I saw you with your thumb out. I thought that I'd see where you needed to go and head there myself."<br />
<br />
"Well, now. I guess between the two of us, we can make a plan of some kind," the old man replied. "I've always wanted to try my luck at deep sea fishing. Whaddaya say we head toward the Gulf and see if we can find us a fishin' boat that will take us in for a spell?"<br />
- - - - <br />
This story turned out much friendlier than I was expecting. When I first saw that old guy walking along, I was sure that he was going to get picked up by a serial killer. Or end up being a serial killer himself. You can see that in the "at least temporarily" bit I threw in. Thought I was giving a little foreshadowing, but it turns out they're both just normal guys who are down on their luck. Who woulda guessed? Also - dialogue is fun! :)Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-30548377810444254822010-09-29T21:39:00.000-07:002010-09-30T08:58:45.561-07:00Going Home - Quick Write 9/29/10(I didn't do my quick write until after work today, and I can feel the difference in my focus and creativity. Gonna have to make sure I do my writing in the morning from now on.)<br />
<br />
- - - -<br />
<br />
<i><b>I hadn't seen Jackie in twenty years, yet there she sat. </b></i><br />
"Girl, you are a sight for sore eyes!" she said as she engulfed me in a bear hug. "Where have you been keeping yourself? What are you up to? Sit down here and let me take a good look at you!" Setting her knitting aside, Jackie thumped the cushion next to her.<br />
<br />
She looked just like I remembered. Her curly, black hair drifted loosely around her plump face as she gazed up at me. Her fingers sparkled with several gaudy gemstone-filled rings - probably all paste unless she had made some dramatic changes to her income lately - and any number of chains in varying sizes and styles encircled her comfortable neck. Her housedress was a grass green field scattered with tiny pink roses. I could picture her standing on the front stoop, calling me in for supper, in this very same pattern, although it seemed that the field had increased some in acreage over the years. Her feet, clad in matching green slippers, were tucked demurely under the edge of the loveseat. She was such a perfect match for my fondest memories that I wanted to climb into her lap and rummage through the pockets of her housedress for hard candies as I had when I was 5 years old.<br />
<br />
"Well, what are you waiting for, dear?" she asked. "Come over here and tell ol' Jackie what's what in your life." After everything that had happened, I was finally home. I realized I was finally back where it was safe to let down my hair, open my heart, and reveal my sorrows. I didn't need another invitation.<br />
<br />
"Oh, Jackie!" I wailed, throwing myself into the empty seat next to her. "I just don't know what I'm going to do!"<br />
<br />
- - - -<br />
<br />
I thought this was a great beginning sentence, but it took me most of my 20 minutes to figure out who Jackie was talking to. That's why so much of this writing is focused on Jackie's appearance. That was my way of stalling until the other character decided to reveal herself. I have no idea what the dramatics are about... kinda curious about that, actually.Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-28255416890699536212010-09-28T10:10:00.000-07:002010-09-28T10:19:08.073-07:00Tabby Goes Out - Quick Write 9/28/10(The first sentence was provided as a writing prompt. The rest was written in about 25 minutes with about 5 minutes of editing/rewriting following. Again, my goal is quantity, not quality at this point.)<br />
- - - - <br />
<i><b>Carl was his name, and sailing was his game. </b></i> At least, that's what he told anyone who asked. In reality, he worked in the little booth at the end of the pier where tourists could book whale watching tours and rent those ridiculous yellow paddle-boats by the half hour. Tabby's friends either didn't realize this, or they figured that she was more likely to go out with him if they didn't tell her. She was betting on the latter. They were always telling her that she was too picky, although she preferred to think of herself as discerning. <br />
<br />
He showed up at the door flourishing a handful of slightly wilted daisies. Daisies were Tabby's favorite flower (apparently her friends had no qualms about sharing <i>her</i> secrets with <i>him</i>), so this would have worked in his favor, except that she recognized them as being hastily pulled from the flowerbed of her neighbor 3 doors down. Mrs. Granger was going to be ticked! Tabby, not wanting to start the date out on a sour note, thanked him, put the flowers in a vase, and made a mental note to send Mrs. Granger an apology. She grabbed a light jacket and followed him down the step.<br />
<br />
Things only got worse from there. Carl's vehicle was less a "car" and more a "pile of rust trained to take car shape". Tabby could feel the evening air swirling up through the holes in the floorboards. She tried desperately to stop her brain from picturing all the ways this car could kill them on the short ride to the theater: failing brakes, poisonous fumes, just plain falling to pieces as they scooted along at top speed (which, thankfully, was about 45 mph). As Carl awkwardly tried to parallel park in a spot that wasn't quite big enough, Tabby realized she had been holding onto the door handle so tightly her hand hurt. In through the nose, out through the mouth. She took a couple of calming breaths as he walked around to her side.<br />
<br />
She waited for him to wrestle her door open, and they walked toward the theater. Her heart sank when she saw the movies listed on the marquee. There were 2 children's cartoons, a horror flick, and a documentary about the indigenous peoples of South America. Which of these gems was this guy going to pick for their very first (blind!) date? She quickly scanned the board, looking for the shortest movie. That way if he asked her opinion, she'd have a reason for picking one. <br />
<br />
Carl didn't ask her opinion, though. He sauntered up to the little window and purchased two tickets for the documentary. At least there was the chance she'd learn about some South American dart poisons. Then she'd have a way of dealing with her friends at work tomorrow. Tabby found a couple of only slightly crooked seats together (near the emergency exit) and settled in. She was trying to ignore the way her new pumps were sticking to the floor when Carl returned from the concession stand. "It was much cheaper to buy one extra large soda and popcorn rather than getting 2 mediums of each," he said. "I didn't think you'd mind." He grinned at her and held out a glistening tub of popcorn as big as her head.<br />
<br />
Tabby sighed. It was going to be a long night.<br />
- - - -<br />
<br />
I was totally freaked out by this beginning sentence because I don't know the first thing about sailing. Suddenly, I realized that Carl was just as ignorant about sailing (and apparently women) as I am. I kind of thought this was going to turn into a romantic comedy, but something tells me that these two aren't going to have a second date. :)Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-9567375273903283422010-09-27T10:08:00.000-07:002010-09-28T10:18:31.217-07:00Bob's Brain - Quick Write 9/27/10(This is what came of a 20 minute quick write. The highlighted portion was my starting prompt. I did minimal editing afterward, as I am mostly working on increasing productivity at this point.)<br />
- - - - <br />
<b>The neurologist pointed him into his office. </b> Bob slouched past him and threw himself into the same overstuffed chair as always. Every Tuesday was the same. He plopped his steel-toed boots up on the coffee table on top of the same old scuff marks and tilted his head back. The same water stain, rust colored and shaped like a horse's head, gazed calmly down at him. Just like always, he fought the urge to grab the uniformly sharpened pencils out of the doctor's pencil jar and fling them, one by one, at the little white spot that marked the horse's eye. He closed his own eyes and took a deep breath.<br />
<br />
"So, they tell me you're having a hard time this week, Bob," Dr. Pritchard said. "Do you want to tell me about it?"<br />
<br />
Bob opened his eyes just enough to peek at the doctor. The view was hazy, and his eyelashes looked as thick as tree trunks. He imagined the doctor lost in a darkening, fog-covered forest. He pictured a cloud of insects hovering over a shallow puddle. Moisture collected on the leaves overhead before dripping onto the forest floor. A gentle breeze swirled the fog, and a single bird call pierced the silence. The snap of a branch underfoot was the only indicator of the wild things that crept closer and closer...<br />
<br />
"Well?" the doctor's voice snapped Bob back to the cluttered office and the overstuffed chair. "You know, you're going to have to talk to me eventually, Bob."<br />
- - - -<br />
As always, your comments and constructive criticisms are encouraged. I always work harder when I have an audience. :) Personally, I think I may have gone a little overboard in trying to show the repetition Bob was feeling. I am happy with the imagery of the forest, though.Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-31299378389421455962010-03-16T22:17:00.000-07:002010-03-16T22:17:37.772-07:00Good GriefI would love to be telling you about all the emotional and spiritual growth that has happened in my brain recently, but I can't because there is no time and when there is time I am too tired to stop my sentences from running on and taking over the world.<br />
<br />
I would also love to finish the really, really, really long post that is only about 1/3 of the way written about Mia, how she came into my life, and her recent adventures. See above excuse.<br />
<br />
I have approximately 11 minutes before my brain turns into a pumpkin, so here's the highlights...<br />
<br />
1. Mia is still healing wonderfully. So wonderfully, that she thinks she's all better and should be allowed to wander unsupervised all over the house in search of cats and garbage cans. These are magical Inside Things that she has never before had the pleasure of experiencing.<br />
<br />
2. My car is STILL in the shop, although the guy swears it will be ready tomorrow. Or the next day. It has been nearly a month (honestly, I don't even remember when we started this adventure), and I blame the car (not the guy) for the on-going troubles. She's one ornery little automobile.<br />
<br />
3. We had a rental car for a while, but it wasn't worth the $12/day insurance we were paying to make sure we weren't blamed for the mud, dog scratches, etc. I don't think I'd buy a Sebring. It had get-up-and-go, but I don't think the designers had ever had to drive a car. The blind spots were enormous.<br />
<br />
4. Mikey had to report to the Murrieta courthouse for jury duty last week and narrowly missed being placed on a murder/child abuse case. FYI - living off two not-quite-1/2 incomes, having a sick dog at home, and ridiculously large vet bills is enough to get the judge to excuse you for financial hardship.<br />
<br />
5. I have a cough that I can feel in my lungs, and I'm not at all surprised. After the insane couple of weeks I'm surprised I didn't get sick earlier. Let's just hope it passes quickly.<br />
<br />
6. Mikey's business has been taking off like wildfire this month. I'm insanely proud of him. Go to Hamumu.com and check out his games. They are very good.<br />
<br />
That's not all, but my brain turned into a pumpkin 3 minutes ago. Time for bed. 'Nighty-night.Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-25305552722519832782010-02-18T23:15:00.000-08:002010-02-18T23:19:29.894-08:00I Love Love.Valentine's Day had me thinking about love. Thinking about love led to thinking about past loves. Thinking about past loves led to thinking about the things I have learned about love over the years. And you know I love to share what I've learned...<br />
<br />
My first love was also my best friend from kindergarten through elementary school. It was a love built around pulling pig-tails, playing King of the Hill, and being in the same class year after year. From this love I learned:<br />
<ul><li>Drama is a waste of time. Say what you mean. Mean what you say.</li>
<li>Love is worth the risk of cooties.</li>
<li>Boys can be sensitive. Sometimes you have to let them win.</li>
<li>Loyalty is important.</li>
</ul>My junior high love was a love of firsts. First love letter. First date. First dance. First kiss. First break-up. This love was exciting and new. It was thrilling and terrifying all at the same time. Eventually, my insecurities got the better of me. From this love I learned:<br />
<ul><li>Love is about sharing. Your thoughts. Your feelings. Your science homework.</li>
<li>Even the toughest guys are afraid of something.</li>
<li>Nothing smells as good as your boyfriend's jacket.</li>
<li>Picking a 3 hour drama for your first movie date is a mistake.</li>
<li> Giving your friends too much influence over your relationships is a bigger mistake.</li>
<li>Those 80's movies starring people like Molly Ringwald and John Cusack in which couples break up over misunderstandings but then end up back together as the music swells at the end of a montage showing how miserable they were apart are a bunch of crap. Romantic, misleading crap. </li>
</ul>One of my high school loves was a long, drawn out, on again - off again affair while the other was largely confined to my own head. In the first, I reveled in the feeling of being pursued and desired despite being ambivalent about the relationship myself. In the second, I fruitlessly longed for a friend to realize that we were perfect for each other. From these loves I learned:<br />
<ul><li>Balance is essential in a relationship.</li>
<li>Pity is not a good reason to be with someone. Nor is it a good reason for someone to be with you.</li>
<li>What comes around, goes around.</li>
<li>Love can make you act like a crazy person in a great many ways, all of them embarrassing to think about after the fact.</li>
</ul>In college, I was sure I had found the love of my life. We had so much in common. We liked the same food and the same music and the same goals. We were perfect together. Except, under these surface commonalities we had very little in common. I was traveling through life on a freeway toward a well-mapped location, and he was traveling on a winding, overgrown path to destinations unknown. I needed organization, plans, and focus while he needed freedom and the unexpected. I was learning to appreciate my new-found responsibilities while he was learning to appreciate the newly hired girl at work. From this love I learned:<br />
<ul><li> There are still some true romantics out there.</li>
<li>Sometimes good things come to an end. </li>
<li>From the inside a relationship looks very different than it does from the outside.</li>
<li>It isn't called compromise if one person is making all the sacrifices.</li>
<li>Loyalty is REALLY important.</li>
<li>I am a hell of a lot stronger than my high school self would ever have guessed. </li>
</ul>Shortly before moving to California, I met my husband. I could use up all of the space on the internet telling you how wonderful he is, but I'll save that for another post. Let me summarize by saying that from this love I have learned:<br />
<ul><li>The difference between "a love" and "The Love" is immediately obvious.</li>
<li>It is possible to know you are in love with someone without ever having seen their face.</li>
<li>Keeping two completely different people, each with their own backgrounds and personalities and issues, rowing together smoothly isn't impossible, but it takes a whole lot of practice.</li>
</ul>It is now long past my bedtime, so I am going to stop trying to come up with an appropriate conclusion and just end this. Ain't love grand? <br />
<ul></ul>Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3512816.post-11710565940942818142010-02-17T13:22:00.000-08:002010-02-17T13:22:35.811-08:00Siblings, part 3<i>*So it turns out that knowing where you want a story to go and getting it to go there are two very different things. This is what I got from about an hour of very distracted writing. Meh.*</i><br />
<br />
<b>Chapter 2</b><br />
<br />
They drove in silence. Sam wasn't sure if his mother's silence was because she was wrapped up in her own thoughts or out of respect for his own, but he was grateful for it either way. He stared out the window, watching the lights from the equalizer reflected in the glass. As the the green and red dots darted along the dirty snowbanks lining the narrow streets, Sam remembered how Karen always used to pretend those lights were her Guardian Fairies, pacing the family car the way the Secret Service would pace the president. “Nothing bad can happen to us while my Fairies are out there,” Karen would say. Sam sighed. “<i>At what point in my life did the Fairies stop paying attention?” </i>he wondered.<br />
<br />
Looking back, it seemed that his college years had been just as pleasantly uneventful as his childhood. Very little drama or tragedy, just one normal day following another. In those days he could answer the phone fearlessly.<br />
<br />
(to be continued)Solange Hommelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09834602578433577472noreply@blogger.com1