Category Archives: Fiction is Truth

Leadership, perseverance and hiking

Leadership and Perseverance

It was 6:45 am and she was still sleeping in the neighboring room – with the door open for circulation.  Should I wake her?  Or should I steal out the door and commence hiking alone?  She has been meeting fellow hikers fairly frequently at 7:00 am, I reasoned. So I texted, “Want to hike before it gets too hot?”  We were at the trailhead by 7:30 – Gold Star to Wildwood – not a maintained trail but we were at least familiar with both ends.  We dropped a car at Wildwood and set out for adventure. We got beauty. Red rock outcroppings and rock formations galore – all the features you never notice from the busy valley below. We followed the path, we followed washes, we followed wildlife trails.  We got back on the beaten path and made our way along “the bench.” We confirmed that desert bighorn live here – all over the place.  “You are a good trail finder,” she said.   I nodded. Actually, I usually can sense where people need to go. I am also pretty good at getting them there. “People have not always acknowledged that in the rest of my life,” I said. She affirmed it was worth the steady ascent at the beginning of the trail. We found a random boulder. “I want to be on top that rock!” she said. And she did. We were not travelling an officially maintained trail and somehow we lost the usually travelled path. “I bet it is above us,” I said. “I bet it is below,” she replied. We cut straight overland through cacti, brush, chinle and talus. Then, the inevitable happened, she lost patience. “You are now fired as trail finder,” she jeered.  “Where have I heard that before?” I thought sarcastically. Yet, 30 feet later, we stepped out on an unmistakably well-used trail.  Some yards further on, we joined our destination trail, familiar and official. Another mile of rugged downhill hiking and we were at the car, fist punching the air, “We did it!  We did it!”  Hooray for us!  Four hours of Wednesday morning well spent, followed by salad at an establishment that glorifies local produce.

A Hike and Write Challenge

She threw down the gauntlet in such a casual way via Facebook private message.  “Why don’t you,” she said, “Write an essay like this about our hike today?” Very well. I love to hike.  I love to write. The only problem is, the example she attached is that of a well-known uncategorical naturalist, wilderness lover and advocate. So what am I supposed to say?  “Move over Edward Abbey, I am here to write poetically about today’s hike with another great old broad – a regular rock toucher – a tree hugger – a lover of dirt in the great outdoors and fastidious, clean, professional detail indoors”

Contemporary that I am, I am no Meloy, Childs or Tempest. In fiction, I write about the philosophical struggles of relationships; girl meets boy, nefarious religion tamed, childhood injustices overcome.  Truth is, the best way to ferret out these bits of philosophical thought and what I really think is to take a hike.  Sometimes a stroll by running water, other times rigorous switchbacks on high desert boulders, and still less frequently, a hike with a friend.

I believe that there are semblances between seemingly disparate ideas if we can stand back and see a larger picture.” Terry Tempest Williams

Very well then, I whole-heartedly agree.  I take up the challenge – daily.

A Tale of Two Books

Birthdays are the best of times when your primary gifters are bibliophiles and the package arrives on your birthday.  My parents will gift me – usually money – since I am known to be picky; but my Brother and Sister-in-law, consummate gift givers, inevitably send a book – as does my cousin.

We are readers, thinkers, cerebral. We trade ideas.  Theirs are stronger. I usually lose.  Except when it is my birthday or Christmas and then I reel in the catch. Not one, but two books this year.  Two books arrived right on the day.

I opened them hastily and devoured the note. “Happy Birthday, Cherry, Signature was a pleasant surprise to me…Though science wasn’t the the focus, she (Elizabeth Gilbert) had an impressive grasp on the field….Hope the other one is good.  Women at King’s English love it.”

Almost reverently, I opened the cover of The Signature of All Things, and began reading immediately. It was my Friday, so reading irresponsibly was an option. Good thing I had flexible time, because it was a page-turner. I had to agree with my S-I-L, “It pulled me in, pushed me away, called me back…” Deftly written, with succinct word choice, I got just enough character sketch to profoundly understand the players. Fully enlightened with authentic Victorian vocabulary, social customs, sexuality, ideals and intellectual thought, the writer takes an epic anthropological and historical safari through Darwinism, abolitionism, 19th century religion, and nods forward to Freud’s eventual analysis of human relationships.

Next day I met my cousin for lunch. She handed me a gift bag commenting something about the women in her book club and reminding me I could exchange the book if I already had it. I never exchange books, I just gift them on to someone else. I knew I had not read it, but the cover looked vaguely familiar, The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry.

Back in my room I continued my mesmerizing read of Signature.  There were times I wept and times I wanted with everything in me to resist the inexorable magnetism toward penultimate redemption, to hope against hope for a relational ending different than the inevitable.  Abruptly, came a moment of suspense. Page 344 was followed by page 377.  Unannounced cliff-hanger! Idly, I toyed with the idea of turning to the second book. But this would not do.  Signature, is the type of book that stays with you, lives in your head while you go about your work and play.  Nevertheless, I unsheathed the other book. Sure enough, it was twin to the one in the gift bag from my cousin. I switched off the light and fell asleep.

For the next few days, I took a reader’s hiatus.  Summer being the busy season at work, there is not much opportunity for reading once you allow for overtime.

Following work one evening, I grabbed a quick dinner to go and stopped at Barnes Noble intending to find and read the missing 33 pages. There on the bargain shelf – for under $6.00 – was the book I sought. Hearing my story of missing pages, the clerk surmised that was the reason for the crate of hasty discounts.  We checked the pages.  Intact. What is the harm in purchasing a duplicate book? Already, I knew it to be the most well-written book of the decade – though not my favorite.

And that is how there came to be duplicates of two very good reads on my nightstand.
And that is how there came to be duplicates of two very good reads on my nightstand.

Yesterday was a holiday. I opened The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry at 5:00 pm.  I closed it at 11:15 pm.  I am not sorry I own two copies.  One will go on loan immediately.

Have you read these two books?  You should.  Immediately. Which shall I loan you first?

 

You Win at Life

A few weeks ago a Facebook friend posted her results from one of those little 10 or 15 question multiple choice quizzes that purport to read your personality or your future.

“I make history!” she said.  “What answer did you get?”

She is an educator and a former colleague of mine.  We share a common understanding of the value of history and core education. The test sounded interesting.  Not the kind of test you put a lot of stock in like Myers Briggs or even Rorschach, but just for fun.

So, I clicked the link. I had my fun.  I got my answer.

You win at life!

What?????? I must have clicked a couple wrong answers along the way.  Me win at life?  Obviously, that was not a very credible test.  I took a quick glance over my history and laughed.  But shame followed closely on the heels of the laughter.  Because, you know, it’s not nice to win.  Or is it?  When you win, does it automatically mean you have manipulated, cheated, intimidated, made someone else your step-ladder to success?

I dwelt in faulty thinking for a spell, second-guessing past success and past mistakes and chastising myself for being so transparent that a recreational test found me out.

This is precisely the type of emotional cerebral activity that garnered me the accusation that I think too much.

Is it wrong to succeed above your fellow man, or is winning at life an opportunity to raise others up?  When I look over the past decades, I see I have reinvented myself many times just to survive. Does that make me a winner?

Maybe, just maybe this little test was meant to encourage, not to chide.  After all, when you take a quiz titled, “Which Disney Star are You?” Everyone ends up a star.

So, my friend makes history and I win at life! That is palm reading I can live with, a daily reminder:

Be encouraged!

You can get through this!

You win at life!

 

Patti Hill, Gilbert Grape and One Tin Soldier

When I first saw the movie, “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape,” I sat and wept quietly at its conclusion.  My brother, a fan of the film, questioned my tears. “It has a happy ending,” he argued. But I could not bear the relentless burden of caretaking and parenting of a parent that Gilbert was called on to carry.

I feel the same crushing weight for Amy in Patti Hill’s story, “The Queen of Sleepy Eye. “ The mother is relentless in her dependence on Amy.  No 17-year-old should be called on to raise a parent.    This type of dependence demands boundaries, but it is a bit ticklish for an underage child to set them and still remain respectful to the parent. But here’s the rub; Amy herself is not perfect.  She scolds.  Some of her actions are scoldable.  She judges and her pride goes before a fall. Been there, done that.  I’ve also made promises with the best of good will and self-control and then broken them.

This is a book every Christian should read. Using your children for your own glory or sustenance is a theme oft repeated in life.  Manipulation is a tool frequently employed by many parents, but not often acknowledged in Christian fiction – which this is.

The first third of this book reads like a textbook psychology case study.  The later portions are for Christians only.  Were you raised steeped in the same type of Christianity as I was?  A few decades ago, we would have grieved for every last character as they fell from Grace. With tears in our eyes, we would have shaken the dust off our feet and moved on just like some of the church people in Hill’s book.  But the ending Patti Hill crafts is an ending where, with the reader’s sympathy and understanding, the characters fell into Grace.

And oh, how I loved the hippies, and Patti’s portrayal of Paonia.  Wait, that was Paonia, wasn’t it?  And I know these church people, which, unfortunately, is why I shy away from Christian fiction these days.

Are you a baby-boomer?  Do yourself a favor and read this book.  It will resonate like “Forrest Gump,” or “Gilbert Grape,” or “One Tin Soldier.”

Not Often a Serial Writer

When did we start flinging words, bandying them about? Dangling participles and cliffhanging plots on shreds of scrap paper?

Working in radio is a dance of words anyway. In the low-budget spirit of non-profit, I repaired the worn corner of an office chair with a corduroy patch. Thinking to lighten the insult of frugality, I also embroidered the letters, patch cord, so no one would miss the message. Not every professional radio announcer can sew, though the ability to stay on-air through all challenges is essential.

It was in the olden days of two turntables, three reel-to-reels, a cassette tape deck and an 8-track player. Editing was done by hand with a tape snipping block and tape. Spinning platters and cuing tapes accurately made for a clean sound and no dead air.

The Sunday afternoon a second reel-to-reel player went down was not to be born without proper mention. An out-of -order sign was obligatory. The word choice was mine: consider the abilities of this reel, it toileth not, neither doth it spin.
A day later, someone added: Yet, Solomon, in all his glory was not dismayed by one of these.

Life became punny at work. The paper trail grew a tail like a kite all the way down the corner of the production room window.

As I said, it was the olden days, so these were not post-a-notes. Each added missive was a torn piece of scrap paper, attached to the previous with a morsel of transparent tape. Our station manager dained not to participate. A pity, for he was a consummate wordsmith.  Every so often the night guy would throw in a pencil drawing of a smurf or loony tunes character with a caption totally off-track the general thread.

Those were my early days of serial writing, but I had completely forgotten them – until I began following the group writing activity at Novel Matters. Today, it’s my turn to contribute. What do you think? Has my writing improved? Or am I just the night guy throwing a wrench in the plot?

A Precious Journey: Chapter 2

In Chapter 1, My Precious Left Me, Traveler stumbles on a cave and meets the Man.  You can find and read Chapter 1, on the pull-down bar, Precious’ Journey.

Chapter 2: Traveler goes to the city

Now the traveler had become curious to know more about Precious. He was heading through the City anyway, so he stopped at the bakery to inquire if anyone remembered her.

He could hear the chatty voice before he pulled open the heavy glass door. “Yes, it was a trunk showing and everything was half off!  Half off, I tell you! And they wouldn’t take a credit card.”  Obviously, she caught sight of him because she turned away and checked her hair in the reflection. “ Te he. Isn’t that awful?  Well, gotta go.  Someone’s coming in.   You know how Mr. Baker gets if I don’t greet the customer right away.  No, it’s a he not a bride. Call me later.”  She whirled her chair around, and stood, self-consciously smoothing a skirt that would not have been out of place on a high school ingenue – or perhaps just two inches longer.

“May I help you?” she emphasized each word separately.

“Ah, yes.  I hope so,” said the traveler.  “I am looking for information about someone who used to work here – a  woman named Precious.”

“She left her Man.”

“So I heard.”

“I knew him first – before he met Precious.  He was pretty good looking in high school. Hey, but that was 20 years ago. I’ve been thinking about running up to the cave and checking on him – seeing if he needs anything. ”

“Do you know why she left him?”

“I don’t know.  I’m pretty sure it wasn’t any of the reasons I wanted to leave my man.”

The raised eyebrows of the traveler gave her permission to continue.

“No.  Precious didn’t think I had grounds. It was something about tough love. Oh, she listened to me; I mean she listened to me on break.  Precious frowned on girl talk when we were supposed to be working.  Said something about an honest day’s work for wages or excellence and best effort – those kinds of words.  I didn’t get how not talking was honest.  I like to get it all out there. I’m honest about my feelings. She must have been on the side of the boss.  Come to think of it, I think she was in cahoots with the boss. Cause she got the boss man to give me a second chance after I messed up on the wedding cake orders.  She must have sweet talked him something fierce. Anyway, Precious, she says, ‘Phyllis, I talked to the boss.  I told him I thought you would be a fast learner if I took a little time before work each morning to show you how cake decorating and ordering work.’

So, I asked her, ‘how do you know all that?  About sugar cane and powdered sugar? And white cake flour coming from wheat?  Did you learn that because of your man being a horror culturalist?’  She said she learned all that – that she learned how to cook and how things work when she was still living at home in high school. Can you believe it?  She actually cooked while she was in college. And, she baked bread to earn money while her man was in grad school!  That’s how she landed the job at this bakery.  I guess she even did a wedding cake for one of her friends.”

“Did you say the husband of Precious went to grad school?”

“Yes, that’s what he did.  In high school, he always wanted to be a botanicalist.  But then he changed his mind and became a horror, horror…” “Horticulturalist.” prompted the traveler.

“Anyway, but, he didn’t finish.  At first, I thought Precious said he didn’t finish grade school.  I knew that wasn’t right on accounta me knowing him in high school. She explained to me the different levels of schooling.”

“So you met Precious at this job?”

“Hey, it is just about break time now! I’m really glad that phone hasn’t rang while we were talking.  I’ll take a smoke break even though I don’t smoke. But you could buy me coffee. I don’t have any money – my man took away my debit card – but you can buy. You don’t mind, do you?  He didn’t say I couldn’t drink a latte, he just said I couldn’t buy more than one a week.”

“And ya know,” she said, patting the traveler’s arm. “It would be good for me to be seen with you. I wouldn’t mind, not one little bit.” The traveler acquiesced.

Tall latte. Short iced mint.  The traveller collected them from the counter and sat down in the moulded booth across from Phyllis.

“So, you don’t think Precious left her man for the same reason you wanted to leave yours?”

“Nope.  No way.  My man took away my Old Navy and Macy’s charge cards!”

“You don’t say.”

“He told me I had to quit shopping and start cooking.”

“You didn’t cook?”

“Are you kidding? I went to secretary school.  I know how to type. I was trained about proper office at tire. Then, of course, I have to have something fun to wear when I’m not at the office.  We go to baseball games on the weekends. So I was always busy shopping the sales for the best deals. I didn’t have time to cook.  I work so I can shop. After the stores close, I stop for carry out on the way home.”

“Your husband got tired of carryout?”

“Yeah, I thought that was the real reason.  I think he was trying to control me into coming home after work and cooking dinner. He said it was because I had charged more than I made that month. My Old Navy card was maxed out.  He said he had paid my store cards.  But if they were paid, what’s the harm in me shopping?  I think he just wanted a homestyle meal.”

“So, he took your charge cards and insisted you come home after work and cook?”

“Can you believe it?  Always before he was okay with having dinner late.  He didn’t get home until nine anyway because he was working an extra job. I was ready to leave him.  Next day, I was asking around work for a roommate. Then me and Tiki and Precious went on break.  Tiki, she’s the one that got me this job in the first place.”

“So you met Precious at this job?”

“Well, yeah, we came at the same time, but, I really got to know her better when they were going to fire me.”

The traveler raised his eyebrows quizzically.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it, since I had been to secretary school?”

The traveler nodded just enough to nudge her forward.

“It was the wedding cakes.  I still don’t see why they should be so expensive.  I was just trying to help out the brides.”

The traveller murmured appropriately.

“The wedding cakes, you know, with three tiers? Well, they are three or four hundred dollars.”

Again the traveler nodded.

“But, on the next page over – it’s the third pull down tab on the website – there are all these cakes separately. 6” two layers for $10.  8” for $12.00.  10 inches for $18.00 and that big one on the bottom?  only $30 bucks for the round one or $35.00 for the square!  So, this one bride came in, and she was really on a budget, poor really.  And I added up the total and was telling her to buy them all separately for under a hundred dollars!”  She laughed.

“Did they have frosting on them?”

“Now how did you figure that out?  Are you a baker? That’s exactly what Precious explained to me.  I don’t know how she did it, but Precious knew how to do just about everything. She could type and she didn’t even go to secretary school. She could write the wedding cake orders and she wasn’t a baker.”

“So, Precious was pretty smart?”

“Yeah, Kiki said she was fastididus, fastdious,

“Fastidious?”

“Yes, only in a good way, not a bad way.”

“So, Precious thought it wasn’t a good idea to leave your husband?”

“Not Precious and not Kiki.  Kiki said you’re just supposed to stay together no matter what.  Marriage is for life.   The only reason you should leave your husband is if he hits you or if he is, you know, having an A-fair with someone else.”

“Many people feel that way.”

“Precious said it sounded like maybe my husband was doing an invention, an indevention,”

“Intervention?”

“Yeah, that’s the word, tough love or something.”

“He paid off your cards?”

“Yep.”

“And then he said you couldn’t use them anymore?

“Yep.  Boy, was I mad. I said I wasn’t going to live anymore with a man that mean.”

“What did Precious say about that?”

“She said maybe he really did love me, cause after all, he paid off my charge cards.  She said maybe he just wanted to get my attention about overspending. I said I didn’t see how taking away my charge cards was loving.  She asked did he give me some grocery money for the cooking.”

“Did he?”

“Not any cash!  All he gave me was a grocery card with two hundred dollars on it.

A grocery card! Just thinking about it made me so mad I started bawling again. And then Precious said, she said it was a waste of energy to cry.”

“So Precious didn’t show any sympathy?”

“She said, ‘why cry when you can do something about it?’”

“Did she want you to get back at him?”

“She said I should do an experiment.”

“A science experiment?”

“Yes, sort of.  She wrote me instructions.  Go to the Grocery store.  A list of things to buy. How to mix the ingredients and put them in the oven.  There was supposed to be enough for that dinner and some left-overs for my lunch the next day.”

“Did you do the experiment?”

“Yes, and I gotta say, it tasted real good. My man thought so too.  ‘You did good babe, real good,’ he said. He said he was proud of me.  He called me his little kitten. Then he told me some other things that would make you blush if I repeated them.  And we, well, we kissed and made up.”

“So, he wasn’t being mean after all?”

“Naw, he said he was sorry he had to take my charge cards and I couldn’t have them back, but he would try to make it up to me by adoring me,” she giggled delightedly.  “So Precious, each day she wrote me an easy recipe.  She told me I could still keep on shopping as long as I did it in the grocery store.”

“So, you said Precious didn’t ever cry when she could do something about it?”

“I only saw Precious cry just that once.”

The traveller raised his eyebrows.

“It was that same week.

We were on break again and Kiki was saying how married people should always stay together no matter what. She started telling a story about how her parents stayed together. And Precious, she acted really funny.”

“Did Precious agree with Kiki’s story?”

“No, I don’t think so. But, I didn’t really get why Precious was crying.  It was just a story, something about a man who ate and ate.  It reminded me of the joke where the doctor tells a man to watch his weight and the man says, ‘so I just got my weight out here where I could see it,’ he he.”

“So, a story about a fat man made Precious cry?”

“It was Kiki’s dad.  He got fat while her mom was getting thinner and thinner.”

The Traveler tipped his head to the side and waited.

“Kiki was home-schooled.  That way her mom saved a lot of money on clothes. They were poor so her mom cooked a lot of beans.  Kiki says her mom was a self sack official for the kids.”

“Self-sacrificial?”

“Yes, that’s it.  So Kiki’s mom just ate a little bit and she divided the rest between the kids and made sure there were lots of beans in her husband’s lunch.  Later on they found out Kiki’s dad was just going to McDonald’s and buying himself a hamburger for lunch after he finished the beans.  Then, at night, he would run errands and buy himself another hamburger.”

“He was starving his wife and kids and getting fat himself?”

“Yes.  Isn’t that awful?”

“What did Precious say?”

“That’s what was so strange.  ‘Cause Precious, you know, she’s the one who says, ‘There’s no use crying over something if you can do something to fix it.‘  She was crying. Without making any noise.  The tears were just running down her cheeks.

”And then she said, real quietly she said, ‘I think neglecting someone to the point of starving them while you got fat – might be a good reason for leaving.” Kiki and I both stared at her.  Then she stood up because it was time to go back inside.  And she said something else, but it sounded like maybe she was talking to herself.”

The traveller leaned forward attentively,

“Do you remember what else she said?”

“‘It’s not always about food. There are other ways to starve a person.’ What duya think she meant by that?”

The traveler stroked his chin thoughtfully, and rose.

“Say, it’s about time for me to get back to the office.  Would you mind getting me a refill? One for the road, so to speak.”

He walked Phyllis back to the stoplight, saw her safely across the street.

“One more question,”  he said.

“Do you think Precious left her man to become a Goblin Princess?”

“What?  Precious?”  she sputtered.  She tossed her head coyly, “Well, now, I might think of becoming a Goblin Princess – ‘specially if someone was to give me all the gold and jewelry I wanted.  But Precious?  What would the men see in her?  Precious is more steady and self-sackaficial like Kiki’s Mom – only she dresses nice.”

Note:  in Chapter One, the Man accuses Precious of leaving to become a Goblin Princess.  You can read the first chapter by choosing, Precious’ Journey from the tab at the top of this page.

 

A Perfect Fortune Cookie

DSCN5831benchcreekI had lunch at a little Chinese place with my parents, my aunt and two family friends. We met as early as possible because I had an appointment in Cedaredge at 1:00 p.m.  The conversation was usual, with plenty of good natured joking.  As I rose to rush off, I flung an unopened fortune cookie into the take-out box and headed for my car.  The rain was just beginning and it followed me all the way up highway 50 with varying intensity. Independent educators ran for the building and rain continued to drum on the roof throughout our our orientation meeting. When the meeting concluded at 4:00 the rain had abated.  I drove a few more miles toward Grand Mesa, up to my cousin’s place at 8,000 feet. She wasn’t home from work yet, so after I said hello to her husband, I changed my shoes and took a hike; through beautiful rain washed scrub oak, service berry, choke-cherry and pine trees, down by the creek that rushes through the lower part of their property.  My soul was drinking in the refreshment and beauty at every turn. DSCN5829creek

My cousin came home.  We threw some fresh veggies on the stove and ran outside again to see the vivid and complete rainbow.  And then, I opened my fortune cookie.

DSCN5836fortunecookie

A Friday Fiction Mashup wherein two speakers try on well known roles to make truth into fiction.

“She left me!”  the heart rending and spine-tingling wail echoed from the darkness of the cavern like Rachel weeping for her children.

“She’s gone!” No, make that like Gollum weeping for his Precious.

“She left me, my Precious.”

“There, there.  Calm down,” said the traveler.  Maybe it’s not so bad as all that.  Perhaps your precious is just lost and you need to go and find her.”

“No. No.  She left me!  My precious left me.”

“Why did she leave you?  Did you hit her?”

“No. No.  Hitting is wrong.  I would never hit my precious.”

There was silence in the darkness.  Then the wail began again.

“Make her come back.  Make my precious come back.  She left me.”

Patiently, the voice from the darkness asked again, “Why did she leave you?  Did you take another lover in her place?”

“She left me.  Didn’t you hear me?  She left me.”

The wail melted into heaving sobs like a scoop of ice cream slowly spreading into a puddle. The wail continued in a murmur,

“Happy we were, in our little cave, away from the noise and crush of the crowds.”

“Well then, was she isolated, lonely?” prodded the voice.

“No. No.  Not lonely.  We had each other.”

“In the darkness?”

“No, not always darkness.  She had a lamp. Only darkness now because I spend my days exploring the dark part of the cave. Around the corner and up about 50 paces there is a fissure in the rock where the sunshine streams in. Precious loved that place.  There is a back exit to the cave through a lemon squeezer. Precious used to climb through the lemon squeezer and go hike along the tiny stream.  She said the running water sang to her and showed her wonderful things.”

“So, Precious really loved this place?”

Oh yes, loved this place, did Precious. And I.”

“So, if your precious loved this place so much, why did she leave?”

“I don’t know.  She left me, my precious!”

“I know, I know, your precious left you,” said the voice with quiet annoyance.  “I am trying to figure out why.  If we can figure out why, perhaps we can take some steps to get your precious back.”

“She belongs here.  She should come back.”

There was a pause in the blackness.  After some thought, the traveler asked, “Did your precious ever get away from the cave?  You know, go down to Metropolis for concerts or shopping?”

“Every day!”  he wailed.

“What?  Precious went shopping every day?  This is an unexpected development.”

“No, no.  Precious left me and went to work every day. She didn’t love the cave as much as I did or she would not have been able to leave,” he stated petulantly.

“Precious left you everyday to go to work?”  inquired the voice.

“Yes, yes,”  he wailed, “Precious, stubborn Precious.  She wanted me to go to work everyday too.  She said the only way we could keep living in our wonderful cave was for both of us to work.  That’s not true. This cave belongs to me!

“So, you didn’t want to go to work?”

“No. No.  It is more important to hold tightly to the things you have than to work for something better.”  He paused for emphasis, then continued,

“It wasn’t possible for me to go to work.  I was busy working here in the cave.  There were so many tunnels I hadn’t yet explored. I found some fascinating stones and minerals in the lower tunnel and I needed to catalog them.”

“Are you a mineralogist then?”

“Me?  No. I’m a  horticulturalist….I just know a lot about minerals because, my precious, she came with a degree in mineralogy when I married her.”

“So, she went to the city every day to work as a mineralogist?”

“No, she was just typing orders for a bakery.”

“Do you think it bothered her that you got to stay at the cave doing research in mineralogy while she was away typing bakery orders?”

“Why would she leave the cave every day if it bothered her? What it all comes down to is, you do the thing you are interested in.  I had more heart for the cave than she did. You only do what you want to do.”

There was a moment of silence as the traveler shrugged along with the man.

“Besides, while my precious was doing her little bakery job, I was conducting an experiment and was deep in research.”

“Oh?” said the voice.

“Yes.  I noticed I had to stoop to bring the rocks from the lower tunnel to daylight to look at them.  I was collecting data to find which way of carrying rocks made me stoop least.”

“I see,” nodded the voice. “What did Precious think about your experiment?”

“See?” wailed the man, “I just realized she was never supportive of my work! She was a woman, so she was shorter. How could she know how difficult it was for me to bring up rocks?  She didn’t have to stoop.”

Again, there was silence.

“One other question,” began the voice. “Just out of curiosity, how did that work when your, uh, precious came home from the city each evening; did you have a fresh garden salad on the table for her?”

“What?” asked the man with a good deal of incredulity as though he had never heard the word salad before.

“A salad,” repeated the voice. “You are a stay-at-home horticulturalist.  Did you greet her with a fresh green meal at the end of the day?”

“I didn’t have time,” said the man indignantly.

“I worked hard at my research, right on into the evening. But, she never appreciated that.  Most of the time I wasn’t aware of her arrival.  At first when she came home from the bakery, she used to call down the tunnel, ‘Hi!  I’m home!’ But after a while she quit doing that. Once after she had finally fixed us dinner and we had eaten, she asked me to do the dishes.”

“Really?” inquired the voice.

“I told her it made me feel less of a man to be doing dishes.”

“Did she apologize?”

“Are you kidding?  She didn’t say a thing. The next night when I came up to the kitchen, there was no food on the table.  She should have been home for two hours already. The dishes were clean and neatly stacked in the cupboard.  She was gone.”

The silence was pregnant with profound thought. At least it seemed that way, until the man burst out,

“Maybe she wanted to be a Goblin Princess.”

“A Goblin Princess?  That is highly illogical.  Logic says Precious was more inclined to be Superwoman than a goblin princess.”

“It was those goblins who stole her!”

“What?  She was kidnapped?  Why didn’t you report it?  Set your ship at warp speed and go after her?”

“I did go after her.”

“Did you find her?”

“Not exactly, but I found out about her – more than I wanted to know. I waited a few months to see if she would find her way back on her own. Then, I told my friends and asked them what I should do. I wrote her a letter begging her to come back, but I couldn’t find a stamp. Can you believe it? She didn’t leave me any stamps in the drawer. Finally, somebody offered me a ride back to University Town where I heard she was living.”

“Did you go?”

“I went to University Town, but, I didn’t get to see her.  I ran into an old friend instead. We had been enemies for many years; but, when he saw me back in town, he slapped me on the back and was glad to see me. He said he knew things about what my precious had been before she found me.  He said she used to be a Goblin Princess,” the man fairly spat the words.  Then he added self-righteously, “Once a goblin princess, always a goblin princess, you know.”

“You were satisfied with that story?  You lived with her for over a decade and you think she actually left you to be a goblin princess?”

“I guess so. Why else would she leave me? It makes sense.  She always did have goblin tendencies.  They love rocks, you know. I remember now how she always loved rocks.”

The man sighed heavily. Once again the wail began to build.  The traveler with the questions covered his ears and retreated to the mouth of the cave and the sunlight.  When the echo subsided, he stepped back into the cavern.

“Say,”  he said. “I came through University Town yesterday. I was there for the gem and mineral symposium at the college.  I think I saw your precious. You might like to know that she is not a goblin princess.  She was the guest lecturer on the hidden value of gold and rubies and how to tell the difference between the real thing and the fake.”

Copyright © Cherry Odelberg, 2013

If you enjoyed this story, you might also enjoy Hell or Love and Let me tell you a parable, from Before I Went Crazy

The piano is not firewood yet

“The Piano is not firewood yet,” this phrase, from lyrics and music by Regina Spektor, is my new battle song – my new anthem.

I shout, “The piano is not firewood yet!” and it is the voice of John Paul Jones bellowing, “I have not yet begun to fight.”

StudioDSCN2750I hear the voice of God asking in the wilderness, “What have you got in your hand, Moses?” and Moses replying, “A rod.”
“Throw it on the ground, Moses.”
The voice calls to me,
“What have you got in your hand?”
I reply, “A Piano!”

For me, Regina Spektor’s lyrics are literal. Maybe for others, metaphorical. But here’s the deal, It is summer weather. I have four more months of warmth in this 365 days to live, so the piano is not firewood yet; though it has been dangerously threatened over the years. But, if it is not going to be dismantled to keep us from freezing, might it be taken from me another way?

Metaphorically, is it collateral? Capital? A sacrificial lamb? What possibilities does it present? Is it merely to attract more students? Is it to rehearse my fingers for performance? Is it setting there between me and my empty wood box, to inspire my stories (I can’t seem to keep the protagonists from playing the piano)?
Is it to point me constantly toward a heart of gratitude? Once, I did not even have a piano and this one was provided generously, almost miraculously, through a friend.

Regina reminds me to press on, to do what needs to be done.
“the piano is not firewood yet
but the cold does get cold
so it soon might be that
I’ll take it apart, call up my friends
and we’ll warm up our hands by the fire”

The Universe calls clearly, “What have you got in your hand?”

I answer joyfully, “A piano! My piano is not firewood yet!

What is this throwdown going to look like?