Sermon

October 16, 2011 is Laity Sunday. I volunteered to preach.

Matthew 22:15-22is the gospel lesson for that day.  Here's the summary:

Three players:

Pharisees - religious group, oppose Roman rule, strict followers of the Jewish laws

Herodians - political group that supports Herod Antipas, the local Roman ruler under the Roman Emperor Caesar.

             - - -  usually enemies, but united against Jesus. 

Pharisees sent their students along with Herodians to test and trap Jesus.  First, they flatter him.  Then, they ask Jesus, "Is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar?"

Why is this a trap?   It's a YES/NO question.

If Jesus said "YES, it’s lawful," the common people would reject him, because they hated paying taxes.  The Pharisees would say that paying Rome meant recognizing Roman authority and rejecting God’s authority.

If Jesus said "NO, it’s not lawful," the Herodians would take him to be arrested for treason.

He outsmarted them both saying, "Render to Caesar that which is Caesar’s and to God that which is God’s."  He makes them both look foolish by exposing their crooked intentions.

Lessons for us:

1. People in power, like the Pharisees and Herodians, often rise to power as a result of hard work, talent and vision. They start out trying to do good things (like providing interpretation of God’s law or governmental stability to a region), but after a while they start to care more about their own position of power than the original ideals that got them there.

2. Why did Jesus say we should render to Caesar that which is Caesar’s? Does he give authority to Caesar? Was he simply trying to save his own skin?  He is eventually arrested, so maybe he's just stalling for time. I think he is teaching a bigger lesson.  By asking to see the coin, he seems to be limiting Caesar’s authority to the coin and payment of tax. Government does not rule our life or our heart. Money and taxes are of the earth and taxes go to the government. What do we give to God?

3. We live in a complex society under the rule of law and the church, just as Jesus, the disciples and new Christians did. We are subject to the laws of Pennsylvania and the United States of America. As Christians, we are also subject to God’s law.

It is tempting to avoid this tension between flesh and spirit, Earth and Heaven, the Secular and Christian world. We could choose one or the other, to avoid the tension. Guilt and fear of God’s wrath can make us push God away, rejecting his rules and living for today, choosing Earth over Heaven. Taking our free will and rejecting authority, relying on ourselves, our logic and cunning.

The opposite choice is complete rejection of the secular world, choosing Heaven over Earth through isolation, closed communities, avoiding the world of sin. We might be tempted to remove ourselves from society, to avoid people we fear might tempt us into sinful behavior, to cloister ourselves. We could spend our days at home in prayer, visiting only those Christians we judge pure enough and shunning all others.

Are we able to identify sinless Christians?  Can we judge, at least, who is less sinful than we are? Even if we could, if we separate ourselves from the world, who will save the world?  If we surround ourselves with people of great faith and discipline at the exclusion of all others, how will we do God’s work? 

We must be like the Thessalonians (1 Thessalonians 1-10). We must resist the temptations of a corrupt society and our own sinful nature.  We are called to live by our faith, perform works of faith, labors of love and to be patient, hanging on through hope and the power of the Holy Spirit.  In the world, not of it.

Chapter 5 - Hurray!

I've been writing a book. I was doing very well, for a beginner, back in May, but then summer vacation started and I stopped writing. I find it very difficult to think when the kids are home. I'm too busy cooking, cleaning the kitchen and arguing!

School started up again last month and I started taking an adult writing workshop to get the engines revving. They aren't revving as loudly as they were in May, but I think I'm getting there. I've developed the plot a bit further, made a few advances toward some real action, given a bit of foreshadowing and written another 3000 words. It's all at about the second draft stage. There aren't any terrible typos or misspellings, but the writing is loose (which is not great). I'll have to tighten it a lot and work on removing weak adjectives. I find it very difficult to remember all of the little details that are in there. A lot of them are probably irrelevant, but I still have to keep them consistent.

I'd really love to post it all here, but then who would buy the book?!  So, instead, I'll tell you that I'm making progress and that's all!

Caution - Danger ahead

I have always been a critical reader. I used to love to read, but now it's becoming a challenge to enjoy reading. The difficulty developed as my analytical training as a scientist increased, and has risen to astounding heights now that I am attempting to write. I analyze ad nauseum.  Well, I suppose it will be helpful in the long run.

I started a new book recommended by an online reading group that I joined last week. I began reading about fifteen minutes ago and have already exhausted myself with the ping pong match going on in my head.

"Oh, this writing sounds forced."

"Yes, it sounds a lot like the first chapter of your book."

"This doesn't flow easily like HARRY POTTER."

"I'm starting to wish I'd never read those blasted books. They read so effortlessly. I'll never write like that."

"Quit whining and just let the words erupt from you.  Stop trying to control what comes out. That's your problem. You're such a control freak."

FREAK   FREAK    FREAK

Thanks, Petunia, I needed that.

Strange Behavior

Jimmy, our neighbor, called yesterday and asked if we’d like him to cut our five-acre field. I said sure. He’d done it for us over the years.  My husband was sleeping after a 24-hour shift at the hospital, but had earplugs in and wouldn’t be bothered by the noise of the tractor and brush hog.  He came up around 2 pm and started cutting. When I went out at 3:50 to drive down to the bus stop for the kids, I let the dogs out. Jimmy was just finishing up.

We were back within ten minutes and Jimmy was gone. The kids went right to work on their homework and I was getting dinner together. We had to eat early, because my son had soccer practice. The dogs started barking, so I looked out the window. I could see something that looked like a dog out at the far end of the fresh-cut field. I decided it was a coyote and called the kids over to see him.  I went up to tell my husband to look outside, but he was fast asleep and didn’t move, even when I gently touched his arm. He looked so exhausted that I left him and went back downstairs. The dogs kept barking, but were staying within the bounds of the invisible fence.  I grabbed the camera and took a few pictures from the porch. They weren’t very good, because I was too far away, but I wanted to be able to show my husband.  It looked like the coyote was hunting. I remembered a study I’d read about recently that had showed that wolves mostly ate rodents. There were lots of mice and moles in that field.  I’d never seen a coyote before and thought it was really cool.  I snapped three pictures and hurried back to the kitchen to turn the potato and zucchini pancakes.

My son finished his homework first and was annoyed at the dogs, so he went out to call them.  They were still barking and carrying on.  He yelled for me, because out terrier had gone past the invisible fence and was approaching the coyote. I ran out and told my son to stay put on the porch. As I ran toward them, calling the terrier, our beagle mutt followed me. I changed my mind, realizing I would have a hard time handling both dogs, and called the boy to help me.

“Grab Buddy and take him back to the house,” I shouted. He ran hard across the field and grabbed him by the collar. Buddy tried to get free, but my son yanked and pulled and smacked him once. I looked back and saw the beagle on his back being submissive.

I turned to get the terrier, Beau, and he and the coyote were disappearing toward the road. Oh no, I thought. I ran toward them, calling Beau, worried he’d take off or get in a fight. He quickly came around the corner, panting. “Good boy,” I said and called him to me. We went back to the house. With the dogs safely inside, we returned to homework and dinner. I was still checking my daughter’s homework while we ate. She had had work to do in every subject.

We finished eating and I told my son to hurry.  “Daddy can check the rest of your work,” I told our girl.  “Tell him about the coyote when he wakes up.” I said as I was opening the door to go out.  

“Why?” she asked from the kitchen.

“So he can look outside and see him.” I replied.

“He’s gone,” she said.

“But he might come back to feed some more,” I said.

“Whatever,” she mumbled.

We were at soccer practice until it got dark at 7:30 and got back home around 8:10. As we walked in, my daughter came to the door. “Dad shot the coyote,” she said.

“What? Why would he do that?” I asked.

“Yeah, right,” my son said.

“He said it was acting funny,” she replied.

We walked upstairs and I looked at my husband in disbelief. My eyes were filling with tears. “Did you shoot it?” I asked.

“I thought you wanted me to. It was acting really strange. It kept hanging around. I thought you’d be relieved,” he said, walking toward me, reaching out.

“It was hunting,” I said, my voice rising as I pushed him away. I looked around for my daughter.
“Didn’t you tell him?” I asked her.

“Tell him what?” she asked.

“That it was hunting! The field had just been mowed and it was hunting mice! That’s why it was hanging around!! I took pictures of it,” I said as I looked for the camera.

“I didn’t know,” my husband and daughter both replied.

Holding the camera, I looked for the adapter to plug into the computer and download the pictures, but couldn’t find it. I wanted to show him that it had been harmless, just hunting mice, as if proving it was harmless would change the outcome.  I slammed the door on the computer desk in anger and frustration and stormed down the stairs and out the door.  Outside, I cried and groaned and gasped for air, wanting to turn back time and wake my husband up at 5:00 to tell him about the cool coyote feeding in the field.

How could this have happened? How could she have let him kill it? Was she so oblivious that she had missed the whole thing or was she so fearful that she had decided it was dangerous in spite of my excitement at watching it?  I cried in anguish over the senseless killing, standing at the edge of the field where I had last seen the coyote.

After a short while, I heard my husband calling me.  “Honey, where are you?’ he called.

“I’m over here,” I called back, trying to calm down. I turned and walked slowly toward him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his head hanging down.  My mind swam with thoughts of him talking about the guys killing coyotes at the hunting camp, because they preyed on the deer.  They just liked to kill. But, we only kill what we eat. He always said that. We only kill what we eat.  He wasn’t like the other guys. 

“I never meant to upset you. I thought you would be really happy. I was trying to protect us and the dogs and cat.”

“It’s her,” I said. “It’s the way she talked about it. She made you think I was worried, but I wasn’t.”

“It’s not her fault. I didn’t understand. I didn’t know that the field had just been cut while I was sleeping. I thought maybe it was cut yesterday while I was working and I hadn’t noticed.  I didn’t think about it.  It’s not her fault.” He reached out and drew me into his arms. “You thought you were going to wake up tomorrow morning and get to watch it hunt again,” he said.

“Yeah, I did.”  We hugged each other and felt the confusion of misunderstanding and the sadness of death all around us. We slowly walked back to the house.  It was very dark and quiet.

I went upstairs. The lights were all off. I went into each of the kids’ rooms and kissed them good night, trying not to blame my daughter. Maybe she had missed the whole thing. She had been busy with her homework.  Maybe it was an innocent mistake.

My husband made us each a drink and we sat down in our usual spots. I felt numb. His eyes were red rimmed and tired.  We talked about what had happened and tried to make sense of it. Then, out of words, we picked up books and newspapers, trying to resume our normal routine of reading before bed.  Still hurting, we went to bed early. 

I dreamed that the kids and I were walking to the mini-van, our old mini-van that we got rid of last year. My son asked if he could drive. He was around ten, like now. I said, “Yes, but just a little,” and got in the back. He went to the driver’s seat and did something I couldn’t see. He put something in the back trunk area.  His sister got in the front passenger seat.

The van started moving. It was swerving a bit. After a few minutes, I said “Stop, that’s enough.” He didn’t stop or answer and I started shouting.  Somehow, I got out of the van and ran around to the driver’s side. I was very upset and kept shouting, “Stop”.  My son and daughter had pushed their seat-backs all the way back and were lying flat, completely reclined, all strapped in. The steering wheel was gone. That was what my son had put in the trunk area. He said that it was in his way. As I was seeing all of this and trying to stop the van, a lady drove by and said, “Watch out! There’s a police car right behind you.”

I reached in and pulled the emergency brake.  The police car stopped behind us and an officer got out. I was yelling at my son to get unbuckled and get out so we wouldn’t get in trouble. The officer went over to my daughter on the other side and started talking to her as if she were the mother. He talked funny and seemed really slow and confused about what he was supposed to do. The kids got out of the mini-van and a crowd was gathering around us. The officer kept saying, “Well, I don’t know. Let me see. I just don’t know.” I was very worried, but he never paid attention to me. He kept saying it to my daughter. After a while, we just walked away. I put the steering wheel back where it went and got in to drive. That’s when I woke up and remembered the night before. I still felt numb, so numb and sad.

It has been too long. My children have been home for summer vacation and I have felt trapped, convinced that I couldn't write with them in my space. True or not, I dont know, because I didn't try. Summer vacation was supposed to end today, but school was postponed due to power outages. Mother Nature took the name Irene.

My impulse to post was spurred by a burst of understanding that will probably underwhelm you. I know and knew that I am very critical of my daughter. She constantly surprises and confuses me. She wants things that I have never wanted, chooses things that I would never choose. I often find myself arguing with her about her choices, likes and dislikes. Is she a "bad girl"? Does she want things that I consider immoral or risky? Oh, no. Nothing like that. She just chooses things that I would never have chosen in a million years!! My son also likes things that don't interest me. So, why am I so bothered by my daughter?

It seems to me that the problem is that I expect my daughter to be more like me. My son is a boy, so I don't expect him to be like me. In fact, since I'm not a boy, I really don't expect ... anything.  The daughter, though, she's in a different category. I know what I liked when I was her age and I'm bothered that she doesn't have similar tastes. How could she like those things? What is her reasoning, motivation, etc?

In case you're wondering what huge choice spurred this post, it was a bathing suit. She wants a type of bathing suit that I have seen, but found very unusual. A rashguard. I know that's what it's called, becasue I did some searching. Huh........

Reading vs Writing

Well, fans, I haven't written anything all week, because I've been reading a really good book, cleaning the pool, watering the garden and going to dentist appointments during my usual writing time. Sorry. I'll try to do better next week.

If you're thinking - go write now - all I can say is I'm hungry and have to mow the lawn after I eat. Oh, and the kitchen is a disaster, and three's laundry to fold and put away. In fact, I wrote out schedule for Monday and I can barely fit any writing time into it. It's only going to get worse once the kids are home from school.

Sigh......

Comments from Friendly Readers

The people who have read the first three chapters have this to say about the book so far:

A - Wow, couldn’t stop reading once I started… really GOOD!! Is it all real or do you make some of it up? Totally sounds like you… I can hear your voice as I read… what happened with the ------ (spoiler)? Was it real?

B - You definitely have me wanting to read more and I love the Susquehanna County setting. (hmm, do I smell smoke??)

C - I just read the chapters that you sent. Funny thing is in the middle of the second chapter I stopped to go through Caroline's vocabulary words with her. And right after that, I read (spoiler)......

We both feel like we want to know what happens next! The story is progressing well. I especially like the reflections on (spoiler) ......it takes me back to my childhood. There is also good foreshadowing. We know something happened after the (spoiler) and we want to know what. I remember the first pages and the dangerous ....... and wonder if that was the scene of the problem. Is the ........? I need to read more to find out! This is all good.

These comments are great for me as a writer. They are very encouraging and I need that at this early stage. Who knows, maybe they are intriguing to you as a reader! Thanks, readers!

Plot and Descriptions

I've been continuing with the writing. Just wrote Chapter 3 Thursday. I'm finding that plot ideas are popping into my head so fast that I'm skimping on descriptions. It's like I can't write fast enough to keep up with the development of the plot. So, I've started keeping a separate document of plot ideas. I jot them down as they pop into my head. I may have to go back to the earlier chapters and add more description.

I've also been gathering information for one of the incidents in the story. It will be based on something that has occurred multiple times up here in NEPA, so I want to make sure it is realistic.

I'm also happy to say that I have seven friendly readers who are kindly reading the story and offering their comments. So far, so good.

Names

I was working on Chapters 1 and 2 yesterday. I had written chapter 1 about a month ago and then wrote chapter 2 almost independently, but with similar ideas floating around in my head. They didn't quite fit together, and needed to be reworked. I'm sure they still need even more work. There were simple problems like continuity of season, cast of characters, language style and names.

The characters so far are a middle-age woman (me), her husband and two children. I didn't want to use our real names, because the story isn't true. It's just that these are characters I know (and love) well. When I picked names at random, it didn't feel right and I couldn't remember who was who. SO, I decided to look up the meanings of our names and find different names with similar meanings. My name and my daughter's name both mean pure. My husband and son's name mean strong and bright fame, respectively. So, I chose Jenny (a nickname for Virginia), Kate (nickname for Katherine), Rich (nickname for Richard) and Sam (nickname for Samson). It feels good now.

friendly reader

Hi everyone! I have been continuing the story I posted last time, but decided not to post it. I think it's time for me to keep it hidden, in hopes that someday it will actually be published. If you would like to be a "friendly reader" and help me by making positive comments about the parts you like while ignoring typos and bad writing until the second draft, let me know! I can send you a copy by email.

The story will be about a woman whose community faces a sort of natural disaster and how they all deal with it. It will include day to day issues of parenting, philosophy and religious beliefs, moral dilemmas and the joys and frustrations of life in NEPA. I hope it will be funny and intelligent, but there's no guarantee!

The Greener Grass

"What do you mean you aren't coming back?"

"I just can't do it anymore. We started going when the kids were babies, because we wanted them to grow up in the church and I needed the hour of peace and quiet. The church we picked in Wexford had children's church and a nursery, so we could actually pay attention to the service. That was a great church, but this one just doesn't give me anything anymore. It was great for meeting people in town when we first moved here, but lately it's just a chore to go. I've had enough. I'm tired of being a hypocrite."

"Sally, please. We really need you in the choir and nobody else will take charge of Vacation Bible School."

"Well, I'll miss both, but someone will take over VBS. You just watch. There are lots of capable people. The choir will survive, too."

"They're talking about starting an adult Bible study again. Would that interest you?"

"Not if all we're gonna do is read a few passages and then sit there talking about how amazing God is and how things haven't changed over 3000 years. I need to go deeper, Nancy. I need to feel free to question. I need to feel like the words in that book are pushing people to look twice at the way they live."

"I don't understand what you mean. Don't you think most of us try to live by those words?"

Sally sighed. She really didn't want to have this conversation. She said, "We do try, don't we." and thought, 'When was the last time we fed the hungry, Nancy?'

Nancy answered and talked some more about all the great things the Sunday School and Women's group were doing, but Sally had stopped listening. She said "I know." and "Sure" a few times, but without any feeling.

Nancy got the message. "Well, I hope to see you soon," she said. "Take care. God bless."

Sally put the phone down and sipped her coffee while she stared out the window. It looked gorgeous outside. The sun was shining, which hadn't happened in almost a week. She could see pale green buds on the trees and hear the birds. The grass was bright green. This was such a great time of year, if only it would warm up a bit more. The weather had been so strange lately. When they were down in Florida over Easter, Dave had said that the forecast was for a cool summer in the northeast and hot and dry in the south. Oh well, nothing she could do about it and Dave was happier with cool. He always got hot and sweaty long before she did. He would have hated West Africa.

She walked into the living room and noticed the basket of laundry waiting for her. She'd been on her way up to the bedroom to fold it when the phone rang. She picked it up, headed upstairs and dumped it out on their bed. As she folded, her mind swept back over the years, remembering her days in Togo. In her mind, heat and Togo, West Africa were always connected. It was so long ago, it hardly felt real anymore. What was the name of that student who had helped her around the house? Kossi? No, that was the English teacher. Koffi? Hmmmm....She couldn't remember. She didn't believe in too much charity. She always made the students work for her if they needed money. It seemed to work out fine. She chuckled as she remembered their attempts to put in a garden. It was so hot that all the seedlings withered. They decided to shade the plot with palm fronds on a platform he built. It had worked really well, at first. The little plants had popped up out of the ground and Kodjo (Was that his name?) had been so pleased. Then, a pregnant stray dog had discovered the shade and lay down right on top of the seedlings. Kodjo was so upset, but she had smiled and said, "Oh, well. We'll just plant some more." She could see his reaction. He realized that day that she was just giving him busy work to justify the money she gave him for school. He was disheartened, disappointed because he wanted to earn his money. She'd hurt his pride and felt terrible about it.

The second student who came to see her, saying he didn't have any food left, was shocked when she said he could wash her floors, if he wanted to, and she would pay him. He hadn't come back. Kodjo was different. He really needed the money and worked hard for it. His hair had been orange when he'd first come looking for help. Kwashiorkor - not enough protein in his diet. It had turned black by the end of the year after he started earning money. 'I wonder what he's doing now,' she thought as she reached for her mug of coffee. She sipped and found it was already cold. Nothing like Togo. When she drank her coffee there every morning, she would break into a sweat, because the air was so hot and heavy with moisture. Sip. Sweat. Sip. Sweat. Dave would have hated it.

Back downstairs, she warmed the coffee up in the microwave. That would have been handy in Togo. She'd only had a little one burner kerosine stove that sat on the floor of the kitchen, because there was so little counter space. The coffee had been good, though. Maybe she'd buy some French bread and sweetened evaporated milk next time she shopped and try to relive the taste of breakfast in Togo. It would work better if the temperature rose by about 30 degrees!

At least the church here wasn't as messed up as the churches there, she thought. It amazed her the way they mixed together animism and Christianity. How could they think it was OK to be polygamists if they were Christians. She shook her head, pondering how lost and confused they were. A small voice in her head reminded her that the Bible was full of polygamy. Well, that's true, she thought. I should know better than to be blind to my own culture's prejudices. Cultural norms are just that, cultural norms. Could she possibly imagine the people here living the way we did in Togo? Hah. 'Let's see. Can I do it?' she thought. 'Can I picture five or six families in this town living in little cement apartments placed along the edges of a square, doors opening toward the inside of the compound, with a wall connecting them and a central courtyard? Who would be there? The Miners, The Bogerts, The Jennings, The Buddenhagens? It would have been nice when the kids were babies, to have other women around to share in watching them and to be able to send one of the older girls to the market if I needed something. Now that would be an interesting experiment to try.' It was a lot more like they lived during the time of Christ. She would have a pretty good idea of who needed food if they all lived so closely packed, doing their cooking outside in a common cooking area. 'Well, I guess here they'd have to have an indoor common kitchen area for most of the year, except maybe the summer.' But would it change anything? Would she share more if the need were more obvious?

She looked up and saw that she'd been day dreaming for too long and needed to get something out for dinner. 'How about venison in peanut sauce? That would taste good on a cool day like this and I feel like keeping my African memories alive today. Dave would have hated the heat, but he loved the food, the hotter the better.' She opened the basement door and walked down to the freezer. It wasn't very full, because Dave had only gotten one deer. She took out a package of stew meat and put it on the dryer while she loaded the washing machine. Now this was a luxury she would sorely miss if she lived in Togo. "No you wouldn't," she corrected herself outloud. 'You'd have a girl to do the wash for you. True... and clean the house, too. Yup, and it would be unthinkable to do it myself and deny people the chance to earn some money. Maybe I should call Don and find out if there are any jobs for us in Madagascar.' Don was an old Peace Corps friend who worked for USAID - The US Agency for International Development. No, her husband would never go for it. He wasn't nearly as adventurous as she was. Well, maybe she wasn't so adventurous anymore either, now that they had the kids to worry about.

She walked up the stairs to the kitchen and started to make some lunch. As she ate, she thought about Sunday. What would the kids think if they stopped going to church? They'd always gone every week, unless they were out of town or sick. The kids always complained that it was boring and stupid and they didn't want to go, but how would she explain this change? It was so easy to just keep doing what they were doing and not rock the boat. Would she have to explain to everyone, or would they just let the family disappear? She heard the washing machine stop just as she finished eating and went downstairs to get the clothes. The venison stew meat was still sitting on the dryer. She put the laundry in a basket, grabbed the venison and went upstairs. After she'd left the venison in the kitchen to thaw, she went outside to hang up the laundry. The wind was blowing just enough that it wold dry pretty quickly. She should have gotten it out here sooner, but her mind was so pre-occupied today. It was that conversation with Nancy that had started it all. She hadn't longed for Togo in a long time, but all day she'd been wishing she could take the best of that culture and bring it home. Life had been great there. She tried to keep their life simple here, but it wasn't easy. The fact that she had to drive fourteen miles down a highway to get decent vegetables just drove her crazy. Well, in Togo there hadn't really been any vegetables, so..... She shook her head, trying to clear it. "Nothing's ever perfect, is it?"

She'd said it out loud and the dogs thought she was talking to them. They came trotting over, tails wagging, then bumping against each other, trying to get her petting and kisses. "You guys are so jealous. Come on, stop! I love you both. You aught to know that by now." She stooped down and gave them lots of love. They were such good company during the day when the kids were off at school and her husband was at work. She rubbed their bellies and scratched behind their ears. They decided they'd each gotten enough and sat down next to her on the lush grass while she finished hanging the wash. As she turned to go in the house, she heard a loud noise. It was strange, because it almost sounded like a clap of thunder, but the sun was shining. The dogs jumped up, their tails between their legs. 'Strange,' she thought. 'Wonder what it was.' "It's OK boys," she said as she patted them on their heads.

She picked up the laundry basket and went inside. Maybe she could get the front bed weeded before the kids got home from school, but first she needed to get dinner started. She put the meat in the microwave to thaw, turned the oven to 325 and got out the cast iron dutch oven. The venison always turned out better when it was cooked nice and slow in that dutch oven. When it was all set up, she went out to work in the flower bed. Five people called and left messages over the next hour and a half, but she couldn't hear the phone from outside. As far as she knew, the day was turning out just fine.

Character development

There's a fifty-two year old woman who lives in a house with two children, two dogs, a husband and a cat. She usually wakes up when her nine-year-old son wakes up, because he crawls into bed with her, around 6:30 am. Other days, the dogs, who sleep in the master's bedroom wake her up earlier, because her daughter or some other wildlife are roaming around. Lately, she doesn't want to get out of bed. She's been blaming it on the oral surgery (gum sliced open, skin pulled back, roots and bones scraped) she had earlier in the week, but somehow it seems that it's more than that. Her brain is tired. She's edgy. She's angry about something, but not sure what.

Her husband thinks that it's her normal cycle. Ten years ago, that would have meant her menstrual cycle, but those days are gone, and with no productive outcome. These days, it's the cycle of working and not working. She worked part-time last year, for a few hectic months. She seems to be happy when work ends, because she can regroup and try to get the house and kids in order, but after six months or so, she's done all the jobs she wants to do and the jobs that are left are jobs she hopes to avoid. She starts to feel lost, wandering the world, looking for a place to anchor, a bite worth taking, a purpose worth pursuing. Worth, that's the problem. SO little is worth it.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr. She gets out of bed, puts on a fleece over here pajamas, lets the dogs out. She grabs a cup of coffee, helps by buttering bagels, feeds the dogs, starts to make lunches. Within thirty minutes, they're headed to the bus stop, the bus comes and she's back home. The dogs howl as she drives up to the house. You'd think she'd been gone a year. She grabs another cup o' joe, looks at the mess in the kitchen and wonders what to do. Usually, she'd switch into shorts and a sports bra to do aerobics for a half hour, but she's tired and the post-operative instructions say no exertion, which is just fine with her.

She could do some laundry, but she doesn't want to. She decides that mowing the lawn takes very little energy and will make her feel productive. She goes outside to check the grass. It's wet and won't be dry until after noon. She checks the mower, because it hasn't been used since last fall. It starts, but is almost out of gas. The gas cans are empty.

She puts the gas cans in the car and drives to the gas station. The activity is raising her spirits a bit, but not much. She manages to fill the cans without getting gas all over everything, drives home, puts them in the garage and goes into the house feeling a little bit better. She decides to clean up the kitchen and take out the compost while the sun dries the grass. As she's walking to the compost pile, it starts to rain. Perfect.

She finishes up in the kitchen and sits down in her reading spot. It's in the living room. There's a little area in front of the fireplace where she's positioned a love seat, chair and ottoman. The chair is her husband's spot. The love seat is hers. Half of the love seat is covered with books, magazines and her laptop. This is where she sits every evening. Usually during the day, she's busy with chores, but today, she's going to sit and read and wait for the rain to stop, the grass to dry and her mouth to heal.

She grabs a book that a friend loaned her. It starts out resembling her life, sort of. The writing is OK, but not great. It's a lot like her writing. Nothing astounding, proper grammar and sentence structure. She thinks about abandoning it. She usually tries to read books that are more noteworthy, the prize winners, literature. This one doesn't seem to be worth the time it takes to read it, but she doesn't want to have to tell her friend that she didn't finish it. It's entertaining, but she's not learning anything new.

Maybe that's what's eating her. She makes herself some lunch: soft food that she can chew on one side. She takes small bites, concentrating to keep them on one side of her mouth and thinks about her mood, tries to dissect it. She's been a perpetual student. She loves to learn. When she isn't working, she isn't learning. She's been toying with writing, but there's not really much learning. She's known how to string together words since high school. She is guided by her writing book to think about her motivation, delve into her spirit, dig deeper, but these are things she has always done. As an old grad school colleague used to say, she has always "studied her navel". Grumpier and grumpier.

She wants to take a nap, but the grass is probably dry. The wind is howling. Her eyes are heavy. The kids will be home from school in two hours. Maybe she can mow after she picks them up. Right now, the most worthwhile activity seems to be napping.

Swingin' down.

"Swing low sweet chariot, comin' for to carry me home. Oh, swing low, sweet chariot. Comin' for to carry me home......Sometimes I'm up and sometimes I'm down."

Yeah, it seems to be a down day. Why? Not enough sleep, too much trouble in the world. Osama Bin Laden is dead and people are celebrating. Because it's justice? I don't know. I don't see a lot of justice in the world. Christ said forgive, but we don't. We'd rather get in the last word, the last slap, the last shot. I'm not much different. I try to be fair to those around me, but if my kids are nasty to me, I tend to be nasty right back. Not always, no not always.

So, that's how my day started. Shooting, killing and celebrating on the news. I just wanted to know if it was really going to rain for two days, because I never got around to mowing the lawn on Saturday. Thought I'd do it today. Well, it's not raining much, but a shower at 9 am will keep the grass too wet to mow for quite a while. No problem, there are lots of other jobs to do.

I did some jobs and was just sitting down to eat my lunch and decided to do a little Ess1 search, to have something to read while I ate. Ess1 is the name of the protein and gene I used to work on in Steve's lab in Albany. I really loved the work and the lab. I like to check in now and then and see what the scientific world has discovered about it, because it still interests me. Well, I discovered just a few papers. Nobody has figured out the thing that really interests me. It would take a while to explain what that is. Well, the short version is that Ess1 (the protein) binds to the end of RNA Polymerase II, which is a really huge protein that takes DNA and uses its pattern to make RNA. RNA is then used as a pattern to make protein by another big protein. Anyway, Ess1 binds to the end of RNA polymerase II at what is called the CTD tail. It's made up of repeating patterns of amino acids. They're the building blocks of proteins. When it binds, it changes the shape (conformation) of the tail and allows phosphates to be removed from certain amino acids. That, in turn, allows certain small RNAs to be completed and leave the machinery. I want to know why the elimination of Ess1 causes the cells to be unable to complete cell division and why that dephosphorylation only effects termination of those certain RNAs and not all RNAs.

Anyway, nobody who reads this cares about any of that. It's just that reading about Ess1 and glancing at the papers that have been published, I noticed that the first Ess1 paper that I published with Steve (in 2000) has been referenced in 109 research papers and the last Ess1 paper that I published (in 2004) is referenced in 21 papers, including two really great journals. It makes me almost cry. It makes me miss research. It makes me think I'm a big ungrateful whiner.

Oh, well, I guess it's time to stop moping and do something important, like fold laundry. At least the house is quiet and nobody's trying to kill me (as far as I know).

Parenting

Another great day in our lovely household. The kids had a shouting match during breakfast, because we have two bus stops to choose from and, of course, one wanted one and the other wanted the other. You can pretty much guarantee that it will be that way. Fortunately, I was blessed with very strong vocal cords and can shout louder than they can. Once that was settled, we moved on to a bout of begging from my son. He always wants something (don't we all), and will beg, argue, cajole, argue, present options, logic, etc until you beg for mercy. This morning it was, "Please download a song I found on iTunes that was free." Once he was completely ready for school I presented MY bargain, "I'll download the song and put it on your sd card if you agree that we'll go to your sister's bus stop choice and you won't give me a hard time about it." He smiled and agreed. I'm slow, but his training has begun to pay off.

So, down we went to get in the car and what should I notice but bright pink fingernail polish on my daughter's fingernails. Many of you would not think twice about fingernail polish, but there are three issues here: 1. The school says it's not allowed. 2. She knows that I don't like it. I really detest the idea that females are supposed to paint themselves to be more attractive to males. Why should I have to do that to attract a mate? Aren't my brains enough, not to mention my legs and breasts? Puhleeze! and 3. SHE LIED ABOUT IT! Yes, that is the crux of the matter.

"When did you paint your fingernails?"

She evaded, "I don't know," with a shrug.

"Well they weren't pink yesterday."

Continued evasion. "Huh? I don't remember. Yes, they were."

This went on for a minute or two until I said, "They were not pink yesterday morning. You painted them when you met your friend yesterday."

"Yeah." Glance at me, glance out the window,

"So, why lie about it?"

"I was afraid I'd get in trouble."

"Well, you're in a lot of trouble now!" Ah, it's so predictable, it makes me wanna cry.

As I pointed out to her, her timing stinks. We're going away very soon and I thought I could trust her to go places independently with certain restrictions. So much for that. Pretty clear that trust is an issue. So, this evening should be lots of fun. I emptied out the drawers of her desk. They looked like someone had taken a trunk full of papers, books, pencils, hair ties, toys and general junk, jumbled them all up and shoved them into the desk drawers. I also pulled everything out from under her bed. She can spend her time sorting through it. I haven't decided whether to let her join us for pizza and a movie or leave her up there in jail. Whatever I decide, she'll say she doesn't care. They both figured that one out pretty quickly. Take away Mom's ammunition by pretending that the punishment doesn't hurt.

You know, this may be one of those blessings in disguise. It may very well hammer home the point that they'd better behave on the vacation or they risk being confined to quarters and missing out on the fun. Last April, during our vacation, they ate half of the breakfast bars, hid wrappers around the room and then denied eating them. They said it was somebody else. Maybe a robber had come in the room and eaten the breakfast bars. We couldn't prove it was them. We all spent the afternoon sitting in the condo, waiting for them to confess. I took a walk, stomped around, cried and begged God to help me, because I figured it just showed that I was as lousy at parenting as I was at everything else. This parenting stuff is not nearly as fun as I thought it would be. Thank God for public school and summer camp.

So, I have about seven and a half child-free hours ahead of me. I was actually pretty productive yesterday and feel some productivity stirring in my veins at this very moment. Scratch that. I think it's the coffee doing it's morning work on my intestines. Later.

Meanderings

I woke up to my husband's alarm today. The radio was louder than usual. He was up, dressed and heading out the door to the hospital when I wandered down the stairs to let the dogs out. My daughter met me with an outstretched hand holding a bagel on a plate.

"There's no butter, so Dad said I should try this and I don't like. It's grape jelly."

"You like grape jelly. Why do you have to be so picky? Maybe you'd like it better if there was butter with the jelly. There's some in the basement in the freezer." I walked to the basement in my flowered LLBean flannel pajamas, shaking my head, wondering what other joys the day would bring. 'I shouldn't be so hard on her. It's just a bagel, but I swear she's just refusing to like it because it looks funny.'

I find the butter, walk back up to the kitchen, open the pack, unwrap a stick and put it in the microwave. Melt, no, soften, one stick of butter, start. The dogs are begging at the door. I walk to the closet, scoop out their scoops of food and let them in to eat.

My son is at the table eating a bowl of cereal. "What do you want for lunch?" I ask.

"Do you have tuna?"

"Yes. I bought some yesterday."

"Tuna."

I grab a can of tuna. The microwave beeps. I put a little butter on one quarter of one half of the bagel and some peanut butter on another quarter. I notice as I'm spreading that it's chunky. She prefers smooth.

I go to the bottom of the stairs and call up. "What do you want for lunch? Tuna or peanut butter and jelly?"

"Tuna."

"OK. Come on down, because I found some butter. Maybe you'll like the bagel better with a little butter on it. Come down and taste it."

I go back to the kitchen to open the can of tuna. The dogs are sitting at my feet as soon as I grab the can opener. "You guys are such beggars," I say. "I grab their bowls and squeeze tuna juice into them. They scramble around each other to make sure they get their share. I put the bowls on the floor, one by each of them, and turn back to the tuna.

My daughter walks in. "Here," I say. "I put a little butter on one part and some peanut butter on another part. See what you like best."

She takes the plate and walks over to the kitchen table. She sits. I turn around, open the refrigerator and find the mayonnaise. As I put it on the counter, I glance at her. She's breaking off a microscopic piece of the bagel with her fingers. She says, "This is chunky isn't it?" She looks annoyed, vexed by my incompetence.

"I just grabbed it and started putting it on. Then I realized it was chunky. I didn't know it had to be so perfect." I sigh and go to the cabinet to grab a container for the tuna. I start mixing the tuna, getting out the bread, two different kinds, finding their lunch boxes. "So, which one did you like better?" I ask her.

"The butter."

"Would you like butter on the other half?

"I already finished. I thought it all had butter on it."

"No, I only put butter on a small part. I didn't put anything on the other half. It just had jelly on it." I spread tuna on a slice of bread, wondering if I've got the amount of mayonnaise right. "So, it wasn't all that bad after all." I say. I put the sandwich in its container and turn to her. My arms are crossed. "I think you just decided you weren't going to like it, because you didn't like the way it looked."

She gets up from the table and walks out of the room. I finish making her lunch and start on her brother's. Where did he go? I peak in the office around the corner. "Get off the computer. We have to leave in five minutes. Do you have socks on?"

"Yeah."

"Check the weather while you're in there."

"Sunny, high of 63" he says after a minute. Well, that's good, at least.

The lunches are packed, so I grab a cup of coffee. Finally. "Time to go," I announce after two sips, as the digital clock on the microwave changes to 7:20. I grab my winter coat and purse. I'm still in my pajamas. The kids run down to the basement. My daughter starts yelling about something. "Stop it." is all I hear. I walk down the stairs.

"He keeps trying to make me trip. Next time, I'll probably land on my face." She's sitting on the floor putting on her sneakers. He's already outside. I walk over to my shoes and see one of his DS games on the floor. I grab it as he walks in the door.

"Come on," he says. "She's been getting here early, remember. We're gonna miss the bus."

I hand him the game. "This was on the floor," I say.

"What? Where?"

"Right here."

"It couldn't be. It was in my backpack pocket."

I turn him around and look at his backpack. "Well, the pocket's open. It must've fallen out when you leaned down to put on your shoes."

"It couldn't have. I put it in there."

"You don't take good care of these games. That's why you're always losing them and have no idea where they are."

We continue to argue as we walk out the door. We get in the car and drive the half mile down the hill to the bus stop. She pulls up just as we stop. She's early. They get out of the car, walk to the bus. I say, "Have a good day. I love you," but they don't hear me. I wave to some of their friends on the bus as she pulls away. As I drive back to the house I think about them and wonder how the rest of the day will go. Yesterday, I immediately changed into my work out clothes and finished my aerobics tape by 8:30. Today, I feel like writing. Should I write about this morning? Will the interactions with them be funny, interesting?

Reading back over what I've written, I feel let down. Nothing special here. Just our usual morning. NOthing like what I read last night. I was looking at a site called Good Reads, trying to figure out what book to read next. I posted on a discussion board and someone suggested Kristin Cashore. It turns out she's from NEPA. That got my attention, so I went to her blog. Funny! Very funny! She talks about how she writes, her method. She says that all day, there are voices in her head, different characters talking, usually fighting, and she tries to listen and figure out what they're saying. Then, she writes it all down in long hand. That's where her novels come from.

I don't hear voices in my head all day. Most people would consider that a good thing. When the kids are here, I hear their voices in my head all day, but I try not to listen. When I'm alone, the house is quiet and my head is full of thoughts, but not voices. It's full of my analysis of my world. I guess I'm more analytical than creative. I will analyze this morning's interactions with the kids all day. I'll also think about Kristin's blog, the conversation I had with Cherie and Missy the other day, our upcoming trip, weather trends, anything and everything that pops into my head will be subjected to analysis. Thinking, thinking analyzing, analyzing.

I'm not sure I have a story in me. I keep wondering if I'd be better off reading about the protein I used to work on in Steve's lab and putting together a review article, instead of trying to write non-fiction. I think there's something I'm supposed to write and I can't quite figure out what it is.

It's 8:15. (8:40 now that I've re-read and fixed the typos.) I have seven and a half hours until the kids get home from school. I'm still in my pajamas and my cup of coffee is empty. There are several items on my list, but plenty of time to write, if I can just figure out what's inside of me.

It's 10:15. I tried to do some jobs around the house and discovered my daughter's lunch bag on the kitchen counter. Great. I drove it up to the school. It seems I've been driving something up to one of them every other day for the past month. I'm in a bad mood. (Did you catch that?) I feel discouraged and stressed. I think the stress is because we're going away soon. I love planning trips, but I'm old now and get nervous when the departure date approaches. I'm discouraged because my writing isn't funny. I'm funny. People tell me all the time that I'm funny, that I should be a comedian. But, my writing's not funny. Maybe it's because I'm writing all alone, but I'm funny in front of a crowd. Maybe if I write the story as if I'm telling it to some of my friends and acquaintances, as I have in the past, it would come out funny. Well, it's worth a try, because this is depressing.

I feel a deep need to make popcorn and watch The Order of the Phoenix. Now she can write.

A Cup of Emotion

Another exercise: Time travel back in your life and choose an emotionally charged moment. Write about this cup of emotion. This cup may be a seed for a later longer work. Here goes.

I was a postdoctoral fellow in a yeast genetics lab in Albany. My new husband was a medical student across the street at Albany Med. It was the fourth week of May 2001. I was working as quickly and efficiently as I could, because I wanted desperately to get out of lab early. It was awards day. Brian would be graduating on Saturday and today he would get several awards. His parents were coming, my parents were coming and I had to be there! As I worked and fretted and tried to make sure I didn’t miss any loose ends, the phone rang. Someone else answered and yelled for me.

“Cathy, Telephone.”

“What? I don’t have time for a phone call. Can you take a message? I’ve gotta get out of here,” I shouted.

They grinned. “It’s a southern accent!”

“What? A southern accent? Oh my God! It’s Texas.” I don’t know whether I said it out loud or thought it, but my heart started to race as I lunged for the phone.

“Hello?” I gasped.

“Hello.” Said the slow, lilting voice. “Is this Mrs. Wilcox?” Southern, very southern.

“Yes. This is she.” It was difficult to hold my breath and talk at the same time, but I was almost doing it. The air felt charged.

“Well how are you today? This is blah blah at the Gladney Center.”

‘Oh my God. Oh my God. It’s them. It’s Texas,’ I thought. ‘Why are they calling? I wish she’d get on with it.’ “I’m fine,” I blurted as my mind and heart raced.

“Are you doin’ anything special this weekend, Mrs. Wilcox?”

“Oh, not much,” I chuckled nervously. “My husband’s graduating from medical school and our parents are in town.”

“Well that’s great! They can help you get ready.”

“Ready? For what?” I thought or said. She was grinning on the other end of the phone line. I could hear it in her voice.

“We have a baby boy we thought you might be interested in. Would you like me to tell you about him?”

BOOM. There it was. My deepest desire and my greatest fear all rolled into one. They had a baby for us. Oh My God!! Today? Today of all days?! The words and emotions shot though my mind. I felt electrically charged, vibrating, numb, sweaty palms, dry mouth, the whole nine yards. My fight or flight response was kicking in with gusto.

“Ha! Sure,” I said. She proceeded to tell me that he had been born on May 17^th. His birthmother and he were positive for cocaine, but he was very healthy and hadn’t shown any signs of withdrawal. He was being cared for by a nice lady who watched over a lot of Gladney babies until their adoptive parents could arrive. The birthmother was Caucasian and the birthfather African American and he was just the most handsome baby she’d ever seen. “So, do you think you’re interested Mrs. Wilcox? Would you be able to come out and get him this weekend?”

It’s hard to describe the thoughts and emotions that rolled through me one after the other. The thoughts were something like ‘This weekend? What? Was she crazy? We had plans! Brian was graduating from medical school! Didn’t she realize that we lived in New York? Didn’t she know how hard it would be to get a flight at such late notice, not to mention the cost! They had a baby? Finally? The day had finally arrived?’ The emotions were just as confused: excitement, anticipation, elation, fear, nervousness, uncertainty, confusion.

“Well, I think we’ll probably be interested, but I’ll have to talk to my husband and give you a call back,’ I said.

“Very good, Mrs. Wilcox,” she said. “I’ll be waiting for your call.” and that was that.

I hung up the phone, looked around at everyone, my mouth hanging open and said, ”We got a baby.” Then, I thought about where I was and my heart sank. ‘How’m I gonna tell Steve?’ I thought.

Steve was my boss, my wonderful boss and mentor. He was the Principal Investigator of the lab, the PI for short. He wrote the grants, he advised us, the graduate students and I. I’d gotten my PhD in 1998 and had been working in Steve’s lab for almost three years. They had been wonderful years. We had just published a beautiful, groundbreaking paper in EMBO, the European Molecular Biology Organization Journal. I was good at research and loved it and I loved working with Steve. He was intelligent, creative, hardworking and honest. We had our disagreements, but that was OK. We understood and respected each other. I had told him two years before, after Brian and I had failed to get pregnant, that we were trying to adopt.

“One day, out of the blue, we’ll get a phone call that they have a baby for us and that will be it. I’ll have to leave the lab and go home and be a mommy,” I’d explained.

“How much notice will you be able to give me?” he’d asked.

“A day or two,” I’d said.

“What? You’ll just leave?”

“I’ll have a baby to take care of. I can’t work and leave the baby at home!”

“But what about your project?” The look on his face was one of disbelief. I could see that he thought I was being unreasonable. Until the conversation had started, I hadn’t thought about it from his perspective. I just knew that once we had a baby, I’d be a mommy and I’d have to stay home. Wasn’t it obvious?

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll find someone else to work on it!” I said. “You’ve got a technician and three students!” I tried to sound light and confident.

“But they have work to do already!” he retorted, looking very unhappy.

“I’m sorry, Steve. That’s why I’m telling you now. I don’t know what more I can do. This is just the way it works. You fill out the stack of papers, you wait and then, one day, they call. It’s usually about two years later, they said. We’ll just have to hope that my project is more or less wrapped up in two years.”

I felt frustrated, like I’d done something wrong. It wasn’t my fault that I couldn’t get pregnant and that I had this biological urge to reproduce. The mommy urge had been plaguing me since I was 25, for goodness sake. I loved the lab and my work, but my mother had always told me that being a mother was the most wonderful thing in the world, the best job you could ever have.

So, the day had finally arrived. They had a baby for us.

The Perfect Life

Didn't like yesterday's story? Try this one.

How on earth had she gotten so lucky? The past few days had been so amazingly perfect. She'd gotten up around 7:30 am, made coffee and wandered outside to the porch to drink it. The days had been warm, but not hot, around 70 at first and then rising to the lower 80s. Within 30 minutes each morning, her husband had joined her. They'd relaxed together on the porch with their coffee, chatting a bit and listening to the birds sing. It was great to be alive!

After that first cup of coffee, they'd gotten dressed and headed out on a leasurely walk. She liked to walk through town and he liked the woods. Fortunately, they'd found the perfect house when they'd gone into semi-retirement. They owned forty acres next to a game reserve in the foothills of the mountains. Their road was on the outskirts of a lively village. By cutting through the side of their property and across a few large lawns, they could be on the edge of the village. That's where they headed today, walking down the neat streets, smiling and waving to people who were outside, peering in the shop windows once they got near the center of town and chatting about their plans for the upcoming weekend.

"We haven't had Adam and Paula over in a while. Should we invite them for Saturday? We could have them come a little early and help us cook!" she said.

"That's a great idea. You know, I was wondering if they might like to play cards. We haven't played cards in ages." he said.

"Cards? I'm not sure they're the card playing type. We always have such great conversations with them. You never know, though. We could suggest it and see what they say."

"What should we eat? If the weather is going to stay nice, we could barbecue."

"I could make potato salad and a big green salad. We could chill some wine. Do you want to have venison or chicken?"

"How about Salmon?"

"Grilled Salmon? I love it! or Red Snapper! Either one."

"Does potato salad go with salmon?"

"It could, if I make it with a vinaigrette and feta cheese. Something lighter than my mother's recipe."

"Hmmm. Maybe."

They turned and went a few more blocks before looping back toward the woods behind their house, continuing to discuss the menu. It was cooler in the woods and the birds were singing brightly. Their dog pranced along beside them , sniffing here and there and enjoying the exercise. Her husband was quiet, listening and looking for signs of deer and other wildlife. She quieted down beside him, relishing his nearness, the joy of having time with him.

When they reached the house, they grabbed another cup of coffee, adding milk, sugar and ice to this mug. They settled down once again on the porch; she with her Kindle to read a manuscript she'd just received, he with his laptop to review patients' labs. They were both working, but reduced schedules. She was an assistant in a research lab at the nearby university and he was an OB/GYN, but kept his patient load very small. He occasionally taught a lecture at the medical college. They used to be hounded to work more, but had made it very clear that it was part-time or no time. It had taken a while, but the administrators had finally stopped pushing.

This was the life she'd always wanted. They worked, but part-time. They volunteered at their church and some community organizations. Their children were grown and living in the northeast. They saw them for the major holidays and as they travelled south for vacations. They saw them a fair amount, more than many people saw their children. The most important thing was that they saw each other.

As she sipped her ice coffee, and counted her blessings, she looked forward to lunch, yard work and another walk around the woods and town. The sun had risen high in the sky and would soon begin its descent. She hoped Adam and Paula would be able to come over. She'd call them soon. Then, she'd put the finishing touches on their menu, so she could pick up any needed items in the afternoon. Tomorrow would be busy and high energy, but today, they'd keep it slow and calm.

It's complicated

“That doesn’t look like data! What are you up to, Laurie?”

“Waiting for my samples to incubate, Kim, and looking at houses.”

Laurie was sitting at a computer looking at a list of houses for sale. She had dirty blond, wavy unruly hair, wire-rimmed glasses and was wearing a skirt and sweater. Kim was looking over her shoulder, grinning, her soft brown ringlets bouncing as she tossed her head. Her eyes gleamed with mischief.

“Houses, eh? For you and Brian?” Kim asked.

Laurie was skimming the descriptions of houses. She hesitated before answering, pretending to be distracted, because she could hear the unspoken words ‘but you’re not even married’. “Just browsing,” she finally said, closing the website.

She got up from the desk, headed over to the lab bench, opened the cover on the incubator, peered inside and then walked over to her station and picked up the timer. Twenty-nine more minutes. She knew it wasn’t time to end the reaction, but was trying to look busy to head off the conversation with Kim. Nobody understood her relationship with Brian. It was complicated. She wanted their approval, but how could they possibly understand? On the surface, it was too crazy. Admit it, she thought, it’s not just crazy on the surface.

She got out her notebook, picked up her pen and let her mind wander. It slipped back over the past year and a half. They had met in the lab, working side by side, and had gotten to be friends. She couldn’t help but smile at the memory of the first time she’d seen him. Oh, no. She almost laughed out loud. That had been the second time…. Yes, that’s right. The first time had been at colloquium, the weekly presentation by graduate students. She hadn’t even known his name then. She’d walked into the room, one of many students and faculty, and noticed the only person in the room that wasn’t eating the free pizza.

‘What’s with that guy?’ she thought. She looked him over, noting his handsome, clean-cut face, his collared shirt and twill pants. He was eating carrots from a ziploc bag. She summed him up immediately. Arrogant. Too good for free pizza.

She wouldn’t have thought much of him, but during the presentation, he kept interrupting, offering explanations when peple asked questions. ‘Oh my gosh!’ she thought. ‘Who does this guy think he is?’ Well, it was pretty clear he thought he was a real hotshot. Her opinion was different. A jerk. No doubt about it.

She smiled as she remembered. Yes, that had been the first time she’d ever seen him. A while later, maybe three months later, she’d been invited to a party. She was still trying to decide which lab to join for her research project and Kim had suggested this lab.

“You should join our lab,” she’d said. “John throws a great party! In fact, he’s having one next week. Why don’t you come?”

So, she’d come over for the party and to check out the lab, which was in one of the old sections of the college, down a long hallway and up a rickety flight of stairs. It felt more like she was going into an old Victorian house than a molecular biology lab. She knew she was headed in the right direction, though, because she could hear the music and din of voices.

She’d walked through the doorway, looking around at all the people, searching for familiar faces, when she’d seen him, straight ahead, playing air guitar. She stopped dead in her tracks. Could it be the same guy? Mister “I’m too good to eat pizza and I wear nice clothes when everyone else is in T-shirts and jeans?” She couldn’t believe it! Well, maybe she’d been wrong about him.

She’d been introduced to everyone by Kim. It was a very nice group of people, and John, the lab head, was the consummate host. He seemed more like a Duke or Earl than principal investigator of a lab. Very cultured. Eventually, she’d been introduced to Brian – the well-dressed, handsome, air-guitar man. They’d said hello and then talked. They talked and talked about anything and everything. She couldn’t even remember what they’d talked about, but it seemed like they were in a world of their own. He was nothing like she had first thought. He wasn’t arrogant, just the opposite. She had asked him straight out.

“What’s with you? You don’t like pizza? How come you were eating carrots at colloquium?”

“I’m not part of the department, so I didn’t think I should eat the food they provided. I brought my own lunch,” he said.

“You’re not part of the department? What do you mean.”

“Well, John, the PI, the lab head I mean, has a joint appointment. He’s in the biochem department and the physiology department, but I was hired through the physiology department. I was only at colloquium because JoAnn was presenting and I’ve worked with her on her project.” That explained everything. He’d interjected comments during the question and answer period, because he was on the project. Yes, first impressions could be very misleading.

That had been about two years ago. Since then, she’d joined the lab, made pretty good progress on her research project and gotten to be friends with Brian. He already had his doctorate and was working in the lab as an extension of his training. He was a post-doctoral fellow, postdoc for short. He was a very smart perfectionist and, at the time, married.

Yeah, that had been disappointing, but it didn’t matter. Even though her first impression had been wrong, Laurie didn’t think he was her type. She remembered thinking he was too good looking and too clean cut. She was attracted to more adventurous men. If they had an accent, whew, that really made them interesting. During those early days in the lab, she’d been flirting a lot with a guy from Venezuela. She could hardly think when he was around and she loved to talk about him to her lab mates; where she’d seen him, where he might be next weekend, how good he smelled.

She continued musing, remembering the day that had changed everything. She’d gotten to the lab around 8 am, like she usually did. She was an older graduate student and had been a high school teacher before this, so she was used to getting up and getting to work. A lot of the students, and some professors, tended to work a later shift, something like 10 am to 8 pm, but Julie was an 8 am to 6 pm kind of person. The lab had been pretty quiet. The two technicians were there, setting things up for the day, and Brian and been in his office. After a few hours, she’d gone into his office to ask a question and noticed that he looked terrible.

“Are you OK?” she’d asked. “You look upset.”

He’d looked up from his desk, emotions playing across his face. He looked hurt, conflicted, and surprised she’d asked. “I’m OK,” he said.

“No you’re not. You look like somebody died. What’s the matter?” she’d insisted.

He’d looked out through his office door, looked back at her and started talking. It was like a dam had burst. He told her that his wife had just called. They lived out in the country, quite a long way from the university, and had a lot of animals. One of their cats had been sick for a while and had just died. His wife was upset about it and had told him to come home and bury the cat. He’d protested, saying that he was at work and couldn’t just leave. She got hysterical, screamed at him, told him he’d better come home ‘or else’. “She treats me like I’m her servant,” he said. “I liked the cat, too, but I’m at work. What am I supposed to do? I’ll bury it when I get home tonight.”

It had been a very short conversation, but somehow it had created a connection between them. That afternoon, after he’d left a little early, Laurie had mentioned to one of the technicians how upset he’d been. She had been feeling sorry for him and wanted to share the emotion.

“Oh, I’m not surprised,” Diana said. “He and his wife have had lots of problems. She doesn’t treat him right.”

“Really?” Laurie said “but he’s such a nice guy.”

“I know,” said Diana. “He tries so hard to please her and she just walks all over him.”

‘Really……’ thought Laurie. ‘How interesting.’ As soon as the thought formed, her conscience spoke up and knocked it down. ‘What are you thinking? Oh my Gosh! He’s married for goodness sake.’

Too true. What had she been thinking? Laurie came out of her reverie and realized that her timer was chirping away, telling her that the reaction in the incubator was finished. It was time to take out the samples, mix them, spin them down quickly in the little centrifuge and tick them in the freezer. Time to go home.

This isn't working

I wanted to write today. I did write because, as you can see there is a previous post. I also wrote a word file that I didn't post. It's another snippet of my life, but written in the third person. I thought that I might like writing that way better. It didn't work though. I feel that I don't know what to write, unless I'm just journalling like this. But who would want to read this? I don't even want to read it when I look back at it a few days later. It's just not that interesting.

I can tell you what I'm thinking. Do you care? Does anybody read this? If a writer writes on a blog that nobody reads, does she make a sound? Are my written, unread words profound?

I've made two entries in a writing contest. I made no impression on anybody. I think that entering contests isn't for me. I'm too easily discouraged at this point. The contests are for short stories, too. I'm not a big fan of short stories. I like stories that are long enough that I get to know and like the characters. In fact, that's one of the reasons I started thinking about writing. I read and loved JK Rowling's books so much and missed her characters so much. I kept looking and looking for another series that would be as interesting and satisfying as hers and couldn't find one. I would sit and read and mentally edit the books i was reading, thinking if they had only done it this way or that way, then it would be so much better. I suppose I could take one of those disappointing books and rewrite it the way I like books to be written. But that would be stealing. I want to use my own ideas. If only I had one.

So, I've been reading a book called "The Right to Write". The author sys that good writing is honest writing. I'm being honest here. I'm frustrated, because I thought that writing might be something I could do and still be a decent mother - the way I want to be a mother. But, no ideas. Just dribble.

I think part of my problem is that I want the whole story to sort of appear before my eyes, my mind's eye. Maybe it doesn't work that way. Maybe if I could just imagine a character that I'd like to write about. I could create a friend for myself - a friend to occupy my mind.

Were I to create a friend, what would she be like? an amalgamation of all of my previous friends. Smart like - ah see. Here I hesitate. I don't want to insult anyone. I guess writers insult a lot of people. If they write about you, you can get insulted. If they don't, then you feel slighted because they left you out.

Interesting that I started with smart, isn't it?

So, smart like Karen, is what I was thinking. Mischievous like Laura. Outspoken like Claire. Sophisticated like Odile. Sincere like Pauline. These are all friends I haven't spent much time with in the last 20 years. What do they have in common? They know me quite well. They are not shy. They are all intelligent. They all work and most have children.

What would I like them to do? I don't know.

Leaving Home

When the time came to pick a college, I didn't approach it like most people. In fact, my approach was ludicrous, but very indicative of my point of view. My guidance counselor advised me to major in chemistry, because I was good at it. (I wanted to major in English Lit) Did I look for a college with a strong chemistry department? Nope. Never occurred to me. I got a compass and a map, set the compass point on H-ville, and drew a circle that was at about a fie hour drive from home. Then, I looked for colleges near the edge of the circle! I figured that five hours would be far enough away that my parents wouldn't drop in unexpectedly and close enough that I could drive home for Christmas break. St. Lawrence University was on teh circle. It was also almost in Canada.

So, off I went to learn and be free. It was so exciting to be away from home. I have lots of memories of sitting in class, studying, eating too much, drinking too much, reading piles of novels (I minored in English Lit) and thinking that I had never gone so long without a hug before. I missed home, but I loved being away.

Senior year came and it was time to figure out what to do next. My expectation had been that I'd have a boyfriend and be thinking about getting married by that time. Things hadn't exactly turned out that way. No boyfriend, no marriage, no motherhood. So, I guess I had to get a job. I remember having just one interview on campus. It was with some chemical company and I asked the interviewer about their environmental policies. The interview ended pretty quickly after that.

Growing up in H-ville

That small village, tucked away in the foothills of the Catskills, is where my clan lives. I say clan, because there are a lot of them and they interact a lot. There are alway birthday parties, anniversaries, lots of reasons to get together. Seeing each other so often keeps the bonds pretty strong. It was like growing up in a cocoon. I was nurtured, protected, loved. If you have never spent much time in a place like that, I guess you should imagine one of the old television shows from the 60s where the family is the strong unit. When I say family, I mean children, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, all intertwined and woven together. It seemed like everyone I met was either related or a friend of the family. Family, church, fire department, school, local businesses, friends and relatives were my whole world.

One of the reasons I have to take you back this far, besides making it clear that I'm a country girl at heart, is to explain about motherhood, careers and my future plans - the plans I had back then, I mean. I was taught, directly and indirectly, that the best job you could ever have was to be a mother. The person doing the teaching was my mother. She loved being a mother and appreciated the importance of making it your first priority, because her mother hadn't done such a great job. I didn't understand all of the motivations and reasons at the time, I just new that when I grew up I would be a Mom.

I was a good student and was also taught, by Mom, that I should go to college. Why should you go to college if you're not training for a career, you might ask? You should go for the experience, to see the outside world and learn. There was never much of a discussion about that topic, because I was happy to go. I loved school. I loved learning.

By the time I was old enough to go to college, I was more than ready to leave H-ville. I had been a very good daughter. I hadn't gotten into any trouble. I had obeyed the rules, not like a nun, but like a pretty well-behaved teenager. I was involved in lots of activities: Girl Scouts, band, chorus, the school plays. I remember that I was dating a boy when I was in 9th grade and it was play practice time. His cousin was one of my best friends, and she was dating my boyfriend's best friend, so the four of us used to hang around together. We were all in the play and after play practice, we would go out parking for 30 or 40 minutes. I think this was the first time I deceived my parents.

I don't think I've let on yet, but I'm overly analytical. During those necking sessions, my brain was very busy. I was thinking about how his lips felt, whether I wanted his tongue in my mouth or not and a long list of other things. Why did he want to touch me? Didn't I feel like any other girl? What was the big deal? It was all very educational.

When I was seventeen, I was allowed to go out to the local bars with certain boys that my parents trusted. The drinking age was eighteen in New York and they figured I should learn to handle alcohol while I was still under their wing. One of the trusted boys was David. David always said that the best thing about going to Catholic school was that the moms trusted him! We'd go out to the various taverns around the area. They were few and far between, so it meant a bit of driving, and that was before the "designated driver" idea really caught on. We're all lucky to still be alive.

I remember one night we had driven over to the next town "over the hill". It might have been New Years Eve and I might have already been in college. I forget the exact timing. We had a great time and decided to head home around 2 am or so. When we got outside, we discovered that it was snowing. The roads were covered, so we knew it would be a bit of a tough drive home. We had driven separately, because it wasn't really a date. I followed Dave out of the parking lot and was driving along, doing fine. The road out of town followed the brook and was nice and flat. Then, sort of on autopilot, I turned right to take the road over the hill. Dave went straight ahead. As soon as I started up the hill, my brain kicked in.

"Uh oh. It's pretty slippery," said my brain.

"Oh my gosh. What an idiot I am," I replied. "I never should have gone over the hill."

It was a steep hill. I slipped and slid and fish-tailed for a while and over-compensated right into a ditch. My first thought was "My parents are gonna kill me." I sat in the car, wondering what I should do. It was late and I was pretty tipsy.

I finally got out of the car. I had to do something. Everything was covered in snow. It was dark and peaceful. Lucky for me, I had gotten stuck right in front of somebody's house. It was embarrassing, but at least I wasn't stranded miles from everything.

I walked over to the front door and knocked. A man came to the door in his bathrobe. "I'm sorry to bother you," I said. "Could I use your phone? I'm stuck."

He looked around me and said "You sure are. What are you doing out at this time of night by yourself?" Then, he paused and squinted at me. "Aren't you Dave Buddenhagen's daughter?" he asked.

"Yeah, I am. You know my dad?"

"Of course I do. Come on in. We'll call and see if we can wake him up."

So, we called. We woke him up. He drove over in his big pickup truck. He rescued me.

"Why on earth would you take the road over the hill in this weather?" he asked. "And where's David?"

"I guess I just wasn't thinkin" I said. "Dave went around by the brook."

"Why didn't you go the same way? I can't believe he just let you drive off. I'll have to have a talk with him."

"I was behind him. I should've followed him. I guess I had a little too much to drink. I'm sorry Dad."

"Well, yes, I guess so." he said.

He drove me home. I don't remember anything else. I was embarrassed and relieved. That's how it was in H-ville. I always knew I was safe, protected, and known. Everybody knew me. Everybody knew my parents. I never felt anonymous. It was a great place to grow up, but I couldn't wait to leave.

Think Too Much - While You Still Can!

I know that it is probably unwise by most standards to publish something online that you wish you could someday really publish, but I think I write better with an audience. I'm an extrovert after all! So, here's the first draft of my next (suppressed laughter) book!

This is a story about a woman, well a girl at first, who tried very hard to follow the rules for a long time, got sick and tired of following the rules, broke quite a few, and then ended up pretty much the way her mother hoped she would. If you think that you might like to read a story like that, read on. It’s really about me. I thought about trying to pretend that it was about someone else who I “know really well” or somebody I invented, but the person I know really well is me/myself. So, I’ll tell you my story. I hope you like it. I like telling stories and spend a lot more time by myself these days, so this sort of allows me to talk and tell stories. (It beats talking out loud to myself, don’t you think?) If it gets kind of boring, I'll throw in something racy and rebellious to keep your interest. (That's just me covering myself, so you won't know what's truth and what's fiction.) You should also remember, especially if you know me really well, that I realize that this is just my version of the truth. My husband always says, "There's three sides to every story: my side, your side and the truth." So, this is my side.

Where should I start? Well, every story has to be formed within a context. The context within which my story unfolds is a small town, a village, in New York State. It's a beautiful place. I think it was a wonderful place to grow up. I grew up in H-ville in the 60s and 70s. It has hardly changed since then.

I hope you don’t mind, but I have to start way back at the beginning.

The Enchanted Wood

There was once an enchanted wood in a far away place. It was surrounded by rolling hills and clear streams. Soon, people came, as they always do. They settled the nearby land and started building houses. As the village grew, it spread and approached the enchanted wood. The magical creatures in the forest became very worried.

“They will come and cut down the trees if we don’t do something,” said a Griffin. His fierce eagle’s face and muscular lion’s body were tense and ready to fight.
“We must scare them away!” bellowed a minotaur.
“They will not scare easily,” replied a timid satyr. “If we show ourselves, they might kill us.”
“If we fight, they will fight back,” agreed a wood nymph.
Their voices rose into a loud clamor and rolled through the wood long into the night.

As exhaustion and despair crept over them, a brown elf spoke. “We must go into the wood,” he said.
“We have already talked about that,” they grumbled. “They will just keep coming and drive us further, until there is no forest left.”
“No, you misunderstand. We must go into the wood, inside the trees,” the brownie explained.
“What? Are you crazy? Easy for you to say! You can fit in a burrow in a tree. We are much larger.” They were all arguing and talking at once.
“Are we magical creatures or not?” he calmly asked.
“Yes. Of course we are,” they mumbled, nodding their heads and looking around at one another.
“Then, we must become one with the trees. We can join with the trees and go wherever the trees go,” said the brownie.
There was silence.
“But what will we do, once they take the trees?” a small mouse asked.
They continued to talk and plan until all was settled. Then, they waited.

Before long, all of the enchanted trees were cut down. The wood was so beautiful, with such a fine grain and glorious smell that the King claimed it for his castle. It was used for the vast banquet table, for the floors and ceilings, for all manner of practical and decorative objects until there was not a stick left. The castle was rich with the golden luster and earthy aroma of the wood.

During the day, the courtiers, servants and visiting dignitaries admired the wood and its interesting whorls and varying shades of brown and gold. In the evenings, the Queen would often lie in bed with her children telling stories. Sometimes, they would look up at the ceiling and point out the faces made by the knots and grain of the wood.
“Look, Mother. Doesn’t that look like a fairy? See her wings and curly hair?” said the princess.
“Mother, look over here. It’s a big bear! See his nose and fierce eyes?” said the prince.
“Yes, children! It looks like there are creatures in the wood. Amazing!” came her reply.
The creatures listened and came out at night. All was well, for a time.

One day, a foreign aggressor laid siege on the land. He had heard of the marvelous wood and wanted the castle for himself. The King called his men at arms. As they surged forward to meet the enemy, the magical creatures emerged from the wood to join them in battle, taking non-magical forms. The Griffins appeared as eagles and the centaurs as horses.

The aggressors were losing as the battle wore on. In desperation, they prepared the fiery catapults. The magical creatures gasped when they saw the flames. They must keep the fire away from the wood! They attacked with renewed vigor, swarming around the catapults. Before they could prevent it, one fiery ball was launched. They paused, gazing up helplessly as it flew toward the castle. How could they stop it without revealing themselves?

An enormous eagle rose into the air, caught the flaming ball in its claws and dropped it in the moat. The Griffin had saved the day. The enemy was defeated and the castle protected.

As the King’s men celebrated, darkness fell. The magical creatures slipped among the young saplings bordering the streams. Deep in the night, they returned to the castle. “Soon, the trees will call us home,” they whispered.