The Write Along With D.G. Blog

Thanks

2006-11-22T13:23:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow is my favorite holisday because it doesn't involve gifts, and I am particularly grateful this year because my family already had it on Sunday! My brother and his kids were here for the holy Ohio State Michigan game, so I ( yes, I) cooked a turkey and made dressing and green bean casserole. The dishes are done. It's over. Which leaves me a whole big holiday weekend to bask in the happiness of it all. I bought my new calendar today, before the Staples rush, and am beginning to think back on how we've spent this year. Together. Sharing stories. Getting to know one another. I am so thankful for TheRememberingSite, for Sarah, and all of you. We gather at this one spot and continue our own pilgrimage.

A keyboard is a keyboard is a keyboard..

2006-10-05T11:56:00.000-04:00

I caught some of a movie about Cole Porter and his wife, Ashley Judd, on TV a few weeks back. It's called "It's De-Lovely" or something. I missed the opening credits. What I mostly saw was Cole Porter Kevin Kline sweeping into the drawing room in flowing silk robes and a martini in his hand. Then he'd sit down at his piano and try one thing and the other, just like you or me or anyone at their desk, and sigh and think and stare off into space and let the music focus itself and flow out.

This inpired me. I have always been interested at people's work habits, most especially their desks. One of the drawing cards of moving to Virginia Ghost Town City is because Mark Twain's desk was there. Seeing this piano as a desk, and seeing Cole Porter pick and peck and sit and pace and drink his martini until he played what he had to play that day...well, I loved it. Especially the martini.

Turning your keyboard from a Have To to a Want To is wonderful place to be. Pretend you're Cole Porter. And play.

Dr. Good

2006-09-30T11:36:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I took my mother to a doctor I had not met before. My mother knew him, though, and always spoke about how "lovely"he was. He was very gentle with my mother, swift and complete with the softest of touch, and then he began telling us this story.
The President had been in town the day before. The doctor had been offered an invitation to meet the President of the United States in a small group, face to face. But the doctor was headed to a conference this weekend, and he had sick people in the hospital. He felt that checking on and treating his patients was his number one priority ; he didn't have the time to do both things and he didn't want his patients to worry while he was away. So he skipped George You-Know-Who and took care of his patients.

How many doctors do you know who would have made that choice?
How many people do you know who would have made that choice?

My mother was right, again and of course. This doctor is a lovely man.

68%

2006-08-24T10:36:00.000-04:00

I read a statistic in my paper this morning that did not surprise me but made me proud.

According to sources from BusinessWeek, Fortune, Marketwatch.com, Playboy, The Washington Post and The Week, 68% of Americans see their lives as worthy of a book.
I see it as 100%, but I've been on it longer.

Everybody's life is worthy of a book. And here at TRS, we have the mechanism to make it easy for everybody to write, share and publish it the most beautiful form.

All you autobiographers out there, thinking and typing and dreaming away, so thrilled to be working together. Our ilk is tottering on the edge of critical mass. I feel like planting a flag.

We welcome all comers. We know you can do it. Your story is in you. We are here to help you get it out and onto the page.

Here is where I've been

2006-08-22T10:49:00.000-04:00

Hi Debby,
CYL/I spoke to Wede this AM and she told us that she is "in
heart failure." Of course, the first thing that I asked was what
could we do for her and/or for you. She
doesn't even want to go there until she sees her cardio-Mike on
Wednesday and finds out "what this really means." I know she hasn't
felt well for the last few weeks
and have tried to keep in touch every few days. But it sounds harder
for her now to even spend much time on the phone and I don't want to
intrude/waste her precious
energy.
What do you make of the situation and will you let us know what
you/she will want? I am going to assume that she will get better
because she is so positive about
everything. But you have been the dream-come-true daughter for any/
every parent and I know it is consuming, that you wouldn't have it
any other way. Since I'm not
a mind reader (nope, not part the CSG curriculum for me but Wede got
pretty good at it) and want to support you all however we can, please
keep in touch if you have
time energy. Having declared ourselves Wede's real children despite
the delusions of Bob, Debby, Tim, we don't want to let her down as
her health improves or
gets more fragile.
That's the long way around to saying we're here for whatever you
& Lausche need/want. I guess I take that liberty on behalf of
Wede's other real kids too, Peggy

Dear Sibs,

I can't help but answer in Wede's voice.
You are so dear.

Things are looking up on the heart failure front; we were at Shell yesterday and sodiummily, things are going in the right directions. She sounds good this morning, and Lisa is going to add more hours to being there -- so -- again, in Phyllis's voice -- that is all to the good.

We "look forward" to the Murnane visit tomorrow. We've heard the Mosers and the Kaynes -- and maybe Andre'! -- are going to be there at the same time, so I'm bringing my camera. All we need is Grandma Ethel, Dad and Uncle Mort to complete the picture. A nice Spira reunion.

I have allowed the cumulative effect to rise in me, and have been teary this week. But then I made myself laugh when I ran to the car to go once again, and I was singing, like Mighty Mouse, "Here I come to save the daaaaay.."

I so appreciate your support and it gives me strength to know it's there. I know I'm not alone in the I Love Wede Fan Club. Thank you, thank you so.

xox

Sharing

2006-07-31T11:49:00.000-04:00

I'm going to be called on to share in a week or so, and I hope I do OK at it. I don't think I am a good sharer -- I'm figuring this out as I roll down this road. Two of my best ( all of my friends are best, but we three form our laughter filled particular Bermuda Triangle in a warm ocean of memories and experiences shared together) Both of their names are Marcia. In fact, both their names are Marcia S. . However, back to sharing, one of my first memories with the former Marcia G until she married the S, is not letting her draw in my dot - to- dot book. This is one of her first memories as well.
And so we have a history here. Friends form your history outside your house.
My girls are coming to my house, and I will try very hard to share, which, as you know, does not come naturally. Openhouse for the hermit and her dog.

Groundhog Sees The Sun

2006-07-26T11:48:00.000-04:00

I am sticking my head out from my summer hiding place of laziness, haziness and creative calm. Mercury is heading back to from whence it came and life is feeling livelier. I want to point out to all you biographers that lapses like these are not to be sweated; unless, of course you're sitting outside. Summer is designed for slowing down. If you aren't writing, momentarily, don't beat yourself up about it. But don't allow the lapse to grind you to a halt. It's so easy to avoid the keyboard. Remember, your writing project can be an oasis, too. Dip your toe back in your waters. See how good a few sentences feel, rising like a tide in your head then flowing out your fingers.

OK, yesterday's post?

2006-07-13T11:19:00.000-04:00

I couldn't get my blog to blog! My Merc in Retro blog! I had to go through four different "helps" on blogger.com. The Universe is speaking, my friends. I think it is saying "pipe down."

Mercury Madness

2006-07-12T11:30:00.000-04:00

Mercury is in retrograde most of this month, which means everything's going to be all messed up. Have you felt it in your house? We've been double-Mercuried here. It begins with miscommunications and machines breaking down. Both my home phone and my cell phone became in -- or is it un ? -- operational on the same day. I have been loading software into my computer, but my computer is not being all that accepting. My TV broke. I got a new one. It didn't get certain channels at first, but then, magically, it did. I bought a WONDERFUL Kodak digital camera -- old dog, new trick -- and put all of the info that goes with it away VERY CAREFULLY, so carefully that I am yet to find it. Same goes for some medical papers I had held onto for months, put VERY CAREFULLY on my desk two days ago, and they were nowhere to be found yesterday morning when I needed them. My mother and I got lost on our way to Smith Farms for produce, but I don't think that counts because we get lost everytime we go beyond our errand boundaries. I have forgotten every password and user name I have, and in tracking them down, realize I don't have the password and user name I need to get into the 'help me" section.

Please let me know if your July has been upside down. I'll take personal responsibility if it's just me, but I'm blaming that quirky Merc.

Preschool Resume

2006-07-05T11:13:00.000-04:00

As in most cases, while I was searching for one thing, I found another. I found my Preschool "report card"; a purple mimeographed document sent home from Bexley Methodist Preschool to let my parents know how I was doing in life away from my house.

Well, I did great. I don't believe I have ever had a better review, so I am considering using this document as my resume. Do you think it would fly in the business world?

"Debby had no worries with her wraps. She has always gone straight to the coat rack, taken her things off and hung them up immediately."

Read: Makes a good first impression.

"Debby has fit into our school routine beautifully. She listens to all instructions, whether to get a chair for the circle or line up at the door, and then carries them out with no fuss."

Read: Team Player

"When she is outside, she may be in a box."

Read: But can think outside of it

"Of course, one doesn't say 'Debby', but one is never sure whether it is Topsy , Danny Boy or Whitey who is arriving. For those who aren't 'in the know, ' the last three are names of ponies in her books."

I've outgrown that; now you can call me D.G., or Deege, or Deeger, or Deegerama Boy

" Debby does not like to be fussed over, and she does not condone misbehavior. When Bobby K tried to impress her, and, at the time, engaged in rather silly, attention-getting behavior, Debby said emphatically: 'I don't want Bobby K to touch me, be near me, or have anything to do with me."

Read: no-nonsense gal.

I'll spare you the rest, but any head-hunters out there, take note. Topsy is a heck of a "get."

We Are The Birds

2006-06-25T16:26:00.000-04:00

More lessons from the backyard.

Another branch fell and it's resting precariously on the tin roof overhang out the back of my house and into the yard. For the birds, this was 9-11 or Katrina. They were misplaced, mixed up, seemed like they didn't know what to do. I saw this round, gray dove-ish bird sitting in the dirt, then up in a branch --she didn't move from where she sat. I got out the binocs, but I didn't see a nest. I saw her round head, though, and her round, round body. And there's this cardinal, a wiry, bright red cardinal, hopping around, squeaking and calling, and bringing worms, I kid you not, to his gray feathered friend in the tree. Everyone I've told this story to, has reminded me that FEMALE cardinals are gray, and that the males are the red ones, and wasn't it probably a female cardinal up in that tree?

But it was not. It was inter-bird-tribe kindness.

Can't we all just get along?
I used to live in Altadena, California, home of Rodney King.

Summer Solstice

2006-06-22T11:15:00.000-04:00

Family history resides in all the seasons and all the senses. Last night was summer solstice, capping off the longest day of the year. I sat in my yard until dark, and then , on my porch where all I could do was listen. We hear our memories loud and clear. Familiar, forgotten sounds speed us back, as do sight, smell, taste, and the feel of a soft, old bedspread on the skin. I didn't realize I'd missed seeing robins on the lawn until I returned to Ohio. I see robins on the lawn now and understand I've saved a place in my heart for them for twenty years.

Last night, after the longest day, I saw lightning bugs by the peony bush and felt my father near. Once again, I opened a gift he gave me. The kind of gift you cannot touch. The gift of recognition. My dad was an aficianado of the perfect summer evening.

Around nine o'clock on summer solstice night, I hear his voice, as if he were beside me. He asks to go "Upstaice." ( To those of you who don't speak Dad Greene as a Second Language, "upstaice" means upstairs. ) He'd say it with a whistle at the end and a backache groan as he rose from his chair.

"Upstaicsssse," he'd say, and he and my mother would go Upstaicsssse. Nothing impeded his speech. He just thought it was funny.

I hadn't thought about "upstaice" until it sounded in my head, in my father's voice. We are able to go back. Sometimes a season takes us there.

Required Singing

2006-06-13T11:27:00.000-04:00

I am back on God's little acre, having had a joyful visit to the land of the eighteen month old. It is a wondrous place -- I got properly introduced to Nemo -- melodic, music-filled , dreamy. Giggly, positive songs, except for the improbable Dinosaur, Dinosaur, Lonely and Blue. My grandson sings and dances to music in his happy head. Songs he sings with his parents, songs he listens to from his backseat driver's position in the car.

I feel, I feel, I feel like a morning star, they sing. He pronounces it mowneen staw. He feels, he feels, he feels like a mowneen staw.

Everytime I fly I get sick. Airbourne or no Airbourne. These mornings have not been very starrish, more like a mucus commercial. I learned something in eighteen month world , though, that lovely place where every question is answered . I want to continue it here, in 57 year old world as positive reinforcement.

So I'm singing I feel, I feel, I feel like a morning star, as I'm croaking to get my coffee. Oh, I love my little boy.

Talking Cars

2006-06-06T10:40:00.000-04:00

I want to bring my Grand a gift and my daughter told me he liked cars. I was at Target, and found a red, squeezy car? truck? starring in some movie coming out right now to give kids characters to imitate for the rest of the summer. I'm sure this car/truck has a name, and I'll learn it soon along with all the rest of Disney humanity, but for now, he's just a race car! that's what he is! A red race car, Number 95.

And he makes noise. The merest shuffle gets him to talking. He talked in my cart at Target, and he talked his way through checkout. He talked in the shotgun seat of my car, in a bag with SoftScrub. In an attempt to appease Homeland Security, and preclude any delays which might be caused by a talking suitcase, I will take him in my carry-on. He can talk to the Zone Bars and water and The Good Life by Jay McInerney that I'm taking with me on the plane. I'll explain to wary seatmates. I flew from Nevada to Ohio with my talking cat Chuck seven years ago.. Same kind of thing. She could say Hello and I love you. The seatmates were charmed.

My dad had a talking car once. A Chrysler Le Baron, I think. It said , "Your door is a jar."

Stating The Obvious

2006-06-05T10:56:00.000-04:00

State the obvious in your writing. It sets the stage. You may not think that it is very exciting, so you might say so.
It is Monday morning. Blah.
You have told the One Minute Me at this place, at this time. You have put you on the page.

Everyone's obvious is different, and changes from moment to moment. Here's mine, at this moment:

It is June! Hooray. How did we get to June so fast? Birthday month is over. My seedlings are peeking their heads up. so happy I got them in the ground. Going to go see BooBoo, and BooBoo's beloved parents,. All my children. I feel like I live in Pine Valley. Hey, did Phoebe Wallingsworth die?

Tin Roof

2006-05-31T19:40:00.000-04:00

I feel like Old Grandpa Jones, smokin' his corn cob pipe, talkin' from his rocker, because true summer has come to Ohio, and the pleasures of the past are the pleasures of the present. I live in a 1950's house. There is an ironing board that comes down from the wall in the kitchen and a big, yellow stove. Everything is the way it was, and now my screens are back in the windows of my back porch, swapped out for the cold weather glass.

I have an overhang off this porch, crumbling trellises with a ripply, galvanized tin roof. This makes it dark, and dark on the porch, so Beau the handy friend is going to replace three sections of it with translucent, ripply white plastic. He'll paint the gray walls of the porch white , too.

It's time to lighten up!

Tonight there was a rainstorm. A perfect, beautiful Midwest rainstorm. And I sat on the porch like every Grandpa Jones in Ohio has done summer after summer after rain after rain after storm; smelling it, feeling it on my face and in my brainstem, listening to the ancient/constant sound of rain on my old tin roof.

Iced Coffee

2006-05-30T11:09:00.000-04:00

I went to Jill and Steve's on Saturday and was introduced to the concept of iced coffee. Before you say, she JUST got introduced to iced coffee?? allow me to say that it was only last summer I learned to drink iced tea. Maybe next year I'll learn to turn on the Victrola, but the iced coffee is now my annual Memorial Day Thanksgiving turkey.

Sunday, Mom and I went to the cemetery to see Dad. I love it there. We got him up to date, not much news this visit, and discussed what to carve on the headstone when Mom hits the dusty highway. Doesn't sound like a lot of fun? Oh, it was. We visited mothers and fathers and grands, and thanked each and every one. Then we had brunch on a lovely restaurant patio, and had, what else? Iced coffee. L'Chaim!

Monday, I put in my garden. Gladiolas, Hollyhocks, Sweet Peas, Cosmos, White Eggplant and tiny White Pumpkins called Baby Boo. Then I talked to my Grandbaby, Boo Boo on the computer and waved and kissed and talked until I come to see him soon.

I had Iced coffee at every turn. A wonderful addition to a happy three days. I got the brainstorm to drink it this morning, too, with the newspaper.

My suggestion? Don't.

Fast Forward

2006-05-22T14:05:00.000-04:00

I can't stand people forwarding me things as member of their list of people to forward things to. I don't like to be a part of mass anything. I usually don't even open forwarded messages and my friends know it. But somehow one from my friend MGS snuck through.

It is absolutely on the mark about what we're offering to each other here. We are interested, asking, wanting to know your story. And we know everyone, everyone has one to tell. Everyone, everyone deserves to be listened to.

I don't know who wrote this story. I'd love to give them credit. I'm copying it here. If it got to me, it might get to you.

THE CAB RIDE

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away.

But, I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb She kept thanking me for my kindness.

"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated."

"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice."

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.

"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long."

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like me to take?" I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired let's go now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me.

It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up.

They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door.

The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.

"Nothing," I said.

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other passengers," I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said.

"Thank you"

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light.

Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk.

What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift?

What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.

But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL!

Baby Books

2006-05-18T11:03:00.000-04:00

My daughter has requested her Baby Book, and I suppose it's time. She will be 31 in the next few weeks. I told her I guess I could send it to her. Probably be my birthday present, she said. Which it will be, part of, at least...I've been culling through that Baby Book for years, making birthday art for my baby, my 31 year old baby, who , as a child, filled in her own Baby Book when she thought I'd gone lax on the project.

Her Baby Book has been living in a trunk, a yellow trunk I bought at T j Maxx which turned out to have two other trunks inside it, living there along with my own Baby Book, and my mother's Baby Book in my grandmother's hand. Four generations of girl babies who grew into my family of women.

I'm sending it to her, of course -- Girl, you're a wooooooo-man, now -- but not before I go through it slowly, one more time. If I were still a drinkin' woman , I'd have me a glass of wine while doing so. But I'm not. Coke Zero.

Sleeping with Papillons

2006-05-13T09:44:00.000-04:00

I have been absent due to a Pepperidge Farm Chocolate Cake induced coma -- wonderful, kee-razy birthday week. And yesterday was my dog's birthday. She is five, yet doesn't look a day over 35. So , as you can see, big doin's.... My daughter sent me a pink tank top that says,"I Sleep With Dogs." Be sweet to your mothers everyone. Send them my love tomorrow. My mother and I went to get free makeovers at a department store yesterday. I ended up looking embalmed, and she said she looked like a 100 year old 'ho. We had lots of laughs, we always do. Bless your mothers, bless yourselves, bless the memories you make together.

If you know it...

2006-05-08T11:05:00.000-04:00

I woke up smiling happy today, which does not happen everyday. I have many reasons --one is that my birthday is tomorrow. Send gifts. And I had a wonderful dream where I had long straight hair with a beautiful hank of lanky white on the side near the front. And I went to sleep last night, breathing in Clary Sage, Geranium and Orange aromatherapy. I have rational exuberance today. So I thought, since this does not always happen, and hoping its a harbinger of happiness to come, I thought I ought to clap my hands.

If you're happy and you know it clap your hands
If you're happy and you know it clap your hands
If you're happy and you know it
Then your smile will surely show it
If you're happy and you know it , clap your hands!

Showing my age with this old Brownie Scout song ?

Tomorrow I will be 106.

Fantastic Pneumatic

2006-05-05T11:02:00.000-04:00

Small things, my friends. Small things tell the big things in such a more interesting way. I was in the bank car lane the other day . I put my transaction into a plastic capsule that disappears behind a hidden window and is whooshed to the teller in the car lane window, and I noticed again how much I love this.

When my daughter was an infant, here in this town, we did our banking -- well, she was in the carseat -- which was still in the front seat, Oh, my God. I was so distracted that, after my transaction had whooshed back to me, I drove off, taking the plastic capsule with me. I returned it as soon as I figured it out, but it always made me wonder if they had spares. Small dog comes with me sometimes, and even she likes the pneumatic tubes.

One of the last of the last straws in Los Angeles was what happened to banking. I used to have lunch with my friend, Leon, and then we'd go to the bank where I'd deposit my paycheck. You could talk to the teller and la di da. One Friday, we walked in and the teller windows are encased in bullet proof glass with a tiny slot at the bottom to squeeze the checks and the money through. Like a prisoner in solitary gets his breakfast.

And then Leon was murdered. Big last straw on the list.

The bank in Virginia City was a place where you could take your dog inside. It was a wooden building, downhill from D Street, a dusty, arid walk from my house and one book bookshop. I found a hundred dollar bill on the wooden steps leading down to the bank one day. I brought it inside and they knew exactly who it belonged to. The hundred bucks had dropped out of her bra.

Then back to the Midwest and the pneumatic tubes. I love their method of transport. Air.

Maybe remembering your life through banking never occured to you, but think about the days of passbooks. And think about Leon. He was a wonderful guy.

An Actual Writing Tip

2006-04-29T17:30:00.000-04:00

Hi D.G.,

I've really enjoyed writing my autobiography with The Remembering Site! I had wanted to write it for a long time, but the site finally gave me the tools I needed to organize everything into a coherent story. I found it extremely helpful to have the questions as a guide. They made writing a whole lot easier!

I've written other things, too, including magazine articles, poetry, and non-fiction books, but I can't seem to write short stories or novels. I'd love to, and it seriously nothers me that I haven't gotten the hang of either. Whatever I come up with is so dead--not full of life like my autobiography, with shallow plots and characters, etc. So, I'm wondering if you've written or perhaps know of a short story or novel-writing method that uses questions to guide the story. It worked well for my story, and I think it would work for other writing.

Thanks very much for any information you may have!

Sincerely,

Crystal LuAnn Howe-Kennedy

Hi, Crystal,
Thank you so much for writing me!

I have heard from fiction writers who use the questions to build their characters. Interesting characters are what keep the reader ( and the writer! ) involved. Go through the questions and answer them as if you were your character. Each character. Your ideas and connections will grow when your people and places and idiosyncracies form the character in your mind. And then they'll take it from there!

Good luck, Crystal. I hope this helps.

D.G.

Hi D.G.

Thanks very much for your help. That sounds like a good and logical way to develop characters. After all, If the writer doesn't know them well, the reader won't either. And there can't be a story if you don't know the character well enough to make their actions seem realistic.

Crystal Kennedy

Yesterday's Blog

2006-04-28T11:38:00.000-04:00

So in today's paper? There's a story about a man who was sitting in his recliner when a dump truck ran into his house.

And I quote, from the Columbus Dispatch.
"When medics got to the scene, Mr. LeVan was still sitting in his recliner, which had been pushed all the way across the room," said Sgt. Andre Swinerton, of the Marysville post of the State Highway Patrol. "He was talking to them and everything."

Your chair; a powerful and protective place.

The Yellow Chair

2006-04-27T11:07:00.000-04:00

Everyone ends up in a chair. Life leads you to that place to spend the day and evening; a cockpit with armreach access to phone, remote and reading materials, to clock, to address book, medications and water, to a place to throw the newspaper and the table where you like to take your meals. Your spot, where you can be found, comfortable in your chair.

There's a house across the catty-corner street from me, that has felt little life since I've been here, a year and a half. The shades are drawn all day -- they are in most houses on the street, I find -- but these closed drapes felt different than the others.

One day, in the winter, I saw an old lady bring her garbage can to the curb on waste management night. She turned around and went straight back indoors, and I never saw her since. Her drapes never moved, either. One day they did. That day a younger woman , a daughter she seemed, was taking in some air in the the frontyard. It looked like she ws there for the weekend. I saw some vans at the house a few days ago. And by trash day, I could tell what had happened. The old woman's belongings were at the curb, waiting for pick-up. There were lots and lots of garbage bags, boxes, and a yellow chair -- a faded and worn yellow chair, sitting, waiting at the curb.

This chair. This logical progression both broke my heart and gave me an image of a lifespan. A worn chair, sitting there. Although its empty, its not empty at all.

I read the news today, oh boy

2006-04-24T11:00:00.000-04:00

So I'm reading along in the paper this morning, when I come to the vile headline : Bin Laden calls for long fight with West.
This was more like a throw down than a headline. I try to skirt the negative as much as I can, but I had to see what more Osama had to say. I read along.
And then I came to this description about ObL.

" The 49-year-old Saudi had beeen silent more than a year. " Forty-nine? Osama bin Ladin is 49? Doesn't he look older to you?

I may be the only person in the world who didn't know this, but it fulfilled my news nose for the day.

Osama was in Kindergarten when I was in Junior High. Little baby.

Slave to Spring

2006-04-23T11:30:00.000-04:00

It is Sunday morning. It is spring. After a Midwest winter, spring is a miracle every time. My community is at its peak -- white trees and pink trees and green grass and blue skies -- all better after my cataract operation, I must say. My cataract operation was my birthday gift last year from my mother. She signed the card "Your Private Eye." When I turn 60 I'm hoping for a knee replacement. But right now, I want to get out of the house.

My dog and I are going to cross the border -- we're going to the big house neighborhood and walk the most beautiful streets . We'll enjoy some Sunday Stendhal syndrome, and won't be home sitting and writing. This has been my slave to spring defense on the matter of excuses for not writing.

The Baby Next Door

2006-04-20T10:33:00.000-04:00

The coming of spring gives our playgrounds back. The doors and windows are open. We hear birds. We can walk outdoors.
We can see neighbors again, not just hear their cars. Yesterday, I ran into my neighbor and her lovely, round-faced baby that she gave birth to right before fall turned into winter, when we went indoors to stay.

What a treat to see a baby face. I see my grandbabe over the computer -- he makes this one look like a freshman.

Want to hold him? my neighbor said. She handed him over, and instantly, the sweet heft of baby ran through me like a plumb line, connecting me heart, soul, and person to the earth and to the heavens and to the infinite and the innate.

The seasons each offer experiences we feel deeply. Writing invites us to pay attention.

My man, Stan

2006-04-17T11:41:00.000-04:00

Stanley Steemer the Carpet Cleaner just paid me a visit. We have white carpet ,not my pick, but here when we moved in. It has been winter, two winters, in fact , since that August day. This would be our first carpet cleaning. Bad housewife. Obvious "traffic patterns" were a problem, and of course, my companion's pee stains on the floor. My companion is a dog. Settle down.

I was not looking forward to the prospect, envisioning crinkly brown paper trails and clouds of noxious fumes and wet socks and everything on top of everything, and it was not like that at all. They were here, they were done, they couldn't quite get that "traffic pattern" going into the kitchen, and then the main guy Ryan asked me if I was an artist, and where I went to school. My posture got better. He is a fine arts major where I went to night school -- a painter -- taking some time off to gather some money and Stanley Steem. To be called an artist has always been knighthood to me, so the total Stanley experience turned into a great big plus on my Monday.

Hope it was a hoppin' holiday, and here, we are back.

P.S. My Driver's License picture looks like Keith Richards, who always was my favorite Beatle.......

Easter and the Neurotic Child

2006-04-12T11:51:00.000-04:00

When I was four or five, I believed that the song HERE COMES PETER COTTONTAIL ( Hoppin' Down The Bunny trail) was MY song. Not as in my favorite song. It was more of an ownership thing. Maybe my brothers could listen to it on our 78 with the purple label , but only I could sing it. Me and Fran Allison, of course, who sang it on the record. The B side was something about a stairway.

I would sing it and I would sing it; I see myself at the back of our driveway singing it, and then hearing a agonizing echo coming from the backyard. My brother was ambling around to the back door singing -- maybe even humming -- my possession, Bunny Trail. I burst into tears. Became inconsolable. Wanted my Mom and my Dad to punish him. Over the years, I didn't get better. I accused my former husband of thinking he owned the Beatles.

Today I make amends to the Universe and ask that you might raise your voices with me:

On the count of three now...

Here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hoppin' down the bunny trail,
Hippity, hoppity,
Easter's on its way.

Bringin' every girl and boy Baskets full of Easter joy,
Things to make your Easter bright and gay.
He's got jelly beans for Tommy,
Colored eggs for sister Sue,
There's an orchid for your Mommy
And an Easter bonnet, too.

Oh! here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hoppin' down the bunny trail,
Hippity hoppity,
Happy Easter day.

Here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hoppin' down the bunny trail,
Look at him stop,
and listen to him say:
"Try to do the things you should."
Maybe if you're extra good,
He'll roll lots of Easter eggs your way.

You'll wake up on Easter morning
And you'll know that he was there
When you find those choc'late bunnies
That he's hiding ev'rywhere.

Oh! here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hoppin' down the bunny trail,
Hippity hoppity,
Happy Easter day.

I.D. G.

2006-04-11T11:01:00.000-04:00

Some time in the next few weeks I have to renew my Driver's License, and I am in a slight state of trepidation. Once I had a good Driver's License photo -- I made business cards out of it, in those lazy, hazy days before identity theft and homeland security. That was the only good photo, though. The rest have been like something out of the frog family. My other Driver's License challenge comes in the form of the little larcenist within when asked to report my weight. My fear is that they'll put a scale in the BMV, and out our extra pounds, like miles over the speed limit.. I have had troubles in the past when it comes to the hair color question; mine changes with the wind. For awhile I had three at once. I am now fairly uniformly dark, with some bright red involved. Do you think I could say "Red Winged Blackbird" when they ask me that one? The big thing is I know that should anything untoward happen to me, this Driver's License photo would be what you see on the local news report about my unfortunate parting. I should put www.therememberingsite.org as my address. That way, my I.D. would tell who I am, instead of trying to explain in an ill-lighted photo of a frog-like being, not as weightless as she'd like to be.

www.marciasmilack.com

2006-04-08T11:32:00.000-04:00

This is from my best friend's blog. I play a starring role as "Debby." I have often told Marcia that she should write my bio on The Remembering Site, because she remembers more about me than I do. Have a long phone call with some of your friends. They have your memories, too.

Musing on My Memory

April 04, 2006

When I was growing up, my nickname was “The Memory Bank” because I remember not only everything that has happened in my own life but also everything that has happened in the lives of my friends -- even if I was not present but only heard about it. Debby, my best friend from childhood, will call to ask me for a specific detail of an event from her life that happened 40 years ago. She knows that if she told me about it at the time, I will be able to repeat it to her exactly as she said it then. Why can I do this and what does it mean? It’s hard to explain how normal this feels to me. I have never thought of this ability as a sign of intelligence since no effort goes into remembering whatsoever. It is just there, as if my brain is a tar pit that preserves whatever falls into it. Once I know it, I cannot not know it: if I own the memory once, I own it for all time. I sometimes think the birth of the self begins with the first memory since it is the first possession.

Encouragement : The Necessary Ingredient

2006-04-06T11:14:00.000-04:00

Arturo,

Thank you so much for your message. You really gave me something, something all writers need: encouragement. I, too, want to write wonderful things . One of my biggest problems is sitting down to do it. Your kind words add to my get-go.
Remember you can always go back into your story to add things or change things.
Big secret: Your story is never "done."

In appreciation,

D.G.

Grandma Ethel

2006-04-05T10:13:00.000-04:00

My Mom and I are going to visit Grandma Ethel today. It would have been her birthday, so we'll go to the cemetery and visit her vault, or what we like to call, safety deposit boxes. You're not allowed to take real flowers , who knows why. I had wanted to take her a daffodil -- they are up and blooming under blue -- hooray -- still too chilly skies. I'll wear a piece of her jewelry instead. Maybe the coral beads. Grandma Ethel was my Dad's mother, so we are doing this for him, too. We'll take another outing day to visit him in his grave on the other side of town, when the weather is nicer.

We'll be there soon enough, I tell my Mom.
Literally or physically?, she says. Ha ha.

I sometimes see Grandma Ethel in the mirror.
Grandma, on your birthday,no offense and I love you, but this scares me badly.

Songs in the head

2006-04-04T10:57:00.000-04:00

I woke up kind of disgruntled this morning, and felt like maybe this was just going to be a disgruntled day. Then, while standing in the kitchen, taking my midlife fist full of vitamins, plus a swig of apple cider vinegar ( Viactiv is my dessert at night), I inexplicitly found myself singing -- from some recess in my mind -- "Rocka My Soul In The Bosom Of Abraham" -- and I sang it operatically and gospel-like and even did a little shuffle dance in my Uggs. And then, about 10 minutes later, "Feelin' Groovy" lyrics started, ending in "Life I love you, all is groooooovy." I thought about that unburdened optimism, and thanked my storehouse of memories (and the Universe) for the message. Am I the grooviest blogger you know, or what? Peace out.

Shannon begins

2006-04-02T12:06:00.000-04:00

Hi D.G

i have written to you before about writing by grandpa's biography due to his dementia.

i am slowly getting through his diaries and i'm planning to start writing soon but how to i begin?

do i write in 3rd person?

how should i write it - personal (from my point of view), like i don't really know him all that well or like a fictional story... i'm not really sure, and inspiration or tips that you could give my that could make this even the little bit more easy, i would be very greatful.

Thanks Shannon

Hi Shannon-- so good to hear from you. I'm excited that you are about to begin. I have a few suggestions on how to write about your Grandpa:

Think of him as someone you have never met before. As you write about the things you learned from the diaries, his character will become clear to you, and you'll be able to see the whole person, not just the Grandpa you know.

It's always a good idea to go through your notes and pick out the chunks of his life that you'd like to write about. You can start with a list and stick to it or not. You will think of more stories and memories that don't exactly follow your outline. This is perfect because it adds more to the picture you are painting of your Grandpa.

For a fun, quick exercise, you might pretend you are your Grandpa writing his own story down. Use "I" instead of "he." You'll gain a whole new perspective.

Do write about yourself, writing your Grandpa's stories, Shannon, Introduce yourself and talk about why you are doing this wonderful, giving project.

I hope I have been of help and can help you in the future. I am proud to be your partner as you write along.

D.G.

Vortex and Bridge

2006-03-31T12:01:00.000-05:00

I have been pulled down into the vortex of life and thingss, and that happens, and it happens lots of time to writing, but the good thing is, writing is always there to get back to, like a big, loyal dog. And it feels good to get back to it, a quiet reunion with old friends; your fingers and your mind.
My favorite New Yorker cover ever -- Saul Steinberg -- is a cat riding a bicycle from the white mountain of February over drab March and across a bridge to glorious, green April and a road with a sign pointing to Summer.

That's us, today

Lightning

2006-03-27T10:52:00.000-05:00

I have one tree in my backyard and it has been struck by lightning. We had some freak thunderstorms last month. I heard crashes and booms in the middle of the night, but didn't think much of it. Then, looking out my kitchen window in the last few weeks, I noticed a raw chunk in the trunk of my only tree, and limbs that looked dark and claw-like. It has just gotten nice enough to step outside and breathe, and when I did I took closer look. It was dark, burnt, black; a charred branch hanging over into my neighbor's yard like an intruder in a grim reaper costume.

This tree stands in the corner of my yard, smack up against the privacy fence I had built when I moved in. The fence has singe marks, and a few bites taken out .

What could have been and wasn't!

I'm calling tree chopper- downers and getting estimates, which I can ill afford. I'm smiling about the lightning, though. What a message, what a sign. We don't know how lucky we are at times. We sleep through the reminders. I have my yard, I have my fence, I have my privacy behind it. And I didn't burn my neighbors down. Hallaloo.

Red nails on a Saturday

2006-03-25T10:47:00.000-05:00

Writing Tip for women in the gray of March, and any man who wants to join along:

My painted nails on my famous nail beds make it a lot more fun to type today. I like watching my fingers hopping around my keyboard like cardinals in the snow. It is hard to sit down and write, but it always gets to be more fun once you get going. My nail polish will last less than a week, and I'll extend it by wearing it peeling and Courtney Love-like for awhile. Hope this is a harbinger of a good writing week for you, and for me, too.

Not to brag...

2006-03-23T13:12:00.000-05:00

BUT, I just went and got a mani / pedi. I was only going to get a pedi -- My feet were beginning to look a little feral -- but the technician talked me into a mani, too. Oh! Mani/ pedi means manicure and pedicure for those of you not thusly inclined. SO, I'm getting my mani ( a different color than my pedi, since this half had taken me by surprise ) and the technicians -- two of them -- say they love my nail beds. My what? I ask. My nail beds. I didn't know there was a compliment to be had about nail beds -- I'm not even sure I know exactly what a nail bed is -- but I have nice ones, so they say. I am the recipient today of the Unknown Compliment! Take your happiness where you can find it, my friends.

To Each His Own Paddock

2006-03-22T14:01:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I told you about Shannon's grandfather's diaries where he wrote about moving his cattle from paddock to paddock. We non-farmers each have our own version of paddock to paddock, and mine sometimes feels like my personal Bermuda Triangle. I move my Taurus the Bull self from CVS to Trader Joe's to the library again and again and again and again. It seems like you should be able to see my dustly, shuffled path by now.

Question from Shannon

2006-03-21T12:12:00.000-05:00

Hi,
My name is Shannon and i'm 16 years old and I am not writing my own biography but my grandpa's.
My grandpa has dementia and is rapidly forgeting things. I think it would be a nice gesture to write his life down for him and he has pretty much lived on a farm all his life and has kept a diary and written in them everyday or so for the last 40 years. The thing is most of the information that is in the diaries is just farm work (move cattle from this paddock to that paddock) but some of it is useful (birth of grandchildren etc.). How can I use these bits of seeming useless information to write an interesting story of his life. I have also tried to get in to contact with his sister but that information has no come though as yet.
Can you offer me any tips for my writing and any inspiration because believe me I will need it!

Thankyou for your time and any assistance that you can give me.
Shannon

First of all, I love that Shannon, at 16, is writing her grandfather's story. What a wonderful bond she is creating, and will make her grandfather known to generations to come.

I explained to Shannon that a life, that a history, is made up of our daily doings. The ordinary moments that create extraordinary lives. Moving the cows from paddock to paddock is what her grandfather's life was about. He was a farmer. He recorded this himself in his diaries. This is how he spent his time and energy. Paddock to paddock to paddock and back.

Every once in awhile a big thing happens in life; a birth, a death, an extreme change of course.
There are days leading up to that event and days that come after. All of these days define a life.

First Day of Spring

2006-03-20T10:29:00.000-05:00

Winter turns to Spring at something like 1:30 this afternoon, and it's supposed to snow tomorrow, but small dog and I went walking yesterday and saw tulips and crocuses in bloom. I always mark first daffodil siting in my calendar, so that should be any day now. Whooo-wheee!

Lins and I would have been home by 6:30 St. Patrick's Day night -- I called that one right! Know thyself -- but we stopped for ice cream. Two cars. Same place we used to walk to in high school. We were laughing, though, when we left the restaurant where we sat iat the bar and watched people. Three Nuns were just coming in. Stay-out-later partyers than us.

I thought I had lost the ability to get Jonathan Schwartz on the radio on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Sarah knew how to do it, and saved my day again, so I was sitting here beginning to listen, wasting some time, when the very loaded "Moonglow" began to play. This is a trigger song for my family -- My Dad played it on the piano, even though he really didn't play piano, my Mom titled her spectacular reflections on widowhood, "It Must Have Been Moonglow," my brother had it played it at his wedding. It played at my Dad's funeral, too. It was their song and it became our song. I closed my eyes and listened to it Saturday -- to Benny Goodmans noodlings and doodlings and flourish. Music with tassels.

The happiness drew me in this time, instead of the grief.

The Clancys

2006-03-17T11:26:00.000-05:00

Happy St. Patrick' Day, Erin Go Braugh from a girl named Greene on Friday. I'm catching up on paperwork, then delving into an idea during the afternoon with the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem carrying me on my annual trip through. Marley and Me is finally in for me at the library. I was number 400 on the reserve list. Hoping to go sit like Hekyl (sp?) and Jekyl with my friend Lins tonight and watch celebrators who will be more interested in March Madness basketball than all things green. We'll probably be home by 6:30. A holiday is many things to many people, and I love this one. It's changed for me over the years, but I'm always wearing my ring.

St. Patrick's Day Ring.

2006-03-16T12:06:00.000-05:00

I've just shuffled breathlessly through my jewelry box looking for the ring I've worn St. Patrick's Day week since I was a sophomore in high school. Forty one years, if you're counting. Oh my. I found it, but not without a mini- time trip through green high school class ring and poor little wedding ring and Grandma Ethel's pin and Nana's bracelet and earrings that kept falling off my ears while I was giving an important presentation at the University of Nevada in Las Vegas. Good Giving Pandora of memories, the jewelry box. My father's cuff links! Little bronze baby shoes, because that's what he did for a living. Generations of stories to be told and remembered. That's the most valuable thing in my jewelry box. Noticing that was good luck already from my peeled enamel shamrock St. Patrick's Day ring.

Welcome Message

2006-03-14T17:54:00.000-05:00

The Remembering Site makes it easy to write your story, but you'll probably have some thoughts you'd like to share while working on it. I do: thoughts about writing, about life, about what catches my eye, my head, my heart throughout the day. I'm writing my story on the Site, also. You can read it at the “Featured Biographies” link at www.TheRememberingSite.org. Think of me as your writing partner, and please check in.

Let this blog be your writers' retreat. -- D.G.