I’m With Ya Sista

I was an only child. The good news….no sharing required. The bad news….no shelter from my mother’s storm, no partner in crime or close confidant. That’s why my high school years were so important. I found my tribe at Saint Joseph Central Catholic High. Our class of 68 students. The girls who would become my best friends and the boys who would taunt, ignore, flatter, and do all those things high school boys do. Never threatening, never menacing, just the best boys ever.

On Monday I will attend the funeral of one of those tribe members, Abby Moran Robinson. I’ll drive to Columbus, Ohio, for the service. But I won’t travel alone. I’ll meet another bestie, Kathie Grant Catlin, half way and we’ll travel together. Because that’s what we do. Share the load, offer support. Be family for one another.

That’s the way it is now with my classmates. Between the phone calls, the emails, Facebook, and the Yahoo group managed by Linda Kemper Daniels, classmate wrangler extraordinaire, we have a network that keeps us in touch. There are big reunions and mini-reunions, all designed to keep the connection strong.

 

Just Push Play was published in the Freckles to Wrinkles Anthology in 2006 . My mother and aunt never assembled a VCR, but I’m guessing if they had, it would have looked and sounded like this.

Aunt Pauline, Aunt Ceil, and mother, Anne. The three amigos.

Just Push Play

Sylvie wasn’t on the porch. It was Helen’s first clue that something was wrong. Half the fun of these weekly outings was whizzing around the corner at the last minute to find Sylvie pacing the length of the porch staring at her watch. Some days she’d be standing in the driveway ready to run to the curb. Sylvie would rather be late for Sunday Mass than late for Bingo.

Helen rolled up to the curb and honked, but there was no response.

“Probably dropped dead from a heart attack,” she muttered.           “Damn fool.”

She swung the big Buick into the driveway, rocking to a halt just short of Sylvie’s garage door.  She threw the strap of the portable oxygen tank over her shoulder and, with an arm stretched out to the fender for support, teetered around the car and up the sidewalk.

A blend of Aqua Net and Shalimar sifted through the front door screen to greet her. Helen looked inside to see Sylvie poised in front of the television, decked out in a lime green polyester pants suit that barely camouflaged her pear shape, and sporting a crisp new updo that showed off her Clairol blonde. She was talking to the TV screen in a heated conversation, making her point with a wagging finger edged with the shiny red of a fresh manicure.

“They’ll put you in the home if they catch you talking to the TV like that,” Helen said walking through the door.

Sylvie waved her sister inside with the other manicured hand, never taking her eyes from the screen. “Look who’s talking,” she shot back. “You hardly get around on those gimpy legs. If anyone’s bound for the home, it’s you.”

“Yeah, but I’d rather be crippled than crazy.”

Continue Reading

Prompting the Imagination

The January 19th meeting of the Alleghany Writers was a confirmation that there is a genuine interest in building a writers community in Sparta.  We had returning writers, a few new writers, and some emails from other writers confirming that they plan to come in future months. Email me if you want more information on the group or to be added to our mailing list. coppertopcollins@gmail.com.

This month there was poetry, sharing online resources and the decision to move to the Alleghany Library beginning with the February 16th meeting. The library is located at 112 Atwood, in the same building as the Sparta campus of WCC, and the Blue Ridge Business Development Center. It is big, and beautiful, and a wonderful space for writers.

Doug showing the best thing to do in a library…….read.

There was also announcement of upcoming events. Details coming this spring.

New River Poetry Competition – Call for entries in early April. Awards Finale, May 13, 2017

Working Writer Poetry & Writing Workshops May 12 & 13

On the program at each meeting is the “prompt” exercise. Someone provides an opening line, or a situation. Writers are encouraged to take that prompt and see where the writing takes you. Attendees are invited to read their piece at the next meeting, but there is no pressure to read if it’s not your thing. There is a three minute limit for readings and we set aside time for discussion.

At the December meeting we decided on this prompt:

It’s dusk. You stop along the side of the road to look at the scenery.

You hear a tap, tap, tap that seems to be coming from the woods.

You see a pine needle path that leads in the direction of the sound.

This is my tap, tap, tap story –

Sunset Adventure

We took the interstate to the auction, but came home on the back roads. After a weekend of work we deserved a scenic drive to relax. The late afternoon sky was predicting a beautiful sunset, and it was time for a stretch and a rummage through the back seat basket. Lou and I made so many of these road trips we had developed a habit of the sunset snack. If there was a scenic place to stop and watch a sunset, we would celebrate it with a rest and a nibble.

Lou backed in the truck and dropped the tailgate. He headed to the woods for a pit stop and I pulled out the basket of snacks.  I stretched a tea towel over a section of the back and pulled out the cheese and crackers, thankful for how the wrapped sleeve of biscuits and the wax covered cheese made for a mess-free set up. A tin of smoked oysters finished the menu. I pulled out a couple of wine singles from the cooler and considered our sunset nosh to be ready.

Lou was back quicker than usual. His face had a puzzled look, and he kept turning around to the woods as he walked forward.

“Did you hear that?” A thread of fear laced through his question. I turned around to see that his faced matched his tone. In the year we had been dating I rarely saw Lou in a situation he did not dominate, so this was an unfamiliar scene for me.

“That tapping,” he said. “Did you hear it?”

“Sorry. I was setting the table. Didn’t hear a thing.”

“It was a tapping sound. Like metal on metal. A click. I couldn’t tell if it was random or a code.” Lou’s voice carried the suspense of someone imagining the plot of a paperback thriller coming to life on a wooded roadside.

“Code?”

“Yes, code. Like Morse Code. I think I recognized a word or two.”

I took in this new side of his personality. Excited over a rare find at an estate sale? Sure. But I never thought of Lou as someone interested in investigating sounds on the wind.

I handed him the bottle of wine and held mine up for a toast. After the ceremonial clink I asked, “So, do you want to end our weekend with a little exploring?”

Apparently my city dwelling, luxury loving boyfriend was more adventurous than I had imagined. He took a long sip of wine, and turned towards the woods. “Follow me,” he said, reaching his hand back to grasp mine. “Stay on the pine needles. That’s the path in.”

As we entered the cluster of trees I began to hear the sound. Very faint, so faint I wondered how Lou had even heard it. But he was right. There was a tapping, and it did sound like code.

The level path led to a steep drop off, opening up to a view of the valley below. Lou pointed to the large pine tree growing into the hillside on our left. That’s where we saw him, perched on rock surrounded by a clump of roots from a fallen tree. He had a radio in one hand, and was tapping out Morse Code with the other. After a moment of surprise on both our parts, he waved us over. We learned that our phantom tapper was a ham radio operator trying to make a last few contacts for National Parks On The Air, a celebration of the 100th Anniversary of the National Parks Service.

Our drive home was filled with stories of Lou’s fascination with amateur radio. Summers with his grandfather, learning Morse Code and talking with people across the county and around the world. I listened as he shared, knowing that our relationship had taken a step forward. All because I was willing to go down a path in the woods in search of a tap, tap, tap.

 

What’s Your Soup?

I love the process of preparation in advance of a snowstorm. The beer, the wine, the milk, the bread, the movies, the frozen pizza.  All the “usual suspects.”

Some put on their long johns and boots, grab the sled and saucer, and head out to do the things in the snow that make adults feel and act like children. Others stock up on books for long sessions of suspended reality in a comfortable corner. And there are those who line the sofa for a group TV binge on something new or an old favorite.

However you make the most of a snow day, one this is certain. You must have soup!  

Yesterday I made bean with ham, potato, onion, and carrot. I’m thrilled that it tasted pretty close to the classic Campbell’s Bean w/Bacon, and not so thrilled that I didn’t pay closer attention when measuring the ingredients. Never was one to follow the recipe like it was a science formula. I prefer to use the ingredient list and directions more as a “suggestion.” Therefore, nothing ever tastes the same, except for the cornbread recipe which I have memorized.

So, what kind of soup did YOU make today?

The Mother & Child Reunion Is Only a Motion Away

Someone told me once that you have two chances at a mother-daughter relationship. Once as child, and again as a parent. Being a parent wasn’t something I planned when I got married at 19. I wanted a few years as a couple before we ventured into parenthood. But the “rhythm method” failed me after six months of marriage, and one month before my 21st birthday Laura was born. I think of this now as the date of her conception comes around. January 8th. Yes, I remember the date. Vividly.

Over the years I worked to be the kind of mother I would have wanted for myself…to give my daughter what I had needed while growing up. That plan had merit, but I didn’t really connect until I understood what kind of mother Laura wanted and needed.

At Ofelia’s on Main spreading our Christmas spirit.

We are at that place now. A place where I offer input and advice when asked, understanding that I only have the answers to my problems. I can tell her how I would handle a situation, but her solution has to be hers. We are also at a place where we can talk as two women…about careers, about friendship, about our lives in the future.

It’s a tread gently journey, but so well worth the trip.

Introducing Henry

As I dive back into the writing life I’m revisiting the “vault,” also known as my childhood toy chest. I rescued it from the back of Mother’s closet and made it the designated repository for all things writerly. Over the years I’ve accumulated folders, and binders, and rubber banded clumps of the written word, along with a handful of flash drives containing every revision of every story. Notes from workshops, handouts from seminars, it’s all there!1229161231

It is at this point that I give a shout out to my husband, Melvin, who finances my writing life and never questions the investment of my time or his money.

While going through one of the flash drives I found the HENRY folder. His character dates back to 2002 as the love interest of another character, Veronica. The folder included all the scenes from their stormy relationship. In this scene he sees Veronica for the first time at the company picnic. He later writes his friend with the details.

I’d be interested to know, who do you see when you picture Henry? I admit to seeing a particular old flame who had a great deal of HENRY in him.What about you? A boyfriend? An ex? Or, how about someone from today’s world of entertainment? I would love to see how you picture this character. It would be great help to me as a writer.

Thanks in advance for your comment!

Henry meets Veronica

Stu,

       Here’s some news. Just came back from the company picnic. I’ve got a belly full of fried chicken and a new prospect for my love and affection. I’m telling you pal, the girl is something to see. She strutted barefoot through that grass, high-stepping it, with her gathered-up skirt and shoes in one hand, and a picnic basket in the other. Showing just enough above the knee to let you know there was a sweet set of thighs attached. Her eyes were focused on the ground and her body seemed ready to bolt at the slightest squeal or high-pitched noise. Like a fine, young filly. So this is Veronica, I thought. What a delicious piece of flesh she is. Continue Reading

What You Thought Was True

A while back I talked to a friend who had recently stumbled into a repressed memory. We talked about that feeling, falling through a black hole, observing everything in your life you thought to be true as it dissolves into flashbacks, and strange dreams, and that lopsided feeling when memories come back with different endings. It is an emotional unearthing, and it begins a ripple effect through your life, with the potential of a tsunami.

My stumble into memories past began in July, 1992, when I was rear-ended at the stoplight on Callowhill and 14th Street in Philadelphia. It was a metallic green Gremlin in the rear view mirror, and when I saw how fast it was coming, I grabbed the wheel and pressed my foot hard on the brake. The impact came to the driver-side rear, like he wanted to thread the car between the two lanes and instead put accordion pleats into the frame of my Saab and the car in the next lane.

Police were called, reports were made, and the officer told me my car was drivable, but probably totaled. “Call your agent. Get a back x-ray. File a claim,” was his professional advice.

Regarding any compensation from the driver for damages,  it seemed that besides the lack of brakes, he had no license, no insurance, and no proof of ownership. The officer told me to write it off and be glad that I wasn’t hurt. “He’s going back to jail,” the officer said, “He’s a regular.”

I stood on the corner as they walked past me to the cruiser.He was in handcuffs, shirtless, and under his ribs I spotted a long, jagged scar, as if he had been stitched up by an unskilled amateur or a doctor in a hurry. It was one of several scars that showed a man who had not lived an easy life. His name was Paul Brown and I can still see his face. His skin was coal black, and his features were sharp, almost regal. Our eyes met and I knew he was there to give me a message.

My life was different from that day forward. I wrote RAIN FALL as fiction wrapped around a reality that waited over thirty years to present  itself.

barbara-w-dodge0001

Winston Blvd, Toledo, Ohio. 1954. With Schnitzel, my first dog.

RAIN FALL

As the rusty station wagon pulled past us in the parking lot, its rear door flew open, and a boy, maybe four years old, tumbled out. His leg was caught on something inside. The old car dragged his upper body—head bobbing, arms flailing, voice screaming—about fifteen feet along the pavement before lurching to a halt. We stood motionless as a scrawny woman in worn jeans and a faded work shirt jumped from the passenger side as the vehicle rocked to a standstill.

Continue Reading