As Marie sat in her old, comfortable chair watching another one of those commercials selling machines that turn fruit into juice on the shopping channel, she realized she hadn’t gotten the paper off of the porch yet. She pushed the pink and red afghan from her lap to the broad arm of the chair and slowly pushed herself to her slippered feet. She sat the remote control she held in her hand on the tidy little lamp table next to her chair. She stretched her aching back and shoulders and walked toward the front door slowly. She wondered if she had fallen asleep watching infomercials.
The shadows thrown against the walls told her that it must be later in the evening than she had realized, and she was so glad to have her slippers on to keep her feet warm. The days were getting warmer, but the evenings and nights were still cold enough to make her joints ache. The light from the television and the lamp next to her chair lit the area she sat in, but that small circle of light seemed to make the rest of her home seem even darker. As she walked through the dining room toward the front door, she paused to turn on the light. She turned toward the door, and saw the empty dining table. She considered how long it had been since she served a meal to her family at this table. Surely fifteen years had passed since her son Gerald and his wife Celia insisted on serving their own holiday meal at their home. Then she wondered if she had eaten dinner yet. Oh well, she thought, the paper would still be there in the morning. She turned to the kitchen to make herself a can of soup.
She woke up after a restless night to a beautiful morning. She always had a hard time sleeping when she napped late into the evening. The phone was ringing, which was becoming a rare occurrence, as she didn’t have many friends and her only son called rather infrequently. Who would be calling? Penny, maybe. If not Penny, her son Gerald or his wife, Celia. They called, and every once in a while, asked her to move in with them. It was Celia. She asked how Marie was doing, and if she needed anything. It was always the same conversation. “I’m fine. I have all that I need. No, I’m sure.” It was always the same.
“Marie? Do you have any plans for Saturday?”
Do I have any plans, Marie thought. When do I ever have plans? “No, I’ll be home all day.”
“We want to come for a visit. No. That’s not right. Marie, we’ve decided it’s time you come home with us. I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but we aren’t asking anymore. Everything is all set; you just need to pack.”
After the phone call with Celia, Marie called Penny because she would have to get her hair curled before the visit. Penny lived down the road and was Marie’s closest neighbor and best friend. Penny had been there for her when her husband had passed away. Sure she had Gerald and Celia, then she had even had the grandchildren comforting her, but Penny was her rock. Penny got her through that, and they had grown closer and closer. Friendships have ups and downs, and they were drifting apart. They talked, but it just wasn’t the same these days.
Marie went out the back screened door, and glanced around at her flower beds. Over the years, she had found just the right mix of flowers for her yard. Petunias, marigolds, and tulips looked the best in her yard. She had the biggest roses on the biggest rose bushes in town. It wasn’t late enough in the season for her to have many blooms, but the flowers that were in bloom were beautiful. Even the plants that had no blooms yet were green and beautiful. Her flower beds were neat and tidy. Her vegetable garden was tilled and planted. She had planted each of those tiny seeds in the straight, neat rows herself. She had paid the boy from down the road to till the dirt, but she had done the rest. Her back had ached, her neck was stiffer than ever after the few days it took her to plant, but she had done it all herself. When Gerald sees her garden, he would know he should leave her be. She would not be going home with them.
“Marie, keep your head straight.” Penny was trimming the hair around Marie’s ears. She had already put the pink curlers all over Marie’s head. Her hair was so white and thin now, that her scalp was clearly visible. Penny could see her scalp getting pink from how tight the curlers were pulling her hair. Marie insisted on having Penny do her hair every time her son came to visit.
“Do you think they’ll stay for dinner this time? I don’t even know what I would make. You’ll have to take me to the market, Penny.” Marie was excited; excited, but nervous. Her son’s visits have spread farther apart the past few years. He had children of his own now, and with that, responsibilities. His oldest had just moved into an apartment, and Gerald had helped paint the rooms. His son was 16, and they were working together on a car for him to have when he got his license. Celia had told her all of these things, not Gerald. Marie wondered what it means when your son’s wife is your only source of communication? Of course he’s busy, but too busy to talk to his mother?
“I can make some time in the morning, but I’ll want to be home by lunch time. How about pork chops? Everyone likes pork chops. And if they can’t stay, you could freeze them. You know, one at a time, for dinners.” Penny was spraying her hair. “I can come by in the morning, and take these curlers out. Then, we can drive to town to do your shopping. Do you need to go to the bank first?”
Marie told her that she had to go to the bank. Penny knew she didn’t keep any cash. And would she really think Marie would want to sleep with these hard curlers on her head all night? She would have to take them out tonight, and Marie would sleep in her recliner so she didn’t flatten her curls.
“What we women go through for beauty,” was all she could say. Marie would sleep sitting up, because she wanted to look nice, but how much sleep would she get? She had arthritis and a bad back, yet she planned to sleep sitting up. Penny certainly knew better than to try to convince Marie that she’d regret it by the next day. “Do you have any potatoes? Pork chops and mashed potatoes would be good.”
Penny walked to the pantry door, and opened it. She reached into the dark, found the string hanging by the door, and pulled it. The single light bulb was dull, but bright enough to show the contents of the shelves; three canisters of oatmeal, a few boxes of noodles, a dozen or so cans of soups, and a bag of onions. It always irritated Marie when Penny walked through her house as though it were her own. “No, I don’t have any potatoes, and I’ll need flour for the gravy, too. Get out of my pantry! You don’t see me poking around your house, do you?” Marie had grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. She was slowly, neatly jotting down the things she would need to buy.
Penny smiled. “When would you be over poking around? You never come to my house anymore.” She closed the pantry door, and then took her time looking through the kitchen cabinets. “I guess it is time to go to the market. You don’t have much around here. Any coffee? Sugar? Tea bags? Do you have any toothpaste, Marie?”
“Get out of my cabinets, you busybody! Course I have toothpaste! And I just used the last of the coffee this morning. Or yesterday. Doesn’t matter, I don’t live on coffee.”
Penny sat back at the kitchen table in the old chair. The seat was padded, and the vinyl cover was cracked with small wisps of the padding material poking through. The cracked vinyl scarped her thigh as she sat down. She looked around. Marie always kept her house pretty clean. She might have to convince her to get different light bulbs, because all of the lights seemed too dim. Well, she’d try to convince Marie if Gerald didn’t really make her move in with him. It was also a bit dusty above her refrigerator and the tops of her cabinet doors. She grabbed a kitchen towel, got it damp, and ran her finger over the dust. Marie was still writing her list, seeming not to be paying any attention.
“Want to run the vacuum, too? Would save me some time.”
“Nah, getting late. I’m ready for bed.” Penny walked over to Marie. She picked up the scissors she had used to trim Marie’s hair, and dropped them in her purse. After pulling all of the pins from the soft pink curlers, Penny placed them in a little pile, and carefully started pulling the curlers from Marie’s silver white hair. “You call me when you’re ready to go shopping tomorrow. We’ll have to plan on getting you some aspirin while we’re out. You are going to have a sore neck if you really plan on sleeping in that chair.”
After a second restless night, Marie was up early. Her neck ached. Her back ached. Her shoulders, even her legs, ached. She wondered why she insisted on sleeping in the recliner. Was it Penny’s suggestion? It must have been. Marie thought she would have known how uncomfortable that chair would be to sleep in. Her curls had survived the night, and in a sense, it was worth it. Penny always put her curls in just the right spot. Her curls weren’t too tight and never too loose.
Gerald and Celia were later than Celia had said they would be. They all sat in the living room together. Celia seemed preoccupied, nervous even. She was pleasant enough, but she avoided looking Marie in the eyes. “Have you packed yet?” Gerald said as he got up and seemed to be looking for something.
He walked back to her, kneeled down in front of her, and took her fragile hands into his. “Mom, you remember what we talked about? You haven’t packed. Would you like Celia and me to help you?”
Marie looked at her son and a few tears slipped down her cheek. She wondered how he could say these things to her. She knew that she could take care of herself just fine. She was happy. She didn’t think they really wanted her to live with them. If they really wanted that, why didn’t they ever come to visit her? She wouldn’t be leaving now. “I don’t want to abandon my garden. I put so much time into it. Don’t you care what I want?” Marie asked Gerald.
“You can put in a garden at our house. We want you with us. You need to be with us.” Celia insisted. They packed her clothes. They boxed her things and stacked those boxes on the dining room table before packing them all in the back of their van.
Marie reluctantly got in the van. She didn’t hear what Celia was saying to her, but stared out the window instead. She saw the grass her husband had mowed for all those years, the rose bushes they had planted together, and the garden patch. The garden patch hadn’t been tilled in years and weeds were sticking up through the grass that had taken over. She stared in disbelief at the sad flower beds full of weeds and tulips. She stared at these things as her son drove her away from her home, away from her memories. Her memories were so vivid that she didn’t realize they were the past, but relived them day after day.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Story Draft #2
As Marie sat in her old, comfortable chair watching another one of those commercials selling machines that turn fruit into juice on the shopping channel, she realized she hadn’t gotten the paper off of the porch yet. She pushed the pink and red afghan from her lap to the broad arm of the chair and slowly pushed herself to her slippered feet. She sat the remote control she held in her hand on the tidy little lamp table next to her chair. She stretched her aching back and shoulders and walked toward the front door slowly. Had she fallen asleep watching infomercials?
The shadows thrown against the walls told her that it must be later in the evening than she had realized, and she was so glad to have her slippers on to keep her feet warm. The days were getting warmer, but the evenings and nights were still cold enough to make her joints ache. The light from the television and the lamp next to her chair lit the area she sat in, but that small circle of light seemed to make the rest of her home seem even darker. As she walked through the dining room toward the front door, she paused to turn on the light. She turned toward the door, and saw the empty dining table. She considered how long it had been since she served a meal to her family at this table. Surely fifteen years had passed since Gerald and Celia insisted on serving their own holiday meal at their home. Then she wondered if she had eaten dinner yet. Oh, she thought, the paper would be there in the morning. She turned to the kitchen to make herself a can of soup.
She woke up after a restless night to a beautiful morning. She always had a hard time sleeping when she napped late into the evening. The phone was ringing, which seemed to be becoming an increasingly random occurrence, as she didn’t have many friends and her only son called rather infrequently. Who would be calling? Penny, maybe. If not Penny, her son Gerald or his wife, Celia. They called, and every once in a while, asked her to move in with them. It was Celia. She asked how Marie was doing, and if she needed anything. It was always the same conversation. “I’m fine. I have all that I need. No, I’m sure.” It was always the same.
“Marie? Do you have any plans for Saturday?”
Do I have any plans, Marie thought. When do I ever have plans? “No, I’ll be home all day.”
“We want to come for a visit. No. That’s not right. Marie, we’ve decided it’s time you come home with us. I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but we aren’t asking anymore. Everything is all set; you just need to pack.”
After the phone call with Celia, she called Penny. Marie would have to get her hair curled before the visit. Penny lived down the road and was Marie’s closest neighbor; not only her closest neighbor, but her closest friend. Penny had been there for her when her husband had passed away. Sure she had Gerald and Celia, then she had even had the grandchildren comforting her, but Penny was her rock. Penny got her through that, and they had grown closer and closer. Friendships have ups and downs, and they were drifting apart. They talked, but it just wasn’t the same these days.
Marie went out the back screened door, and glanced around at her flower beds. Over the years, she had found just the right mix of flowers for her yard. Petunias, marigolds, and tulips looked the best in her yard. She had the biggest roses on the biggest rose bushes in town. It wasn’t late enough in the season for her to have many blooms, but the flowers that were in bloom were beautiful. Even the plants that had no blooms yet were green and beautiful. Her flower beds were neat and tidy. Her vegetable garden was tilled and planted. She had planted each of those tiny seeds in the straight, neat rows herself. She paid the boy from down the road to till the dirt, but she had done the rest. Her back had ached, her neck was stiffer than ever after the few days it took her to plant, but she had done it all herself. When Gerald sees her garden, he would know he should leave her be. She would not be going home with them.
“Marie, keep your head straight.” Penny was trimming the hair around Marie’s ears. She had already put the pink curlers all over Marie’s head. Her hair was so white and thin now, that her scalp was clearly visible. Penny could see her scalp getting pink and then pinker from how tight the curlers were pulling her hair. Marie insisted on Penny doing her hair every time her son would come to visit.
“Do you think they’ll stay for dinner this time? I don’t even know what I would make. You’ll have to take me to the market, Penny.” Marie was excited; excited, but nervous. Her son’s visits have spread farther apart the past few years. He had children of his own now, and with that, responsibilities. His oldest had just moved into an apartment, and Gerald had helped paint the rooms. His son was 16, and they were working together on a car for him to have when he got his license. Celia had told her all of these things, not Gerald. What does it mean when your son’s wife is your only source of communication? Of course he’s busy, but too busy to talk to his mother?
“I can make some time in the morning, but I’ll want to be home by lunch time. How about pork chops? Everyone likes pork chops. And if they can’t stay, you could freeze them. You know, one at a time, for dinners.” Penny was spraying her hair. “I can come by in the morning, and take these curlers out. Then, we can drive to town to do your shopping. Do you need to go to the bank first?”
Of course Marie had to go to the bank. Penny knew she didn’t keep any cash. And would she really think Marie would want to sleep with these hard curlers on her head all night? She would have to take them out tonight, and Marie would sleep in her recliner, so she didn’t flatten her curls.
“What we women go through for beauty,” was all she could say. Marie would sleep sitting up, because she wanted to look nice, but how much sleep would she get? She had arthritis and a bad back, yet she planned to sleep sitting up. Penny certainly knew better than to try to convince Marie that she’d regret it by the next day. “Do you have any potatoes? Pork chops and mashed potatoes would be good.”
Penny walked to the pantry door, and opened it. She reached into the dark, found the string hanging by the door, and pulled it. The single light bulb was dull, but bright enough to show the contents of the shelves; three canisters of oatmeal, a few boxes of noodles, a dozen or so cans of soups, and a bag of onions. It always irritated Marie when Penny walked through her house as though it were her own. “No, I don’t have any potatoes. I’ll need flour for the gravy, too. Get out of my pantry! You don’t see me poking around your house, do you?” Marie had grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. She was slowly, neatly jotting down the things she would need to buy.
Penny smiled. “When would you be over poking around? You never come to my house anymore.” She closed the pantry door, and then took her time looking through the kitchen cabinets. “I guess it is time to go to the market. You don’t have much around here. Any coffee? Sugar? Tea bags? Do you have any toothpaste, Marie?”
“Get out of my cabinets, you busybody! Course I have toothpaste! And I just used the last of the coffee this morning. Or yesterday. Doesn’t matter, I don’t live on coffee.”
Penny sat back at the kitchen table in the old chair. The seat was padded, and the vinyl cover was cracked with small wisps of the padding material poking through. The cracked vinyl scarped her thigh as she sat down. She looked around. Marie always kept her house pretty clean. She might have to convince her to get different light bulbs, because all of the lights seemed too dim. Well, she’d try to convince Marie if Gerald didn’t really make her move in with him. It was also a bit dusty above her refrigerator and the tops of her cabinet doors. She grabbed a kitchen towel, got it damp, and ran her finger over the dust. Marie was still writing her list, seeming not to be paying any attention.
“Want to run the vacuum, too? Would save me some time.”
“Nah, getting late. I’m ready for bed.” Penny walked over to Marie. She picked up the scissors she had used to trim Marie’s hair, and dropped them in her purse. She started pulling the pins from the pink curlers and putting them in a little pile. After pulling out all of the pins, she started pulling out the curlers. “You call me when you’re ready to go shopping tomorrow. We’ll have to plan on getting you some aspirin while we’re out. You are going to have a sore neck if you really plan on sleeping in that chair.”
After a second restless night, Marie was up early. Her neck ached. Her back ached. Her shoulders, even her legs, ached. Why did she insist on sleeping in the recliner? Was it Penny’s suggestion? It must have been. Marie would have known how uncomfortable that chair would be to sleep in. Her curls had survived the night, and in a sense, it was worth it. Penny always put her curls in just the right spot. Her curls weren’t too tight and never too loose.
Gerald and Celia were later than Celia had said they would be. They all sat in the living room together. Celia seemed preoccupied, nervous even. She was pleasant enough, but she avoided looking Marie in the eyes. “Have you packed yet?” Gerald said as he got up and seemed to be looking for something.
He walked back to her, kneeled down in front of her, and took her hands. “Mom, you remember what we talked about? You haven’t packed. Would you like Celia and me to help you?”
Marie looked at her son and a few tears slipped down her cheek. How could he say these things to her? She could take care of herself just fine. She was happy. They didn’t really want her to live with them. If they really wanted that, why didn’t they ever come to visit her? She wouldn’t be leaving now. “I don’t want to abandon my garden. I put so much time into it. Don’t you care what I want?”
“You can put in a garden at our house. We want you with us. You need to be with us.” Celia insisted. They packed her clothes. They boxed her things and stacked those boxes on the dining room table before packing them all in the back of their van.
Marie reluctantly got in the van. She didn’t hear what Celia was saying to her, but stared out the window instead. She saw the grass her husband had mowed for all those years, the rose bushes they had planted together, the garden patch. The garden patch hadn’t been tilled in years; weeds sticking up through the grass that had taken over. The sad flower beds full of weeds and tulips. She stared at these things as her son drove her away from her home, away from her memories. Her memories were so vivid that she didn’t realize they were the past, but relived them day after day.
The shadows thrown against the walls told her that it must be later in the evening than she had realized, and she was so glad to have her slippers on to keep her feet warm. The days were getting warmer, but the evenings and nights were still cold enough to make her joints ache. The light from the television and the lamp next to her chair lit the area she sat in, but that small circle of light seemed to make the rest of her home seem even darker. As she walked through the dining room toward the front door, she paused to turn on the light. She turned toward the door, and saw the empty dining table. She considered how long it had been since she served a meal to her family at this table. Surely fifteen years had passed since Gerald and Celia insisted on serving their own holiday meal at their home. Then she wondered if she had eaten dinner yet. Oh, she thought, the paper would be there in the morning. She turned to the kitchen to make herself a can of soup.
She woke up after a restless night to a beautiful morning. She always had a hard time sleeping when she napped late into the evening. The phone was ringing, which seemed to be becoming an increasingly random occurrence, as she didn’t have many friends and her only son called rather infrequently. Who would be calling? Penny, maybe. If not Penny, her son Gerald or his wife, Celia. They called, and every once in a while, asked her to move in with them. It was Celia. She asked how Marie was doing, and if she needed anything. It was always the same conversation. “I’m fine. I have all that I need. No, I’m sure.” It was always the same.
“Marie? Do you have any plans for Saturday?”
Do I have any plans, Marie thought. When do I ever have plans? “No, I’ll be home all day.”
“We want to come for a visit. No. That’s not right. Marie, we’ve decided it’s time you come home with us. I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but we aren’t asking anymore. Everything is all set; you just need to pack.”
After the phone call with Celia, she called Penny. Marie would have to get her hair curled before the visit. Penny lived down the road and was Marie’s closest neighbor; not only her closest neighbor, but her closest friend. Penny had been there for her when her husband had passed away. Sure she had Gerald and Celia, then she had even had the grandchildren comforting her, but Penny was her rock. Penny got her through that, and they had grown closer and closer. Friendships have ups and downs, and they were drifting apart. They talked, but it just wasn’t the same these days.
Marie went out the back screened door, and glanced around at her flower beds. Over the years, she had found just the right mix of flowers for her yard. Petunias, marigolds, and tulips looked the best in her yard. She had the biggest roses on the biggest rose bushes in town. It wasn’t late enough in the season for her to have many blooms, but the flowers that were in bloom were beautiful. Even the plants that had no blooms yet were green and beautiful. Her flower beds were neat and tidy. Her vegetable garden was tilled and planted. She had planted each of those tiny seeds in the straight, neat rows herself. She paid the boy from down the road to till the dirt, but she had done the rest. Her back had ached, her neck was stiffer than ever after the few days it took her to plant, but she had done it all herself. When Gerald sees her garden, he would know he should leave her be. She would not be going home with them.
“Marie, keep your head straight.” Penny was trimming the hair around Marie’s ears. She had already put the pink curlers all over Marie’s head. Her hair was so white and thin now, that her scalp was clearly visible. Penny could see her scalp getting pink and then pinker from how tight the curlers were pulling her hair. Marie insisted on Penny doing her hair every time her son would come to visit.
“Do you think they’ll stay for dinner this time? I don’t even know what I would make. You’ll have to take me to the market, Penny.” Marie was excited; excited, but nervous. Her son’s visits have spread farther apart the past few years. He had children of his own now, and with that, responsibilities. His oldest had just moved into an apartment, and Gerald had helped paint the rooms. His son was 16, and they were working together on a car for him to have when he got his license. Celia had told her all of these things, not Gerald. What does it mean when your son’s wife is your only source of communication? Of course he’s busy, but too busy to talk to his mother?
“I can make some time in the morning, but I’ll want to be home by lunch time. How about pork chops? Everyone likes pork chops. And if they can’t stay, you could freeze them. You know, one at a time, for dinners.” Penny was spraying her hair. “I can come by in the morning, and take these curlers out. Then, we can drive to town to do your shopping. Do you need to go to the bank first?”
Of course Marie had to go to the bank. Penny knew she didn’t keep any cash. And would she really think Marie would want to sleep with these hard curlers on her head all night? She would have to take them out tonight, and Marie would sleep in her recliner, so she didn’t flatten her curls.
“What we women go through for beauty,” was all she could say. Marie would sleep sitting up, because she wanted to look nice, but how much sleep would she get? She had arthritis and a bad back, yet she planned to sleep sitting up. Penny certainly knew better than to try to convince Marie that she’d regret it by the next day. “Do you have any potatoes? Pork chops and mashed potatoes would be good.”
Penny walked to the pantry door, and opened it. She reached into the dark, found the string hanging by the door, and pulled it. The single light bulb was dull, but bright enough to show the contents of the shelves; three canisters of oatmeal, a few boxes of noodles, a dozen or so cans of soups, and a bag of onions. It always irritated Marie when Penny walked through her house as though it were her own. “No, I don’t have any potatoes. I’ll need flour for the gravy, too. Get out of my pantry! You don’t see me poking around your house, do you?” Marie had grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. She was slowly, neatly jotting down the things she would need to buy.
Penny smiled. “When would you be over poking around? You never come to my house anymore.” She closed the pantry door, and then took her time looking through the kitchen cabinets. “I guess it is time to go to the market. You don’t have much around here. Any coffee? Sugar? Tea bags? Do you have any toothpaste, Marie?”
“Get out of my cabinets, you busybody! Course I have toothpaste! And I just used the last of the coffee this morning. Or yesterday. Doesn’t matter, I don’t live on coffee.”
Penny sat back at the kitchen table in the old chair. The seat was padded, and the vinyl cover was cracked with small wisps of the padding material poking through. The cracked vinyl scarped her thigh as she sat down. She looked around. Marie always kept her house pretty clean. She might have to convince her to get different light bulbs, because all of the lights seemed too dim. Well, she’d try to convince Marie if Gerald didn’t really make her move in with him. It was also a bit dusty above her refrigerator and the tops of her cabinet doors. She grabbed a kitchen towel, got it damp, and ran her finger over the dust. Marie was still writing her list, seeming not to be paying any attention.
“Want to run the vacuum, too? Would save me some time.”
“Nah, getting late. I’m ready for bed.” Penny walked over to Marie. She picked up the scissors she had used to trim Marie’s hair, and dropped them in her purse. She started pulling the pins from the pink curlers and putting them in a little pile. After pulling out all of the pins, she started pulling out the curlers. “You call me when you’re ready to go shopping tomorrow. We’ll have to plan on getting you some aspirin while we’re out. You are going to have a sore neck if you really plan on sleeping in that chair.”
After a second restless night, Marie was up early. Her neck ached. Her back ached. Her shoulders, even her legs, ached. Why did she insist on sleeping in the recliner? Was it Penny’s suggestion? It must have been. Marie would have known how uncomfortable that chair would be to sleep in. Her curls had survived the night, and in a sense, it was worth it. Penny always put her curls in just the right spot. Her curls weren’t too tight and never too loose.
Gerald and Celia were later than Celia had said they would be. They all sat in the living room together. Celia seemed preoccupied, nervous even. She was pleasant enough, but she avoided looking Marie in the eyes. “Have you packed yet?” Gerald said as he got up and seemed to be looking for something.
He walked back to her, kneeled down in front of her, and took her hands. “Mom, you remember what we talked about? You haven’t packed. Would you like Celia and me to help you?”
Marie looked at her son and a few tears slipped down her cheek. How could he say these things to her? She could take care of herself just fine. She was happy. They didn’t really want her to live with them. If they really wanted that, why didn’t they ever come to visit her? She wouldn’t be leaving now. “I don’t want to abandon my garden. I put so much time into it. Don’t you care what I want?”
“You can put in a garden at our house. We want you with us. You need to be with us.” Celia insisted. They packed her clothes. They boxed her things and stacked those boxes on the dining room table before packing them all in the back of their van.
Marie reluctantly got in the van. She didn’t hear what Celia was saying to her, but stared out the window instead. She saw the grass her husband had mowed for all those years, the rose bushes they had planted together, the garden patch. The garden patch hadn’t been tilled in years; weeds sticking up through the grass that had taken over. The sad flower beds full of weeds and tulips. She stared at these things as her son drove her away from her home, away from her memories. Her memories were so vivid that she didn’t realize they were the past, but relived them day after day.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Week 7
My story has conflict, but I don't think it is very understandable. I wanted to go the direction that Marie was getting senile and not really focusing on what was about to happen. I'm still working on it, but these exercises helped me get closer to th coherency I need.
The exercise that gave sentence beginnings to complete helped me put more detail in the story that I wouldn't have put in there without this prompt. Another helpful exercise was to have the main character write a letter explaining her take on the story.
The last thing that helped me was to write one sentence about the story and then revise the story to heighten and illuminate the final meaning.
The exercise that gave sentence beginnings to complete helped me put more detail in the story that I wouldn't have put in there without this prompt. Another helpful exercise was to have the main character write a letter explaining her take on the story.
The last thing that helped me was to write one sentence about the story and then revise the story to heighten and illuminate the final meaning.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Week four
“Marie, keep your head straight.” Penny was trimming the hair around Marie’s ears. She had already put the pink curlers all over Marie’s head. Her hair was so white and thin now, that her scalp was clearly visible. Penny could see her scalp getting pink and then pinker from how tight the curlers were pulling her hair. Marie insisted on Penny doing her hair every time her son would come to visit.
“Do you think they’ll stay for dinner this time? I don’t even know what I would make. You’ll have to take me to the market, Penny.” Marie was excited; excited, but nervous. Her son’s visits have spread farther apart the past few years. He has children of his own now, and with that, responsibilities. His oldest had just moved into an apartment, and he had helped paint the rooms. His son was 16, and they were working on a car for him to have when he got his license. Celia had told her all of these things, not Gerald. What does it mean when your son’s wife is your only source of communication? Of course, he’s busy, but too busy to talk to his mother?
“I can make some time in the morning, but I’ll want to be home by lunch time. How about pork chops? Everyone likes pork chops. And if they can’t stay, you could freeze them. You know, one at a time, for dinners.” Penny was spraying her hair. “I can come by in the morning, and take these curlers out. Then, we can drive to town to do your shopping. Do you need to go to the bank first?”
Of course, Marie had to go to the bank. Penny knew she didn’t keep any cash. And would she really think Marie would want to sleep with these hard curlers on her head all night? She would have to take them out tonight, and Marie would sleep in her recliner, so she didn’t flatten her curls.
“What we women go through for beauty,” was all she could say. Marie would sleep sitting up, because she wanted to look nice, but how much sleep would she get? She had arthritis and a bad back, yet she planned to sleep sitting up. She knew better than to try to convince her that she’d regret it. “Do you have any potatoes? Pork chops and mashed potatoes would be good.”
Penny walked to the pantry door, and opened it. She found the string hanging by the door, and pulled it. The single light bulb was dull, but bright enough to show the contents of the shelves; three canisters of oatmeal, a few boxes of noodles, a dozen or so cans of soups, and a bag of onions. It always irritated Marie when Penny walked through her house as though it were her own. “No, I don’t have any potatoes. I’ll need flour for the gravy, too. Get out of my pantry! You don’t see me poking around your house, do you?” Marie had a pad of paper and a pen. She was jotting down the things she would need to buy.
Penny smiled. “When would you be over poking around? You never come over anymore.” She closed the pantry door, and looked through the kitchen cabinets. “I guess it is time to go to the market. You don’t have much around here. Any coffee? Sugar? Tea bags? Do you have any toothpaste, Marie?”
“Get out of my cabinets, you busybody! Course I have toothpaste! And I just used the last of the coffee this morning. Or yesterday. Doesn’t matter, I don’t live on coffee.”
Penny sat back at the kitchen table. She looked around. Marie kept her house pretty clean. She might have to convince her to get different light bulbs, because all of the lights seemed too dim. It was a bit dusty above her refrigerator and the tops of her cabinet doors. She grabbed a kitchen towel, got it damp, and ran her finger over the dust. Marie was still writing her list, not paying any attention. “Want to run the vacuum, too? Would save me some time.”
“Nah, getting late. I’m ready for bed. Do you want me to take out these curlers tonight or just wait for the morning?” Not even waiting for the answer, she walked over to Marie. She picked up the scissors she used to trim her hair, and put them in her purse on the table. She started pulling the pins from the pink curlers, and putting them in a little pile. After pulling all of the pins, she started pulling out the curlers. “You call me when you’re ready to go shopping tomorrow. We’ll have to plan on getting you some aspirin while we’re out. You are going to have a sore neck if you really plan on sleeping in that chair.”
“Do you think they’ll stay for dinner this time? I don’t even know what I would make. You’ll have to take me to the market, Penny.” Marie was excited; excited, but nervous. Her son’s visits have spread farther apart the past few years. He has children of his own now, and with that, responsibilities. His oldest had just moved into an apartment, and he had helped paint the rooms. His son was 16, and they were working on a car for him to have when he got his license. Celia had told her all of these things, not Gerald. What does it mean when your son’s wife is your only source of communication? Of course, he’s busy, but too busy to talk to his mother?
“I can make some time in the morning, but I’ll want to be home by lunch time. How about pork chops? Everyone likes pork chops. And if they can’t stay, you could freeze them. You know, one at a time, for dinners.” Penny was spraying her hair. “I can come by in the morning, and take these curlers out. Then, we can drive to town to do your shopping. Do you need to go to the bank first?”
Of course, Marie had to go to the bank. Penny knew she didn’t keep any cash. And would she really think Marie would want to sleep with these hard curlers on her head all night? She would have to take them out tonight, and Marie would sleep in her recliner, so she didn’t flatten her curls.
“What we women go through for beauty,” was all she could say. Marie would sleep sitting up, because she wanted to look nice, but how much sleep would she get? She had arthritis and a bad back, yet she planned to sleep sitting up. She knew better than to try to convince her that she’d regret it. “Do you have any potatoes? Pork chops and mashed potatoes would be good.”
Penny walked to the pantry door, and opened it. She found the string hanging by the door, and pulled it. The single light bulb was dull, but bright enough to show the contents of the shelves; three canisters of oatmeal, a few boxes of noodles, a dozen or so cans of soups, and a bag of onions. It always irritated Marie when Penny walked through her house as though it were her own. “No, I don’t have any potatoes. I’ll need flour for the gravy, too. Get out of my pantry! You don’t see me poking around your house, do you?” Marie had a pad of paper and a pen. She was jotting down the things she would need to buy.
Penny smiled. “When would you be over poking around? You never come over anymore.” She closed the pantry door, and looked through the kitchen cabinets. “I guess it is time to go to the market. You don’t have much around here. Any coffee? Sugar? Tea bags? Do you have any toothpaste, Marie?”
“Get out of my cabinets, you busybody! Course I have toothpaste! And I just used the last of the coffee this morning. Or yesterday. Doesn’t matter, I don’t live on coffee.”
Penny sat back at the kitchen table. She looked around. Marie kept her house pretty clean. She might have to convince her to get different light bulbs, because all of the lights seemed too dim. It was a bit dusty above her refrigerator and the tops of her cabinet doors. She grabbed a kitchen towel, got it damp, and ran her finger over the dust. Marie was still writing her list, not paying any attention. “Want to run the vacuum, too? Would save me some time.”
“Nah, getting late. I’m ready for bed. Do you want me to take out these curlers tonight or just wait for the morning?” Not even waiting for the answer, she walked over to Marie. She picked up the scissors she used to trim her hair, and put them in her purse on the table. She started pulling the pins from the pink curlers, and putting them in a little pile. After pulling all of the pins, she started pulling out the curlers. “You call me when you’re ready to go shopping tomorrow. We’ll have to plan on getting you some aspirin while we’re out. You are going to have a sore neck if you really plan on sleeping in that chair.”
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Story Idea #2
My mind has been pretty blank as to another story idea. I have been thinking about it off and on for the past week.
I have in mind a character that works in a veterinary hospital. She is young, and has no immediate family nearby. She feels bad for animals so often, that she has a houseful of pets at home. As the story progresses, there will be a malnourished horse that needs a caretaker. After taking care of the horse at a stable, she decides to move to the country where she can live with her pets including the horse.
I have in mind a character that works in a veterinary hospital. She is young, and has no immediate family nearby. She feels bad for animals so often, that she has a houseful of pets at home. As the story progresses, there will be a malnourished horse that needs a caretaker. After taking care of the horse at a stable, she decides to move to the country where she can live with her pets including the horse.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
week 3 charcter introduction
As Rose sat in her old, comfortable chair watching another one of those commercials selling machines that turn fruit into juice on the shopping channel, she realized she hadn’t gotten the paper off of the porch yet. She pushed the pink and red afghan from her lap to the broad arm of the chair and slowly pushed herself to her slippered feet. She sat the remote control she held in her hand on the tidy little lamp table next to her chair. She stretched her aching back and shoulders and walked toward the front door slowly. Had she fallen asleep watching infomercials? It was later in the evening than she had realized, and she was so glad to have her slippers on to keep her feet warm. The days were getting warmer, but the evenings and nights were still cold enough to make her joints ache. The light from the television and the lamp next to her chair lit the area she sat in, but that small circle of light seemed to make the rest of her home seem even darker. As she walked through the dining room toward the front door, she paused to turn on the light. She turned toward the door, and saw the empty dining table. She considered how long it had been since she served a meal to her family at this table. Surely fifteen years had passed since the children insisted on serving their own holiday meals at their own homes. Then she wondered if she had eaten dinner yet. Oh, she thought, the paper would be there in the morning. She turned to the kitchen to make herself a can of soup.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Story Idea
So, I had a thought. Since my real blog is attached to my profile on this blog, if you clicked on my name in a comment I made to come here, you probably saw the link to my other blog. Anyways, the last few posts I've done on there are concerning the garden my husband and I just planted. So, gardening has been on my mind a lot lately. Especially the last few really warm days we had. All I did those days was work outside. So, I feel kind of like an old lady when I talk to people about my garden. I was in bed last night, knowing that I need to come up with a story idea, and trying to think about what I would like to write about. Well, the one thing on my mind so often lately is gardening. So, I though I should write about gardening, specifically a little old lady gardening. I liked the surprise ending in the frog story that I wrote so much, that of course I have to have a surprise ending. I've decided to write about this little old lady, mid-seventies, early eighties, who gardens in the spring time. I will write about what she does and how she feels, and probably about how it makes her think about the past. For the conflict, I will have someone younger, most likely one of her children, trying to tell her that she is too old to live alone. I'll write everything that she does to illustrate how she is right to argue that she is just fine on her own. Then at the end I will describe her giving in to living elsewhere, and when they drive away she will see her unkempt yard (with no garden) that hasn't been weeded in years. This of course, will imply to the readers that she is senile and imagined everything that happened in the story and really should not be alone.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Exercises 53, 56, and 57
Exercise 53 pg. 142
The Frog
There once was a frog who wanted nothing more in life than to be able to speak. He was a thoughtful frog and had a lot on his mind; he just couldn't convey any of it with the ribbit sound he produced. There were people who came and sat near the pond on occasion, and the frog listened intently to the conversations. He watched how the humans moved their mouths and even noticed that the voice of a man was similar to the coughing noise that came from his throat. He had decided that speaking came from the throat. Well, so did the ribbit sound that he made, so he knew he could learn to talk.
He practiced during the late afternoon hours when he was alone. Always "Ribbit." He did learn to ribbit in different tones, but he could never make a different sound. He noticed a lone cormorant perched in a tree across the pond watching him curiously between occasional dives for dinner. After a few evenings of seeing the cormorant while he practiced, he became used to the bird and considered that the bird had guessed what he was doing. One evening, as the sun was setting, the frog finally had a breakthrough! This time, he did not ribbit, he made a different sound. Tribbit! After practicing more, he could also leave off the ending syllable and say "Trib". How exciting for the frog! He was on his way to learning to speak. He was really doing it! As the sky darkened, the more tired the frog became. Soon he was asleep.
The next evening, it was time for him to practice again. He learned how to make more consonant sounds. He could produce the sounds of v, d, w, even s. He was getting it! He looked up to see his new friend fly away. He thought that one evening, he would be able to speak to the cormorant. He would tell the bird all of his thoughts, even if he got no reply. He practiced late into the night, learning more and more sounds.
The next evening, he was so excited to see the cormorant perched in the tree on the other side of the pond. He was about to speak to the bird. He had spoke the night before; said whole words, whole sentences. He spoke to himself and had no audience, nobody to listen to him or respond.
He jumped into the pond and swam with his long legs to the other side of the pond to speak to the cormorant. He pulled himself up on a log just under the perch of the cormorant. He looked up at the bird and cleared his throat. "Hello, friend cormorant. I have practiced and practiced and learned to speak. I was wondering if you would like to hear my thoughts about this wonderful pond."
The cormorant tilted his head, and seemed to look more closely at the frog, scrutinizing him. The frog was so proud that he had spoke to the cormorant and seemed to intrigue him. Then the bird straightened up and dove straight down and ate the interesting frog.
______________________________________________________________________________________
Exercise 56 pg 148
I decided to pick alternate endings for the frog story I just wrote. I had the thought to have him be eaten before I even knew what I wanted the frog's passion to be. It just struck me. These alternatives would take place after he has taught himself to talk, but before him swimming across the pond to the cormorant.
So, a few alternate endings, or what if's..
*What if... he finds a person to talk to, and he develops a relationship with the person? The person could then make this talking frog famous. He could sing on the radio or do voice-acting for cartoons. He could even have his own talk show!
*What if... he decides to teach other frogs to talk? There could be a pond full of talking frogs.
*What if... he wakes up the next morning not being able to ribbit or speak? There would be a lot of frog inner turmoil here.
*What if... he goes over to speak to the cormorant, and the cormorant responds? It could be as though all animals could talk, but the frog never knew.
*What if... he was so afraid that people would make his life hell by wanting to interview him all the time or do constant testing, that he learned to type and took online creative writing classes to make use of his thoughtfulness?
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Exercise 57 pg.150
After reading the opening of my story, I find the occasion to be a frog wanting to learn to speak because he feels he has a lot on his mind to share. After reading the rest of the story, this remains unchanged. He did learn to speak, although he never got to tell his thoughts to anyone.
The Frog
There once was a frog who wanted nothing more in life than to be able to speak. He was a thoughtful frog and had a lot on his mind; he just couldn't convey any of it with the ribbit sound he produced. There were people who came and sat near the pond on occasion, and the frog listened intently to the conversations. He watched how the humans moved their mouths and even noticed that the voice of a man was similar to the coughing noise that came from his throat. He had decided that speaking came from the throat. Well, so did the ribbit sound that he made, so he knew he could learn to talk.
He practiced during the late afternoon hours when he was alone. Always "Ribbit." He did learn to ribbit in different tones, but he could never make a different sound. He noticed a lone cormorant perched in a tree across the pond watching him curiously between occasional dives for dinner. After a few evenings of seeing the cormorant while he practiced, he became used to the bird and considered that the bird had guessed what he was doing. One evening, as the sun was setting, the frog finally had a breakthrough! This time, he did not ribbit, he made a different sound. Tribbit! After practicing more, he could also leave off the ending syllable and say "Trib". How exciting for the frog! He was on his way to learning to speak. He was really doing it! As the sky darkened, the more tired the frog became. Soon he was asleep.
The next evening, it was time for him to practice again. He learned how to make more consonant sounds. He could produce the sounds of v, d, w, even s. He was getting it! He looked up to see his new friend fly away. He thought that one evening, he would be able to speak to the cormorant. He would tell the bird all of his thoughts, even if he got no reply. He practiced late into the night, learning more and more sounds.
The next evening, he was so excited to see the cormorant perched in the tree on the other side of the pond. He was about to speak to the bird. He had spoke the night before; said whole words, whole sentences. He spoke to himself and had no audience, nobody to listen to him or respond.
He jumped into the pond and swam with his long legs to the other side of the pond to speak to the cormorant. He pulled himself up on a log just under the perch of the cormorant. He looked up at the bird and cleared his throat. "Hello, friend cormorant. I have practiced and practiced and learned to speak. I was wondering if you would like to hear my thoughts about this wonderful pond."
The cormorant tilted his head, and seemed to look more closely at the frog, scrutinizing him. The frog was so proud that he had spoke to the cormorant and seemed to intrigue him. Then the bird straightened up and dove straight down and ate the interesting frog.
______________________________________________________________________________________
Exercise 56 pg 148
I decided to pick alternate endings for the frog story I just wrote. I had the thought to have him be eaten before I even knew what I wanted the frog's passion to be. It just struck me. These alternatives would take place after he has taught himself to talk, but before him swimming across the pond to the cormorant.
So, a few alternate endings, or what if's..
*What if... he finds a person to talk to, and he develops a relationship with the person? The person could then make this talking frog famous. He could sing on the radio or do voice-acting for cartoons. He could even have his own talk show!
*What if... he decides to teach other frogs to talk? There could be a pond full of talking frogs.
*What if... he wakes up the next morning not being able to ribbit or speak? There would be a lot of frog inner turmoil here.
*What if... he goes over to speak to the cormorant, and the cormorant responds? It could be as though all animals could talk, but the frog never knew.
*What if... he was so afraid that people would make his life hell by wanting to interview him all the time or do constant testing, that he learned to type and took online creative writing classes to make use of his thoughtfulness?
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Exercise 57 pg.150
After reading the opening of my story, I find the occasion to be a frog wanting to learn to speak because he feels he has a lot on his mind to share. After reading the rest of the story, this remains unchanged. He did learn to speak, although he never got to tell his thoughts to anyone.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Exercise 14 pg. 40
It’s kind of odd that I don’t remember his name, but I do remember that he had a sister named Tasha. I remember what he looked like, and even what their house looked like. I was 11, and he was 16 or 17. We rode the bus to and from school together. He always swore and was just generally mean and grumpy, especially in the mornings. He wore dirty jeans and grungy flannel shirts. He smelled like cigarettes and like a mechanic. He had dirty fingernails like he was always working on a car. He had dark, messy hair that always seemed to need to be cut, or combed, or something.
When he got on the bus, he would bump into kids that were sitting down or drag his backpack over the tops of the seats intending to hit people in their heads. I was scared of him. He was almost an adult, and he was certainly the size of an adult. I’m sure it made him happy to be intimidating to others even if we were only kids. One morning, in the winter, as he was making his way to the back of the bus, he bumped my little brother. He bumped him hard. He stumbled because of it, and it made him angry. Then, he shoved my brother down into the seat because he was mad. My brother wasn’t specifically hurt, but he was scared. It made me really mad. I was sick of him always bumping into people and making kids feel like they had to sit as close to the window as possible to stay out of his way. So, I got out of my seat and I shoved him. He only moved a little, and then of course he became even more angry. He had his gloves in his hand; the kind of tan gloves that people use for working. He pulled his hand with the gloves way up in the air and slapped me across the face with his gloves. They were dirty and smelly, and they scraped right across my eye. It really hurt and I wanted to cry, and he just laughed as he went to his seat and sat down.
I picture him the same way as an adult. I know he didn’t graduate from high school. He is probably a mechanic; one of the really dirty ones who work at a junk yard. He probably drives a rusty S-10 truck with the little cartoon guy peeing on the Ford logo on his back window, and crumpled McDonald’s bags and cigarette butts on the floor. He got fat, and has sweat-stained shirts that are covered with oil stains from work. He never got married, but has two kids he pays child support for and never sees.
Exercise 27 pg. 69
He drives a rusty S-10 truck with the little cartoon guy peeing on the Ford logo on his back window, and crumpled McDonald’s bags and cigarette butts on the floor.
He wears dirty jeans with a bulge from his wallet on the back pocket, sweat-stained shirts that are covered with oil stains from work, and steel-toed boots that used to be tan, but are oily and grimy with mud caked on the bottoms. He doesn’t wear a watch or a ring or a hat. His hair is still messy, but thinner now. He always looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days.
His one-story house has no siding, just that pink and green Styrofoam type stuff. His porch is a mess of trash and boxes. He only has patches of grass in his yard; the rest is dirt and weeds. He has a couple of long-haired, dirty dogs. They don’t have collars or leashes; they just run in and out of his open front door. They are happy dogs who run out to see new people.
He has no curtains, just sheets stapled up around the bigger windows in his house. All the walls are the same, used to be white, but have yellowed over the years. It’s not clean, but not really messy either. Pizza boxes on a table. Dirty clothes are thrown over the backs of chairs and the tops of doors. A lamp sits on a table with the shade tilted to one side. Dog bowls are on the floor with food spilled around them. He has one of those old console televisions that sit on the floor. No pictures or clocks on the walls; just a calendar with women in bikinis posing on or near cars.
My conclusions
I am surprised that I can’t remember this guy’s name. I feel like he was raised to be the way he is by his family. Some families are like that, but by the time he was a teenager, he could be his own person and decide not to be a bully.
I am also surprised by how clearly I formed his new life in my mind. I can see his house and yard. I can picture him sitting on his couch watching a Nascar race. I find it odd that I picture him as the kind of guy that I can’t help myself to just detest. I feel like I am somehow prejudiced against people who are like how I’ve described him; which is surprising to learn about myself since a lot of my extended family (and my father) are just like this.
It’s kind of odd that I don’t remember his name, but I do remember that he had a sister named Tasha. I remember what he looked like, and even what their house looked like. I was 11, and he was 16 or 17. We rode the bus to and from school together. He always swore and was just generally mean and grumpy, especially in the mornings. He wore dirty jeans and grungy flannel shirts. He smelled like cigarettes and like a mechanic. He had dirty fingernails like he was always working on a car. He had dark, messy hair that always seemed to need to be cut, or combed, or something.
When he got on the bus, he would bump into kids that were sitting down or drag his backpack over the tops of the seats intending to hit people in their heads. I was scared of him. He was almost an adult, and he was certainly the size of an adult. I’m sure it made him happy to be intimidating to others even if we were only kids. One morning, in the winter, as he was making his way to the back of the bus, he bumped my little brother. He bumped him hard. He stumbled because of it, and it made him angry. Then, he shoved my brother down into the seat because he was mad. My brother wasn’t specifically hurt, but he was scared. It made me really mad. I was sick of him always bumping into people and making kids feel like they had to sit as close to the window as possible to stay out of his way. So, I got out of my seat and I shoved him. He only moved a little, and then of course he became even more angry. He had his gloves in his hand; the kind of tan gloves that people use for working. He pulled his hand with the gloves way up in the air and slapped me across the face with his gloves. They were dirty and smelly, and they scraped right across my eye. It really hurt and I wanted to cry, and he just laughed as he went to his seat and sat down.
I picture him the same way as an adult. I know he didn’t graduate from high school. He is probably a mechanic; one of the really dirty ones who work at a junk yard. He probably drives a rusty S-10 truck with the little cartoon guy peeing on the Ford logo on his back window, and crumpled McDonald’s bags and cigarette butts on the floor. He got fat, and has sweat-stained shirts that are covered with oil stains from work. He never got married, but has two kids he pays child support for and never sees.
Exercise 27 pg. 69
He drives a rusty S-10 truck with the little cartoon guy peeing on the Ford logo on his back window, and crumpled McDonald’s bags and cigarette butts on the floor.
He wears dirty jeans with a bulge from his wallet on the back pocket, sweat-stained shirts that are covered with oil stains from work, and steel-toed boots that used to be tan, but are oily and grimy with mud caked on the bottoms. He doesn’t wear a watch or a ring or a hat. His hair is still messy, but thinner now. He always looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days.
His one-story house has no siding, just that pink and green Styrofoam type stuff. His porch is a mess of trash and boxes. He only has patches of grass in his yard; the rest is dirt and weeds. He has a couple of long-haired, dirty dogs. They don’t have collars or leashes; they just run in and out of his open front door. They are happy dogs who run out to see new people.
He has no curtains, just sheets stapled up around the bigger windows in his house. All the walls are the same, used to be white, but have yellowed over the years. It’s not clean, but not really messy either. Pizza boxes on a table. Dirty clothes are thrown over the backs of chairs and the tops of doors. A lamp sits on a table with the shade tilted to one side. Dog bowls are on the floor with food spilled around them. He has one of those old console televisions that sit on the floor. No pictures or clocks on the walls; just a calendar with women in bikinis posing on or near cars.
My conclusions
I am surprised that I can’t remember this guy’s name. I feel like he was raised to be the way he is by his family. Some families are like that, but by the time he was a teenager, he could be his own person and decide not to be a bully.
I am also surprised by how clearly I formed his new life in my mind. I can see his house and yard. I can picture him sitting on his couch watching a Nascar race. I find it odd that I picture him as the kind of guy that I can’t help myself to just detest. I feel like I am somehow prejudiced against people who are like how I’ve described him; which is surprising to learn about myself since a lot of my extended family (and my father) are just like this.
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