Farewell to the Quilts

One last nod to the past, one last picture.

I inherited some quilts, some put together by my grandmother, some made by my mother. The picture includes my grandmother's name, her age 91 and the year the quilt was completed which is one year before she died.
The quilts are thrifty housewife quilts, using up the leftover material from sewing projects and portions of garments that were still ‘good.’ There was no scarcity of quilts to choose from, I know my sister-in-law still has many, but whatever my process was, these are the ones that came to me. However, they didn’t fit my beds, and only one was pretty enough to put on display.
I’ve used them, perhaps you might have noticed, as covers on the tables at our cowboy action matches. There was a household discussion over that but I said, ‘either they get used for this or they get thrown away now’ and I cut many of the quilts in half for the job. ‘Plus,’ I added, ‘Mom was all about putting things to use.’ She was, and I did. It was a nod to the past to use them this way.
Now that it’s time for them to go, I felt moved to acknowledge the heritage involved. In the days of my mother and grandmother, it was a noble and worthwhile pursuit to piece quilts, nothing was wasted. They chose to use their time and resources in this way, it was right for them. But for me, in my day, there is no justification to keep these quilts. I have no use for them, none. I’ve thought this through and cannot imagine another recycled use. I don’t need them as a memory prompt. They have become unused, unwanted and to keep them is to indulge in a form of hoarding. Times change, and while I am respectful of the past, I’m choosing to let the quilts go. It’s right for me.

Two New Stories - Otherwise Engaged and The Hoarder Gene

The Otherwise Engaged story is #one of a set of four that I call the Sheila Stories. The Hoarder Gene is the result of my personal interest in the hoarding disorder, formerly titled Flat Surfaces. I hope you enjoy both. Go to the links directly under the photo of Buffalo Beans a.k.a. Golden Beans.

Covid Writing

The isolation and restrictions involved with the pandemic have been good for my writing. I have the time and I don't have distractions. But to write about the world today has been too much for me and mostly I have stayed away. Dystopia isn't my thing. But I did write a little the other day, in response to a submission call. They turned it down. I thought I would share it here.

Welcome and Farewell.

Two envelopes need to be delivered. 
One bears the name of my nephew and his wife and inside is money for them to buy something for the new baby. I’ve added a personal note on the card. “I would have loved to shop for your baby girl, but this way I’m positive you’ll like the item purchased.” I am unlikely to see the new baby until some point in the future. This child has entered the strange reality of a pandemic lockdown; there will be no baby shower. I’m mailing the card next week.
The second is addressed To the family of M__________. Inside is a donation to the charity of her choice, “in memory of” and a condolence card. There are far too many memories to condense into a personal note. We’ve been neighbors and friends for years and years. I last saw my neighbor mid-February before this all started, and when we returned from a trip three weeks later, the Covid 19 restrictions had fallen between us. There will be no funeral. I’m delivering the card today, curbside.
Welcome and Farewell. Farwell and Welcome. We are saying goodbye to many things, on a personal and societal level. The welcome that we must accomplish contains so many unknowns. 
Two envelopes need to be delivered. 

Wow - the middle of February, already

In a little while, a pair of writers will celebrate a 20 year long association. That pair includes my very good friend Linda and myself.
How does 20 years go by so fast? One day at a time but also in a big blur of satisfying exchanges, help given and help offered, face to face and via emails. Oh my, the emails. They go back and forth almost daily. Writer's practice? Connections? Both.
Inspiration? Critical analysis (aka editing help)? Both.
In the spirit of inspiration, (and adding something to the blog) I offer these words from Robert Rauschenberg.
The first step is to see the possibilities of the material.
Writing advice? Yes.
Living advice? Yes.
To Linda who saw the possibilities of me becoming a writer.
Thank you.

Weighing In

The collaboration that started last September (2019) is complete. Weighing In is now available through Amazon as a kindle book and in a print format. Now, on to the next thing.

We, Who Write,

are called to entertain and inform,

to lift the corner on the mask,

to pull back the blanket of denial,

and to uncover the kernel of truth

that otherwise would remain

in the shadows,

hidden. 

October's Link and Read

This month I am instructing at a writer’s workshop. This isn’t something I sought but when the door opens and you’re asked to step through, it is time to say yes. I’m also collaborating with someone writing a book about obesity and the weight loss journey. This is another thing that arrived in my life rather unexpectedly but it seems the thing to do. 
I've volunteered as a guest editor at 101 Words for another season. I helped out there last winter. It's a useful site for beginning writers - to read and to contribute. The editors are very helpful and so are the readers who post comments for each story. It's like a mini flash fiction coaching session. Oh. 101 words exactly and don't submit more than once every 7 days, we check. 
I have found that I'm really not interested in blogging at the moment, so September's launch of Link and Read is now a once only deal. 
I will be working with this blog so that I can link you to my published fictions. That's the main purpose of this blog, so back to the basics. 

In the meantime, here are three links to stories published in 2019. 

Day Zero at https://eunoiareview.wordpress.com/2019/05/09/day-zero/
Two flash fictions are featured at the next link.
https://docs.wixstatic.com/ugd/ee4c72_a392afa35a3147c6ac3eb0ff1daded76.pdf Genealogy Peace & Not so Alone, Not so Crazy. Page 1 and page 2 of Circle Show Winter/Spring 2019
And https://halfwaydownthestairs.net/2019/06/01/paper-promises-by-liz-betz/ is where you'll find my short story titled Paper Promises

The Monthly Read Link

September has always been my launch month. 
2019 is special, I have just become a pensioner – which is to say that I have reached sixty-five years of age. It has been five years since I launched Sixty Plus and that seems a good reason to move on and begin something new or at least a variation. I hope my readers have enjoyed my flash fiction weekly posts. They were fun to do and share. Starting in September, I-Write will have a monthly feature that will showcase short stories I have had published. 


For my first post I have chosen a pair of stories that were inspired by some quirky reading.  Chiffon Cake’s main character has a curious condition. She not only remembers things from her childhood, she experiences them or to quote the story - “Certain things that I saw once, (previous optical impressions is the term he uses) return in a sort of hallucination.” Add in a cookbook and a grandchild and an intrusive relative and voila – Chiffon Cake. This story was published by Half Way Down the Stairs in 2016.


The second story is Woman’s Battalion of Death, also published in 2016. Danforth Review featured this story in November – the month where our veterans are remembered. My source for this story was a book titled ‘Women writers from World War 1’. The writings were diary, letters home and reports – not what I expected but very interesting nonetheless. The report that became Woman’s Battalion of Death was bare-bones dry facts that I dramatized with imagined details and voice.

Sharp on the Edges

 

 

Harvey likes to say outrageous things to her, amused to see his sweetie bewildered.  So Suzy isn’t surprised, when he sees the arrowhead collection her father bequeathed her, that he asks,

“Which of my ribs do you plan on driving those between?” 

She doesn’t answer.  Her silence sometimes is enough to make him stop but he persists. 

“Are you going to channel a warrior, do a rain dance?” 

He is teasing of course, she knows that, but her father made a bit of ceremony as he gave her the arrowheads, telling how he found them in the fields and the series of dreams he had afterwards.  Harvey mocks far too often and he shouldn’t mock her father at all. 

Suzy picks up one arrowhead, raises it above her head and begins to hum.  Almost of its own accord her mouth opens and a very passable, plausible chant erupts, her body follows in a parody of pow-wow dancing.  Funnily, in that moment she feels native, her white English Anglican heritage circumstantial. 

Harvey laughs; the signal that he is done with his joke, but Suzy continues to wail and dance.  Then her eyes became glassy and seem like they are seeing far beyond the objects in the room, even not focusing on Harvey.  He glances over his shoulder to see what she is looking at.  It occurs to Suzy that her performance is rather good, although it doesn’t feel like pretend.

“Quit kidding around.”  He tells her.  “Stop it.”  A different note is in his voice now, and Suzy reaches the point where she would let it go normally, but a new inflexibility holds her to the game.  The joker is on the other foot; she thinks as her vocals reach an eerie crescendo and a breeze comes from her twirling body even though she wears no fringes or feathers.  Harvey backs out of the room. 

“You’re crazy.” Harvey announces as he leaves the house. 

The door shuts behind him but Suzy’s thoughts follow her father’s enigmatic story about the arrowheads.  He told of spirit keepers and conduits.  She twirls, her arms spread like wings.  To possess them is to be chosen by ancient ones.  She keens again.  Then she grows still. 

She will put the box of arrowheads away except for one she will leave out as a reminder.  But which one?  She takes the box of arrowheads to the bedroom.   

She notices a something lying on their bed.  She picks the arrowhead up and a tingle bites at her finger.  But there is no wound and no blood. 

“Caution.”  

A breeze lifts her hair as a shiver runs down her spine.  They are sharp on the edges.   

 

Honey Bear

 

I’m gluing the cookie jar’s lid shut because anyone looking inside won’t find cookies.   

It’s this way. I’ve rearranged things. The wooden container from the funeral home is now a footstool; I’ve made a cushion top and it’s very nice. But I couldn’t rest my feet on it so my husband’s earthly remains went to a better place.  

The cookie jar is a cheerful affair, a squat bear with an always smiling face. I’ve never used an endearment for hubby before, but since he’s changed addresses, why not start now? 

 

Honey Bear. 

Every day he’s got a twinkle in his eye.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Reader

She thought quite marvelous things about herself after reading author bios. After reading a mystery she imagines herself to be the one clever enough to unearth perpetrator and solve the crime that all others had overlooked.  After a read of saint and psychopaths she uncovers both evil and holy pockets in her mind. 

She’s a reader that haunts the library, borrowing the maximum allowed. She trades in second-hand books. She has piles of books everywhere because she always needs something to read.

Who is she without the word?

The blank page.

Write something.

Quickly.

Before she has nothing to think about

Wanting a Grandchild

Our former neighbors, still friends, Jack and Debbie are dropping in on Friday for afternoon coffee.  It’ll be great to catch up with them again. They were great company when they ranched out here. My husband and Jack good friends, as Debbie and I were.

The whole family is coming including their son’s new girlfriend Emily. Their son is no longer the young teenaged neighbor – he’s moved on too. 

“Getting closer to being a grandpa,” Jack says.  

I ask, “Is there an actual start on that project?” No marriage but no problem.

“Not yet, but I’m kind'a hoping they slip up.”

The New Hobby

“It’s not a major catastrophe if you don’t get everything you need this trip.” I say, but he doesn’t even look away from his screen and keyboard. If it were paper and not online the catalogue at Leather Unlimited would be torn and tattered.    

“What is it you’re researching now?” I try again. He’s been here one hour and 20 minutes now.

“Rivets.”

Oh. There’s a language involved, he’s learning it. Stitching awls, saddle skirting, half-hides. The morning coffee has gone cold. We’ll leave soon for the city.

He’s needed to fill his time. A new hobby. Other than online shopping. 

Chenille Bedspread

 Why had she kept the old chenille bedspread when she bought so many other things new?  

She hesitates.  To throw it in the laundry might just be the end. Just let it happen, let it become torn and done with.  But her hand brushes down the tufted rows, like the rows of grain; like the corduroy that she used to make overalls for her toddlers; like wet combed hair showing the teeth of the comb.  The bedspread has been with her a long time, the care she had given made it last.

To remember or forget, that is the chenille question.    

 

 

 

 

 

Kindle Confession

A woman’s recently purchased Kindle books disappear. Fix this, she tells herself. Don’t bring this to her husband’s attention, she adds. She keeps mum. She tries to Google the answer, she tries to restore the books. Days go by, and still her library is short $70 worth of books.

Then success. She’s a genius, is the report she gives her friend. But don’t mention it to her techno-phobic volatile husband.

Really?

The weight of this plan is considered.  It means stuffing another secret into the container of shame.

No more. She confesses what happened including why she kept quiet about it.

 

Soup

I bet the sun shining has something to do with my mood but what else? I like to figure the recipe out, when I feel good, in case it can be duplicated. However, I’m afraid moods are like my soups, which evolve as recipients of leftovers added, ends of two soups mixed together and there is no real recipe.

Speaking of soups, I have the duck carcass in the soup pot. It will be ready by lunch, with leftovers for tomorrow guaranteed. Perhaps the soup is the secret. I’m becalmed by onions, tomatoes, celery.  Perhaps this is today’s recipe for happiness.

Where is the Goose?

Our coffee time involved a historic review. How many years have we rented out the farm? Some memory work and dates are established. Why do you want to know this? I ask. It’s a simple question but I have to rephrase and guess at answers before my husband stops rambling around and answers my question.

He’s wondering about rental agreements and whether a three-year review is imminent. I find accurate dates in our records but inform him also that it’s our land - our choice. We don’t need dates to decide.

Thank you, I say, for initiating this wild goose chase

Meeting Rex

We live in a curious culture.   We have been groomed to believe that if we do everything right, that no harm will befall us. Can we prevent anything from happening?  I wonder.

Our culture welcomes any physical diagnosis, over one that questions our sanity – chronic fatigue replaces bad nerves.  Chemical imbalances more acceptable than the crazy label. 

There’s a line in a song, that I’m fond of that goes like this.  “I’ve always been crazy but it’s helped me from going insane.” 

I met Rex.  He’s a dog. We talk about these things.  It seems perfectly sane to me.

Ten Minutes

Ten minutes have passed but Carmen hasn’t managed two minutes of work. She’s aggravated. Any second now she expects she will be interrupted again.

Her tablet helpfully asks if she wants to go to where she left off. She taps the screen and is zipped to the half-finished sentence. What did she have in mind there? If she can’t remember…she’ll have to figure something else out.

It’s impossible, she wants to yell, but in the past, she has managed just fine. Today is just one of those days, with lots of interruptions. But ten minutes have passed, she could be writing. 

Dizzy

If you woke to see your future it would make you dizzy. But when I woke dizzy for the second day in a row, I believed my future had come to see me.  

I thought I’d had a mini-stroke and next would be the ‘big’ one. I would have to adjust to being an invalid, my normal brand new. What would I do then? I couldn’t imagine. But then as I came into my day, I was fairly steady.

That is except for my wonky imagination. It kept spinning around in a mad little circle until I found myself quite faint.