Halloween Story

When my children were younger, I would write a story for Halloween just to amuse them. It's been a long time since they were young, but this year the idea came to me for another story, so here it is. Enjoy, and if you don't, don't tell me, LOL

By Tracy Dunham
© October 28, 2009

House of Purity
Of all the crappy things in a year filled with crap, Laura had to take her little brother trick or treating. Even worse, she had to stick with all the moms and dads at the bottom of the porch steps, make “oooh” noises when the candy rolled out and the munchkins dove in like starving sharks, and pretend like all the snotty nosed kids were just darling, so cute, yes indeed, precious beyond a doubt. Oh, the joys of being older by twelve years. If she had a penny for every time she wished her parents hadn’t decided to have another baby, she’d be as rich as Ivanka Trump. So here she was at seventeen, looking like an unwed teenaged mother with a five year old brat who thought dressing like a ninja was cool. Ninjas went out of style when she was twelve.
“Laurie, hurry up. I don’t want Robbie to stay up past eight. And no eating the candy! Dad and I will be home by eleven at the latest.” Her mom put on her lipstick by the hall mirror.
“Lucky me,” Laura muttered under her breath. Louder, she grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Bed by eight, no candy.” As if Robbie the House King would keep his sticky little fingers out of his candy bag. The only way she could keep him sugar-free was to wire his nasty little mouth shut.
“Laurrriiieee,” Robbie screeched from the front door. “Hurreeyyyy!”
“Off you go. How do I look?” Her mom primped, adjusting her tiara and fluffing up her tulle skirt. She was too old to dress like a fairy princess, Laura wanted to say, but it was just sour grapes. She hadn’t been invited to a Halloween party since she was ten and everyone in the fifth grade got invited to the class party.
At least it wasn’t raining or freezing. She remembered some miserable trick or treating when she was little. Robbie got all the luck. Always had. He got the smart genes, the DNA that got him put into advanced classes for super geeks. He was reading at two, full sized books that gave her a headache, and doing math problems she wouldn’t even try. Everyone loved Robbie. Big blue eyes, curly blond hair, and a laugh that made everyone smile with him, even if they didn’t know what got him giggling. Yeah, Robbie had it all. What did she have? A sucky grade point average, stringy mouse-colored hair, braces for the past four years, and zits.
“Okay, little monster, let’s hit the road.” She grabbed the flashlight her mom handed her and followed Robbie out the front door. “If you give me any grief, we’re going home. Got it?” She didn’t like the way he stuck out his tongue at her, but what was she going to do? Smack him? He’d tattle and her mother would take away her Internet. Robbie was perfect around adults, but with her he acted like she was his serving girl. Clean his room, fix him a snack, blah, blah, blah, and her mother made her do it. She couldn’t wait until she graduated from high school next year and could get out on her own. College wasn’t going to happen, her parents informed her. Robbie’s extra classes cost a lot of money, and her grades weren’t good enough, so what the heck, she was on her own.
Fine by her. Far as she was concerned, this was the last Halloween she had to play nanny for the Super Kid. Next year she’d have her own place and a job, and she wouldn’t have to see the brat again if she didn’t want to.
“Hi Laurie. Good to see you.” Mrs. Evans was waiting for them at the sidewalk, her two little girls dressed like ghosts.
“Hi.” Laura figured Mrs. Evans was cool. She hadn’t spent a fortune on some stupid costume for her kids or herself. The ghosts were made from old sheets. “Mary and Susan look great.”
“I want candy,” Robbie whined.
“So start walking,” Laura ordered. “It doesn’t jump in your bag by itself.”
“I hate Halloween,” Mrs. Evans noted casually. “No child needs as much candy as they get. ”
“I guess so,” Laura agreed. “My mom said Robbie couldn’t eat anything tonight. She wants to check it all out, I guess, before he swallows anything.”
“Can’t be too careful.” Mrs. Evans waved at the Roginsons, who were standing in their doorway, making admiring noises at the kids’ costumes. “Would you and Robbie like to stop by our house on the way home for some hot chocolate?”
Just what she wanted. More chatting with Mrs. Evans while Robbie whined that he wanted to eat his candy.
“I don’t think so, thanks. Mom said Robbie has to be in bed by eight.”
“Sure. Makes sense. I’m a terrible mother, I know.” She sighed, then laughed. “The girls won’t be able to sleep until I let them eat their candy, but they don’t have to show off in school tomorrow.”
Laura couldn’t help it, she laughed.
Mrs. Evans tilted her head under the nearest driveway lantern and looked at Laura as her girls and Robbie attacked another front door. “Must be difficult sometimes, being the elder sibling to the alien child.”
This time Laura’s laugh was less enthusiastic. Robbie was a brat, but he was her brother. “Not too much. He has a mouth on him, but then he was talking in full sentences before he was one.” Her mother was very proud of that fact and repeated it often.
“How far are you taking Robbie tonight? Around the block?”
She hadn’t really thought of it. “I guess, and maybe the next one if we have time.”
“I hear the church on Ford Avenue is open and handing out candy. I might take the girls there after this row.”
“Sounds good.” Robby couldn’t object. “What’s the church? Isn’t it new?”
“I’m not sure of its name. It got left the old Coleman house in the old lady’s will, so it’s turned the place into a church. Opened about a month ago. They’ve been pretty quiet, but I hear they’ve worked on the yard a lot, and the neighbors are happy.”
The trick-or-treating on their own street took forever, it seemed. Laura was sick and tired of all the cutesy comments about costumes and how big everyone was getting, blah, blah, blah. Dragging Robby with the two girls turned out to be pretty easy, since the girls were handing him pieces of candy from their bags and he was stuffing it in his mouth as fast as he could. Finally, they headed for a new street.
The church on Ford Avenue that Mrs. Evans wanted to visit didn’t look too promising, however. No lights brightened the second floor windows, and the front door hid beneath a bulb that couldn’t have been more than ten watts. A hand-painted sign reading “House of Purity” hung on the porch eaves. If this was a church, she was a gorgeous blonde with big boobs.
“You sure they’re handing out candy?” Laura dragged Robby back beside her as the two girls and their mother wandered down the walkway. “It doesn’t look open for business.”
“That’s what I heard. Can’t hurt to try. I’m right here, and besides, I’ve been wanting to see what they’ve done with the place.”
Not much, Laura thought. The paint was still peeling, and if they’d worked on the yard, she’d be surprised. Big branches hung low over the sidewalk and leaves cluttered the gutters. Checking out the second floor, she saw the shutters still hung at crazy angles. Fat lot of good the House of Purity was doing this house. And who in the heck would belong to a denomination with that name? Purity of what?
Laura watched Mrs. Evans ring the doorbell. To her surprise, it opened and a nice looking woman wearing a long blue dress gestured for the two girls to enter. Something didn’t feel right to Laura, but Mrs. Evans didn’t hesitate. She and the two girls disappeared. Waiting for them to come out, Laura started to worry. When the porch light went out a few seconds later, she panicked. What did she do now? Call the police? Call Mr. Evans?
“I wanna get more candy,” Robby whined. “Why can’t we get candy there?” He pointed at the house where the Evanses disappeared.
“I don’t think it’s a good place. Come on, let’s go home.” She’d call Mr. Evans from her house. Maybe after this, her mom would let her have a cell phone. She was the only girl in her class who didn’t have one.
“No,” Robby screamed. “I have to go in there! They’ll get all the candy!”
“You’ll do what I tell you to do! Now come one!” Jerking Robby behind her, Laura tried to drag him down the sidewalk but his hand slipped from hers. Running as fast as his short legs would carry him, he hurtled to the front door and beat on it, crying “candy, candy!”
“Robby,” Laura cried, scrambling to catch up, fell flat on her face. To her horror, the door creaked open. A single hand reached out, and before Laura could dive to catch him, Robby disappeared.
A loud crack sounded like a gunshot as the door slammed shut behind him.
“Hey,” Laura screamed, “give me my brother! You can’t do this! I’m calling the police!”
Racing to the house next door, she beat on the front door, crying that she needed to use the phone. No one opened to her. Down the block, she continued her quest, but it seemed the whole block around the church was dark. Where was everyone? This was Halloween, at least a few houses should have been handing out candy at this hour. Why weren’t they?
She gave up trying to get to a phone anywhere near the House of Purity, and fighting panic, ran for home. Hands shaking, she could barely unlock the door. Grabbing the kitchen phone, she was trying to see through her tears to dial 911, when someone came through the front door behind her. Terrified because she hadn’t locked the door, she ducked under the kitchen table, clutching the phone to her chest. She hadn’t turned on the kitchen lights, thank goodness.
“Laura, where are you? What happened to you? The girls missed you when they left the church.” Mrs. Evans lifted the tablecloth and peered at Laura. “Are you ill?”
“You’re okay,” Laura screamed, “I thought they’d taken you and the girls. Where’s Robby? What was going on in that place?” She could barely talk, she was so relieved to see Mrs. Evans.
“Robby who? What do you mean, you thought someone had taken us? We didn’t go anywhere. Just got the girls some chocolates, we brought you some out to you, and you were gone. Come out, dear, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Grabbing a table leg, Laura held on for dear life. “What do you mean, Robby who? He’s my brother, he followed you into that creepy so-called church. I’ve got to call the cops, my parents will kill me for losing him. How could you let them keep him?” Shrieking at Mrs. Evans, Laura tried to dial 9ll again, but she dropped the phone trying to fight off Mrs. Evans. The woman had her foot in both hands and was dragging Laura like a sack of grass seed.
“You poor dear. I can’t help you if you won’t let me. What’s your mom’s cell phone number, she needs to get home right now.” Mrs. Evans, Laura realized, sounded like the sane person in the kitchen. She wanted to scream, but no one was home to hear her.
“I’m going back for Robby,” Laura cried as she fought free of Mrs. Evans, and half on her hands and knees, threw herself out the front door. She was younger than Mrs. Evans, she had to be faster if she could just stay on her feet. She did. Running so hard her lungs hurt, she cut through back yards to get to the House of Purity before Mrs. Evans.
As she rounded the corner, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She had to have the wrong street, but glancing at the street sign, she saw it was Ford Avenue. How could this be happening? Where was the house that had swallowed her brother as if he were a gnat? Nothing but trees stood where the house had been extant not fifteen minutes ago. Big trees. Black walnuts and pin oaks. Even the grass had been planted at least a season ago. There was no way that house disappeared into thin air. Or any kind of air, thin or not.
“Robby? Where are you?” she sobbed. She’d lost him, her little brother. Her parents would never forgive her. She may as well find another place to live right now.
“Honey, what’s wrong? Mrs. Evans called, said you were having some kind of breakdown.” Her mother hopped out of her dad’s car, still in her fairy princess costume, and came running to her. “Come home before you make a complete fool of yourself out here.” She gestured to the black Mercedes.
“Mom, Robby’s been taken! By a house that was standing here not twenty minutes ago. You’re got to believe me.”
Her mother stroked the sweaty hair from her face. “I believe you sweetie, but you need to rest. It’s been a busy month, with all the games you had to cheer, researching colleges for your applications, tutoring after school, being class president. It’s my fault for letting you get so busy, but you seemed to be thriving. Please, hon, let’s go home.”
“You’ve got to call the police about Robby.” What if he were hurt?
“I don’t know about any Robby. Is he your new boyfriend? I’m glad you’re dating, but there are so many boys, it’s hard to keep up.” Her mother laughed.
Fighting for breath, Laura shut her eyes and counted to ten. This was a bad dream, she’d wake up any second now. Please, let her wake up. What if she didn’t?
__________________________________
Malin morphed from the humanoid woman dressed in blue into her true state – a large gaseous blob. “I must say, this has been a disappointment.”
“You weren’t the one who had to live as a human child for the past five human years. I thought you’d never show up! What took you so long?”
The green gas once known as Robby swirled into the house’s ceilings. “And when can we get out of here? There’s nothing here for us, I can report with the utmost certainty.”
“It’s a shame their intelligence is so limited. We had high hopes.” Malin’s gas form grew more frenetic. “There’s only one thing left to do. I’ve wiped clean the memories of everyone who had contact with you as Robby. What an unfortunate name.”
“Good. What about the sister? I sense her distress. She doesn’t seem. . . .” He hesitated. “No, it can’t be. She’s searching for the boy. Malin, what’s wrong? Why isn’t she cleansed like the others?”
Malin sighed. “It happens sometimes. You know that. We’ll have to go to stage two. Not that it’s a loss, this planet is so useless. I just hate expending the energy.”
“Well, it’s your job, not mine. I’ve done my part. See you on Ulona 6. I’ve got my orders. First, though, I’ve some R & R coming after that ordeal.” With those words, the green gas blob dissipated into the night sky.
“Right, leave a woman to clean up the mess. How like a man.” Swelling into a larger gaseous state, Malin swirled into the sky behind him. From miles above earth’s atmosphere, she hesitated, then with a mighty swelling, knocked earth out of its orbit. With compassion for the pea-sized inhabitants of this minor world, she added a quick shove that would hasten the end more quickly.
No sense in prolonging their pain.

Playoffs and Chase duds

The Folk Music Festival this past weekend was beyond stellar. From throat singers to Persian prayer music, there was enough different music to make any music fan happy. I'm a fan, but not a knowledgeable one, and all I know is, I loved it all. Good music, good food, a sunny afternoon, and happy crowds - yep, the day was a keeper. Wish I could bottle it and store it away for the gray, icky days - like today. Staring at a leaden sky and incipient rain, all I want to do is nap. That doesn't get the pages for today onto the hard drive.

Baseball playoffs make the evenings a TV marathon, and so far, the games have better announcers and more drama than the Chase format in Nascar. ABC is just awful when it comes to announcing the final races. To keep myself from blowing up and tossing the flat screen TV into the drink, I don't watch anything but the last few minutes. Yes, I know, that's heresy from a diehard fan. No, I don't care. Nascar signed the contract with the bozos calling the races, let them deal with the falling numbers of viewers.

What about Obama and the Peace Prize? I think he'll be even more careful about the next step in Afghanistan. After all, he now has a reputation internationally to protect.

Ranting

After fuming about those who decry Polanski's arrest on the thirty year old rape charge, I've decided to write off the moral idiots who think it's no big deal and Polanski shouldn't have to answer for what he did. Legally or morally. Who are they kidding? I'll no longer go to their movies/support any of the artists who signed the petition saying he should be set free. Since when is raping a thirteen year old and then running from the U.S. to avoid sentencing okay because you're an artiste? Yes, some creative people are complete jerks. Life with Robert Frost was no picnic. But does being a successful director/writer/poet give you a pass when it comes to the basics of civilization? Minor details like rape don't count if you're an Oscar (tm) winner? Sorry, I thought I'd dismounted from my high horse, and it appears I was mistaken.

Some of the nicest, moral, and kind people I've ever met are truly creative and successful. You don't have to be a cretin to be creative. And that's all I'm going to say on that!

I'm going through an episodic stretch with the book. I want to write scattered scenes, then link them together. For a plotter, this is anathema. I have no idea where this urge arises, but I'd better get it under control before I end up tearing my hair out and wishing I'd never started this book. I'm blaming it on Polanski, LOL.

Dialogue tags

My husband was reading a book last night and remarked how much he liked stand-alone dialogue. No "he said," or "she tossed him a look," added onto the dialogue. Just a plain ole by-itself line of dialogue after line. I took slight umbrage, because I really like adding those little bits to give the reader a picture of how the speaker is acting, but I see his point. Elmer Leonard says tags are anathema, and while I respect the man as a writer, it just isn't my style. I read (or tried to) a book that was page after page of dialogue, with no quote marks so you never knew when the talking stopped and the exposition began, and gave up because I never knew who was saying what. I'd count 1) he said 2) she said in my head, and I'd have to go back three pages and start over on my counting mission. That one hit the trash basket right fast.

First person, present tense - it's becoming more the vogue, I think. I hear from people who say they hate it, and I admit to being disconcerted when I start reading a book with FP, PT, but the discomfort goes away after a bit. I've even tried writing that way, and while I like the immediacy of what's happening on the page, it does get awkward. At least for me. First person, past tense I had to learn by starting out with a few chapters converted from third to first, before I could begin in FP right off the bat. It's my comfort zone now, but it took a while.

As to tag lines, I'm not willing to give them up just yet. Maybe I'll try cutting out a few here and there and see how it feels when I re-read the page.

Richmond Race and Eudora Welty

Despite a steady rain an hour before start time, the race got going pretty much on schedule and without thirty laps under caution to dry the track. The racing, per usual, was stellar - lots of 3-wide battles - and the Vickers/KyBusch battle is well documented. Not too many people took serious note of Matt Kenseth's (deliberate, it looked to me) stop in Michael Waltrip's pit stall, forcing MW to drive through pit road. MK was ticked off about getting blocked in his stall by Waltrip, and decided to take out his frustrations at a bad car and a bad season on the most likely target. Being a small man, he couldn't hop out of the cockpit and threaten 6'5" Waltrip, so screwing up the #55's night was his chosen alternative. Petty and mean, huh, Kenseth? Great combo.

The weekend disappeared like easy money, and it's back to work. New book gelling in the brain cells as I get SIGNS in order. One thing I never lack, and it's ideas, LOL.

I've been thinking about celebrity tell-alls. And even non-celebrity public (US and Newsweek, anyone?) vomit. Having been raised with Southern manners, I find it extremely distasteful to publish family secrets and problems (or the author's version of the same - who knows the real story?) for the world to dissect. Does being the daughter of a famous writer give you license to expose the seamy side of your mom's addiction? Who wants to read these literary train wrecks? Rubberneckers and voyeurs, is my guess. I re-read George Garrett's chapter about Eudora Welty in GOING TO SEE THE ELEPHANT and found it charming and laugh-out-loud funny. The story about Miss Welty eating everything in sight was chuckle-laden because it followed a description of EW reading "Why I live at the P.O." The lady had a wicked sense of humor, as well as a dead-on ear for dialogue. She would have approved, I bet.

BTW, if you haven't read "Why I live at the P.O." in a while, go back and do so. You can hear those people talking. Talk about dialogue lessons - there're a hundred in that one short story.

More Rantings

I forgot in my last (too long) post to mention buying and reading a novel published by one of those tenure-track creative writing people. Just awful. I could, with half a brain firing on half its cylinders, pull out every sentence, every scene, that had been mangled by fellow creative writing academics. Maybe the mashed-up, artsy final version was better than the original but Lord, I hope not. Clearly, too many hands had passed the red pen over its pages, and its tortured existence placed no credit at the door of its author's academic institution. My final salvo on this topic, at least for now.

Next Rant: Bobby Labonte has replaced David Gilliland in the #71 Start and Park car for the seven races that HoF racing got stuck with Eric Darnell because of sponsorship issues. How humiliating. I never thought I'd see Bobby drive a SnP car. David Gilliand deserves better as well. He's done everything asked of him and more by TRG racing, and to get bumped to the curb like this is as bad as the way Labonte was treated by HoF and Yates Racing. Karma, as they say, comes around and payback can be a rough row to how. Or something like that. May Yates (and Roush, who engineered Bobby's ejection), and TRG get what's coming to them.

Writing and Academia

I’ve been thinking about the arts and academia, heaven knows why. Perhaps it’s because I’m seeing parallels between my daughter’s architecture studies and those I went through in creative writing courses, and I’ve always been fascinated by the creative process. Anyway, I was watching Masterpiece Theater the other night (Inspector Lewis, yes!), and was struck for the first time by the creative freedom afforded Oxford art students. Yes, I know it’s a TV drama, but give me some latitude here. In contemplating the role of art schools in real life, I decided that sure, that’s the purpose of one’s college years, to produce and experiment with art in a way you’ll never get again because. . . . lo and behold, with the handing over of the diploma, you must cease playing in the art box and get a real job. One that pays the rent, etc. Accounting majors know this is coming, but art students avoid thinking about it as much as possible. (I confess this with complete pride: I have a BA in Art History, which qualifies me to recognize painters and movements and a few other bits and pieces here and there, and that’s it.)

The dichotomy between the real world and that of the artist at university solidified for me a few years ago when one of my offspring was undergoing the routine matriculation seminar mandatory for new freshmen and their parents . An announcement that grad students would now teach first year creative writing seminars set off cries of dismay from a parent sitting behind me. After we’d all trailed out of the finished seminar, I tracked the father down to try to reassure him. I had, in fact, many many years before taken those same beginning creative writing seminars from tenured profs with big reputations. In later classes, I been paired with grad students, and as far as I was concerned, it didn’t matter who taught the class. I reassured this agitated parent, who was paying, as I was painfully doing as well, big bucks to this private university so his child could graduate with the reputation of having studied in the top writing program in the country. I tried to tell him, obliquely and with Southern manners, which means thinly veiled ugly truths couched in sugary terms, that creative writing classes don’t teach you to write or how to publish. They don’t even teach plotting.

If you want to be a writer, you have to write and teach yourself what you need to know. Writing is the ultimate school of hard knocks. Finding out how to get past those first hundred pages and track the all-crucial plot points, dissect the hero’s journey and how to find the way into the cave, theme and character-driven v. plot driven – all of that isn’t going to be taught in a CW seminar. Lord help you if you want to find an agent and shop a book. The narrow focus of most CW teachers is in the literary and poetical world, a narrow strip in the publishing landscape and geared towards university presses, bless their hearts as we say in the South. That’s because that’s what those so-sincere CW teachers learned in their undergrad and MFA programs, and because the academic writing world is so incestuous, that’s what they produce in their students when it comes time to take the tenure track.

Writers need to write, to live, to get out in the world and hear different speech patterns, meet people who haven’t heard of W.H. Auden and don’t give a damn about a library card. Living life makes a good writer a better writer. I have friends who were extolled and praised to the roof top in CW classes who today haven’t done a blamed thing with their writing. Once released from the cotton-wool cocoon of academia, they found the real world of publishing to be a cruel and vicious creature that eats its young. Definitely not for such delicately nurtured artistic souls as they.

A few years after that seminar for freshmen, I tried to steer a young woman just graduating from college towards an agent who specializes in paranormal books. This young woman had been working on the manuscript in high school and college. I didn’t know if it was any good, but I gave her props for wanting to get it published. For an hour I discussed marketability and query letters, how to write a tight synopsis, how to make her pitch in person. She’d learned none of this in all the years she’d studied creative writing, even though her stated goal was publication of this magnus opus. I felt sorry for her, and for all the other writers who thought they’d graduate with everything they needed to know about how to survive the publishing world. What writer wants to keep her words to herself? Not a blamed one of us, if we’re honest. We have a story to tell, a truth to reveal, and the world will be better off if it can find us in a book store, at least that’s the way I feel.

While spending four years writing angsty poetry and obscure prose is fun, it isn’t where the real writing world reposes. So don’t worry who teaches what classes, because the true writing work starts when the diploma is on the wall. Then, a real writer will get down to the brass tacks of the job and figure it out, or quit. As the cliché puts it so well, it’ll be time to fish or cut bait. And little if nothing learned in academia will land the big fish.

Cooking

And no, I don't mean the August heat. The South chilled down today into the 70s, believe it or not. The weather seems out of kilter - we don't get cool this quickly, and often September is as warm as July. I'm sure it'll warm up again and I'll complain, but for now, Wow.

Today's topic is cooking, a chore that is not among my favorite. I've always thought a lot of work went into something that disappears down gullets, leaving nothing but dirty dishes. Don't get me wrong - I love to eat. But fixing meals ranks right there with raking leaves - a necessary evil. Tonight, however, I realized I control my destiny to some extent. I don't cater to everyone else's whims and fancies, and pretty much put on the table the flavors I like. Garlic, butter, tomatoes, eggplant, squash, onions - anything fresh and seasonal ends up in my recipes. Speaking of recipes, I love reading them - they're like mini-stories. But follow one exactly? Please. It's like plotting a book according to a set formula. What's the fun in that? Sometimes I produce a dish that makes everyone happy (and a red-letter day that is!), and all is well. Other days, it's Chinese take-out and I don't go near a stove. In a way, it's like writing. When it flows, everyone's happy because mama's happy. When it's a pain the patooty, watch out. . . .

Exceeding Limits

The dog days of summer slammed into the South with the vengeance of Sherman taking Atlanta. Phew, has it been hot. It's all I can do to get through the day without wilting like hot lettuce. Me, I love the heat. But there are limits. . . and mine have been exceeded.

So, came home from the grocery store the other day and just glanced at the paper bag. (I usually take my cloth ones, but that day I'd exceeded my cloth bag limit. So I had them pack the remainder in paper. I recycle!) On the side, printed in bold letters, the paper bag read "Less Stops, More Savings." Who was the nitwit who approved "less stops?" Apparently he or she never had Miss Moffatt for English. More and more, I see "less" used when "fewer" is the correct word. ARGHH! What are we coming to as an English speaking nation? It's become so common for people to say "where's it at?" that I don't even react anymore. In years past, I wanted to vomit with disgust. How hard is it to ask "where is it?" My tolerance for bad grammar and syntax slides downhill as I realize I can't save the language singlehandedly.

If you google the name Stephen Becker and the Virginia Quarterly Review, you can read a wonderful essay by the late writer about dealing with grammar/syntax editors from hell. He cared as much as I, and railed against the horror with more courage and finesse, to be sure. A COVENANT WITH DEATH is my favorite lawyer book of all time, and he's the author.

The Perfect Knife

Back in the days when you could buy old quilts at estate auctions for change, I would hang out at those held at old farms. Sometimes I scored a really wonderful quilt, which I would repair and hang on the wall of our house with 12' ceilings. Researching the fabrics and designs was fun, and I would make up stories about the women who pieced these lovelies. My more modern house doesn't have the ceiling height the Ohio Stars and Drunkard's Paths require for proper display, so most of them have been carefully packed away. However, at one old farmhouse, I felt compelled to bid on a kitchen knife as well, and its use continues today, at least 25 years later.

The kitchen floors in this white frame house curled with old linoleum, the enamel table in the center of the room showed rust spots under the crackling, and every pot and pan was up for sale. This one knife, with a smooth old wooden handle and an "s" curve of a blade from years of being sharpened, had clearly been a favorite. I bought it. It reposes next to the fancy knifes with shiny blades in my kitchen, and if I don't dry it quickly, rust skims its surface, but I love that knife. It's light, well-balanced, and razor sharp when I get its blade done just right. Every time I pick it up in lieu of one of the new knives, I feel its age and know that this knife, clearly homemade, served its owner well for many years, and me for many more.

One day, one of my children will be gifted with this knife. I feel as if I must pass on its secrets, its story, until its blade shatters into nothingness as it slices one last Hanover tomato. If only I knew what it had to tell me. Mostly, I make up my own tales for it. That's good enough for me.

Home at Last

Phew. Loved NYC with my mate. Spent a whole day at the Metropolitan Museum, replenishing my art history well. Artifacts from Afghanistan was a stellar exhibition. I grew up in part of the Middle East, and this display was among one of the best I've seen. Beautifully curated.

Caught some musicals, but our fav production was "Mary Stuart," which has some spectacular staging and great acting. The scene where it rains on stage was amazing. I kept wondering where all that water was going to go, and it just puddled right there on the stage for at least fifteen minutes as everyone got soaked. Found the men wearing business suits, while the women wore Elizabethan dresses, a bit odd. Simple set, effectively lit, and the costumes played along with the change in light colors - plain black, black and gold, etc.

Shows what great acting can do - my beloved was a total Mary Stuart fan, while I thought the play's weight went to Elizabeth I. She got my sympathy. Two great actresses for the price of one ticket. Wow.

The only disconcerting part of the vacation was that our hotel was overrun with painfully thin young teenagers wearing too much makeup, skimpy clothes, and deadly high heels, all pretending they were older than they were. Some kind of modeling competition was going on. I wanted to grab those girls, wash their faces, and tell them to get out of those tacky, trashy clothes. What are we doing to kids that they think this is beauty? At their age, I was wearing jeans and jodhpurs, had smashed helmet-hair from my riding helmet, and was mucking out stalls every day. No makeup. I sure didn't worry about how I looked, LOL. Now my horse, that was another matter. She had to look great, and she did. I even did French braids on her tail. I feel so sorry for those girls at the Sheraton. And I wonder where their parents are, and why they're allowing this?

Back to work. My mind isn't focusing yet on SIGNS ,but I can whip it back into shape. I'd better. . .

Self-healing Websites

Well, it did its thing and got itself up and running again. Good thing, since I was in the complete dark. I really need to get better educated here about Web stuff.

Missing RWA in D. C. this year so I can take a trip to NYC with my beloved. We'll see some shows, get to the museums, and eat good food. Our twenty-fifth anniversary was earlier this year, and we decided to do something every month to celebrate. I'm enjoying this year-long party! It's been a fast twenty-five years, that's for sure.

Talked via Skype with Guatemala Girl, alias Daughter #2, and she's in love with the country. She'll be heading for Belize and Mexico soon, so that means she'll be home in about a month. We miss her. Then she's off to school again for her fourth year of architecture. Two more years, and she'll be ready to take her licensing exam! Hard to believe.

Web Site down

Don't know the root of the problem, but my web site seems to be down. Just in case anyone is lookin' . . .

Watched Michael Waltrip Racing's announcement of MW's retirement (semi) and replacement by Martin Truex Jr. Good move for all parties, but boy howdy, will I miss seeing MW at the track every weekend. At least he'll be in the 52nd running of the Daytona 500 next February.

Now to find out what's wrong with the web site. Oh goody.

Post-Fourth Recuperation

So, the racing Saturday night was stellar. The top five cars made a night of it until the last lap. I'm sure Kyle Busch isn't happy, nor is Kasey Kahne or JoeyLogano, all of whom got a piece of the #18 car as it flipped from hitting the wall just before the finish line, but that's what you get with restrictor plate racing and the "don't pass below the yellow line" rule. I'm sorry, but Nascar is nuts. Before this written-in-stone rule, drivers understood that the yellow line was fair game on the last lap, and used it until Talladega last year when Regan Smith got robbed of his win because he chose not to block and wreck Stewart coming to the checkered flag and dipped below the line. Last Saturday, Stewart blocked and wrecked KyBu. Same thing at the last Talladega race, when Edwards went airborne. When will Nascar reconsider the yellow line rule? Restrictor plate racing is dangerous enough, and 'Dega and Daytona will continue to have last-lap wreck-fests if something isn't done. No one wants to see fans or drivers hurt.

Watched "Independence Day," a Fourth of July tradition in our house. Its pacing is perfect -lots of slam-bang action with enough lulls for the viewer to catch a breath or two. Ate potato salad and deviled eggs, another tradition, and hunkered down for the Daytona 400 and its fireworks display. Having been there in '06 when Stewart last won this race, and watched the subsequent magnificent fireworks the track provides, I look forward to seeing them on TV every year.

Cali-the-puppy still thinks she's a lap dog, although she' getting close to 30 lbs, I'd guess. She enjoys movie night and trying to fit onto her daddy's lap. He always wanted a lap cat, now he has a semi-lap dog. We laugh uncontrollably when she starts snoring.

Taking a break from SIGNS. I'm so happy to be back with these people.

Redecorating and Lost Days

When my beloved changed the ceiling fan in our bedroom, he initiated an avalanche of redecorating. Nothing like a new, shiny white fan to prompt repainting the ceiling. Then the walls, of course. And since they went from yellow to White Chocolate, that means new curtains, bedspread, headboard, dust ruffle, valances. . . you get the picture. The worst part was having to dig out the drawers so I could paint furniture. I decided to go for the beachy look, and it didn't take long to decide that the furniture all needs to be painted beachy colors. Now I've found my box of antique lace, I'm making new pillow covers and . . . . again, it's pretty clear I've sunk into the morass of redecorating. Since we get into a major overhaul only every ten years or so, it's worth the time to have something new and bright to admire, but sheesh, is it a lot of work!

The worst part is, I look up and it's already five o'clock, I'm whipped, and I haven't written a single solitary word. This has gotta stop, or I'll be a cranky woman. No writing makes me want to run screaming into the street, and since the neighbors think I'm a little odd anyway, I'll have to get some writing done before I confirm their worst suspicions.

And Daytona is this weekend, which means very very little will get done on SIGNS. Not gonna miss Daytona!

Oh, and the shoe count continues. Add my good black high heels, the ones I can actually wear without falling on my face, to the pile of dead leather that Cali has decided are her new toys. Maybe this is God's way of telling me I don't have to ever wear high heels again. Hmmm, I think I like that explanation.

Books and Shoes

I admit, I love shoes. Always have. So does the new puppy. Have no idea how she wiggled her way into the closet, but the blue Timberlands are now doggie toys. Sigh. Good thing she's cuter than cute.

Reread SILENCE AND SHADOWS by James Long. It holds up well, and this time around, I realized I like it the way I like Pat Murphy's FALLING WOMAN. The use of dual time frames, each separated by hundreds of years, yet paralleling the current story, sucks me in without fail. I'm also a sucker for archaeologist heroes/heroines. I had visions once of digging in the dirt and discovering a lost civilization, until the reality of filthy hair, no showers, sleeping bags, and tents (save me!) sank in. I'm a room service kinda girl, I fear. Although the bugs wouldn't bother me a bit. Just so you don't think I'm a total wimp, I did battle tonight with a tick from the garden (the gardenias are so laden, I pick handfuls every day), and I won.

Painting the bedroom sucks up time I don't have. Gotta finish the woodwork so I can restore order and calm to the oasis. The chaos of furniture under tarps, light switches removed, etc., always gets me. My beloved has done the hard part - the ceiling - so I drew mullion-duty. Ick. Back to my itty bitty paint brush.

What's Going On?

Hoped to see the shuttle launch, but it was scrubbed early yesterday morning for a gas leak problem. Isn't it odd, that after so many years and so many launches, problems arise that stump the brilliant ones who know what they're doing with those rockets? We saw one a few years back - all smoke and noise, incredible shaking and rumbling - and I, for one, can't help but wonder why only seven more launches remain on the schedule. The Russians are taking over for us, aren't they? That's what I hear - and again, I wonder. What the heck is going on with our space program? I still remember the thrill of hearing that an American landed on the moon. My generational bias may be showing - I thought we were the best at this business, once upon a time.

Maybe when all the US publishers are ruled by corporations with headquarters in Berlin, Moscow, and Beijing, we'll wonder what happened there, too. So much for publishing houses in the US of A....

My sunburned back is probably affecting my mood - considering I put on sunscreen, I'm really ticked. Wait, maybe I'd better check where it was manufactured before I start complaining about its lack of efficacy. . .

Carl Long Racing Needs Help

Although I try to hide the fact I'm a lawyer, albeit retired, sometimes I want to get back in the game so badly it hurts. Especially when I see someone getting kicked around unfairly. Unfortunately, there's not much I, or any other lawyer, can do to help Carl Long with his Nascar penalty of $200,000 in fines for him, and $200,000 in fines for his crew chief. His Ernie Elliot engine, rebuilt after being excessed from the defunct Chip Ganassi garage, was .17 off the mandated measurement. This was after it had blown up, too, and was never used in a race. A non-points race, I might add.

Long and his crew chief are part-timers, racing when they can scrape up the money and equipment. These fines effectively put them out of business, and since there's a 12 race suspension as well, Long can't work his job with Front Row Motorsports in the Spring Cup garage. So long to earning a living.

I went to www.carl-long.com and donated a few dollars. If every fan of the underdog racer did the same, just $5, and 40,000 of us did it, we'd have his fine covered. Make it $10 each (lunch at McD's, for heaven's sake!), and he and his crew chief will be in the clear money-wise. Don't let the nitwits at Na$car win this one. Racing isn't supposed to be about kicking the little guy because you can. It's about beatin' and bangin' on the track. I'm going to vote with my dollars and boycott all official Na$car merchandise this year. If I'd buy a T-shirt or a pin, even a cap, at a track, I won't. Those dollars are going to Carl Long Racing.

Un-Twittered

The good news is, I figured out how to get rid of the Twitter garbage on this page.  The bad news is, the prior post now makes no sense.

However, I'm a happier camper.  After six chapters of SIGNS, I realized I didn't like my hero's name. Normally, characters come to me already named, but when they don't, it's pretty much a mess.  Today I bit the proverbial bullet and played with names.  One fit. Thank goodness.  The first name sounded like a prig, and he's not. He's a good ole boy who fixes cars and plays the fiddle.