The Road Not Taken

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost




Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,


And sorry I could not travel both


And be one traveler, long I stood


And looked down one as far as I could


To where it bent in the undergrowth;






Then took the tother, as just as fair,


And having perhaps the better claim,


Because it was grassy ans wanted wear;


Though as for that the passing there


Had worn them really about the same,






And both that morning equally lay


In leaves no step had trodden black.


Oh, I kept the first for another day!


Yet knowing how way leads on to way,


I doubted if I should ever come back.






I shall be telling this with a sigh


Somewhere ages and ages hence:


Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -


I took the one less traveled by


And that has made all the difference.

Delightfully Boring

This morning I awoke to the granite colored sky and asked myself if perhaps this day would actually be a “fall” day, crisp and cool, with impending threats of real weather. And then only hours later, maybe two, I glanced out the window and was astounded by the view, for we had surpassed autumnal and crashed right into a winter squall, blowing in every direction, pelting the earth with fuzzy white flakes in a swirling orchestration of a wintry blast. It subsided in less than an hour and left us with a threadbare blanket of white; light enough to show sprigs of grass, just solid enough to inform us that the splendor of winter is upon us. I have to say, and this will make some of you roll your eyes, that I look to the white stuff with a huge sense of relief. It is finally here and I am glad, and not because I especially relish the cold, but because it is November in Colorado and snow is what is supposed to happen. It is a flash of normal when our days have been filled with startling. When nothing is happening as we had expected it is nice to know that some things are a constant – the sun coming up, the chill of the wind, the snow bursting onto the scene, just ahead of winter, the need to wear boots and mufflers – it is all predictable and somehow settling. There is peace in the common, hope in the repetition of the every day, sense in the redundant, and I am thankful that for this moment I am part of something so very ordinary.

~Words of The Wise~

A truly good book teaches me better than to read it. I must soon lay it down, and commence living on its hint. What I began by reading, I must finish by acting.



Henry David Thoreau

Dark Night

In the midst of great sadness we will find the truth of our soul, the thing that for us holds it all together. For in those moments when there are no answers, we must reach for that something that offers equilibrium if not solace. It does not erase the sadness, nor does it correct the wrong, it simply reminds us that there will be a way through the darkness, if no light shines at the end of the tunnel, it serves as the blind man's cane, leading the way, one tap at a time, one foot in front of the other. In times like these we must grasp that bit of substance that we have known to be there in our most desperate times, that particle of grace that has never failed. When I close my hands around the last thing I can hope to hang on to I find an old friend, a constant, a heartbeat that I hear, even when I sleep. It is a loving God, whose voice I know in my frailest moments, whose strength I can feel in a gale force wind – a loving God who reminds me that he was there when the tragedy struck and he will still be present when the clouds begin to break because he walks with his arms around me as I follow the tapping, one foot in front of the other, coaxing me towards the whisper of light at end of a very long road. May you know his presence, Tom as you wander through this mist.

The Price of Liberty

I just want to say a few words about the election and how glad I am that it will be over at end of day. This has undoubtedly been the longest election season in the history of democracies. The signs along the road have been up for so long I have begun to think of them as part of the landscape. I fear when they are taken down, I will not be able to find my way home. It is almost as though I have become friends with the people listed on the signs, like they are the town greeters, sending me on my way with a voter's blessing. “Blessed art thou who hast cast your vote. May your way be paved with the riches of the republic and your future be ripe with constitutional amendments.” We have endured six solid months of name calling and protruding tongues, reminiscent of the ugly stepsisters in Cinderella, except there was no innocent child being mistreated; everyone had huge feet and a bitter heart and was generally undeserving of the dance with the handsome prince. So to all of the candidates I offer this word of blessing. “Blessed art thou who hast born false witness in the face of this company. May your way be paved with the dissent you have sown and may you reap the bounty of your loathsome behavior.”

Close Your Eyes and Jump

When I was a little girl being brave meant being willing to jump into a big hole without knowing what was at the bottom, or riding a two wheeler with my hands in the air and my feet on the handle bars; in short, I ran with a crowd who confused bravery with stupidity. I am a grown-up now, or at least it says so on my tax return, and I realize that being brave has nothing to do with deliberately putting oneself in danger. It isn't about proving to the people around me that I am willing to risk my life for the right of passage. Being brave is well more than walking up to the house where the lady with too many cats lives and ringing the bell. Being brave is choosing to do the right thing when no one does it with you. It is standing for the truth when lies are so much more comfortable. It is saying no when yes will bring you accolades, and saying yes when no will keep your name out of the fray. Being brave is telling the people you love that you screwed up and you're sorry, or that they screwed up but you love them anyway. It is knowing that you are not always there to make friends, sometimes you are there to make a difference, even if it makes enemies. In short being brave is living like you matter. Because you do.

Go for the Gold

Finally one of those leaves swirling, clouds hanging, get out the sweaters, make the soup, put on socks with your shoes, the mums are blooming, kind of fall days. It is time to gather the pumpkins and gourds, stack them in baskets and settle them on the hearth. Cinnamon is the spice of the day with nutmeg following close behind. Boots are appropriate for walks through the streets ankle deep in fallen foliage with gloves in your pocket and a scarf wrapped twice, that your Aunt Ida made when she was on her cruise to Mexico. Don't miss a whisper of this day, for it is fleeting, soon to be swept up in the frigid grasp of the impending winter. But for now it is coffee on the deck with a blanket over your knees while a snapping log is consumed in the heat of a smoky fire. It is fall and there is the sensation of coziness in the air. Throw an extra quilt on the posturepedic and grab the thickest book you can find. Autumn is upon us and we are celebrating.

Stay the Moment

Driving through the mountains at night where the only illumination is the car's headlights and a waning moon, with Bach's Prelude in D minor the only companion for miles, gives one time to think, to consider the hours and days that have passed and what they have wrought. Though the world would appear to be spiraling out of control I have to say that in my small corner of the world there is much to embrace with satisfaction and a modicum of joy. Time is fleeting and we must take the opportunities to enrich the lives of those around us when they come, despite our own concerns. Somehow when we have given to others, our own lack, our personal fears and foibles, fade into the breathtaking sensation of knowing that on this particular day we have made a difference, we have helped someone know that they matter. It is the investment in the lives of the people we call friends or strangers, that we receive the return we are missing in the business of everyday, and we come away prosperous, even rich in ways that cannot be recorded in ledgers or bankbooks, but will forever be noted in our hearts.

Magpie Amongst the Produce

The words that are most on the tip of my tongue these days are, “can you go any faster?” It is a paranoia I have, thinking that the person checking my groceries has deliberately set a pace that will make me want to reach across the conveyor and slap her. I wonder where these people come from. These people who always have enough time to take their time, and are oblivious to the perspiration building on the brows of those around them. It seems that when my time is at its most fleeting I end up in the line with the checker who wants to know my recipe for whatever it is I'm making that night. “Looks like you're making Fettuccine Alfredo. What do you put in yours?” she asks as she passes the butter, the Parmesan, the heavy cream and the cream cheese over her scanner. They should mark the check out isles, not with number of items, but personality types. I would always go to the Type A line where they understand that I am not here to share recipes. I am here to gather ingredients to cook a meal for my family in time to get the dishes cleaned up this side of MIDNIGHT! I want the grocery store that has a call ahead line, where you just shout out what you're making that night so that when you pull up to the store, the groceries are all waiting curbside, next to a person ready to put them in your trunk. Then I want the call ahead husband line where you just shout out that you've been to the grocery store preparing him to greet you at the door, take the grocery bags from your arms and hand you the open bottle of Valium.

Can I Help Whoever’s Next?

I fear we are slipping to the dangerous side of angry. I have been in the Post Office twice in the past week and both times I witnessed a confrontation between angry mailing patrons and a postal worker. Both times were men; red-faced, cursing, stomping out of the room men. Note to self: when you’re going for the big, offensive exit , wear something other than sneakers. They just don’t have the impact on the tile floor. I have to wonder what goes on in a person’s life that allows them to spend so much energy on mailing a letter. Seriously, you’re walking into a building and leaving a piece of mail, be it a package or a letter, it is still just mail. Granted, the people behind the counter are not gushing with joy at seeing you, but they’ve learned that even the kindest of mail patrons will turn on them if they happen to run out of the Albert Einstein stamps. I watched a woman today trying to stuff a pair of shoes into one of those flat mailing envelopes that will go to the moon and back for less than $5. They were rather large shoes, like maybe a man’s size 13 and she was huffing and spitting, doing all she could to make them fit into the thin cardboard receptacle. I could see her blood pressure rising as the seconds ticked by and I made a decision. I’ll mail my stuff tomorrow.

Privilege

Crest the hill on I-70 at just about the Genesee exit and you will find yourself staring at a phenomenon without equal as layer after layer of mountain range comes into view, purple and ethereal, a majestic expression of the miracle of creation. Now go back and crest the hill again with Mozart’s 40th Symphony filling your car, a furious cacophony of notes and instruments flooding the airwaves and your soul with the brilliance of a man near the end of his life – a majestic expression of the miracle of creation. Mozart, in conjunction with mountains may take more breath away than the average human can embrace. So much fearfully perfect energy wrapped into a single moment can’t be explained in words so must be appreciated without comment. So be silent in the midst of the screaming beauty, the unfathomable riches, and try to remember to breathe.

Are We There Yet?

I have come to the realization that adults are nothing more than over-sized children, and just like children, should never be dealt with in large groups. Get a group of creative people together, add a bit of food and drink and just see how much you accomplish. You will be left with a room of toddlers, all talking at the same time, and waving their forks in the air to make their point. When they realize they are not being heard they will talk louder, some might even stand on their chairs, and a few will resort to throwing things in order to get the group’s attention. Given enough time, many of these people will forget why they got together in the first place and will begin entertaining themselves by making faces at each other, and laughing without restraint. If you took away the beer and added a sandbox, you’d have a scene from the local daycare - same amount of hair and teeth, hopefully less tears and in the end everyone will need to stop at the bathroom before going down for a nice nap.

Breathe

As evening rolled down over the mountains today I was struck by the oncoming close of yet another summer day and the way time rushes past us in a swirling, breathtaking, arbitrary blast. It never gives us the chance to say, “Wait, something big is happening, and I am afraid I’m missing it”. It is a locomotive screaming towards the station, puffing wildly, no holds barred, hang on for dear life, did you see that ride, and we are to adjust at breakneck speed or be crushed on the tracks. People around me are growing up, growing old, growing weary, getting lost, enduring disease, and dancing in the rain for reasons about which I am unaware, because I have simply been too busy to ask. Desperate to know, but crashing through every day with barely time to stop the hiccups, thinking that if I let one plate stop spinning, life as I know it will go tumbling into a ravine of disorganized underachievement, and if that happens I will be wasting one of the most precious gifts we are given. Time. So the question becomes - are we wasting time when we are doing nothing but relishing the fact of life, or are we wasting time when we are accomplishing what we have deemed important?

Collateral Damage Control

I have been told that I could live in complete happiness with only a few rudimentary supplies – a nail clipper with file, tweezers, a jar of Vaseline, Q-tips and dental floss. Life is really a series of grooming efforts, a constant battle to keep from grossing yourself out, and to remain acceptable to the viewing public. There is something about knowing that there is no remnant of a previous meal crammed amongst your molars that gives a person a sense of well being, and nail filing is really nothing more than pure economics. Jagged fingernails snag delicate clothing, and letting toenails go without benefit of a pedicure will lead to grotesque witch toes that can’t help but poke through the end of your socks and in extreme cases, your shoes. Vaseline is an absolute must in surviving a Colorado winter, where the air is not only cold but dry enough to turn shoe leather to stone. Without Vaseline, our lips would be replaced by frayed, battered flesh that would bleed every time the wind blew. And cotton swabs … well if you don’t know the joy of a gentle but thorough ear swabbing it’s time you expanded your horizons. Tweezers are probably the most crucial tool in this packet of essentials. You never know when you’re going to walk past a woman in a restaurant say, who has missed the inch long whisker projecting from her chin. I try not to over react, but I have been known to drop my tweezers, which I always carry, near her plate with a look that says, “choose to do the right thing”. For heaven’s sake, people are trying to eat! Tweezing is a commitment we all must make for the good of our fellow man. Tweeze with vigor and without fear, for there is only one place for a whiskered woman, and the circus has left town.

Where's the Cobbler

Shoes are the most difficult article of clothing to purchase. The problem is that the ones that are beautiful are very often meant to be worn only by the manikins modeling them, mainly because their weight is supported by a metal rod rather than their feet. If you’re planning to actually walk in shoes like that you can count on major foot surgery in your future. It’s something about the design, especially in women’s shoes, that seems to be a product of poor planning. When the toe of the shoe has a sharper point than the ice pick in the Psycho movie it is time to rethink our priorities. Whose idea was it to make women’s high heels with room for only one toe in the front, and not even your big toe? You have to be one of those people born with an inordinately long middle toe to benefit from the average high heeled shoe. I think shoes should be sold on a trial basis only. You could make a deposit on them and take a walk around the mall. If you come back free of tears and sporting only minimal bleeding then they’re a keeper. My favorites are the athletic shoes with that special gizmo in the heel to propel you into space when you stand up too quickly. They cost as much as a second mortgage, which works because they are the size of a small condo, which could come in handy after you’ve dragged them around on your feet all day. If you push two of them together they can sleep six quite comfortably.

Lone Traveler

The thing we forget when we are planning our schedule is that we probably won’t have buy in from the world at large. If you have exactly ten minutes to get to your next appointment you will invariably end up on a two lane road behind the woman who has taken it on as her mission to keep speeds under control on her section of blacktop. She is usually driving a Subaru Outback, two tone wagon, with a bumper sticker that says something about how saving whales will bring world peace to Tibetan monks, and if you were wondering, when she is driving on the road you happen to be on, she does own it and thus has control over all drivers lucky enough to be in her lane. She considers it a gift to be able to drive 30mph in a 45 mph zone, and she won’t even notice the endless line of cars behind her that she is holding up. She has a calling to encourage those around her to move at her perfect pace. When the road finally goes to four lanes and you pull up next to her at a stop light, she will look straight ahead and keep both hands on her steering wheel, and then you’ll realize the truth. She isn’t trying to slow you down or be in your way. In fact, she doesn’t even know you’re there.

Follow the Storm

There is something about a lightning storm that helps to bring things into perspective. No matter what we do, how smart we become, how much we think we know, we will never be able to harness the lightning. As it was flashing between the mountains this afternoon, filling the darkened sky with brilliance for fleeting moments at a time, I was struck (no pun intended) by its random nature yet impressed with its organized presentation. The electrical streaks go where they choose, and it is as though they are choosing, leaving us completely at the mercy of their startling, self-contained power, and when the storm has subsided the show pulls up stakes and fades to black abandoning a shuttering section of earth in its wake. The sheer force of all that energy, gathered into one vast, though limited area, is inspiring and terrifying at the same time. It demonstrates without consideration and asks only that we watch with the proper respect and a certain amount of awe, knowing that when the curtain rises all eyes will turn heavenward and be amazed.

Fashionably Geriatric

It is hard to know what is best when faced with our own inevitable journey into old age. I don’t know who is smarter – those who embrace the lengthening of years by wearing the sweatshirt with the bird appliqué on the front, or those who deny the aging process by wearing the tube top that was meant for a twelve year old. Either way it all comes down to fashion. There are women who have given up on trying to hold it all in by changing out their jeans for elastic waste pants and their strappy sandals for something with a protective steel toe. They seem to be shouting that they have lived past a certain age and they want the world to know they are proud of it. On the other end of the spectrum is the woman who has exchanged breathing for the jeans that force her rear end up into her shoulder blades. She doesn’t notice the discomfort for the distraction her numb toes are causing inside her four inch, weapon like heels. While some women are plucking, bleaching, tucking and sucking it all in, others are enjoying the fact that they have slipped into that “comfortable” age when they can relax and let their mustache grow. There has to be some place in the middle where we can age gracefully and with a modicum of dignity. I’m just not sure it is in this hemisphere.

Tapestry

Forgiveness is something that people love to talk about today, about how it is the only way a person will heal and how not forgiving can even make a person physically sick. It can be a hard thing to do when we have been truly wronged, and I have often wondered why. Are human beings just bent on carrying around anger about things that happened long ago? I have decided that forgiveness is key to living with any sense of well-being and certainly peace, and that the hard part is not in forgiving the person who has hurt us, but in forgiving ourselves. There is something about allowing ourselves to get into a situation where we can be hurt that is humiliating and that humiliation makes the hurt hang on like a bur in a wool sock. It’s that question of “why didn’t I see it coming” or “why did I give them the upper hand” that presses in on us and quenches our ability to shrug it off. So forgiving ourselves for being vulnerable and letting our defenses down becomes the nemesis, and when dealing with a nemesis, there is only one way to go. God is a master at melting the impossible steel cage we put ourselves in when our hearts are hurting. I stop and listen for that voice that urges me to laugh a little at my foibles and believe that my vulnerability is one of the threads woven into me by a God who treasures me.

Turn Your Head and Cough

Have you ever wondered what they were thinking when they decided that pharmaceuticals could advertise on television? Next to political ads, that are nothing more than well organized bickering, the drug ads are the Mount Vesuvius of grotesque information overload. Why do I, someone who has no intention of taking medication for “ants in your pants syndrome”, have to hear about the fact that it may cause depression, constipation, acne and excessive belching? Are these weird ailments actually affecting the population in the epidemic proportions implied? Whatever happened to the days when people dealt with their sleeplessness by getting up and cleaning the kitchen floor and taking a few gulps of Benadryl? We have become a society of complex anxieties and it is a conundrum of our own doing. And do we think its just coincidence that overactive bladder became rampant right about the same time that Starbucks took over the universe? Think about it.

Beckon the Moon

The moon was hiding last night, just barely peeking through the dark silhouette of trees and the wall of clouds that crept across the blackened expanse. From time to time it would wave at the earth below, obviously glad it was suspended well above the chaos, content in its knowledge that it had one huge advantage over earth – it was not inhabited by people. Some days, and today would be one of them, actually yesterday was also one, I have to stop and shake my head at people and our constant need for attention. We are like puppies in high heels and business suits, in a never ending clamor for affection. “Notice me, think I’m cute, give me a treat, pet my ears,” we are all begging, as we wag our way through life. It makes the daily grind a tiring, often aggravating endeavor, as we struggle for approval from people who probably haven’t even noticed us, let alone approved of us. And if they do give us the “better housekeeping seal” will it make a difference, or will we continue to roll over and play dead on command, in hopes that one more bone will be thrown our way?

All In a Name

Names of books are so hard to do. When I titled my first novel String the Dark Pearl, I contemplated shortening it to “Dark Pearl”, but I was afraid that people would be looking for a Johnny Depp fan club anthology. Some authors like to spill the whole plot in their title, so mine could have been, “Always Check behind You When You’re Getting into Your Car on a Snowy Day”. Confused? Read the book. Another option is to give it a one word title, like “Kidnapped” (taken), or “Pearl” (also taken). Some authors go with themes like naming every book after a laundry soap. “The Tide Cometh,” is a good one, followed by “No Gain, All Stains”, and finally “Gasping for Oxyclean.” Some of the best titles have little to do with the book at all, but they create a poetic intrigue that makes you want to buy the book to display on your shelves whether or not you ever read it. If you do read it, you spend the entire book trying to figure out what the author meant by the title, when the answer may be simply that it “sounded neat”. For instance a book called “Beans in my Pants” may have nothing to do with beans or pants, but it sort-of makes you want to find out. It has also become popular to title a book “The Someone’s Wife”. Fill in whatever profession you want – The Teacher’s, The King’s, The Mechanic’s. These books are often about women searching for who they are apart from their spouse, so really the books should be called “If I weren’t The Someone’s Wife”, or “My Heavens, Why did I Marry the Someone?”. The working title for my new book is “Say it Twice Softly”. Don’t ask.

Was It Something I said?

The crowd was closing in when I heard over the din, a ragged voice shouting, “Stop, I wanna get off!” The voice was mine and the ride I was on was life -fast and whirling, passing without even asking me if I take cream with my coffee. Twenty-first century living has become rude, mainly because manners take way too much time and energy, two items in painfully short supply. The irony of the whole phenomenon is that rudeness takes substantially more energy than a polite demeanor ever thought of using. Rushing to take the last chair, pressing the gas to swoop into a parking space that someone else was waiting for, voicing one’s opinion over a mouth full of food, all take an extra effort, a spurt of adrenalin that could otherwise be saved for laughing at the moon, or baking cookies with a five year old. It isn’t about being nice; it’s about bothering to acknowledge the worth of the human beings around us. And that does take time, more time than stomping through life with the proverbial chip on the shoulder, but it is time well spent because of the dignity it brings to everyday. Every day.

Dodge City Calls

Matt Dillon and the Crew

It is the transition day, the 24 hours suspended between last week and next, the day we face what got away from us over the past 6 days, and establish what the upcoming 6 days will accomplish. The list for the coming week will of course be extremely ambitious because for the most part we are slow learners. Though we only got through half the items on last week’s “to do” we will create a calendar for the coming week that includes all of the leftovers and a brand new collection of “musts”, many of which will get pushed to weeks in the future, so that by the end of the summer our lists will still contain a few items from June, several from July, and we will barely have started on August. I want to be Matt Dillon, the Marshall, not the actor. He didn’t make lists. He spent his days drinking coffee in the front office of the jail until there was a disturbance in the street, a frequent, almost chronic occurrence. He was never overwhelmed by the pace or the pressure. He wore the same outfit everyday, his horse was always in working order, the menu at the saloon was limited to steak at night and eggs in the morning, and he loved Miss Kitty but the idea of marriage never came up, because after all, he was Matt Dillon. And if someone shot at him, he never questioned what to do. He always shot back.

Lights Out

Since the government has decided to control everything, I would like to request a mandate that our homes be equipped with a full length mirror mounted at every exit so that people can actually see what they look like when they leave the house. What caused the thinking that says, “I have this massive roll of fat around my middle, so I believe I will pour it into a spandex tube that emphasizes the depth of each layer”? And why do men think that when their stomachs are covered with hair it is acceptable to allow us all a glimpse of the furry protrusion under their too small t-shirt? Why do engineers think that because they can build bridges they don’t need to iron their clothes, and cyclists believe that their lycra, fully definitive shorts, are a good alternative to actual pants? There are writers, no we’re not exempt, who clearly believe that because they are busy creating, the need for bathing and matching socks doesn’t exist and don’t get me started on accountants, the inventors of “saggy butt britches for the professional”. The general rule of thumb should be that unsightly gets covered, inappropriate finds its proper place, the right size is what fits your body-not what you want to fit your body, and getting dressed is an activity best done with the lights on.

Only When I Laugh

When I speak, I am often reminded of what is said about a prophet in his own country. It works both ways. I may be telling people something they have known for years, but when it comes from the mouth of a stranger with a microphone it suddenly takes on a level of validity that it had been missing, and on the flip side, when I am talking to a group who has known me for sometime I am compelled to come with an epiphany, because the gentle reminders are passé. What I find to be true in both cases is that when you get people to laugh at themselves their minds are suddenly open to any amount of teaching. Can we look at our lives and see that they perhaps aren’t as pathetically intense as we thought, but instead a daily comedic endeavor that really will be funny one day if not now? A poignant truth or a meaningful lesson is always more easily shared by the speaker and ingested by the listener when we have first established that life’s difficulties are more bearable when eased by an intentional search for the ridiculous.

Drinving Without a Map

I am often asked where I get my ideas when I am writing and my answer is always vague, not because I don’t want to share my secrets, but because I don’t have a definitive answer. Often when I am driving down the highway, thinking of anything but writing, I realize that I am looking at the perfect setting for a scene that has been brewing in my mind. I might be standing behind a woman in the check-out line at the grocers and between the shoes she is wearing and the magazine she is thumbing through, I know she will be a character in my book. Very often when I am writing towards a point in my planned plot a new idea drops into my mind and I change direction without ever looking back, because I know when it “drops” in like that, I am receiving a bit of assistance that I shouldn’t ignore. When I wrote String the Dark Pearl, the plot and characters were laid out before me, waiting to be typed onto the page. I knew the characters before I thought of them, and I knew what they would say before I even opened their mouths. I always wrote until I had no more to add, knowing that the next day I would wake up with the next pages waiting to be created. I can’t explain it, except to say that God had a path for my book, it never was mine. If you don’t like the book, tell Him

Snooze

The dog is lying at my feet with his back legs stretched to their most elegant length and his nose carefully wrapped in his front paws, and I suddenly realize that I have never learned to take a proper nap. A nap is something that happens after you have chased your ball around the yard, and sloshed water all over the kitchen floor, when you are suddenly overcome with sleepiness, so you throw yourself down right there where you stand and within seconds fall into a coma. It is an emotional comma in your day, free of rules, where drooling is allowed. It has nothing to do with power, or cats, and it isn’t relegated to Sunday afternoons. The right to choose to nap is part of controlling, if not your own destiny, your own daily routine. The dogs are way ahead of us.

Veggie Tales

When an adult says they don’t like vegetables, I attribute it to their lack of Farmer’s Market experience. If you haven’t eaten crinkly, disorderly spinach with long stems, or softball size, perfectly red, slightly misshapen tomatoes (I know they’re actually a fruit), or pencil thin asparagus, or green onions the size of a 60 watt bulb, then you haven’t actually eaten vegetables at all. You are judging an entire food group by the bags of frozen bits your mother used to cook on the stove in way too much water until they were mush. Real vegetables come from the earth, the same day they were harvested, carrying a bit of dirt and a few flaws. They haven’t been waxed or polished or genetically altered for better color. They are the way God made them – good for you and affordable, and with little preparation they are a meal unto themselves, and they are sold by the most interesting society of people. They’re called farmers. Imagine!

Dreams of the Big Chief

The last time everything worked as it was supposed to in the world of communication was when I was in first grade, making my letters with a fat, red pencil and a Big Chief tablet. The paper was a horrid, grainy texture and the pencil, which was a little like writing with a canoe paddle, didn’t even have an eraser, but when you applied the lead to the light gray lines on the page you ended up with words, every time, no sign-ins, no passwords, no problems. You weren’t connected to the world, just to yourself, which has become harder and harder to do, and of course there was the Big Chief. He sat on the front of your writing pad, ever guarding your written work, without benefit of a server or a firewall, and I never remember wanting to throw him through the nearest window.

Coffee Contemplations

So I’m sitting in the Ice House today, a coffee roaster in Downtown Evergreen, Colorado, and I am startled out of my reverie by a voice. The Ice House is actually more than a coffee roaster. It is a coffee maker, sandwich server, cinnamon roll baker, etc, and for my purposes a provider of tables where laptops can be connected and books written. I am at a crucial point in Chapter 22, trying to decide how the drama teacher would respond to the student who is full of talent and fuller of attitude, when I hear the voice that will challenge my approach to characters in books in general. There is a woman at the next table who is loudly explaining her point of view, certain that she knows better than the two other people at the table, which is why she isn’t bothering to allow them an opportunity to speak. Annoying. Common. I am almost provoked to violence.



But that is my dilemma with the drama teacher. How real can you make a character in a book? Books are places where men do not fart and women do not pick their noses while stopped at a light. We don’t really want to read about people who are coping with things like gas and boogers, and yet we cry for reality in our characters. We want to relate to them, to know them, but we would prefer they not bother us with their toe poking through the end of their sock inside their wingtips. So I am left with a drama teacher who is facing a very real situation; should I allow him to react in a real way?