"I'm Nobody! Who are you?"

I saw lupines growing wild for the first time in my life last month, something to check off my List of Things to Do Before I Go. It may seem like a small thing to make a big deal out of, but ever since I read Granny’s Miss Rumphius and then found out that Lupines are California natives, I have dreamed of seeing them growing wild. Poppies of various types we have in abundance and they are one of my favorite flowers of all time. But an unfarmed field strewn with wild poppies and lupines both...I suspect you aren’t quite a real Californian until you’ve seen one. I spotted my first glimpse of purple in the Grapevine and something in my soul basked golden. Every Spring since time immemorial, the Grapevine has wakened to the golds and oranges and amethysts of the poppies and lupines tucked away between meadow grasses and mountain rocks, heedless of me. But this year, I was there to see it.

We had a beautiful time in the Central Valley: roaming around the City of Trees (which is not as lovely as, say, the countryside just south of it, but which is nevertheless quite charming as far as cities are concerned); coming around to the surreality (not a word according to the red squigglies on my computer – squigglies, according to the red squigglies, also not a word) of Jason going to med school there, and all that that implies; spending time with beloved friends who also happen to be good people; and jogging along the Stanislaus River (whose name alone can make you forget the my-legs-are-about-to-fall-off, I’ll-never-breath-again, why-can’t-I-just-be-fat feeling of what they tell me is the “best” kind of jog.)

There is a smell that comes up over a river in the gloaming with all the lush shrubbery growing by its banks breathing softly and the animals of the day settling into their nests before the animals of the night begin their stirrings, and a million insects, individual in their own rights, of the thousand billions of their kind. There is a smell that comes up over a river who has seen a season of good rain and decades of unchanging changingness. This is not unique to one river in particular. I think it is kindred of all rivers, though to a practiced nose the scent is subtly different, like nectarines from peaches. If I had to guess, the Stanislaus River smells slightly of almond blossoms, but I cannot speak with the certainty of a native of its banks. And doubtless much like the ocean, its smell alters with the ground against which it washes and the breeze that wafts above it, and the trees – or rocks – that grow along it and turn to mulch – or sand – over the course of many tomorrows.

There is something about a narrow green footbridge across a river that makes the person jogging across it feel important somehow, in the best kind of secret and humble importance, as though the river wants you there above its banks, and as though all the storms and quakes and ferocious winds of its history have deemed it all right that you be there simply by not bringing it down before you got there. Like the bend in some random road that brings you up on a field of wildflowers. They weren’t put there for you, certainly, but somehow you’ve been granted the privilege to partake.

There is a place called Alpine, Wyoming that boasts the only stop sign within forty miles. I think to myself that I should be very happy living somewhere just outside of Alpine, Wyoming, somewhere where the stop sign is not too much of an inconvenience, a place that will be sufficiently overlooked when people travel to observe the Alpine landmark, somewhere only secretly, humbly important by Alpine association. Should I ever move there, you will find me sitting somewhere on a narrow footbridge, surrounded by native flowers, feeling important in my obscurity. Don’t feel badly for me; I have been 23 years searching for important obscurity. I suspect it will be a good deal longer until I find it, but I know it can be done. Cowboys have done it, and some sailors, and perhaps those questionable people you see backpacking along the side of the road sometimes, with an old happy dog following along on a string. When I doubt it, I simply contemplate all the out-of-the-way footbridges I have never seen, all the silvery creeks, all the wild lupines, all the lone, rocky outcroppings upon which I have never perched. I think of sitting on a quiet hill in Buchanan, Virginia surrounded by Black-Eyed Susans and cows and blue country sky. Important obscurity. It exists. You just have to find it.

-R.E.A.

The Story of a Mollusk and What Did Not Happen Because of Him

I am not going to talk about healthcare. Instead, I am going to talk about mollusks. One particular Mollusk, in fact, who just happened to be a mussel and to live in a gentle River that wound and twisted between the low hills and through the woodland forests of a very beautiful country indeed. Here is the story of that Mollusk and what didn’t happen because of him...

Chapter 1: What Happened When the Eelgrass Grew Over

“I absolutely cannot do a thing about it. I haven’t the time.” argued the Otter, standing on the riverbed with his hands on his hips. “It isn’t as though I’ve had an easy time of it. The large fish were terribly low this year. And the small ones certainly seemed to be snapped up quickly.” He gave the Owl a rather accusatory look, as though owls, and this Owl in particular, were all to blame for his inferior fishing skills.

“Well,” said the Owl, ignoring the Otter’s stare, “Then I don’t know what to do now. I’ve tried but we owls aren’t very good at flocking together. We’re rather solitary creatures, you know.”

The Otter barely waited for him to finish. “Well, the River absolutely must be cleared,” he said firmly, “If the Eelgrass gets any thicker this Spring, the fish won’t even be able to get through. Then what are we supposed to eat?” As though the Owl didn’t know the situation.

Suddenly, the Otter snapped his fingers. “We’ll have the Mollusk do it!” he said eagerly, surprised that he hadn’t thought of it before.

It was the Owl’s turn to stare, “The Mollusk?” he said, “But the Mollusk hasn’t ever done a single thing well.”

“Yes,” said the Otter proudly, “But he has done a good many things poorly.”

Chapter 2: The Brackish Water Fiasco

“But we don’t want this done poorly!” exclaimed the Owl sharply. “It’s a very important matter. Don’t you remember the Brackish Water Fiasco?” The Owl didn’t wait for the Otter’s response. He took quite a delight in monologue once he got started. And so he began his retelling...

“When the Brackish Water came in, the catfish were the first to notice. ‘Gather together our best thinkers,’ they said, ‘If something’s not done, we’re all in for a great deal of trouble.’ But our best thinkers could come up with nothing in agreement. Some of them thought we should deal with the Brackish Water as we had dealt with similar things in the past. Others thought that new actions were required for the changing times. In the midst of the great arguing and upheaval that ensued, a lone mollusk stepped forward.

‘I will come up with a solution,’ said the Mollusk selflessly. And suddenly, everyone was silent. ‘But I will need time,’ he said. ‘I haven’t fins, like you,’ he said, inclining toward the catfish, ‘nor brains, like you,’ he nodded at the beavers. ‘So I need time. But I will find an answer.’ The Mollusk spoke with such confidence and the animals were so tired of arguing and arguing and getting nowhere that they agreed. They designated the Mollusk the Official Solution Finder for the Brackish Water Influx.

The Mollusk went under a rock and shut himself up and didn’t come out for six months at least, though the animals grew impatient and knocked several times on his shell. Those were the days when the Eelgrass first began infringing upon the River. Finally the day came when the Mollusk inched slowly out from under his rock. He wouldn’t say a word until he got to the center of the River and then, slowly, he opened his shell and revealed a tiny pearl. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, and ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he said again, ‘our grave problem, for which I went into hiding for six months at least, was Brackish Water. Ladies and gentlemen, I have taken our problem, and I have created a Pearl.’ And he opened his shell wide for all to see. And that was all he said.

Finally a timid sole spoke up. ‘But what does it do?’ asked the Sole.

‘Nothing,’ said the Mollusk with an odd look. ‘But it is beautiful isn’t it?’

‘But how will it solve the Brackish Water?’ asked a frog, who didn’t much care about the Brackish Water, but was still curious to see what would happen.

‘Yes,’ said a small trout, ‘it has very little to do with what we needed.’ But the Trout was only being polite. The pearl had nothing whatsoever to do with what we needed.

The Mollusk was offended, ‘I should think this beautiful Pearl would be sufficient for you, considering what I had to work with,’ he said stiffly. ‘Work requires gratitude and I should think I am entitled to some of that.’ And the Mollusk was so hurt that he inched back to his rock and didn’t come out for several days. And,” said the Owl taking a deep breath, “we still have Brackish Water to this day.”

Chapter 3: The Only Thing To Do Was To Put It To A Vote

The Otter cleared his throat politely. He, after all, knew the story and he didn’t care. At the sound of the Otter, the Owl came out of his reverie with a start. “How do you expect the Mollusk to clear the River, anyway,” he asked practically.

“He is very good at delegating responsibility,” replied the Otter, who had an answer for pretty much everything, though it wasn’t always a very good one. “It’s perfect. This way, we shall have none of the responsibility and shall be able to do all of the complaining if things go awry.”

“When things go awry,” answered the Owl sternly.

But the only thing to do was to put it to a vote. All the animals who cared about Brackish Water gathered, except for the many that did not. The votes were tallied. Then all that was left to do was to ask the Mollusk.

Some of the animals were surprised when the Mollusk agreed to take on the responsibility after what had happened the last time with the Pearl. The Mollusk was brave and inspiring and did not so much as hint at the incident. The animals felt very kindly and grateful toward the Mollusk and many went home that evening thinking that the Mollusk really was a stand-up a fellow after all, and that they could all learn from him a thing or two about forgiveness.

There could have been others like the Owl but they did not speak up. He suspected that the Mollusk had only agreed to the task for want of a new pearl to covet.

And that is the story of the Mollusk and what did not happen because of him.

-R.E.A.

word'i-ness (n.): using 676 words when 55 will do

One of my creative writing profs back in the day introduced me to this book called, The World’s Shortest Stories. Steve Moss, the compiler of these stories has (or had) a contest each year to see who could submit the best stories in 55 words or less. Here’s an excerpt from Moss’s introduction:

“How short can a story be and still be considered a story? Charles Shultz had an answer to that question several years ago in his ‘Peanuts’ comic strip. Crabby old Lucy was once asked by Linus to please, please, please tell him a story. Lucy grudgingly obliged. Said she: ‘A man was born. He lived and died. The end.’

That’s the shortest story I’ve ever read. But, like Linus, I was left somewhat dissatisfied.

So maybe the question should be asked differently: How short can a story be and still be considered a good story? What’s the briefest possible narrative that still allows for a satisfying read?”

Without a doubt, there is a difference between a story and a plot and most of the time we (or at least, I) expect both out of anything I am going to take the time to read for pleasure. E.M. Forster uses this example to define the difference between story and plot: “’The king died, and then the queen died,’ is a story. ‘The king died and then the queen died of grief,’ is a plot.” For him, the difference is causality. While both sentences have a time sequence, it is the plot that introduces an explanation. He writes, “Consider the death of the queen. If it is in a story we say, ‘and then?’ If it is in a plot we ask, ‘why?’”

I would like to add to Forster’s plot distinction. Being of the old-school lit critic class, I find theme drastically important not only to my life, but also to the literature that I enjoy. I think James Thomas would agree. Moss quotes Thomas in his intro: “Like all fiction that matters, their success depends not on their length, but on their depth, their clarity of vision, their human significance – the extent to which the reader can recognize in them the real stuff of life.” Needless to say, if writing a story in 55 words or less is doable, writing a story with a plot in 55 words or less is something more of a hassle.

You may be wondering at this point why I am writing what appears to be a rather shoddy sort of Literature 101 essay. In fact, you may have traversed so far into the realm of boredom that you have passed that wonderment entirely and are now simply wondering why you are still reading. I can only really answer the former of your wonderments. For one thing, I admit that I truly miss my days of writing shoddy lit essays. But the real reason is because of how the 55 word story relates to a quote by Josh Billings that I read a katrillion years ago. I was pretty young when I first started writing stories and I didn’t understand most things (some things never change) but even then this quote spoke to me because I had (and still have) an enormous problem with wordiness. Billings says, “The great art of writing is knowing when to stop.”

Writing short stories has become a way for me to practice "knowing when to stop." The 55 word short story takes this practice to a whole new level. Up until now, the shortest story I have succeeded in writing, and still loving, was 118 words over the limit. So after significantly more than 55 minutes of writing and many many more than 55 words erased, I have come up with two elementary attempts at the 55 word story, plots included (or at least attempted). They came out very differently from one another and with varying flaws. Here they are. I encourage you to try some yourself. They are surprisingly intriguing and surprisingly frustrating - part work of art and part logic problem.

First attempt (52 words)

Determined to Start Over

When Calvin turned ninety six, he decided his life had been miserably unsuccessful and determined to start over.

The doctors said they could do nothing.

Philosophers promised him it was impossible.

In desperation, Calvin prayed.

Came a voice: “You’ve started over thirty five thousand, sixteen times. How many more do you need?”

Second attempt (55 words):

Words Like Brushstrokes

Twenty years, words like lashes fell so forcefully upon her she supposed they were who she was.

Until she read somewhere, “All the world’s a stage,” – Words like brushstrokes on a painted scene – And she made her exit.

Looking back, she views the painting from afar, espying a raven perched above it. Quethes he, “nevermore.”

-R.E.A.

My New Year’s resolution is to be more like my mom

I have said elsewhere on this blog that I don’t make New Year’s resolutions but this year that turns out not to be true. My New Year’s resolution is to be more like my mom. This may sound strange. I have heard that as girls get older they spend much of their time trying to avoid becoming their mothers, usually to no avail. I, however, have wanted to be like my mom since I was very little and the feeling only grows each year.

My mom is the least judgmental person I know. The only time she bashes people is if they have hurt someone she loves and even then she listens more than she bashes. The exceptions to this are, of course: anyone playing against the Steelers, and people with extremely unintelligent political views. (But after all, there is only so much one person can take quietly, particularly if she is a Kaufman and football or politics are on the line.)

Mom’s faith in things from God to earthworms inspires me all the time. She says “All shall be well” and she believes it. She also believes in grace. When she believes in something, she believes in it all the way through. I don’t know if she has her own doubts. I’d be surprised if she didn’t. But something Mom’s taught me is that having doubts is not the same thing as lacking faith. Here are some of the things Mom has taught me to have faith in:

• God
• rain, compost, and the wisdom of nature
• good books
• things built to last
• people
• conscience
• roots
• wings

Don’t even get me started on the kind of mother Mom is. Mom sang me “Would You Like to Swing on a Star,” and “Que Sera Sera,” and “Joanie,” and read me “Where the Sidewalk Ends,” and “The Runaway Bunny,” and “The Chronicles of Narnia.” I can still remember sitting in her lap with my big stack of books and her arms wrapped around me. Or laying under blankets by the fireplace before bed and listening to her read - some of the most comforting memories of my life. Mom nurtured in me a love for reading, writing, country music, mountains, and a hundred million other things. And when I am stupid and boring and wrong, she tells me that she knows I’ll make the right decision and that everything will be okay. She’s not faking. She really believes in me and in the world. Mom has always wanted to hear what I have to say, or at least pretended to. And trust me, once I get started, I don’t stop easily. Never once in my entire life has Mom not had time for me.

Mom doesn’t care when you cry or how you cry or why you cry or whether you’re being a big fat ridiculous baby. She always gets that soft sympathetic look in her eyes and holds you close. Even if you’re not her kid she’ll do that. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to hold a candle to her as a mother, but I know my kids will be okay because they’ll have Mom as a grandmother.

I bounce ideas off Mom almost before I bounce them off my own brain. That’s because Mom is one of the smartest people I know. I know I’m probably biased, but I think Mom may be one of the smartest people in the world. Mom knows things: useful and otherwise. There’s no enjoying Jeopardy when she’s in the room; you only wind up feeling badly about yourself. Alex Trebek gets to read the cards, but Mom knows the answers. Mom’s also a talented thinker. She doesn’t mind people questioning her beliefs. She’s thought them through and she can defend them. And she knows there’re some things she doesn’t know. She’s willing to think about those things too. Mom knows history and current events and how to pronounce words and scientific concepts and how to grow a hundred different plants and what they’re named (common and scientific). There’s a difference between intelligence and wisdom and Mom’s got both.

More than anyone else I know, Mom knows how to put things into perspective. I was on the phone with her the other day concerned because I was calling to tell her how I had spoiled a plan she had made. Mom just laughed. She never tells people they should have done what they should have done. She lets the silly stupid things that happen pass without making people feel badly about themselves. Mom can make a meal for four turn into a meal for ten in the time it takes for the front door to open and close six more times. And when you’re not there when you said you were going to be, she doesn’t grudge you the leftovers. Mom knows how important it is to feed the soul.

I’ve heard that it’s impossible to fathom the depth of the love you will have for your children before you have them. I’m sure this is true. But I know from experience that it is impossible to fathom the amount of love you can have for your parents even when you are in the midst of that love. I could say that to have parents and a sister such as mine nearly sets me up for failure – so much do I have to live up to and so great is the pressure. But it’s not true. To have parents and a sister such as mine is to have all the tools and guidance needed to make a life worth living.

(Disclaimer) I have tried, in saying what I have been trying to say, to avoid clichés fit for Mother’s Day greeting cards, none of which do Mom the credit she deserves. I know that I have, for the most part, not given the other influential people in my life their due in this entry. This one’s for Mom. She deserves that. And truthfully, I have not halfway gotten to the wonderfulness that is Mom. If you know her, I’m sure you’ll agree. But if 2010 gets me one step closer to possessing the grace and strength of my mother, it will truly be a successful year.

Taylor Swift's "The Best Day": http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l4_6eQm7RTQ

-R.E.A.

Pettiness, perspective, and the new urban threat

In our 21st century world, danger lurks on every corner and even in our own front yards. Actually, as that Chesapeake Virginia guy knows all too well, the danger of politically correct, meddling, small, angry, purposeless and snooping women is prevalent even in our very homes where we can no longer smoke, sneeze, or (apparently) be naked. But for many of us our homes do protect us from most harm. The same can no longer be said of the sidewalks just outside.

A new and urban threat – one that has probably been there all along but that we are now finally beginning to take note of – is accosting our neighborhoods. And it is known, officially, as The Scavenger. Why have we suddenly begun noticing The Scavenger even when we have overlooked or ignored him in the past? Because city officials have begun listening to the politically correct, meddling, small, angry, purposeless and snooping people calling them on the phone. Why have they finally begun listening to these people? Because the city is losing capital. The city, that manages to spend nine months on a project that would take me and a semi-muscular donkey two weeks to complete, has conveniently noticed that it is losing money on peoples’ trash and it would like to inform all worthy, hard-working, trash-producing citizens of the threat that is inundating their communities.

So who is The Scavenger? He is your neighbor, your co-worker, your local store clerk, probably slightly poorer than you, but perhaps slightly smarter as well. I am fairly certain I have been a scavenger, of a sort, before, only I always thought of it as picking up other people’s liter. But this truly dangerous Scavenger is not merely picking up trash thrown onto the street by people lazier and more self-centered than he. We do not call that man a scavenger – we call him a good Samaritan, even when he makes five cents off of the bottle we paid for and left lying on the sand. No, the urban threat, the true Scavenger actually goes into our garbage cans as they sit, innocently awaiting the lumbering, smog-producing, gas-guzzling garbage truck to empty them out. And do you know what this Scavenger does when he goes into your own personal garbage can? He takes stuff! He takes your own personal garbage. And do you know what he does with it? He recycles it. Bottles, boxes, clothes, all of these things that can be turned into other things or worn by people who find a sweatshirt from a garbage can better than no sweatshirt at all. The Scavenger takes all of these things that (and before you call my bluff I admit to being sometimes guilty of this myself) you should have recycled yourself. He steals your garbage. The threatening, thieving, capitalistic Scavenger steals your trash and profits from it. He sells it. He recycles it. And every two dollars here and fifty cents there that he makes, he pockets. That Scavenger grows rich off of our garbage and this is why city officials have decided to step in.

See, the city was brilliant enough to come up with an electronic trash truck capable of scooping up garbage cans and dumping trash at the touch of a button. And the city was brilliant enough to come up with a green program that divided each person’s trash into ordinary, recyclable, and organic. But the city never thought of – or was never willing to employ people to actually sort through trash and remove valuable items. I have brainstormed for some time and have come up with some reasons why the city may have neglected to do this. Here are the best ones:

1. nobody would take the job.
2. health codes prohibited it.
3. it would take too long to get the plan approved.
4. paying people $7.75 an hour to sort trash would cost the city more than it would make on beer bottles and yard sale sweatshirts (although the city perhaps forgot about Saturday nights in college towns).

So the city can’t actually gain anything (or much) from enacting a sort-peoples’-trash-by-hand plan. (The city would, of course, like to employ robots to do the job, but Arnold says we’re bankrupt and I tend to agree). Incidentally, can anyone make me a t-shirt that says “Arnold says we’re bankrupt”? The city would in fact probably lose money on the whole thing (as the city is wont to do). So why are city officials up in arms? Because The Scavengers are making money. Never mind that the reason they are doing so is because they are a one-man show and do not have to pay themselves minimum wage. Never mind that five dollars to a person who is homeless or unemployed or even me is worth significantly more than five dollars to a city fund. The city is resentful that The Scavenger is making money off of what is rightfully its own. Apparently once we place our trash in the city-approved trash bins, it becomes city property.

I suppose I shouldn’t expect much from a government. But why are ordinary citizens up in arms? The only logical and justifiable reason I can think of is because they are concerned, not about the garbage, but about The Scavenger himself who could be anybody and is probably not somebody they want their children playing with. I am not speaking for the lady who says in an appalled tone that she believes The Scavenger walked across her front yard to reach her garbage cans which she had carefully tucked behind some trees in the hopes that he would not find them. I think she is concerned about her grass and perhaps something akin to pride. Nor do I speak for the man who worries that important and personal documents will be pulled from his trash cans and made public knowledge. To him I say, perhaps he should recycle some of his bottles and use the money to buy a paper shredder. Didn’t his mother ever teach him never to throw whole important documents into the trash?

I do, however, understand the concern of people who wish to feel safe stepping out their front doors. But let’s truly consider the threat of questionable people who spend their spare time rummaging through garbage instead of, say, robbing liquor stores. This is not to say there is no threat; it is merely to say that before we stage a defensive attack on the guy with a bicycle basket full of Coke cans, we should perhaps put things into perspective. (Might I also suggest sending a camaradic* smile his direction) To help with the concept of perspective, and because I believe in the parallel between real life and art, I am including a copy of Shel Silverstein’s vaguely related poem “Hector the Collector.” I’m pretty sure Shel Silverstein was smarter than most city officials:

HECTOR THE COLLECTOR
by Shel Silverstein

Hector the Collector
Collected bits of string,
Collected dolls with broken heads
And rusty bells that would not ring.
Pieces out of picture puzzles,
Bent-up nails and ice-cream sticks,
Twists of wires, worn-out tires,
Paper bags and broken bricks.
Old chipped vases, half-shoelaces,
Gatlin’ guns that wouldn’t shoot,
Leaky boats that wouldn’t float
And stopped-up horns that wouldn’t toot.
Butter knives that had no handles,
Copper keys that fit no locks,
Rings that were too small for fingers,
Dried-up leaves and patched-up socks.
Worn-out belts that had no buckles,
‘Lectric trains that had no tracks,
Airplane models, broken bottles,
Three-legged chairs and cups with cracks.
Hector the Collector
Loved these things with all his soul –
Loved them more than shining diamonds,
Loved them more than glistenin’ gold.
Hector called to all the people,
“Come and share my treasure trunk!”
And all the silly sightless people
Came and looked...and called it junk.

*to people (or dictionaries) who would argue that my word selection here is not actually a word, I would direct you to a pin that I once read: “ENGLISH MAJOR: If I say it then it’s a word.”

-R.E.A.