Late Bloomer Blog

Today was a perfect example of why I love my job!  I woke at my usual time of 7 AM and worked on Human Geography homework  while downing  a few cups of coffee.   At 8:30 AM I showered and took my time getting dressed.  Makeup made it’s way to my face! Any day I’m wearing makeup is a day I’m guaranteed to be awake. 

By  9:45  AM  I was  checking my bag for notebook, pens and cell phone.   Five minutes later I was  out the door.  Getting to the out of town Lass-Museum was a snap as I’d been there last month.  I was very pleased to be greeted with a warm hug by the museum director who thanked me for the great story I’d written on their Father’s Day bike ride.

The museum was hosting their 4th annual  Antique lunch with three experts in attendance.    Fifty guests paid a small fee for a garden  luncheon  and an expert’s  opinion on  the value of  their  antique items.  

I was eight  when I decided to become a writer.  The adventures of the Swiss Family Robinson and Mark Sawyer  intrigued me enough to get me to put pen to paper.  

Writers  are told that the creative process starts with a series of questions all starting with   ”what if?”   Being a shy, easily scared and squeemish child,  my world of possiblilities became a bottomless pit.  

What if the protagonist - a female child of course –  had to treck across a foreign land to save her friends? (Mom didn’t drive so I’d barely visited the other side of our  gigantic city).  What if the protagonist  had to scale a mountain? (I was scared of  heights).   What if  she was required to swim through  raging  ocean storm to reach safety? (Dog-paddling was a big deal for me). 

As a member of  a large family it was nice to find something to occupy my time  besides fighting  over who gets up to change the channel.   My favorite Batman, I Dream of Genie and Get Smart  shows lost some of their entertainment value for me.      

Already of big fan of  re-writing  and pencil erasers,  I remember    transforming sheets of binder paper into a soft substance that resembled flannel.   Of course I couldn’t let anyone see my work  I spent as much time looking for safe hiding places  as I spent  in the actual writing process!  Today I can’t even find anything that I hide!

The first  time I  switched genres, it was to write a biography for my family.  It was  a week before Christmas  and I was 13.  Not having any money,    I decided the present I would give the family would be a story.   Dad thought that kids with money are the kids who got into trouble. 

So I gathered up the supplies and sat down to write.  All was well for about two minutes.   I thought about my brother, the one who fought me constantly. He swore I ironed his shirts with a  large spray bottle of perfume. 

Then there was my Dad’s wife.  Would she see humor in her  nightly fits of throwing dishes from cupboards and sceaming, “Are you trying to make us all sick?” 

Certainly Dad’s feelings would be hurt if I left him out. But what can  you say about a business-genius who lacks social skills?  My  survival depended on the fact that my first publication would have to be a work of fiction. 

Armed with fresh sheets of paper, I wrote a very nice story.  Not a true story and certainly not my family’s story.  It was more like a  script from the  Brady Bunch.

Finally, I was done and the aggrevation was over! After announcing that I’d  be reading my original story as a gift to the family, the room fell silent.  My writing aspirations were a complete shock to the family.  And I do have a very nice reading voice if I do say so myself. You could’ve heard a pin drop! 

After what seemed like a long silence, Dad closed his mouth and then opened it again.  “Ok,”  he said, “Where’s the next present?”

Thus began my love affair with books and writing and a continued  foray into  therapy.  And of course my family never even came close to discussing our problems.  Dysfunctional families don’t work that way. 

Stuff. Everybody likes to own stuff. Some people collect stuff like dishes, stamps or books. My Mom took to collecting like some people take to religion. And I have long suspected, though I don’t dare bring this up at family reunions, that I’m her favorite. Why else would I be the only one she calls when she wants to offload a waffle iron?   

Honestly, I have not found it necessary to buy a vacuum since 1983. All I need to do is say I hate my vacuum clean and Mom’s  wheeling out a perfectly good vacuum, complete with full-color manual and a box of filters.

How she stores this stuff, I haven’t a clue. Her home is framed on all sides with an acre of lawn but suffers from a serious lack of storage. I’ve seen confessionals bigger than the closets in that house. Her bedroom closet is like a magician’s hat. Over the past 20 years I’ve seen her pull out everything except a rabbit.

“Mom, how do you do it?” I once asked. She just smiled and padded off down the hall to count black buttons and nail files.

Someday I’m going to take a peek in that closet. A pink-eyed furry creature will be hunkered down in the back wrapped in an electrical cord, munching on mothballs.

You see, my Mom  holds a soft spot for electrical appliances. At various times I’ve been blessed with no less than 13 blenders, eight irons, four blow dryers, six toasters and a partridge in a pear tree.

For a woman who quit driving years ago, my Mom  commands an inventory any chain store would envy. The woman is practically agoraphobic! How she does it while being computer illiterate is another mystery.  I suspect she has a telekinetic thing going with QVC.

When she drags out precisely what you need, it’s like Christmas and your birthday all rolled into one. But the fun stops when you’re presented with some contraption you never knew existed anywhere on the planet.

Take vibrating lamps for instance. How many of those can a person use? The battery-operated dog-scratcher sounded like a good idea. But when I saw my basset hound lying around all day collecting unemployment, I said no thanks! Mr. Droopy will have to do his own scratching.

Don’t get the wrong idea. I am completely grateful for my sweet Mother. But, being related to her is a mixed blessing. I live in such a tiny apartment that putting groceries away requires a full spring cleaning. I meltdown on the way home from her house from the mental gymnastics required to store the newest stuff. I’m seriously considering drilling holes in the ceilings and inserting boat anchors for hooks.

So it was after much thought and many hours of role-playing that I mustered the courage one day to beg her  not to approach me with another celery shredder. For a time all was well. Eventually the guilt subsided. The nightmares went away, too. And walking from my living room to my bedroom without banging my knees was heaven!

But then she inherited Grandma’s stuff and the floodgates burst open again. Temptation got the best of me when I traded my scruples for the love of a glow in the dark candleholder. A solar pencil sharpener, a mirrored breadbox and a flypaper doormat followed.

And then there are the purses. By profession  my Mom’s  a self-taught Purse Shopper/Demonstrator. She majored in black purses. She’s got a purse for every day and every mood. My introduction to this came the day I noticed a leather hobo bag enshrined on a table in her living room. A warm celestial glow beamed from overhead. At first I mistook it for something as  sacred as a  Mayan fertility statue.

“Bet you never saw anything like this,” Mom  motions me over. “Just look. It’s got a compartment that’s perfect for displaying a dozen 8×10 inch glossy family portraits.”

The  woman’s  acquired too many perfect purses to count. Why a person who never leaves the house needs 10, 12 or 100 purses is beyond me. I thought I’d seen everything until she trotted out a little number guaranteed to convert to a teepee, a raincoat and a life raft.

Now to be fair, I confess to once being a faithful acolyte of the black purse club.

I couldn’t help it! I was raised in a fashion-conscious family. I had no choice but to lend slavish obedience to the commandment: Thou shall match thy season-appropriate purse to season-appropriate shoes.

Over the years I’ve accepted enough purses from my Mom  to accessorize a small country. After a 1985 trip to Reno, though, I manifested an allergy and had to resign. My backup purse (butter cream leather with an easy-slide zipper and sturdy bottom) packed with a dozen quarter rolls had been left behind in the hotel hiding under a newspaper.   

I finally feel confident of the strength necessary to pass up future offerings my Mom  might throw my way. Just the other day I said, “Mom,  please don’t call me when you have a purse you want to give away.” She smiled and took it much better than I expected.

Of course, that was after I made it clear that I wasn’t talking about any purse that would make me look six inches taller and ten years younger.

I may be a sinner but I’m no fool.

For anyone who doesn’t know, I will explain that I write for a local newspaper.   Aside from  running to school and the grocery store,   the rest of  my time is consumed by working for the paper.   I lead a very simple life  that  fortunately  suits me fine.

The other day I was on the phone with the paper’s photographer, Christy, a really great lady.    “Most people would say I don’t have a life,” I said.  “But I meet very interesting people and enjoy a variety of experiences I otherwise would not get to enjoy.  Plus I get paid. ”

“I never thought of it that way,” Christy said.  I liked her right off the bat.   The second  time  we did a story together, she convinced me to take a quick ride to her house.  At first I declined.  Piles of homework were waiting.   But then something said, “Live a little.”  And so we spent the afternoon in her beautiful garden.   Nice to be spontaneous sometimes.   

Christy’s  given me permission  to  post some of her gorgeous photos  here. 

A particular writing assignment stands out in my  mind.  The Journalism Advisor assigned with the Police Academy beat.  That day the guys in uniform were simulating a chase. And I mean chase! I was scrambled back and forth in that back seat faster than any omelet ever served at a Denny’s!

Well enough from  me today. Geography tests await! Yes, tests  plural. No wonder I’m confused about the season.  It’s summer school time don’t ya know?

Today I’m in a quandry. Nothing unusual about that.  I should be studying  Human  Geography instead of trying to figure out the best way to use to my time.

And then there’s writing. I could be working on that best-selling memoir/chic lit/mother’s handbook that I know is buried deep inside me.

But then my bookcases are  crammed with books on the subject of  writing.  I could be scanning the pages,  learning exactly what I need to know.  You can find two of my favorite  teachers at  www.Writersdigest.com  and www.Stephenking.com .  Mr. King’s  On Writing  is a heartwarming, witty and informative narrative on the craft.

Tomorrow I’ll be  conducting interviews  at a Portuguese festa.  I could be doing the background work now. The  deadline is  9 pm.  But, nah.  I work best with a pencil in one hand and clumps of hair in the other.   

My garage  and yard is such a mess.  I’m waiting for the snails and ants  to move out in protest.  Much of my time is spent fondly remembering my special writing place or rather what used to be my special writing place in the yard. Now it’s a messy patio where I am required to turn sideways to make a visit. 

Nobody can get me to believe that where  I live is not the hottest place on Earth.  My windows face the sun all day. Were it not for the fact that the bathroom is upstairs, I dare say I would not make the climb  past noon.    

Sitting in the shade, admiring the flowers and breathing in the soil is so heavenly. Not to mention that it’s very conducive to writing.  Guess when  I’m tired of this hellish sweat dripping down my neck I’ll get in gear and get cleaning. Ok, I’m ready.

My daughter called four times this morning from her bestfriend’s house where she’d spent the night.  “Hurry Mom, come pick me up.” 

Mom slogged down a bland cup of coffee, put on some shoes and went out the door.  The phone rang three  more times on the  drive.  She sounded only more forlorn with each call. And we’re only talking about two miles here.   Gee, I missed my little monkey too. But I didn’t know she’d return the feeling while I was still in transit to bring her home.   

She’d be happy to hear about the kitchen floor  and the  genuine scrubbing it received last night.  I could  feel the  arms she’d wrap around me by way of a greeting.  Her discovery of    newly stocked food cupboards probably wouldn’t hurt either! 

At least that’s the scenario I pictured as we  drove  home; me in silence and her in a haze of sleep interrupted by  snores and gasps.  Finally we reached the house where I couldn’t wait to present her with the itinerary  for our day:  a mean car-washing  involving  real elbow-grease, a serious adventure of  garage-cleaning and a  time for fun (a three mile bike ride).  

Apparently, I read the snores wrong. As soon as I opened the front door she ran up the stairs. “Don’t wake me ’till dinner!” she shouted. 

So much for quality Mother-Daughter time.  I’ll have to find out what her bestfriend does that makes her so much fun.  And I’ll learn to do it until   4 am too!   

My first post on my brand new blog! It will be a rather short story since it’s very late.  My  perfectionism took  over once more!  Can you believe I actually spent two hours reading blogs and  picking a template?  Tomorrow I’ll be back to spill the details of my life and maybe even reveal a few secrets.