Overheard Conversations

I know I’ve dedicated this blog to creativity, and perhaps overheard conversations don’t seem to fit the category, but where do you think the inspiration for a lot of fiction comes from? To a writer, everything is fair game.

Walking in the Woods
I’m walking briskly through the redwood forest on a beautiful summer morning. Ahead I spot two women, dressed in baggy jeans and sweatshirts ambling along the path. Not wanting to slow my stride to stay a respectful distance behind them, I break into a trot and jog on by. As I pass, I hear the apparent end of a conversation.

“…so, I tossed a rump roast and some veggies in the crock. Handful of garlic, too. Tasted real good, but it gave George the diarrhea.”

“Mmmm. Aren’t those the most beautiful trees ever?”

Definition of Rhetorical Question
A middle aged woman is dressed in a tartan cape that matches the pattern of her doggie’s sweater. The doggie, a beagle pup, sits stubbornly on the sidewalk, ignoring the taut leash and her owner’s obvious consternation.

The woman steps off the curb and squats in the street, eye level with the pup. She leans forward and earnestly asks, “Why are you acting like this?”

Wish I Were You
Basking in the afterglow of my early morning workout at Curves, I wave goodbye to the desk attendant and step out into a slice of September sun, pausing for a moment of sensate pleasure.

As I head toward my ancient blue Honda, I note another gym-goer pull up in her shiny new silver Explorer. The middle-aged woman climbs laboriously out of her car and grimaces at the world as she beeps the lock gadget. She tugs at and rearranges her matching baby blue Lycra exercise outfit. She reminds me of a pigeon preening.

Although a warm stiff breeze rustles the leaves of crepe myrtle overhead and lifts the edges of my sweaty tee shirt, her well-lacquered hair holds fast to its helmet shape. Determination lines her face as she marches purposefully toward the gym. She nods briskly as she notes my leave-taking, and mumbles, “I wish I were you,” as she pushes herself through the door for her thirty minute workout.

Now, I know, in context what she meant was she wished she were finishing her workout, like me. I couldn’t help but chuckle at how astounded she would have been to suddenly experience herself as a sixty-three year old lesbian mom/grandmother/writer/therapist/composer/actor that lives alone on a meager income in a large one-room rental with a stuffed raven perched on her computer for a companion.

Ah, the things that fall out of people’s mouths.

Waiting for the Other Shoe

One thing I’ve noticed about the human condition is that we spend an abundance of time and energy on anticipatory dread—worrying about those things that haven’t actually happened, but could. The “what ifs” often inform and occasionally rule our lives to the point of paralysis.

While I have great compassion for the actualities of life that are truly dreadful, and the preparation required to face the unknown with some degree of calm, I gently poke fun—mostly at myself—at the undue stress we put ourselves through preparing for those things that, in all likelihood, aren’t going to happen.

8:30 a.m. Surreal is the word that comes to mind. It’s like watching a Fellini or Bergman film where I know something strange is happening, but I can’t quite figure out what it is.

The overhead fluorescent lights cast an eerie translucent glow across the linoleum floor of the outer lobby. I stop abruptly at the plate glass double door and survey the scene before I push one door ajar just enough to slip my body through. Not a soul in sight save the sleepy looking clerk behind the long gray Formica counter which was heavily laden with informational posters in primary colors.

This never happens. Where are my fellow Americans? This is the U. S. Post Office, for god sake! Where are the lines? Where are the children wailing from boredom, running amok while haggard parents yell futile dictates like ‘get back here,’ and the frail elderly shift their weight from one bunioned foot to the other? Where are the harassed business folks glaring at their expensive watches, mumbling in irritation?

Filled with suspicion, I slowly approach the middle-aged clerk in a white shirt and navy blue tie who stifles a yawn behind his hand, smiles, and says, “Good morning. How may I help you?”

I fight the urge to ask if I’m in the right place. With a furtive look over my shoulder—I expect a restless crowd to suddenly have materialized—I clip my words for speed and efficiency.

“Stamps, those,” I point to my choice from the laminated sample card.

“Anything else for you today?” he asks pleasantly.

“No. Thanks,” I add, after the fact. I plop my money on the counter, scoop up my stamps and hurry out of the lobby.

I have allowed twenty minutes for this three minute transaction. I’m ahead by seventeen minutes.

Safe, back inside the predictable world of my little Honda, I make a quick U-turn. No traffic. Truly weird.

There is a traffic light on each of the seven blocks between the Post Office and my office. Every one of them turns green as I approach.

“Uh huh, gonna be one of those days, is it?” I try to trick the lights by slowing down or speeding up between corners, to no avail. This is making me very nervous.

Now, with an extra twenty-two minutes, I pull into the parking lot behind my office, and prepare to deliver my usual tirade against the sadistic secretary in the upstairs office who delights in taking my favorite parking spot under the bay tree next to the dumpster.

The spot is empty. All right. Enough already. Let’s just get it over with, whatever it turns out to be.

I spend my work day waiting for the other shoe to drop. I have trouble concentrating. I hang back at the water fountain—the one that squirted water up my nose last week and drenched my new silk blouse. I motion a co-worker to go ahead of me, like I’m Ms. Manners. Wouldn’t you know? Someone fixed it.

My paranoia mounts with every memo that is delivered to my desk. I just know one of them is going to say, “Hello, you’re fired. Have a nice day.” But no. Instead we’re reminded to use our vacation time before the end of the year. And, there’s an office softball team forming for those who are over 40—sign up sheet is in the lounge.

My nerves are raw as I end my day at 6p.m. Any moment now, I just know it.

Back in my Honda, I pull out of the parking lot and onto the main street. Lo, here it is. Told ya so. Too good to be true.

Flap, flap, flap, flap...

Now, I know the sound of a flat tire when I hear it. I ease my car to the side of the street and turn off the ignition. Smiling with confidence, I get out and look for the offending tire. “Good thing I have AAA,” I congratulate myself.

Overhead, the flap, flap, flap continues. I look up to see a traffic helicopter hovering. Good grief.

Home, finally. At 7p.m. the phone rings. No one but a telemarketer would call on the dot of 7p.m.

“Hello!” I bark into the phone, clearly conveying that I’m in no mood for a sales pitch.

“Hey Jo, it’s Sus.” The sound of my sister’s voice calling from the other coast is a balm to my ear.

“Sus? Everything okay? Shouldn’t you be asleep by now?”

“Everything’s is fine. Just calling to say hello. You sound like you’ve had a difficult day.”

“You can tell, huh?” I say, glad that someone understands.

On Music, Magic, and Memories

Recently I went to the philharmonic orchestra with a friend to hear Grieg's piano Concerto in A Minor. If you're not familiar with it, I swear it's the reason the grand piano was invented!

The first time I heard the Concerto, I was 14. My mother took me and a friend to the Civic Music program they had in our small hometown in Iowa—a noble attempt to bring culture to our neck of the woods. We went that evening to hear a very young (27, I think) Van Cliburn play.

Our seats were third row center, eye level with his elbow. I could see his fingers hit every key. He played with such unleashed passion that he actually broke the skin on the middle finger of his right hand. It bled. I was horrified, and thrilled. He kept on playing, intermittently wiping his hand on the leg of his pants. The music built; my heartbeat quickened until I thought my teenage self would die of excitement.

We stood in line for half an hour after the performance to get an autograph. As he signed my program, Van Cliburn asked if I played the piano. My mouth hung open in awe; I couldn't speak. I nodded my head yes, then no (how could I claim to play the piano after what I’d just witnessed?), and then shrugged my shoulders.

Dumbfounded, speechless; that's the effect that particular piece of music has on me even these many, many years later. I am humbled by the creative force that wrote itself into existence through the composer and played itself so unforgettably through a young up-coming genius. Now I struggle when I’m asked if I compose music. Well, yes…no…sort of. Shrug.

Dementia: Moments of Grace

For those in my age category of slightly over 60, losing your parents is something you’re probably familiar with. My family just passed our second Christmas without my folks.

Shortly after my mom died of cancer last year just before the holidays, my father, a frail but otherwise healthy eighty-five year old, simply came undone. He couldn’t tie his shoes. He didn’t remember if he’d eaten lunch that day or not. He’d spend long moments in silent conversation with his brother who had died years prior.

It was my siblings’ and my job to find whatever version of reality in which he currently existed and join him there. Phone calls and visits would often end in tears (ours) and placid detachment (his).

There were moments of tiny miracles, periods of grace, a lifting of the fog:

“Hello, Dad? It’s Jody.”

“Oh? Well, how are you?”

I pause, not falling for the new trick. Anyone else might be suckered into continuing the conversation. He used to compensate for his hearing loss by nodding and smiling. People actually thought he had heard and agreed with them.

“Dad, do know who this is?”

“Uh, I believe you said…”

“It’s your eldest, Jody, your daughter, in California,” I reel off the qualifiers that might jog what’s left of his precarious memory. Swiss cheese, his doctor explained. Some things fall right on through; some things stick. I’ve fallen through this time. My heart hurts though I’ve learned not to take it personally.

“My daughter?” the holes reduce to colander size.

“Yep. Jody.”

“Oh, well Jody, how are you sweetie? What are you up to today?”

There he is; there’s my Dad. I breathe fully for the first time in minutes. Tears puddle behind my eyes. If I were there, we’d both be crying now, he in frustration with the fathomless fog that separates him from his family, and me in the sweet agony of capturing fleeting moments of my father.

We talk a while about family, work, those things of the moment. Then I refer back to the past where the fluidity of his mind is more able to find a rock on which to anchor. I remind him of a time when I was eight years old and I won a game chest for writing the best essay in the ‘My Pops Is Tops’ category of a contest sponsored by a local magazine. My Dad has always been my hero. I remind him of this and hear his soft chuckle.

“If there’s a bright side to all this,” he said as we were winding up the conversation, “it’s that I get to discover over and over again that I have a daughter who loves me.” A tear slid down my cheek. “It’s like unwrapping the best Christmas present, without having to wait until—when is it that we have Christmas?”

“December, Dad,” I smile.

“I knew that. I was just testing you. Love you, honey. Call again soon. Ten, fifteen minutes should do,” he chuckled.

“Love you, Dad. Bye.”

This memory is in honor of my Dad who died just short of his 86th birthday.

On Mirrors and Metaphors

In a recent Sunday talk at the Center for Spiritual Living where I recharge my spiritual battery every week, Rev. Edward Viljoen retold a story from Robert Fulghum that used the metaphor of the mirror to explore life’s purpose. Ever watchful for stories that will fit under my umbrella of creativity, my eye is always snagged by a good metaphor. I couldn’t find a little round hand mirror, so the picture above is the mirrored coat tree in my living room. You get the idea—it reflects light into dark places. May your light shine.

A Greek philosopher and teacher ended a lecture asking, “Are there any questions? In the audience was Robert Fulghum who asked, “Dr. Papaderos, what is the meaning of life?”

Fulghum relates: “The usual laughter followed, and people started to go. Papaderos held up his hand and stilled the room and looked at me for a long time, asking with his eyes if I was serious and seeing from my eyes that I was. ‘I will answer your question,’ he said. Then taking his wallet out of his hip pocket, he fished into it and brought out a very small, round mirror, about the size of a quarter. Then he said, ‘When I was a small child, during the war, we were very poor and e lived in a remote village. One day, on the road, I found several broken pieces of a mirror from a wrecked German motorcycle. I tried to find all the pieces and put them together, but it was not possible, so I kept only the largest piece. This one. And by scratching it on a stone, I made it round. I began to play with it as a toy and became fascinated by the fact that I could reflect light into dark places where the sun would not shine – in deep holes and crevices and dark closets. It became a game for me to get light into the most inaccessible places I could find.

I kept this little mirror, and as I went about my growing up, I would take it out in idle moments and continue the challenge of the game. As I became a man, I grew to understand that this was not just a child’s game but a metaphor for what I might do with my life. I came to understand that I am not the light or the source of the light. But light – truth, understanding, knowledge – is there, and it will only shine in many dark places if I reflect it.’

‘I am a fragment of a mirror whose whole design and shape I do not know. Nevertheless, with what I have, I can reflect light into the dark places of this world – into the black places in the hearts of men – and change some things in some people. Perhaps others may see and do likewise. This is what I am about. This is the meaning of my life.’ “And then he took his small mirror and, holding it carefully, caught the bright rays of daylight streaming through the window and reflected them onto my hands folded on the desk.”

http://www.robertfulghum.com/ Robert Fulghum’s Official Website

The Tin Man

My sister Sus, who lives in Connecticut, meets the most remarkable people. In childhood, as her older sister, I taught her to share; so I benefit from her being out there in the world. Let me introduce you to Charlie Lucas, otherwise known as the Tin Man. www.tinmancharlielucas.com.

Charlie is known in the Outsider Art world. He takes little bits of not very much that he finds here and there and creates amazing works of art that reflect his heritage and his unique perspective on life. He’s a soft-spoken southern sweetheart with an unassuming manner that belies his brilliance. Please take a moment to check out his website (don’t forget the video tours). It will make you smile.

If you like the website, sister Sus designed it. She can be reached at skspight@gmail.com.

A Garlic Press and a Book of Stamps

Who knew that a phone conversation with my daughter regarding Christmas plans would result in a moment of clarity about the importance of the little things in life? It goes like this:

“So, Mom, is there anything special I can get you for Christmas this year?” Her voice has that here we go again edge to it.

“You know, I’d love a garlic press and a book of stamps,” I answer, without a moment’s hesitation.

“Oh, Mother! A garlic press isn’t something you ask for for Christmas. And stamps you buy every week.”

“But, honey, I want a garlic press. I want that more than anything!” I try in vain. “And I’m tired of having to buy stamps every week--that would be a great gift!”

She sighs. “Look,” she says as reasonably as her frustration allows, “suppose, just hypothetically, I could buy you a house. Would you still want a garlic press more than anything?”

“What kind of a house?” I ask. “I wouldn’t want just any old house, just any old where,” I add.

“You’re kidding, right? You could sell it if you didn’t like it.”

“Why would I want it if I was just going to sell it? That’s too much trouble.” I hear a low groan on the other end of the phone.

“Forget the house. What if I could buy you a car? Would you want a garlic press more than a car?” she continues to try and make her point.

“What kind of a car?” I ask.

“Mom! It doesn’t matter what kind of a car—a car is a car is a car.”

“There are some cars I wouldn’t drive—too big, you know?”

The conversation continues with my daughter’s voice becoming more strained by the minute.

“Honey, just send a card. Really, a card would be lovely.”

On Christmas morning, I retrieve a small package from under the tree with a tag on it that reads, ‘To Mom with love. Merry Christmas’. It rattles in its box. There is hope. I unwrap it slowly and savor the possibility.

I find a lovely box of assorted incense, and a beautifully wrapped bar of imported lavender soap, my favorite.

I call my daughter and thank her profusely for the wonderful Christmas gifts. She knows I have a penchant for incense and soap.

Then, I open my Day Planner and make a note on Saturday’s page. Errands: post office/stamps; grocery/garlic press.