tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12376902567883464002024-02-21T10:19:19.383-08:00My Embellished LifeWe all have great stories. The best ones are the tales, often embellished, of our real experiences. This is a home for first-person stories and fictionalized memoirs; a place where fact and fantasy are encouraged to dance together.Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-60373318910446604972013-10-03T10:01:00.003-07:002013-10-03T10:03:17.236-07:00How to clear a fire hall without yelling fire<a href="http://www.donnabarker.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/JacquesVilleneuve_1995.jpg"><img alt="" class="size-thumbnail wp-image-1587" height="150" src="http://www.donnabarker.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/JacquesVilleneuve_1995-150x150.jpg" title="JacquesVilleneuve_1995" width="150" /></a>On Monday night, my man and I did something we rarely get to do: we went on a date. To a <em>movie</em> <em>parlour</em>.<br />
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I had to miss my yoga class to see <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1979320/" target="_blank" title="Rush - the movie">Rush</a>. I wasn’t thrilled, expecting it to be a testosterone-filled racing film with ninety minutes of cars running around in circles, crashing, bursting into flames… And there was a good amount of all three of those things, but Rush impressed me with how much story was behind the racing. I actually loved the film. And I cried at the end.<br />
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Last night, at fire practice (I’m a volunteer firefighter), I was talking to the guys about the film as we got into our turn-out gear. (Of course, I did <em>not</em> tell them I cried.) Martyn, a Brit, said he knew the film would be good.<br />
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“Of course you’d think that,” I said. “It stars that British racer guy."<br />
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“James Hunt! How could you forget James Hunt?”<br />
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“I’d never heard of him before last night.”<br />
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Disbelief. Shock. How could I have never heard of a man who won the Formula One World Chapionship? Once…in 1976…seriously, guys?<br />
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Being one of five women in our department of about thirty members, I have a choice to make most practice nights:<br />
<ol>
<li>pretend I know what the hell the guys are talking about when we’re killing time,</li>
<li>admit I don’t have a clue and get razzed, or,</li>
<li>pull out my shiny castle and knock the discussion into an area that I know something about.</li>
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Last night I chose option #3.<br />
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“Of course I’ve heard of Niki Lauda and Mario Andretti and Gilles Villeneuve. And Gille’s son, Jacques. In fact, I have a great story about Jacques Villeneuve and the race he won in Vancouver in 1995. The year he took home the Indy Car World Championship.”<br />
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The men were all paying attention. What I didn't tell them is that I used to be a huge fan of Jacques Villeneuve because he was an international superstar from Quebec, where I was born and raised. Or that my ex-husband was both a Villeneuve fan and a huge fan of racing generally. Or that we could hear the cars racing along the streets of Vancouver from the basement suite we were renting that September weekend in 1995. What I said was,<br />
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“My son was conceived during that race--”<br />
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“Oh, God, Donna.”<br />
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“Jeez… I don’t want to know.”<br />
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“Too much information.”<br />
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Etcetera and so on from the men as they <em>ran</em> from the fire hall out into the rain, missing the rest of my connection to racing which was simply that my husband and I called our in-utero baby “Jacques” until the day he was born.<br />
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True story.Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-44492754652308442802012-06-15T12:25:00.000-07:002013-10-03T10:03:45.631-07:00Anecdote<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOitnmUaNM8Ny5w8qLQma4cCY3-WPfjyOZe8P9BszCxEG_MpnobcY5UI2ewJRD0VU-LbB-PGooUoUAdxfNuQuwqE5BQxb6aiFx9HqGyH0B8AgjfuiOxHwxj3a_hWYBX-MHwebyJqNNHsI/s1600/paperbag_donna_barker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOitnmUaNM8Ny5w8qLQma4cCY3-WPfjyOZe8P9BszCxEG_MpnobcY5UI2ewJRD0VU-LbB-PGooUoUAdxfNuQuwqE5BQxb6aiFx9HqGyH0B8AgjfuiOxHwxj3a_hWYBX-MHwebyJqNNHsI/s320/paperbag_donna_barker.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">By <a href="http://paperbagprophet.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Just a Paperbag Prophet on a Sunday Afternoon</a>, from the blog of the same name.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">It wasn’t my fault the factory blew up. Okay, maybe just a bit, but you have to hear me out on this one. I’m a film student. Well, I used to be a film student. I graduated pretty recently. That means I’ve always liked having a story to tell, always liked hearing other people’s anecdotes. There’s always something you can do with a good anecdote, juicy stuff just waiting to burst with the puncture of a couple choice words. I’ve had anecdotes of my own, and they came and went, and then the factory blew up. That’s a damn good anecdote, so I’m going to anecdote it to you. You can imagine some jaunty animation accompanying these words if that makes them easier to visualize. And you’ll want to visualize, trust me.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">No one was using the factory, anyway. It had been abandoned for years and it was due to come down sooner or later. People just had to figure out what they wanted to do with it. They used to make boxes in there. My grandpa worked on the production line for a while, said it was awful boring stuff. And hey, I like boring. I thought maybe I could do something with that. It seemed like the most boring thing I could think of for a job, so there had to be something we could do to make it hip to the youth, as they say (they don’t). I had a project due around that time, making a documentary about history.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">Excellent. And who could object to local history? My prof didn’t. I got the permits and all, legalized nice and pretty so I could take a look inside without getting arrested. They’d closed it off from the public, of course, but it was only with a shabby fence. Kids went in there all the time to have sex or shoot up, whatever kids needed to do away from other people.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">I went in there for a bit, collected some really good footage, but then I got stumped about what it would take to make it interesting. I had vision, but no way to build the ladder that’d get me up to nirvana. Or some metaphor like that. So I went to the good old-fashioned library and looked up the files on the factory. I had to do research anyway, and there was a week left before I needed to start editing. By and by, I came by a newspaper clipping from the early nineteen hundreds. There had been a fire in there, a big one, killing some of the workers and leaving a few managers pretty hurt. This would work out perfectly. Horror, suffering, cinematic substance. Now all I needed was a fire. You think you see where this is going? You’re probably right, but let’s finish what we began.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">After a little more digging, I figured out that you could create a little bonfire in a barrel. I assumed that with enough space in the factory, I could burn some old exam papers and no one would be any the wiser. Well, this is what we in the business call irony. I set up the barrels, gasoline and all to make it big, bright, and shiny, and decided to come back the next morning when there would be better light in which I could film more. Not too long after I left, a couple of hobos found the place and thought it looked like as good a spot as any to camp out. I guess they thought my barrels were good fire material, because they fired them up all right. And the fire caught fire.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">Now, there’s a massive appeal people find in disaster movies. I spent a lot of time wondering why, why would you want to watch stuff blow up when you know it’s just leaving behind a crater and some rubble. There’s not anything that comes out of it; just destruction. I don’t know. I never got it. Except for right then. I heard the explosion on my way down the road, and turned to look. I knew what it was. Watching smoke strangle the sky, the beautiful billows and plumes of ash caressing clouds. I got it. It’s that feeling of not being able to do anything, that feeling that says, fuck it I’m done here. And I’m done here for quite a while now.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">The hobos were fine, by a beautiful miracle, ducking underneath some deus ex machina called a boiler cabinet. As for me, I plan on sticking to artsy films now, the ones where people sit around in hats and no one talks.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">*** ***</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">I ran across the Paperbag Prophet's writing through the Story a Day in May website. I love his/her writing. Check out more stories at the <a href="http://paperbagprophet.wordpress.com/"><span style="color: #0022e4;">Paperbag Prophet blog</span></a>.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">If you have an anecdote about film or fires I'd really love to share it her on My Embellished Life - being a former film student and current volunteer firefighter, you'd think I'd have such a story... but I don't! So please share yours by linking to <a href="http://donnabarker.blogspot.ca/p/add-your-story-here.html"><span style="color: #0022e4;">this page</span></a>. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br />Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-89500147908683866042012-05-31T20:11:00.000-07:002013-10-03T10:04:43.054-07:00Rekindle the fire in your loins<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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By Donna Barker. An old <a href="http://www.shared-vision.com/sv-health/20080601/lost-that-lovin-feelin" target="_blank">health column</a> for the now-defunct magazine, Today's Vancouver Woman.<br />
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Several years ago I was kvetching with two girlfriends about my non-existent sex drive. I’d been married for a decade, was having sex with my husband once every six or eight weeks, and was of the mind that if I never had to have sex again, my life would be no worse.<br />
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Don’t get me wrong—I loved my husband. I just had no interest in getting naked with him anymore. My GP prescribed antidepressants. My counsellor encouraged me to explore past sexual experiences. My girlfriends bought me sex toys. None of these things helped. I decided that something in me was broken, and went as far as proposing to my husband that he have an affair while away on a business trip.<br />
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He gratefully accepted my indecent proposal. Unfortunately, he fell in love with the other woman and left me. My dream of never having to have sex again had come true… but not quite as I’d envisioned it. Too bad I hadn’t done better research before declaring myself libido-less.<br />
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For instance, had I spoken to <a href="http://www.rvita.com/expert-network/verified/karrin-fairman-young-nd.html" target="_blank">Dr. Karrin Fairman-Young</a>, a naturopath, she would have asked me about my lifestyle, diet, and the strength of my sex drive when it was “normal.” The most common causes of libido loss for both men and women, says Dr. Fairman-Young, include diet (“A diet that’s too low in fresh food might indicate that antioxidants are needed”), smoking (“Smoking creates free radicals that damage cells in our body, so energy that might be directed to sex drive is focused on repair”), being overweight, and stress.<br />
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“When someone comes to see me and their beeper is going off, and they’re anxious to get through our meeting so they make their next appointment, I’ll check cortisol levels and show them stress-reducing breathing [exercises], for instance.”<br />
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And if all those possible causes are ruled out? Dr. Fairman-Young says many of her patients have hormone imbalances, which can be caused by estrogen in our drinking water or hormones found in meat.<br />
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“Or [it] may be due to vitamin deficiencies that are inhibiting the sexual organs from producing the hormones that influence sexual desire,” she says. “I look at all of these things before suggesting a treatment plan.”<br />
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Another perspective on why people lose interest in sex comes from <a href="http://www.somaticcounselling.com/" target="_blank">Joseph Schumeckers</a>, an instructor in the Feldenkrais Method: “Sex and sexuality in North American culture are loaded with emotional trauma and taboos that we store in our bodies and minds. This mind-body interaction influences how comfortable we are with the movements that make sex pleasing.”<br />
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With the Feldenkrais Method, the muscles that control the movements that make intercourse so enjoyable are worked, so tension is released. From gentle pelvic motions for lovemaking’s subtle moments to improving overall balance for wild explorations, Feldenkrais has been proven to increase sexual pleasure.<br />
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Schumeckers believes that “once you are more at home in your body, libido becomes a word with little meaning. What matters is the sensation of two melting bodies carrying each other into blissful experiences.”<br />
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Meanwhile, John Ince, co-owner of Vancouver sex toy store <a href="http://www.artofloving.ca/" target="_blank">The Art of Loving</a> and author of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Politics-Lust-John-Ince/dp/1591022789" target="_blank">The Politics of Lust</a>, believes that by nature, we tend to become bored with long-term sexual partners and desire newness. Ince suggests trying new ways of lovemaking to re-energize sexual interest—assuming that medical, psychological, and energetic conditions have been ruled out as the cause of low libido.<br />
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“Make love somewhere other than the bedroom, perhaps somewhere slightly dangerous, like a secluded public space. Or plan an evening of fantasy role-play, taking different personas, like a fireman hooking up with a waitress. Or, to really transform yourself into someone “new” to your partner, try wearing a wig during foreplay and lovemaking. The erotic mind can be easily tricked into arousing new charge with old lovers. But it takes a genuine interest to rekindle the flame, and openness to experiment to make it work.”<br />
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Since my husband had already left, I took all this advice into my new dating life. I even tried the whole wig-stilettos-fishnets thing with one man—but he was the one wearing them, and it did nothing for my libido!<br />
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As a relaxed, non-smoking, light-drinking vegetarian, my diet was already pretty libido-friendly. However, when I started dating I did go on the Pill for the first time in 15 years. Did the extra estrogen help? Maybe.<br />
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But I think it was Feldenkrais that really reignited my pilot light. I could feel it happening in the hours following each session, in the way my hips moved when I walked. I still have a Feldenkrais treatment once a month—and the man I now share my life with has never heard the words “I have a headache” from my lips.<br />
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<em>Donna Barker is a native of Quebec who shares the common French-Canadian attitude that the only subject not to be discussed in mixed company is one’s political beliefs.</em>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-75034779983367320202012-05-23T10:46:00.000-07:002012-05-23T10:46:24.258-07:00My One Year with Avishek<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When we reached the crematorium, we saw Avishesk’s
lifeless body lying supine on a concrete platform. It was tightly wrapped with
a white cloth from neck to toe, so that the body was straining against the
cloth as if to break free from the grip of death. Avishek was just 28 years
old. He was full of life – which no one knew would escape him so suddenly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A small crowd of Avishek’s relatives were milling around
the body. Among the present were Avishek’s mama (maternal uncle), kaka (paternal
uncle), a cousin sister and an aunt. Unsure of whether she would be able to
bear the trauma of having to bid the last goodbye, Avishek’s wife, Tani, hadn’t
come to the burning ghat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The pundit started chanting mantras and tossing petals
on Avishek’s body. The petals, a mish mash of various colors, were in stark
contrast against the white chaddar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Our manager slowly walked to Avishek’s mama for a small
talk and we quickly circled around them to catch up on details, if we had
missed out on any. It was a sudden death, which had left everyone shocked. Avishek’s
mama confirmed that it was a natural death. Then he averted his large and
expressive eyes, with his lower lips curling back a little, and said, “It
reminds me of Gogol’s (Avishek’s) rice-giving ceremony, which I had presided
over, when Gogol was just a few days old.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“The name is Avishek Bosu,” Avishek had said when I had
first seen him at the company, emphasizing the surname, to confirm that he,
like me, was a Bengali. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He looked worried about something, and after his brief
introduction, he turned to Girish. As I along with others who had - like me -
joined the company a day earlier stepped aside, Avishek started explaining to
Girish in graphic details how he had been struggling with on-boarding
formalities and how they were completely unnecessary. Enthralled by Avishek’s
eloquent narration supported by equally expressive animations, we continued our
stoic silence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Although after a while Avishek finished his discharge
with a loud “bullshit”, his bent knees, stretched hands and taut fingers
pointing upward - took sometime to return to normal. The verbal onslaught
revealed two aspects of Avishek’s personality that we would always associate
with him: excitement and high energy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Four pallbearers ascended the concrete platform and
lifted the body. Then they laid the body on a bamboo stretcher. We followed
them inside a large hall. We farther trailed them into a big rectangular hall
adjoining the previous one. As they laid Avishek on the floor at the centre of
the hall, the small crowd retreated to the walls; the walls were very cold to
touch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a name='more'></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The pundit squatted on the floor and drew a small bottle
of ghee (concentrated oil). He asked Avishek’s kaka to unwrap Avishek’s feet
and smear the ghee under the feet. After that, Avishek’s kaka touched a fingertip
of ghee to Avishek’s earlobes. Then he coated Avishek’s face generously with the
liquid; the ghee coating would ensure a smooth mukhe agoon (burning of the
mouth) by causing an immediate conflagration. I am not sure whether Avishek
would have approved of so much religiosity; although we never talked about
religion, I always felt he was a cynical person. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When we were barely familiar with our work, Avishek had
already earned some appreciation for his efforts. Although, because of his
nontechnical background, Avishek was weak in some areas, ours being an IT
company, he was equally strong in certain others. Our department had variety of
works, and our team leader, who had grown very fond of Avishek, started
assigning such works to Avishek as suited his aptitude. And Avishek started
gaining prominence as a worker. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Avishek’s nervous streak also made him a talk of the
team. Each time he stumbled upon a technical difficulty, he would set up an alarm,
running from one person to another for help. And regardless of whether people,
occupied in their own works as they were, wanted to help or not, Avishek coaxed
them into solving his problems. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Avishek and I got along very well. We started venturing
out together for beverage breaks. Avishek would call me Dada (elder brother) as
I was a few years older than him. During our breaks, Avishek did most of the
talking. He would repeatedly return to his favorite topics: advertising and music.
He liked retro musical stars and groups, like Bob Dylan, Beatles, Eagles, etc.
He used to swear by Bob Dylan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Diplomacy wasn’t Avishek’s strongest point. He would
freely express is opinions about team members before others. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As days dissolved into weeks and weeks into months, we
started knowing each other more and more. We came to know of each other’s past.
Avishek told me how his father had met with a sudden death and how his mother
insisted that the invitee list that had been used for his father’s Sardh (which
marks the cessation of the mourning period) be used for Avishek’s marriage. His
mother wanted to make sure that the last wish of his father – that Avishek
should marry the girl, Tani, he had met at<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>college who his father knew and believed to have a good
influence on Avishek – was met in a way that ensured a palpable assurance for
his departed soul. Tani, Avishek said, was a very understanding wife. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Avishek had a tendency to lie. I sometimes felt he was a
compulsive liar because his kind of lies neither helped nor harmed anyone.
However, he was not good at lie-management; he used to lose track of his past
lies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Apart from Bob Dylan and advertising, Avishek also loved
pizzas. He liked them with cheese and partnered them with Pepsi or Coke. In
fact, he so liked pizzas that he would often sponsor pizza feasts for others to
ensure company for himself and also get others to agree to pizza ignoring other
options. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Six months after joining the company, Avishek suffered a
neural attack. While working at his computer at home, he suddenly collapsed
from his chair. His body had turned cold and he was frothing at mouth. They
immediately rushed him to hospital. Some blamed his anxiety about work; some
his food habits; pizza became the favorite whipping horse for many looking for
a convincing reason for the attack. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Even when at the hospital Avishek surprised many by
refusing to part with his work. When I visited him at the hospital, I found a
stack of DVDs on one side and his office laptop on the other. His mother said
he was up since morning and working on an incomplete task. I knew the task
could be easily done by someone else of the team. Was he trying to impress a
good-looking nurse? Or was he trying to build a reputation for himself? I don’t
know. Avishek’s wife was also present there. She looked as I had pictured her:
friendly and unassuming. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Avishek had a way of running into troubles. One day,
while I was giving my work-related updates on a conference call, Avishek
suddenly burst on the call stunning everyone into silence. He was calling from
a hospital where he was undergoing treatment. He had been to a place which had
witnessed couple of bomb blasts, and he found himself within the impact
distance from one of the blast spots. He had sustained injuries in legs and
arms. He was prescribed bed rest for sometime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">By now the team had got inured to bad news about
Avishek. Beyond the customary whimpers of sympathy and surprise, there wasn’t
much in the way of reaction. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">One evening, while I was working at office, my cell rang
– Avishek was calling from his hometown, Calcutta, where he was vacationing. “Dada,
everything is over,” Avishek blurted out on my cell. “What happened?” I asked. He
said his mother passed away in sleep and the doctors said it was a serious
heart attack. I was in another city, and there was nothing much I could do to
help Avishek other than helplessly hear him repeatedly fall into howls of
bawling punctuated with ‘I have lost everything’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I tried consoling him, but my voice sank in the loud
gusts of Avishhek’s shrieks. Then something occurred to me – Bev, our team
leader. Only Bev could calm Avishek – she had done it many times in the past. Bev
worked out of our New York office and we the Bangalore office. I called Bev on
her cell. It took her a while to recover from the shock the news administered;
she said she wanted to talk to Avishek. Later Bev told me she had managed to
calm him down considerably. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It took Avishek a long to reconcile with his mother’s
demise; more so because the doctors said she had been nursing a weak heart for
a long time, and that proper checkups and medication could have prevented the sudden
attack. Avishek would often break into sobs, blaming himself. He would say they
never suspected his mother could harbor such a life-claiming ailment because
she looked so hale and hearty. Avishek started drinking with a vengeance. The
steady deterioration of his mental and physical health started becoming evident
in his appearance– shrunk and pallid. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Sometimes he would burst into his jovial self only to
lapse into spasms of depression again. I felt he was looking for an answer
which was eluding him. He once told me that he had joined therapeutic classes.
But I didn’t hear him talk about his classes since.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Gradually, although Avishek stopped talking about his mother
and his emotional turmoil, the tragedy left a strong imprint on Avishek’s
personality. He became very sensitive towards criticism. Even a mild rebuff
would send him into depths of self-pity. He thought he was a warehouse of flaws
that would have to be set right before the world would start understanding him.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Around the same time we started hearing the rumblings of
recession. Among the most affected sectors was IT. The news papers were full of
stories about lay offs. Each day a team member had a story about someone he or
she knew had been laid off. Our US headquarters repeatedly assured us that our
jobs were secure, but it only gave us the feeling of being marooned on an
island around which the world was in a state of constant turmoil and that the
turmoil would grip the island sooner or later. We are still waiting for the bad
times to get over. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">One day following my bath, when I was getting ready to
venture out for lunch, my cell phone rang. It was Avishek’s wife. “Indrasish,
everything is over for us: Avishek is no more,” she said in one breath. She had
got up in the morning and found Avishek’s body stiff. When the body continued
to be stiff even after half an hour or so, she called their family physician. The
doctor said Avishek be admitted in hospital. The hospital declared him dead a
few minutes after admission. It was a massive heart attack, they informed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As they laid the body on an iron trolley that led into
the burner, everybody joined their hands in obeisance. As Avishek’s mama
started performing mookhe agoon and the flames started catching up, one of the
pallbearers erected the trolley and pushed it into the burner. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The whole of 2008 was littered with problems and
tragedies for Avishek. He used to often say, “Hopefully the next year will
bring some respite for me.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Avishek passed away in April 2009.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">***</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #121213; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">READ MORE from Indrasish at his blog <a href="http://indrasishblog.blogspot.in/" style="color: #000066; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Indrasishblog</a>, where you'll find film reviews, literary criticism and other less emotionally charged stories from his life. I quite like the opening to his March 12 post, <a href="http://indrasishblog.blogspot.com/2012/03/iron-lady-great-biopic.html" style="color: #000066; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">The Iron Lady</a>: "</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Usually, I am not my own man when it comes to choosing the movie I want to watch."</span></span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-47416323683240644142012-05-03T22:28:00.000-07:002012-05-03T22:28:58.576-07:00Shady Promises<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">[Prompt provided by <a href="http://storyaday.org/groups/writing-prompts/" target="_blank" title="Summer Ross's writing prompts">Summer Ross</a>: 'Shady promises oozed from...']</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"¡Viva la Revolución!" cried José Martí on May 19, 1895, breaking away from the Cuban forces and riding straight into the Spanish line and to his death.</span><br />
<div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="http://storyaday.org/donnabarker/files/2012/05/Fidel_Castro.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img alt="" class="size-medium wp-image-31 alignright" height="300" src="http://storyaday.org/donnabarker/files/2012/05/Fidel_Castro-225x300.jpg" width="225" /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Fifty-eight years later, in 1953, inciting the 160 members of 'The Movement' to rise up against President General Batista, Fidel Castro encouraged, "In a few hours you will be victorious or defeated, but regardless of the outcome–listen well, friends–this Movement will triumph. If you win tomorrow, the aspirations of Martí will be fulfilled sooner. If we fail, our action will nevertheless set an example for the Cuban people, and from the people will arise fresh new men willing to die for Cuba."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"¡Viva la Revolución!" chanted the tens of thousands, lead by Ernest "Che" Guevera on New Year's Day 1959, the day after President General Batista fled Cuba.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Three months later, to cheers in Revolution Square, shady promises oozed from under Prime Minister Fidel Castro's scraggly beard, “I will lead the country to economic and cultural progress without sacrificing individual freedoms."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And then one truth, "When we have fulfilled our promise of good government, I will cut my beard."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-34944654580267226212012-05-02T21:06:00.000-07:002012-05-02T21:10:02.985-07:00Cuban Customs<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Are you going to include <em>everything</em> on the customs declaration form?" Dave asked, an hour before landing in Cuba.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Of course."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He sighed. A sound I knew meant he had misgivings. He may have been sighing while I collected the antibiotic ointment, maternity vitamins, infant formula, Tylenol and prescription pain killers. He may too, have sighed, while we packed the night before. In fact, I'm quite sure he did. But I wasn't willing to hear it.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"If you get pulled out I'm not leaving you alone with the customs people," he said with conviction. Then he whispered, as an aside,"We're so close to Guantanamo..."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"It'll be fine. <em>I'll</em> be fine. As long as I declare everything, I'm not breaking any laws."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He sighed again. I laughed and had a flashback to a trip I'd taken to Sri Lanka by myself, the year before I met Dave. In Columbo, the capital city, soldiers with automatic rifles stood on every street corner, perched atop buildings, surveilled the parks. I'd never felt uncomfortable, even when I had one of those rifles pointed directly at my head while four soldiers ran at me, full speed, yelling. I was standing on a bridge, taking a picture of a train. In a city where the most recent terrorist bomb had exploded just three days earlier, I should have known better. My faux-pas was considered serious. But just for a moment. My Canadian passport was my 'get out of jail free' card.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Perhaps I was naive. But Cuba, and the possibility of upsetting a customs agent, and our proximity to Guantanamo Bay, made no impact on me.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">At customs, Dave and I were separated. All couples were. Dave carried the suitcase with our bathing suits and aloe vera lotion, and the carry-on that held our Kobos and headphones. I dragged the suitcase and carry-on we were leaving behind in Cuba. Dave's bags went through the x-ray machine. Several other Vancouverites and Calgarians similarly walked through the screening without incident. The agents appeared to be asleep with their eyes open.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">My carry-on entered the x-ray machine. The man with the sleepy eyes raised his right hand high and yelled something. Then he looked at me and pointed to the bag, "Yours?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Yes," I said.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"What?" he asked, pointing again at the bag.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Glasses," I said, taking my own off my face and pointing at them.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">As the saying goes, that's when all hell broke loose. Five agents and a security guard surrounded me. I could tell the security guard from the others by the fact that he wore a serious scowl and a gun. The female customs agents, by contrast, wore high heels, super-short skirts and blouses that emphasized their generous assets. <em>Toto, we are not in Kansas anymore.</em></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">My bags and I were escorted to an open area at the side of the large customs room. Dave was told to wait for me outside. He refused but was prevented from entering the roped area I was now standing in. I smiled, nodded to the agents and motioned my request to say goodbye to my husband. They agreed. I kissed Dave and told him I wouldn't be long, "See if you can find Pastor Moises and Jose. Maybe they can come in and explain."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Two of the five agents spoke English: the head agent and the younger of the two female agents; the one wearing the torn fishnet stockings. She smiled at me. He did not.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"What is all this?" he asked, waving his hands over my bags. "Open them! They're for the black market!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"No! It's all declared. I have a right to bring this medicine to your country," I said, surprised at my confidence. "Wait. I have a document," I pulled a one-pager from my handbag, written half in English, half in Spanish.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He read the sheet and looked me up and down, shaking his head. "Empty your bags."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">While the other four agents stood behind the table I'd been placed at, I emptied all of the medical supplies from the suitcase. "Do you want me to take out the clothes and toiletries?" I asked.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Are they yours?" the young agent asked.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Yes," I said, hoping she wouldn't test me and take out the brand new children's shoes or the size 2 jeans or the men's handkerchiefs or the six tubes of toothpaste; all the items we were bringing as a gift to the families of the two men who ran the community clinic from their Church. I closed and zipped the suitcase and placed it on the floor, away from me. I put the list of items I'd declared beside the pile of medicines. I prayed to Pastor Moises's God (since I didn't have one of my own to pray to) to keep that bag from being re-opened.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Now this one, please," she asked.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I unzipped and opened the carry-on. All of the agents simultaneously gasped.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"They're just glasses," I said, not able to hold back my smile, wondering if perhaps a spider had made its way into the bag.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"For the black market," said the head customs man.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"No! For Pastor Moises. He's outside. For a clinic. Can you talk to Pastor Moises?" I asked.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"No," he said. "How many pairs do you have?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"One hundred and forty."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"This is very, very bad," said the head agent walking away.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The junior agents spoke among themselves. Two started to write an inventory of all the medicines, checking expiry dates and making sure none of the containers had been opened. After an hour (they were working v-e-r-y slowly), the other two agents went through the exact. Same. Procedure.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Why are you looking so closely at the vitamins and baby formula?" I asked the young agent, who'd told me her name was Yanni.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Two, maybe three years ago, a tourist like you brought poisoned baby formula to our country. Many babies died. We have to be careful. Not everyone is as nice as you are."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I'd shown Yanni the pictures I brought of Pastor Moises receiving suitcases of medical supplies from other Canadian tourists. She'd immediately recognized him, "He was my pastor when I was a child. That was my church. He is a very good man. He helps a lot of people."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="http://storyaday.org/donnabarker/files/2012/05/confiscated-glasses.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img alt="" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-24" height="225" src="http://storyaday.org/donnabarker/files/2012/05/confiscated-glasses-300x225.jpg" width="300" /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">While the medicines were being examined, the reading glasses and sunglasses had been separated and counted out - not once, not twice, not even three times. Each of the four agents handled then counted every pair of glasses, enjoying themselves trying on the nicest sunglasses, posing for each other. A brand new, tags-still-on, pair of Oakleys were obviously coveted by all of them and sat to the side of the two, long runs of lenses.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">After two hours, the head agent returned. The four junior agents laid into him, waving their hands, raising their voices, shaking their heads, walking away then returning to wave and yell and shake some more. I watched from a safe distance, seated on the one hard bench in the inspection area. I rose when he finally walked toward me.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"You have caused me a great deal of trouble. My staff are upset with me because I have to follow the rules and they want to let you take the glasses. That makes me very upset with you," he stared hard at me and I could tell his anger was sincere. "You can take the medicines out to your Pastor, but we are confiscating all the glasses."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I must have smiled. I certainly didn't on purpose, but he added, "They will be destroyed."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It took another hour for the paperwork to be completed. I was given a copy and sent on my way into the now dark night. Dave, Pastor Moises, and Jose were standing in a row, arms crossed, heads bowed. Obviously exhausted from three hours of standing and waiting.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I danced to Dave, tired but laughing. I threw my arms around his neck and we kissed. "See," I said, "all that worry for nothing!"</span>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-72480427790053715542012-05-01T22:00:00.000-07:002012-05-02T21:09:38.727-07:00The Sacred Door<br />
<a href="http://storyaday.org/donnabarker/files/2012/05/Hemingway-Room-511-Ambos-Mundos.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-20" height="300" src="http://storyaday.org/donnabarker/files/2012/05/Hemingway-Room-511-Ambos-Mundos-199x300.jpg" width="199" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">With irrational enthusiasm, I opted to climb five flights of stairs and experience the hotel as I’d been lead to believe He had in the 1930s, '40s and ‘50s. My destination? A door so sacred that bus tours stop here to let tourists see it. A door so famous that it has websites devoted to what rests - and who rested - behind it. I <em>needed</em> to see this door. To open it. To step inside and breathe in the remnant oxygen molecules expelled by Him. I knew that the room behind that door would have the answer to a question I’d been too afraid to ask out loud.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I wasn’t alone in my journey up the five flights but it was my compulsion to sit where He had created His masterpieces that kept us from experiencing the offerings of the chocolate museum or spending our converted pesos on Che key-rings or photographs of vintage cars at the tourist-oriented craft fair.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“You’d rather visit an empty hotel room than taste world class chocolate? The heat must have melted your brain,” my husband, Dave said.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“You don’t understand! His energy will still be in that room. I need to stand in his chi, to absorb his vital force.”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The door to room 511 was grubby and stained, the residue of thousands of hands having pushed it open, many like me, with reverence. I truly believed that if I opened the door slowly enough, quietly enough, I might catch Hemingway at his typewriter, bleeding his stories on to the pages. But the room was empty of men. His bed was made and roped off, making it difficult--but not impossible--to lay where Papa had once slept and dreamed. His typewriter sat under the cover of a plexi-glass box, its keys protected from dust and the inexpert fingers of wannabes, like me.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I stood and I gazed and I closed my eyes and I breathed deeply and I tried to open myself to the brilliance that I knew must still be hanging in air, waiting to be absorbed by anyone open to receiving it. But nothing came. Room 511 was… a creative void.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“I don’t understand,” I said, almost in tears.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A Cuban man with near-perfect English stepped into the room, “So, what do you think?” he asked.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“It’s not at all what I expected. I’m disappointed,” I admitted.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Did you ever hear that the cigars made by the Romeo and Julieta cigar factory were rolled between the thighs of virgins?” he asked.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Yes.”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“And do you believe it?”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Of course not.”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Of course not! So why would you believe that simply because Ernest Hemingway is said to have stayed at the Ambos Mudos Hotel that he wrote anything here? What do you see in here?”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He didn’t leave me time to answer, “Nothing!” he said. “Hemingway lived and wrote in Havana for over twenty years, but not from this room. He lived in a giant hacienda on ten acres of land with a swimming pool and a library where he hosted friends like Ava Gardner and Gary Cooper and Jean-Paul Satre. He didn’t live in this small hotel room. The very idea is ridiculous!”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I felt like a fool. Snookered. I’d given up the chance to eat a chocolate Che Guevera head and buy grey market, communist trinkets for the false promise of artistic inspiration. As though reading my mind, the man said, “I can take you to a place where Hemingway did find inspiration-- Bar Floridita.”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“That sounds perfect,” said Dave with the enthusiasm of man who’d very quickly grown to love the Cuban rum that was served all-you-can-drink at our resort.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We sat at the bar with the Bronze, life-size Ernest, dressed as casually was we were, down to his sandals. We each ordered a ‘Hemingway daiquiri.’ Then a ‘Papa Doble,’ the same, but as Hemingway drank this lime and grapefruit slurpee, as a double.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“You know,” said our new friend, “Hemingway wrote that daiquiris felt, as you drank them, the way downhill glacier-skiing feels running through powder snow.”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Then we need to order another round because I’m not feeling the snow yet!”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="http://storyaday.org/donnabarker/files/2012/05/Hemingway-Bar-Floridita-Old-Havana-small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img alt="" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-19" height="225" src="http://storyaday.org/donnabarker/files/2012/05/Hemingway-Bar-Floridita-Old-Havana-small-300x225.jpg" width="300" /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Before I left Bar Floridita I finally had the courage to ask the question that I'd been worrying over for weeks. I leaned over to Mr. Hemingway and with drunken enthusiasm, whispered into his cold ear, “Papa, is my novel ready to be submitted to publishers?”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Papa leaned heavily on the bar and put his hand to his hip. Looking into my eyes without blinking, he said, “Donna, I write one page of masterpiece to ninety-one pages of shit. I try to put the shit in the wastebasket.”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Thank you, Papa. I’ll hire an editor.”</span>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-7535150152542787252012-03-29T15:00:00.000-07:002012-03-29T15:00:08.438-07:00Ridiculous Retribution<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.indiacarrental.org/Images/Tavera01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.indiacarrental.org/Images/Tavera01.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Indrasish, from his blog <a href="http://indrasishblog.blogspot.in/" target="_blank">Indrasishblog</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Sometimes
a sudden anger leads us to an action we don’t approve of later. But, unable to
lid our emotions, we perform it anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Our
company provides us with ‘pick-up and drop’ cab service because of our
unconventional working hours aligned to US time zone as they are. Ours is an
outsourcing company.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Although
we spend a few hours in cabs during commuting, the cab becomes a world of its
own with its characteristics and uniqueness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">You
make new cab mates, a mix of employees from various departments, and the cab
becomes a host to a mini social unit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A
part of this small and mobile social circle is the cab drivers. Some drivers
participate in small talks with employees and become a part of the circle while
others just stick to driving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But
travelling in office cab isn’t always about camaraderie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There
are two types of vehicles in service, Tata Sumo and Tavera. The latter is a
heavier one, and because of its studier built one needs to be very careful
while shutting its doors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">While
closing a door, you have to bring it close to the vehicle’s body and then give
a gentle push; otherwise, the door will shut with a bang, shaking the whole
body of the vehicle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Unmindful,
I forgot to follow the door-shutting ritual twice. And each time the driver
snapped at me. Although I apologized each time, the driver’s insolent bursts
left me feeling a little uneasy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
chauffeurs keep changing every two days or so, and there is an army of them. So
each time a chauffeur replaces an old one, you don’t see the earlier chauffeur
for sometime. The moody driver was withdrawn from our cab and I didn’t see him
for a while and somewhat forgot the incident.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Yesterday
it was his turn to drive us back home again. As I was stepping into the cab, I
heard a blast of brazen laughter behind me. There was a cluster of drivers
sharing a joke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">After
a while, in the cab, it occurred to me that maybe the driver was bragging about
the snubs he administered to me; I tried dismissing the thought as petty
concern about something whose veracity I wasn’t sure of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But,
strangely, the more I tried to wriggle out of the grip of the thought, the more
firmly it gripped me, until it led to a dull anger, seeking an outlet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As
the cab stopped in front of my house, I swung the door wide open. I got down,
but held the door at a distance. Then I slammed it into its frame. Bang! As the
driver burst into a garrulous roar, I coolly walked to my house’s main gate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Even
as I walked out of the scene, his loud verbal onslaught continued, and
reluctant to be outdone, I first asked him to shut up and then dared him to
come and stand before me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He
rushed to the spot and a full-blown remonstration followed. I used harsh words
in English and Hindi, he used some in Kannada. We didn’t follow each other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">PS:
Probably my ridiculous retribution, clumsy outburst - or whatever you may like
to call it – had to do with the fact that I tried too hard to divert my
attention from the incident and the harder I tried, the more focused I became.
Maybe sometimes we should just relax and let a concern die its own death and
not try hard to stamp it out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">READ MORE from Indrasish at his blog <a href="http://indrasishblog.blogspot.in/" target="_blank">Indrasishblog</a>, where you'll find film reviews, literary criticism and other less emotionally charged stories from his life. I quite like the opening to his March 12 post, <a href="http://indrasishblog.blogspot.com/2012/03/iron-lady-great-biopic.html" target="_blank">The Iron Lady</a>: "</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Usually, I am not my own man when it comes to choosing the movie I want to watch."</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-2944482809730945712012-03-26T16:00:00.000-07:002012-03-26T17:08:44.414-07:00Murder on Main Street<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://imgc.allpostersimages.com/images/P-473-488-90/30/3056/QEHDF00Z/posters/brattleboro-vermont-view-of-main-street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://imgc.allpostersimages.com/images/P-473-488-90/30/3056/QEHDF00Z/posters/brattleboro-vermont-view-of-main-street.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By
Martha Moravec, excerpted from her blog <a href="http://marthamoravec.com/blog/" target="_blank">Mad Genius Bohemians</a></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Brattleboro,
Vermont has been my home for thirty-eight years. When I first arrived, I
was told by a number of people that I would have to be a resident for sixty
years in order to be considered a Vermonter. Fair enough. I was
there to get through college. I had no intention of staying on, as I had
no desire to strike root in a place where I didn’t feel especially welcome.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">I
did stay, however – in fact, I never left – because I happened to have landed
in Brattleboro and Brattleboro was the kind of big small town that just took
you in. Whether you were a low-residency psychiatric patient from the
Brattleboro Retreat, a Colombian or Japanese student from the Experiment in
International Living, a Cambodian refugee, an aging hippie or a transplanted
artist, writer or musician, you were tolerated, you were absorbed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">While
at college, I began writing the books and lyrics for five musicals that were
being produced as fast as my collaborator and I could turn them out. One
of my lyrics shaded my nostalgia for Beaver PA, the hometown of my parents,
into my new sentiment for Brattleboro, which was beginning to feel like home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><i>If
it were mud or made of stone, <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><i>If
it were cobble or clay, <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><i>I
still would never walk alone <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><i>Down
Main Street USA.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">I
could tell you more about Brattleboro (and I probably will eventually) but if
you live in a small town or a big town, a reasonably sized city, a city with
distinct neighborhoods or a village in Surrey, Guangxi or Mpumalanga, you
probably know what I mean.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><i>There
would be no one to disturb <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><i>But
an old friend on the way; <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><i>There’s
always someone on the curb <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><i>Of
Main Street USA.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><a href="http://marthamoravec.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/09/brattfire_on_041711_ap_photo_brattleboro_fire_department_jason_henske_ap1103300117776.jpg"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></a></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">This
summer, the town of Brattleboro, which proudly hosts annual events like the
Harris Hill ski-jumping competition, the Women’s Film Festival, the Vermont
Theatre Company’s Shakespeare-in-the-Park, the Brattleboro Literary Festival,
the Marlboro Music Festival (in nearby Marlboro) and the Strolling of the
Heifers (a jubilant celebration of sustainable local agriculture), also
unexpectedly played host to a series of misfortunes whose psychological effects
were very likely magnified by their proximity in time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">The
season began with a disastrous fire at Brooks House, one of the town’s
historical and architectural prizes on the corner of Main and High
Streets. The gutting of the top two floors of this landmark building left
seventy people without homes, while smoke and water damage closed ten
street-level businesses. Some of the businesses relocated and re-opened
within two weeks, some we might see again in a year and others we will never
see again. We lost the Book Cellar, one of the smartest independent
bookstores I have ever been in, and for a time we feared losing the Brooks
House tower, which gives that part of Main Street its distinctive profile and
provided Archer Mayor with a suspenseful site for a chase in one of his Joe
Gunther novels.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">If
we were feeling complacent after the fire because Brattleboro expects a
disaster of that magnitude only once a year, we were startled and dismayed when
a few months later another prized historical and architectural feature on Main
Street was wiped out by an impatient truck driver.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Listed
on the National Register of Historic Buildings, the Latchis Memorial Building
(which houses a hotel, a brewery, several theatres and businesses) is one of
only two authentic Art Deco structures in the state of Vermont. Built in
1938, the Greek Revival-themed interior of its movie palace and old vaudeville
house is near and dear to our hearts. The impatient truck driver drove up on
the sidewalk in an effort to get around some cars that were – I don’t know –
stopped for a red light? It’s difficult to imagine what he was thinking,
but let us be glad he didn’t take out any pedestrians and merely completely
mangled the Latchis Theatre’s classic marquee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">People
started asking, what the hell is going on?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">On
July 29 the body of a woman in her early thirties was discovered in the woods
off the East-West Road in nearby Dummerston. She had been shot in the
head by, it was quickly discovered, her boyfriend and a buddy. All three
of them were involved in “drug-related activity,” specifically the sale of
crack cocaine. This event, although unfortunate, did not have a notable
impact on the local mood and media.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Maybe
drug dealers are expected to shoot each other in the head but old hippie types
who subscribe to wellness, social change and sustainable living are not.
The death of the woman on the East-West Road acquired a new significance and
air of menace when it was followed two weeks later by a shooting at the
Brattleboro Food Co-op. The Co-op had just opened for the day when an
employee who had recently received a poor job evaluation walked quietly into
the store and shot and killed the general manager.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://marthamoravec.com/2011/09/murder-on-main-street/" target="_blank">READ THE REST of Murder of Main Street</a> at Mad Genius Bohemians.</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-43806460120493671192012-03-15T16:00:00.000-07:002012-03-15T16:00:00.632-07:00Developmental Milestones<br />
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<a href="http://theskyechronicles.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/img_0639.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://theskyechronicles.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/img_0639.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Ife Togun, excerpted from his blog <a href="http://theskyechronicles.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">The Skye Chronicles</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Skye
turned one month old on Saturday, which means a number of things should have
happened by now including but not limited to:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;">Lifts
head for short periods of time</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;">Prefers
the human face to other shapes</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;">Brings
hands to face</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;">May
turn towards familiar sounds or voices</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;">Blinks
at bright lights</span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Skye
mastered all of these and moved on to some of the behaviors reserved for two
month olds, such as tracking moving objects, smiling, and making noises other
than crying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">I
know, I know, I’m likely making the proud father mistake of taking meaningless
gestures as signs of advanced baby genius. But it’s hard not to. At
least not until such a time around the age of sixteen when she goes on a
nationally televised high school quiz show in <span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Washington, D.C.</span>, and
proceeds to embarrass me by proclaiming “Texas” as the capital of the United
States. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Only
then…perhaps. Until then, super baby genius. I’ve already started
reading her “A <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Brief_History_of_Time"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Brief History
of Time</span></a>,” and she seems to like it. She stares at my mouth
with rapt attention as <a href="http://www.last.fm/music/Stephen%2BHawking"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Stephen
Hawking</span></a>’s words flow from it. Of course, it may just be the
cadence of my voice. But again, until that fateful day in D.C., I’m
sticking with the super baby genius angle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><a href="http://theskyechronicles.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/img_0433.jpg"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Now
that Skye’s a month old, it’s time to return to the doctor’s office at <span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Kidcare
Pediatrics</span>. We’ve been back once before, at 2-weeks, for a
routine check up. This time is different though. This time Skye has
to get another immunization shot. All the shots and tests are not
fun. The last time Skye got stuck with a needle, it was for the battery
of tests required by either the state or the federal government to ensure she
doesn’t have any odd illnesses that need to be immediately addressed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">I
literally had to hold her down as a buxom, jovial, black nurse named Angie,
squeezed her heel with the strength of a thousand pound press, and stuck a
needle into it to draw blood. Imagine holding something so fragile in
your arms, telling her it’ll be okay. She trusts you. She’s
calm. And then, contrary to your word, it is not okay. A needle
enters her tiny heel and she starts to cry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><a href="http://theskyechronicles.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/img_0576.jpg"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Once
she is able, through her moist, red eyes she levels you with a gaze of anger
and loathing you would not have thought possible of an infant. It
reminded me of growing up as a kid in Nigeria, watching my father and his
friends slaughtering chickens in the backyard. Sometimes, after losing
their heads, the chickens’ bodies would kick into survival mode and they’d take
off in a headless, manic run. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">But did they head for the men who lopped
off their heads? Of course not. They came for me, the skinny, well
away from the carnage 7-year-old boy, as if to say, “I knew they were mean, but
you, I trusted you! You fed me corn!” I’d run across the yard,
screaming for my mother, as the headless, flapping, soon to be dinner chicken
gave chase in a surreal reenactment of “<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Legend_of_Sleepy_Hollow"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">The Legend of
Sleepy Hollow</span></a>.” I no longer eat meat. Haven’t in years.
These “chases” likely played a part.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">At
the doctor’s office, a nurse named Debbie directs us to the “2nd to the last
door on the left” at the end of a long corridor. The room looks exactly
like all the other ones we’ve been in at KidCare, from the location of the
examination table down to the placement of the big tub of generic <a href="http://www.purell.com/"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Purell</span></a> on the table. It’s
comforting. Like finding a Burger King on a trip to rural China after
eating chicken beaks for a week.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">READ the rest of Ife's story, <a href="http://theskyechronicles.wordpress.com/2012/03/07/developmental-milestones/" target="_blank">Developmental Milestones</a>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-57786998557489046822012-03-13T16:00:00.000-07:002012-03-13T16:00:00.361-07:00Balls<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLf49lvpcCIYHRVLrTLVf6ceiQw5iK4kEJJSfly1AtI9xvA_Ngo6y36q3dkrVGLzgRNAmb-YXPhx8eyaqr4H2OrXMcZLuMAZt1hjuXHv7nklBT1D8omuOx0MviomRPc1yrpC1614YYxU/s1600/DianeDeSio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLf49lvpcCIYHRVLrTLVf6ceiQw5iK4kEJJSfly1AtI9xvA_Ngo6y36q3dkrVGLzgRNAmb-YXPhx8eyaqr4H2OrXMcZLuMAZt1hjuXHv7nklBT1D8omuOx0MviomRPc1yrpC1614YYxU/s200/DianeDeSio.jpg" width="158" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Denise DeSio, author of <a href="http://denisedesio.com/" target="_blank">Rose's Will</a>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">For
some people, sports are like soap operas. They watch one or two games and the
next thing you know, their brains turn to mush and all they can think about is
the next episode. Unfortunately, my wife has become one of them. The few
pennies we have go to Mercury tickets and when she's not at a game, she pulls
up a chair 18 inches from our 52" TV set and acts like she's in the first
row. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">It's
a progressive disease. First it was just women's basketball. Now it doesn't
matter who's playing or what game it is. If it has "ball" at the end
of it, she's interested. I stood at the stove, preparing rice pilaf and
asparagus tips for friends who were on their way to our house with steaks to
cook on the grill, when the phone rang.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">"Hello!
This is Angela from One Community. Congratulations! You've won two tickets to
the Mercury Playoff game."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">"This
is a joke, right?" It's a well-known fact that I have as much interest in
sports as a centipede has in shoes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">"No
joke," said Angela. "We just pulled your card out of our
fishbowl."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">"Really?"
I vaguely remembered dropping cards around town to advertise the publication of
my novel, Rose's Will. "Thank you," I said, trying to sound as
grateful as a sports-o-phobe could be when she's told that she's won the
equivalent of a coffee enema. "Do I have to pick them up, or will you mail
them?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">"Well,
it's tonight," she said in a tone that clearly indicated the answer should
have been obvious. "The tickets will be at the window."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">"Oh,
no!" I said, this time sounding genuinely excited instead of sadly
disappointed. "Not tonight! We're expecting company for dinner any minute.
Can we exchange them for another night (a night when Carol can go with somebody
else, I thought)?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">She
paused. "Um, this is the playoff. If the Mercury don't win, there might
not BE another night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">"Oh
boy," I said, "this is the worst good news my partner is ever going
to hear."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Carol
was standing in front of me listening to my side of the conversation and doing
what she normally gets mad at me for doing: "What? Who is it? What
news?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">I
asked Angela to hold on for a second. "We won two tickets to the Mercury
game," I paused for effect, "tonight". Her face turned from
happy clown into a horror mask. I knew that she knew that we couldn't leave our
friends standing in the doorway with four enormous T-bones while we scampered
off to the game.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">"I'm
sorry Angela (I really wasn't sorry), but we just can't." Carol groaned
loudly in the background. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">I
was right in the middle of saying "thanks anyway" when Angela said
the dreaded thing: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">"We
could give you FOUR tickets instead of two if your friends want to go with
you."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">"I
don't know about that," I said. "I'd have to ask them."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Carol
stopped groaning. "What? Ask who? What did she say?" I ignored her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">"Listen,
take my number," Angela said. "Ask your friends and call me
back." Our friends were avid sports fans and as I wrote down the number, I
realized that our plans were about to shift drastically. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">So,
yes it's true. That was me on the JumboTron, sitting in the 3rd row eating
peanuts while four perfectly delicious steaks sat in fridge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Sometimes
you just have to give in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><b>READ MORE from Denise DeSio at her <a href="http://denisedesio.com/" target="_blank">website</a></b>. If you're a writer, an aspiring author, you'll enjoy reading about her own journey publishing her debut novel, Rose's Will. There's an <a href="http://denisedesio.com/my-writing/268/" target="_blank">excerpt</a> on her website and <a href="http://denisedesio.com/reviews/roses-will-reviewed-by-celebrated-lesbian-author-je-knowles/" target="_blank">book review</a>. And lots of entertaining stories from her own (embellished?) life!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;">Buy ROSE'S WILL for</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Roses-Will-ebook/dp/B005RU3LRC/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1318726464&sr=1-1" title="Buy Rose's Will at Amazon"> Kindle</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;">Buy ROSE'S WILL for</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/roses-will-denise-desio/1104526464?ean=2940013361768&itm=1&usri=denise%2bdesio" title="Buy Rose's Will at Barnes and Noble"> Nook</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;">Buy ROSE'S WILL</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><a href="http://48fourteen.com/catalog/roses-will" title="Buy
Rose's Will directly from the publisher: 48fourteen.com">to read on your PC or laptop (use PDF file)</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;">But ROSE'S WILL for</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><a href="http://48fourteen.com/catalog/roses-will" title="Buy
Rose's Will directly from the publisher: 48fourteen.com"> all other devices (PDF, MOBI, EPUB)</a></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Inspired by Denise? Want to share your own story about taking one for the team? Details for how to submit to My Embellished Life are <a href="http://donnabarker.blogspot.com/p/add-your-story-here.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></div>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-43861172892247376572012-03-12T16:00:00.000-07:002012-03-12T16:00:05.838-07:00Road Sharks<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Peggy Strack, from her blog <a href="http://pstrack.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Kick Back Moments</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
have a 30-mile commute to work on a congested highway. The distance isn't the
biggest problem, nor is the traffic. It's the other drivers that are maddening.
If I leave home by 6:45, it's okay, but by 7:00 the trouble starts. It's as if
cruising dolphins suddenly turn into vicious sharks prepared to attack anyone
who gets in their way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">On
Thursday of this week I was running late. I left my house at 7:10. The first
twenty miles were uneventful. The sun was hovering on the horizon
and excellent tunes were popping up on my I-Pod. Then it happened.
I veered into the left lane to make room for the hordes of vehicles that
merge onto to the highway at Exit 8. As Coldplay entertained me with Viva
la Vida, I peeked into my rear view mirror and saw her--a road shark. Lead
Foot Lucy was charging toward me and within seconds was right on my tail.
Maybe you've seen her before--bulging eyes, one hand flailing, the other hand
gripping the steering wheel like it's the safety bar on a roller coaster. She
looks a little like this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
looked to my right. No room to switch to the middle lane. Lead Foot Lucy
was going to devour me. Several yards separated me from the car ahead and I
thought about accelerating, but decided not to. I like being a dolphin and
didn't want to catch the shark virus. I refused to be intimidated into causing
an accident or getting a speeding ticket. Lead Foot Lucy didn't like my decision
and inched closer. Why was she in such a rush anyway? Was she on her way to
save the global economy? And if she was, maybe she should have left home
earlier. She was really starting to annoy me so I took a kick back moment.
Relax and enjoy the show. I cruised along a touch above the speed limit. After
all, I was in the passing lane. (Sidebar question: Does the speed limit
increase to whatever you want it to be in the passing lane, or is the speed
limit the speed limit?) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
looked in the rear view mirror again. Lead Foot Lucy's chin was almost touching
the steering wheel and her teeth were clenched. I chuckled, but it really
wasn't funny. She could have easily caused a multi-car pile-up and I'd be the
first victim. Just then free space opened up in the middle lane. Within
two notes of the song playing on my I-Pod, Lucy sped past, then darted in front
of me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The highway
ended and I sat in my car waiting at a traffic light right behind Lead
Foot Lucy. We ended up in the exact same spot at the exact same time. If I had
succumbed to her pressure to speed up, we might have gotten through that
traffic light a little sooner, maybe by three minutes, at the most. Is three
minutes worth a blood pressure spike, heartbeat acceleration and an overall
crazed feeling? When the green arrow appeared, Lead Foot Lucy zipped around the
corner. I smiled and waved, but she didn't even notice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So
how do you drive when you're in a rush to get somewhere. Are you a cruising
dolphin or a vicious shark?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>READ MORE of Peggy's <a href="http://pstrack.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Kick Back Moments</a>.</b> Peggy says her blog is "a place where the art of relaxing, laughing and slowing down are explored." Each week she posts one original story, a song and a book recommendation. It's a fun blog with lots of great for kicking back photos.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>Want to drive along with a real road shark?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As I was getting this post ready, the news was on. I only half-listen but the sound of a speeding car caught my attention. It was a story of a Japanese doctor who put a camera in his Ferrari, filmed himself driving at 140 km/hour (on the highway and in residential areas) and then... posted his <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uxCmVkzYmpo" target="_blank">video to YouTube</a>. Guess what? He's been charged with dangerous driving.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And now it's your turn to share a story. Cruising dolphins and vicious sharks are welcome to contribute to My Embellished Life. <a href="http://donnabarker.blogspot.com/p/add-your-story-here.html" target="_blank">Find out how here</a>.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-4644201173952519362012-03-11T10:00:00.000-07:002012-03-11T10:00:01.877-07:00When I was a nun<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwpP70hTpUAmrtE8RNzRPmG5bCme4a2OZJlx96JVVdpEw93Q_sYKqb_0MZVMoiWsXP_tKZZc4RcfUY7JgrXUelsA0vHsPTv_YzEm4AEkvB-vIJ11pmx5xPADY6eCk3jLhlJFoTZTU5vYw/s1600/iStock_000002926948No1311.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwpP70hTpUAmrtE8RNzRPmG5bCme4a2OZJlx96JVVdpEw93Q_sYKqb_0MZVMoiWsXP_tKZZc4RcfUY7JgrXUelsA0vHsPTv_YzEm4AEkvB-vIJ11pmx5xPADY6eCk3jLhlJFoTZTU5vYw/s320/iStock_000002926948No1311.jpg" width="213" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Donna Barker</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When I was a kid I had a few different career aspirations. I
remember two of them quite clearly:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As a teenager I had it in my head that I would become an
RCMP officer. I loved the idea of upholding the law and riding horses and
having a gun. I didn’t get far down that path, however. I did learn to shoot a
rifle, but an astute career counselor and a battery of personality tests
directed me away from any career that would require me to follow rules.
Apparently, I believe in following the law, but boy do I despise rules!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The other career I recall wanting to follow was when I was
much younger. Some age in elementary school. I wanted to be a nun. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It didn’t worry me that I wasn’t being raised Catholic. Nor
did it worry my grandmother, Nonny. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Nonny came from
a long line of Anglican ministers - starting back in 1845. Her brother was
an Arch-Deacon and a good friend of the Reverend Billy Graham (the only TV
evangelist she watched). My dad’s generation was the first in over 100 years that
failed to provide the family with their Reverend... so I guess she thought that
making up for that lapse with a wee little nun wouldn’t be a bad thing.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’d forgotten all about that goal... And about the time I
came home from Bible Camp and tried to secretly convert my 3-year-old brother
to a born-again Christian life. (Oddly, my parents didn't send me back to that
camp the following summer...).</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But two weeks ago these old lives of mine came flooding back
(I'm sure if I thought hard I could come up with a clever Biblical pun, but
those really are <i>old</i> lives). What happened two weeks ago? I had a past life
reading and guess what? Several hundred years, but only two lives ago, I was …
a nun!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s true. I lived in Rome. I was very devout and I never
sinned. But – and this is the information that has me convinced that the
reading is accurate – I was a nun who challenged certain rules of my Church.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Apparently, I could not reconcile the fact that, as a woman
of God, I could only show my devotion with my spirit. I wanted to use my body as
well. I was one of those progressive nuns who believed that we should be able
to serve God and be allowed to experience not just spiritual but bodily ecstasy as well.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It may have been several hundred years and two lifetimes
ago, but I still hold that same belief… why have the ability to feel spiritual,
emotional and physical pleasure (and pain, of course) and not explore all of
these as fully as we can?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I think I’ll get a piercing or a tattoo tomorrow…</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Have you ever had a past life reading? Or do you just have an innate sense of who you were in a past life? If so, share your story here at <a href="http://donnabarker.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">My Embellished Life</a>. Guidelines - which I guess I'd have to excuse you for breaking - are <a href="http://donnabarker.blogspot.com/p/add-your-story-here.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And if you enjoyed this post, please read some of the other wonderful writers who have contributed to this community blog. And leave a comment or a Google + on one you particularly enjoy. We all love a virtual high-five.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-25317313697905566952012-03-10T10:00:00.000-08:002012-04-03T09:46:59.764-07:00Identify Yourself<br />
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<a href="http://www.writevictoria.com/uploads/2/9/4/2/2942703/6662211.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.writevictoria.com/uploads/2/9/4/2/2942703/6662211.jpg" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By
Victoria Opalewski, from her blog, <a href="http://www.writevictoria.com/progressblog.html" target="_blank">A Survivor’s Write</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;">When
I first moved to a small town in Iowa, it bothered me when every single person
I met asked the same question, “What are you going to do?” And no, they
didn’t mean for fun, like my friends in the city did when they asked the same
thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;">In
modern cliché business terms, my new neighbors wanted to know what was my
“value-added?” They didn’t want me to be “low-hanging fruit.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;">At
first I was offended; shouldn’t they be excited I was moving into their little
town? Didn’t they know how much I was going to be missed in my last
community?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;">No.
You’re only as good as what you bring to the table tonight, and they wanted to
know what need I was going to fulfill in their town. They had no use for
someone just taking up space.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;">People
have specific expectations of people in different roles. However, I
quickly relearned that people must fill multiple roles, especially in small
towns. For example, one woman is a mom to two teenage boys and teaches
Jazzercise, but she’s also an accountant and runs the bowling alley with her
husband and teaches confirmation at one of the churches. And those are
just the parts I know about her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;">We’re
all made up of many different facets. There’s the version of you that
your grandparents see, the one seen by your spouse, your colleagues, your
parents and siblings, the waiter or waitress you flirt with. Add in the
people who used to know you, and there’s still more pieces. People who
knew you in college or high school have a version of you forever fixed in their
minds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;">But,
this year, in this town, I’m a writer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;">If
only it were that easy: just label yourself who or what you wanted to be, and
voila! So it is. But the truth is the reflections of our identity are
endless. They’re all versions of real; they each tell a piece of the
story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Over
the years, I know people came to see me in a certain way because I was a high
school English teacher. You could easily hear it in the first five
minutes of conversation, You teach high school? Man, I do not envy
you. And English you said? I hated English. Wait, you’re not
correcting my grammar right now, are you? As much as these reactions
became monotonous, they were also comforting in their predictability. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;">When
I made the choice to leave teaching to pursue writing full-time for a year, the
reaction from my colleagues varied:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Wow,
that’s awesome! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Really?
You’re crazy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Huh.
I just don’t even know what I would do if I didn’t teach. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;">That
last one’s probably why the initial question from the Iowans about what I was
going to do bothered me so much. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Although
I’ve tried to tell others that what you do for a job doesn’t equal who you are,
without my job to define me, I wasn’t sure how to explain who I was, especially
quickly, in a casual conversation. Had I really gotten that lazy, that
the sum of who I was amounted to what I listed on my tax return as my
occupation? Since I don’t believe that in other people, I was shocked
that I would tolerate it from myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;">We
are made up of more than the jobs we do, but it’s not until we’re forced to
defend leaving the safety of that niche that we really learn how much our
pigeon hole mattered to us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.writevictoria.com/uploads/2/9/4/2/2942703/6662211.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">A
mold can be a useful tool in guiding something’s shape, but there will always
be a few that don’t slide smoothly from the mold. In writing my memoir
and living as a writer for more than half a year in a new state and town, I’ve
decided that’s better anyway. Mold can also be the furry decay of organic
material that we easily discard because it looks bad. However, a lot of
times, if you have a bit of courage, you’ll find it’s still useable. You
just have to take the time to scrape away the intimidating layer of color to
determine what’s underneath.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">READ MORE from Victoria at her blog, <a href="http://www.writevictoria.com/progressblog.html" target="_blank">A Survivor's Write</a>. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Here is the opening for one of her posts called <a href="http://www.writevictoria.com/2/post/2012/01/patience-elevated.html" target="_blank">Patience, Elevated</a>, "Patience is a virtue, or so they tell us. I've never had time for it myself." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Anyone who knows me personally knows my own struggle with practicing patience. Case in point: I was married for fourteen years, he left me without any warning, and I started dating in under a month. I knew I'd start dating again eventually so - why wait? Well, six years later I can give you dozens of reasons, but in that moment, "patience" was a dirty word. A weak word. Anyway! Enough about me. Grab a cup of tea and read more from Victoria. Her stories are much more entertaining, touching and inspiring than what you'll find meandering around YouTube to kill time while you wait for... something else.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And... if you'd like to share your own story about patience or your lack of it, or anything else for that matter, do come back to <a href="http://www.donnabarker.blogspot.com/p/add-your-story-here.html" target="_blank">My Embellished Life</a> and share it with us.</span></div>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-85247639005233262962012-03-08T13:00:00.000-08:002012-03-08T13:00:03.770-08:00The Rollover<br />
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<a href="http://sonofjames.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/oldfarm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://sonofjames.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/oldfarm.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Contributed by Ken Rosentr</span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Arial;">ater, from his blog <a href="http://sonofjames.wordpress.com/"><span style="color: #0022e4;">Matters of Worldview</span></a></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">It was a green ‘<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/55_Chevy"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">55 Chevy</span></a> station wagon. My
Dad bought it for me the previous summer. (We hardly had any money in 1969; I
had none.) It was ugly but fun. We called it The Pickle.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">In early February 1970, the Pickle and I were
wending northward on the two lane ribbon from <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?ll=36.7472222222,-95.9594444444&spn=0.1,0.1&q=36.7472222222,-95.9594444444%20(Bartlesville%2C%20Oklahoma)&t=h"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Bartlesville,
OK</span></a> to Wichita, KS where my fiancée was a student at <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?ll=37.6783333333,-97.3666666667&spn=0.01,0.01&q=37.6783333333,-97.3666666667%20(Friends%20University)&t=h"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Friends
University</span></a>. The purpose was to bring Annette back down to
Bartlesville for the weekend college Valentine banquet.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I had just removed the snow tires, snow being
long gone in Bartlesville. The ones I put back on the car were nearly
treadless. Big deal. The roads were all dry. Just north of Winfield, KS,
the rain began. I passed a car at about 60 mph. The driver told me later he was
concerned about that. Silly guy thought I was going too fast. I’d been on this
road enough times to predict the next 4 curves at any point on the journey. On
a very familiar section, I glided into a gentle, easy right-hander. It had been
recently patched, but I didn’t know that. The patched area was a smooth, mostly
tar, surface. The Pickle lost traction and got sideways.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The tires then encountered normal pavement and
got their grip back. Get this: I left the road on the inside of the curve! Ever
heard of that? Down the embankment. Up the other side, still trying to steer my
way out of of my self-inflicted predicament. Back down that embankment. Doom
approaching.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">When the left front tire caught the slope back up
to the highway (I’m currently below the road surface) it flipped me. Noise.
Chaos. Rattles and bangs. Popped out windshield – one piece. Tire iron and huge
jack levitating somewhere in back. No seatbelt (not invented yet in ’55 autos).
Head banging on the left door post every time the thing took another roll for
the top. That would be 3 times, because we rolled 2 ½, coming to a stop on the
roof. That was the noisiest experience my ears had suffered in my 19 years.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The car had rolled along the bottom “V” of the
two embankments, pinching the nose and rear of the car down into a goofy
imitation of a pea pod. I was lying out full length on the roof, feet in the
back cargo area, hands still gripping the steering wheel. The engine had
stopped. Still, I reached up (not down) to the ignition key and turned it off.
I opened the door (yes, it worked fine) and climbed out, just as the
trepidatious fellow I had recently passed tentatively drove onto the grassy
shoulder. He said he was “never so glad to see a car door open” as when he saw
me emerge from the broken, dripping Pickle. When I stood up, I noticed one
front tire was still rotating. The windshield was lying in the grass on the
bank a few yards away, barely cracked. The only personal damage was a slightly
chipped tooth and a small bruise on my pelvis. Oh, and the pride.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I sold the thing to a junk dealer for $50. A
bemused friend drove up from Bartlesville to get me to Wichita to meet my
wondering future wife, and we all drove back in the dark. By then there was a
blinding blizzard going on. This adventure took most of the night. (Wesley
Goss, thank you, wherever you are.)</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I did stop by the junkyard a few times on later
trips to pay my respects to The Pickle. Somewhere in a box I still have a
forlorn photo.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Read more stories from Ken, aka sonofjames, at <a href="http://sonofjames.wordpress.com/"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Matters of Worldview</span></a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Post your own story of a lucky escape, your first
car, your first love - or all three! - here, at <a href="http://donnabarker.blogspot.com/p/add-your-story-here.html"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">My
Embellished Life</span></a>. Oh - and drive safe and please, wear your seat belt!</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-51322778323412900052012-03-07T14:00:00.000-08:002012-03-07T14:00:01.928-08:00The Fairy Tale<br />
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<a href="http://thinkingwomansguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/3d_book3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://thinkingwomansguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/3d_book3.jpg" width="148" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Contributed by Pamela Turley, author of <a href="http://thinkingwomansguide.com/" target="_blank">The Thinking Woman's Guide to Men</a></span></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>I was taking a break from work, flipping through the
channels, when I came upon the series finale of 'Sex and the City'. You know,
the one where Carrie goes to Paris with Petrovsky, only to discover that he is
an incorrigible narcissist with an inferiority complex, who either ignores her
for his "work" or demands her undivided attention when his needs
require it. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Carrie tries to oblige, being the obliging sort, but you
painfully watch her slip from disillusionment to despair as the realization of
who this man really is dawns on her. She gave up everything she knew to be with
him. Now she is left wandering around a strange, foreign place, lonely and
alone, a mere appendage and companion to an "important" man. This is
not what she signed up for. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Elation, dreams of romance in the City of Lights, hope for a
future - all collapse around her during the final fight of the relationship.
When she protests his treatment of her, he calmly states: "I thought I
made it clear who I was." She replies, "Well, maybe it's time I made
it clear who I am. I am a person who wants love - deep, all-encompassing,
can't-be-without-each-other love." </div>
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But, of course, it's too late now. The problem began in the
beginning. From the start, Carrie got lost in her romance-novel fantasies and
projected them on the situation. Who can blame her, really? Here was a
world-famous artist, rich, sophisticated and worldly, and he seemed captivated
by her. It's natural to want it more than anything you've wanted before. It’s
natural to believe you just won the romantic lottery. </div>
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But the red flags were there. Remember the disastrous dinner
party Petrovsky hosted for her friends while he sat silent and judgmental?
Remember when she spontaneously brought the girls by to meet him one evening
and he turned them away, only to justify himself by wallowing in artist angst?
She compromised and excused little by little until there was nothing left to
compromise but her soul. </div>
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Say what you want about 'Sex and the City'. In the midst of
the ditsy-ness and glamour, there are lessons to be learned here. In the
beginning of your relationship, no matter how rich or powerful the man, create
your own boundaries. Never give up your life. And always remember: If it's too
good to be true, it probably isn't. An ounce of reality is worth a thousand pounds
of broken romantic dreams. </div>
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Luckily for Carrie, she had the guts to leave her
unrealistic fantasies of Petrovsky behind. She left him standing in the
expensive hotel suite. She is at the front desk, negotiating a new room when in
walks none other than Mr. Big, who has come to Paris to search for her. She is
saved! </div>
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Cheesy, right? A complete fairy-tale with every bad cliché
from every bad chic flick. Well, I'll tell you a secret. I cried. Me, the big
testosterone tough-girl cried. Why? Because in our little girl hearts that's
what we all want, isn't it, whether it's realistic or not. We want Mr. Big -
the hard one, the commitment-phobe, the one who seems to have everything but us
- to discover that it is exactly us that is missing from his life. We want him
to be the good guy. We want him to say, with tears in his eyes, "It took
me a long time to get here. But you are the One." And then we want him to
take us home. </div>
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It's so easy in the movies. Things can work out like that.
And because it seems so right to us, and appeals to our little girl longings,
somewhere inside us, we believe it. And then we try - we bloody our fingers
trying, against all odds - to re-create the fairy tale. And that, my sisters,
is where the heartbreak begins.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Pamela has written a book for all us sisters, trying to navigate the world of men, which you can find <a href="http://thinkingwomansguide.com/" target="_blank">here</a>. If you have a story with a fairy tale ending or not, add it to the comments on this <a href="http://donnabarker.blogspot.com/p/add-your-story-here.html" target="_blank">My Embellished Life</a> page and I'll give you your own post and promote it to my networks.</span></div>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-36541217672845761352012-03-06T13:43:00.000-08:002012-03-06T13:43:45.328-08:00Cherry Hookers<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh40A1kKTmRPN2pBhs3WwpUu0pNhSNtoIEO3zktGmhRXuXCDxpQovaVwhjFTHXFsJkjS5fDDr2k12HUGyu-2jczqn8RkaWxLLbpNYZ6lO6nW8Cw707v14k4gVTE9JpsjpQ60HT2scgjmis/s1600/cherry+hooker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh40A1kKTmRPN2pBhs3WwpUu0pNhSNtoIEO3zktGmhRXuXCDxpQovaVwhjFTHXFsJkjS5fDDr2k12HUGyu-2jczqn8RkaWxLLbpNYZ6lO6nW8Cw707v14k4gVTE9JpsjpQ60HT2scgjmis/s200/cherry+hooker.jpg" width="166" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Chris, from her blog <a href="http://ahairdressersdiaries.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">A Hairdresser's Diaries</a>.</span></div>
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Marilyn, a very good friend, was having a bridal shower for
her daughter Lynne. The decision for not having strippers at either the shower
or the stag was agreed upon by all. She was not sure how to make the shower fun
without the silly games and party favors. So she decided to have the shower at
a hotel and local bar so no one would have to drive home inebriated. </div>
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I have never been a drinker. I did, however, like one drink that my sister learned to make
in Bartending School. The love of cherries was my downfall. The drink was
called, ‘A Cherry Hooker:’ cherry brandy and orange juice with 3 cherries
impaled on a plastic skewer. I always requested a whole lot more orange juice
and a lot less brandy. </div>
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It was quite the joke about my heavy drinking. My kids
teased me saying, “If you even open a beer bottle in the same room as Mom, she
gets drunk.” I was a cheap date to say the least. I was looking forward to the
night out and figured I would nurse one drink. Therefore, anyone I didn’t know
would not ask questions. I did not advertise my drinking habits as sometimes I
found I was defending myself. I was also not familiar with the new-fangled
drinks that were circulating the bars. </div>
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I will not say I am a prude, but I am a bit naive. When I
arrived at the hotel, everyone else was already seated at a table. I knew most
of the girls, but there were a couple new faces. We had our introductions.
Marilyn then asked, “Who wants a drink?” </div>
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The hands were flying in the air and an array of drink names
shouted out. Marilyn waved her arms and said, “I think the late-comer should
place the order.” Everyone thought that was a great idea. I of course was the
late-comer.</div>
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“Okay,” I said, “What is everyone drinking?” Marilyn looked
at me and smiled, “You’ll have to memorize the drink names; they’re not what
you are used to.” </div>
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“Not a problem. I will write them down.” Then I asked, “Why
don’t we just give the order to the waitress?” </div>
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Lynne piped up and said, “If you give them to the bartender
first, the waitress can just keep filing our orders for the rest of the night.”
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I shrugged, “Okay no problem.” I started to write,” So
what’s the order?” I was surprised at the list, but I was assured I had it
written down properly. Off to the bartender I went. Now I was sitting on the
high stool looking straight into the face of this very handsome, young man.
Behind me, I could hear giggles, but didn’t pay too much attention. I needed to
concentrate on the drink list. Oh boy, where was I to start? Okay I would start
with the simple ones first. </div>
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Leslie wanted a Screwdriver. With that, the bartender
nodded. Carol wanted a Planters Punch, again a nod. Betty wanted a Slow Screw?
Yep, that one was okay but with that one, he smiled. Lynne, ordered a Slow
Screw with a twist? Whew, this was getting a little embarrassing. The bartender
didn’t even miss a beat. Now for Cathy’s she wants an Orgasm. By now I was
getting a bit flustered and had my face lowered and my hand shielding my eyes.
Now flabbermouth blurted out, “Do you know how to make a Happy Hooker?”</div>
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“No, my dear but I do know how to make a hooker happy.” With
that, everyone at the table burst out laughing. These wonderful ladies had set
me up. The bartender was in on the whole deal. The drinks were indeed real
drinks, but the girls at the table were not having any of them. The most exotic
drink served that night was my Cherry Hooker. Now who, other than your friends,
would love you so much and feel comfortable enough to embarrass you in front of
a cute bartender and still know you loved them. </div>
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Read more of Chris's <a href="http://ahairdressersdiaries.wordpress.com/flabbermouth-stories/" target="_blank">Flabbermouth stories</a> at A Hairdresser's Diaries.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Do you have a funny drink story? Share it here at <a href="http://donnabarker.blogspot.com/p/add-your-story-here.html" target="_blank">My Embellished Life</a> so others can enjoy it.</span><br />
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<br />Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-55462620136600386642012-03-05T13:24:00.000-08:002012-03-05T15:14:34.694-08:00For the Love of Houseplants<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZsJRjFQljFkqoT9eoSvPw0U3rHGtDqduoQR08drUt2ASxS6zZom5CO6v2rouSIjUuvA2RYVtedK-__0HVqQIi5JUKmsN-xBQIcnBCtuO6D3xojnL3rFMuNNsa1e61nOo2m2S9WMR9v7c/s1600/Diane+Stephenson+plants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZsJRjFQljFkqoT9eoSvPw0U3rHGtDqduoQR08drUt2ASxS6zZom5CO6v2rouSIjUuvA2RYVtedK-__0HVqQIi5JUKmsN-xBQIcnBCtuO6D3xojnL3rFMuNNsa1e61nOo2m2S9WMR9v7c/s320/Diane+Stephenson+plants.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy <a href="http://diane-stephenson.com/" target="_blank">Diane Stephenson</a></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Micki Peluso, excerpted from her blog, <a href="http://mallie1025.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">A Writer’s Journey </a></span></div>
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They don’t allow me plants in this dire, greenless place. I
have no children to replace the ones I lost. Too long, I dwell in a carnival of
maniacs and fools, endure the dulling drugs, the solitude, weeping through
eternal night. And it’s all my husband’s fault.</div>
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He always hated my plants. He didn’t just dislike them, as
one might a book, or painting, or a cold and rainy day – he hated them. I loved
them as I would have loved the children we never had. I babied my houseplants,
nursed them through root rot and mites, fed and pruned them and placed them in
their favorite spots.</div>
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My Philodendron especially liked to sit on the warm place on
top of the television set. The English Ivy preferred to dangle above the stereo
and sway to the vibrations of the music. He was particularly fond of Bach. Some
of my houseplants hung from the beamed ceilings in the living room. Some posed
sedately on the window seat, watching out for strangers lurking about my home.
The larger plants, mostly Rubber Trees and Palms, were content to stand erect,
acting as my doormen. My house was filled with flora of almost every genus and
I doted on them fondly. My husband hated every one.</div>
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“Why does this house have to teem with vegetation?” he
constantly complained. “They’re running up my water bill! They’re using all my
oxygen.”</div>
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His anger culminated on an otherwise ordinary Saturday
night, for no reason I could foresee. He rose from his easy chair, brusquely
shoving my Asparagus Fern away from his face, unaware she only meant to play,
and headed for the kitchen. I hummed softly in an effort to ignore him and
continued mixing up a batch of fertilizer. Stomping through the doorway, he
kicked over my Fiddleleaf Fig tree with the tip of his work boot, and enjoying
the look of horror upon my face, he smiled and went upstairs to bed.</div>
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I quickly righted my poor baby, crooning over him and
carefully repacked the soil that spilled from his pot. The Fig tree sulked all
night, with sagging leaves, his indignation clearly noted by his stance.
Resentment built inside me slowly. By the evening’s end, it had grown to such
proportions that I thought my chest would burst. My husband, while he made no
effort to hide his hatred of my plants, had never harmed them until this day. I
was filled with maternal rage and could not be consoled, not even by the
caresses of my Purple Passion.</div>
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Fear, as well as anger, bode within my heart and I was
frightened for all my plants. I felt no safety for them within my foliaged
home. Nights that followed left me sleepless, filled with a restless urgency to
protect them. I arose several times throughout the night to oversee them,
remembering to leave the hall light lit; for my Palm Tree greatly feared the
dark.</div>
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My husband made no apology, but in the days that passed he
seemed contrite and even brought home a tiny cactus as amends. Perhaps he
really was repentant. When it died two days later, he merely shrugged and said
he lacked my green thumb. We lived in guarded accord, my plants, my husband and
I. My babies were thriving and growing larger every day, drooping only in the
presence of the master of the house.</div>
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Waxy Pink Begonias filled my home with splashes of color.
The Snake Plants nearly reached the ceiling, while the Fiddleleaf Fig tripled
his fullness, spreading his dark green branches to embrace me. Spider Plants,
Coleus, and vines of all variety grew rich and full, crawling tentatively
across my wooden floors. I was filled with love and pride.</div>
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On one particularly dismal evening, the harmony within my
home was broken once more. My husband came home from work late and in a mood
that made me wary. It seemed he’d had a bit to drink and did not see the
offshoots of my Spider plant as they danced from the living room archway. He
struggled blindly as the baby Spiders writhed about his face. I knew then this
night would come to no good end.</div>
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He tore my lovely lady from her hook above the doorway,
shredded her to pieces and smashed her into the wall. I shrieked and ran to
gather up her remains. My heart pounded with love and dread, for I knew I could
not save her. I took her babies from her, the ones that lived, and placed them
in a vase of water, where they might grow again.</div>
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My husband cursed and staggered off to bed, swiping at
whatever plant was in his way, kicking my Fiddleleaf Fig, yet again. My fury
knew no end. I said nothing and with lowered head, tended my poor darlings;
when I could do no more for them, I went to bed.</div>
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I did not sleep at all that night. My mind raced with
thoughts of vengeance. Somehow, some way, my husband would never harm my
lovelies again. By morning’s early light I knew what I must do and finally
slept.</div>
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READ THE REST of <a href="http://mallie1025.blogspot.com/2012/01/for-love-of-houseplants.html" target="_blank">For the Love of Houseplants</a> at Micki's blog. Before you leave, give her story a Google + vote if you're enjoying it.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And once you've recovered from the surprise ending of Micki's hopefully fictionalized first-person story, come back to <a href="http://donnabarker.blogspot.com/p/add-your-story-here.html" target="_blank">My Embellished Life</a> and share your own first person story of love and revenge!</span></div>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-6404356521884162112012-03-03T12:49:00.000-08:002012-03-05T13:41:42.852-08:00A true Giants fan for life - and maybe longer<br />
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<a href="http://www.baseballforum.com/photopost/data//501/1951_NEW_YORK_GIANTS_LOGO_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.baseballforum.com/photopost/data//501/1951_NEW_YORK_GIANTS_LOGO_2.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Thomas "Dennie" Williams, excerpted from a
series of anecdotes he provided. </span></div>
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When I was but a broth of a boy, say nine or ten, my
Dad, Thomas David Williams, made me into a full time New York Giants fan.
Occasionally, we'd drive down to the old Polo Grounds in Harlem, the northern
section of New York City, and see a game or two. Dad was so busy being a
well-known antique dealer with my Mom, Constance Ripley Williams, he didn't
have the time for a more regular ballpark visitation. But, of course, we did
listen to their games often on the radio. The announcing of Russ Hodges and
Ernie Harwell then seemed much better than what we later viewed and listened to
on television. I guess, as a boy, imagination travels beyond any filming. </div>
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One day, Dad came back from a New York City antique business
trip with a wonderful surprise. One of Dad's buddies, Harry Bland, an antique
art and print specialist, had given me a beautiful print of the Giants playing
the original Baltimore Orioles in the Polo Grounds, probably, I guess, in 1894.
That was when the Giants lost the pennant by three games to the Orioles and
then beat them in a post season series to win the National League championship.
In the detailed, colorful print, many of the male fans are fancily dressed in
black top hats and suits, while the females have on beautiful dresses and
designer hats. The players not on the field sit sprawled on benches next to the
wall behind home plate. In the game, it looks like the Giants runner on first
is aiming to steal second, while the runner on third holds his ground.
Meanwhile, the Orioles pitcher is delivering sidearm to the Giants' hitter. As
the ball moves toward home plate, an ancient train moves above and beyond the
stadium, not far away from the Harlem River and a bridge crossing it in the
deep background.</div>
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The print, dated April 1, 1897, still hangs in our
television room with the rest of the baseball memorabilia. That includes a
small sculpture of Babe Ruth swinging the bat, created by a Balinese artist my
daughter, Gisela, found when she was visiting Bali. Not too long after Mr.
Bland gave me the print, Dad convinced me to lend it to a baseball memorabilia
exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum in New York City. Days later, I was
astonished when Dad told me to look at the New York Herald Tribune Sports
Section. There on the featured first sports page was a large photo of Leo
Durocher, the Giants' manager, and his wife, Loraine Day, standing right in
front of my print. That was a thrill of thrills. Later, I got another pleasant
surprise. I entered a museum baseball contest, part of the exhibition slate,
and won an autographed baseball! I'm not sure, because I still have a dozen or
more such balls, but I think it may have been George Kell's. He was then a
third baseman for the Detroit Tigers and shortly afterward for the Boston Red
Sox.</div>
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In 1951, Willie's rookie year, Dad and I went to at least
one or two games and saw him scooting around the outfield like young deer
chasing looping or line drive butterflies. What a thrill! I still have the
picture of him in my mind's eye catching baseballs and hitting them too! I
became so transfixed, I had to listen to Giants' radio games to regularly find
out what controversial manager Leo Durocher was doing with his lineup and whether
the team was on a roll or not. In August, the pain became overwhelming for
young fans like me The Giants dived to 13 ½ games behind their cross-town
rivals and constant thorns, the Brooklyn Dodgers.</div>
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But, despite their failings, I never lost hope. In fact, I
sent the team a one page letter. I wrote that I was still rooting for them
every day, and I was sure they were going to make it back to first place by the
end of the season. Of course, I ended by asking for all the players'
autographs. Honestly, I didn't expect any answer. I was just a little boy
idolizing players I thought were so busy and high in the sky that they wouldn't
even read my scrawly handwriting. But, guess what?! Some official connected
with the Giants did read the letter and collected the autographs of everyone on
the team on the letter's blank spaces. That was it! I was going to be a Giants
fan until I was no longer on the earth, and maybe even afterward, if that was
possible.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Thomas "Dennie" Williams shared many more pages of
his Giants' fan stories with me. If you'd like to read more from Dennie, let us
know in the comments. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dennie suggested creating a whole section of sports stories.
If you have a first-person sport story to share, post it or a link to it on <a href="http://donnabarker.blogspot.com/p/add-your-story-here.html" target="_blank">this page</a>!
Maybe we'll create a My Embellished Sport Life section within this blog. </span></div>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-89035935029708057382012-03-02T13:00:00.000-08:002012-03-06T21:36:48.154-08:00A Leap of Faith<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Sandy Penny, excerpted from her blog <a href="http://writingmuse.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Writing Muse</a></span></div>
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I circled the fire with a tambourine in my hand, striking
the instrument on my thigh in time with the chant, "My body does whatever
it takes to protect itself." I gazed into the glowing red and orange
eyes of the twelve foot by four foot bed of coals and watched a coating of
white ash begin to form. "The fire and I are one," I chanted with the
others.</div>
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The fire pit looked back, studying me with its many
eyes. "Will you walk tonight?" it silently asked. Would I cast
aside caution and logic and make a tremendous leap of faith with a few small
steps on an 1800 degree bed of coals? Could I?</div>
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The chant changed to "I am the light, I am the
love" and then swelled around me again with "The fire and I are
one." I thought about how I came to be standing on the edge of eternity, a
42-year old woman, questioning the very nature of reality.</div>
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It was only a couple of weeks ago as I entered the Chapel of
Prayer with fifty or so people to listen to a Hindu Guru tell traditional
Indian parables, that I met Charmaine McGhie and Tore Fossum. We were seated
next to each other and connected so quickly that Charmaine invited me to a New
Year's Eve Party and Firewalk.</div>
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I was intrigued. I had seen firewalking on TV and read about
it in National Geographics, but never had I witnessed it in person.</div>
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Meanwhile, the couple gave me a book called
"Firewalk" by Jonathon Seinfeld that I read with great interest. The
book called firewalking an empowerment tool and a subcultural movement in the
U.S. since the 1970s. It said the U.S. has more firewalkers than the rest of
the world put together. I couldn't believe it! How could I have missed
it?</div>
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I had pretty much tried every "new age" experience
I had run into. How could such a phenomenon have slipped by unnoticed? My
excitement grew as the days passed.</div>
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The book helped keep me occupied with a lot to think about
in the days leading up to the party. It told stories of firewalking in every
culture and quoted scriptures about firewalking. It even discussed the
unsatisfactory research that has been done. I was primed for the experience -
to watch the experience, at least.</div>
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I arrived early at the suburban house in a nice Friendswood,
Texas neighborhood. Not really where one would expect to see a firewalk. The
preparations looked like any other New Year's Eve party. Guests arrived with
covered dishes, and someone played piano—fifties hits for a sing along. The
only difference is that no alcohol was present.</div>
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At about 9:00 pm everyone gathered in the back yard. A
norther was moving through, and the air was cooling down. The grass was soaked
with a hose as a safety precaution, and the evening began. The fire department
showed up to certify the safety measures, and approved the walk.</div>
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Each participant took turns carrying logs to build the fire.
They were instructed to think of the logs like children, and focus loving
attention on them. A firewalking facilitator took the logs and built an
impressive "boy scout" style teepee-shaped structure that would
become a large hungry bonfire that would devour about half a cord of wood.</div>
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The excited attendees took turns stuffing newspaper in the
cracks, and the fire was lit with great ceremony. The blaze reached skyward as
a word of thanks and protection was intoned by a lady wearing a long full
skirt. Surely that skirt was not a good thing in which to walk through
fire. I love fires. I faced the flames and raised a hand in salute. Just
as I raised my arm, the fire leaped upward, and it looked exactly like I was
waltzing with the vulcan fire god. My friend Juanita snapped a photo of it, and
I love that photo.</div>
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When the fire was blazing violet and gold, everyone went to
the patio to try out some other phenomenal activities. It would be two to three
hours before the coals were ready.</div>
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Someone announced it was time for the "rebar game"
and a cheer rang out. I had no idea what that meant. Rebars are 3/4" x 6'
steel bars used to reinforce concrete. Two people stand face to face about six
feet apart and a rebar is suspended between them by placing the tip of the
metal rod in the hollow of your throat. </div>
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<a href="http://writingmuse.blogspot.com/2012/02/rethinking-reality.html" target="_blank">CONTINUE READING at Writing Muse</a>.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Then please come back and read more first-person stories. When you're ready to post a link to your own first-person blog story, add it to the comments on <a href="http://donnabarker.blogspot.com/p/add-your-story-here.html" target="_blank">this page</a>.</span></div>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-11223438170340035522012-03-01T12:05:00.000-08:002012-03-01T12:05:05.867-08:00Death at Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://joshuabagby.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/47054_157240004297045_154317147922664_374735_6676481_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158" src="http://joshuabagby.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/47054_157240004297045_154317147922664_374735_6676481_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Joshua Bagby, excerpted from <a href="http://joshuabagby.com/" target="_blank">his blog</a>, where he writes for prosperity, personal growth, and sheer pleasure.</span><br />
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I had never watched anyone die before. Probably as close as
I had come to witnessing death was at the movies, which turns out to be as
accurate as how the glitzy hamburger photos on a fast food menu resemble what
actually comes in the box.</div>
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Mom was ready to depart. She was days away from turning 93
and her knees, hip, and neck gave her constant pain. She’d beaten cancer five
months earlier but it was back with a vengeance, and she did not want to endure
more treatments. She had a PET scan done for a new diagnosis and within a week
of that commenced to fade quickly. We were still thinking she had a month or
two left.</div>
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Home hospice care was called in on Tuesday for 8 hours a
day. My sister called on Wednesday afternoon and said I needed to drive down
Thursday. When I arrived in California Thursday evening, home care had already
expanded to around-the-clock.</div>
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When I arrived, Mom gave me an angelic smile of recognition
and beamed me her love, but she would only speak in a few scattered words. I
knew she heard me but her responses were brief. Meanwhile, her prognosis had
already shifted from months to days.</div>
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<b>FACING IMMINENT DEATH</b></div>
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We all have our own ways of perceiving death. Over the years,
mine has become romanticized, something Frank Capra could have cooked up. I
like the idea of seeing spirits pop out of their physical bodies and float away
to ecstasy. I have read a huge amount of near-death experience accounts, seen
videos, and talked to people whose consciousness left their bodies. Those
depictions tell of a blissful out-of-body freedom. Although I was not thinking
about it at the time, Mom’s death was a preview of my mortality. I was most
intrigued about what she would experience—as if this would be her final act of
guidance as a parent.</div>
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No matter how much I prepared for my mother’s end game,
actually being there was profound. I did not feel that I had unfinished
business with her, for we had talked during my previous visits and on the
phone. Yet still I wished I had explained more to her what I knew about dying.
She had not been that interested in woo-woo. She would listen politely, but
didn’t share my passion for exploring cosmic mysteries. She wouldn’t ask
probing questions and was skeptical of any of my sources.</div>
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Under those circumstances, I usually keep my opinions to
myself. But when one of the caregivers said that Mom had told her that she was
afraid to die, I wished we had talked more. She had never expressed any fears
to me and maybe had not even realized them herself until she faced it.</div>
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<b>WAITING AND WONDERING</b></div>
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Around noon Friday flowers arrived from a dear friend. I
took them in to her following Dad. Mom smiled. I mentioned the name Jolene and
she clearly knew who that was. I sat by her side and held her hand and within
minutes she fell asleep again.</div>
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I contemplated to the beat of my mother’s pulse. Here she is
experiencing the quintessential question of life: what happens next? In her
final hours of living, here I was steeped in literature yet hungry for
real-life experiences to validate my cherished woo-woo leanings.</div>
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All the stories from the literature about death flashed
through my eyes. Would Mom stare off into space and break out into an ecstatic
smile as she looked beyond us at something we could not see? Would she open her
eyes and give us a message from dearly departed friends and relatives? When she
was gasping her last breath, would we see a glow emanating from angels coming
to whisk her spirit away?</div>
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On Saturday, the daytime caregiver opined that she thought
Mom had hours left, not days. The pinkish glow of her face was disappearing.
She wasn’t waking to greet us. Sometimes she would open her eyes but them close
them as if not seeing anything. She seemed to have no emotional response to
anything. My Dad and sister noticed that the varicose veins that had plagued
her most of her life had disappeared as if Photoshopped out of her skin.</div>
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<b>DYING IS NOT WITHOUT HUMOR</b></div>
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The caregivers, intimately familiar with the signs of impending
death, prepared us for what was to come. Janelle (name changed) was very
interested in making sure that we could witness Mom’s final breath. She had
asked several times for reassurance that we wanted to be there—some clients
don’t. We waited in great suspense for something dramatic to happen like
floating on a river anticipating a huge waterfall ahead.</div>
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<a href="http://joshuabagby.com/uncategorized/death-at-home/" target="_blank">READ THE REST AT JOSH'S BLOG</a>.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And, if you have a first-person story you'd like to share, please post a link in the comments. And, like Josh's story, I'll give your story its own post and link the end back to your blog so people can find more of your words and stories. If you don't have a blog, either post the whole story in the comments or send it to me personally.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-38872565314423232422012-02-29T14:00:00.000-08:002012-02-29T14:00:01.075-08:00On the Trail of Bigfoot<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: 300; line-height: 24px;"></span><br />
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<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51112gcO+9L._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_AA300_SH20_AA278_PIkin4,BottomRight,-56,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51112gcO+9L._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_AA300_SH20_AA278_PIkin4,BottomRight,-56,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Candy Korman, excerpted from her blog, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://candysmonsters.com/" target="_blank">Candy's Monsters</a></span></div>
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The Internet is a great place to do research. You can find out that your blind date lied to you about the business he ‘owns.’ You can double-check the side effects of a new medication your doctor has prescribed. You can even find a good price on airline tickets.</div>
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You can also drive yourself crazy. You can self-diagnose/misdiagnose; discover that ghostwriters are routinely hired by content mills to write college papers for money; and you can get lost on the trail of BIGFOOT.</div>
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The Internet is full of shaky videos, sketches and first person reports of sightings of the big, hairy humanoid monster, also known as Sasquatch.</div>
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Is Bigfoot a holdover from an early human — an out-of-time, throwback to another branch of human evolution? Is there a tribe living on the outskirts of the ‘civilized’ world?</div>
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With all the great science fiction devoted to time travel and alternative histories, this one is fun to think about. These almost, but not quite, homo sapiens could cross into our world through some distortion in the time space continuum. I like this theory for fiction, but I’m not going to join the Bigfoot hunters in a hopeless attempt to find proof.</div>
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There are other great Bigfoot back-stories.</div>
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My personal best is, that the tales of Bigfoot started with an overreaction to a hermit in the woods. This loner — maybe even a writer — happened to be spotted on a bad hair day. Living in the woods, with shaggy hair and a heavy beard, he could have worn a coat and boots made of animal skins. The stories rolled from there.</div>
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A clever storyteller, my Bigfoot heard the rumors about his ‘monster’ persona when he was in town buying supplies or knocking back a few drinks at the tavern. He then fed the legend with doctored bear prints. He may have even whispered in a fellow drinker's ear that he’d seen the beast in the forest. It would have been a great way to scare off the casual hikers.</div>
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And then, like many good stories, those rumors grew into a monstrous legend.</div>
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***</div>
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Read more monstrous stories at <a href="http://candysmonsters.com/" target="_blank">Candy's Monsters</a>, Literary Novellas Inspired by Classic Tales of Horror. And read an excerpt of Candy's book, <a href="http://candysmonsters.com/bookstore/" target="_blank">The Mary Shelley Game</a>, available for Kindle at Amazon.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Then, come back and post your own monstrous, first-person story in the comments to be featured on <a href="http://donnabarker.blogspot.com/2012/02/whats-your-story-morning-glory.html" target="_blank">My Embellished Life</a>.</span></div>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-63157324278045956542012-02-28T14:00:00.000-08:002012-02-28T14:00:01.275-08:00Canning Peaches in the World Inside My Head<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwwCuo4QtWayS2hgTijuKexEZorgeIgzB58BC1A-Cc9sFKujFf45B6a6xfUho96M2nYWuaCArQ7TDc4Gpi7KAUuSHPI7c_hEJhY_Pn9YmBgPeuCafZUso_5IXnfP5sx2oUrLMW8JJZ1L0/s1600/canning+peaches+inside+my+head.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwwCuo4QtWayS2hgTijuKexEZorgeIgzB58BC1A-Cc9sFKujFf45B6a6xfUho96M2nYWuaCArQ7TDc4Gpi7KAUuSHPI7c_hEJhY_Pn9YmBgPeuCafZUso_5IXnfP5sx2oUrLMW8JJZ1L0/s200/canning+peaches+inside+my+head.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By <a href="http://www.arielesieling.com/" target="_blank">Ariele Sieling</a>, excerpted from her blog, <a href="http://inlovewiththeuniverse.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">I'm in Love with the Universe</a></span></div>
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In my head is another world. This world is a magnet for
thoughts. It's a world that draws people who think so much that they forget to
shower, who think so much that they look like they're floating somewhere else,
who think so much they don't notice they've been standing in the middle of the
sidewalk for fifteen minutes. Here people keep swarms of stinging insects in
boxes and use shopping carts like summertime sleds and find ways to repel from
the clouds. Instead of metal and paper, currency is made of ideas.</div>
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In my world you can see the stars and no one is afraid of
the dark. When the sun comes up, the sky changes into a thousand colours before
it balances out into just one, and when it goes down in shatters into a
different million coloured pieces that fly out into the vast expanse of
everywhere and light up the dark with shining pricks of white light, a hundred
billion miles away.</div>
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The trees are triangular. There is grass too, almost the
same wavering green and winking lavender as the trees, and it spreads out from
your feet in every direction, as if you are its source. It pours down the hill,
spiky and filled with life and pizzazz. There are little flowers, blue ones.
They look like your eyes, sparks of colour, sparks of life in the endless
green. I can hear a river. It swishes an hiccups and bellows. It spins and
tangles with the earth; it ducks under bushes and careens around trees. And
then it takes a mad leap into a different large bit of water that's just biding
its time until the dam breaks.</div>
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The sun is a square, if you look at it for too long. The
clouds float around masquerading as rabbits and flying horses and Jesus' face.
The people that live here have black skin, as black as the night sky and more
beautiful than the earth itself, and white skin too, and all different shades
of brown.</div>
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My mother and father live here, and sometimes I help Mom can
peaches. It is very satisfying to have the peach juice running down your arms
and the slices of peach splop-ing into the bowl of lemon juice. </div>
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-- -- Read the rest of Ariele’s story of canning peaches and her
mind’s life at her blog post, <a href="http://inlovewiththeuniverse.blogspot.com/2012/01/canning-peaches-in-world-inside-my-head.html" target="_blank">Canning Peaches in the World Inside my Head</a>.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And, please share your own first-person story, from either
inside your head or out. Post a link to your blog post in the comments. If you don't have a blog, simply copy the whole story in the comments section. I’ll create a new post for
your own embellished life tale and promote it through my networks.</span></div>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-10873361222316763792012-02-27T14:00:00.000-08:002012-03-05T09:18:46.252-08:00Hands<br />
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<a href="http://restoringlife.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/img_20110629_185902.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://restoringlife.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/img_20110629_185902.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Catherine Roth, excerpted from her blog </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://restoringlife.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Restoring Life</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">.</span></div>
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My teenage years were filled with poems and music and angst
and art and an unquenchable desire to put into words and pastels and photos and
pencil what I was feeling. I was in a portfolio art class in high school where
we had to pick a theme, and with my love of words, mine was quotations. I
could create any piece of art as long as it was based around a quote. </div>
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I used the opportunity to chronicle what was going on in my
tedious, high school existence, or to put into pictures a song or poem that I
loved. In December of 1999 I decided to use Jewel’s song “Hands”. I used a
photo someone had taken of my hands in Central Park as a center piece, and
painstakingly sketched my own, spelling the word “hand” in American Sign
Language. After I finished the project, I often wondered if I should have used
someone else as the hand model.</div>
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I’ve never liked my hands. My mother’s hands are long and
elegant, with generous nail beds, and the softest skin, always having the
warmest and most comforting touch. My own fingers are short with small nail
beds that produce nails that like to bend and crack and break at the slightest
provocation. I always felt my fingers should be longer so that it was
easier to play the piano, or should be more graceful and ladylike. </div>
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<a name='more'></a>They have been my one true vanity as long as I can
remember. I used to spend every two or three weeks in a salon for an
hour, having my nails filed to perfection or gelled or acrylic-ed until they
were long and strong, neat and clean. And sometimes, then I would think they
might be pretty enough. They might look feminine enough.</div>
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My father had thick worker’s hands. They were by no means
ugly, but they had the tell tale signs of someone who did something with them
everyday other than sitting at a keyboard or shuffling papers. My father,
as a baker, would often come home from work with his nail beds stained red or
blue or yellow, depending on the icing or filling he had been working with that
day. With his tourettes, my fathers hands would jerk and stutter occasionally. But
when he was smoothing butter cream over sheet cake, or using a putty knife in
the tiniest corner to smooth out a perfection, they were meticulous, artful
hands that created beauty. </div>
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Whenever we finished a piece of art, we had to write an
entry in our sketchbooks as a sort of summary of the thought process, the
creation process. ... <a href="http://restoringlife.wordpress.com/2012/02/09/hands/" target="_blank">CONTINUE READING</a></div>
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Read the rest of Catherine’s story <a href="http://restoringlife.wordpress.com/2012/02/09/hands/" target="_blank">Hands</a> at her new and lovely
first-person blog, Restoring Life.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And then be sure to come back here to post a link to your
own first-person story which I will move to a post of its very own and link
back to your blog. Of course, I will also promote your story to my networks, hopefully
increasing your fans.</span></div>Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1237690256788346400.post-79348179717143143792012-02-26T11:57:00.000-08:002012-03-05T09:18:03.935-08:00An Apology to Stefanie<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Steve Sears, excerpted from his blog <a href="http://sgswrite.com/blog/" target="_blank">SGSWrite</a></span></div>
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I wanted to reach out and publicly apologize to my daughter,
Stefanie.</div>
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I won’t get into specifics and my reasoning, but I really
yelled at her this past Thursday evening, and I still think she deserved
it. But, she also deserved better — from me.</div>
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A little history here, if I may. When my wife Lucille
and I were first married, I prayed for a pregnancy, and a daughter. I guess
growing up in a home with two brothers for 25 years will do that to you — give
rise to that wish.</div>
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But there’s something special about a little girl for a
Dad. Maybe you need someone to protect gallantly? Perhaps. But for me, it meant
having something or someone special toddling around our tiny, Bloomfield, New
Jersey home. First dates? Walking her down the aisle? Yes, for me it was all part
of what I envisioned.</div>
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My wife got pregnant a year into our marriage, and I
immediately set to work on making my upstairs den into a baby room. We chose
not to know the sex of the child, so we planned on painting and carpeting the
second bedroom in colors that sufficed for both sexes.</div>
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I was certain this was my prayer being answered. A
daughter was coming into my life.</div>
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And then it happened. Almost three months in, as it
sometimes happens with pregnancies, my wife had a miscarriage.</div>
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The evening I left Lucille in the hospital — which,
ironically enough, was her birthday — to rest, I came home that night, climbed
the stairs, and looked into what was supposed to be my daughter’s room. I
leaned against the doorway, just looked in, and felt like crying. It was, without
a doubt, a deep blow, probably the saddest time in my life.</div>
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“Now,” I thought to myself, “we’ll be coming home with
nothing.”</div>
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<a name='more'></a>A year later, my wife got pregnant again, and this time I
felt sure that a son was on the way. I even had “baby experts” tell me that,
the way I had described the sound of my daughter’s heartbeat when the doctor
was checking my wife, that it was a boy. And I believed them. As my wife
carried my daughter the summer of 1990, I thought of all the things Steve Jr.
and I would do together.</div>
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Lucille and I talked often, and I kept excitedly saying that
I looked forward to having a son, even though I longed for a daughter.</div>
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Then one evening my wife told me she had a dream. In the
dream, she was at a carnival with a friend, and while there she won a prize.
When making her selection, she pointed to a hanging pair of pink rosary beads
and said, “I’ll take those.” Then, shortly thereafter, at her baby shower, the
cake that was served was adorned with a wee, plastic sleeping little baby girl
in pink.</div>
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Those who had organized the shower were furious with the
caterer. My wife wasn’t. ...<a href="http://sgswrite.com/blog/?p=1010" target="_blank">CONTINUE READING</a>...</div>
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---Grab a tissue (I had to) and <a href="http://sgswrite.com/blog/?p=1010" target="_blank">read the rest of Steven’s story</a>
at his blog, SGSWrite.com. It's a wonderful site with many engaging and touching stories. A lovely way to pass a Sunday afternoon.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And then, come back here and share your own first-person story about love or kids or an
apology... or anything really… in the comments and I’ll give it its own post.</span></div>
<br />Donnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04253715813098509695noreply@blogger.com2