Trying Again

Hatley Castle, Colwood, B.C.

The writing group I belong to met yesterday afternoon. Unable to attend, I emailed 'Trying Again' to a friend to share with the group. Our self imposed assignment for this first month of 2020 was to begin our piece with 'Let's try that again.' In the last few days I have been writing, in a stream of conscious manner, using suggestions from an online site. This actually made this little story fit into that same stream of conscious mode of writing. Most, but not all, of the typo fixing and other word crafting was done for group yesterday, I had only to re-read it today, do a couple of fixes, add a photo and a quotation to complete my post from the words: 'let's try that again'. It was fun!

Trying Again

“Let’s try that again!” 

Really? Samuel Mordecai Higgenbotham was so tired of trying things again. He had taken the radio announcer’s statement about replaying a particular Beethoven symphony that had ended abruptly quite personally.

“Have I not yet learned enough? Did I not go to school from Kindergarten through Grade Twelve? Then college for four years and then on to University for an Advanced Masters Degree in Education! I am fed up and just want to live my life the way I feel like it. Get up whenever I want in the morning, have a strong, steaming mug of coffee, read the newspaper at my own pace and then, after lunch take a well deserved nap. I want to go to bed at night when I feel like it. No more meetings, no more penguin suit functions.”

Samuel marched back and forth across his living room as though he were on parade. As he spoke, he punctuated the air at the end of each sentence with both hands. 

“Then I will read til I fall asleep and wake up when I wake up. Oh my goodness!” Samuel Mordecai Higgenbotham slapped his forehead with heel of his hand. “Then I will have to try it all again!! Just like that pompous announcer said! Life is just an unending circle. We’re like scruffy dogs chasing our tails. Just when we think we have it caught, we lose our balance and have to start all over again.”

Melissa Samantha Higgenbotham, Samuel’s charming wife of fifty years had smiled quietly, then grinned discreetly and finally burst in to giggles fit only for a teenager. 

“What are you laughing at?! This is serious!” Samuel Mordecai Higgenbotham was not used to being laughed at and didn’t like it one little bit. 

“Your face, my darling…..it’s so…..so….stern. And red. You must see how silly this all is.”

“I am not, nor have I ever been silly, my dear. Right now, I am just frustrated with this extremely troubling situation. After all, look around you at this handsome home we’ve lived in for so long. I should not have to try anything again.We have everything we worked and planned for.”

There were oil paintings from some of the most celebrated painters in the world. Furniture handmade and of the finest woods graced their dining room. The living room furniture, also handcrafted, was upholstered with the most exquisite damask. Poor Samuel couldn’t see past his aquiline nose to see that his concerns were, well, almost quite silly. Melissa Samantha Higgenbotham settled herself and calmed down. Of course her darling husband couldn’t see what was as plain as the nose on his face. Suddenly she could see the young man she had married and remembered his ideals. She could see the same pacing and gesturing when confronted with other’s expectations. His ideals had become tattered and torn, as she watched his climb through the labyrinth of university hierarchy to the polished oak desk in the president’s office. Now, retirement, despite being celebrated and cheered on, had knocked him for the proverbial loop. 

Samuel sighed and smiled slowly.

“My dear, I am being quite silly with all this verbal combat into the air. There are many things we have had plans to do and here I am worrying about going in circles from morning til night, and then again the next day. We’ll plan a trip ~ not a usual kind of trip ~ but one just for the experience. We were teenagers once. What things have we neglected or set aside? I guess we do need to try it all again.”

Melissa smiled and handed him a packet of travel brochures. “Can we start with these, Sam?”

“Being stubborn can be a good thing. Being stubborn 

can be a bad thing. It just depends on how you use it.”

~ Willie Aames, actor, film and television director, 

producer and screen writer

Forested Memories

Today’s writing exercise is ‘Setting a Scene’. I was given certain parameters of time of day, location, weather and atmosphere. From a set of virtual buttons, I was able to choose specifics for each of the parameters. From the menu at <www.writingexercises.co.uk> I chose: dawn, forest, eery and foggy

Forested Memories

It was dawn in the forest. Weak light from the sun shone an almost eery light through the pines surrounding the old cabin. Nancy liked to step out on the old porch when the fingers of fog that slipped in from the inlet threaded their way through the tall jack pines. This old log cabin had been in her family for a couple of generations. The early morning silence was broken with the cry of a single eagle returning to her nest from a hunt on the still waters of the inlet for prey to feed her nestlings. Nan had stoked the old wood stove inside just before shrugging her quilted plaid jacket on and stepping out on the porch, Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, drifting away to disappear into the  thinning grey fog. The eagle’s cry and the aroma of wood smoke were pleasant companions for Nan’s morning. She sat quietly in an old cane rocking chair, her corn cob pipe crowing cold. She could almost hear her parents calling to  each other. 

“Coffee and breakfast is ready, Estelle.” 

“Coming, John. Are the children up yet?’

Her mom would bring in fresh eggs from their chickens and beans from the garden. Her father had already been out to milk their cow and feed their goats. In that small cabin, there was little room for more than her parents, Nancy and her sister. Her father John had fashioned a sleeping loft for the children with a now rickety set of stairs up from the kitchen. In a curtained off corner at the back, John and Estelle had a quaint privacy. 

An eagle’s call pierced Nan’s nostalgia. Rustling in the pines signalled that squirrels would soon be chattering their own cheery ‘good morning’. Nan stood up and stretched, the old rocking chair squealing in relief. Coffee was ready and breakfast would soon be on the table.

“..forests are like churches, hallowed places. 

There’s a stillness about them, a sort of reverence.”

~ Sabrina Elkins, Stir Me Up

Razor Sharp

After a lovely morning walk to Bubby's Nosherie, a local coffee shop, I sat down to a delicious Breakfast Salm-wich (salmon not ham!). Feeling much better this morning, out my window I saw clear blue skies. There was no wind and temperatures were barely crisp. A bit of cabin fever had set in over the last few days, so I decided to take my writing for an outing. Despite the lovely morning and cheery hello’s along the way, the creativity muse was still being shy, even though pen and paper were at the ready. Using the same technique as yesterday, I pulled up <www.writingexercises.co.uk> on my iPhone for some inspiration. This time on the menu, I used ‘Random Dialogue’ to get some momentum going. After perusing several, I chose: “I’m too old to start again.” I could certainly relate to that, but the story? Quite a bit different that my own,

Razor Sharp

“I’m too old to start again.”

Cliff stared at himself in the mirror, the three bladed razor in his right hand in mid air looking for all the world like it had no place to go. His face was lathered up with the same Old Spice that his dad had used, but from a pump can. He remembered the shaving lesson his dad had given him when he had started sprouting the first stubble of being ‘manly’. Manly ~ that’s what his mom called it. Neither of his parents really were aware that he had secretly been watching his dad every morning when he shaved.  His dad would lay everything out with precision. The old shaving mug with the shave brush placed beside the hot water tap. ‘You can’t beat hot water for making a good lather!’ If his dad said that once, he said it a thousand times. Then it was the razor. Not a fancy one like Cliff's but a straight razor that got sharpened every day. It had to be clean and sharp. Cliff’s dad kept his old leather strop in the medicine cabinet above the sink and each morning it would be placed on a folded washcloth beside the cold water tap. While water was boiling on the stove, (the hot water from the tap was never hot enough) he sharpened his razor. Pouring the boiling water in the special basin he used, he was ready to shave. ‘You can’t let any of that hot water drain away, son. You’re going to need it before and after you shave.’ A second washcloth was dipped in the steaming water, and waved over the basin to cool it just a bit and placed ever so gently against the shadowy beard that was soon to be cleared away. Lathering up his face, little blobs of lather clung to his earlobes. Every millimetre of his dad’s lower face and moustache area was covered generously. So generously that, as a little child, Cliff was sure his dad had magically grown a white beard! Once his dad was clean shaven and smooth 'as the back of a baby's sweet hand', the hot towel came out again. It was to open his pores so the Old Spice aftershave could keep his skin clean and smelling brisk. At least that's what his dad had told him.

All of these memories had first come flooding back when he was at a second hand store. He had found an old shaving mug complete with a new bar of soap and, what looked like, a brand new shave brush. He couldn’t fathom why the soap and shave brush were so new and the mug was so obviously old. There was a fine hairline crack on one side on the outside of the mug and a tiny chip at the base of the old mug’s handle. Not exactly like his dad’s but close nought to unlock that cupboard in his mind that he thought was sealed shut with age. 

“Of course, I can start over again! I’ve done it many times since I was that boy and can do it again.”  He dipped his razor in the basin of now quite tepid water.

“What are you muttering on about, Clifford?” Myra, putting some laundry away, had just passed the bathroom door, saw him staring in the mirror and caught his last words.

“Well. I’ve made a decision. Do you remember that barber course I took last year? When I just wanted to learn how to shave ‘the old way’?”

“Yes, what about it?”

Well, there’s a barber shop for sale. One of the old fashioned kind and it’s just downtown. You know on the corner of Remington and Main. I’m going to buy it and set up my own shop. I’ll hire some young fellows to……”

“You don’t know anything about running that kind of a business, Cliff.”

“Well then, I guess I’ll just have to learn, won’t I?”

Both Myra and Cliff were smiling. Cliff, because he was excited about his new venture that hadn’t even started yet. Myra was smiling with just a tiny bit of relief. Cliff was a great guy, but a retired Cliff was just about on her last nerve. Cliff went on shaving and Myra finished putting her laundry away. 

“I’ll be out most of the day, Myra, but do you want to join me for lunch this afternoon?”

“I’ll keep working on the painting I’m doing of the coffee shop on the corner. By lunch, I’ll be ready for a break. I’ll walk down and meet you at that new restaurant. What’s it called? The Cinnamon Cafe?”

Cliff’s day, had started out slowly and without much oomph, now had potential. He wasn’t certain he could pull this Barber shop thing off, but he was going to give it one helluva try. He even had a name for it already:  “Dad’s Barber Shop”

“You are never too old to set another goal or to dream and new dream.”

 ~ C.S.Lewis

Chelsea's Window

Creativity, or anything else that requires energy, seems quite non-existent when some virus decides to take up residence in the human body. Making a commitment to myself many years ago, when life seemed very bleak, I have written and posted daily. Why do I continue? Because I have learned that bleakness or just a silly old virus, does not have to shut off an attempt at creative genius. Did I just say genius? That can’t be right. I must have just  meant ‘creativity’.  In an effort to subvert my stodgy sinusitis, I reverted to finding a stem from <www.writingexercises.co.uk>. I have used this tactic before and found that my pen travels quite easily into story. Not an especially good story, but a story none the less.

Chelsea's Window

‘There was something not quite right about the window.’ It was as it had always been. A nice little window to the right at the top of the stairs. Chelsea could look out at the world in this private little space. An alcove shaped by the bannister created this charming little nook. A little oak writing desk faced the outside world, so when Chelsea’s pen stopped moving, she could watch the comings and goings outside. Visitors coming down the gravel road, their dust signalling a large or small vehicle. Dogs racing out to greet welcome visitors or to bark at strangers. The slanting sun rays through the trees that lined the road, whether early morning or late afternoon. Chelsea made sure to keep this little space and her desk tidy and clean so her mother wouldn’t make her move back into her bedroom. She always vacuumed the rug, including the stairs. She kept the trailing green fern on the oak plant stand watered and trimmed. Chelsea liked to call it her office.

From this quaint vantage point and to the side of the trees, Chelsea could see trains slipping across the horizon and disappearing behind undulating landscape. And the clouds. Oh, the clouds that changed the sky constantly from tiny drifts of ‘horses tails’, cotton ball puffs or slate grey banks of thunder clouds. She loved it all. But, there was something just not quite right about the window. And then Chelsea saw it. She would have to tell her father. In the bottom left hand corner there was a tiny crack. Just a chip really, but tracings of lines were spreading outward. If her mother had hung the curtains she planned, Chelsea would never have seen it. Her heart gave a lurch because she knew what her father would say. She had heard it all before. Every spring. ‘If anything ever happens to that window, I’ll board it up and be done with climbing up and down the ladder!” Chelsea’s dad was the one who had to wash the window every spring after Jack Frost and his paintbrushes had melted away. His paintings were delicate and beautiful, but unfortunately, he brought tiny bits of dirt and dust along. With a sigh, Chelsea realized that the cracks forming were reason enough for the window to be boarded up. And the cracks were letting in cold air. Another of her father’s blusterings whenever a door was left open. ‘I’m not heating up the outdoors, you know!’

Twelve year old Chelsea set down her pen, closed her journal and went downstairs with a last look at the beautiful outside. ‘Dad, there’s a crack in the window that looks kind of scary. Does it have to be fixed or will it be ok?’

Her dad put down his mug of coffee, grinned from ear to ear and said ‘Finally! Now I can get the job done! Viola, you’d best put some more coffee on. The workmen will be here pretty soon.’ 

‘But, dad, I just told you about the crack! How can the workmen be here already?’ But she had already seen the dust of work vans and heard the dogs barking. 

‘Cheer up. honey. I’ve known about that crack for a long time. The workmen are glaziers. Glaziers do glass repair and replacement. We can finally get a proper double paned window in there so I don’t have to heat up the outdoors and you can keep your little window on the world.

“A morning-glory at my window satisfies 

me more than the metaphysics of books.”

~ Walt Whitman

A Look Below

Qu'appelle Valley, 2012

Substitutions for last year’s resolutions can be two fold. One: renewing a resolution made the previous January with just a bit of tweaking to see if this new year could be better. More motivation, not as much work/life imbalance… or any reason I need to not continue forward. The second part of substitutions for last year’s resolutions are to play word games! Change resolution to commitment. That should work. Actually, I’ve tried both solutions and neither work very well. Work/life balance ~ now retirement/life balance ~ just keeps tipping over! As far as the word games, I get so caught up in the game, I forget why I started playing them!

New Year’s resolutions have never been my strong suit. Making them has been easy ~ more like a wish list without a plan. Following through on any resolutions is another story completely. In January, 2019, I learned about the concept of ‘going deeper not wider’ from Winnipeg writer David Cain. An interview with Mary Hynes on CBC radio and David's blog at https://www.raptitude.com, suggested a change in perspective for his readers. Using the theory ‘going deeper not wider’ I have found an anchor. I no longer make New Year’s resolutions (i.e. commitments) in a wish list kind of way. Instead, decisions from previous year’s commitments are reviewed. Do I still want to go forward with any one of them, do a bit of the infamous tweaking, or continue to move forward? I have learned to follow through on the projects I have chosen. Some of them have been completed ~ like painting my closet. Some are ongoing ~ like clearing the clutter of years of moving. The most important is writing. Not just this blog, but another project that I took on over a year ago. And then there was the issue of retirement. When I first learned of a Depth Year, retirement was close and really needed my attention. This was one of my early projects that threatened to overwhelm and derail me.

Retirement has suggested, at least to me, stopping. Stopping has seldom been an option, so I decided last year to look more deeply into what retirement means for me, my relationship to life and all it has to offer. There is still much to do, but with the concept of ‘deeper not wider’, that most unpleasant feeling of being overwhelmed was placed as an issue for review using this new perspective. As a result, I've been learning how to take tippy toes into this new life in small steps, cheering myself on and listening to the wisdom of friends and family.

“Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow;

He who would search for pearls, must dive below.”

~ John Dryden, All for Love

Warmer Days

Renewal and rest, when weather drips moisture from the skies, wrapped in warm coziness much needed at this time of year when cheer has paled from ‘Cheers!’and daily life hints at far off busy-ness.

Renewal and rest 

energizes plans and goals for this new year ~ hazy thoughts of warmer days only dreamt about when nestled in the comforting glow 

of a shelter warm and safe.

“Winter is a season of recovery and preparation.”

~ Paul Theroux, travel writer and novelist

Steadfast

Still blooming despite wind, rain and cold
Crinkly Leaf Cactus native to South Africa

Enthusiasm builds slowly from

sparks buried deep in the soul ~

passions sheltered from the world

until curiosity stirs cooling embers.

Enthusiasm builds slowly from

moment to moment, bit by bit

while we gently carry beliefs

on the roads that we travel. 

Enthusiasm builds slowly with

many ups and lots of downs

til one day ~ someday ~ everyday

there’s reason to call ‘Cheers!’

“It’s faith in something and enthusiasm for 

something that makes a life worth living.”

~ Oliver Wendell Holmes