Taking a break from fiction while enjoying the rain.

I used to have some little bad days.
I kept them in a little box.
And one day, I threw them out into the yard.
It's just a couple of innocent bad days.


Well, we had a big rain.


Don't plant your bad days.
They grow into weeks, they grow into months.
Before you know it, you've got yourself a bad year.

Tom Waits' preface to More Than Rain

As for my preface, let me just say that I love Tom Waits. If there were some kind of Make A Wish foundation for adults and I found myself its recipient, I'd make it my wish to see him in concert.

That being said...

The planting I did on Mother's Day paid off yesterday. I plucked my first zucchini.

The hollyhocks have spread like laughter after a good joke.

In all the years I've lived here, these flowers have never put on this kind of show. The tallest plant is a well over a foot taller than me.

I've harvested some decent tomatoes. I'm trying to decide what to do about a few items that may be weeds or may turn into something tasty.

I do a lot of weeding, but I leave some stuff alone. Because some plants may turn out to be delicious surprises.

I didn't plan my garden well. That's part of its charm.

Everything's so prolific right now. I'm sure it's because of the rain.

The rain's been torrential lately, every afternoon.

After mowing this morning, before the rain came again this afternoon, I noticed tonight that my lawn looks like Augusta. No more crusty brown spots.

I wanted to update my fiction tonight, but the outcome of last entry's envelope procurement has had me thinking.

I can't speak for other writers, but for me, much of the writing process takes place in my head. Like the produce we'll soon consume from my recently tentative garden, most of what I write is stuff that's spent lots of time germinating.

It's been a pleasant diversion; the garden, and the fiction.

And in addition to finding edible presents in my garden, I found this tasty spot on my blog site that let me know a few details that were previously illusory.

I've been counting my hits for a while. I've been chasing 20,000. But what I learned was that I surpassed my goal a while ago, without even knowing it.

According to what the blogspot tells me, I've had 22,982 hits. And those hits haven't sprouted just from my friends and family.

I have readers in India, Australia, the Netherlands, the U.K.

Of course I imagine there's some blogspot.com person who's trying to make me feel better by creating these unusual statistics. "Let's let her think she has a few readers in Sri Lanka! That will make her feel so very valued."

Apparently I do have a few Sri Lanka readers, if I believe the seed that's been planted.

Finding that odd aspect to my blog site was such a coolio bonus, as was the realization that I've had more hits than I thought I did.

Like rain to my garden, it keeps me going.

As for the fiction, I have a full day planned tomorrow, and I hope I get a chance to open the envelope to see what's coming next for Stella and Maisie. I've received some succulent feedback.

I think they'll be heading toward the coast. Or they might take a page out of my book tonight, and just relax where they are.

Maybe they'll enjoy the rain.

Burlington to Bozeman.

Here's another installment to my current attempt at fiction. I've decided I'm giving myself some latitude. I'll update this pair's odd proceedings every day or two.


I do appreciate the feedback. Via this site, facebook, email, I'm glomming onto each suggestion. I'm completely enjoying this made-up world, these colorful people I've found.


And in large part, it's because of your suggestions.


What happens next?

Maisie went down in slow motion. First she went to her knees, then to her elbows. Then the soft pillow of her generous breasts made for a soft, crazy, unanticipated landing.

Stella had a different reaction to the sound of gunfire.

Startling circumstances compel different people to do different things. Some people, when faced with an adverse situation (i.e., watching someone fall or, in this case, potentially getting shot) tend to offer assistance. Or in the case of falling, they actively attempt to stifle a laugh.

Neither was the case with Stella.

After hours of driving, and having a certain inbred, conventional comportment, Stella simply needed to "p".

So as Maisie curled herself into a crisis-driven fetal ball after hearing the gunshot, Stella headed straight for the bathroom.

What was once a place of contemplative worship and respect for the dead had become a wild ride of disorganized mayhem once the unanticipated shot of gunfire occurred.

As Stella quickly entered the First Presbyterian Church of Burlington with a very singular objective, the stoic folk of Burlington streamed out of the church in a crazy fractal.

Maisie slowly regained her bearings during the crowd's crazed exodus from the church. She straightened herself up, and attempted to regain some sense of composure.

Saunter. Saunter. Saunter. She repeated the word as she adjusted herself, trying to look normal in the midst of a completely abnormal situation.

Stella and Maisie found themselves at the swinging door of the bathroom; one entering, one exiting.

"Cattle herd."

That's all Maisie could say.

Stella had to be the strong one.

"Let's see what in the hell is going on, Maisie. For god's sake, pull yourself together."

So they did their best at sauntering and strolling, despite the chaos of the situation. After a series of frenetic twists and turns down several hallways, they found themselves in the church kitchen.

It was as though no one in the kitchen knew what had happened. Everyone was cooking up the last supper for Mrs. Clark Thompson.

The two women did their best to muscle up a shred of composure. They smelled the Beef and Barley Stew. Each of them salivated when they saw the crock pot of White Bean Chili. Both took note of the complete lack of vegetables and fruit.

Despite the lack of freshness and the recent gunfire, they were both hungry.

"Do you need any help?" Maisie broke the ice.

"Take this tray to the dining hall." The woman who quickly dispatched the order apparently had no idea what had happened that disrupted the event's solemnity.

"Will do."

Maisie had regained her composure, as well as her appetite.

She had been given a tray filled with steaming smoked pork ribs and roasted garlic mashed potatoes.

Despite the lack of audience, she dutifully brought her tray to the Multi-Purpose Room in the church, and laid the tray down next to the series of water jugs, each of which was peppered with ice that was quickly melting.

Stella was soon to follow, with a tray of Buffalo Chip and Wyoming Cowboy cookies, which apparently were the dessert items on the menu for the passing of Mrs. Clark Thompson.

"God, I'm hungry."

Maisie said it first.

Silently, piously, both of the women sampled items from each of their trays.

They washed it all down with water, now devoid of ice chips.

Everyone was elsewhere.

That's when Maisie saw the envelope that was most likely left by one of the mourners who had swiftly departed when the gunfire changed everything.

"To Claudia." Maisie knew it was time to leave.

"Eat up, Stella. We've got to get to Bozeman."

She quickly pocketed the envelope. They had a first name.

And thanks to grazing at the buffet, they were full.

Hangman.

Tomorrow, I'll revisit my fiction. I have a bit of reality to chat about.

Let's back up.

Yesterday, I took a walk with a friend.

It was early. We walked in between the heat and the rain.

We walked around a lake, and in an effort to maintain some kind of lake-walking left/right order, someone painted lanes on the walking path.

And then someone painted something else.

This made me stop, just long enough to take a picture.

It was good to pause, to catch my breath and notice this.

And tonight was good, too.

I went out tonight.

I went with a different friend to a different place.

We started out way in the back of a lovely restaurant. We initially found ourselves way in the back, because the place was packed. A table opened up outside, so we snagged it. Then the sky opened up with buckets of rain.

We found shelter with some people who were so welcoming. We shared the rainstorm with two people who were so open.

Eventually, it became obvious that the rain wasn't going anywhere. So we went back inside.

We found purchase at a table with two women who told us more about themselves than most people share in years of therapy. We did the same.

What a great night.

What a fun game.

Hangman has no distinct end point. Add some fingers, add some toes, fill in some features.

This game of life is similar. So beautiful, so perplexing, so many ways to play.

Casper to Burlington.

I started this bit of fiction yesterday, and as I mentioned in yesterday's entry, please give me feedback about where you'd like this story to head. Thank you to the groovy folks who have given me such great suggestions - when I was writing tonight, there was more fodder than I knew what to do with (sorry for the preposition...). I'm enjoying getting to know these characters, and I hope you are as well! 

If Maisie was reading the map right, they had almost four hours to drive until she and Stella would find themselves in Burlington. They'd left Casper just a shade before 2 pm, so if Maisie trusted her sense of direction, they'd be right on time for the post-funeral dinner in honor of the passing of Mrs. Clark Thompson.

"What do you think her first name was?" Maisie was trying to make conversation with Stella, trying to find a distraction from the heat, the quiet, the desolate northern Wyoming landscape.

It quickly turned into a game. Stella could be harsh, but she had a generous slice of good humor.

"How old was she?" Stella figured a date of birth and a dose of heart disease might make her pick a name like Gladys or Pearl.

Maisie tipped her head up to read the fine print of the obituary through her bifocals. "Doesn't say. But from what the newspaper says, the family sounds positively bereft."

"Sadness is not a clue, Maisie." Stella's hands held tight to 10 and 2. "I'd say Genevieve. Or maybe Chris."

Of course Mrs. Clark Thompson had a first name of her own, Maisie thought as she went through a catalogue of women's names in her head. Carla. Melanie. Leanne.

Too young, she thought. But probably very proper, what with the Mrs. Clark Thompson.

Maisie was distracted by the complete lack of distraction that was northern Wyoming, so she stopped thinking about Mrs. Clark Thompson's first name, and she started paying attention to the vast terrain of nothing that flanked their Dart as it made its way through US 20 onto the 789.

They passed Thermopolis.

Stella thought it was an odd name for a Wyoming town, but she didn't say it out loud. That would just get Maisie started on some Grecian tangent. And Stella thought they needed a few more minutes of quiet before they found themselves in Burlington.

"We're so close - we really need a first name." Maisie was worried.

"We'll be fine. I'll find the bathroom, you find the buffet," Stella was feeling the sting of sitting too long. If it were a movie, she thought, northern Wyoming would be one of those black and white instructional films from the '50s. Duck and cover.

They passed the rectangular green and white sign that announced their entry into Burlington, and without saying a word, a look passed between Stella and Maisie that instantly registered wild disappointment.

Under her breath, Stella said, "Population 210?"

Maisie was adjusting her glasses, trying to figure out which left was the left they needed to take to get to the church.

"Middle of nowhere." Maisie said it even softer, as if she were somehow to blame.

It wasn't hard to find the church. The profusion of cars flanking every sidewalk was a dead giveaway.

They unwound themselves from the Dart. After hours of driving, both women adjusted themselves in their own particular way. Maisie applied a fresh coat of lipstick.

She'd worked up an appetite.

They toddled close to the sanctuary, both ready to do their best to honor the memory of Mrs. Clark Thompson.

That's when they heard the first gunshot.

A bit of summer fiction.

I overheard a conversation at one of our recent Feasts that went into detail about how good the food is at funerals. It didn't take long before I thought about some characters who duplicitously attend funeral brunches and dinners, simply to sample the bounty of good cooking.


This is a bit out of this blog's context, but who doesn't enjoy a bit of summer fiction? Here's what I thought about today. If you'd like to contribute, please do. Give me some idea of where these two colorful women should head next; what they might experience and why. 


As for today, this is what I came up with:

Stella brushed the crumbs off of Maisie's generous shelf of breasts as delicately, as indiscriminately as she could.

"That's your third piece of pie." Stella said it in a quiet, admonishing tone. They were in a church dining hall, for God's sake.

Just for a moment, Maisie composed herself. She knew exactly where she was, and she was reminded by Stella's hushed words that they weren't supposed to be there.

But Maisie was nothing if she wasn't composed.

"Yes, you're right, Mr. Johnson," she mumbled sincerely as she pushed a twirl of grey hair off her damp forehead. "Hank was such a strong man. I can't begin to believe he's gone."

Her eyes got a bit misty.

Maisie didn't miss a beat when it came to conversation.

Stella was just a shade jealous at how easily Maisie made friends, even in the most pitiful, sad situations.

Stella tried. She really did. Like using a hairbrush as a microphone in those private, adolescent bedroom moments, Stella practiced at trying to put on a face of affability and warmth. Because those skills come in handy, especially in the dead center of Wyoming.

"Tell Mr. Johnson goodbye, Maisie. We need pay our respects to Hank's family and we need to hit the road."

Stella added a tone to those last three words that she knew Maisie would understand.

Maisie was Abbott to Stella's Costello, and the straight man always knows when it's time to leave.

It wasn't until they got to the church parking lot, tucked neatly into their 1989 Dodge Dart, that Stella let loose.

"Why do you have to linger? Why do you have to draw attention to yourself? It's not about you. Today it was about Hank.

And apparently the pie."

Maisie was unapologetic, and she was full.

"I had no idea there'd be such good pie," she said proudly, adjusting her ample body into the well-worn seat.

"We've got ground to cover. No time to dawdle," Stella said.

She'd read earlier in the day that a Mrs. Clark Thompson had sadly fallen victim to heart disease in Burlington.

They had some ground to cover.

"Put on your seat belt, Maisie," Stella said as she put the Dart in first gear.

"I hear the Thompsons throw a hell of a party. And according to the paper, it starts at 6."

Beautiful sky, like fireworks. Then fire, like fireworks.

It didn't matter where I went today. It didn't matter what I did. Everywhere I went, I was surrounded by a beautiful sky.

The day was lazy, from start to finish.

Once I got going, I found myself surrounded by the most loving people, and the most beautiful sky.

Part I: Anne's house.

I love that family. Every single one of them.

Part II: Robin's house. Equally lovely. Never enough time with Robin.

Everywhere I went today, regardless of the crazy, sweat-inducing, sweltering heat, I was surrounded by clouds and sun that mixed into a tasty creation that became a breathtaking sky.

Then I got home.

I had no intention of getting involved with anything having to do with fireworks.

So I made a fire of my own.

What a craptastic idea, you might say! It's a bajillion degrees outside, even as the hot day turns into a tepid night, and you make a freaking fire!

That's exactly what I did.

And I watched it for hours.

I took a ton of pictures.

I just watched it.

I have no ocean nearby, and a fire is just as hypnotic.

So as the BOOM BOOM was booming all around me tonight, I was quiet, watching my beautiful fire.

Fireworks.

Today was filled with friends, candid displays of color, just a touch of melancholy, lots of heat, and boundless, amazing works of fire.

It all started with a beautiful sky.

Cents and Sensibility, Day 30. Turning the page to Phase Two.

I thought for a moment yesterday that there were 31 days in June, but this morning I recited that "30 Days has September, April, June and November," rhyme, which is arguably the worst piece of poetry ever.

It was then that I realized we've been doing this experiment for an entire month, as of today.

The last time I spent a measurable amount of money was May 31. And since then, there have been a few changes around here.

As you may recall, prior to May 31 I was spending, on average, $150 each week at the grocery store. I've done a bit of an unscientific poll, and my previous spending pattern fit right into the range that most people spend. Some folks with less people in their house spend more than $150, but most folks I asked spend just as much as me or more.

This past month, I've spent, on average, $50 per week buying groceries.

I'm no scientist, but that's a significant savings ($600/month vs. $200/month). And we've had lots of company.

In addition, we've had four Peasants Feasts. One would assume we'd have leftovers from those gatherings, but everyone's come hungry and left full. Which is a good thing.

As for gas, I used to burn around three tanks in a month, each tank costing $44. That's $132 per month.

After filling up the tank on May 31, I didn't fill up again until June 23. And I still have a bit less than a half a tank. So let's just say I've spent $65 on gas this past month. That's just about half of what I used to shell out.

As for all things discretionary, I used to spend my extra cash at whim, without really thinking. Ten bucks here, give the kid a $20, let's go out to dinner, I need a new fill-in-the-blank. It adds up. I was spending somewhere in the $150/week range on events, items, necessities for me and my kids before May 31.

Logan used to drink a crazy amount of Diet Coke. I did the math, and I was spending approximately $56 every month, just to keep him (and I confess, occasionally me) supplied with Coke.

He hasn't had a Diet Coke for three weeks. I have one very occasionally.

I've definitely cut way, way back. During the first three weeks of the project, I spent an average of $25/week on extras. This past week, what with treating myself to some brand new clothes and dishing out some money so my son could go out to lunch with a friend, the average has gone up a bit.

That's not a bad thing. Everything in moderation, including moderation. Sometimes it's nice to step out and do something special. Cutting back makes the splurgy times more meaningful.

What have we learned so far?

I know that I've learned to think twice before I buy something. That's a skill I definitely hadn't mastered. Now we use what we have, instead of using the excuse of needing an ingredient or an item as motivation for leaving here, for shopping, for buying much more than what was on the list, because we deserve it.

I have more appreciation for what we do have. I've become more aware of why I spend money.

In the past, I'd rarely spend my days off at home. I'd find some reason to roam around, chalking items off a very self-imposed To-Do list.

Now, I realize more clearly that no one does anything they don't sign up for. I'm not a victim to the errands, events, obligations that I willingly put on my list.

I have a new appreciation for silence, for quiet, for stopping.

So it's been a month, and it's been good.

But it's not over.

"What?" you say. "No more blogging every day, no more bouts of fiscal and personal self-exposure?"

I'll tap out our progress intermittently now, because we're headed into Phase Two.

After discussing it with my family, we're going to continue to spend as we have this past month. We're going to ease off the meat now that it's almost gone, and get creative with beans, rice, tofu, fresh stuff.

I intend to become a bit less cloistered after today, although I'm sure it will be gradual, because I've really enjoyed paying attention to the Right Now that doesn't include the self-imposed notion of happiness through acquisition.

So. Like the Kardashians, a bad rash or what remains of my relationship that's stowed in my garage, some things, like Cents and Sensibility, just seem to linger whether you want them to or not.

Long and short (and this entry is going a bit long), this project has become too financially and personally fruitful. New ways of thinking about things are becoming a habit.

And apparently they're a hard habit to break.