Ashes Eight Years Later

Ashes Eight Years Later

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Summer 1988. A sunny drive through central Washington, led into what appeared to be snow over an otherwise dry landscape dotted with sagebrush. Top Gun’s “Danger Zone” played over the stereo; the only music an eight-year-old, her dad, and kid sister compromised on. Little did we know, our drive would turn into our own danger zone.

Eyes off the road a split second too long, and the car side-winded across the interstate lanes, then rolled down the sloped dirt median that separated the east and westbound traffic. Mixed with screams, anxiety, and breaking windows, dust came swirling in around us.

When the car finally stopped, returning to its upright position, the three of us scrambled out and huddled together, glad we were uninjured. Only then did we notice the car and ourselves were covered in a dirty film. Our shirts’ bright colors were muted; our dark hair peppered with dust. Rubbing our eyes, we realized it wasn’t dust but Mount St. Helens ash; remnants of the 1980 eruption which spilled over Washington State. Even eight years later, it blanketed this area of the interstate some two hundred plus miles east of the volcano site.

Ash remained along the interstate until thin layers eventually blew away with dust, wind, and the passing of time. But in 1988, there were still visible and tangible reminders of Mount St. Helens famous eruption.

copyright 2020 Jennifer E. Miller
Photos used with permission from John Thielemann

Isolation: A haiku poem

Isolation
By,
Jennifer E. Miller


In isolation
trapped inside, waiting for breaths
of fresh air, freedom.

April is National Poetry Month. I wrote this haiku while quarantined during the current coronavirus pandemic. In case you were unaware, a haiku is a metered poem of 5-7-5 syllables for each respective line. Generally, there is a juxtaposition of the subject or idea in the poem. 

Since I like to include a photo with my blog posts, I chose this one of an orchid I took last year. It's a solitary flower in focus, yet there are a few blooms in the background, out of focus. I felt this was an accurate representation of the social distancing we have been mandated with. Plus, orchids tend to have a face-like appearance, giving them a human connection. 

Like most of you, I look forward to having my normal routine back.

Copyright 2020 Jennifer E. Miller

Unpaint My Deck

Unpaint My Deck

Decks fall in to the deep realm of neediness due to the amount of staining and upkeep they require. No outdoor stain or protectant, cheap or pricey, name brand or generic, has proven to withstand even one northwest winter. As soon as Jack Frost scrapes his frosty tentacles, it’s doomed. Come spring, all the effort put into staining and protecting its surface has vanished. The face of the deck is once again left bare and naked, dry and cracked; ready to stab splinters to unsuspecting soles.

Replacing the wood with Trex seems logical. Fake wood is better than an afternoon of pinching out slivers. It won’t fade or be a termite’s meal. But there’s another product on the market that boasts its ability to fill cracks and splitting areas—deck paint. It’s thick and gooey but costs less than a dreamy Trex. The trouble is, since it’s paint, one must select a color. When that one deciding is a ten year old girl, you may end up with light shade of red, also known as pink.

Some claim it’s a light shade red. In the movie The Hangover, one of the characters walks around with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. His buddies ask him why he totes around a man-purse and his reply is, “It’s not a purse, it’s a satchel.” Much like our Hollywood friend, Tom says, “It’s not pink, it’s reddish.”

When I saw the finished product, Gia admitted she had wanted purple but Tom said no. When I asked why he allowed her to choose pink, he said it looked red to him; like cedar. I stood my ground that he just painted the deck a rather obvious shade of pink. I had evidence to back up my argument.

I brought out my tennis shoes, Boomsday T-shirt, and a container of raspberry ice cream which were surprisingly similar in color to the newly painted outdoor space.

Pointing to my shoes, I asked Tom what color he thought they were.

He turned away as he said, “You said they were red.”

“What color did you think they were when I bought them?”

There was no answer.

“Hello?”

“Fine. Pink! I said they were pink.”

“But the deck is red, you say?”

My point was made, but I sensed he wasn’t convinced. I reminded Tom that he won’t wear the Bloomsday T-shirt in public because he believed it was pink.

“No, I said it was salmon.”

“If salmon were orange or red you’d wear the shirt. If salmon were pink you won’t wear it, so…”

I thought I heard a low protesting grumble under his breath, resembling the phrase "It's not pink it's reddish." (Refer back to the movie quote: It's not a purse, it's a satchel.)

As far as the frozen dairy treat is concerned, I scream, you scream, the raspberries in the ice cream scream pink.

He has painted our deck pink. I wanted to return to the store and supervise the choosing of the paint color and start again.

“C’mon it’s not that bad,” Tom said.

His remark sparked a melody from Tony Braxton that played in my head “unpaint my deck….make me love it again….”

It is that bad. Even the reflection on the ceiling inside the house shouts pink.

I express my disgust to the point where Tom said, “Give it a month and if you still don’t like I’ll repaint it.”

It’s been a month and I'm still waiting for someone to unpaint my deck. Maybe Jack Frost can strip it off this winter.

Copyright 2019 Jennifer E. Miller

Wednesday Words: Better Isn't Good Enough

Photo by Jennifer E. Miller 2018

Better Isn’t Good Enough

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Be better, they say. Since when is good enough not good enough?

Be a better spouse. Make the dinners, perfectly every time. Clean up inside and out so it looks better, so people you don’t care to see feel welcomed and impressed.

Be a better parent. Working or stay home, it doesn’t matter. You can still do better than what you’re doing. There’s always another parent who works harder and accomplishes more than you.

Find a better job with better pay and better benefits. Better co-workers, better hours, and better bonuses. So you can buy a better car, to better you in debt, all to better your image.

Take better vacations, whatever that means, to better places, to better your memories or the envy of others.

Give your kids a better life than you had. Experience more, study more, extracurricular more. Can’t miss out because, anymore, ordinary isn’t good enough.

Since when is good enough not good enough?

Sometimes the dinners burn, dishes pile up, and the clutter hangs around.

Fix your house the way you like and leave it or, if you want, change it.

Work what works for you. It pays the bills and any better is just a bonus.

A car doesn’t reflect on you; it just gets you places like to that vacation closer to home. Maybe it’s not a better place to those who always look to better their life by comparison, but we’re not supposed to care what they think.

Kids don’t know your childhood. How you were encouraged to do better, be better, live better. Or understand that good enough wasn’t good enough.

And even if you do better, be better, live better, there’s always going to be someone out there better than you. It’s a constant chase of what can’t be caught.

What you do is good enough. And that’s enough.

Copyright 2019 Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: The Smoke-Stained Drapes

Yes, I know, I know; it's been a few months since my last entry. Life has gotten in the way and I let of writing for little while, but I have a new flash fiction story for today.

Smoked-Stained Drapes

Jennifer E. Miller

 The two women laughed at a joke as Marissa rolled up weed tightly in its paper and pinched the ends. She grabbed the lighter at the end of the chipped wood table and flicked open a flame with a calloused thumb and took a drag.

Puffing out an exhale she said, “Trudy, wouldn’t be so nice not have to worry about a thing? We wouldn’t be sitting in this dumpy flat with dingy motel-like furnishings and smoked-stained drapes.”

Trudy plucked a skinny white cigarette from its box and put it between her lips. She reached over the table, grabbing the lighter Marissa had discarded. The end turned red and a soon a narrow tendril of smoke swirled up.

Answering, she said, “Yeah. Well, it’s all we got for the time being.”

Trudy watched Marissa suck her cheeks in with a noisy inhalation, nursing her joint. Cigarettes were so much easier and cheaper; she didn’t understand her roommate’s preference to pot.

“I don’t think I like the time being!” Marissa exclaimed.

“Ha! You keep on wasting your money on weed and you ain’t gonna improve your situation” Trudy said, puffing on her cigarette.

There was silence for a few moments while the girls worked on their habits.

Marissa giggled, “Wouldn’t it be great just to be sitting on a beach, smoking this shit right now? The sun burning our skin…”

“Instead of burning our lungs?” Trudy suggested.

“Whatever. My stuff doesn’t have those negative consequences.” She wrapped her lips around the joint again. It was clearly starting to take effect.

“Mine won’t land me in the county-sponsored motel,” Trudy said.

“Cause you’ll end up in morgue instead,” Marissa shot back.

The women laughed, then sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Why does life have to be so damned hard?” Marissa asked.

“Hell if I know,” Trudy said. “God, I wouldn’t have to share someplace to live—”

“Hey now!” Marissa interrupted. “I’m a good roommate.”

Trudy didn’t respond. She stared out the window through the narrow gap in the smoke-stained drapes. Being on the ground floor, she could see across the street to a pair of women smiling and talking. One pointed to the other’s shiny handbag who promptly showed it off. It was clearly a new purchase.

A new item of any kind would be a luxury. Trudy bought nearly all her belongings second-hand. She was usually behind with bills; one month it’d be utilities, the next rent. It varied.

The smoke-stained drapes surrounded the scene outside, outlining that shiny new handbag. It was like it was taunting her; comparing her life to others with luck and good fortune.

She held the cigarette between her yellowed fingers, letting the embers slowly burn the paper as the ashes floated to the table.

“Hey, girlie. Use an ashtray why don’t ya?” Marissa said, as she slid the crystal dish full of old butts across the table to her.

How many previous tenants had slid that very same ashtray across the very same table? Trudy wondered.

Her eyes left the scene outside to tap the cigarette over the ashtray but that was all she did with it. She didn’t bother bringing it to her lips again. Instead, she sat there at the table with the smoldering cigarette, with the smell Marissa’s pot floating around her, and pondered.

“God, are you thinking again?” Marissa asked.

“Yeah, guess so.”

“I’m telling ya, you should switch to these instead—” she twirled her joint “—makes everything disappear faster—”

“I hate living in that space between,” Trudy interrupted.

“The hell are you talking about?”

“Between the storm.”

“What storm?” Marissa glanced out the window, checking the weather. She saw the two women on the sidewalk who had begun walking away. “It ain’t rainin’.”

“It’s a figure of speech, Marissa. I feel like I’m between a storm behind me and clear skies ahead. As soon as I get near the clear skies, a wind gust blows me back to the storm. I work just enough so I don’t get caught in it, but I can’t ever get out of that space in between them.”

Marissa giggled. “Girlie, I got extra. Want one?” She twirled the herb again.

“And what do you think that’ll do for me?” Trudy demanded.

Giggling again, Marissa answered, “It’ll get you high…high above that damned storm path so you don’t have to worry about it.”

“As soon as I’m done with a joint, I’ll just coming crashing down to earth and that storm will be rolling above me still.”

“You’ll come crashing down all right. Like lightening hitting a dry desert, start a fire, and burn up your pathway,” Marissa said with a glassy-eyed gaze.

Burn up your pathway echoed in Trudy’s head. Did that mean destruction or blazing a new path?

“I don’t like those smoke-stained drapes anymore,” she said.

“Whatcha gonna do about it?” Marissa asked.

“Not be comfortable in that space between; that time being.”

“Huh?” Marissa asked.

Trudy snuffed out her cigarette.

“C’mon, let’s give those drapes a good washing.”

Sprinkle Me Clean

Sprinkle Me Clean
by,
Jennifer E. Miller

In the 1980s, a futuristic cartoon called The Jetsons featured Rosie, a robotic maid who zipped around energetically spiffing up the family's living quarters. The show was set far enough into the future that robotic maids should be a reality by now. (Also in the 1980s was a film depicting flying hoverboards. HELLLLLO 1980s…why haven't you delivered your futuristic devices?!) Well, we’re getting close anyhow: for Christmas I got a robotic vacuum. Surely, you are familiar with those round discs that roll across rooms. They are supposed to free up all the time traditional vacuuming takes—sorta like a miniature Rosie.

After opening all the gifts on Christmas morning, I charged the vacuum on the dock to get started on freeing up all my time. Gia ate a leftover doughnut for breakfast, and a few sprinkles dropped onto the carpet.

“Picked up those sprinkles,” I said.

She shrugged. “Eh. The new vacuum can get them. Hey! That’s the perfect name: Sprinkles!”

“We don’t need to name the vacuum; it’s not a pet.”

It was like she didn’t even hear me.

“Sprinkles is a great name because sprinkles are going to be the first things it vacuums up. I think that’s good practice to start small, then Sprinkles can work on potato chip crumbs, Goldfish crackers, and work her way up to paper scraps when I make a mess of my craft supplies.”

Well, we wouldn’t want to overwhelm poor Sprinkles, now would we? I thought.

After Sprinkles finished charging, it was time to set her free. I pushed the start button and away she went. Sprinkles senses to turn around when nearing a wall or other objects and can even detect an edge so as not to tumble down the staircase. Tom and I watched the device with skeptical awe.

“You know,” Tom said, “when I was reading reviews on these things, someone mentioned that they couldn’t believe the vacuum could hold that much artificial intelligence, so he followed it around like a little puppy making sure it stayed out of trouble.”

“Gia named it Sprinkles,” I said.

“Okay...”

“It has a name, therefore it’s basically a pet puppy.”

Sprinkles bumped my foot, spun around, and took off in another direction; characteristic of a fuzzy animal looking to start mischief. We watched her head to the stairs, gauge the edge of the top stair, and turn around. That’s when we felt confident allowing her free range around the house.

Several unsupervised minutes passed, when we heard an unusual melody of beeps, similar to a song found in a video game.

“What is that?” I asked.

Tom shrugged.

Upon investigation we found Sprinkles stuck underneath a dresser. Pulling her out, I hit the start button and she resumed cleaning. However, Sprinkles headed right back to the dresser, surely to get stuck once again if we didn’t intervene. Tom quickly reached down, grabbed Sprinkles by the edges and picked her up. The rollers spun for a couple seconds, then another protest of melodious beeps indicated a halt in her mechanics. Tom placed Sprinkles in a new location and started her up.

“Geez, picking that thing up is like picking up a tortoise,” Tom commented. “Like I held the rounded shell and its feet wiggled beneath.”

From a distant corner of the house, “Dad! The vacuum has a name: Sprinkles!”

Over the next few days, we got to know Sprinkles and her quirky yet functional method of wandering around the house. Traditional vacuuming is typically done with strokes right next to one another, working in one section of the house/room at a time. Sprinkles, however, crisscrosses the room making geometric patterns in the carpet knap. But whatever, because now I don’t have to actually vacuum.

Sprinkles vacuums hard surfaces, too, like the linoleum floors. However, she always seems to enter the kitchen at an inconvenient time.

One day I chopped vegetables, then turned around to place them in the frying pan, when Sprinkles darted in front of my feet like a pet looking for attention. As I caught myself, I dropped a few vegetable fragments onto the floor.

“Drat,” I said.

I began reaching down to pick them up when Sprinkles, like a dog waiting for fallen scraps, zoomed over and sucked them all up.

“Good Sprinkles,” I said.

I am talking to the robot now.

On another day I accidentally stepped on Sprinkles while dusting. Rather than yelping as a puppy would, she plays a little melody with her beeps.

“What happened? I heard Sprinkles play her song,” Tom said.

“Yeah. I stepped on her paw.”

Copyright 2019 Jennifer E. Miller

So I Wrote a Book...

Photo: Jennifer E. Miller 2019

So I Wrote a Book...

Since the fourth grade I've wanted to be an author. I've made my dream come true--I wrote a book! An Italian Thanksgiving can be purchased directly from me or from Amazon.

An Italian Thanksgiving focuses around an Italian-American grandmother, Nonna and her grandchildren. While they have obvious love for each other as they are family, there is a generational gap which the grandkids want to close by offering to have a potluck style Thanksgiving dinner. Nonna reluctantly agrees, but the day doesn't go as planned. In fact, it's a disaster. Throughout the story Nonna's thought drift back to her childhood in Italy and she slowly begins to appreciate why her grandchildren want to help her. In turn, her grandchildren discover more about themselves through her as they try to smooth out every mishap that goes on.

The story blends sentiment and humor, and you certainly don't need to be Italian to appreciate the story.

I'm excited to share it and many of my friends and family are excited to read it. I'm excited that everyone is excited about my book.

Common questions I get asked are: How long did it take to write it? Is this about your own family? How did you come up with the story ideas? Was getting it published difficult?

How long did it take to write it?
It took me about two years from start to finish to get An Italian Thanksgiving done. I wrote the first chapter as part of a class assignment in my Advanced Creative Writing class at Spokane Community College. I thought it would be a good short story, which quickly turned into a longer short story, which turned into a novella (short novel), which turned into a novel. The characters and plot evolved as I wrote, shaping the storyline. Of course, part of the writing process is taking breaks when the writer's block hits. When I was stuck, I put the story away and worked on something else. This generally allows me to come back with a fresher perspective. After finishing the original manuscript, there were multiple rounds of edits. I don't mean proofreading; I mean filling in story gaps and mismatched actions. For example, I said chocolate brownies in one chapter and later called them fudge brownies. Or I said in one chapter that it started snowing, but three chapters later also said it started snowing. Writers can't possibly remember everything.

I also belong to a writers group who help pinpoint sections that are confusing or could use some expansion or oomph. Many times, writers know what they are trying to convey, but it's not always clear to a reader.

Is this about your own family?
Yes and no. I used my own experiences from my upbringing to flavor the scenes, but An Italian Thanksgiving is fiction. Many of the characters' personalities were inspired and combined from family members' personalities, but for the most part their traits evolved along with the plot. It's fun to have the ability to bring characters to life with words.

How did you come up with the story idea?
Since An Italian Thanksgiving sprouted from a college writing assignment, there was probably a prompt I followed; although I can't remember what it was. Many times, the plot evolves as I write and one scene follows after another.

My favorite part to write was chapter five when Gregory, the oldest grandson, drives Nonna and her sister, Aunt Carmela, to the butcher shop. The bickering that ensues between Nonna and Aunt Carmela was directly drawn from personal experience, so it seems authentic. I loved creating the butcher character, Mr. Fetuccio. He's a bit dramatic with his cheerfulness, which makes a trip to the butcher so much more interesting.

I also enjoyed writing chapter eight where Nonna and Aunt Carmela are preparing apple pies. There's a part in the scene where Nonna remembers her family tying ribbons to their luggage for the voyage to the US. I don't want to give too much away, but it connects back to the apples the women are working with.

Another enjoyable character to "build" was Julian, another grandson. He is a jokester with a cool collected attitude about everything, including the potluck. He doesn't understand what the big deal is. He shows his softer side in chapter ten when he comforts his sister, Felicita, about her anxiety over Thanksgiving.

There's a scene at the end with Nonna holding one of granddaughter's hands. Writing that scene got me all choked up because I spent time with my grandma holding her hands, including her last hours.

Was publishing it difficult?
It was challenging. I self-published which means I have control over the cover design, price, and marketing. That also means I'm responsible for the cover design, price, and marketing. I will be honest: writing An Italian Thanksgiving was the easy part! I don't know how to design book covers, and frankly not interest in learning how cause that's not my thing, so I enlisted the help of a local printer who also does design work. Finding an existing image wasn't easy because I wanted something very unique and specific. I ended up hiring my daughter's art teacher to paint the cover. The printer scanned it in and gave me the preliminary cover design with colors and fonts. Of course, I tweaked and adjusted as necessary.

Then there's writing the summary on the back cover. This was hard! How do I write about the story without giving too much of it away? Ugh! I loathed this process and many times wondered if it would be easier to just type "just buy my book because it's awesome." I chipped away and was finally satisfied with something. Since this is my first novel, I included an about the author section. I hadn't originally planned to put a photo of myself on my book because it seemed vain, but my name is so common I figured I better at least look the Italian part so readers are aware I know what I'm talking about. The photo I chose wasn't anything special as far as photography goes (it was an iPhone selfie), but the necklace I'm wearing is an Italian good luck charm. In addition, I took the photo sitting at my writing spot. To avoid the photo dilemma, I could've use an alternate name, but I didn't feel I had anything to hide and there is a sense of pride seeing my own name on a book; especially my first one.

The last thing on the back cover is the ISBN barcode. ISBN stand for International Standard Book Cover. It's a unique barcode which is needed for every format. I needed two: one for the paperback and another for the ebook. If An Italian Thanksgiving was available in hardcover or audio format, those need their own ISBN as well. If I wanted the ISBNs registered to me, there is only one place to purchase them; and they're pricey. A single ISBN is $125.00. (Yep, you read that right.) I needed two, but I could purchase a block of ten for $295.00. There is a way to purchase a reused barcode for much cheaper, but then it's registered to whoever it was originally purchased rather than myself. Plus, I can't use it to publish on Amazon.

As far as the interior goes, the printer formatted the interior. He copied a lemon from the cover and placed it at the beginning of each chapter which was a nice touch. In fact, I wouldn't have even thought of it.

I got the first paperback print run of An Italian Thanksgiving from the printer. Once he provided the necessary files, I uploaded them to Amazon. I imputed the components, set the price, and voila! my paperback and ebook are on Amazon. Well, not instantly, exactly. It takes a couple days to run through the quality control process. Then I had to email the powers that be to link the two versions. Ever notice when you view a book on Amazon there's multiple purchase options: paperback, hardcover, ebook? Yeah, I wanted my book to do that, too. They are supposed to link automatically after 72 hours, but a week later I asked customer service to fix it.

After all of the above is completed, I have to figure out how to sell An Italian Thanksgiving. So far, it's word of mouth. Sales and marketing are not something I enjoy. It's weird saying to people "hey, I wrote a book" because I feel like I'm actually saying "hey, I wrote a book--buy it."

In a nutshell, there's a lot more to publishing than meets the eye. It takes time, money, and guts. Putting my writing out there makes me feel vulnerable. What if people don't like it? The bestseller lists, book clubs, and breakout sensations are focused in the lime light. They're are the ones talked about and discussed, and those authors' future books are picked up instantly by big publishers. While I'm confident I wrote a good story, I'm not so full of myself that I think it's automatically deserving of being picked up by a publisher with a six figure advance (but I can dream, right?). So I'm back to humbly promoting my book myself and hoping that there are a few readers who will appreciate my hobby. Don't forget to pick up your copy and enjoy the story.


Copyright 2019 Jennifer E. Miller

When the GPS Says “Make a U-Turn,” Start Panicking

Photo: Jennifer E. Miller 2018

When the GPS Says “Make a U-Turn,” Start Panicking

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Many drivers rely on GPS navigation systems nowadays to get them to their destination quickly and efficiently. Gone are the days of straining to read maps in the spotlight of the car’s dome light, only to find the desired exit’s number has disappeared into a folded crease. Simply plug an address into a James Bond-like computerized screen and voila! A personal assistant, let’s call it Agent Q, instructs drivers exactly where to turn, and even provides an expected arrival time. Missed a turn onto such-and-such avenue? No problem, Agent Q will reroute things appropriately with instructions to turn on a nearby side street instead, reconnecting you to such-and-such avenue. A detour, of sorts.

Occasionally, however, there isn’t an alternate street within close proximity. Here is when Agent Q says the proverbial “turn around when possible.” This is generally not cause for concern. Pull the vehicle over to the side of the road and, when safe to do so, make a U-turn in the opposite direction. Travel is corrected and continues as normal.

Such matters are complicated, however, when traveling on an isolated Canadian highway, intending to use the junction and merge onto the larger Trans-Canada Highway. For Americans, driving in Canada isn’t much different than the USA. We drive on the right, use the same (or very similar) laws, and since most cars are now equipped with automatic headlights, there’s no concern for that, either.* However, there’s still the trivial annoyances such as paying for gasoline by the liter, mentally converting KM/H to MPH, and finding the English words on bilingual English/French signs.

With the intent to head east on Trans-Canada Highway, you may come across some very worn directional signs. Combine that with 100 KM/H speeds, to an American, l’Est look an awful lot like west. By process of elimination, l’Ouest must be east. Steering onto the on-ramp, you drive your merry way.

“Turn around when possible.”

There may have been numerous places to flip a U-ey on the smaller highway, but on the Trans-Can it’s a bit more difficult; largely due to the fact there’s a cement center divider. No worries, just find a spot on the highway where it’s absent. Surely, the highway engineers didn’t spend their government’s money dividing the entire road’s length in this manner. Probably just a few miles or so.

“Turn around when possible.”

Yes, thank you, Agent Q, the driver is quite aware of that.

Another few miles and still no sign of a turn around possibility. A small town must be coming up somewhere along the route. Let’s check our GPS screen. There’s one; only 100 KM away.

Quick math: Traveling at 100 KM/H divided by a distance of 100 KM, equals—an hour’s drive. Now what?

“Turn around when possible.”

Shut up, Agent Q!

A glance at the gas gauge, convert estimated remaining gallons to liters, and calculate to estimated remaining kilometers on existing supply brings the present situation to: the-car-isn’t-going-to-make-it-to-the-next-town.

Shit.

There are a variety of options presented in this dilemma:

1) Keep driving until you find a space between the cement dividers.

2) Drive the wrong way along the shoulder, up the on ramp, and avoid a head-on collision and/or angry rage-filled drivers while nonchalantly recorrecting to Agent Q’s driving path.

3) Continue saying “shit” over and over in hopes that the road gods will magically transport you onto the correct roadway.

Bank that options 1 or 2 are the logical alternatives. However, several minutes have passed and by now you are ten plus miles from the interchange. Option 2 means driving against traffic for a rather long time. That means Option 1 is best—

Oh my god! There just went a space in the cement dividers!

Now what?

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. 

There must be another turn around spot. What if there isn’t?

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. 

Deep breath—exhale.

“Turn around when possible.”

At this point, you may be verbally abusive to Agent Q. He can handle it. But for you, the real possibility of driving until stranded begins to set in. There isn’t much else but wait out the inevitable.

Another ten miles or so pass when something up ahead catches the watchful eye of a worried driver. The top of the cement dividers, aligned one after the other, creates a fluid line. In an upcoming section, it appears to be broken. Could it be: an exit to freedom?

You slow down, ignore the annoyed honks, and rejoice. Flipping on the blinker, you squeeze the car through the opening. Turning around has been successfully completed.

Forgetting any nasty words exchanged with you, Agent Q politely informs you of your upcoming route and exit. At the junction, though, are those weathered bilingual guide signs.

"Turn around when possible."


*(If you’re old enough to remember, the joke was that those driving with headlights on during daytime must be Canadian as it was rumored headlights are required law 24/7.)

Copyright 2019 Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Christmas Patrol Songs

Photo: Pixabay CC0 Creative Commons License 

Christmas Patrol Songs

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Sunday morning, Tom and I were enjoying our usual cups of coffee. It had snowed overnight, and Tom hoped it would evaporate soon so he wouldn’t have to work in it. Driving the patrol car around at night with snow and ice and whatever else lurking beneath wasn’t his idea of a favorable working environment. I tried to lighten his mood.

“You should sing Christmas songs to the people you arrest,” I said.

“Why would I do that?” Tom asked as picked up the newspaper and scanned the headlines.

“To get into the Christmas spirit.”

Tom gave me a questioning look.

“Come on. If someone hits an ungulate—”

“A what?” Tom interrupted, looking up.

“Ungulate. Hooved animal. If someone hits an ungulate on Christmas Eve—”

“They’re probably drunk,” Tom interrupted again and looked back to the paper.

“Maybe the ungulate caused the accident.”

“That’s what they all say.”

He took a sip of coffee.

“No. What I mean is perhaps a little old lady got trampled by an ungulate and it fled the scene and thus darted out in front of a drunk driver who then smashed it. Then you could sing Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.”

Tom chuckled. “Okay, that’s funny, but no I’m not singing.”

“If you arrest a drunk driver who said they hit a deer after they witnessed it flatten a granny; you wouldn’t sing?”

Tom took another sip, set his coffee cup down with a thunk, and looked me in the eye.

“If that exact scenario happened on Christmas Eve, I would sing Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer while transporting the drunk driver to jail.”

“You could go further,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Tom asked. Once again, lifting coffee to his lips.

“Arrest a meth head and sing All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth.”

Bursting out laughing, coffee spewed. It splattered all over the newspaper, smearing the print.

“See, wouldn’t that make work more fun?” I added.

Tom didn’t answer, but I’m pretty sure he agreed. He just wasn’t convinced about this karaoke nonsense.

“Geez, you could even hook a liberal and belt out Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”

Rolling his eyes he said, “We’re having a mild winter. It’ll never fly.”

“You’re just worried someone’s gonna complain their feelings got hurt. All you’re doing is singing a song in good ole seasonal spirit.”

“That tune has been banned from the radio anyhow.”

“Newsflash: you’re not the radio.”

“I have a radio.”

“Newsflash: don’t sing it so dispatch hears. Speaking of which, there’s another one.”

“Another what?” Tom asked confused.

“Song. How many times has a drunk asked you to repeat your instructions?”

Tom chuckled. “Quite a bit. I usually respond with ‘didn’t you hear me?’”

“Exactly! But instead of using that phrase you could simply start singing Do You Hear What I Hear?”

“You’re going a tad overboard, don’t you think?”

“Nah. Just don’t sing White Christmas.”

“Why is that?”

“Cause you said you didn’t want to work in snow. Don’t sing for the snow to arrive.”

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller

Fill 'er Up

Image Pixabay under Creative Commons License.

I know, I know. I haven't been keeping up with weekly blog entries. Other items have clogged my schedule and kept me from writing. Don't worry, it's because of some exciting stuff. It's still causing some stress, and something happened today that reminded me to "fill 'er up."

My car's gasoline tank has been at or below 1/4 full for the whole week. I couldn't seem to find the time to stop at a gas station even though I drive past half a dozen or more every single day. On Wednesday, I took the car to the other side of town (because there is no longer a manufacture dealership on my side of town anymore) for a recall fix. Knowing the tank was near empty and my schedule full, I just told myself it'd be fine for another couple days.

There are those drivers who will gasp in horror at something like this, but today the gas up light came on. Calm down folks; it's just a dashboard illumination--nothing to worry about (right?). I left early enough for work and stopped at the corner gas station and fed my car the overpriced refined oil. As the glubbing sound of pump started, I relaxed back in the driver's seat with the sun streaming through the window, warming my face. I momentarily closed my eyes and realize how tired I was. I realized that I needed to fill up my own gas tank.

A busy schedule, worrying, and not sleeping well, leaves for a depleted emotional gas tank. I was drained and until I found the time to "fill 'er up," I was going be stranded on the side of the road. I had taken on too much while not taking care of myself like I should have. My car can't go very far with a low tank. Why did I think I could run on a 1/4 tank of emotional gasoline all week?

Everyone refills their tank differently. Octane levels are individualized. Some simply want to relax with NetFlix; others party like it's Y2K. I write and find other artistic outlets. It doesn't matter what you do, just make time for self-love.

Filling up my car's gas tank was a good reminder to stop, or at least slow down, and refuel my emotional gas tank. No matter what or how much we think we can do, we can do it better on full.


Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Free the Zucchini

Free the Zucchini

By, 

Jennifer E. Miller

Luigi blinks. The zucchini seed he planted in the last corner of the garden has taken over, sprawled out like an octopus lazily snoring on its favorite undersea rock. Orange blossoms bask in the sunlight and oblong green vegetables lay about. At first, the budding squash look cute and innocent. But they easily grow a foot overnight; multiplying and, more than likely, plan an invasion. 

Most zucchini in front of Luigi now are of acceptable size for harvest and culinary use; the ideal time to pick before they do any serious damage.

The deeper Luigi walks among the vines, the more tangled the stalks become. It’s like trying to navigate through a wild rose briar. He casually stepped through this garden jungle, severing the vegetables from their mothership and placing them in a cardboard box, until he arrives at a giant. It's hidden under the oversized leaves and partially buried in the dirt. It’s obviously stayed off the radar because it’s nearly four feet long.

He squats to slice it off the stem, but is pulled down and pinned in the dirt. Surprised, he instinctively elbow jabs the unknown entity, freeing himself. Standing up, he steps back only to have something wrap around his ankle, bringing him to the ground again. He is smacked in the gut and soon a wrestling match with a ferocious elongated green vegetable erupts in a street fight type battle.

Flipping onto his back, Luigi is met with a blow to his sternum. When he finally gets a good look at his opponent, he is shocked to see it’s the large zucchini he tried to pick. He pushes the squash off of him and manages to get upright on his knees, spitting out dirt. Placing a leg up to push himself to his feet, he feels cool smooth skin wrap around his shoulders. The zucchini tugs him backward, attempting to knock Luigi over and back to the ground, but he throws it off. 

He turns around and faces the zucchini. What could this vegetable want? Its offspring back? He tosses one out of the box. The fighter pauses as though staring at its lost child. Luigi could’ve sworn he saw it breathing.

Slowly sliding out, the giant zucchini gently taps the smaller zucchini toward the center of the plant, as though protecting it. Next, it lunges at Luigi again. He steps back but tosses the rest from the box. Perplexed, he watches the giant gather them into a pile in the center of the plant. It arranges the vines and leaves so it and the offspring are obstructed from view.

Panting, Luigi walks back to his house and into the kitchen, tossing the empty box in a corner.

“I thought you were bringing me zucchini so I can bake bread,” his wife says, when she sees his empty box.

“They weren’t quite ready,” he lies. The truth was too bizarre.

“Maybe in a few days."

Luigi nods.

He spends the remainder of the day planning how to retrieve the zucchini and avoid attack from the giant.

The following morning he heads to the garden with an ax. He snoops around the vine, searching for the giant but doesn’t spot it. He inches his way into the briar of vines, scanning the area at the same time.

Out of the corner of his eye, something moves. Luigi whips his head just in time to see the giant slithering deeper into the center of the plant with the sound of leaves gently crunching.

Gripping the ax’s handle, he swings and whacks off a juicy vine, tossing it aside. A faint squeal of disapproval is heard. Luigi cuts off another vine and another until the heart of the plant is left. In the center was the giant zucchini protecting the smaller ones. Luigi raised the ax as the clan of zucchini huddle together closer.

“Are they ready now?” his wife hollers from the house.

Looking at the scattered vine pieces, Luigi turns his gaze back to the zucchini, helpless and scared. He lowers his tool and yells back, “I think an animal got into the garden last night. The plant is destroyed."

***

Climbing into bed that night, Luigi leaves the bedroom window cracked open to let in the cool night air, and falls asleep quickly.

Soon an large oblong green vegetable slips through the opening...

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller

Is Kindness Weak?

Is Kindness Weak?

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Do others see our individual weaknesses the same way as we view ourselves? This question arose at a work training exercise where participants were asked what they considered their weaknesses. Out of eight employees, four said kindness. Before we moved on with the exercise, I inquired why they felt this way. The general consensus was when they are kind, it allows others to take advantage of them.

One person gave an example that they have a hard time saying no their friends when they asked to borrow money, even knowing they probably won't see the money returned. Another person said that friends and family know to ask favors of her because she will always say yes.

"Oh, okay. I see now," I said, and left it at that.

But this whole "kindness is a weakness" mindset bothered me. I mulled over it most of the week. Showing kindness isn't weak; compassion is something we should all practice more of anyway. What finally clicked was that kindness was not their weakness, but rather is was the lack of setting proper boundaries. Instead of loaning what someone needs, only loan someone what you can afford and/or are willing to give them. If the money isn't returned, there's no hard feelings. The same concept can be applied to personal favors. Say someone needs a ride twenty miles away because their car broke down. Offer to drive them, but with the condition to reimburse for gasoline cost.

I know what you are thinking: How are these examples of kindness if you are expecting something in return?

Receiving something in return isn't, nor shouldn't be, a requirement for kindness. The purpose gets lost this way. However, setting boundaries is necessary in order to not feel repeatedly taken advantage of. Unfortunately, some people will certainly take advantage of others' generosity if they can.

However, I think there is a big difference when someone asks for help versus taking advantage of another person. The intent of seeking assistance should be because one is unable to do it, versus not wanting to do it. I battle this with my kid every so often when she asks for "help" cleaning her room. She is perfectly capable of doing it herself, but each time she complains of too many things to put away. I guide her through it by suggesting she start with certain tasks: stuffed animals first or organize the book case. I insist she does the work because I know if she is capable of making the mess she is capable of cleaning it up. I set boundaries, otherwise if I "help" in order to finish the task faster, I'm not being kind, I'm allowing myself to be taken advantage of.

When I had surgeries I needed someone else to drive me to appointments or extracurricular activities because I physically couldn't do it myself. I asked for help because I needed it. I offered to reimburse my drivers for gas and their time. (Some accepted, some didn't.) Either way, they showed kindness simply by making time for me.

Kindness isn't a weak characteristic flaw unless it's allow it to be taken advantage of. Compassion is a valuable skill; it shows you care about others. I don't think any of the earlier mentioned participants are weak. They can be role models in a too toughened up world.

Fiction Friday: Green Beans In Heaven

Image: Pixabay under Creative Commons License CC0

Green Beans in Heaven

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

“One of the hardest things you will ever have to do, is grieve the loss of a person who is still alive.” ~Anonymous

The sun delivered a sliver of color to the morning sky as I snapped green beans in the kitchen, alone. The call came early that morning while it was still dark; I don’t even remember who was on the other end. “She’s gone to heaven,” they said. Truthfully, she’d died months before. 

***

She went to bed, then in the morning, recognized no one.

One of the days following, at the hospital, I navigated the labyrinth of sterile hallways, corridors, and ancient moldy elevators dangling by thinning cables. Life monitors beeped everywhere.

Locating the room, I peered in at the sleeping patient, but it wasn’t her. Spinning on my heels, I quickly walked out, feeling embarrassed as if I’d entered the wrong room. I called a relative to verify the room number. “Yes, that’s correct,” they answered.

“But it’s not her.”

They called me crazy; I knew they were right. Her name was right on the door. But the person inside wasn’t Grandma. It didn’t feel like Grandma. She even looked different. To me, it was like she wasn’t there; like she had left Earth.

Not wanting to disturb her rest, I retreated to a visitor waiting area. I don’t care for them. What are we waiting for?

Beyond the window was the regular function of the city. Cars meandered through the streets, sirens approached the hospital, birds flew on sidewalks nibbling on dropped crumbs. I saw no people; just the presence of them. Like a still life in motion.

I shifted my focused from outside, to the window glass, then the window sill, then the empty chair in front of it. Becoming aware of myself, loneliness closed around my mind, and a sensation entered my body, burning my lungs. My breath heaved to get it out. I realized I had started sobbing.

I waited for the dread to pass, in a waiting area with a statue of the Virgin Mary in the corner. Grandma had always had an icon of the Holy Mother near her. She said it gave her comfort. I never thought to ask, “Comfort from what?” I guess it doesn’t matter now. She wouldn’t remember if I asked.

Composing myself, I returned to the room with her name. My footsteps echoed like thunder over the cold tile floor. I entered and walked to her bedside. In a reclined position with her hands folded over her belly, her head bowed forward in slumber; chest rising and falling with inhalation and exhalation.

I don’t remember how long I stared when I got tired of standing and pulled up a chair. An ugly chair that reminded me of the drab ones in the waiting area. Dragging it across the floor wasn’t quiet and the noise interrupted her rest.

With fluttering eyelids, she woke up, revealing the brown irises I knew well but somehow her personality had faded. Delighted, she smiled at my presence. I recognized her neat row of teeth and smiled back. Then I asked her my name and she gave an answer.

“No, Grandma. That’s not right.”

She had called me Mary.

I grabbed her warm hands the way she used to hold mine to comfort me. She rubbed my fingers because they were always cold.

Today her skin was thin and translucent, bumpy with veins. I held her hands and gently rubbed them which she said felt good because they hurt. Perhaps cold fingers, felt cool and soothing. She noticed my wedding ring and commented how pretty it was. Then she stroked her own fingers and mumbled, “They took my fingers off.”

“No, they’re still there. See?” I lifted up her index finger and she looked at it, puzzled. It took me a moment to realize she was probably referring to her own rings, most likely removed upon admittance. Although, I reassured her that her fingers would be returned, she thoughtfully reexamined my ring.

“Do you remember that day, Grandma? My wedding day?”

She squinted her eyes, struggling to grasp the memory. Too much effort was required so I continued speaking.

“It was August, and it was hot. There was a horse carriage and everyone gasped when it rounded the corner. You clapped your hands in surprise and excitement...”

She had drifted off to sleep again, this time with me holding her hands.

Once more, I stared out the hospital window where a hill blocked my view of whatever sat between it and the sky. On the ridge were pines trees with a road that twisted in and out of pockets of clearing with a few houses pinned here and there. The wind made the tips of pines dance and I wished I could open the window and drown the glum environment inside.

“What are you looking at out there?”

Broken from my trance, I jumped and looked at her.

“What is so interesting?”

“Just looking at the scenery, Grandma.”

“It’s only trees,” she said.

No, it’s much more than that. “There’s birds, too, and—”

“There’s nothing so interesting about a bunch of trees. Don’t go wasting your time.”

I changed the subject but kept trees in our conversation. “I remember the pine trees in your field at the fence line. The quail and pheasants nested under them. You and I, we’d find the nests in a bed of dried grass—”

“I told you not to go under those trees! You could get a tick!” Grandma shook her index finger at me and wrinkled her eyebrows.

I hung my head, but soon heard a gruff sigh. She looked out the window; I wondered if she still only saw trees. I wanted to talk about the tall spruce in the middle of her yard, too, the one I used for a hideout, but thought better of it.

Did she remember our garden? The dirt so black it looked wet, and row after row of garden vegetables; garlic, zucchini, and potatoes. What about the fresh basil and parsley growing outside the kitchen window? I mentioned all of them, but none elicited a response. She continued staring out the window with a glazed mask painted on her face.

“How about the green beans?” I asked.

She turned her head, and I was thankful for a motion of acknowledgement.

“What about them?” she asked, inquisitively.

“We plucked them off the plants and into the large yellow bowl.”

She paused a moment, as though lost in thought.

“Yes…”

“We filled the bowl up, then brought it back to your kitchen. You dumped them on the counter, and one by one, you and I snapped off the ends of the beans.”

“What beans?”

“The green beans.”

“We did?”

“Yes.”

“That was you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“Oh.” She nodded her head, albeit confused. “We talked a lot,” she added.

I swallowed a hard lump in my throat and answered, “We did.”

“Sometimes you were sad.”

She squeezed my hand. Did she know I was sad now?

“Sometimes. But I also talked about happy things.”

“Yes,” she said. “You won.”

I blinked. “I won?”

“You played a game—it was tense.”

My mind raced flashbacks, trying to pinpoint what she referred to.

“Tennis?”

“Yes.”

I smiled, and she smiled back.

“I like talking to you,” she said.

Tapping her wrist, I told her, “So do I.”

“Where are the green beans?”

“In here.” I tapped her skull, indicating her memory.

“Why there? They go here.” She stuck out her tongue and pointed to her mouth.

I laughed and so did she.

The next day she didn’t remember the green beans. Nor the day after that. The memory long plucked and snapped from her essence. She was right. The green beans didn’t belong in her head.

***

Now here I was, snapping the ends of the green beans in my own kitchen, which I plucked from my own garden.

The sky now turned to a pale blue and I could see the end of a green bean vine sticking from the top of the trellis; one bean dangled from the end. With nothing else to grab onto, the breeze swished it gently back and forth as it reached toward heaven.

I hoped she found them, my green beans. In case she wants to talk with me.

 Copyright 2018 by Jennifer E. Miller