Noticeable November: River Rain

Okay, I forgot to write something specific for my blog this week. This was a class assignment that fit the Noticeable November theme.

River Rain

by,

Jennifer E. Miller

The river calls to many for fishing, but sometimes I think I’m here for the rain. Clouds hang low, bringing the weather. Birds glide inches over the river’s winding glassy surface in search of food. If I'm lucky, the steelhead will get hungry for the bait. There’s more here than I came for; like watching the river dance.

Inside the cover of the boat, I open my Stanley thermos. The cap unscrews to serve as the cup. I twist the valve slightly to open the pouring mechanism. The suction releases, telling me it’s ready. As I pour my coffee, the hot beverage meets the cool air and stream crawls out my cup in wispy vapors. I wrap my hands around it and soak up the warmth, enjoying it while I wait for the coffee to cool off before taking that first sip.

Pitter-patter of rain starts. Soon drops dribble down the side curtains and catches my attention. Looking out the side, I notice the river has become misty with haze of precipitation. There is not embankment on this section of the river. The rolling hills fold into the landscape. They make long earthy striations. Like fingers of a giant they jut down directly to the water, as though combing in the current.

As the coffee bean aroma fills my nostrils, I gaze out onto the water. I always liked the rain while fishing. The fresh clean air revitalizes the otherwise stale stank of the dark murkiness. Driftwood, white cap foam, and occasionally trash lap against the shoreline. Trapped, it’s all let to wither and rot with the sands of time.

The newfound freshness calls to me, reminding me I have cooped myself up indoors far too long. I needed a trek to the outdoors. But now I’m inside a man-made vessel surrounded by more artificial objects. I suddenly become aware of the gassy smell of the propane heater inside the boat. It’s not harming me; I have plenty of ventilation. But I long to breathe the natural surroundings Earth provides. Trapped inside with propane, vinyl, and aluminum, I need escape.

Stepping out of the boat's cover, I allow the fresh rain to fall upon me. It’s not raining hard, but many small drops fall quickly. They tap the water-plunk plunk-each making ripples. The ripples are plentiful and merge into one another. At the centers the raindrops which tap the surface bounce upward in an attempt to escape and return to the sky. They don’t get far. Gravity pulls them back to the river.

Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Noticeable November: Back-Whoa!

Continuing with Noticeable November. A little story developed from something I noticed the other day. 

Back-Whoa!

by,

Jennifer E. Miller

On my way home I have to pass a self-service car wash. You know what I mean, right? The kind with multiple drive stalls where you plunk a few quarters in and use a timed sprayer to rinse off your car. For a little extra you can use warm water; a nice feature when it's cold outside. A few more quarters gets you a soapy wash complete with the use of a spinning brush. Dig into your pockets for another handful of coins because you forgot about the final rinse. You're out of change for the air dryer so you drive home quickly to grab towels. Hopefully you get their soon enough to wipe off the water so it doesn't dry into little chicken pox spots. Yeah, one of those places. 

It's not really a place that is out of the ordinary, but what I saw there recently was. A large white dually truck was backing in. That's weird. Why would anyone need to back-in to a wash stall. Its set up is simple: pull forward. Even the automatic car washes have you do that. As I examined the scene more closely, I noticed that the dually was hitched to a platform trailer. On top of the trailer was a large back hoe. I get it now. The back hoe is being pushed into the stall to wash it off. Don't see that everyday. Of course, that thing sits rather tall when on top of the trailer. I'm not sure how anyone of average height is supposed to reach the top of the back hoe with the sprayer and brush. Perhaps the driver was just interested in spraying off the tires.

This is also strange. Is it normal to wash off equipment? Typically, when I pass construction sites after working hours, the tractors are just sitting there soaking in their own dirt and muck. This has got to be one filthy back hoe if it needs a cleaning.

I started thinking about all the reasons to use a back hoe and came up with only one: digging. Okay, how about places: farms, new construction, digging new cable lines, reaching pipes...oh. It hits me. Back hoes are also used to dig up yards to reach a septic tank. Particularly one that has backed up and overflowed. 

Ew.

Now I get it. This back hoe was most likely used to scoop up and set aside a bunch of shit and is, likewise, smelly. Alright. Starting to make some sense now. If that tractor was rented, then the rental store most likely doesn't want a piece of unsanitary equipment returned to their location. 

As I continued past the self serve car wash, my mind wanders about the poor soul who had to have their septic tank exhumed. I can imagine a stinky mudslide of a mess. Grass dragged out, flower beds overturned, muddy tire tracks on the road as the back hoe was driven up the ramp onto the flatbed trailer. Neighbors are standing at the end of their driveways or on the sidewalks, plugging their noses in disgust.

Finally I pull up to my house. I notice a note taped to the garage door. It reads: "My septic tank lost it. Did the clean up, but now returning the back hoe to the rental store. The smell should only last over the weekend." It was signed: "Joe, next door." Then I take a breath. And wrinkle my nose in disgust.

Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Noticeable November: Squashed Cupcake

Did you write anything for Noticeable November? If you did, keep it up. Share it, if you'd like. Did you discover anything?  

The following piece contains more abstract details. I made some far-reaching connections and I'm interested to know if they make sense. 

Squashed Cupcake

by,

Jennifer E. Miller

As a little girl, I remember wanting a certain kind of dress. Not a style or color, but the way the dress performed. It needed to twirl when I spun around. Watching other girls in fancy dresses, they would pirouette on their tip toes. Their dress would float around their body like a graceful dancer. When they stopped spinning, their dress would continue wrapping around their bodies until gravity and momentum forced it stop. The dresses were always glittery and flowy, with just enough puff netting on an under layer to add elegance without bulk. I noticed how the girls with these dresses walked proudly or skipped enthusiastically, the skirt portion bouncing with each step. They were excited to wear such a fancy gown. And they enjoyed their dress's performance as much as I envied it.

New holiday attire was a usual thing for my family. When I would hone in on a "performance" dress at the store, I was quickly shot down. Too expensive. Too glittery. It doesn't match any of my shoes. You'll only wear it once. But what I could never get across to the purchasing powers that be, is that if I got to wear a dress like that, it was like wearing a recital costume or a prom dress. Even if only worn once, it was going to create fantasies. I could twirl into a fairy maiden with magical powers. Or finally know what it was like to feel a dress come alive. I wanted to know that feeling I saw in other lucky girls who got to spin their way to their church pew. Or in line for Santa and pirouetting their way out of boredom while they waited.

In fourth grade, I finally got my twirl dress. It was soft green velvet on top with long sleeves and a tiny matching bow that rested on the neckline. The skirt was white sheer fabric, gathered at the waist, with a ruffle at the bottom and satin trim. Puffy netting was sewn in, giving my dress that perfect conical fluff. It wasn't glittery or overly showy. It was simple yet elegant. And it twirled! I couldn't wait to get home, throw it on, and spin on my tippy toes. I spun so much it's surprising I didn't wear a hole in the carpet. I felt so beautiful and different in it. Different in a good way. I imagined myself as that maiden fairy twirling, hopping, and flying around with magical pixie dust to make everything merry. When I wore that dress, everything was more lovely. The snow outside looked fluffier, whiter, and brighter. The holiday music was more jolly. Waiting for Santa's presents on Christmas morning didn't seem so far away anymore. I finally understood why those other girls smiled constantly at themselves while doting their fanciest dresses. They felt good; so everything around them felt good, too.

Fast forward a few decades and I have my own daughter who has eyes for fancy things, too. She has a twirly dress she loves to wear. It's sleeveless with white cotton lace on the top half. An empire cut waist gives way to a pleated bright pink skirt. The netting trim underneath is curled which gives the dress a unique shape when she spins. Instead of the entire edges twirling away from her in a straight line, the bottom six inches fold downward. When she spins, she looks like a delicious cupcake. A pink cupcake liner with vanilla frosting. A headband or bow represents a cherry on top. She has the same giddy look on her face as she dances and pirouettes, absorbing all the happiness in life at that very moment. I want to bottle up that innocence. Freeze it in time and release it upon a grim moment.

One day, she got her feelings hurt by a older kid. While passing out Halloween candy, a teenage boy grabbed a handful instead of one piece like she instructed. The incident made her cry because she didn't know what to do. He was bigger than her and she felt so...small. What I saw was a squashed cupcake. All the goodness and love and magic she harnessed from twirling in that dress had been knocked down and stepped on.

It took a few days for the pain to wear off but she managed to bake another cupcake with the help of some pixie dust I loaned her. I'm glad. A baker's dozen is actually thirteen. So when one doesn't come out right, or is dropped--or squashed--the remaining twelve stand; baked with love.


Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Noticeable November: The Bleeding Rock

I've come up with something simple for my November writing task and  I encourage others to join me. Notice anything and write about it. Possibilities include an object, scene, or even an experience. Don't forget to include sensory details, other than sight, when you can (sound, taste, touch, emotion, etc.). You don't need to have a blog; a basic journal will do just fine. Heck, even a paper napkin and a sharpie! Allow yourself a few minutes to write about your chosen subject and let your thoughts flow. Edit if you wish. In my Creative Writing class we have been focusing on details which is why I extended it here. If you are unsure of your writing skills, or this is simply a task outside of your comfort zone, I suggest giving it a try anyhow. You may discover a deeper meaning to why that particular person/place/thing was noticed. There is no right or wrong when writing, and it has no boundaries. If that doesn't make sense, write for yourself, and no one else. You may see what I'm talking about.

The Bleeding Rock

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

I finished up at the doctor's office and was on my way out. I looked out the window from the fourth floor and noticed a large rock across the street. It was massive, twenty feet in diameter, and round with jagged edged. Not smooth like a stone, but spiky like shale. It was a dark color, I'd call it charcoal. I don't know why I noticed it just then. The sun wasn't shining on it; in fact it was an overcast day. Perhaps with the leaves on the trees gone, the bare branches allowed me to view it. The shape was certainly unusual. My eyes were drawn to some sort of vine climbing up. The plant's leaves had turn bright red. They clung to the rock making a little formation; like a continent on a globe. I liked its natural beauty nestled amongst the modern buildings, roads, and cars. 

I stared at it for a few minutes intrigued. Intrigued why I bothered to even stop to observe it more than just a passing glance. Why the red vine reminded me of blood. Why I thought the rock was bleeding. Was it hurt? Sad? Doomed? Was that rock scheduled to be demolished next spring and this was it's final autumn and winter? I wondered why it wanted me to notice. Did anyone else notice this spherical formation?

Looking at the surroundings outside, the wind was scattering dried leaves about. It was a cool day and I imagined touching the rock's cool surface. I bet in the summer it was warm from the heat of the midday sun. 

Examining the rock further from the window I noticed there was no bird droppings on this rock. Strange as there were plenty of trees to welcome feathered friends. Perhaps the birds steered clear of it. Did the rock hold some magical powers? It was situated near a doctor's office, which was near a hospital. A healing rock? I felt a chill when I thought that.

I took the elevator to the first floor, walked out the building to my car. The wind continued to blow and now, I not only saw the leaves, but heard them scamper across the pavement. Soon I arrived at my vehicle, unlocked it, and climbed inside. Starting the engine, I looked around to see which side of the parking lot I should exit on. The traffic was heavier on the right so I went left. Reaching the outlet I stopped to check for oncoming cars. I looked right, then left, then center. The bleeding rock was directly in front of me. Looming. I had coincidentally steered myself in its direction. The rock seemed like it was trying to tell me something. Begging me to stop and observe it further. Red vine leaves danced in the breeze. Taunting me to stay. But I left.

I don't know why I notice that big round rock. Bleeding for something. Watching for people who notice it.

Copyright 2016 Jennifer E. Miller