Recently I slid down some steps and landed on both feet. Realizing the catastrophe avoided, I said, “thank you,” aloud, to my guardian angel. I know who he is, because the psychic I saw years ago, Carolyn, told me someone was watching over me – a family member on my father’s side from long ago, who I’d never met. He’d been with me for a long time, she explained, and “he stands strong with me.” When I asked her why him, she said that is “not for us to ask.” Meaning, just be grateful someone’s looking out for you. I have long felt that someone had my back, to keep the bad things from being worse. Of course, some of those bad things – some of the bullets I dodged or he took for me – were because of my own stupid actions and regrettable choices. So while I’m grateful, I also feel a little guilty for being so high-maintenance. Carolyn also told Kathy that she has a guardian angel -- our sister Margaret Ann, who didn’t live to the end of the day she was born. When I was young, I used to fantasize that Margaret Ann was alive, and that she’d be my friend in a way Kathy never was. I was annoying, not cool enough to hang out with Kathy and her friends, and I thought Margaret Ann would love me like Kathy didn’t seem to and our mother was unable to. But sometimes dark-thoughts Sema took over, and I imagined that she would more likely be Kathy’s best friend, and they would both go off and leave me behind. So, naturally I regressed to a state of childhood jealousy when Kathy told me about her guardian angel, which is so silly and certainly something I could never admit to… Me and my best friend.
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Mike and I played golf recently and I rediscovered how much fun it is. There was a time when it was less fun for me, which coincided with the time I cared how well I played. Fortunately, that time has passed. You get a score card on your cart, but I’d heard of a different method, so I thought I’d try it (see score card photo).
I’m generally not into keeping score. I love hitting tennis balls and never playing an actual game. When Ian was younger and we played Monopoly, I would lend him money, just to keep the game going. It’s not that don’t want to win, especially at Scrabble, but I’m not very competitive. That’s why I prefer playing games with my sister – it’s nothing but fun. Our mother liked to keep score, and I’m not talking about games. We were raised on the concept of tally marks – keeping track of every favor given and repaid. If Margie gave someone something, she expected something in return. She made a mental note of every wedding gift she’d ever given and insisted Kathy and I invite all those recipients to our weddings so she would consider herself “paid back.” Her transactional mentality flourished as she aged, and she became even less forgiving of people’s shortcomings when it came to what she felt due; there was never a way to satisfactorily settle that tab. Kathy and I don’t keep score. It’s never a question of who called or visited last; who gave or took more or less. Those numbers are real, sure, but if you add them up, no one wins. The weight on the scale, the bank account, Facebook likes – there are enough numbers to judge ourselves by, without adding golf scores to the mix. I’ll stick with emojis. I was recently accused, in reference to money, of being “tight as a duck’s ass.”
I hadn’t heard that one before. But I’ve heard plenty. When I was 10, Uncle Jack offered me $5 to buy something, but I couldn’t find anything that seemed worth it, so in the end I asked if I could keep the cash. He liked to say that when I took out a dollar bill, George Washington blinked, he was so unused to seeing sunlight. I don’t think I’m cheap; I know I’m exceedingly frugal. I don’t just save money, I save everything. It’s possible I lived a previous life during a depression. In fact, I might have starved to death in that previous life, as horrified as I am at throwing away food. My first job was babysitting, paying about $1 per hour. I hated babysitting – being at other people’s houses, trying to put children to bed, being around children generally – so to me, every dollar was hard-earned and I was in no hurry to part with them. Later, working at Ponderosa, spending any of my meager pay was still a struggle. I bought the album The Pretender because I believed I couldn’t live without it – that it was worth the $12. ( I was right – I still have that album and it is still my favorite.) It really took me a while to figure out that what is “worth it.” Like springing for the good theatre or concert seats. Or like on our honeymoon, when they asked if we’d like to upgrade to the Jacuzzi room and I was about to say “hell no” but Mike said “of course we would,” and I was horrified – right up until we opened a bottle of champagne and got in that jetted tub. Definitely worth it. I keep a calendar, a notebook with handwritten times, places and reminders. I write down my work schedule, plus any other non-negotiable tasks, in pen. Things I should do, need to do at some point, are in pencil. Easily erased, never there, no shame in lack of accomplishment.
What I want to write down every day, in pen, is sleep. Between appointments, between work sessions, between pick-ups and drop-offs it would be there – sleep. Nap. In the car, on my bed, or sofa – any place really, so long as it’s warm. I can always sleep. And I always want to sleep. It is my less-than-secret passion, the great love of my life. It’s ridiculous, but it’s true. I am never done with sleep, and it is never done with me. Some nights I put it off, delaying the gratification. Some nights, early in the week, I give in and crawl into my bed by 9pm and just let it take over. In Pete Holmes’ comedy special he talks about being a new parent and how sleep is different now, because you don’t get to fall asleep and stay asleep, but instead get to fall asleep about 22 times per night – and isn’t that the best part, the falling asleep? I completely agree. Mike has to have the room completely dark and buzzing with white noise for a good night’s sleep. For me, both curtains and a window open is preferable – real sounds from outside and real light in the morning help with sleeping and waking up. And the waking up is never easy; whether I’ve been down for 6 hours or 10, I rely on an alarm, plus at least a couple smacks to the snooze button. And then there are my dreams. But that’s another 300 Words. At least. When I was a kid and watched soap operas with my mother – both the daytime and nighttime versions – someone was always being blackmailed over a sketchy past. The victim was usually a woman who used to be a hooker/madam/total slut who didn’t want her current boss/boyfriend/husband to find out. Frequently this lead to murder, but was at least costly and inconvenient. And of course, the truth always came out in the end.
Which made me wonder why people didn’t just tell the truth in the first place, and beat the blackmailer to the punch, thus taking away all of his power. Of course, there is no drama in my scenario, so no one is going to write that story. Years ago David Letterman was confronted with extortion over a past indiscretion. In response, he not only came clean to his wife, but to his entire viewing audience. I doubt his would-be blackmailer saw that coming, but along with losing her hold on his life, he also had her prosecuted, which I thought was a nice touch. It was a bold move on his part, to confess to the world like that. People love to watch other people “fall,” especially celebrities. But I think he knew that the burden of people who wouldn’t forgive him was well worth shaking off. What a revelation. For me, a person terrified of what people would think if they knew my myriad faults and fuck-ups, I came to Richmond intent on never revealing a single story of any past transgressions. What a relief to have gotten over that. Because I’d rather live honestly with fewer friends than attempt to hide parts of myself for the sake of being seen in a better light. And I’d definitely rather the truth came from me. It’s very freeing. LOVE: February 14, 2018
Love is cracking open a new book I’ve been dying to read. Love is that first sip of morning coffee. Love is a new fountain pen. Love is my writing group. Love is my book group. Love is my Pilates studio. Love is old Looney Tunes cartoons, particularly watching Pepe Le Pew corner that cat and declare his l’amour for her. Love is a glowing fire on a freezing winter night. Love is the warm air of a Richmond summer. Love is sleep, particularly the uninterrupted kind. Love is a handwritten letter. Love is honesty, and the friend who can speak it. Love is putting a fresh coat of paint on a tired wall. Love is the ability to help. Love is being on my patio with my sister. Love is pink roses. Love is champagne. Love is an afternoon nap in the sun room, cat curled up in the bend of my knees. Love is writing. Love is having my writing published in the Nine Lives: Life in 10 Minutes Anthology. Love is a deep massage to release jacked-up shoulders. Love is an organized desk. Or closet. Or anything, really. Love is late morning “coffee” with Mike. Love is any movie adaptation of any Jane Austin novel. Love is music. Love is Ian playing music. Love is peanut butter. Love is Halloween. Love is purple. Love is in the quilts on our beds made by my sister’s hands. Love is being forgiven. Love is forgiving myself. Love is my friends. Love is the family I have. Love is the family I have made with Mike and Ian. I have always loved magazines.
Teen and Young Miss were gateways, leading to Glamour and Cosmo. I’ll pick up People or US for a flight; Vanity Fair for a beach vacation – nothing in there is a quick read. It’s the variety of topics I love – especially in New York Magazine. Like the piece about the Website “What it’s like to…”, where people submit their stories – such as, “What it’s like to SEE ALL COLORS” (a rare condition), or “What it’s like to SLEEP ONLY 2 HOURS A DAY.” There were also far more extreme excerpts, some I wish I could unread... Recently there was a story about John Hinckley, would-be assassin of President Reagan, out of the psychiatric facility where he was incarcerated, currently living with his mother in Williamsburg, VA. He still has Secret Service trailing him – though mostly to the Burger King. I’ve read some beautiful, personal stories in Real Simple – one by an adopted woman whose biological parents were a college girl and her boyfriend – a football player killed on the Marshall plane crash. The adoptee found her father’s parents, still in West Virginia, who were overjoyed to meet the child of their only child. I get Pilates Style, Entertainment Weekly, Oprah, HGTV and Bookmarks – and sometimes I receive subscriptions I’ve never ordered, like a year of American Cowboy, which led to an onslaught of bizarre cowboy-themed catalogs. My current freebie is Washingtonian. I used to get Smithsonian, which had fascinating articles that made me feel incredibly smart upon reading – but the subject matter was so out of my normal sphere I’d forget it all in a few days. Or hours. But that’s the beauty of it – an hour, maybe two to soak it in, wrap it up and toss it in the bin. Satisfying. Efficient. Sweet. Run
“You said it was only going take two weeks…” “I’m sorry Sir – we really have been having trouble keeping this job staffed –“ “What job?! The job hasn’t even officially started yet – we’re still in the demolition phase. You’re just tearing down – what’s going to happen when you start the actual building? How long is that going to take?” “Well, that’s the tricky part, sir – demolition – because you see, Sir –“ “Just stop right there – I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to tell me how hard it is to keep the demo guys organized, keep them from not losing interest or wandering off or just getting into fights and pulverizing each other instead of the existing structure. I get it – I’ve employed a few trolls in my day, and I know how impulsive they can be.” “They really are, Sir.” “But Mr. Sisk, you have to realize that I’m under some pressure here to get this job done. My wife – the Princess – is only going to be away for two weeks – what they call a fortnight, around here – and I want to surprise her with new stables when she gets home. But in order for that to happen, I need the old stables torn down, and torn down soon, because the elves are scheduled to start construction first thing Tombsday morning.” “I do realize, Sir – and I am on it, as they say in the movies. Your stables will be razed by dawn on Moresday, or I will refund your payment times 100.” “Alright then.” Prince Walt was on edge. Things hadn’t been going well between he and Princess Lillian for going on a year now and he was desperate to please her with a new home for her beloved Unicorns. He personally wasn’t a fan of the Corns, but this was just another point of contention between he and his Princess he wished to put to rest once and for all. Hence, the fancy new stable. If only he could get it built. But, as promised, the trolls lumbered in just before midnight on Snoresday, and made quick work of the old structure. Prince Walt was pleased when he walked the site, the only bit remaining being the four cornerstone footings positioned deep into the earth. But as he glanced from one to the other, he noticed a discrepancy in width between one and the other three. The southernmost cornerstone footing was longer by several feet – which would have made sense if there was a slope to deal with – but that simply wasn’t the case. Curious, he strode to take a closer look at the stones. They were of the same size and type as the others, but upon closer inspection, there appeared to be a slight bulge to the center of the stack. Furthermore, there seemed to be less compression to the stones there, as though they were resting on something not quite solid. Could there be groundwater beneath this footing? Prince Walt was concerned, and considered sending a messenger for Mr. Sisk to investigate, but decided to dig into the footing himself and see if he could perceive the problem before spending any more royal monies on this project. So he began to pull out the stones in the center, tossing them behind him, one at a time, until he was forced to uncover the entire top layer, and then the next, and then the one underneath that before discovering the key to the protuberance in the footing. It was a clamshell. Not a regular clamshell, but one very large clamshell, perhaps the size of a small child, or a large dog, or a normal-sized sheep. Prince Walt stood up and stepped back, a little afraid of what this might be. The largeness of it was off-putting, but the thing itself was quite beautiful. Despite being covering by stones which held up an entire wooden structure, the clamshell was unbroken, unscratched even, and gleamed with colors of pink and white with a hint of pale grey. The Prince was a sensible man. He’d married the Princess out of duty, even though he didn’t love her, and liked her very little. He didn’t believe in silliness, but he knew all about predictions and prophesies, and he knew that is exactly what he had just stumbled across. The clamshell was a talisman; he was meant to discover it here, now. He just needed to summon the strength to open it and accept whatever it held for him. But strength was not necessary, and all summoning was for naught, as the clamshell opened easily and without a hint of effort. And therein, the Prince found his fortune. One word: Run. So he did. THE END (786 Words) My father’s brother died this week – Uncle Sid. Uncle Sid’s wife, Aunt Joan, died earlier this year.
I didn’t know him. He visited once, when I was young, with his children – Chris and Andy – even younger. He and Joan were divorced then; eventually they remarried, which I thought was cool. What I remember about that visit was that he looked exactly like my father, except for his gray hair, which seemed wrong; my father was older. But otherwise, they looked – and sounded – identical. As far as I know, that is one of the few times my father saw his brother. I don’t think he traveled to Ohio, where Sid lived; they may have met up at a family wedding in Massena. I never saw him again, and never met Aunt Joan at all. She sent us a Christmas card every year, with love from A. Joan and U. Sid. And she always thanked me for the picture I sent in our card – said she loved watching Ian grow up in those photos. It’s bizarre and impossible to me that my parents had siblings and family who were not in our lives. We grew up knowing my mother’s family well; we barely knew my father’s family, even though they lived only a few hours from us, with kids – our cousins – very close in age to Kathy and me. Ian knows Zac and Drazen as well as anyone in his life – he has always been close to them, despite the distance. Zac was the one he texted for advice when he broke up with his girlfriend (advice which warrants its own 300 words…). And even if our times with Mike’s siblings are more sporadic, they are equally easy and familiar. I understand family relationships being strained. That happens. Estrangement I don’t get. |
AuthorI was born in Oswego, NY, "I had always wanted to be a writer, but was impeded by the belief that to be a writer one had to be extraordinary, and I knew I wasn't. By the time I was ready to give up my academic career I had realized that while books are extraordinary, writers themselves are no more or less special than anyone else." The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield Archives
March 2024
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Sema Wray • Writer |
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