Looking For The Spoon

This diagram caused me to chuckle at first, but man is this true!  I’m a Baby Boomer and a Catholic school girl, so I always thought over-achievement was the norm.  As I’ve gotten older and reality has set in, my fondness for box wine has deepened.  But I digress…

The current economic slump has everyone on the over-achiever bandwagon.  Try harder!  Do this!  Do that!  If you fail, it’s your own fault.  And while I’ll happily take responsibility for my career, reality DOES factor in.  I’m kinda tired of drinking the superwoman Kool-Aid, ya know?

I grew up wanting to be a dancer.  Now I’m a writer.  Have I settled?  Should I write about dancing?  I’m 53.  Isn’t that a bit old to ditch the writing for dancing?  I have a friend my age who owns her own dance studio and dances every day!  Of course, she’s been doing that for years, but I’m sure you understand my point.  Life happens and sometimes we trade in our dreams.  Other times, they simply change.

At times I find it difficult to decide when to hold on to what I’ve got, and when to let go or move on.  I ran across this question recently and find it useful when I feel stuck:
What do I want instead of this?  (And just for the record, the question keeps leading me back to writing.)

My husband said something profound today (it does happen occasionallyJ):
“If there’s a fork in the road, look for the spoon.”

There just might be some hidden wisdom in that.  Maybe if we don’t know which way to turn, we’re at the wrong intersection.

Your comments and personal experiences are always welcome.

Marianne M. Smith
Writer At The Ranch
Making You Look Brilliant One Word At A Time
http://writerattheranch.com
wordsmith@writerattheranch.com

Riding Shotgun with Mimi: A Tribute to my Great-Grandmother

My great-grandmother was a building contractor, long before that was a fashionable occupation for women.  When I stayed with her I got to tag along to job sites and observe.

We’d travel in Mimi’s Mercury, which was kept in tip-top shape by the Esso mechanic at the end of her street.  (I can’t remember his name now, but Mimi always did.) 

Her car didn’t have seat belts, so I spent most of the ride with her outstretched arm pinning me to the seat.  “Hurry up!  Hurry up!” I always demanded, excited about seeing workers crawling like ants all over a home being built.  “In a minute, in a minute, Princess!” was always her reply.

Mimi liked to line up the long Mercury with the white lines in the road.  As in, she straddled them.  Riding with her was always an adventure.

Arriving at a job site, Mimi would exit the Merc gingerly in her printed flower dress, hose with garters, and heels.  She also wore a corset, which fascinated me.

With Southern Belle grace she would walk the site, greeting all the workers and calling them by name.  Then she would make a second round, this time carefully appraising their work.  She would bat her large and beautiful eyes and point out that the framing looked “a bit crooked here,” and: “What about that trim over there—it isn’t quite square now, is it?”

And other things looked “quite lovely” and “just right.”

Then we’d be off to Goldsmith’s to buy a few things for the house, or a gift for a friend.  And back home to Mimi and Popie’s.

Popie was a stay-at-home accountant who didn’t drive.  (He had obviously been terrified by Mimi’s lane-straddling and had completely given up the idea of being on the road.)

But he delighted me because he liked to play games and would tell me the funniest stories.

Things were different here than at home.  We ate ice cream with ginger ale poured on top right before bedtime, and Mimi and Popie fell asleep in their chairs watching Lawrence Welk or Johnny Carson.

I slept in “The Green Room” on a pull-out bed that weighed a ton, and drifted off listening to trains rumble by.

In the morning after Mimi dressed up, we’d have a big cooked breakfast—not cereal like we had at our house.  Mimi made the most amazing biscuits from something called scratch.  I remember her calling my Mom once to ask if I could have some of her prune juice because I was begging for it.  (I got some, too!)

Before I finished high school, Mimi died with grace--just as she had lived--and our family moved in with Popie.  And that great-grandmotherly part of my world ended.

But to this day I grin whenever I pass a busy construction site, thinking of Mimi rambling around in there working her magic.

Mimi:  This blog’s for you!  Happy Birthday!  I’m proud to be named after you, Mary Martisha Clark Quarles.  And someday I'm gonna have a big honkin' Mercury!

I hope you’ll share some favorite memories of your own great-grandparents.  I’d love to read them.

Marianne M. Smith
Writer At The Ranch
Making You Look Brilliant One Word At A Time
http://writerattheranch.com
wordsmith@writerattheranch.com

Dr. Seuss and the Joy of Nonsense

Because of our flailing economy, everything is serious.  We’re all serious, all the time.  Or at least that's how it feels...

I’ve decided to briefly escape this situation by intentionally delving into nonsense.  Fight fire with fire, right? J

Nonsense is defined by several sources as “words or language having no meaning.”  Nonsense is the writer’s nightmare.  Or, is it?

I’m rereading Dr. Seuss’s collection and I’m finding that nonsense delights me.  “One fish Two fish Red fish Blue fish!”  Check out these synonyms for nonsense from Thesaurus.com:

absurdity, babble, balderdash, baloney, bananas, bombast, bull*, bunk, claptrap, drivel, fatuity, flightiness, folly, foolishness, fun, gibberish, giddiness, hogwash, hooey, hot air, imprudence, inanity, irrationality, jazz, jest, jive, joke, ludicrousness, madness, mumbo jumbo, palaver, poppycock, prattle, pretense, ranting, rashness, rot, rubbish, scrawl, scribble, senselessness, silliness, soft soap, stupidity, thoughtlessness, trash*, tripe

Doesn’t that list just make your heart sing?  Who knew that nonsense could be such fun!

In the words of Dr. Seuss:
“I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells.  Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living.”

I have to say that as a novelist I agree wholeheartedly with Seuss’s statement.  Writing fiction is, on some levels, recreating things as you wish them to be—if only for the moment, on paper.

And while my novel is currently being edited, I am escaping all thoughts of the red pen by romping in total nonsense.  It is a child-like behavior, in the best sense of that phrase.  As children we find pure joy in the nonsensical; the more nonsensical, the better.

And while nonsense does not put food on the table (unless you’re Dr. Seuss), solve relationship issues, or train your dog, it sure puts you in a better frame of mind to tackle these things.

Give it a try and see if I’m right.  Feel free to leave a comment about your experiences.

Until next time, I’m out looking for Green Eggs and Ham!

Marianne M. Smith
Writer At The Ranch
Making You Look Brilliant One Word At A Time
http://writerattheranch.com
wordsmith@writerattheranch.com

The Anguish of Loss

This week one of our dearest friends dropped dead.  The phone call with the news stunned me.  To compound matters, several other good friends have lost loved ones lately; one lost his Dad, one her sweet Mom-In-Law (in addition to having her job of 22 years eliminated the day before), and another lost her brother (who was my teacher).  And yet another lost her nineteen year-old son.

I’ve been doing a dance with anguish and anger, and I don’t like it one bit.  And yeah, I know that anger is a natural and maybe even necessary reaction to these circumstances, but I am exhausted from being angry.

I’m no stranger to loss.  I lost my extraordinary Mother way too early, and my Dad long before he died.  My husband’s parents are also both gone, and we went through his Dad’s death together.

So I’m not really sure where my anguish and my anger are coming from.  Sure I realize that a long life is not a given, and I’m grateful that our good friend didn’t suffer.  But still I alternate between being profoundly sad and profoundly pissed off.

Since I have a fairly substantial psych background, you’d think I’d be better equipped to cope.

Last night my husband said that he wished he could have just one more conversation with our good friend.  I feel the same way.  I think our friend knew how we felt about him, but I wish I could be damn sure.

Life is short.  Friends are precious.  I’m planning to do a better job of making sure my friends know just how much they mean to me.

In Memory of Harold Walker

Marianne M. Smith
Writer At The Ranch
Making You Look Brilliant One Word At A Time
http://writerattheranch.com
wordsmith@writerattheranch.com