Patois Poppycock

11.10.08 - Word Count 12777

2008-11-10T23:51:00.003-05:00

The more I thought of the beginnings of Emmey’s story, the more I felt connected to her. I had grown up in a family that was as different from me as night was to day. My parents were Baptist missionaries in Africa up until the time I was six years old, when we moved back to Alabama for my father to pastor a church in one of the poorest counties in the country. I started singing at the knee of my mother – the great hymns of the Baptist tradition, she called them – as she pounded them out on the old upright piano, one clunky chord after another. She was not a natural pianist – she had learned laboriously, and only in order to serve as my father’s helper.

I still remember when they realized I could sing, and sing well. I was in the kitchen of our little parsonage, making cornbread for our supper. My brother and sister were setting the table and singing some of the songs my mother had taught them to help them memorize the books of The Bible. When they finished the Old Testament, I broke in with The Gospels, in a high, clear soprano and sang clear through to Revelation. I could still feel the silence that followed. I looked up from the oven to see my brother and sister staring at me with their mouths open. My mother walked into the kitchen and asked who that was singing, and I was afraid to answer her. Afraid I had done something wrong.

My sister pointed at me and said, “It was Carrie!”

For the next hour, my mother made me sing everything she could think of, just to test and see if it was real, or some sort of fluke that had caused the melody to flow out of my mouth.

That Sunday, I was standing on the wooden platform in front of the little church, knees knocking, voice quivering, singing, “I Shall Not Be Moved,” while my mother clunked out the chords on the piano behind me. The congregation sat perfectly still during the entire song. I’d never seen anything like it –even when Daddy preached people coughed and sneezed, and fidgeted on the hard wooden pews. When I was done, a chorus of deacons’ voices rang out in “Amens” and “Hallelujahs,” but I was speechless.

Back then, no one applauded in churches. An amen or two was high praise.

Every Sunday after that, I stood on that same wooden stage, behind that same dark walnut stained podium, lined up with the center of the cross in the baptistery, and sang my heart out. I never told Mama and Daddy that I sang to hear the Amens and Hallelujahs, not for the Lord’s approval like they told me I should. I didn’t think they’d understand.

We were raised, my brother and sister and I, to serve the Lord. Every aspect of our lives was supposed to honor God and lift up the name of Jesus. I just wasn’t very good at it. I tried – God knows I tried – at least I hope He does. But it wasn’t in me to serve in the way my family did. I was very young when I realized how very selfish I was, and how little I cared about how selfish I was. It just didn’t bother me. At least not the way it bothered them – my family.

In school, I was an okay student. I excelled in choir and theater, though and found that to be a very powerful tool in the avoidance of the consequences of underachievement. I was always cast in the lead role of every musical production, and so I couldn’t ever be expected to do quite as well on tests and term papers, because I needed to prepare for the big show. My teachers were quite enamored of me and my voice, and I learned how to use it to my advantage. I wasn’t an honor student, but I received grades that far surpassed my effort.

One of my high school boyfriends, Chris Beatty, taught me to play his guitar and how to work through chord progressions. I saved up my babysitting money for months before I had enough to buy the old Yamaha guitar that was in the window of the pawnshop in downtown Eutaw. I had been writing lyrics and melodies since I had learned to write my letters, and soon I was writing songs more often than I was writing term papers. The songs were better than the term papers, anyway. I performed one of them at a school concert my junior year. It was a typical teenage song about unrequited love and unfulfilled dreams. And kissing.

Lots and lots of kissing.

After the concert, my parents locked me in my room and took away my guitar, thinking that I had forsaken my faith by writing this “piece of filth,” as my father called it. I do think they were somewhat relieved that that song had only involved kissing, but it was still too much for them to accept.

Mama and Daddy meant well, of course. I promised to write only songs that uplifted people’s faith in Jesus, and they gave me my guitar back. I was careful to not sing any of my real songs in front of any member of my family. Ever.

My sister and brother both went into full-time ministry when they grew up. Sarah married a preacher from just over the state line in Mississippi and went on to have babies and host women’s luncheons and spearhead food drives and baby showers. David went to seminary in New Orleans and became a youth pastor at a church in Brookwood. After a few years, he married a sweet girl and then was called to a church in Tuscaloosa as pastor. Mama and Daddy couldn’t be prouder.

Of them.

I tried. I really did. I thought maybe I could go into music ministry, so that I could be on the stage every week, but then I found out that most Baptist churches don’t let women be music ministers, so that kind of killed that. My parents suggested that I get a degree in music education so I could work with children and teach them how to sing for the Lord. I applied to a small college near home that had a music education program and was accepted. I wanted so much for them to approve of me, too.

I had worked at the Dairy Queen in town every summer during high school so I could have enough money to go to college, but the day after I turned 18 years old, I wrote my parents a long letter, took my money, my old Yamaha acoustic guitar and the 15 songs I had written that I really liked and went up to Nashville to see if I could get them recorded instead of going to school. I didn’t tell Mama and Daddy about that. None of the songs had anything about Jesus in them. I didn’t think they’d approve.

I called them when I got there and told them I had a job at a diner, waiting tables, which was mostly true. It was a job. And I was waiting tables. But I was serving cocktails instead of coffee, and my skirt was as high and tight as the collars on my daddy’s Sunday shirts. I worked nights at the “diner” and during the day I beat on the doors of studios and agencies and anyone I could get to listen to me. On my off nights at the club, if they didn’t have anyone else booked, they’d let me play and sing for the customers and for tips.

It took two years, and one of those fortunate misunderstandings to finally break into the business. One Monday night at the club, I was scheduled to work until 11 pm, then play until closing at 1 am. When I got to work, the manager pulled me aside and told me he had messed up the schedule and booked five waitresses on a night when he usually booked 3. He couldn’t afford to pay all of us, and since I was the youngest of the bunch, I would have to give up my shift. I told him that would be fine if he’d let me play for tips starting at 9 instead of 11 and he agreed.

That night, Mitch Ryland walked into the club and changed my life.

After my first set, he walked up to the stage and handed me his card. When I looked at it and saw “CFA Records” under his name, I thought it was a pick up and handed it back to him. I may have only been 20, but I had been waiting cocktail hour for 2 years. I wasn’t stupid.

After my second set, he came back up and handed me his card again. He was very insistent that I take it, and said he understood my hesitation, and that he would prove to me that he was who he said he was. I took the card and told him I hoped so – I could use a break – and put it in my front pocket.

He stayed for all four sets – all 15 of those original songs I'd walked out of Greene County, Alabama with, and 5 that I had added since arriving in Nashville. As the bar closed, I packed up my guitar and headed out to my little beaten up Chevy Chevette hatchback, escorted by the club's bouncer, Hector Smith. Hector put my guitar case in the back of the car and told me goodnight.

When I got into the car, I looked out the front windshield and saw something flapping from my windshield wiper. I rolled down the window and reached out to get it, waving goodnight at Hector at the same time. As I rolled up the window, I turned on the dome light to see what it was.

It was a newspaper article from the Nashville paper, The Tennessean, about the impact Mitch Ryland, CEO of CFA Records, had made on the country music scene in Nashville over the past 5 years. The accompanying photograph didn’t do him justice, but certainly did make it clear that he was who he said he was. I reached into the pocket of my blue jeans and pulled out the card.

“Mitch Ryland,
CFA Records,
Country Music’s Rising Stars.”

11.5.08 - Word Count 6476

2008-11-05T08:27:00.002-05:00

After helping me bathe and get dressed, Louise wheeled me into the activity room and over to the table where I usually sat, looking out the window or putting together a puzzle. “I’ll be back in an hour, Miss Carrie. Try to keep all the beverages on the table, okay?” She called over her shoulder as she walked away.

“Funny. That’s just great.” I looked out at the grounds of the center. The maple trees had just passed their peak of autumn color and were beginning to fall to the ground, creating drifts of orange and red and yellow on the neatly trimmed grass. Doctors and nurses, aides and patients were walking through the grounds, looking for a sunny spot to take the chill out of the air and enjoy a few minutes outside. I made a mental note to ask Louise to take me for a walk today. It had been over a week since I had been outside.

“Ooh!” A woman’s voice cried out in alarm. I turned in the direction of the sound and saw the old woman there – Emmeline Wilson. She was standing in front of the seat she normally took by the fireplace, wringing her hands and looking down at the chair in confusion. The only other person in the room was an old man who had never looked up from his lap in the time I had been in the center. With no small amount of effort, I turned my chair and wheeled up to her.

“Are you okay? Do you need a nurse?” I asked.

She lifted her head and looked at me, those pale blue eyes rimmed with tears. “My goodness, no. I don’t need a nurse. What is wrong with you? Why would I need a nurse? I’m perfectly fine. “ She looked back at the chair, then returned her gaze to me. “I was just getting tired of waiting for you. Had to employ a little subterfuge.” She giggled and shuffled over to the chair, lowering herself down in the same careful way she always did.

I sat there stunned for a moment. She had baited me.

I liked her.

I rolled up and maneuvered my chair so that I could sit facing her. “Okay. So what is it that you want to talk to me about?”

“I don’t know. I just want to talk to you. You seem so lonely. I’m rather lonely. I thought maybe we could keep each other company for a while. I’m Emmeline Wilson, but you may call me Emmey. “ She reached out her slight hand and I took it. It was cool and soft, so finely wrought it looked sculpted, covered in the pale, wrinkled skin of a very old woman.

“I’m Carrie McCarthy.”

“Oh, yes, dear. I know. Everyone here knows who you are. Why, you were on the news all the time before you came here. Not that I watch the news, but everyone talked about you. Carrie McCarthy has a new CD out. Have you heard about Carrie McCarthy and her latest boyfriend? Is that really all her hair? You’d think they could find something else to talk about every now and then.” She smiled in her enigmatic way and turned her head toward the fireplace.

She seemed lost in thought for a moment, then turned back toward me and said, “You know. Time passes very slowly when you don’t know who you are.”

“You said that to me the first day I saw you.”

“Did I? Well. I guess I wanted you to know that, didn’t I?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Carrie, sometimes I don’t know who I am. Or where I am. There are days when I can’t remember a single thing that happened the day before. But I can remember the past. I can remember the things that happened to me when I was a young woman. I find it is so odd – for one to know and recognize the loss of memory. It isn’t anything that I ever expected. I start to realize that my mind wants to be 30 again and stay there and that time just ceases to move forward for me on those days. When I was actually 30, time flew by a hundred miles an hour.”

She sighed and shook her head.

“I’m 30. Time gets faster every year. At least it did until I got here. Now it moves at the pace of Louise.”

“That’s because you don’t remember who you are anymore, dear. It’s gotten lost in your mind. My mind is like swiss cheese. Lots of giant holes with little to support them anymore. Today is a good day. I know what I had for breakfast, although that’s a bit of an unfortunate memory. Whoever decided that waffles and scrambled eggs was a good breakfast?” She shuddered.

I laughed. “I skipped breakfast.”

“I heard. News travels fast when you throw a water pitcher at Dr. Fussy’s head.” She threw her head back and laughed delightedly. “I think maybe you have some anger issues, Carrie. Have you thought about talking with Dr. Morris?”

I looked at her witheringly. Great. Was this some kind of set up?

Emmeline laughed again. “I am glad to see that you have not. Dr. Morris is an idiot. She’s a well-educated idiot, but still an idiot.” She pushed herself up to her walker and looked back down at me. “It’s time for my nap, Carrie. I’m heading off to my room.”

“Oh! Oh. I thought we’d be able to talk today.” I suddenly didn’t want her to go.

“We have been talking, girl. What did you expect? I’m no oracle. I can’t help you figure anything out. I just want to be your friend. Do you have anyone coming to visit tomorrow?” She smiled kindly at me.

“No. There’s no one that would come.”

“Me neither. They’re all dead. That’s the problem with living to be 90. It’s easy to outlive everyone else. Let’s meet here while visitation is going on. We can talk more then.” She began to move toward the door. “Goodbye, Carrie. I hope the rest of your day continues without any more thrown pitchers.” She winked at me and shuffled off to her room.

11.3.08 - Word Count 2180

2008-11-03T17:32:00.002-05:00

The next few days, I noticed the old woman in the activities room. She would shuffle in, look around and catch my eye. With a wiggle of her fingers, she would wave at me and grin her childish grin, then continue to the large chair by the fire. I would glance her way occasionally, without trying look as if I were really looking, but it didn’t matter. She was caught up in her internal world, seemingly oblivious to everyone around her.

One day, I asked Louise about her. “Who is that old woman over there?” “Honey, you are gonna have to be more specific than that. There are a bunch of old women in this room.” I pointed to the woman by the fireplace. “Her – the one by the fire.” I said. “Oh, my. That one? Well, I’m not supposed to talk about other clients, you know. Why don’t you go ask her about herself?” She smiled an enigmatic smile and turned away from me.

“Oh, come on, Louise. I’m not asking for her freakin’ medical history. Just tell me her name!”

“Sugar, that lady there is Miss Emmeline Wilson. That is all I will tell you, except this – you should talk to her. She’s got a lot of wisdom to pass along.”

“Great! Wisdom! Wow – thanks Louise. Gee, I think I’ll go right now and ask her what the Beav and I should do when faced with peer pressure. Sheesh. What the hell?”

“Hmm. Sensitive a bit, are we child? Well, let’s get you down to PT before you turn into a cream puff.” Her cackle rankled every nerve in my body. I looked over at Miss Emmeline Wilson, Wise Old Woman, and would swear she was laughing, too.

That night, as I lay in my hospital bed, all I could think about was Miss Emmeline Wilson. Her name reminded me of something, was familiar in some way that I couldn’t put my finger on.

That night I had a dream. I was driving my silver Mustang convertible down a country road. Miss Emmeline Wilson was sitting in the passenger seat, her translucent white hair blowing in the breeze. She kept looking over at me and telling me something, but her words were torn away by the swift wind barreling through the open top. I asked again and again what she was saying, but every time I asked, she looked away and her mouth went slack. She turned to me again and again, but I couldn’t hear her. The last time I asked her to repeat it, she looked through the windshield and screamed.

I saw the bridge abutment, heard the ripping of metal on concrete and felt the searing heat of my pelvis being crushed as my car folded in on its self.

My eyes flashed open and I caught myself just before I cried out loud in the dark room. My heart was beating so fast, it felt as if it would fly out of my chest, and the sweat on my forehead was dripping into my hair. It was as if I were back there again, at the scene of the accident. That’s all I could ever remember – seeing the bridge, hearing the crash and feeling the initial pain. Everything on the day leading up to that event was completely lost, as were the seven days following the accident.

Apparently, that’s not uncommon in an alcohol-related blackout.

Here We Go Again!

2008-11-01T16:42:00.003-04:00

I'm off and running. 1670 words today. I'm not ready to post an excerpt, but I'm sure I will be in a day or two. I've already been surprised about where my characters are taking me - and strangely enough, I don't like one of them very much right now. And that's okay. She's not really very likable.

But I think maybe she will be.

If Emmeline has anything to do with it.

I like Emmeline.

It's Official...

2007-11-29T21:40:00.000-05:00

I pasted my scrambled text into the magical and official NaNoWriMo novel word counter 2007 and it spat out the amazing number of 50,016. I won. Still 26 hours left in the game, I could increase that number if I wanted, and I do.

The story hasn't wrapped itself up into a tidy little package yet, but it's getting there. October will not be finished in November, but it won't take all of December, either.

At least I don't think it will...

Thanks for cheering me on...

(I need to find a nice frame for the pretty certificate...)

November 26, 2007, Word Count 41066

2007-11-26T21:43:00.000-05:00

October 22, 1999

When I stepped out of the rental car in front of the house, I shivered as if a cold breeze had blown past my open coat. In reality, it was a warm October – it was the memories that chilled me. Charlie walked around the car and took my arm. “Are you ready for this?” He asked with concern in his voice.

“I’m ready. Let’s go in.”

Cars lined the block on the street where my parents had lived for decades. Ever since he had retired from the Air Force, my father had worked at one of the largest independent airlines servicing the regional airport in Shreveport , and it would seem that everyone that ever worked with or for him had come to pay their respects. Their church had organized all the food, so I was quite certain that there would be a lot of the members there as well. I hadn’t set foot in this house in almost 15 years. I hadn’t seen my mother since I had left. My father and I had spoken here and there, and he had come to visit me when I was in Alabama, but it had been almost 3 years since I had seen him. He had looked pale and thin and weary. The years of unrelenting grief had taken their toll on him.

My mother hadn’t even called me when he died. His lawyer had done that for her. He had left me a small inheritance, or I’m sure she wouldn’t have allowed anyone to call at all. I had called them just before Charlie and I got married and after I told her the news she hung up the phone without a word. I sent a card with our address and phone on it, and my dad had called, but I never spoke to my mother again.

We entered the house together, two strangers in a house I had once called home. It looked exactly like I remembered it. The dining room was to the left, sparkling chandelier hanging over the heavy oak table. The table was covered with casserole dishes and crockpots – like Baptist offerings to the god of the dead. Photographs of Ray and me hung on the right of the entry door – school pictures from kindergarten to 12th grade. Ray’s senior picture was like a ghost – taken just a month before he had died. The spot for my senior picture was empty.

The living room opened up off the entry way, perfectly arranged furniture – spotless and worn. My mother had always kept a clean house, even while arranging funerals. Over the fireplace hung a large framed painting of the house in which she had grown up – a genteel and elegant home on a riverbank. The room was crowded with people dressed for mourning, crying softly in that corner and talking quietly in another. I looked out the French doors onto the patio behind the house and saw my mother sitting in the swing, surrounded by some of the ladies from the church. They appeared to be praying, but my mother was staring right back at me.

I grasped Charlie’s arm and breathed in sharply. He looked at me, concern filling his eyes, and said, “What is it, Annie?” “My mom,” I whispered. “She is outside on the patio. She just saw us come in.” I didn’t know what to do. I was rooted to the spot, but my mind was telling me to go to her. How could this woman still affect me so, after so many years? I was getting ready to flee when a tall, silver haired man approached us.

“Annie?” He asked.

“Yes, I’m Annie.” He offered his hand and I shook it.

“I’m Tom Sweeney, Annie. Peter was not only my client, but my friend. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sweeney, and thank you so much for calling me. This is my husband, Charles Bradford.” The two men shook hands and exchanged niceties, then Mr. Sweeney turned back to me.

“I have some papers for you to sign and a few other items to give to you. Can you come by my office later this afternoon?”

“Of course, but it’s Saturday, Mr. Sweeney, surely your office is closed?”

“Please call me Tom. And I can open the office on a Saturday. It’s just me. I know you are traveling and I wasn’t sure how long you were going to stay, so I thought we could get the legal stuff handled today for you and then you’d be free to do what you need to do here.”

“That’s very kind of you, Tom. Thank you.”

Tom looked at me, eyes full of sympathy. “Annie – don’t pay much attention to what your mother says. She’s hurting, and her words are likely to be harsh. But Nora has been through a lot the last few years and she doesn’t always think straight. Try not to take anything she might say to heart.” He gave me his card and asked us to come by the office around 3:00 pm.

As he walked away, I saw my mother walking in through the French doors, headed straight for me.

November 19, 2007, Word Count 30516

2007-11-19T18:16:00.000-05:00

My phone calls completed, I put the car into drive and started out on the Hatteras Lighthouse Road back to Highway 12. I spent the rest of the day touring the area by car, finding the nooks and crannies that defined small towns – those out of the way places that tourists rarely saw and, in truth, weren’t all that interested in. I finally turned north to Avon and the large grocery store there. Inside, I picked up a steak and some new potatoes, a six pack of Bass Ale and some chocolate. I felt the need to celebrate something – some kind of liberation that was just starting inside me. I paid for my purchases and drove back to Hatteras to Risky Business, where I had them steam some shrimp in their spicy seasoning.

The light was just beginning to fade as I walked up the stairs to my house. I walked in and called to Pippi, who came running and mewling for food. After I fed her and put the new potatoes on to boil, I took the steak to the gas grill outside. As it sizzled over the flames, I sat in a deck chair and drank a Bass, watching the sky turn that Quinacridone Magenta shade that always made me want to pull out my paints and try to capture it. The clouds formed radiant waves in the sky that echoed the indigo waves below. When the steak was done, I walked back into the house and drained the potatoes and added butter, salt and pepper to them, sliced the steak and opened a new beer. I went back out on the deck to eat and watch the sky make its journey from day into night. The magic of the light rested on the feldspar rich sand of the beach, turning it from light tan to pink, then through purple to a rich blue-gray of shadow. I knew that when the moon came out it would change it again to a silvery white ghostly plain.

When the food was finished and the second beer drained, I walked back inside and opened the package of chocolates. I peeled the silver paper from one and popped it into my mouth and remembered Charlie’s kisses. I placed the rest of the bag in the refrigerator and closed it. I wasn’t ready to remember Charlie, today. I wasn’t ready to give him up quite yet.

November 15, 2007, Word Count 25282

2007-11-15T13:43:00.000-05:00

October 16, 2007

Josie’s house was just around the bend on Flambeau – a beach cottage just like mine, but hidden in a grove of live oaks that were twisted and turned by the salt air and the constant wind from the Atlantic. I pulled into her driveway and got out of the car just as she was stepping out onto her front deck. “Hi, neighbor!” she called. I waved and walked around back to open the hatch. She was carrying a jewelry case to take along to the gallery and a couple of cups of something that looked warm and steamy. We stowed it in the back securely and got in the car for the trek up the coast.

“Here – I hope your coffee black and strong. I just got a new espresso machine and I decided to test out my own Americano on you.” I laughed. “Perfect – that’s exactly how I take my coffee…how did you know?” “I just guessed that about you – you’re not exactly the high-maintenance type, I think.” I smiled at her. “No, not high maintenance at all, actually. How about you?” “Two sugars, cream, a little cinnamon…just a touch high maintenance.” We laughed and turned out onto Highway 12. “Where’s your portfolio?” She asked. “It’s right there on the back seat, next to the painting. She turned around and grabbed the portfolio. The painting was wrapped in brown paper. “You don’t want me to see that one, or what?” “No, that’s not it. I just finished it and don’t have a picture of it, so I thought I would just bring it along. I wrapped it to make sure it didn’t get damaged.” She opened the portfolio and started thumbing through. “Wow, Annie – these are great! You really use some color, don’t you, girl?”

After she had looked through all of them, she placed them back on the seat and turned around. “So. On Sunday, I told you everything in the world about me, but I realized after I got home that I knew nothing about you. So. Spill. Who are you, Annie Bradford? What are you doing on Hatteras Island, anyway?” “Well, Josie…I am here because I didn’t know where else to go. I’m not sure yet what it means for me to be here, or anywhere for that matter. I’m just a woman trying to find her way in this world and I don’t even know how to explain it to you. I’m afraid the story is a bit of a downer – it would make for a depressing ride. Maybe we’d better save it for a time when we could have a bottle of wine and some tissues handy.” I tried to act flippant, but my voice cracked and she looked at me with concern. “Okay, Annie. If you aren’t ready to talk about it, I understand. I’ve been through some things that took me a long time to talk out, too. I’ll tell you what. Let’s talk about stupid things until we get back from Manteo, and I’ll spring for the wine, if you’ll cook dinner. I’m a terrible cook.” I looked at her gratefully. “Thanks, Josie. That sounds wonderful. We’ll stop in Avon on the way back and get supplies. I know just what to make.”

We talked of light things all the way to Manteo – art school experiences, the worst paintings we had ever made. She told me about her switch into jewelry design while at SCAD and I told her about my first illustration job. When we got to Manteo, we hauled our arts into the gallery and met with the two board members who were working. They looked through my portfolio and made nice noises about this painting or that one and they oohed and aahed over Josie’s jewelry. I unwrapped the turtle girl painting and turned it around and they, along with Josie gasped. Tears sprang into Josie’s eyes as she looked at the girl who had harnessed the turtle. “It’s beautiful, Annie. She’s you, isn’t she?” I blushed and looked away. The board members asked me if I had any others like it, but I said no, but that I was thinking of doing a series of turtle girls. One of them asked if I could have some ready by the end of January. I said I supposed I could. Then they offered Josie and me a month long combined show in February of my turtle paintings and her turtle and marine life jewelry. We accepted and shook hands and signed contracts and smiled and shook hands some more. It was all a blur. I was going to have a show. In Manteo. With Josie.

November 14, 2007, Word Count 22312

2007-11-14T16:55:00.000-05:00

No excerpt today.

It was too sad.

I cried when I wrote it, and no - it wasn't autobiographical.

Does that make me crazy?

November 12, 2007, Word Count, 18908

2007-11-12T16:33:00.000-05:00

October 14, 2007

The shower had helped remove some of the cobwebs that the lack of sleep had produced. So had the 4 cups of strong coffee. I pulled into the parking lot at The Wharf at 10:35. Not bad for staying up all night drinking. I checked the mirror one last time before I decided I didn’t look too bad and walked up the ramp to the front door of the restaurant. It would seem that this was the place to be on a Sunday morning. I hadn’t seen this many people in one place since I left Knoxville. I glanced around the room until I saw Louise. She was waving at me, calling me over. A younger woman sat with her, her black hair in two long pigtails. She turned around and smiled. Josie, I assumed.

I had only just made it to the table before Louise grabbed me and gave me an unexpected hug. “Annie! We’re so glad you’re here – I was afraid you were going to cancel on us! This is Josie – the jewelry designer you’ve recently become a collector of. Josie – this is Annie.” “It’s so nice to meet you – your work is beautiful.” I shook her hand and she smiled at me. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Annie. I understand you are quite a talented artist as well.” “Well,” I said, “I am an artist. The talented part I’ll have to defer to others.” I sat down as the server walked up to the table. We all ordered coffee and mimosas. The brunch menu was extensive and I was going to need a moment or two to decide if my hung-over stomach was going to accept any nourishment.

Louise chatted away, gossiping about the locals and regular visitors as if they were her family. Josie and I listened in amusement as Louise spilled the beans about everyone – most of whom were sitting right there in the restaurant. It seemed that Louise had the goods on everyone in town. The server came back and we ordered. I decided to stick to the fruit and yogurt plate. As we talked, I noticed Jackson Pierce walk into the restaurant with a tall, rather dignified woman. She was blond like Jax and elegantly dressed. Louise caught sight of them and said, “Oh, look – there are the Pierces!” My heart sank into my stomach. Jax was married? What the hell?

Jax and the woman were following the hostess to a table adjacent to ours. I tried as hard as I could to sink down into my chair and disappear, but he saw me and looked surprised. He and the woman walked over to our table at Louise’s bidding. They both kissed Louise on the cheek in greeting and said hello to Josie. Jax said to the woman, “Hannah, I don’t believe you’ve met Annie Bradford. She’s just moved to the village. She’s an artist – living in Morning Light. Annie, this is my sister, Hannah.” Oh good Lord, I thought. His sister. I smiled at Hannah and blushed. “It’s very nice to meet you, Hannah.” “You too, Annie. I understand you met some interesting people at the opening last night with Jax. Do you plan on showing your work there?” “I’d like to. I’m taking my portfolio up this week for consideration. From there, I’m afraid it is up to them.” “Well, I wish you very good luck with that. Jax said your work is inspirational.” “Oh, thank you very much, Jax. That’s very kind of you.” We all chatted a few minutes more and the Pierces went to their table to sit down.

Louise and Josie stared at me as if I had grown a third eye. “What?” I asked. “You’ve been in town for a month and you’ve already been on a date with Jackson Pierce? Do you know how many women have tried to go out with that man? I can’t believe you didn’t tell us.” “I’m sorry. Uhm. I just got here. I just met Josie – I didn’t know I needed to tell anything. It wasn’t really a date – he just took me so I could meet some people at the gallery, anyway. Nothing to tell.” Josie shook her head. “You have no idea. I mean Jackson Pierce, for heaven’s sake. I can’t believe it.” “What? Is there something I should know about him? Is he dangerous, for heaven’s sake?”

The server brought our food and placed it on the table, along with another round of mimosas. I was going to become an alcoholic if I kept this up. “No, dear. He’s not dangerous.” Louise patted my hand. “He has just been somewhat of a recluse since he came back from Seattle a couple of years ago. It’s good to see him making friends, that’s all.” She shot a look at Josie that said “shut your mouth, darling” and then smiled back at me. I could see that there was more than she was telling, especially as she was so free to share everyone else’s story. But, I figured it was better that way. If Jackson Pierce wanted to tell me about it, he could.

After all, he knew nothing about me.

November 8, 2007, Word Count 12,729

2007-11-08T12:15:00.000-05:00

Back to the present again. Catching up from yesterday. What do you think of the title, "Redeeming October"

October 12, 2007

When the shrimp were gone, I washed up my dish and checked the floor to see if it was sticky from the cocktail sauce. “What a mess,” I said to Pippi. I walked back over to the drafting table to check on the sea turtle illustration. It was dry and I started looking at the blooms and back runs in the background. It was a habit of mine to stare at the shapes that the ink made and see if there were any pictures in them. My version of cloud figures, I guessed. I smiled as I noted some blooms that looked like floating seaweed on the upper left, a few back runs had taken on some characteristics of coral rising up from the seawater. In the upper right, though, was a shape that I was not expecting. I got out a magnifying glass to look at it more closely. It looked just like the silhouette of a person swimming way off in the distance – someone diving down with the sea turtle.

“How strange,” I thought. This sea turtle obsession of mine was turning into something a little creepy. Now I was subconsciously painting a figure in the ocean with the sea turtle. Next thing you knew, I’d be strapping on scuba gear and searching for some mythical giant sea turtle that Stevey might write about. An idea had been born, though, in that strange little ink anomaly. I hauled out the box with all my paints and brushes in it and found a canvas. I placed it on my easel and set everything up just the way I like it. Paints on the left, water bucket perched on the easel shelf, paper towels and brushes on my right. I picked up a watercolor pencil and started sketching right on the canvas.

As I drew, I escaped into that part of my brain I always went to for healing. I drew the turtle again, this time rising up toward the surface of the waters. On his back was a young girl, maybe 7 years old, hair streaming out behind her. She straddled the shell of the turtle and held on with one hand to the lip at the front of the shell, just behind his head. Her arms were slight, yet powerful. Her legs were long and lean and full of strength as she held on to the powerful beast. Her face was turned up toward the surface in anticipation of breaking through and sailing up into the air. In her other hand she carried a scepter of coral and seaweed. She was the turtle princess. Her crown was one of oyster shells and pearls. This girl could face anything.

I began painting, my brushes flying across the canvas. Dappled sunlight was breaking through the depths of the water and casting a radiant light on this turtle girl. The turtle itself was bathed in the light of the sun and in the power of the girl. His strong flippers had just thrust backward, propelling himself and his passenger closer to the surface. Streams of water trailed back from his fins and the girls blond hair left contrails in the wake. Her face was jubilant and triumphant – she had been to the depths of the sea on her fine turtle and she was going to make it to the surface – just one more push and they would be leaping out.

I heard the grumble of my stomach before I felt it. I looked at the clock on the stove, which read 8:00 and thought it must be a mistake. I glanced at the clock on the wall. 8:01. I had been painting for 7 hours or so without a break. I put my brush down and stepped back from the easel. The painting was finished, except for a signature. My turtle girl had been born. She was marvelous and otherworldly. She was triumphant and pure and whole.

I wanted to be just like her.

November 6, 2007, Word Count 10460

2007-11-06T22:43:00.001-05:00

Time for a little backstory - hope it's not too confusing to add it, but it's all coming together - in ways that I hadn't set out writing...but it is what it is...

And if you're worried that it's going to be sad all the way through the book, that's okay.

So am I.

October 13, 1975

The light filtered into my pink fortress as the sun made it’s way up over the trees in the back yard. At 7 years old, there was nothing finer in the world to me than the color pink. Every shade was fair game – pale peppermint pink, deep rich magenta. It made no difference to me – pink, pink and more pink! My brother, Ray, who was 10 years older, often teased me about my pink obsession, but I didn’t care. Pink was made for girls.

A noise had woken me - The phone, maybe? I wasn’t sure. But then, yes, I heard voices talking. My mother screamed loudly, and I heard the phone thump on it’s way to the floor, before clattering wildly against the wall where it hung. I jumped out of my bed and ran to the kitchen. My dad was supporting my mom and leading her over to the table. His face was white with shock. “What is it?” I asked with a quivering voice. No one said anything. My mom’s sobs rushed over me and frightened me to the core. “What is it?” I demanded more forcefully. I had never been a demanding child, but this was different. Something was terribly wrong.

“Go to your room, Anne.” My father’s voice was flat and emotionless. “NO! Tell me what is wrong RIGHT NOW!!” My mother looked at me with hatred, it seemed. “It’s Ray. He’s dead. He’s never coming back. Are you satisfied, you nosy little bitch?” I looked at her face and could see she was telling the truth. Ray was dead. “How?” My voice had gone back to it’s normal child-sized portion. “He wrecked on the way home from the concert last night. We’ve been up all night calling hospitals, after he didn’t come home. He ran into a bridge abutment on the interstate. Everyone in the car was killed. All four of them.” My father recited the facts as if he were reading it from the daily news. He didn’t look at me. I stared at their faces for a moment, and then turned to go back to my room. I felt the hot tears rushing down my cheeks, and I didn’t want them to see them.

The next days passed in a blur of activity. Funeral arrangements, receiving friends and family, casseroles and flowers filling the empty spaces of the house like solemn reminders that Ray was gone. As if we needed them. Everything about our house screamed it. The quiet spaces that he used to fill with jokes and songs and snippets of movie dialogue. My parents roamed the house looking for solace, but they found none. They looked over me like I was a dirty sweatshirt piled in the corner. I was only 7. Before long, it seemed that it had always been that way, except for the pictures on the wall that showed a different sort of family. One of my aunts brought me a small sketchbook and some pencils and markers. “Here, Annie-love. You can use it to write down your feelings. Maybe it will help your grieving process.”

I was 7. I didn’t know how to spell “grieving process,” so I started to draw. I drew Ray. Ray with his guitar. Ray in his McDonald’s uniform. Ray riding a bike while holding a giant fish over his head. Ray and me walking together in the park. Ray hugging me and telling me “I love you, Annie-banany.” I drew Ray’s car – his pride and joy that all his McDonald’s money went toward, fire-engine red and slow as molasses. I drew Ray’s car crumpled against the bridge. I drew dead Ray and his dead friends in the crumpled car. I drew and I grieved and I healed.

I wished my parents would learn to draw.

November 5, Word Count 8347

2007-11-05T15:42:00.000-05:00

October 11, 2007

I dreamed a dream of sea turtles last night. Where was all of this coming from? I needed to clear my head, so I went for a run. I ran to the south, away from the site of the turtle carcass, toward the inlet. My breath pulsed in the staccato rhythm of my steps. The pounding of the surf was lower and slower, a rhythmic undercurrent of the running motion. Sea gulls cried out in bursts of song. This had become the soundtrack of my mornings, the soundtrack of my life.

After the run and a light breakfast, I showered and dressed, eager for the day trip I was taking. Roanoke Island, north of Hatteras Island, was home to a living history museum about the first settlement of English-speaking colonists in the New World. They had settled in 1584, 23 years before the more famous Jamestown settlement, and had the distinction of having the first English child born in the New World. I had been looking forward to the trip, and was planning on incorporating it with a reconnaissance mission regarding the Art Gallery that was also housed on site. As much as I enjoyed my illustration work, my heart was in fine art, and I knew that the art scene in the Outer Banks was active and vibrant. I hoped to make some contacts.

The drive north on Highway 12 is not one to take when in a great hurry. Of course, it is the only route up and down these barrier islands, so the lesson is…don’t ever get in a great hurry. It is two lanes wide, and in places, depending on the weather pattern, covered in drifting sand dunes. This time of year, the roads are not crowded, but the scenery is still so lovely, it’s hard to drive quickly. It is in driving this road that the fragile nature of the islands is most exposed – at times, the island is only just a few dunes wider than the roadway itself. When I first drove down into Hatteras Village, midway through September, kite-surfers and wind-surfers dominated the roadway, pulling off here and there to catch the perfect wave. Today, only a few were out; the water temperatures driving away all but the most dedicated.

.......................................................................

We chatted a few more minutes and I left him to his work. By the time I got back into my car I was shaking. I drove back the way I had come and made it all the way to Whalebone before I had to pull into the Kentucky Fried Chicken. I turned off the car and sat for a minute. Then I burst into tears. Deep wracking sobs of grief came up from my belly and poured out of my mouth. I cried like I hadn’t cried in years. I cried like someone who had been stuffing grief so far down it had grown roots and spread all over the place like kudzu. I wept until the sobs grew dry and hoarse and then I just stopped. I pulled a tissue out of the glove box of the car and dried my eyes. I turned the key and put the car in first gear and pointed it in the right direction. I drove the 60 miles to Hatteras in a haze, never once glancing at the ocean on my left or the sound on my right. I pulled into my driveway and walked up the stairs and into the house. Pippi mewed her hello and I fed her. I took a beer out of the fridge and the afghan from the couch and walked out onto the deck and curled up in one of the chairs. I stared at the dunes and the ocean beyond them. I fell asleep there with the stars and the moon and the planets looking down on me. I dreamed of sea turtles and tall men with curly black hair carrying little boys with white blond mops, out on the fishing docks.

When I woke up, dawn was breaking over the horizon, cutting up through the ocean’s edge and lighting the world on fire.

November 3, 2007 Word Count 5,054

2007-11-03T15:22:00.000-04:00

October 8, 2007

I was sitting on the deck of the house, staring at the stars and their reflection in the waves. Twilight had passed slowly, the twinkle of stars darting in and out of my vision as the last rays of sunlight had faded. I listened to the music of the waves, the rhythm of the breakers and hummed along with it. I got up to fetch another beer when I hear a strange mewling sound coming from underneath the deck boards. I walked down the steps to investigate, and saw the smallest kitten I’d ever seen. It was caked in wet sand and sat shivering in the dune grass. I looked around for it’s mother, but couldn’t see any other signs of life besides the ghost crabs poking their googly eyes out of their holes.

I carefully picked the kitten up and held it close to my body. It was so cold, I couldn’t imagine that it was still alive. As I walked up the stairs, I heard myself saying over and over again, “It’s okay, little one…it’s okay. I’ve got you…it’s okay.” I found a towel and wrapped the kitten up, brushing the drying sand from it’s nose and eyes. It looked like a little Siamese kitten, with big blue eyes and the seal point ears. While I held it, I took out the carton of milk and warmed up a bowl of it in the microwave. It lapped it up like it had never eaten, which, given the state in which I found it, was entirely possible. The milk was like a kitty narcotic. It almost fell asleep face first into the bowl. I picked it up and wrapped it in a fresh towel and took it to my bedroom, where I changed into my pajamas. I lay the sleeping kitten in the bed next to me and stared at it in wonder.

It would appear that I have a new roommate.

November 2, 2007 Word Count 3,345

2007-11-02T23:18:00.000-04:00

October 6, 2007

As I ran down the beach this morning, away from the lighthouse, I spotted a dead sea turtle in the sand. I stopped to mourn. It looked as if it had been hit by a boat propeller, which had nearly severed it’s head. Or maybe it had run across a particularly hungry shark. In any case it was dead, and while that made me sad, it didn’t anger me. What made me angry was the graffiti written all over it in red and yellow spray paint, like it was the side of a high school gym wall. This beautiful, majestic creature had been killed not by spite, but through carelessness, and then had become a sounding board for a 13-year old’s self-absorbed angst. I wanted to go home and get a bucket of suds and a scrub brush and come back and clean it up so it could at least lie in dignity. But I didn’t. The few neighbors I had already believed that I was a crazy ghost lady who only spoke when spoken to. I didn’t need to add this to my list of eccentricities…she cleans up the dead marine life when it gets beached.

I did pick up some of the seaweed that surrounded it and finished my run. I left the slimy brownish-green algae perched on my deck railing and went inside for a shower. I don’t know what made me pick it up in the first place. It just felt sacred to me, like I needed to honor that turtle in some way, to enshrine it and give it place. After my shower, I sat on the deck with a bottle of water and stared at it. It had started to dry out and was beginning to blow a little in the breeze. It reminded me of Ruthie Sipsey’s hair in the second grade – curly and wiry and twisty and unruly. Poor Ruthie. She just never had good hair.

I walked back into the house and grabbed my sketchbook, pens and pencils and headed back down the beach to find the turtle. When I reached it’s resting place, I sat down and faced it and the sea. As I drew it’s elegant lines and regal head, I talked to it a little. I realize that is crazy, but it just felt right. I drew and I drew and as I drew, I could feel a little release…in me. I was here. On the beach. And I was drawing – drawing a life that once was, but no longer would be. Drawing the passing of a great and beautiful thing. Drawing the pain of the world that carelessly rolls over you, intending no harm, but causing near decapitation. As I drew, I realized that I was drawing my life.

November 1, 2007 Word count: 1706

2007-11-01T11:29:00.000-04:00

My first excerpt. It won't make any sense, 'cause it's an excerpt, but I feel like I have to start somewhere...

I padded into the kitchen and stared at the clock on the coffee pot. 7:05 am. I could do this. I poured a cup of hot coffee and walked out onto the deck overlooking the dunes and the Atlantic beyond them. The sun was just coming up over the water, sending jewel drops of sunlight dancing across the waves. I looked down toward Ocracoke Inlet and saw a flock of pelicans gliding across the tops of the dunes, moving as one organism – up, down, flap, soar. What a strange and beautiful bird the pelican is. So ungainly on land, with is too-large beak and feet, but so graceful in the air.

As I drank my coffee, I laced up my running shoes. Running on the beach had always been a source of great comfort and healing for me, and I had a feeling I would need it today. Too many memories were flooding into my head – memories of love and loss; of celebration and grief. How on earth would I get through this month again? Every year I pray it will just go by quickly, and every year it does, but on the first day I can’t believe that. I think this month will go on forever and the pain will go on forever, too.

Running helps ease the mental pain, I suppose because it causes so much physical pain. As I walk down the boardwalk that crosses the dunes, I stop and stretch and look to the north, toward the lighthouse. It is a little toothpick in the distance, but I can see it. A light that guides so many ships has guided me here, to this little island in the Atlantic, to the salt water that has healing power in it, to a community where 6 months out of the year I can be almost completely alone. I begin to run toward the lighthouse, my feet feeling awkward and hesitant at first. As I pick up the pace, I feel the familiar surge of endorphins and the tightening effect it has on my nipples and groin. This is why I run. I run for the memory of the effect that Charlie once had on me.

One would think...

2007-10-15T10:08:00.001-04:00

...that I would be the one having the nervous breakdown weeks before the NaNoWriMo started, given my sketchy past, but NO...it's Lila! Gracious, girly...

I, on the other hand, have been walking around in a near completely blank state of mind, aimlessly pondering words like "uffish" and "omphaloskepsis" and "onomatopoeia". Good words, those.

I'm considering writing my entire 50,000 word novel in lower case with no spaces. Wait. That would just be one really long word. Scratch that idea. Maybe just all lower case. I figure I can type faster if I don't have to worry about the shift key.

is it harder to read something with no capitalization? no. i say, let's pass a national resolution banning capitalization from the typing of documents. it would be endlessly more efficient and people could work for 6 hours a day instead of 8 and still get the same amount of work done. then you could all elect me president of the galaxy (the universe is just way too big) and i could remove all shift keys from the keyboards of interstellar spacecraft and replace them with big pink squishy keys that make a beepy kind of noise...

sorry..what? oh. it's time for my meds. gotta runnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

This is the place...

2007-10-09T16:54:00.001-04:00

...where all the fun will be contained. That is, assuming you can contain fun, which I'm pretty sure that you cannot. Hello! DANG.

Anyhow - it is now a mere 22 days until the NaNoWriMo begins. At the stroke of Midnight, all hopped up on Halloween Candy, I'll set forth the first of 50,000 words, which I will be excerpting on this here bloggy channel.