THANKFUL FRIDAY

There is a new commercial out for Macs that starts with a blinking cursor in the midst of large white space. Then the late Dr. Goodall, starts narrating about the potential in that blinking cursor.

Every story you love, every invention that moves you, every idea you wished was yours, all began as nothing. Just a flicker on a screen, asking a simple question: What do you see? - Dr. Jane Goodall.

Every time this commercial pops up onto the TV, I whisper to myself “Fuck you” which I recognize as not a nice thing to whisper to the voice of the late Dr. Goodall. It’s not even a nice thing to a (flawed) computer company who’s computers I’ve been using since 1998. What can I say? Their operating system doesn’t make me want to scream with rage. I live in a computer world and my job requires me to be a computer girl. I have chosen the computer that doesn’t make me want to throw it out a window everyday. So I am not whisper swearing at Apple or Dr. Goodall. I am whisper swearing at the potential of a blinking cursor.

All year, I have struggled to have an iota of creative feelings. I am not enthusiastic about any of the photos I take. The creative writing practice from journal prompts that I do on Saturday mornings and the sketches on pictures for the In My Coffee series, all feel like forced activities. I think about those years where I was forced to sit on the hard piano bench and practice scales until the kitchen timer went off and I have to remind myself that these activities are not the same as learning piano at the age of five. I will admit that I have been considering taking up piano again since we have one in the house for the Cabbage, but I’m not five and sitting still at the piano sounds almost relaxing. Whenever I think about hobbies to dabble into, I keep coming back to music. No one from this current life knows that I once had a very nice singing voice or could play everything in the percussion pit and a cello. But no five year old wants to sit at a piano for thirty minutes. Well, at least five-year-old Cindy most certainly did not want to sit still on a piano bench, plunking away at scales.

The creative writing practice and the sketches on photos are of my own making, design and desires.

When I sat down to write today’s post, I stared at the blinking cursor on my screen for a really long time. The only thing I could think to write, or want to write, is an essay centered around some thoughts I have floating in my head on hurricane names and grief. It is a post not quiet fitting to a weekly practice of gratitude. So I watched the cursor blinking on my screen and tried to think of something about this week that is not just something I am grateful for, but something I feel worthy to share, something that’s not a list. And I just keep coming back to that damn blinking cursor. Except my feelings of angst and frustration of not being able to move that blinking cursor along, is beginning to shift.

Recently, I went back to a bit of fiction I had started writing a couple of years ago. It was something born from a very vivid dream and once I wrote down just the dream part, the story started to grow. But, like most of my potential book writing pieces, it got shoved aside for further pondering or for lack of spare time. More lack of spare time than pondering, if I’m honest. Any way, something nudged me to go in and look at this piece and add a few bits here and there. And it felt good. It felt fun. Because the piece is frivolous. It’s magic and mystery and romance. It’s entertainment.

And this is why my attitude towards the blinking cursor has shifted.

By setting my angst and frustrations aside, I can clearly see the potential behind a blank page with a blinking cursor. I can even be grateful for it. As a kid, heck..even now, when I received a new sketch book or coloring book and new colored pencils, I would hold off using them for ages because I was enamored with the blankness and the pristine state of pencils. Eventually I would and do give in and use them as intended, but sitting with the blankness of the page is a comfort. There’s no reason a computer screen with a blinking cursor can’t also be a comfort. It is, after all, just another potential for creativity, for crafting messages of joy, for bringing dreams to life. If you were to ask me today ‘what do I see?’ while staring at a blinking cursor, I would say ‘rhythm’. There’s a beat, a cadence, and it is begging for a dance partner.

And I need to dance.

Jack and Diane

Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Diane was surprised that she could hear the sound of Jack’s mustang speeding down her gravel drive over her mother’s shrill voice. “You keep this behavior up Diane and you’ll end up just like me. Tied down with kids you didn’t want, living in a rundown trailer in the middle of nowhere.” Diane was out and slamming the door on her mother’s ‘nowhere’. She bounded down the porch steps and hopped into Jack’s car. “Just go.” she told him as she leaned back into his cracked leather seats. Jack peeled out of the drive, spitting gravel out the back tire. He had the windows rolled down and Jackie waved her hand out the window, playing with the wind as he flew down the county road.

“Where ya want to go, Diane.” Jack asked as he placed a hand on her thigh. Diane, her head turned towards her window, brushed a tear away with one hand while she brushed Jack’s hand off her thigh with the other hand. Jack, slightly miffed by the brush off, placed both hands on the wheel and increased the pressure on the gas pedal. He flew past the brown state park sign and Diane yelled ‘Stop! Circle around. Let’s go take that Spring Creek trail down to the lagoon.” Jack did a u-turn in the road and headed back to the state park entrance. He still had some hope that he’d be able to put his hands on more than just Diane’s thigh, maybe even get handjob in the woods. Diane knew what Jack was thinking. She wasn’t with him because he was bright. She was with him because he was easy, simple. He was transparent in what he wanted from her and he was way out of getting stuck babysitting her little brother and sister. Diane would probably give him that handjob he was hoping for.

Jack parked his car at the trailhead parking lot and they headed down the steep trail that led to a lagoon of emerald green water. Diane was wearing a pair of sandals she’d found in the clothing donation box outside the Baptist Church. The sandals were not made for hiking this sort of trail or walking in general, but the shoes, painted silver, made Diane feel classy. She slipped several times as they made their way down the trail, each time Jack catching her before she hit the ground. Each time, grabbing some of her flesh in the palm of his hand, letting it linger there. Diane ignored it and kept on making her way down towards the lagoon and when she broke through the forest and into the clearing near the lagoon, she kicked off her fancy sandals. Diane made her way to a tree at the edge of the water. The tree had a large, thick limb that stretched out over the lagoon and bowed like a hammock. Diane was nimble and easily climbed up the tree and out onto that branch, settling herself into the bowed section. She turned her head towards the water as she heard Jack step out into the clearing. Diane smiled to herself briefly because she knew Jack couldn’t climb out on the limb with her. She could be alone without having to constantly brush off his hands.

Jack frowned when he saw Diane lounging on that tree limb. He found a large flat rock near the base of the tree and sat there, throwing pebbles into the water. Diane stared out at the green water, hearing all the things her mother always yelled at her and wondering what she was going to do after high school. She hated that her mother might be right, that she might end up in another trailer park, with a husband who spent his paychecks on meth and one too many kids running around with dirty diapers or snotty noses. Diane hadn’t said anything about taking the ACT or even let on that she was studying for it. She couldn’t bear the ridicule she’d recieve for crappy scores. Diane was surprised when the test results came back and she’d gotten good scores, like scholarship level scores. Mr. Evans, the guidance counselor, told Diane that she’d probably get into any college she wanted and that there would be scholarships and financial aid. No one in her family had ever gone to college. Diane could be the first. She could be the first to do a lot of things.

While Diane sat on that branch staring at the water, contemplating life, Jack sat on his rock, staring at Diane, contemplating his own wants and his own life.

REVERSE PAGE OF PENTACLES, THREE OF RODS AND FIVE OF SWORDS

Abby sat at the end of the cot, cradling a styrofoam cup of coffee in her hands. She stared down at her shoes that had grown into a patchwork of duct tape to cover holes. Abby wondered how it was that her shoes had so many holes, yet the shoe laces were still intact with no frays and neatly tied. It was as if the manufactures had put more care into making the laces than they had the shoes. Someone on the cot next to Abby coughed. She turned to look at the mound of a person curled onto their side, then she looked up and around her. Most of the cots were occupied with maybe only one or two still unclaimed. She new there would be a fight over the few remaining cots what with the temperatures promising to drop below zero for the night.

Abby wasn’t sure she would consider herself lucky to have gotten the cot she was now sitting on. There was time she had slept on silk sheets piled with down comforters. If she closed her eyes, she could picture the lace pattern of the canopy above her old bed. Then she remembered the way it had appeared to melt when she had accidentally, on purpose, set it on fire. That had been the beginning of her end. After that, Abby shaved one side of her head and pierced her nose. Her mother, who was already furious over the whole bed canopy fire, had nearly exploded over Abby’s new look. Abby responded by rolling her eyes and then finding ways to avoid her mother. This hadn’t been too hard. Abby’s mother spent most of her time fixated on herself with her work outs, massages and face lifts. Abby hated how her mother fixated on the perfection of her body and how that fixation would sometimes spill over onto Abby’s body. Abby had hated a lot of things about her mother, but Abby had also hated every thing about her own life as well. School was the worst. All of the girls were the same vapid carbon copies of each other. The teachers were just as bad. None of them ever listened. No one in Abby’s life had ever listened.

Except Jared. He listened to Abby. Jared had made Abby feel seen, like she was someone special. Cool. He had paid attention to the things she said, how she railed against how fucked up society was and how she wanted to make really important art. Jared was the first boy to kiss her, to touch her. He taught her about sex and how to roll a joint. Abby had liked both of those things probably too much. One night, while they were high, Jared said that they should just pack a bag and run off. Abby thought about it for a hot minute before agreeing. She ran home, threw a bunch of things into a bag and left with Jared thinking she would never look back. The next five years had been a blur of bus stations, alleys and drugs. At first Jared had told her that they would get jobs and find an apartment. They hitchhiked to Chicago where Abby found a job at a fast food place. Jared found them a place to stay in an abandoned building. Abby worked all day frying things in a deep fryer. She came home smelling like hot oil and Jared would be laying on the bed they had made from an old mattress, the needle resting on the floor where he’d let it drop. When he’d finally come to, he’d ask Abby for her paycheck and then get mad at her when she’d tell him no. He’d yell and throw things. A few times he hit her. Every time he took the money from her bag any way.

All of Abby’s money went to drugs. She used Jared’s leftovers when she could. Then Abby started stealing food from work. She managed to get away with it for over two weeks before the manager caught on. The manager told her she could keep her job for a blow job and he’d let her keep the food that went into the garbage at nights. Abby was surprised by how numb she felt when she agreed to the manager’s terms. She needed money and food. So what if she had to suck this creep’s dick. Of course it wasn’t just a blow job. That one act turned into multiple acts, each more degrading than the other. Then one day she came home from work to find the building they had been living completely boarded up with signs posted for demolition. Abby pried off a board near the back of the building and climbed in one of the many broken windows. Jared was gone, along with all of their belongings. He did not leave a note. Abby roamed the city parks and alleys looking for Jared that first night. By the second night, she realized that she was on her own. No Jared. No clothes. No drugs. No place to sleep. Abby dragged a box into the alley next to the fast food place where she worked and slept there until she was discovered a week later, again by the manager. This time, the manager tired of Abby showing up late and dirty, fired her. Now Abby had no job.

Sitting on her cot with a now cold cup of coffee, Abby realized that she should have never listened to Jared. She thought that maybe she should call her mother. Maybe she should just try to go home, back to her old room with silk sheets and comforter on the bed and lace curtains. She thought about her collection of plastic ponies lined up neatly on a shelf in her room. Abby hadn’t touched them in ages, but now she had the strongest desire to brush each one’s hair with a tiny comb. She wanted feel the soft carpet of her bedroom under her bare feet. Abby wanted to be home.

Maybe she would call her mother.

Maybe.

THE FOOL, THE REVERSE THREE OF CUPS, AND THE SIX OF RODS

Alex stared up at the blue sky through her sunglasses while lounging in a pool float, her hand moving languidly back and forth through the water. It was still morning and early enough in the day for Alex to have the hotel pool all to herself. She pulled her cup from the built in cup holder on the float and took a long draw of orange juice through the pink straw. She leaned back and just floated. Alex was good at floating, and not just in water. Alex had been floating her way through life for as long as she could remember, mostly floating her way through boys. She just sort of drifted from one thing to the next, never really making an effort at much of anything.

Alex had been a straight A student all through high school and college. She did the assignments. She took the tests, but she did not study or do extra work. Her education had been easy, but only because she stuck to the basic and average classes. After graduation, Alex found herself working at a company doing data entry from 9-5. It was not a glamorous or exciting job, but it paid the bills, provided health insurance and was very simple. Alex just typed in information all day. When the work day was complete, she left her cubicle and the work stayed there. Alex did not think about her job outside of her job. She did not analyze how she handled this or that or how she could improve at her job in order to get a promotion. Alex didn’t really care. She was apathetic about most of her life. It was apathy that landed her with boyfriend number one, Josh.

Josh was a sweet guy who was into backpacking, rock climbing and mountain biking. Pretty much all outside extreme adventure activities. Alex met Josh at a local bar when he bought her a drink and asked her to dinner. Having nothing else to do, Alex had agreed and by the end of the next week Josh was taking her to REI to be fitted for her very own backpack. They spent most of the day getting her kitted out for her first backpacking adventure. Alex had never even been camping before, let alone backpacking-wilderness camping, but Josh sounded very excited whenever he talked about it. So she assumed that she would probably enjoy the activity almost as much he did. When they finally went out for their first camping weekend together, Alex was certain she was going to love it. An hour into their hike to their campsite, Alex’s feet hurt and she had to pee. Her pack had rubbed blisters on her shoulders. Alex was having to work at this and she was not having fun. When Josh informed her that there was no bathroom, Alex turned right around and hiked herself back to the trail head parking lot. Later, Alex was surprised how much of her gear REI refunded for her.

Alex had continued to float and drift from boyfriend to boyfriend for a number of years. Boyfriend number two had been very political and many of their dates centered around protests or marches. Boyfriend number three was really really into live heavy metal music. Alex spent most her time standing with her hands over her ears while boyfriend number three thrashed his body around the audience. Boyfriend number four had been very serious and they had attended multiple lectures and book club meetings, most of which Alex slept through. Boyfriend number five…Alex couldn’t even remember much about boyfriend number five. He was uneventful and if she thinks about, they both just kind stopped calling each other.

This brings us to boyfriend number six, Eric. Alex took another sip of her orange juice, now watered down with melted ice. Eric was the reason she was in this hotel. Eric was the reason she was spending her morning floating in this pool. Eric was the reason for a number of things.

THE NINE OF SWORDS, THE LOVERS AND THE ACE OF SWORDS

Diana stared at her reflection in the full length mirror while her mother adjusted the veil that had been painfully pinned into Diana’s elaborate hairdo. She felt a tightness in her chest, her breath restricted by the tight bodice of her dress. Diana did not recognize the woman staring back at her. For one thing, she had never worn this much makeup in her life. Her hair was a stiff tower of curls. Diana felt herself sway as she balanced herself in the white silk heels she had on her feet. Feet that you could not even see unless she lifted the thousands of layers of silk and tool that made up her skirt. Diana closed her eyes and tried to tune out the chatter of the women that filled the room. She had only one thought: This was a terrible mistake. That thought was now looping through Diana’s brain in various iterations. The dress was a mistake. The veil was a mistake. All this god-awful makeup and towering hair was a mistake. She was making a terrible mistake.

Diana’s skin felt like it had just gone up in flames and the room began to tilt. “I need air!” Diana gasped as she shoved her way past her bridesmaids who consisted of a gaggle of cousins Diana barely knew, leaving her mother gaping at her. “Diana! Wait….” Diana didn’t hear the rest of what her mother had to say. She had already made her way down the hallway that led to an exit door. Diana pushed hard on the double doors that led to the outside and felt the doors bounce open. She felt like she had just busted out of jail, except she still couldn’t breathe. Diana fumbled with the zipper at the back of the dress, frantically turning in a circle as she tried to reach the zipper. “Do you need some help?” Diana jerked her head around at the voice. He stood there, in his suit, a cigarette casually balanced between two fingers in his right hand. Roger. Diana continued to struggle for her zipper as she snapped “No! I’m fine. I got this.” Then she immediately fell over on the lawn, a puddle of tool and silk. She felt hot tears beginning to well up in her eyes and she still could not catch her breath.

Roger dropped his cigarette to ground and stepped on it to put it out. Without saying a word, he bent down, placed one hand on her shoulder and grabbed the zipper with other hand. He tugged on the zipper and undid it down to Diana’s waist. Diana gasped in the first full breath she’d been able take since her mother had zipped her up in this stupid dress. Roger pulled his colored pocket square from his suit pocket and handed it to Diana. She carefully blotted under her eyes with it and sniffled. “Thanks.” Roger sat down on the lawn next to Diana, knees bent so that his wrists could rest on the tops of his knees. Casual and comfortable even in his suit and dress shoes. “This is all your fault you know.” Diana said. “Which part?” he replied. “I would have gone through with all of this if you hadn’t showed up.” Diana said as she reached for her feet and started pulling off her shoes. She tossed them one at a time as far as she could throw them. They both landed in a hedge that had been trimmed into a shape of a rabbit. “Well, now, you see that sounds like I’ve done you a favor. You can thank me for keeping you from a joyless, miserable marriage.” Roger leaned back onto his elbows and looked up at Diana, squinting a little into the sun.

Diana snorted a laugh. “Why the fuck did you wait so long? My parents are going to be pissed you know. Derek’s family has paid for most of this extravagant fiasco of a wedding, but Dad is still mad at Mom about the money she spent on all of the dresses. Mostly her own dresses, but still. And Derek’s mother. She’s terrifying under regular circumstances. I wouldn’t be surprised if flames literally shot out of her mouth when she finds out I’m not walking down that isle.” Roger hopped up and then extended a hand to Diana. “Well, then I guess we better hurry up and get out of here before they try to stop us.” Diana looked at Roger’s hand and started to smile. She placed her hand in his and he tugged to help her up. Diana shook her head, looked Roger in the eye and said “Where’s your car?”

ACE OF SWORDS, KING OF SWORDS AND THE NINE OF PENTACLES

Today's short story

Carrie adjusted the collar on her blouse and smoothed her hands down her skirt as she turned sideways in front of her full length mirror. Her roommate, Martin sat cross legged in the middle of Carrie’s bed. He had wrapped one of Carrie’s silk scarves around his head and was flipping through an old deck of tarot cards. “Where did you get these old cards? And why do you of all people have them?” Carrie pulled off the blazer she had just tried on, flung it over her shoulder and struck a pose. “They were my grandma’s. I guess you can say they were my inheritance. And what do you mean me of all people? Blazer? No blazer?” Martin looked up from the cards. “No blazer. And I just mean, you’re very practical and don’t go in for lala shit.”

Carrie looked at her reflection in the mirror. She had on a teal blouse with a high slightly ruffled neck and cap sleeves. The blouse was tucked into a pin striped pencil skirt. Carrie was now standing on one foot which was sporting a black, low heeled dress shoe. She set her other foot down which was wearing a high heal the same color as her blouse. She continued to alternate between the two like a flamingo. “Girl, you know the high heel looks the best.” Martin said this without even looking up. Carrie sighed and plopped down on the bed. “I just want to look professional, yet feminine. I am also really nervous. What if Roberts is calling me in to fire me? Or demote me? What if this meeting is a disaster?” Martin held up a card with an image of a beautiful woman wearing an elaborate necklace of pentacles. Martin raised an eyebrow and said “Do you know who this is?” Carrie snatched the card from his fingers. “Of course I don’t know who this is. My Grandma Ester was crazy pants. Did I tell you she left all of her money to her cats? Dad was furious. Still is. Any way, Grandma could tell you who this is, but we both know I don’t go in for this crap.”

Carrie tossed the card back into the pile that was forming around Martin. She absently started picking at a cuticle and worrying about this meeting her boss had called. Carrie had worked her tail off at this company for the last five years. She stayed late, worked weekends, said ‘yes’ to every project, even the ones she thought were pointless and stupid. If her boss Jason Roberts, asked her to summersault through flaming hula-hoops, Carrie was prepared to tuck and roll. There’s no way he was calling her in for this special meeting to fire her. Not when she had worked so hard. Yet, Carrie could not allow herself to hope that this was something good, like an important promotion. She just couldn’t. For one thing, Carrie was a woman and from what Carrie witnessed at this company was that women did not move past administrative assistant. Carrie was the only woman on her floor that worked on client projects and did not schedule executive lunches. Carrie hadn’t really paid attention to this during her first week at the company, but then there had been meetings where Carrie had been asked to bring coffee or pick up donuts. To which Carrie had put her foot down and told them that was not in her job description, but she would be happy to ask one of the AA’s to assist them. Carrie thought about all the events and activities she had been excluded from for not being ‘one of the guys’. Though she had zero interest in hanging out in a sports bar watching basketball tournaments, she probably should have gone anyway just to boost her career. Instead, she had stayed at the office, working. What if Roberts saw this as not being a team player?

Martin picked up the card Carrie had just tossed aside and read the description. “Well! This is the Nine of Pentacles and she represents financial power, material domination and family inheritance. Think about it. It’s a card you inherited talking about power and domination. I bet you’re getting a promotion.” Carrie smiled and checked the time on her phone. “Well then, have the champagne ready.” She stood up, smoothed out her skirt and slid on her high heels. Then she grabbed her briefcase and confidently walked out the door.

A REVERSE TEN OF SWORDS, THE SUN, AND THE HIEROPHANT

New Tarot card story.

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“Alexa, play some music.” The streaming device on Ella’s desk started playing The Dog Song by Nellie McKay. Ella smiled and patted her little dog, Fletcher on the head. They had just themselves come back from a walk. Fletcher was now flopped half in, half out of his bed and panting. “You need a haircut.” Ella told him. She looked at the calendar tapped to the wall above her desk. Fletcher’s haircut was scheduled for next week. He would have to suffer through with his winter coat for a few more days. Ella sat down at her desk and opened her laptop. She went straight to her online bank account. Ella grinned with joy. The money was still there. It had not been a dream. The surprise inheritance that her grandmother had left her was sitting there in one giant lump sum in Ella’s savings account. It was the largest amount of money that savings account had ever held. It was the largest amount of money Ella had ever had in her possession.

Ella spun in her desk chair, laughing. No more scrimping. No more barely getting by. No more doing without. Ella couldn’t believe her luck. She had a meeting with a financial advisor this very afternoon to discuss investment possibilities and how to make her inheritance stretch even further. Ella knew that on the way to meet the financial advisor that she would stop at that boutique on the corner, the one where she did all of her window shopping and dreaming, except now she would go inside and buy something. Probably that cute embroidered dress she’d been eyeing in the window of late. Ella brought her hands together in prayer, looked up to the heavens and said “Thank you Grandmother Ester, who ever you are.”

Ella had never met her grandmother and she only knew bits of the story of why that was. Grandmother Ester had so strongly disapproved of Ella’s very Jewish father that she had cut her very own daughter completely out of her life. Ella remembered coming across an old black and white photo of a woman with a small girl. It had been tucked inside a shoebox in her mother’s closet. Ella had been in there trying on her mother’s lovely shoes. Stumbling in a pair of ridiculously high heels, she had bumped against some shelves. The box fell down, spilling its contents. “Ella, whatever are you doing in there.” Her mother said as she opened the sliding closet doors. Ella remembered her mother smiling at the site of Ella in those shoes and how that smile faded as she bent down and picked up the photo. Her mother had gazed at the picture with a look of sadness and then she picked up the box, placing the photo inside. “Enough dress-up play for the day. Out!” Ella’s mother had gently shooed her daughter out of the closet and never said a word about that picture. Ella could only guess that it had been a picture of her mother as a child with her own mother.

Ella sighed, thinking about her mom. She’d been gone for nearly seven years now and Ella missed her just as much today as the day her mother died. Ella wondered what her mother would say about Grandmother Ester leaving Ella her entire fortune. It sounded like Ella’s relationship with her mother had been quite different than the one between her mother and grandmother. Ella could not imagine her mother ever being so angry with Ella that she would cut her out of her life completely. Ella and her mom had been a team, often ganging up on Ella’s Dad to get him to take them to the beach or out for ice cream or keep the stray puppy. Dad was a push over. He always gave in to their demands. The three of them had been such a tight little family unit. Ella’s child memories were all filled with love and laughter. Ella looked over at the frame photo of the three of them sitting on her desk. It was just Ella and her dad now. Speaking of which, Ella was going to be late for her morning coffee with dad if she didn’t get a move on.

Ella slipped on her shoes, grabbed her bag and keys. She patted Fletcher on the head and said “Be good and don’t bark at the mailman.” Then she hurried out the door to walk the four blocks to the Mission Shelter. Ella’s dad spent every morning there stirring large pots of oatmeal and handing out bananas to any one who needed a meal. He used to only do it on the weekends, but since Ella’s mom passed and he retired, he spends every morning there. Sometimes he helps cook. Sometimes he hands out food and sometimes he just walks around chatting with people sitting at the tables and picking up dirty dishes. This morning, Ella found him sitting at one of the tables and chatting with some of the regulars that showed up at the Mission every morning. Ella looked at her dad. He looked a little thin, but other than that, he looked happy. She could tell that he truly loved working at the Mission and this warmed her heart.

Ella made her way to the coffee station and poured herself a mug of coffee. Then she made her way through the tables, saying ‘hello’ to some of the familiar faces, pausing here and there to ask about someone’s wellbeing. Her coffee was barely warm by the time she finally made it to where her dad was sitting. Ella’s dad stood up and hugged his daughter tight. “Good morning Sweet-pea! What’s the word mockingbird?” This was how he had greeted Ella every morning of her life. Ella smiled and took her seat. She said hello to Sam, one of the old timers who frequented the Mission and looked at her dad.

“Well…does this mockingbird ever have some news for you today.” Ella said with a grin.

THE ACE OF CUPS, THE ACE OF RODS, AND THE QUEEN OF RODS

What sort of tale shall I weave from today's reading?

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Agatha stared out the carriage window at the passing forest scenery, her rosary clutched tightly in her hands. She closed her eyes and tried to let the sway of the carriage sooth the rising panic that threatened to boil up and out of her. Agatha opened her eyes at the sound of her brother clearing his throat. Theo looked her directly in the eyes and for the twentieth time asked “Agatha, are you sure you want to do this?” Agatha studied her older brother. Theo was the middle child, free of the responsibilities of the oldest male heir but with a promise of a life full of all the benefits bequeathed to males. He was already in the process of acquiring a fine education from a prestigious university. Agatha thought of the classes he was taking and the things he was learning and felt her current rising panic shift over to make room for jealousy.

“Theo. This is the last time you will ask me that question. All of my choices are grim. I can stay and have father marry me off to the highest bidder, I can join the convent and devote my life to God or I can drown myself in the river. Devoting my life to God seems to be the least grim of choices right now.” Agatha turned her head to once again look out the carriage window.

“But what about Eric?” Theo asked.

Agatha felt a pain in her chest at the mention of his name. How long had she loved him and he her? From the very beginning, when they were still very much children. Those were the days when Agatha was still allowed to run wild and free, playing rough and tumble with her brothers and the village children. Eric’s father was in charge of the stables on the estate and once Eric’s chores were finished, he would run to meet them in the fields, usually hauling a giant basket of fruit, cheese and bread packed up by one of the kitchen maids. Everyone would stop in mid tussle at the first sighting of Eric’s blond curls bouncing up the ridge and all would cheer with joy. Then we would all race to meet him and attack the basket of food. Eric always plucked the best plum or apple or pear out of the basket and would present this perfect piece of fruit to Agatha as if he was gifting her a jewel. Agatha would give anything to go back to those carefree days and forget all about the complications of growing up.

“What about him? What do you think? Do you think father is going to allow the stable boy to marry his daughter? Do you think Eric and I can just ride off into the sunset together? Don’t be naive. Though I will love Eric until the day I die, I am resigned to the fact that there is no possible future for us. I’m doing Eric a kindness by joining the Sisters. Remaining there where he would have to watch other men pawing all over me would be a torture. Or having to witness me marry another man, a man he knows that I will never love. Can’t this driver go any faster!” Agatha banged the ceiling of the carriage with her fist in frustration and yelled “Can’t we go faster?”

Agatha and Theo felt a jolt as the horses picked up their pace. She nervously rolled the beads of her rosary between her fingers. Agatha knew that her absence could be discovered at any moment. She had no doubt that her father would send his soldiers to drag her home. They could not touch her once she was enclosed behind the walls of the convent, but right now Agatha was in serious danger. She knew that if she were caught, her father would not just force her to come home. He would devise a cruel punishment for her to endure while he contemplated marriage contracts. Agatha also wanted to hurry because she feared losing her nerve. A cloistered life may sound easier than a life married to some troll of a man, but she had no doubt that sisterhood would pose its own set of challenges.

Agatha stared out the window. The carriage had left the forest behind and entered an open landscape. In the distance, Agatha could see the tall spires of the chapel surrounded by a tall wall. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Agatha immediately threw the word ‘prison’ from her mind and replaced it with ‘opportunity’. This would be a place where she would find ease and comfort, be filled with content by hard work and the love and support of her fellow sisters. Joining the convent was the only way that Agatha could take control of her own life. Agatha crossed herself and brought her rosary to her lips, finding comfort in this simple ritual as the carriage continued to make its way down the road.

COMFORT AND FIGHTING MY WAY THROUGH THE MUCK

Today's cards

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I drew three cards: The Five of Pentacles, The Knight of Pentacles and The Three of Rods. Then I carefully read their descriptions. I looked at the three cards again and re-read the descriptions, but I could not figure out a way to spin them together into a tale. Probably because they were sitting too close to the now. I stared at them, long and hard and asked myself “where’s the story here?” The cards rang with a truth. You see, The Five of Pentacles represents the spiritual warmth of comfort to those in financial or physical need, like a blanket wrapping around you protecting you from the cold. Her opposite side is disorder and chaos and ruin. I feel like many of us are barely keeping ourselves wrapped up in that blanket. All it takes is for that blanket to slip from one shoulder or pulled free of one toe for us to feel the disorder, chaos and ruin.

The Knight of Pentacles, well, he’s a hard worker and he’s responsible. He has skills to get a job done, but he can also be idle and careless. He can become motionless, stagnant. I am the Knight of Pentacles flipping back and forth between hard working and stagnation. I’ve made some careless mistakes, like not anticipating the amount of coffee I would need every day. The regular old drip coffee maker is no match for a fancy espresso machine. I can’t even say that the hot mug of joe I drink every morning these days is comparable to the Americano with a shot of espresso that I would drink at the office. I might as well compare apples to oranges. They’re both a fruit. That’s the only thing they have in common. Idleness comes over me and I struggle to shake it. I was used to getting up and standing at my desk or walking the building. Now I pace through a 750 square feet of space while my dog follows me around carrying one of her stuffed animals.

That brings us to The Three of Rods, who offers great spiritual strength to someone contemplating what lies ahead. The reverse of The Three of Rods confuses me. It is “the end of trials, disappointment and trouble. I find that I want both of those things. I want the strength to contemplate but I also want all the trouble to be over and done with. Except this can be true for any time period in life. We get through this moment, only to be faced with a different set of trials, something else that must be contemplated. It’s just one big loop-d-loop. The Three of Rods is always with us whether we draw the card or not. It does not go unnoticed by me that the descriptions for two out of those three cards contains the word “spiritual”. Comforting our spirit. Strengthening our spirit.

I intended to mine these cards for creativity. So the story goes like this.

There was a great plague that swept over the land. It forced people to stay at home and venture out very rarely for food. A decree was issued that people must stay at least six feet apart. Families and friends became separated by this invisible germ wall. Working from home and homeschooling became the thing everyone did as opposed to the few who already had this life. To say that it was a great shock and struggle for many, is an understatement, but the people found ways to interact with each other. They colored uplifting messages with chalk on the sidewalks for those passing by, at the appropriate distance of course. They placed stuffed animals in windows for little kids to spot while they were out on their daily walks. They cheered out their windows for the hospital workers, who worked tirelessly to aid those stricken with this plague. The people found ways to see and visit with each other with a magical window called Zoom. There were many Zoom meetings, happy hours and birthdays. While they found some comfort in these things, they also worked hard at stopping the spread of the plague. They wore masks, washed hands, sanitized counter tops and mail and they maintained their distance from each other. All of that hard work started to pay off and little by little the doctors saw fewer patients. Then one day, they saw zero patients. The land was declared to be free of the plague and the people all went back to the way things were before.

The story the cards told was one I’ve already heard dozens of times. It is a story of overcoming trials and tribulations. I have told so many different versions of this story that I have lost count. But some stories are worth reading over and over again, especially on those days that just drag on and on and you don’t see an end in sight. Some times you need to remind yourself that there is an end to this loop. It just might be too far out at the moment for me to see it clearly, but if I put on my glasses, I can just make it out in the horizon.

WRECKAGE

Someone's having a bad vacation

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Eric and Melissa stood silently staring as the RV that had been their home for the last two years burned. A small, now empty, fire extinguisher dangled from Eric’s left hand. Melissa had managed to run inside the RV and grab both of their backpacks that contained their laptops and a laundry basket of clothing. Both backpacks where still hanging on her shoulder with the laundry basket propped on one hip. Melissa turned to Eric and opened her mouth to say something, but he put up his hand and shook his head. They could hear sirens in the distance and their gaze shifted to the fire truck as it sped down the interstate in one direction. The fire truck would have to go north for more than a mile just to find a turn around spot. Melissa reached over and grabbed Eric’s hand. She gently tugged him back from the burning wreckage to what she thought might be a safe distance. A loud ‘BOOM’ accompanied with an intense burst of flames lifted the entire RV slightly off the ground sending it bouncing back down hard on the tires.

The fire truck pulled into the desolate parking lot and the fire fighters all jumped from the truck ready for action. Melissa looked over at Eric again, his face lit with the flames from the fire and she could see tears streaming down his face. She leaned over and said “I’m going over to that picnic shelter to call my mom, Okay?” Eric just nodded his head without bothering to look at her, still transfixed by the scene of destruction in front of him. Melissa sighed and then set down all of the stuff she’d managed to salvage before the fire had spread from the engine to rest of the RV. She walked over to a picnic shelter that was far enough away from the noise and dialed her mother’s number on her cell. It was pretty late. Her mom was probably already in bed.

Mom? It’s me. Melissa.

Melissa! What’s wrong? Why are you calling so late? Are you okay?

Everything’s fine. Well…depending how you look at it. Eric and I are stranded at a rest stop in Oklahoma. The RV caught fire and has now burned down to the tires. We’re watching firefighters attempt to put the major flames out as I speak. I am going to ask them to take us to the nearest town and check into a hotel. After that, I don’t know what do.

I’m coming. I’m coming to get you.

Mom.

NO! I’m coming to get you RIGHT NOW! Text me with address information when you get to the hotel.

Thank you, Mom. I love you

I love you sweet pea. Momma is on her way.

Melissa sighed in relief as she ended the call and tears filled up in her eyes. She looked over at Eric who was now sitting on the curb. One of the firefighters was crouched down in front of him saying something to Eric. Eric didn’t even nod his head in response. He just continued to stare at the charred remains of the RV. Melissa walked over to the firefighter. “Sir? My husband seems to be in a bit of a shock. I’m…I’m sure he’ll snap out of it, but in the meantime, is it possible to get a ride into town? Maybe a town with a motel?” The fireman stood and turned to her “Of course ma’am’. We just need to be certain that the fire is completely out and then wrap up our stuff. I’ll come get you when we’re ready.” Melissa nodded her head and said “thank you.” Then she sat down on the curb next to Eric, their only belongs stacked in a small mound on her other side.

There was a lot that needed to be said. Melissa should explain that her mother was coming to get them, that they’d figure out everything. She wanted to say that they would call the insurance company as soon as they reached a hotel. She wanted to say that this was just a temporary set back, everything was going to be okay. Instead, Melissa said nothing. She looked at the RV, now just black charred metal, and couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. Melissa couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, that the RV had read her thoughts. The RV had seen inside Melissa’s heart and found out how much she hated this RV, this life. The RV knew that Melissa had reached her limit of tolerance and that Melissa was struggling with finding the words to tell Eric how much she hated this RV and how she wanted nothing of this life with him. She’d given it two years and she felt no different today than when they started this crazy plan. Melissa had tried. She really had, but she couldn’t do this another second. It was if the RV understood all of that and sacrificed itself to give her a new start, a way out.

“Your mother doesn’t need to come. We can just get someone to take us to the nearest RV dealership and get a new RV.” Eric said, still staring at the wreckage. Melissa turned and looked at her husband. His eyes were open wide and he looked a little crazy. She realized that he was more than a little crazy. He was certifiable. Melissa placed her hand on Eric’s shoulder “Eric…honey…I am never getting in another RV with you. Ever again.” Then Melissa stood. She picked up her backpack and the laundry basket and walked over to the fire truck, away from her husband and his beloved RV.

SCSC, PART 2

Twin Rocks

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Ida’s best friend, Myrtle, lived in the local nursing home. Myrtle’s son, Howard, had moved his mother into the Hanalei Assisted Living Center a year ago after Myrtle had accidentally set her kitchen on fire. It was a simple mistake, one all of us have made. Myrtle had forgotten to turn off the burner after boiling water in her tea kettle. She had never had a ‘senior moment’ before and Howard latched onto this one with might. Myrtle knew that her son wanted her out of her bungalow so he could sell it to developers. Her house on the beach had become hot property. Myrtle was contacted almost weekly by some developer or another offering her an outrageous sum of money for her tiny little house. Howard had not thought twice before dropping his mother off at Hanalei Assisted Living and was probably living it up in Oahu with the fortune he’d acquired from selling Myrtle’s house.

Myrtle didn’t really mind too much. As a mother, she wanted her son to have everything he dreamed of having. If that meant putting her into assisted living and selling her house, then so be it. What she did mind was the center’s strict rules and prison style schedules. The director of the center refused to let patients go any where near the beach, let alone try to stand on a surfboard. They were relegated to exercising on a treadmill in the gym or walking the gardens attached to the backside of the center. The gardens backed up to a wildlife refuge, so the bird watching was good, but bird watching and surfing where incomparable. Myrtle longed for the ocean, her board and escape. Ida visited every day and the two of them would sit in the rockers on the large verandah that surrounded the main building, plotting Myrtle’s escape.

One day, Ida was explaining how she’d heard that you could mix a few drops of Visine into someone’s coffee and it would give that person explosive diarrhea. “We could put some in the security guard’s coffee and the orderly’s soda drink.” “That doesn’t really work.” Ida and Myrtle looked up as a tall older gentleman with stooped shoulders dragged a rocker over and settled himself in it. “Bernard Muller. I don’t mean to listen in but I want the same thing you two seem to want. Freedom and surf.” After Bernard, came Lelani Kahale who wasn’t so much interested in surfing as she was just being able to get in the ocean with her snorkel, mask and spear for fishing. Lelani brought Alexi Sokolov into the group. She’d been eating her meals with this man since she moved into the center and he told her fantastical stories of being a Russian spy. She thought his skills might come in handy.

So now, they were a group of five, not counting Ida’s new apprentice, Floyd who didn’t realize yet that he was also a part of this group and would in fact play a pivotal role in their escape plan.

THE SENIOR CITIZENS SURF CLUB

Rockaway beach

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The Senior Citizens Surf Club (or SCSC) was founded by Floyd Henderson and Ida Merryweather on Hanalei Bay beach on the island of Kauai in 1978. Floyd was 22 years old. He had dropped out of medical school on his second day of class, smuggled himself onto a container barge and ended up on the big island of Hawaii. He stayed there in a small village doing odd jobs from fixing small engines (not much different from the human heart really) to mending torn fishing nets (very much like stitching up a cut). Eventually he hopped on a fishing boat to Kauai with no intention of staying long, but with every intention of learning everything about building his own surfboard. Floyd had heard rumors of an old hermit who lived in a shack on the beach. The hermit was supposed to be the best surfboard maker to ever have made a surfboard.

It did not take long (Kauai’s not that big of an island) for Floyd to find his hermit. On his third morning on the island, Floyd hit up Hanalei Bay beach for some morning surfing. He was sitting on his board in the water, contemplating his next move when he spotted one surfer in particular. This surfer was slotted. That’s the term for when a surfer is tucked nicely into the barrel of a wave and this surfer was tucked in like burrito. Just as the wave started closing in, the surfer zipped out to the crest of the wave and then rode that wave all the way to the beach, skidding to stop and hopping off with a ‘tah-dah’! flare. Floyd almost applauded. He swam his board back to the beach to meet this person and ask him if he knew about this mysterious surfboard maker.

Floyd realized as he walked up to this surfer that he was not about to introduce himself to a young man like himself. No, when Floyd reached the surfer he was introducing himself to Mrs. Ida Merryweather, an eighty year old widow and obvious surf queen. She peeled her wetsuit off to reveal a floral print one piece swimsuit that perfectly matched the flower print swim cap on her head. Her skin was that soft brown wrinkled leather kind of skin of a person who had spent years and years outside in the sun, not bothering with sunscreen. Her hair, revealed as she pulled off the swim cap, was white as snow and sprang up from her head in frizzy curls. Ida was no spring chicken, but her smile was true and her ocean blue eyes sparkled with mischief. Floyd was immediately smitten with Ida.

Floyd told Ida that he’d come to the island to find the hermit who made surfboards in hopes of learning how to make surfboards. Ida laughed and shook her head saying “I never considered myself a hermit.” The shack on the beach was actually a two bedroom bungalow a mile from the beach with a workshop in back where Ida spent her days sanding, buffing and lacquering wood into beautiful surfboards which were sold in local surf shops. Floyd begged to be Ida’s apprentice. “Son, you didn’t need to beg. You just had to ask.” was Ida’s response and that’s how Floyd became Ida's apprentice. Floyd moved into Ida’s spare bedroom and in return for learning all he could about making surfboards, he ran the errands. He picked up groceries and made sure they were eating well. He did the yard work and fixed the carburetor in Ida’s station wagon. Ida taught him how to smell the wood for lightness and feel for weight. She taught him how to sand and how when you think you’re done sanding, you sand just a teeny bit more. Floyd became Ida’s caretaker and Ida became Floyd’s surf mentor.

By now, you’re probably wondering were the surf club comes in. Hold on. I’m getting to that.

COLONEL VANHOUSEN'S NATURAL HISTORY EMPORIA

The room is on the third floor of the building with a bank of windows facing north. I am not sure what the building is really intended for, but I think there's a salon on the first floor and a lawyer's office of some sorts. It is possible that the upper floors are apartments. That seems to be all the repurposing rage around here, turning random offices into apartments. Then the landlords charge an exorbitant amount for rent. This particular area has been seeing some changes. A juice bar went in up the street, along with a new micro brewery. One morning on my way to work, I passed this building as two men in flannel shirts walked around the corner to get into their car. They both carried a ceramic mug. They both had their pants rolled at the ankles and their bare feet clad in loafers. They both sported messy buns on top of their heads. Neither wore a coat even though the temperatures were in the low thirties. 

The neighborhood is changing. 

Its in the evenings when I am headed home where I have a chance to study the room on the third floor.  The entire length of the windowsill across the third floor is lined with an accoutrement of items. From my vantage point waiting at the stop light, I can see an elephant tusk and a large skull of an animal, possibly the elephant that gave up it's tusk. There's a stuffed and mounted mountain lion standing on a length of driftwood. The rest of the windowsill is cluttered with papers and bits of things I can't quite make out from the street. The first time I noticed the room, I was on my way home from an afterwork happy hour and since we were in the shorter days of winter, the sun had already set. The building was dark all except for that third floor room. I looked up and started noticing the bones and the lion, forgetting that I was sitting at a red light. I said out loud to no one "what the Hell is happening in that room?" Then I heard the beep of a car horn behind me. The light had turned green. It was time to move on.

Now, in the evenings, I look up at that floor and try to notice clues that would give any hints to what really goes on there. Here's what I've come up with so far. The third floor is the home and offices of Colonel Martin Vanhousen. He is an older, distinguished gentleman with an unplaceable accent. Some days he sounds as if he might hail from Wurzburg, while the next day it may sound as if he is a Yorkshire native. On Saturdays and Sundays, Col. Vanhousen, or Marty if you are close acquaintances, has the thickest Scottish brogue that you can not understand a word he says. He is neither tall, nor short; skinny or fat. Col. Vanhousen is completely bald on the top of his head with a ring of white fluffy hair circling his head. He does not have a beard, but does sport the most pork-like side chops you have ever seen. 

Col. Vanhousen is a world explorer. This explains why his home and office are littered with bones and taxidermied animals. There are stacks upon stacks of field notes, old photographs and sketches of rare plants and in the center of it all sits a large mahogany desk. In those drawers you will find uncatalogued arrowheads, a pipe collection, a tobacco collection and a very expensive bottle of scotch. He keeps the cheap stuff for guests on an ancient liquor cart along with some gin and a bottle of vermouth that he doesn't remember ever buying. One desk drawer contains letters and a locket containing a picture of his one and only true love, Elsbeth. She died from influenza while he was on expedition to Antarctica. The Colonel never married, but does have a string of widows who take turns stopping by on evenings carrying a pyrex dish filled with some casserole of sorts. He has spent the last twenty five years in this office, attempting to compile all of his notes into a memoir. That is something we have in common, though I also have a small collection of arrowheads in my own desk drawer.

Of course all of this is more fantasy than fact. The room does exist. As does the mountain lion and large skull. The rest of it all is still just conjecture. 

IN MY HEAD, ZOMBIES

Meter maze

"Meter maze"

It's the first day of NaNoWriMo and I'm staring at a blank screen. I have a story. I do. I just don't know where that story is going or how it's going to end. This is when the voices start talking in my head. "What do you think you're doing? You are not a writer. You are a scientist. You have no idea what you are doing." The voices are mostly right. I am a scientist and I have no idea what I am doing. I mean, my biggest excuse for not going on from my Masters to get my PhD was that I didn't want to write papers and grant proposals. I have no business pretending and that's what this feels like sometimes. I'm pretending to be creative. I'm sure Chris is out there somewhere thinking "how cute, she thinks she can write." Which makes him sound condescending. We had our places. He was the creative. I was the cheerleader. That's just how it was. The voices in my head tell me that Chris would make fun of these creative efforts even though I know he would never. 

I look at the blank page again and say to myself "1,666.7 words." That's all I have to do a day. That's a lot I have to do a day. I type a few paragraphs, thinking "this isn't so hard." Like I said. I have a story, but when I select all and do a word count it only comes up with 643 words. Is that all? Gah. 1,666.7 words is more than I thought. I plug on. Typa, typa typa. I pause to pat the dogs head. I take a break to shove the cat away from walking across the keyboard. I get 1,325 words and I call it a night. It's late (for me). I'm tired. My right foot has fallen asleep and prickles as I place it flat on the floor. 1,325 words will have to be enough for today, but when I lay my head down on the pillow, the story keeps playing in my head. I should add that there. I should explain this here. I should tell this part next. Now the voices in my head are those of the characters in the story. I have to tell them to be quiet so I can go to sleep, but I'm woken up a few hours later by the sounds of war outside. 

I stumble out of bed and peek out into the living room. Michael is sitting on the couch, excitedly shoving popcorn into his mouth. He sees me and asks "What's up?" My reply comes in the confused look on my face. He says "Are you wondering about the gunfire and fireworks happening outside? Don't worry. That's the sound of World Championship in Kansas City." The Royals have won the World Series (the Cabbage used to call it the World Serious).  Michael was nine or ten the last time this happened. It's been thirty years. He is beyond pleased. I mumble a "Happy Birthday" before stumbling back to bed. Michael's birthday is in a few weeks. Back in bed. Head on the pillow. The voices return. This time it's a blend of the bad voices mixed with those from the story. I focus on the sounds coming from the neighborhood. I hear more popping sounds of fireworks or gunshots or both. I hear people yelling. At least I stop listening to the voices in my head and fall back asleep. 

I wake up the next morning and the only voice I hear is the one saying "1,666.7 words. That's all you have to do."

That's all I have to do. Today.

LOVE THURSDAY

Fortune cookie journal

"Fortune cookie journal"

A few weeks ago, when Mom was in town for a visit, Michael hung out at the book store while Mom and I store hopped on the Plaza. When we all finally met up for lunch Michael had a bag full different things he's found interesting. This included a Wonder Woman journal and a Fortune Cookie journal that he bought with me in mind. I have yet to unwrap the Wonder Woman journal because journals tend to fall into the same category as new boxes of colored pencils. I like to keep them pristine as long as possible, at least until I am ready to use it. Sometimes the clean lines of a new notebook are more appealing to me than putting any markings on the pages and I will savor the emptiness of those pages for a bit. 

The Fortune Cookie journal reminded me of one of Chris's writing schemes. He had the idea once to open a fortune cookie once a week and then let the fortune inspire his writing. He'd write a short story based off of what ever the fortune said. As a result, we had bags of fortune cookies in the pantry. I'd like to say I have a notebook somewhere of Fortune Cookie short stories written by Chris, but I do not. This idea would end up like so many of Chris's ideas. Like the Diner Saurs food blog that would feature dinosaurs like a T-Rex with a top hat and monocle. He would go so far as to buy the cookies and dinosaurs, but lose the desire to continue before moving onto a new idea or topic. I tossed the fortune cookies ages ago, but I'm sure the dinosaurs are still in the basement somewhere. I can't help but wonder if Chris's Fortune Cookie stories would have gone farther if the fortunes were already in a book with empty space under each one. Then I remember the box of journals in the basement, each one with one or two pages of lists written down in them. He was the greatest list maker this world had ever seen. 

The journal Michael gave me is small. The space under the fortune is just big enough to get an idea of a story, which is what I wrote down under the first  fortune yesterday. Michael thinks I should just randomly open to a fortune page and write. He says that takes away the idea that it's something I need to finish. I'm not sure if my analytical science brain will let me do that.  But I like the idea of filling this journal up with ideas.

An exciting journey awaits you with your first step in a new direction.

She took a left. She always goes right. Every day, she steps out the door and turns right. She walks past the newspaper stand where Frank stacks the latest copies of Women's Day and Handyman next to the Daily and the New York Times. Then she walks by the fruit stand, saying a quick hello to Mrs. Ruby who is always busy arranging the fruit so that the customers never saw the brown spots. Her next stop is the coffee shack where Max is always just setting her Americano down at the window right as she walks up. She places her dollar fifty on the counter with one hand while grasping the warm cup in the other hand as she nods her grateful hello to Max. Max returns her nod with a wink and watches as she turns on her heel to walk around the corner, past the statue of General Beauregard. She salutes the General as she hops up the stairs to her job at the library. This had been her path and her routine everyday, except on Sundays, for the past ten years. But today. Today she turned left.

Here's to an exciting new adventures and a happy Love Thursday.