Storytelling on a rainy Sunday afternoon

(A dear friend and fellow writer, unrelenting rain and wind, and the determination to speak our written words aloud - this is what brought us all together on a Sunday afternoon to the Galesburg Public Library.)

It's hard, on a bright sunny day like today to remember what Sunday was like. But I got soaked to the skin so many times that it's harder to forget that it poured all the live-long day. Any other time I would stay safely inside my warm cozy home curled under a blanket watching a tape of Corner Gas episodes and laughing until I fell asleep in my chair.

Thing is, I had to be at the Galesburg Public Library to receive the third-place winning certificate and ten bucks for my short story, Catching Up and Saying Goodbye. It was also expected that as a grown-up, I would read my work to the audience. Sure I would.

My friend and I left town an hour earlier than we needed to so we could stop at Big Lots to looks for Big Bargains. She found a few, and I proceeded to get sick. I never once thought to blame it on the weather because I knew the problem came from imagining reading in front of a bunch of strangers who would probably snicker, or worse, walk out as soon as I stumbled up to the podium.

We spent almost too much time at the store, and the longer we stayed the worse I felt. The rain was steady, and we weren't sure where the library was. Asking a clerk or two or three for directions didn't really yield the best results, so we headed out into the deluge.

As I pondered whether or not I was going to read or just pop into the library and grab my money, there was a knock on the car window next to my head. Some poor drenched woman was holding up a plastic bag. "Did you forget your paper plates?" she asked as she used the bag to cover her head. We thanked her, took the wet sack and I rolled up the window. Just then, another acquaintance waved through the raindrops and chatted for a couple of minutes.

We pulled out into traffic, and surprisingly we found the library rather quickly. There were no parking spots by the door, so I was dropped off with about ten minutes to spare. Once we got our bearings, we headed for the second floor to scope out the place. I would have to decide pretty soon, and that was enough stress to make me feel even worse.

The room was pretty big, with lots and lots of folding chairs, most of them empty. There must have been about 30 people or so, many of them young adults sitting at the front of the room. My friend and I headed to the back for cookies and juice. I grabbed a program. Maybe if I was listed in the top three to read first, I could get it over with and leave.

I found the thumbprint cookies (my favorite), poured some pink lemonade and opened the program. There I was alright - dead last. And there was an intermission. This was not going to work, and my friend knew it just by looking at the expression on my face. We approached the woman in charge, who apologized but said that yup, the program was right, I was last.

At about that time, it was decided that my story would be read, whether I did it or my friend did. Since she'd taken time out of her day to drive me there in her car, I hated to ask that of her too. And so we ate our cookies, drank our juice and listened to the other winners read their works. I couldn't be more thankful that we stuck it out.

The youngest were third, fourth and fifth graders and most of them were more than happy to read their poetry and stories in front of everyone. They posed for pictures, gave one another fist-bumps, and clutched their certificates and checks in their hands as they made their way back to their seats, grinning all the way. If they could do this, so could I.

We both were especially touched by the teen girls' poetry. One spoke of her grandmother, now in a nursing home, and she wrote with such heartbreaking tenderness that most of us were crying at the end, including the poet herself.

The two men who won first and second place were extraordinary storytellers. We won't soon forget the tale of the single dad and his two daughters, told by a man who had to have experienced this bittersweet tale. He wove word pictures that brought tears to our eyes. The second-place winner told a spooky story that was right up my alley, and I wondered why I hadn't thought of his topic.

I don't remember a whole lot about reading my piece except that people didn't leave or giggle at the wrong spots or even talk to one another while I spoke. They were all respectful and attentive, so it wasn't a horrible experience by a long shot.

When it was all over and the pictures taken, we took the elevator down, dodged raindrops and headed for a cup of coffee. We watched cars go by as we sipped and talked and tried to dry out. It was almost time to head home, and we were ready.

Those of us old enough to know better should realize by now that the anticipation of something is oftentimes far worse than than the event itself. That was certainly true last Sunday, and all I can do is give a big Thank You - to my friend for her support, to the judges for picking my story, and especially to the poets and storytellers that day who enriched our lives on that rainy afternoon in Galesburg.

Bravo.

Dog steals neighbor's dog's bone, underground fire interrupt work

(Ah, work distractions. Who doesn't have them? I have to say, though, that I procrastinate enough without outside influences, but these are sort of funny so I thought I'd share some typical experiences around our place.)


Sometimes I like the way my downstairs office is set up, and sometimes I think it would be better if I worked inside a closet. That's because last week there were too many distractions outside the big window on the other side of my desk.

The first interruption was Sarah the pup. Hubby was off somewhere and it was such a nice day, so out the door went the dog. I clipped her tie-out to her collar, brought out her water dish and went back inside to get to work.

Sarah did her usual shtick - barking at squirrels, people, rabbits, Aerial the fire house dog, and blowing leaves. I got kind of used to the noise, though I worried about the neighbors becoming irritated.

It wasn't long before I noticed how quiet things were. Maybe the dog was sunning herself and chewing on rocks. About that time there was an odd sound coming from the front of the house: someone was banging on the door.

Usually I check the peephole but I just opened up the door and there stood our neighbor. "This is your dog, right?" he asked. Sarah was jumping around, anxious to get inside where she could hide. Despite numerous experts' silly opinions, I believe dogs do know when they've been naughty and our dog has had plenty of experience in that area. She wiggled herself past the two of us and headed for the kitchen.

The neighbor had a little more to say. "Her name's Sarah, right?" he asked. "She's really friendly, she came right to me when I called her name." Thank goodness for that, I thought. There are too many ways to lose a dog, and we don't want to imagine any of them. I thanked our neighbor, then found Sarah so I could give her a hug. Stupid pooch.

The next interruption came a few days later, on a Tuesday. Hubby was out of town, it was sunny and nice and I had a lot of work to do. So, out went the dog. However, since we couldn't find out how Sarah got loose the last time, we blamed the whole thing on me, figuring the latch wasn't properly attached to the collar. This time I checked it four times. This time, there would be no loose dog.

Not quite half an hour later, I took a break from staring at the computer screen and noticed two things: it was awfully quiet, and a giant shadow passed by the window. The blinds were shut, but I know I saw a blob-shaped something go by. It was time to poke my head out and say hi to Sarah.

When there was no answer, something made me look toward the front yard. Ah, there she was. The dog was jumping around having the time of her life because she was loose and she had a prize. I've never seen a bone that big, and it wasn't the kind you purchase at a pet store. This was from some large animal.

I called Sarah and she immediately stopped running and turned around to stare at me in defiance. She put her rump in the air and her head down on her front paws. It was play time. Taking hubby's advice, I acted as though I didn't care what she did next and it worked. She bounded into the front porch and we wrestled for the bone. It stayed on the porch, and Sarah went into the house, deeply disappointed.

Within a minute, the phone rang. It was our other neighbor calling to inform me that Sarah had dug up and stolen his dog's bone. I felt awful; I love that guy's dog - he's been around for years. I apologized, hung up and waited until hubby came home so I could tell him his dog was a thief. Thing is, neither of us can figure out how Sarah's been getting loose so we're not able to tie her out any more, and that's kind of sad.

The third interruption came courtesy of hubby plus a burn day. On Saturday, I headed for my desk and hubby headed for the back yard to get rid of some landscape waste. I guess I missed the part where he set a tree stump on fire in the front parking strip. About half an hour into my writing, I couldn't help but notice the shiny bright red fire truck that slowed down and parked in front of our house. Firemen jumped out and gathered around something in the front yard, and hubby walked up to join them.

The men were talking and pointing at the blackening tree stump that had tiny flames poking out of its holes. Someone had apparently reported an underground fire (I guess I'd never thought of that sort of thing around these parts), so the firemen came to check things out. Hubby was informed that putting charcoal on the stump would work better next time, then off they went. I went back into the house, put my work away and went upstairs to take a nap.

Truth be told, it's nice having a life that's never boring. That doesn't mean I want Sarah the pup to get lost forever or that underground fires are good. Maybe it means I should only work at the office; maybe working at home invites trouble.

Could be. Nothing odd has happened while I wrote this, safe inside the building at the corner of Main and Central.

Making new memories on a train trip

(Good friends are those who have your best interests at heart, and they never stop trying to help you along the path to a healthier lifestyle, and that includes mental health. After listening to all the reasons why I never wanted to take a train to Chicago again because of truly traumatic childhood experiences, my best bud finally talked me into giving it another go. And so I did - with results even I didn't foresee.)

It's not a bit unusual for me to wake around 5 a.m., and it doesn't matter if it's a workday or not. I love the quiet, though lately Sarah the pup has been joining me in the kitchen, but once she's been out for a bit things settle down again.

A few weeks back I was in the middle of reading three newspapers, drinking coffee and watching the early news show, but my mind was on the upcoming train trip to LaGrange at precisely 8:06, less than three hours away.

As kids, sis and I had taken more than our share of train trips to Chicago, and every one of them meant that our mom had an appointment at the research hospital there. At first the trips were a novelty; the depot was a blast with its big wooden benches and never-ending parade of travelers. The train ride itself was mostly fun, except we couldn't afford the dining car so we always brought our own food, and we had to save it to eat at the hospital between mom's doctor visits.

Eventually, the twice-yearly jaunt grew old and besides, the reason behind it was frightening even though, or perhaps because, mom kept her prognosis to herself.

Those times are long gone. The last train ride in recent memory was when our youngest and I rode home to Kewanee after living in Arizona for six years. There were more good times than bad, though the bad was pretty awful. Our train hit a pickup truck and the driver didn't make it, so things were pretty low-key after that.

Those thoughts and more swirled around my mind that Wednesday morning. I wanted to make some good memories for a change, and that meant getting to the station on time. I can't stand being late, and it's a good thing because the train arrived and left right on the button.

I was encouraged by hubby and friends to be sure to visit the dining car. That suggestion was to help get over the childhood angst I had over never being able to do that as a kid, but I got so caught up with finding a seat that I forgot to ask where the dining car was. (Answer: right behind the car I was in.)

I tried to sit quickly so I could wave to hubby, but that didn't happen. I was carrying too many shoulder bags to maneuver gracefully down the narrow aisle, and before I knew it I'd thrown myself into a seat so others could get by.

Once my bags were safely placed on the window seat, I took stock of the folks around me. There was the tall young man across from me, sound asleep with his legs curled up as far as he could get them. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, and he must have been awfully tired because newly-embarking passengers and the jolt of the train never woke him.

The two young women in front of me were probably the most fascinating. It took just over two hours to get to LaGrange, and these two were able to sustain nearly non-stop giggling the entire way. Hats off. (I really wanted to say something else, but let's use that - it's more polite).

I could see folks walking back and forth with cups of ice, sodas and chips but I never asked anyone where they got the food. I was too busy listening to music on my MP3 and letting my imagination run away with me. And what a trip that was!

My first thoughts were of J. K. Rowling and how she dreamed up a young boy wizard one day while riding a train. I never saw Harry, or anyone who looked like him, even when we pulled into the Princeton train depot, the town that celebrates Platform 9 3/4 almost every year, so I was off to The Twilight Zone.

A Stop at Willoughby is a TZ favorite of mine. James Daly played a sad stressed-out man who longed for a simpler lifestyle. As he rode the train home one night after work he fell asleep and dreamed of a place called Willoughby. The year was 1888 and the people there lived a stress-free life so unlike his own. It wasn't long before the poor man decided that he'd rather live in the past than face his future so off the train he went. The last scene is of his body being placed in a hearse owned by Willoughby & Son Funeral Home.

Maybe that was the wrong path for my thinking to take, so I looked ahead to meeting my friends for a fun meeting at a Borders Bookstore. It turned out to be too much fun, because now all I can think of is going back. This time I'd pop into the snack car and pass the time there, spend hours at the bookstore, find a diner and have lunch, go back to the bookstore then hop
the train for home.

Seems to me like I've managed to replace those old musty memories with some bright new ones, and I can't wait to do it all over again.