“In the end, we’ll all become stories.” Margaret Atwood
Photo by the author
The neon sign on my office wall is a gift from a friend and a subtle reminder that my “to be read” pile is waiting patiently. They don’t really have a choice, unless those books suddenly become sentient. But that’s a whole other story. For now, I’m trying to settle in with a novel instead of doom scrolling through social media. One practice will improve my writing skills, while the other just results in a rise in my blood pressure.
Once I started studying the craft of writing and actually trying to turn out stories of my own, I noticed that my approach to reading shifted. I do read for enjoyment, but it’s hard to turn off that inner editor. Here’s a few of the books I’ve read so far this month and a bit of a review for each, along with what I learned about writing along the way.
In November I read this novel written by my friend, Heather J. Bennett. She has a way of bringing her characters to life and giving the reader an intimate look at their challenges. Her books capture the 1970s – an era I grew up in – so well that I always feel like I’m settling in with an friend to reminisce about those times. The plots of her novels involve characters in the music industry, most often California rock and roll. Heather brings an authenticity to that setting that brings the reader right along with the characters. Writing wise, it’s good to read and learn from someone with such a good grasp of character development, plot, and setting detail. Plus her books are always a good story!
I bought this book at Dollar Tree and it was a $1.25 well spent. The first sentence hooked me in – “I was seventeen years old when I saw my first dead body.” From the title and that sentence, I was expecting something a bit darker from this novel, but I wasn’t disappointed with the story. The main characters are teenagers, so I suppose this would qualify as a “YA” book. There’s a disappearance and dual timelines that eventually converge in an unexpected but satisfying way. I like how the author, John Corey Whaley, tied everything together at the end. There’s a subplot with the town’s reaction to a possible sighting of an extinct woodpecker, and this explains the bird on the cover and also the double meaning of the title. I love it when the writer has a clear picture of how the plot will resolve and doesn’t resort to throwing everything at the conflict in hopes that something will stick. (Riley Sager, stop tossing tropes in the final chapter.)
I’ll confess to an occasional binge of romance. I picked up this one based on the cover alone. Plus the author has a whole series set in this town. I loved the Virgin River series, so I thought I’d like these. Going in, I knew there were spicy scenes but I’m an adult, right? How bad could it be? Pretty bad it turns out. I’m not going to smut shame anyone, but if you picked up these books for the sexy parts, be aware the first get together doesn’t happen until about 200 pages in. And then, Kira and Bennett take up almost four pages with dialogue. Enough that I was urging them on to just finish things for heaven’s sake. As for plot, the main character, Kira, buys a Christmas tree farm and meets handsome Bennett. That’s about all that happens, over and over, until they finally hook up during a snowstorm. What I learned from this book – I don’t mind a spicy scene, but I’ve got to care enough about the characters to want them to get busy. I also realized I’ll never write a sex scene. Just coming up with euphemisms for body parts gives me a headache. Unless those parts are being loped off by the grim reaper/slasher who’s been stalking the characters.
Me and Carl
The last book is also my favorite of the month and possibly the entire year. I binged the first few chapters, staying up later than usual with no regrets. This book is a master class on pacing, conflict, hooks, and characterization. The unlikely plot – aliens have destroyed the Earth and the survivors must compete in an intergalactic game show that takes place in a dungeon – makes perfect sense once you get into the story. There’s magic, violence, fantasy, and a talking cat. The cat, Princess Donut the Queen Anne Chonk, is one of my favorite all time characters. By the end of the first chapter, I was rooting for her and Carl and hoping they didn’t get killed by the drug-dealing llamas or exploding goblins. Writing lesson – once the reader loves the main characters they’ll follow them through the story. Another lesson – give a satisfying ending with each conflict but also introduce a new conflict as a result of that ending. I LOVE these books – I bought the rest of the series (what has been published so far, that is) before I made it halfway through the first book. I’ll be reading the second book over the Christmas holiday next week, which will be much better for my blood pressure than doom scrolling Facebook.
I don’t remember the prompts for this one. I think the genre must have been Adventure or something like that. I do remember thinking this ended up a hot mess, and looking back at the feedback I received the judges agreed. It didn’t advance, and it has languished in my files since February 2023. Here it is now, for you to enjoy. (Or not)
The Shy Lady’s Treasure
In the boat’s prow, Jenny Simon leaned into the salt spray. A glance behind revealed the mainland’s shrinking, mangrove lined shore, while ahead Shy Lady Island’s rocky outline grew from the sea. The island’s most famous structure, a historic lighthouse, stood outlined in the sun. The lighthouse had been in operation until the 1920s, when a newer structure was built on the larger island to the south.
She curled her fingers around her heavy packs’ strap and tugged it closer, imagining the slip of paper tucked inside—the permit that gave her permission to explore for the next twenty-four hours. Precious little time, but she planned to find what she’d come for and be gone before it expired. In two days, the land’s title would revert to the state and Shy Lady would be closed to visitors. Now, access to the island was difficult and overnight stays were not allowed. You had to have the right credentials even for a day trip.
One of her fellow passengers—a middle-aged woman wearing a fluorescent yellow life vest stood gripping the rail at the stern. A large canvas backpack rested at her feet. She wore khaki trousers and brown, thick-soled hiking boots. The woman turned and met Jenny’s gaze. Purple shadows like inky fingerprints underlined the woman’s eyes. A gust of wind caused her jacket to flap open, revealing a holstered pistol at her waist.
The boat rose in the water, then slapped in the trough of a large wave. “Sorry!” The captain smiled as he called over the growl of the engine.
Jenny fumbled with her phone. Soon she would have no signal. The last text from the previous night was displayed on the screen.
where r u?
She turned off the phone and returned it to the pack. By the time Claire found the note she’d left, it would be too late to stop her. It would be easier to ask Claire to forgive her once she had the treasure in hand. Selling the copper scroll would solve so many problems for them. They could pay off Claire’s graduate student loans and have money to buy a house. There might even be enough for Jenny to finish her degree. She loved Claire, but her girlfriend had grown up comfortably upper middle class. Jenny couldn’t help but imagine the wealth ancient artifacts might bring. For Claire, it was all about history and knowledge.
At last, they reached the pier. She gathered her things and made to depart. The woman strode past, followed by the other two passengers, a pair of young men. The men carried heavy packs with shovels and picks strapped to the outside.
“I’ll be back this evening at six, before sundown,” the boat’s captain told them. “There’s a storm coming in, so don’t be late.”
She followed the others off the boat and before they left the dock, the woman turned to her and held out her hand. “Hello. I’m Peggy Horton. I was glad to see your name on the roster,” she said. “I knew your father. I was in his antiquities class when he taught at Central Tech.” Her smile faded,, and she pulled Jenny closer. “I’m sorry for your loss. But it’s good to see you following in his footsteps.” The woman cocked her head and her lips curled in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
Jenny nodded and mumbled, “Thanks.” She pushed past the woman without another word. Better that she think her rude than risk further conversation.
“We’ll see you at the midden tomorrow,” Peggy called after her.
“Sure.” Let them wait for her to show up. She had better things in mind than digging through an archaeological garbage dump. That was the sort of thing Claire would love, and any other time, so would she, even if she always had to go as an unpaid volunteer. Despite Shy Island being less than an eight-hour drive from their home, they’d talked about it but never ventured here. Jenny marched toward the lighthouse.
Lit by the sun, the structure towered before her, perched on a rise overlooking the beach. Broken stones from the façade littered the ground below it. From the top of the building, she would have a good view of the area. Also, the delay would allow the others to wander out of sight. She squeezed through the arched opening and into what had been the lightkeeper’s quarters. Cracked masonry covered the walls. Shadows darkened the space, and it smelled of mold and damp. A small room to the side must have held his sleeping space. Jenny peered into that room, noting a square of metal bolted to the wall. The surface, once polished, now spotted with age, had probably been used as a mirror. Bits of a wooden frame enclosed the square. The wood was carved to resemble tree bark wrapped in vines. The frame had rotted away except for two sides.
Jenny slipped past the yellow caution tape to climb the stairs. At the top, she eased past the giant glass lens in the center of the floor to look out the opening. She spotted Peggy and the two men hiking into a stand of trees before the woman split off from the pair. The men must be heading to the dig site, a trash pit dating back to the 1600s, when Spanish pirates had used the island as an outpost. It was in a clearing in the middle of the grove. Over the past ten years, portions of the midden had been excavated.
She knelt on the floor and pulled from her pack a small leather journal. It was wrapped in cloth, then zipped into a plastic bag to guard against moisture. Carefully, she turned the pages to the section she had memorized. Here, in the lightkeeper’s tidy hand, he described finding the relic—a copper scroll. He must have known it was valuable, but he couldn’t read the Spanish words printed on the scroll. Alone on the island for so many years, it must have been a precious possession. He’d hidden it during the Civil War. Almost two hundred years had passed since he’d written those words, but no one after had found the scroll, although many had speculated about its existence.
Turning to the journal’s last words, Jenny read the lightkeeper’s clue to where the scroll had been hidden.
I will rise and face my treasure each morning. Clasped in the embrace of her roots, she will keep it safe until this danger has passed.
Standing, she gripped the binoculars she’d brought and studied the landscape, searching for the highest point on the land. He would have wanted a place far from shore, where the rising tide would never reach. Some place he would see from the lighthouse and reassure himself the scroll was safe. There, at the edge of the horizon, stood an oak tree. It towered over the canopy by at least twenty feet.
It took Jenny an hour to wend her way through brush and over rocky outcroppings to reach the hill that held the oak. Whenever she’d caught her breath and unwind the brambles that clung to her clothes, she swore she heard the echo of footsteps behind her. Now she stared at the ledge thirty feet above. The base of the hill held a dry creek bed. Run-off from heavy rains had carved the soil, leaving a shelf of dirt less than a yard deep and extending out six feet overhead. Halfway down, the side roots poked like fingers from a shallow grave. She trod the creek bed until she found a spot that sloped more gently and would be easier to climb.
At the top, she kneeled beside the tree and brushed at the dirt. She would dig here, on the side opposite the drop-off. If her luck held, she’d find the scroll without having to risk the ground collapsing under her. She began lifting clumps of soil with her folding shovel, scraping off the clay-like dirt into a pile next to the hole. Sweat ran from her brow and she had to pause every few minutes to wipe it away. When the rain began, she was at first grateful for the cool drops. The wind rattled the branches and leaves overhead, and combined with the patter of raindrops, it hid the crunch of footsteps until the woman spoke.
“Who are you?”
Jenny flinched and rose, clutching the short-handled shovel. She faced the woman from the boat, Peggy Horton. She held a dull black pistol, aimed at Jenny.
“What do you want?” Jenny stepped back against the oak.
“You are not Claire Emerson.” The woman lifted the gun. “I saw her at a conference six months ago. Her and her father, Dr. Emerson, right before he died.”
Jenny’s mouth went dry, and she trembled. She didn’t think Peggy would shoot her if she stayed silent, and she didn’t want to speak the truth. Her face flushed with heat, remembering how she’d applied for the permit using Claire’s name and her credentials. They had found the journal boxed with her father’s papers. Based on ship’s logs he’d discovered and antique correspondence between Spanish explorers, Dr. Emerson had proposed that the missing copper scroll describing the location of Ponce de Leon’s fountain of youth had been stashed somewhere on Shy Lady Island. How they had fought over that journal! Jenny wanted to travel immediately to the island and look for the scroll. Claire, too distraught over her father’s death, didn’t want to even discuss it.
Jenny shifted her weight, preparing to swing the shovel and jump behind the oak.
“Stay still!” Peggy lifted the gun until it was pointed at Jenny’s head. Lightning zipped in a jagged white line, followed by a drum beat of thunder. The gun never wavered. Peggy smirked. “I know why you’re here. If you’re pretending to be Dr. Emerson’s daughter, you must be searching for the lost scroll.” She motioned with the pistol. “Go ahead. Keep digging.”
Jenny scraped at the soil until blisters rose on her hands. Cold rain continued to fall. The sky grew darker by the minute and below, water ran through the creek bed. At last, the only place left to dig was the ledge.
“Go ahead. Don’t stop.” Peggy nudged Jenny with her foot.
Carefully, Jenny scooted to the far side of the tree and dug. Rainwater filled each divot she removed. Finally, her shovel clinked against something hard. She brushed at the dirt, but mud kept sliding into the hole.
“What is it?” Peggy stepped beside Jenny.
Another crash of lightning and clap of thunder sounded. Rain pelted Jenny’s skin and the earth beneath her shuddered. She looked up. Peggy held the gun at her side, pointed toward the ground. If Jenny gave her a shove, the woman would tumble off the edge into the stream below.
Before she could act, the earth shifted again. Peggy cried out and waved her arms, trying to grab hold of the oak. Jenny flung herself past the tree to the solid ground behind. With a wail, Peggy fell.
Lying flat, Jenny held onto the oak’s roots and peered over the outcrop. Peggy lay half-submerged in the rushing water. Her eyes were closed. One leg was bent at an odd angle. A line of blood oozed from her scalp. Jenny backed away. If she left her there… but no, she couldn’t do that.
Later, she would remember the next few hours as a series of scenes, like slides in a presentation. The first one showed Jenny pulling Peggy from the creek and securing her high on the opposite bank. She found the men at the midden site. Together, they used the tarp that had been strung over the dig to carry Peggy to the lighthouse. None of them had phone service on the island, so they would have to wait for the boat to return that evening. One man had a first aid kit, and they cleaned Peggy’s wounds and stabilized her broken leg.
From her perch at the top of the lighthouse, Jenny was the first to spy the boat arriving. She hurried to the dock and waved as though she would speed the arrival. As soon as it landed, a familiar figure stepped from the boat. Claire.
Jenny longed to rush forward, into her arms, but she hung back. Her fears were soothed when Claire pulled her into her embrace. “What the hell, Jen. What were you thinking?”
Jenny shook her head. “It was stupid and I’m sorry.”
“Why would you risk this?”
The words spilled out, how she searched for the scroll, how finding it would have changed their lives for the better. “But it’s too late now,” Jenny said. “I didn’t find it.”
The boat captain radioed for a helicopter to take Peggy to the hospital. Shock and pain had turned her skin pale and clammy, but she would survive. After it left, Claire, Jenny, and the men prepared to leave with the boat.
“Where did you think you’d find the scroll?” Claire asked.
Jenny described the words in the journal, and how she’d searched for the tree from the lighthouse. “He would face it every morning and…” Jenny froze. She grabbed Claire’s hand and swung her pack onto her back. “Please wait a few more minutes,” she called to the captain.
Together, Jenny and Claire jogged to the lighthouse. “He must have spent so much time here.” Jenny crossed into the small room and stood before the metal square. “This,” she said, “is what he faced each morning. A mirror. Not a tree, but made to look like a tree.”
“You think it’s behind there?” Claire ran her fingers across the rotted wood frame.
“Only one way to know.” Jenny pulled a pry bar from her pack and bent one section of the metal away from the wall, revealing a flat, faded, muslin covered object. Jenny sucked in a breath. “I don’t want to damage it.”
Claire tugged at a corner of the cloth until a section of a rust-colored tablet appeared. Jenny made to pry the rest free, but Claire grabbed her hand. “No. We should have witnesses and document the find.”
“It’s ours, isn’t it? Finders keepers? The land doesn’t belong to the state until tomorrow.
Claire shook her head. “No. They’ll close the island tomorrow, but the title passed last month. We can’t claim it, Jenny.”
Jenny dropped her hand. “You should be the one to find it, Claire. The discovery belongs to you, even if the money doesn’t.”
“But I’m not here on a permit. I begged the boat captain to let me ride out here and back to find you.”
“You’ve been here with me all along. It’s your name on the permit, not mine.” Jenny strolled outside to ask the captain to hold the boat a little longer, as they had something amazing to share.
Shelves at Recycled Books Denton – photo by the author
If I could travel back in time, I’d tell my childhood self that one day I would have enough disposable income to purchase any book I desired. When I was in elementary school, I loved thumbing through the book fair flyers, circling the books I couldn’t live without. And the day the orders arrived I couldn’t wait to bring them home.
I had a library card, but those books were only visitors to my shelves. The loaned books I had to handle with care so I could return them in the same state as they were when borrowed. I couldn’t read them again and again, until the spines cracked and pages fell from the bindings.
Now I love collecting books. Recently I went with my friend Cathy to Denton, a nearby city with three lovely bookstores on the town square. All within walking distance of each other, providing you stop by your car and unload the heavy purchases before venturing to the next stop. First on our agenda was Recycled Books – a three story treasure house of used books.
Recycled Books Records CD’s in Denton, Texas – photo by the authorThe horror section at Recycled Books – photo by the author
Our second stop was at Denton’s newest bookstore – The Plot Twist. This shop is a cozy stop just off the square. They are a combination book store and bar, so you can unwind with a glass of wine while you browse the books. The Plot Twist is a romance bookstore so I was skeptical about whether I, a horror writer and reader, would find something. But I am also a fan of anything paranormal or witchy so I left with three books. I don’t think I’ve ever left any bookstore without buying a book or two or three or four.
The Plot Twist in Denton, Texas – photo by the author
Around the corner we found Patchouli Joe’s Books and Indulgences. Not only did I find a book or two, but because I signed up for their free newsletter during my birthday month, I received a free bar of their scented soap. (Part of the indulgences for sale in the shop.) I would have subscribed without the soap, but it was a nice reward.
Patchouli Joe’s bookstore in Denton, Texas – photo by the authorBooks at Patchouli Joe’s – photo by the author
No matter the size of the store, I can spend hours searching for the perfect books. It’s not so much the hunt as it is the desire to linger in the safe space. Libraries and book stores serve as doors to different worlds. There, I can travel safely no matter what horrors the outside world contains. I can exchange battling dragons, evading zombies, and conspiring with witches for worrying over whether National Parks, Social Security, and basic human decency will continue to exist.
The books I purchased – photo by the author
I own what some might describe as a book hoard but I have named the ever-growing piles of unread tomes “my library.” Never mind that said library has spilled out of my office, into the living room, onto the floor of my bedroom, and occasionally can be found on the dining room table. The simple solution would be to stop buying books until I’ve read them all, but there is something so comforting about the stacks. The world outside is dangerous, but inside my home I have a fortress of books.
Not the life she imagined but the life made for her
Mannequin in a Wichita Falls antique store – Photo by the author
Andrew and I have recently taken on the task of clearing out his mother’s storage unit. Roby no longer has need or use for the cartons of fine china, boxes of shoes and purses, racks of designer clothing, or bags of vintage dresses. Over the past four years we’ve managed to sell off or donate most of the bulkier items – the dressers and chairs, the dining room table. There’s still a lot left. Enough to fill a small U-Haul. Our goal is to move enough of it out that we can set up a lower priced, smaller unit close to our house and save her the expense of renting the space.
Until then, we’ve turned our living room into a sort of staging area, bringing over car loads of clothing and sorting through it for anything that might be worth selling. We discovered that Roby’s collection of vintage 1970s to 1980s Diane Freis dresses have become popular again. Imagine the sort of outfits worn by the actresses on the set of Dynasty, Designing Women, or Dallas. Think shoulder pads, wild colors, and lots and lots of polyester. To better display these dresses, I ordered a mannequin on Amazon. Andrew named her Molly Mannequin, but I call her Dolly.
Molly Dolly wearing a Diane Freis 100% Silk dress – Photo by the author
Dolly is easy to dress – pop off her head, slip her arms out of their sockets, and drape the dress over her torso. The first set of photos we put up on Ebay featured her smooth, bald head. Andrew suggested she wear a hat, but I didn’t have one that matched the outfits. Except for this one.
Dolly – Photo by the author
The hat, in my opinion, gave her a confused, wistful look. As though she couldn’t believe she had landed here.
Dolly – Photo by the author
In the second box of clothing we discovered an acrylic wig. This was better, it gave Dolly a more life-like appearance. The wig had seen better days. It also looked like it had seen some really bad days. Frizzled strands stuck up across the surface of the artificial hair, giving Dolly an urchin look. It fit, however, with the bohemian vibe of many of the dresses. I remembered a trick recommended to smooth out the fake tresses on dolls and I soaked Dolly’s hairpiece in fabric softener. It worked, but she still didn’t seem happy, despite having smooth locks.
Dolly in a sequined Diane Freis dress – Photo by the author
Something about the racks of frilly clothing and the dressing and undressing of Dolly felt familiar. The clothes were unlike anything I would choose to wear. My wardrobe is made of t-shirts with catchy slogans and sweatpants with elastic waistbands. In another life, however, I could imagine strolling through a garden party or dancing under disco lights. Maybe plotting my revenge on J.R. Ewing or Blake Carrington.
Dolly – Photo by the author
Flipping through the rack, the soft ruffled skirts brushing against my hands – I couldn’t help but smile at some of the whimsical patterns. How fun it would be to dress in one of these. I understood the attraction, the desire to own them all. At last I realized why this felt so familiar. Hadn’t I done the same thing as a young girl?
The cat arrived courtesy of Fedex delivery. This newest addition to our household was meant as a companion for my mother-in-law, Roby. She has dementia, and the robotic cat was designed to bring comfort to folks who would benefit from having a pet but who also no longer have the ability to care for one.
Kitty – Photo by the author
My husband Andrew and I had seen the description and photos of the cat, but nothing came close to preparing me for the unboxing. When I pulled back the last flap of cardboard, it revealed a creature not quite life-like, but also not quite resembling the toy we thought we had ordered. I lifted him from the box and set him on our dining room table. Not exactly the best place for a cat to perch, but this one wouldn’t shed or leave bits of litter scattered across the placemats.
Roby gathered him up, christened him “Kitty” and placed him on the dresser beside her bed.
Kitty – Photo by the author
The term “Uncanny Valley” was coined to describe the eerie feeling we get when something appears too close to human. Kitty in no way resembled a person, but he did share that characteristic of being too close to a living thing. In a dim light, from across the room, he reminded me of Church, the reanimated cat from the Stephen King novel, Pet Sematary. I know Kitty isn’t real, but I wonder if he might attempt to murder me in my sleep some night.
Kitty on his pillow
When Roby brushes his fur or pets his little mechanical head, Kitty unleashes a loud purr that sounds like gravel rolling in a tin can. If you rub him long enough, this noise is followed by his turning over for belly rubs. You can hear the gears grinding as he lifts a paw and rotates. His meow doesn’t sound exactly feline. Instead, the noise Kitty produces resembles the cry of a serial killer trying to lure us with an unsuccessful cat imitation.
Life with someone suffering from dementia has its challenges, but up until several months ago we had dodged one of the most difficult. Roby had never tried to wander from our home. Then, one evening while I was in a book club Zoom meeting, I heard the distinct click of someone unlocking our front door. I glanced out the window beside my desk in time to view my mother-in-law striding from our porch and toward the street. She didn’t seem confused about the journey – she moved like someone with an agenda.
“I’ve got to go,” I told the book club.
Outside, I rushed to get in front of Roby. “Hey, where are you headed?”
She gave me a suspicious squint and replied, “Anyplace but here.”
At that moment I couldn’t have agreed with her more. I imagined the neighbors watching and wondering why we had tossed our elderly parent out the door.
“You need to go back inside. It’s not safe out here.” If I thought a reasonable request would do the trick I was soon proven wrong. Roby tried to dodge around me. I threw up my arms and waved as I swayed back and forth like someone trying to divert a bear attack. This wouldn’t work for long. Although I outweighed her by at least seventy pounds, I couldn’t imagine picking up my five foot two mother-in-law and toting her back inside. Almost certainly there would be kicking and screaming, possibly from both of us. It was still daylight, the better to give everyone a good view of the tussle.
“I’m leaving and I’m not coming back,” she said.
By this time we had made it halfway down the drive. I considered letting her go. I could follow along behind her and pretend we were out for a nice stroll. My husband, her son Andrew, would be home soon. Perhaps he could pick us up if we made it to the interstate. Then I remembered the cat. “If you leave, Kitty will miss you.”
Roby frowned, but she stopped trying to get past me. She seemed to be trying to work out the connection between me, Kitty, and the awful place she had abandoned. We stood there, at an impasse. I decided to try going back inside. Maybe Roby would follow me, to make sure I didn’t bother the cat.
I made it to the front door. Roby didn’t move from her position at the end of the drive. She glanced back and forth between the sidewalk to freedom and the house. More encouragement was needed to lure her back inside. I went to her room and brought out Kitty.
“Here he is.” I held the cat by the scruff of its neck – no easy feat considering the creature was not soft and pliable but was instead polyester fur over a metal frame. Opening the lid to our plastic garbage bin, I said, “If you leave, Kitty goes in the trash!” This was an empty threat. At worst we’d sell him on Ebay. I shook the cat, and Kitty, interpreting this as a petting, began to meow and purr. Before he could twist in an attempt to roll over for belly rubs, I backed into the house. Roby, all thoughts of freedom now vanished, advanced on us like General Sherman marching on Atlanta. I dumped the cat on the dining room table and hid behind my office door until I was sure Roby was safe inside.
While Roby picked up Kitty and consoled him on his near brush with extinction, I locked and deadbolted the front door. My mother-in-law carried the cat back to his perch, and she settled on her bed beside him.
Roby hasn’t tried to leave since that day. Maybe her concern for Kitty keeps her grounded, or maybe she doesn’t remember what stirred her to escape. Thankfully, she forgot my part in the encounter. However, every time I see the cat I feel like I must apologize to him for my rough treatment. I know Kitty’s reactions are not governed by emotion – instead they are limited to his battery power. He isn’t a living animal, but in the dim light of the uncanny valley all it takes to make something real is our belief that it is.
The past has flavor. It tastes like cherry popsicles melting red down your arm on a hot summer day. It might taste like Saturday night at home, watching the movie of the week and eating pepperoni pizza. The kind from a box kit, with tiny circles of spicy pepperoni swirled into the sauce. Sometimes it tastes like love and joy, like Friday night dinner out with your family – tacos and enchiladas and queso and salsa and chips hot from the fryer.
Photo by the author
We drove up to Wichita Falls one Saturday, to explore the downtown and see if we could find something interesting in the antique shops. Along the way we stopped in Muenster at Fischer’s, a small grocery stocked with local products inspired by the town’s German heritage. I bought spaetzle and pickles and chow-chow relish. My mouth watered in anticipation of the tang of vinegar. Then, as we made our way to the cashiers at the front of the store, I spotted a box of Chef Boyardee pepperoni pizza mix. I hadn’t seen this product in the Dallas area in ages. I scooped up the last two boxes. This pizza had been a staple of my childhood and teenage years.
Photo by the author – Downtown Wichita Falls
In Wichita Falls, we trooped through dusty shops and searched for bargains, climbed creaking stairs in hopes of discovering treasure. We had left our drinks in the car, parked two blocks away. As the hot afternoon wore on, I dreamed of a cold glass of iced tea. After wandering through a maze of shelves stocked with foggy glassware, yellowed magazines, and toys with missing parts – Andrew and I decided it was time for an early dinner.
Photo by the author – Miss Kim judges your taste
Photo by the author – the seamstress
I had picked the restaurant based on the Yelp reviews. The place had been in business for decades and had racked up a reassuring 4.5 stars out of 5. Their specialty was something called a “red taco.” I couldn’t wait to try it.
“I don’t know,” Andrew said. “It might be too busy. If there’s a wait we can come back later.”
I agreed, but secretly vowed to suffer the wait. I’d dreamed of that taco the whole time we circled through stacks of broken typewriters and piles of musty books.
Photo by the author
When we arrived at the restaurant, I was thrilled when the smiling cashier told us to sit wherever we wanted. We squeezed into a narrow booth. A waitress popped by to take our order. Andrew decided on enchiladas and asked for queso in place of chili. I had a combination plate – a cheese enchilada and the long anticipated red taco. We added a bowl of queso to start.
When the waitress dropped off our chips and queso, I thought there had been some mistake and we’d been served biscuits instead. Each piece was at least a quarter inch thick and weighed enough to raise a decent welt if I chunked it at someone. The queso sported a suspicious pink tinge, as though the antacid were already blended into the sauce. A pudding-like consistency, it clung to the chips and quivered.
Andrew gave me a stricken look. “I added queso to my enchiladas.”
“Maybe they will mess up the order.”
However, our main meal arrived quickly and was just as we had requested. The famous taco was certainly red. A vivid, siren screaming red that could only come from a lifetime allotment of red dye number 40. The taco shell was thick like the chips, and possibly made from the same tortillas. Where had they come from? I’d never seen anything like that, unless you count the time I attempted to roll out my own corn tortillas at home. The refried beans were lumpy and unseasoned. My cheese enchilada was good, but there wasn’t nearly enough of it to justify the price on the menu.
I pulled up the Yelp app and read through the reviews. Had we stumbled into some alternate universe, one where everyone else thought this tasted fine? Like that Twilight Zone episode where everyone has a pig face except this one girl who believes she’s the ugliest person alive?
This time, I searched for the 1 star opinions. As I read through the ratings, one theme appeared throughout – puzzlement. Then I sorted the positive reviews. Most had one thing in common – memory.
“I’ve been going here since I was a child.”
“I always stop in Wichita Falls for a red taco.”
All around us there were smiling people dining on the chips, dipping into the queso. It must be tradition. So many restaurants closed during Covid. I can count on one hand the stores that are still open that also existed when I was young. How reassuring it must be to have one constant in your life, one place you can go and say you’ve been there for years? The food must taste better when flavored by memory.
Unlike my friend here, I don’t have an excuse for not writing more.
The past year has been a series of “if only” – If only I didn’t have to work full time, if only I had more time, if only I had a dedicated writing space, and on and on and on.
It’s the end of the year and I’m still working a full time job. We have bills to pay, just like most people I know. Whenever I begin to feel sorry for myself and wish for more time, I remember reading about Ray Bradbury toiling away each night, writing short stories after he worked to support his family. He wrote Fahrenheit 451 on a rented typewriter, in the basement of the UCLA library. I have a laptop I could take anywhere to write – including my office in the house we bought this year.
I’m grateful to the group of writing friends I’ve made. I wouldn’t have completed the works I have done this year if it hadn’t been for their support and encouragement.
With 2022 upon us, I’m wishing for a more productive year for everyone. In the meantime, here’s a link below to an older short story of mine that I think turned out well.
I turned 60 this year, and for the first time in my life I’ve realized I have far fewer days ahead of me than behind. It’s a startling revelation, one that leads me to portion out my days like a miser hoarding gold. A very small stack of gold. One that I should have appreciated much sooner.
There is no good time to live through a pandemic. I wonder if I would have felt the theft of days as acutely if Covid had happened when I was 50, 40, 30. Be thankful, I tell myself, you don’t have small children at home. I’m fortunate that I have a job that can be done remotely. The only health damage my husband and I have sustained is the extra pounds that have crept up on us. I’m not replacing the batteries on our digital scale. When it dies we’ll stop monitoring our gains. That, at least, will have a finite ending.
We decided to forego any gathering of friends and family for Thanksgiving and instead reserved admission to Dinosaur Valley State Park in Glen Rose, Texas. It seemed safer to spend the time outdoors, passing strangers on trails.
Outside, with the clean scent of juniper and cedar surrounding us, it was simple to tie my shortness of breath to the steepness of our hike, and not to the irrational fear of illness. Worry dissolved with each step over tangled roots, each rustle of leaves blanketing the trails.
We stopped at an overlook to admire how high we’d climbed and I ate an orange, impossibly sweet, from my pack.
I snapped a picture at a spot I’d stopped at a few years back, intending to look up that photo and compare it to the present, but I decided I’d rather keep the current image in my mind without regret for the changes brought by time.
The trek downhill was harder, perhaps because it marked the winding down of the day. My knees complained and my ankles, not to be outdone, insisted on wobbling with each step. Someone had installed a small wooden step at a particularly steep portion of the trail. As I tested the sturdiness of the steps I clutched the trunk of a cedar tree leaning over the path. The usually shaggy bark was worn smooth, polished by the thousands of hands that had gone this way before me.
At the end of the trail, as at the beginning, we had to cross the slow-moving Paluxy River. Andrew hopped across the stones laid in rows in the shallow water while I, not trusting my balance, decided to take off my boots and go barefoot through the crossing.
I tested each step, carefully navigating over slick, moss-covered stones worn smooth. Cold water up to my knees, I felt both a child-like joy and the very adult fear of falling. If I made it back to dry land safely, I decided I would devote time each day to the yoga tree-pose.
I find gratitude in nature, for the ability to set out on larger journeys with small steps. I forgive myself for the ennui that has gripped me this past year and I realize that instead of wasting time I’ve been healing. So that when this pandemic is over I can go out and face the world like the bad-ass, mature woman that I am.
“There are always flowers for those who want to see them.” Henri Matisse
On a sunny Sunday afternoon Andrew and I drove to Ladonia, Texas to look for fossils. They’d been waiting for discovery some eighty million years, so we were in no particular hurry to arrive. Small towns with quaint names peppered the map along the path we traveled – White Shed, Honey Grove, Allens Chapel, Pecan Gap, Wolfe City, Birthright, Ben Franklin, and Flat Prairie. I ignored the blacktop road beneath our tires and focused on the fields flashing past. I imagined we were retracing the route of an Old West stagecoach.
The North Sulphur River
We turned off Highway 34 and into the gravel parking lot at the entrance to the park. There were no facilities – no restrooms, no ranger station, and most important – no ticket booth and no admission charge.
To reach the riverbed we clambered down a steep concrete staircase, more suited to goats than late-middle-aged women.
“I can hold your hand,” Andrew offered.
“I’m afraid I’d just pull you down with me, and we’d tumble off together,” I said.
The “Stairs”
Erosion had carried away the bottom portion of the staircase. We were able to sidle along the side of the embankment and reach the riverbed. The buzz of passing cars and trucks sounded beside us, on the bridge spanning the river. Once we reached the bottom the noise filtered away.
The View from the Bottom of the Stairs – North Sulphur River
We brought a garden trowel and a plastic grocery bag to carry away any treasure we unearthed. Visitors are allowed to collect anything they find along the banks or in the riverbed. While Andrew sifted through the loose shale that lined the bank, I strolled along beside the shallow water.
Shale Banks of the North Sulphur River
The clear water carried the boiled-egg stink of sulphur, so I resisted the urge to wade in the river. We found fossilized oyster shells and imprints of pre-historic plants, immortalized in the soft, grey rock. The shale crumbled, like cake too soon from the oven.
“We’ll have to come back, and bring more tools,” Andrew said.
I imagined the trek down those stairs, while weighted with shovels, trowels, buckets and brushes. “Maybe,” I said.
Right before we left, a group of people – three adults and a dizzying clutch of children – stopped to chat. One of the men told us he’d heard the park would soon be closed. “They’re going to open the dam upriver,” he said, “and this place will be underwater.”
Pausing at the top of the staircase, I gazed back the way I’d climbed and imagined, instead of the thin stream of water below, a vast spread of sea.
I hope everyone is safe and snug at home. I’ve given up the search for toilet paper. Instead I hear my mother’s ghost warning me each time I approach the bathroom. Toilet paper must have cost more in the 70s.
“Don’t use so much! Stop spinning that roll!”
Mom grew up in the Great Depression. She told me they used the Sears Roebuck catalog, but not the slick pages. Also they’d save corn cobs after they ate the corn, then stock the outhouse with the dried cobs. She claimed they burned them later, for fuel.
We aren’t quite there yet, my husband Andrew and I are well provisioned with most things, except eggs and bananas. I’ve found a local 7-11 that stocks bananas so all that is left is for me to adopt a chicken and we will be ready for any apocalypse.
So what do you do all day when you shouldn’t go out?
Books
Better World Books – Purchase a used book here to help support worldwide literacy programs.
Thrift Books – Another cool site for used books. Free shipping on orders of $10 or more. They also support a prison literacy program.
Nowhere Bookshop – If you’re a fan of author Jenny Lawson you’ll be excited to shop her store before it officially opens. Order a book online and support a great independent bookseller.
Any independent bookstore in your area. Amazon will survive the pandemic but small, local stores will struggle. These places also employ staff and contribute to your local economy. Consider shopping local online before you send your money to Amazon.
Food
Farmbox – If you’re in the Dallas Fort Worth Area they deliver a selection of local organic produce. I was able to order a good variety of fruits and vegetables. If you’re outside DFW, search for local produce delivery. Chances are they will have a decent selection available and can restock faster because they are buying from area producers. There’s always 7-11 for bananas.
Imperfect Foods – I’ve just started with this service. Their first box had a very limited amount of produce available, but I was able to add yogurt, ground beef, and ground turkey at a reasonable price. Higher than my local grocery store, but I won’t have to go fight infected crowds. If you’re interested in checking them out, here’s a link for $10 off your first box – http://imprfct.us/v/terrye_3
Minimus.biz – They sell tiny travel size products. They’re out of hand sanitizer, but take a look at all the other products. I love ordering the individually packaged salad dressings for when I take my lunch to work. These will come in handy when we are allowed back in the office.
Future Learn – Take a class for free. You can purchase unlimited access or view the courses for free for their duration plus 14 days.
The Great Courses – They have a 14 Day Free Trial. Or check out your public library. Mine offers access to the Great Courses for free, through the Rb Digitial app.
Kanopy – If you run out of things to binge on Netflix, check out Kanopy. If your public library or university is a member (most are) you can stream free movies.
Audible – They’re offering free stories for children for as long as schools are closed.
Drive-in theaters – If you’re not under a stay-at-home order, you can visit an old-fashioned drive-in theater. Many are open now, but they might not be able to offer a snack bar and probably will have limited restrooms open. If you’re willing to travel and stay put in your car, you can bring your own snacks and have an adventure.
Social
Zoom – Hang out with your bookclub, writer’s group, study partners, friends and family for free video conferencing.
Postcrossing – Connect with the world the old-fashioned way, through the mail. Join here for free and they’ll give you addresses around the world. Send a postcard and you’ll be added to the list to receive one. Don’t have postcards at home? Make your own. Use up those fancy notecards, index cards, or stacks of Christmas cards you never used. Make sure anything you send meets the postal regulations for size. Order stamps here without leaving your house – USPS.com
Good luck friends in isolation, drop me a comment below and share your favorite way to spend time during the pandemic.
Let's Get Out of Here 