No One Snaps Beans with Grandma Anymore -- Nonfiction

Or shells peas or shucks corn or pieces quilts or, for that matter, quilts with Grandma anymore.

This was the title of a piece that showed up on my Facebook feed and now I can't for the life of me locate the article. It doesn't really matter. Whatever point the article made, the title makes the point for me that we need to take time to explore our history.

Not the history that Miss Hall taught us in the eleventh grade. That history was about people so important that they have become legends. People who wrote the Declaration of Independence and spoke the Gettysburg Address and spoke the I Have a Dream speech.

I mean our history. Our stories. And we didn't get them just snapping beans. We got them around the dinner table. Or in the early evening sitting on the front porch. At family picnics when the little kids sat on the ice-cream churn holding the top down while the men cranked and cranked until the ice cream was frozen enough to make churning nearly impossible.

Or in the car when us kids couldn't stand Daddy's Country and Western music and he couldn't stand our Rock and Roll so the radio just rode along silently while someone said "Do you remember the time..." Or someone else pointed out the place where Great Grandpa and Great Grandma first settled when they came to Oklahoma -- the men and big boys came in a covered wagon along with the livestock, the women and little children came on the train.

The story about Grandma's grandpa who was still picking cotton at age 94 and making his grandchildren hop to keep up with him.

The story about a time when Grandpa could ride a horse in the Deep Fork Creek Valley through grass so tall you couldn't see the horse.

And about Granddad carrying planks in the back of a vehicle he called "the duck" to lay across creeks where there was no bridge so he could deliver the mail.

The story about Dad's being sent by steam locomotive from Rhode Island, a place none of us were quite sure where it was, all the way across the United States to the West Coast to be shipped to the South Seas in World War II. And how they had to go north from Denver into Wyoming, then west across the Rockies, because the mountains weren't so tall there and the train could pull the grade.

About the mean rooster that flogged my cousin Chris who was just a little boy. And we had that rooster the next day for Sunday dinner.

About watching Neil Armstrong in that grainy, black and white, TV picture take humanity's first step on the moon. Astronaut Armstrong was definitely the stuff of legend, but the people in the den watching were my story. There were nine people, three generations -- some watching avidly as history was made, a couple oohing and ahhhing over a new baby and a couple more playing with a new puppy. It seemed to me that I, alone, understood the importance of the television event.

Actually, I alone was missing history being made right there in that room with me. Now, the old people who were in that room are long gone. They took with them, the recipe for Big Mama's Fresh Apple Cake, stories of the early days in the uranium ball mills of New Mexico and the oil fields of Oklahoma. Even the baby has grown children and I've lost touch with him and all his stories.

The important thing about snapping beans and shelling peas, is being present to our own histories as they're being told. Indeed, as they're being made.

Where was I when the big world events were making news? When the Cuban Missile Crises made the news? When President Kennedy was murdered? When my friends were being shipped to Vietnam. When the Oklahoma City Bombing happened? When the World Trade Center was attacked?

How did I meet my first husband? What was it like when my son was born? What went wrong with that first marriage? How did I meet the man I happily live with now. What was it like when my daughter was born.

Where have all those people gone? What did they do?

Where are all those people still in what is becoming my history? What are they doing right now, today? What will they do as they make their way in the world?

What are we doing? How will we make our way?

We don't need to snap beans anymore. We can if we want to. Better yet, we can take the time whenever, wherever. To find out what that youngest grandchild's favorite color is? Take a ride with the newest licensed driver in the family. With the radio turned off, of course. Watch the video of the band performance and basketball game on Facebook.

We can scrapbook, read our daughter-in-law's blog, attend a slam poetry competition, listen with enthusiasm to a discussion of soda firing pottery.

The venues may have changed, but we're still busy making our histories. And we can still pay attention.

#atozchallenge

Mildred and the Bank Robbery -- fiction

"I know downsizing is hard, but did you have a good turn-out for your sale?" Carmichael asked as he opened the car door for Mildred.

"A good what?" she asked propping her cane against the console as she got in.

"A good sale? Were you able to sell everything you didn't want to keep?" He spoke more loudly.

"You've got to speak up, Dear. And, yes, I was able to sleep. She settled herself into the car seat and put her handbag on the floor at her feet.

"No, not sleep. Did you sell everything you didn't want to keep?" He closed her door and went around to the driver's side door.

"I'm sorry. I can't hear you over that radio."

He turned the radio off. "Mildred, are you wearing your hearing aids?" he asked pointing at his own ears.

"No. Forgot to get batteries, but I can hear well enough if you will speak up and speak clearly."

He made no further attempt at conversation. "I'll just let you off at the bank and run over to the pharmacy for a minute," Carmichael turned into the parking lot. "Would you like me to get anything for you?"

"That's all right, Dear, you can just let me out in front," Mildred said gathering her purse and cane.

"I'll pick you up some batteries," he said.

"You know, you might pick me up some batteries, if you don't mind. They know what size I use."

Mildred smiled at the tellers as she crossed the lobby. She never could remember that blonde girl's name. Ashley or Amy or something like that. The young black woman's name was Julia.

First thing in the morning when the bank was just opening was the best time of day to come. It was never crowded then. Come around closing time and you'd be lucky if there wasn't a line practically out the door. There were only two other patrons at the windows. She didn't know either of them. She didn't see the Renfro boy at all. He was her favorite teller. His father and her youngest son Jerry played on the same baseball team in high school. He was probably in the back.

She took her purse over to the counter against the wall. She seldom made deposits any more since her Social Security and annuity checks were set up on that direct deposit program. She resisted making the change, but it turned out she was wrong. Direct deposit really was more convenient and she hadn't had any problem with them losing her checks or depositing them in somebody else's account. A pleasant surprise, she must say.

Jerry had offered to fill out her deposit slip for her at home. He was a good boy. A really good help getting everything ready for the sale. But she didn't want to be a bother. Plus she didn't think it was safe to endorse the checks until she was at the bank. After all, anybody could cash them then.

She chose a deposit slip from the documents in cubbies at the back of the counter and rummaged in her purse for that silver and gold ballpoint her granddaughter Chelsea gave her for Christmas last year. She removed the oversized paper clip from the eleven checks and began carefully entering the information onto the correct lines of the deposit slip.

As she concentrated on the work at hand, three men entered the bank behind her. She didn't notice them. They wore black hoodies and distorted masks that looked like that painting by Edvard Munch. She knew his name, but she hadn't the vaguest idea which of the Scandinavian countries he was from. Or maybe he was Austrian.

"Everyone get up against that wall," the men ordered.

There must have been screams, but Mildred didn't notice. She made every effort to endorse each check with her best handwriting which was not as good as it had been when she was in school. She still had the certificate showing she'd won third place in penmanship in the state competition when she was in the fourth grade.

Using the calculator function on her cell phone she added the entries three times, coming up with the same total twice. Close enough, she decided. And kids these days didn't think someone her age could use electronics.

Before leaving, the masked men herded everyone but Mildred into the vault and closed the door. Why the robbers let her continue working at the counter no one would be able to explain.

She looped the handles of her bag over her left arm, gathered the completed deposit slip and the endorsed checks in one hand and her cane in the other, and turned toward the teller windows. The room was empty.

"Amy?" she called quietly. Or maybe it was Ashley. The two customers she didn't know were gone. Julia was gone. She walked toward the back of the bank. "Jared. Jared Renfro?"

Just then Carmichael came through the glass doors into the lobby, his face ashen. "Mildred, are you hurt?"

"Do what? Speak up, man. I can't hear a word you're saying." She looked around the room again. "Where is everyone?"

"The bank's been robbed." Carmichael shouted at her. "I saw them leave."

By then, the police had arrived and the bank employees and other patrons were being freed.

Carmichael helped her to a chair and got her a glass of water. "I got your hearing aid batteries," he said.

 

#atozchallenge

Locavore Reading -- Book Review

Stephen White image from Denver Post

How do you find the next book to read? I've heard it said that some people go to a bookstore and open a likely book, read whatever page they've fallen upon, and decide whether or not to read the rest of the book. Other people read the back cover or the endorsements from famous authors just inside the front cover. I even know people who actually read the reviews in the New York Times.

Me? I listen to interviews on NPR. Or my retired librarian friend Lou brings me the book she's just finished so I can read it and return it to the library before its due date. Sometimes my husband recommends a book he's just finished. Or my daughter, the poet, Grace Wagner assigns a must-read.

When I worked at the Edmond Public Library in Edmond, Oklahoma, I often read books that were being checked out and in a lot. This, dear friends, is not nearly as successful as recommendations from family, friends, and NPR. One rule that I developed while reading those books was that if I didn't like a book, I read one more by the same author before I write them off completely.

I am an indiscriminate reader, but I especially like mysteries -- thrillers, not so much. I value characters over plot. And, in my own work, I take pride in writing dialogue.

Richard in my walking group happened to mention that Stephen White wrote what he thought to be the best dialogue he'd ever read. The scene was a woman in shock trying to tell a police officer that she'd been raped. But he couldn't remember the title of the book. And bye-the-bye, White is a Colorado writer.

I will gladly eat grapes from Chile in January and strawberries from Mexico in February. But I'm an unabashed locavore when it comes to consuming books. I believe in supporting local authors.

White himself was a practicing clinical psychologist in Denver. His book The Last Lie opens with the scene my friend described and its dialogue is very well done. The Last Lie is the 18th of 20 books about Alan Gregory, a clinical psychologist who practices in Boulder. (My husband derisively refers to Boulder as San Francisco East because of its unapologetically left-leaning politics. Not a problem for me.)

I was, however, put off by White's first-person writing style. I have good reasons for preferring third-person. I'm sure I do. The only one I can think of off-hand is that the writer can't show the reader anything the protagonist can't see.

Plus, I'd never followed murder mysteries solved by a clinical psychologist. A Los Angeles cop. A San Francisco lawyer. A Colorado caterer. A little old lady who lived in Cabot Cove. Okay, so why not a psychologist?

Three things hooked me right away.

1.) White's language is a good three steps above most mystery writers. Who but a psychologist would describe a song getting stuck in his head as "one of those songs that could stick to my dendrites like a wad of gum adheres to the sole of my shoe."

2.) And he's a bit snarky. He describes "A waitress--some people wear their Boulder-ness so visibly that it is as obvious as a brightly colored outer garment....She had a touch of glittery makeup on the lids above her pale eyes. Maybe some eyeliner. I pegged her as waiting for the ski resorts to gear up so she could spend her days doing some serious boarding. For an underemployed recent grad, being a ski bum had to be more alluring than slinging Scottish ale and grilled cheese sandwiches."

But the pièce de résistance.

3.)  Lucile's Creole Cafe. On page 59, White's hero has breakfast at Lucile's. Yes, it is a real restaurant! there are now six of them scattered across the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains. You can get red beans and rice, shrimp and grits, and beignets from 7 a.m. to 2 p.m. Maybe not Café du Monde, but I can attest to their beignets being the next best!

The book itself was a little too Agatha Christie for me. In one of the chapters toward the end it tells you what happened, because of course, being first-person White couldn't give us enough information to figure it out by ourselves. So what's to keep a reader from skipping to that chapter and finding out who done it and why?

To give White a fair chance, I went back and read his very first in the series, Privileged Information, which I think is the much better of the two. It's rather interesting, in that it goes into some detail about means and methods of psychotherapy. It also discusses at some length the concept of privileged information. Both food for thought.

Will I read another of his novels? Maybe. But I can guarantee I'll eat at Lucile's again the first chance I get.

 

#atozchallenge

Kendrick Lake Park -- nonfiction

Kendrick Lake is one of the several walks we do. The trail around the lake is one mile. It is generally not too much uphill nor too much downhill. That's important because people who walk with us are at all fitness levels.

Our walking group is very fluid. Anywhere from three to ten walk on any given day. Here are five of our walking group.

Kendrick Lake is especially fun because the people who live along the shore decorate for the holidays and maintain beautiful flower and vegetable gardens.

                      

             Halloween Spider. It moves!                         and the Grinch rises up out of the chimney.

 

Donut Burst

Our walks are not just for physical fitness. They are also for our mental health. So after the fresh air and restoration by virtue of Mother Nature, we meet for coffee and whatever. We have different favorites depending on which place we walk. When we walk Kendrick Lake we either meet at Donut Burst or Taste of Denmark. We share political opinions, book and movie recommendations, find out about travel destinations and new grand babies. And generally solve the world's problems.

Kendrick Lake is five minutes from my home and like most everywhere in Lakewood has a beautiful view of Green Mountain. The lake has been an inspiration for two pieces of short fiction. It has a thick reed bed at the west end -- a perfect place to hide bodies! Did I mention that I write murder mysteries?

 
Kendrick Lake with a shaft of sunlight illuminating
a patch of Green Mountain

#atozchallenge

Jaipur Literature Festival -- Nonfiction

JLF at Boulder

September 15-17, 2017

“When I look back, I am so impressed again with the life-giving power of literature. If I were a young person today, trying to gain a sense of myself in the world, I would do that again by reading, just as I did when I was young.” -- Maya Angelou.

One need not be 'young' and trying to gain a sense of themself in the world. I think we all experience days when our sense of self has abandoned us. We wake up and look at the same day ahead of us that we lived through yesterday and the day before -- the same responsibilities, the same dishes to wash, the same route to work, the same "how are you," and the same "fine," when we're not so sure we're fine at all. 

That's when Maya Angelou is right all over again. Literature, whatever our choice, takes us out of ourself. Helps us see the world from a different perspective, offers us alternatives, requires nothing more from us than we are willing to give. It gives us a soft place to land when we need one.

And there is a whole world of literature out there.

The Jaipur Free Literature Festival, the world's largest free literature festival, began in Jaipur, India in 2006. In 2014 it expanded to London. And this will be its third year in Boulder, Colorado. Mark September 15 through 17 on your calendar and come to Colorado.

The primary venue will be the Boulder Public Library which stands at the foot of the Flat Iron Mountains.

Admission is free, but you do need to preregister. If you'd rather stay in Denver, Boulder is less than an hour away along a scenic drive complete with wildlife.

Food at the festival is reasonably priced and easily available -- not to mention that there's a Lucile's Creole Cafe in Boulder open from 7 a.m. to 2 p.m. (8 a.m. on Saturdays and Sundays.)

My favorite place in the library to meet friends

The library is spacious and beautiful with plenty of venues for the various panels. There is ample opportunity to ask questions following the panel discussions and the presenters, who are from all over the world, are gracious and accessible between sessions.

A major concept that I came away with from one of last year's panels was the difference between immigrants and refugees. The panel was especially focused on the Vietnam War and featured Viet Thanh Nguyen, author of The Sympathizer last year's Pulitzer Prize winner for fiction. And Andrew Lam, a PBS correspondent and Vietnamese refugee.

It was from them that I came to understand that an immigrant to this country, or indeed to whatever country, planned to come here. They did research. They sold whatever they had in their old country and saved their money to invest in their new country. They dreamed of the possibilities. They chose to come.

A refugee, on the other hand, ended up wherever they ended up because they could no longer expect to survive in their old country. They very often were not allowed to bring anything with them, other than what they might sneak out of their old country. There would be little or no preparation, no dreams, just get out as best they could to whatever country would let them in. They truly have to "depend on the kindness of strangers."

Come to the Jaipur Literature Festival in Boulder, touch the world, and let the world touch you through its many and varied literary traditions.

Initials (Only) -- Flash Fiction

image from YouTube

"B. J., you got everything you need?"

"Yes, sir. I think I do." The young man put his duffel bag on the rider's side floor of his old red pickup.

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?"

"Too late to change my mind now. Already signed the papers. It's pretty much up to them." He stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed at his feet. "Long as I pass their tests, they'll let me stay."

"Oh, they'll let you stay all right, but four years. That's a long time." He put his hands in his pockets and looked down at his feet, too.

The two men stood there, the younger one almost a reflection of the older one. In many ways he looked more like his uncle than he did his own father. His father had been gone too long.

"Uncle Arthur, you did twenty years. Made Master Sergeant. Raised two girls."

"I did. Worked well for your Aunt Dora and me." He followed his brother's son to the driver's side of the truck.

B. J. climbed in, closed the door, and rolled down the window.

Arthur pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and withdrew a crisp $100 bill.

"Nah, I got enough money to get there."

"I know you do." The uncle chuckled. "I know you do. You put this in the back of your bill fold and don't take it out except for an emergency."

B. J. pulled his seat belt across his chest.

The uncle rested a weathered hand on the open window, the money held loosely between his second and middle finger. "Let me give you some advice. Basic is rough. Your Drill Instructor will be the toughest, meanest man you'll ever meet, but he'll teach you everything you need to know."

B. J. tucked the $100 bill in his chest pocket and laughed. "Or maybe a woman."

"Well if it's a woman, she'll be even tougher. Whoever it is, don't draw attention to yourself. Don't do anything that might show you know something they don't. I guarantee they'll pick some poor slob to be the butt for the whole ten weeks. And you don't want to be him."

He drove seven hours to Fort Leonard Wood. Under the supervision of two Drill Instructors, one of whom was a woman, he waited nearly three hours for the rest of his group to arrive.

Wearing clean dockers and a buttoned shirt, B. J. observed his fellow recruits. One shaggy looking slacker lounged against a pole, his baggy shorts hanging from skinny hips under a dirty tank top. He looked like he'd partied all night long. B. J. thought he'd i.d.'d his group's butt.

Finally the woman Drill Instructor ordered, "Platoon, fall in. Four rows of ten."

The shaggy one finally found his place and the Drill Instructor took a clip board from her fellow D.I.

"Andrews, Carl David," she shouted and someone answered.

"Burkhardt, Donald Eugene."

"Don," came the answer.

She lowered the clipboard and searched the ranks.

A burly blond guy from the middle of the pack raised his hand. "I go by Don," he said.

"Well, excuse me all to hell. Did your mother name you Donald? Or did she not?"

He lowered his hand, "Donald."

"Donald what?" She glared at him.

"Donald Eugene," he barely whispered.

"Donald, Drill Sergeant." Turning on the rest of the platoon, she graciously explained, "the correct answer is always what I say followed by Drill Sergeant.

A few more names down the list she called "Bonly Jonly Christ."

No one answered.

Twice more she called "Bonly Jonly Christ."

Still no one answered.

Finally she stepped to the side and conferred with the other Drill Instructor.

She resumed her position center front and growled, "B. only J. only Christ."

B. J. swallowed hard. "Yes, ma'am. I'm here."

"Well, by Christ, I'm glad we got that straightened out. What do the B and the J stand for?"

"Nothing, ma'am. It's just the initials. And my last name rhymes with 'mist,' ma'am."

"Copy that Bonly Jonly. And don't call me ma'am. I work for a living. Drop and give me twenty-five. NOW."

B. J. had no doubt who the butt was.

#atozchallenge

Hiking Green Mountain -- Nonfiction

Green Mountain under cover of snow

Green Mountain is the focal point of William F. Hayden Park. At more than 2,400 acres, it is the second largest of Lakewood's more than 200 city parks. 

Its altitude of 6,854 feet above sea level makes it one of the smaller of the Foothills of the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains. But because it is rounded and treeless, Green Mountain is easily identifiable. And since I live in a neighborhood 1.8 miles and 1,100 feet down hill to its southeast, I can tell which way is home from almost anywhere in the Denver area.

the view from my neighborhood

from my backyard

When we first moved here from Oklahoma, hiking was not even in my vocabulary. My knees were bad. I had no experience with a climate that is conducive to outdoor activities twelve months out of the year. Nor any acquaintance with a culture that not only encourages walking and hiking but a city that maintains 180 miles of trails for walking, hiking, biking, and horseback riding. My attitude had always been, if you can't get there in a car, why would you go?

My husband lived on the north shoulder of Green Mountain two years before my Dad and I joined him here in Lakewood in December of 2012. At that time Scott was a runner and ran Green Mountain to train for marathons. 

Lakewood also has four recreation centers that provide all kinds of fitness classes and our health insurance paid a little more than half the monthly fee, so I thought "Why not?" Besides, my husband was getting to see grand vistas and abundant wildlife and I wasn't physically able to go, too. I hate to be left out of anything.

My first goal was to reach the summit of Green Mountain. Exercise classes four days a week strengthened my legs enough that I could compensate for the bad knees. I walked our neighborhood including our own open space Hutchinson Park which has its share of walking and biking paths. But I could see that radio tower on top of Green Mountain. That was where I wanted to go.

Finally I started hiking Green Mountain. Scott would hike with me first on this trail, then on that, then on another. Always we would go just as far as I was able. We'd see wildlife.

          five of a herd of eight Mule Deer                                     a Meadowlark 

And, sometimes hear wildlife -- like rattlesnakes. I never saw one, but I took their ominous sound seriously and moved away from the area.

The City of Denver
Looking east from the base of the radio tower.

Views from the top of Green Mountain

I always thought the radio tower was at the summit.
Here it is about a quarter of a mile to the east of the summit.

That sliver of a snow-capped mountain is Pike's Peak
about 70 miles to the south.

Saint Mary's Glacier 34 miles west.

 

Here I am at the summit of Green Mountain
April 21, 2013.

The old knees finally won the battle and I haven't been on Green Mountain in two years. But I had the right knee replaced December 29 and all went well, so we did the left one March 29. There's no reason not to expect a full recovery and hiking Green Mountain is now on the agenda for this summer.

#atozchallenge