Zamboni

I bet I’m going to be the only person in the a-z challenge who’s ‘Z’ is for Zamboni.

I thought it was fitting to end the a-z blogging challenge with an a-z story.

The following was my effort in response to a creative writing prompt, to write a 26 sentence story that uses every letter of the alphabet, in order, to begin each sentence.

The timing couldn’t be better, as my story is about hockey and the NHL season is in playoff.

The Hockey Game

            A fight was about to erupt, apparent in the raised voices of the two men sitting at the bar. Blue collar workers, they were enjoying a beer after work, watching the hockey game on the TV over the bar.

            Closeups of the action, in slow motion replay, showed the smooth glide of the puck across the line and into the net. Davis's glove was a split second too late to stop it and prevent the goal. Even, the score was now even, tied two all.

            For the two men at the bar, the trash talk was becoming more boisterous.

            “Goalie was blind to have missed that shot,” said the Leafs fan of the Sabres goalie.

            “How was he supposed to see it with all those guys crowding him in the crease?” returned the Sabres fan.

            “In the crease, in a pig's eye.”

            “Jackass, you don't know shit.”

            “Keep it up, just keep it up and you'll be lapping your beer off the floor.”   

            “Let's keep it down guys,” the bartender warned.

            Mindful of the warning the men turned back to watching the game. Nine minutes to go and the score was still tied.

            “Ouch,” the Leaf fan said, "that had to hurt.”

            “Penalty, what do mean penalty?” the Sabres fan yelled.

            “Quiet down,” the bartender warned again.

            “Referee's got blinders on.” yelled the fan as his team took the penalty.

            “Score's tied, a man advantage, yes, yes, yes,” the Leaf fan gloated.

            “Three minutes left in regulation time,” the announcer said as the action got tense. Up the ice the three Leaf forwards flew, striving for that winning goal. Vinchesky took a shot from the corner and the crowd was in its feet.

            “Where did it go, did it go in?”

            “X marks the spot,” the Leaf fan said triumphantly as he celebrated the win.

            “You lucky bastard, that cheap penalty won you that game.”

            Zero time on the clock, the final horn blew, and the game was over.

By the Yard

Years ago I wrote a children’s story called ‘The Patchwork Pony’. It was about a little girl, with a favourite stuffed pony that she carried with her everywhere. The pony became torn and worn and she went to the grandmother to have it fixed.

Grandma mended it by sewing on patches, made from leftover fabric, to cover the rips and tears. Each piece of fabric was a remnant of something the grandmother had lovingly made for her family. As she added the patches to the toy, the grandmother told the child the significance of each piece.

I was reminded of that story when I pulled my fabric stash from the bins stored under the bed, and from the boxes in the closet. There were the leftover bits from dresses I’d made for my granddaughters, from the Roman blind for my daughter’s living room, the drapes for my grandson’s bedroom.

And I found fabric, cut into strips and ready to sew, for the quilt I was going to make for my son in 1985. We moved from that house before I started piecing that quilt, and because moving was not the only major change in our lives that year, I never went back to it.

It seems I frequently bought fabric for some kind of home project, and moved before that project ever got started. There’s a lovely floral print I know I bought at ‘Covers’ in Toronto. Since I moved from that city in 1999, I’ve held on to that fabric for awhile.

I think, while I’ve been sorting through my stash, that I’ve discovered rules to live by, to control my yardage collecting.

1. I will not buy fabric just because I like the colour, print, texture or sale price.
2. I will only buy fabric for a specific project which I’m to start immediately after purchase.
3. I will not buy fabric in anticipation of a new project.
4. If rule number three is broken, I will not start said second project until the first is complete.
5. I will not save scraps and remnants for some day, might use, just in case projects.

I have made many things from my very extensive stash. Last year I made seven quilted door stops from a pattern I found on line. I gave them as Christmas gifts, and made the majority of them from material I had on hand.

I also made flannel pillowcases for three of my grandchildren, complete with their names appliquéd on the edge. The flannel was supposed to be for sleep pants, but the kids grew faster than I sewed and I didn’t have enough fabric.

Oh, and don’t forget the bed caddies. I made one for each of the grandkids, complete with flashlight. And made five more for a friend’s nieces and nephews.

In March I went through my stash, matching prints and solids, and started to make tote bags for the kids. It was going well until the end of the month when I set it all aside to start my blog and took on the a-z challenge.

You’d think with all these projects I’d have depleted my hoard of yard goods. But, alas, no, far from it.

I need to add another rule to my list.

6. I will not accept donations to my fabric stash from people who are trying to reduce their own. They are enablers with a friendly smile.

I’ve seen pictures of those sewing rooms on line, the ones with the fabric all neatly and uniformly folded, and colour co-ordinated. That would be so nice. It never fails that I’ll get into a project, and too late, find the remnant that would have been just perfect.

Or, I realize the remnant I recently tossed, after hoarding it for years, was the missing print I needed.

It’s all Fabricland’s fault. They have these sales, buy one, and get two free. How can I say no? That’s probably why the remnants in my stash can be measured in yards rather than inches.

I was sewing this morning, a thank you gift for a friend. The tote bags will have to wait until May; I should have lots of time then.  

   

Except, I have the newsletter from 'Sewing It Up…15 Stash Busting Designs' on my favourites list. No, I will not look. I’ll be strong, and wait until my current project is done.

Well, maybe just a peek.

Xploring the Internet

‘Techno peasants’.

Years ago, that was what a co-worker called herself and those of us who had not embraced the new technology. I like that phrase better than being called a ‘computer illiterate’, a term I read recently.

As computer skills were not one of my job requirements, I sat back and did the ‘old dog, new tricks’ thing and only bought a computer when my daughter entered college.

Moving onward, I did develop some minor skills, and I do mean minor. When I got more serious with my writing I learned how to set things up, you know; headers, paragraphs and page numbers. Like I said; minor skills.

I fumbled my way along, learning things by chance, or by trial and error. I communicated by E-mail, played games and did very vague searches on the internet. For the first few years my system was ‘hunt and peck’ as were my typing skills.

When I decided to try my hand at a novel I followed the ‘write what you know’ school of thought. My story was based in a small tourist town, and with a real place in mind, I did my research by visiting that place, taking photos for future reference.

By the second book I’d discovered how easy it was to do research on the internet. I got better at sorting through the listings to get the information I wanted as I needed to get my facts straight, especially for scientific, cultural or historical data.

It’s the little details that give writing a ring of authenticity. I wanted my stories to be accurate; and my made-up world believable. I quickly learned what sites were most reliable for information, but found other sites that gave me personal feelings, thoughts and opinions that helped shape my characters.

One such character is a World War II veteran. I’ve watched enough war movies, read enough books that I had a good idea of what I wanted his war experience to be. Research gave me the dates, the details, the data, but I learned more about my character through some of the more personal sites.

I read letters and first hand accounts, written by soldiers. And I read a list of requests by family members, looking for information about what their fathers went through in the war.

My NaNoWriMo novel was about a woman, recently widowed. I found articles written by psychologists, but it was the blogs that really let me know what these women were going through.

Writing may be a solitary activity, but, as I’ve recently discovered, if you want people to read what you’ve written, you can’t just click ‘save as’ and move on to the next story. Having a number of novels on the computer may not take up as much space as the paintings I have stored in the closet, but they are still there, occupying space in my mind.

I had to venture out of my comfort zone and that has shown my terrible lack of knowledge about computers and the world wide web. It didn’t help that I was using outdated equipment.

I’ve updated to a laptop and, with the help of my daughter, actually self published one of my books. I’ve been told there’s a formatting glitch on one page that I need to go back and fix, I just need to get my daughter back to make sure I don’t accidentally delete every third page or change the language or whatever. You get the idea.

I’m learning, or trying to learn, and this blog is part of my learning curve.

I’m a reasonably intelligent woman, but I do have a chronic illness that has left me with some cognitive difficulties. It hasn’t hampered my creativity, but has affected my short term memory and my ability to learn new tasks.

I keep copious notes when writing, so I don’t make stupid mistakes like changing a characters name or eye colour. Readers are quick to pick up on mistakes like that. I cut out photos from magazines to reference places in my story, and when in doubt as to some piece of information, I switch to the internet and verify my facts.

It’s so easy to get side tracked while doing research. I can happily browse for hours on end and it’s so nice to come upon some gem of a site that offers good reading, an interesting craft or recipe or needed how-to advice.

I had to get the book ‘Blogging for Dummies’ to really understand this whole blog thing, now I have to get a similar book for formatting and self publishing.

I’ll get there yet.

Wild Urban Visitors

I much prefer chipmunks over squirrels. Growing up with Disney and his personable Chip and Dale, I’ve found chipmunks more appealing than a squirrel with a smart mouth and a moose for a best friend. But the thing is, the chipmunks don't visit and the squirrels do, so I'm leaning toward squirrels of late.

My living room window looks out over a grassy area on the south side of my apartment building. There is a garden area along the foundation and trees run thick along the lot line some twenty feet away. There are no outside doors from the apartments so I think the squirrels feel they have squatter's rights to this outdoor area. No one goes there except to weed or water the gardens, or to fill the bird feeders. I say bird feeders but it's apparent the squirrels have also taken ownership of the feeders and reluctantly share them with the birds.

The first winter I lived here I put peanuts on the window sill and watched as the squirrels would stuff their mouths with as many peanuts as possible and scurry off to hide them. It became the thing to do, especially when the grandkids were here to visit.

 

When I ran out of peanuts I went to crackers, bread and even cookies. They seemed to like my homemade oatmeal cookies the best. One day I put out crackers with peanut butter.  I thought a peanut's a peanut, so what the heck. I watched my visitor eat the cracker and suddenly...choking, my squirrel's choking.  You could see him gag...ack, ack, ack...most likely with peanut butter stuck on the roof of his mouth.

I guess a peanut is not just a peanut, so no more crackers and peanut butter, probably too high in sodium anyway.

My favourite chair and my computer desk are beside the window and I love to watch the antics of the squirrels and the birds at the feeders. One window feeder is accessible from the window sill and seems to be exclusive to the squirrels. They sit on the sill and stretch to the feeder. The other window feeder is hanging on a shepherd's hook and is the birds' domain. 

The squirrels' feeder ran empty this week and they, greedy souls that they are, moved to the bird’s feeder.  This requires that the squirrels shimmie up the pole, hang by their feet and balance with their front paws on the feeder.  Not an easy thing, but they are persistent.  At the very least their antics knock bird seed to the ground so they can ground feed.

The other day I was sitting in my chair, my cup of tea at hand, engrossed in my book when I heard a noise at the window.  There was my friend; bushy tail and black beady eyes, front paws against the glass, looking in the window...looking right at me. 

I found myself putting down the book and looking back at him saying “OK, OK, just give me a minute.” I live alone and I talk to squirrels. I can think of worse things, I could be talking to myself.  I proceeded to go to the cupboard and gathered a snack for my friend and laid it out on the window sill for his dining pleasure.

                                                         

When I sat back down the thought suddenly struck me. “Who's training who here?” I always thought I was training the squirrels, to come to my window in response to food. But now I'm thinking that the squirrels have trained me, when they come to the window I get them food.

It's like that chicken and the egg thing, which comes first. Did I train the squirrels to come? When they do, I feed them and that's their reward for coming, like some Pavlovian experiment. Or, are they sitting up in their tree thinking they've trained me, to feed them every time they come to the window?  

           

That can't be true, squirrels don't have that kind of thinking, do they? No it's simple, I put the food out and they come, simple action and reaction with a predictable result.  I'm still in control; I'm a superior being with the ability for rational thought. But the squirrel is wild; a wild, urban creature, and, there are a number of them out there in the trees.

So I am going to err on the side of caution and continue to feed them.  I will continue to think it's all my idea, as I'm the one with a measurable intellect and I will continue to keep my lower windows shut, just in case.

Vacuous

One of the problems with having a chronic disease, is the unpredictability of it. I've scheduled my posts a day early and have worked hard to maintain the alphabet schedule.

I apologize, but today was a day where just getting around was an issue, let alone being creative. I hate this brain fog.

Since writing is one of my favourite things, I'm posting the beginning of my book, Death by Drowning, published in E format on Amazon.

Hopefully I'll feel better in time for 'w'.

Death by Drowning

For weeks Allison had been living with this unreal, eerie sense of darkness; leaving for work in the dark and coming home at night in the dark, with the limited hours of daylight shrouded in the grey of a coming or waning storm.  Coming home to a dark and empty apartment had become oppressive.  She felt trapped, unable to escape and with nowhere to escape to.

           

It had been the same forecast for weeks on end, ice and snow, ice and snow.  One storm front after another had moved in and left the area blanketed in accumulated banks of snow with continual storm watch warnings, blizzards with sub zero temperatures and wind chill conditions.  It had been a constant battle of the elements, forcing one to stay off the treacherous roads, to stay home, to stay isolated and alone.

           

For many years water had been her go-to place in times of stress.  She would go to the lake and watch the waves and feel her mind clear and her feelings of stress lessen.  Water in nature, whether a lake with its waves beating upon the shore or a river's steady flow of water eroding a path over time, water was in constant motion.  There was something endless and ongoing about water that was comforting in its infinity. 

           

The frequency and duration of her trips to the lakeside park had been increasing and her only clear thought, over and over, was that life was no longer worth living.  Allison felt so alone, so terribly alone, even though she had been emotionally isolated most of her life.  She decided she no longer wanted to live a life, her life, unloved and lonely.  On this day, another in a seemingly endless number of days, miserable and cold, blurred and grey, she would end her life, in the water, in the lake from which she had always been able to find comfort.  At this time and place, she just didn't care anymore, and with the decision made she felt at peace.

           

It was early March; the ground still covered in the remnants of yet another snow storm and the lake a dull reflection of the colourless sky above.  She decided she would walk out into the icy waters, let the water take her life, and let her spirit float free upon the waves.

           

She parked her car up the road and walked to the beach.  There was a small waterfront park at the mouth of the river, deserted in the winter's cold.  Further along the shore, away from the river, was the parking lot where she had sat, hour after hour, day after day, for what seemed days on end.

           

There was no beach there, just a rocky shoreline that was out of sight and below the level of the parking lot.  The steps leading down to the water's edge would take her to the path that ran parallel to the shore.  The houses situated along the lake were hidden behind trees, a hedge or a fence.  A wall, natural or man-made, meant to maintain their privacy, at the same time would provide her the privacy and isolation that she would need.

           

The wind was particularly harsh and bitter, stealing her breath when she breathed the cold air in.  She watched the movement of the water, the repetition of wave after wave coming to shore and felt a calm come over her, and her anxiety lessened.

           

Seeking shelter from the wind she approached the children's play area with its wooden play structure, a make believe fort, built above the ground where, at the top of the slide, it was fully enclosed on the top and two sides.  Allison climbed the steps and sat, shoulders hunched against the cold, arms wrapped around her knees, seeking a moment's respite from the blast of icy wind coming off the lake.  For that moment it was as if time stood still, and as she looked out over the water, the waves, it was quiet, it was calming.

           

She didn't know how long she sat watching the water, watching the snow as it came down in gentle flakes to be buffeted about by the wind.  She wanted to make sure she was alone, that her presence was unknown, before she followed through on her final decision and took that final action.

           

It seemed to get darker with the snow falling, and she couldn't see the horizon for the world was turning grey all about her.  The only sound she heard was the roar of the waves, unrelenting in their struggle to reach the shore, pounding on the ice amassed from months of waves freezing on the beach fighting that same winter battle.  The incessant pounding seemed to throb inside her, was part of her, echoing the blood pounding through her body.  It was time.

           

Before she could leave the shelter of the fort a car pulled into the parking lot and stopped in the far corner, its silver colour blending into the grey sky, almost obscured by the snow.  Was that driver also seeking comfort by the water?  Maybe she was not as alone as she had thought, maybe there were other lonely souls seeking...seeking something.

           

Allison watched as the driver got out of the car, a young woman, her bright pink parka the only colour in an increasingly colourless world.  Slamming the car door the woman strode over to the fence separating the parking lot from the lake below, turned and perched on the post, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at the man slowly walking along the road and into the parking lot.

           

“How stupid can you be?” he demanded as he approached the car.

           

“What are you going to do?” she yelled back, jabbing her finger at him as she jerked upright, her manner and tone confrontational.

           

“I'll take care of it,” he replied as he walked toward her, reaching out a hand.  The woman slapped the gesture away and raised her hand to slap again, but he caught her wrist before she made contact with his face.  She stepped back, planted her hands on his chest and shoved.  He pulled her close, holding her tight while she continued to struggle, talking quietly to her to calm her down.  When she ceased to fight him, he placed his arm across her shoulders and speaking quietly, guided her to the steps leading to the frozen, rocky shore.

           

Allison watched the couple disappear from view, wondering why they had gone down to the water,

knowing they would be back.

           

She climbed down from the fort and slowly made her way, on frozen feet, along the road, past cars that had not been parked there when she had arrived. The time and place to execute her plan was out of the question now, her 'aloneness', her anonymity...gone, altered by the arrival of strangers.