Winds

About a decade ago, while cross-country skiing on the Big Field near Lake Whitehall, the wind whipped the snow sand that floated on top of packed bergs. It hit my face and stung. What was the experience of the first humans to come this way, blown on the winds? The Bump/Beach ancestors came on wooden ships landing on the New England coast. Did the first Beach woman to give birth know that I would be in the familial line? What did the wind feel like to her standing on the deck of that ship? The wind blew her in and kicked and swirled the line throughout the land. Standing in the sun I stretched my back and felt the hot desert wind coming from the southeast. The wind is carrying the seeds of desert wildflowers. The wind will bring monsoons in July. The wind will carry my son across continents and seas to his life which will not remain here. The wind is bringing the migrating birds who stop and sing for a moment in time. I have not felt the bitter winds coming down the Mississippi river in January for many years, but my skin still remembers. I often think of the large osprey that glided on the wind over my garden the moment my mother died.
When you stand next to a saguaro cactus the wind moving through brings the sighs and songs of the ancestors to your ears. Their stories are caught on the cactus spines until the wind picks them up again and sends them along. We are dreams and stories in time. We will be sand in the wind in our day. When our ashes soar on the wind we will sing. copyright 2009 vickers

Reading or not

For all the hoopla about major author's blockbusting successes, reading is down, at least in America. It used to take in the hundreds of thousands to millions of books sold to put your book on the best seller lists. Now it can be as little as 75,000 books sold. Literacy or reading? Is it that people cannot read or just choose not to? Some will blame television, video game and computer distractions for the loss of readers in America. Some will say the higher number of non-English speakers is the cause. Schools that require reading of uninspiring books also get the blame. There are those in my circle who think it is the anti-intelligence wave of the past 8 years that is the culprit. Hell, why not blame the Super Bowl?

I feel sad for the non-readers. When I think of the places I had been to by the time I was 10, I am warmed by the memories. I would stack up the maximum number of books one was allowed to take from the library and the ensuing three weeks would be exciting journeys to lands and cultures with people who lived amazing adventures. I would read and be carried away for hours. The smell of a library and books still evokes those memories. What a gift a writer gives. Words that have the power to fill us with feelings, take us to foreign lands or alien solar systems. Words that enable us to understand and feel empathy and tolerance for otherness. Books, stories, written or told or acted can save a life, inspire beauty and art and bring people together. Telling a story is bringing others into your circle of life and giving breath and sustinence to them.

Writing for Comedy

After much thought about what will happen to my reputation for classiness, I have decided to audition for the Great American Trailer Park Musical. Don't have a clue what the director is looking for and as usual with community theater, casting will be totally dependent on the look and age of the men who show up. After spending several hours over two days looking for a one minute female comedic monologue, I have discarded all the Shakespeare and Moliere chuckle moments and decided to write my own. I may have to write a play around it some day. It is meant to be performed in a "country" accent for this audition. I'll let you know how it goes--oh yeah, I have to sing and dance a bit too--singing, easy, dance--hahaha.

Comedic Monologue for Mature Woman
Well my doctor says I have to lose weight…again. I have lost this (pointing to her backside) at least five times in my lifetime, once left it in a commune in Wyoming. I think his name was River or Rapture, or maybe that is what he kept saying as I was losing my butt. Anyway, I found it again, thanks to The View and the Encore Romance channel. At my age romance is more easily found with a big bucket of Kentucky Fried and a double macchiato with extra caramel. Trouble is that I keep finding more of my backside there. You would think I be able to package this up and sell it on the home shopping network. Live at 5, Big Beautiful Butt with stories to tell. I certainly do have an abundance of product. Anyway I have signed up for Pilates…you know pilates—that work out class where they squeeze big balls between their legs. My thighs will soon be stronger than Cher’s, Tina Turner’s and Madonna’s. I think River would approve. copyright 2009 vickers

Dinosaur Views

A quick movement through the window distracts me and when I look up I am staring into one eye of a raptor. Standing framed by cast iron bars of the fence, this 20" apparition is looking at something in the yard, not me. His stare is so strong, I gasp. Roadrunner is a member of the cuckoo family. No resemblance to silly birds of carved wooden house clocks, the roadrunner I see has locked it's eye onto prey. This bird runs across the yard and stops beak to the ground pulling a lizard up into the air. I like lizards. They keep the bug population down and they provide endless entertainment to a certain golden retriever who is convinced she can catch one. I did not like seeing the lizard consumed by a dinosaur. This is a hard place to be a lizard, or a rabbit, or a snake or sometimes even a javelina. Roadrunners, red tailed hawks, great horned owl, coyotes, bobcat, mountain lion and even jaguar are venturing into the desert every day. Driving on a low mountain pass in November, we saw a mountain lion leap across the rode in front of us with a young javelina in it's mouth. The screams of the coyote kill likely means the end of a rabbit. Roadrunners will kill snakes and even go after a baby rabbit. This place is a leap back in time to a Jurassic jungle. It is an illusion that we are safe here. There are reasons that people carry guns here. They are dinosaurs, lions and tigers and bears, oh my. copyright 2009 vickers

Flying Under

Under the weather should be a place of shelter. It implies you have something between you and the weather, a ceiling or shroud protecting you from the elements. Rather the vernacular means that you are ill. Under the weather and ill implies that the weather must be good. The phrase comes from a British sailor who is sick going below ship and thus under the weather. No one I know is a British sailor, nor are they likely to know the source of the saying. But they will say it anyway. We all accept and use phrases and expressions without ever knowing the source and many times without knowing the accepted modern meeting either. I thought the phrase must have come from flying. Sometimes you fly under the weather to avoid turbulence. Associated with flight, under the weather implies you are well and safe, not ill. If you are truly under the weather wouldn't you be right under it as it is raining, hailing, snowing or otherwise beating down on you? Wouldn't that be more like the feeling of being beat down by a cold or the flu when you say you are under the weather? Stand out in an Arizona monsoon and feel under the weather. Walk a mile in a Michigan blizzard and feel under the weather. Are you under the weather or are you actually in the weather? So if you have a cold, where are you? Better to suffer in silence than misplace yourself. You can always say you are out of sorts, but then that begs the question of where is sorts? copyright 2009 vickers

Full Court Press

Watching Goldie soundly sleep/snore after a long desert walk, got to wondering when the face mask turned gray. The first time the vet called her "geriatric" was silently, labeled in large letters on her folder that held the history of her knee surgery, her week in Tufts ICU clinging to life after organophosphate poisoning, her intestinal surgery after eating Mexican Feather Grass, her annual weigh-ins, shots and hiding under the bench in the exam room. I saw her flinch when she read "geriatric". What geriatric she thought? How dare he label me, me the great huntress of bleached javelina skulls, the zig-zag chaser of rabbits and nighthawks. How dare he call me old. Who is old? This guy has a hard time stooping down to the floor to lure me out from under the bench. He groans when he stands up. I can run circles around him. I can catch a Frisbee, a tennis ball and a bird in leap in midair. What can he do? He can only call me names. When the face mask turns gray it can feel like a rush down the hill is coming, a moving through time at light speed, a full course press towards old, really old, can-barely-pull-the-hips-up old. But to Goldie, the full course press is towards the critters invading the yard, the birds who fly low and the torn worn Frisbee gliding through the air. It is a rush to life, always life. It is a leap to movement and breathlessness. She is my guide, my mentor and guru. I am gladly following her full court press onward and up. copyright 2009 vickers

Playing With Wild Dogs

They were howling away again. Goldie is not sure they are howling for her. When she first heard them she ran to the fence, tail wagging and ears perked and sounds frozen in her throat. She now recognizes the howling for what it is, the frantic call to the kill. Her charge to the fence is now territorial and the low growl growing to one long low bark took a full year to mature. She stands staring through the iron bars, her neck hair on glorious end in a mane shaped Mohican. Calls to her go unheard. The howling subsides without moving and ends. She paces along the fence, Mohican still at stand and growls in a mumble releasing pent up energy in small bursts. This is not gentle Whitehall with its ambling toothy, bitey woodchuck. The rabbits are here too, but they are faster and many of them tall as a three year old child. The sounds here pull on all to alert. Without ears up and stillness listening, danger can fly at you unseen. Finally, after this first year passes, one has learned that this random state of high alert charges the body with particles of youth and adrenalin. This stress, rather than dragging it all out of you, fills you with a rush of life that once it settles raises you to a taller plain. The long charcoal stress of traffic, pollution, hated work is what ages and kills vessels. This stress flashes and flames and energizes. People live longer here, the stats say. Do dogs? copyright 2009 vickers

Tasmanian Devils

When was the last time you thought about a Tasmanian Devil? While sipping soup, I am reading the "Vows" column of the New York Times Sunday Style section (a secret vice). I am deep into the shallow story of the romance and marriage of a self-described failed florist, daughter of dysfunctional parents, afflicted with ADD and a divorced, emotionally confused editor of commercials and I come across the quote calling the woman a Tasmanian Devil. At the same moment, my TV in the background teases a story to come about saving real Tasmanian Devils from a terrible mouth disease caught in the wild. Ah ha I think, two references about Tasmanian Devils within a millisecond, this must be an omen of some kind. Forget that the habit of eating while reading with the TV on in the background reeks of a Tasmanian frenzy of multi-tasking. It is only multi-tasking light. None of it takes much concentration. The reading material is always light and shallow. The "Vows" column is great for this. I love this vacuous stuff about people and their muddled romances and messy personal lives. Soup is pretty easy to eat blindfolded and TV filled with 3 minute fluff about nature doesn't require a zoology PhD. But why did I hear the words Tasmanian Devil twice in a millisecond? Did anyone else on the planet have this same experience at this same moment? What is one supposed to do with this obvious Tasmanian Devil alert? Repeat the words Tasmanian Devil over and over again until the meaning is revealed? Perhaps run about wildly in a poor imitation of the real animal? Send money to the Tasmanian Devil rescue group in Australia? Can one ever know what the occassional collision of words within earshot signifies? As random as the flight of a nighthawk, words come together and fall apart. It is just water flowing and ebbing. Music rises and falls in the sound. Tasmanian Devil Tasmanian Devil Tasmanian Devil Tasmanian Devil copyright 2009 vickers

A dogs A-List life

So if dogs could prioritize their desires what would be on the A-List? Food and treats would rank high. Right behind would be walks, ball and Frisbee tosses and assorted affection demonstrated by patting, petting, scratching and stroking. How would this match up to most human A-List's? Probably money would be up there on the human list. Of course food and housing are pretty important, but money will buy those things. The accoutremonts of luxury and prestige can be bought with money also, so to list them would be redundant. Love and affection and all the manifestations of such, like petting, patting, scratching and stroking are quite important to people too. Strictly physically speaking, sex would cover it. But emotional love is more complex, for both people and dogs. Both can misbehave and make emotional love harder to earn. People can misbehave with intentional malice. Dogs can misbehave with intentional directive, but not malice. Digging into the garbage is in order to eat some off-limits food, not to intentionally make a mess to annoy someone. This is why forgiving a dog comes easier to us than forgiving a fellow human.
So what is on Goldie's A-List? Walks, Play, Attention from her family. Food, particular foods rank higher--scrambled eggs, pigs ears, cheese, freshly baked bread. A short and clear list. Items that are easy to provide. It would do us all good to shorten and clarify our A-Lists. Just look to your dog for advice on how.
copyright 2009 vickers

Writers Group

Just came back from my writers group. This bunch has been a place for critique, inspiration and information. I have been away from it for about 4 weeks--travel and visitors. I also have been away from the writing process for several weeks. I need the commitment to meetings to keep me disciplined about writing. I am currently experimenting with an essay while in a lull (not a block) on my book. When the mind is churning with ideas, characters, plot lines, focusing on one project is more difficult. Avoiding writing becomes easier the longer one is away from it. It is kind of like cleaning a closet. You have the image of the organized, categorized space, but the start is to drag it all out and toss it in a jumble on the bed. Halfway through putting things back on hangers and shelves, the task begins to overwhelm. It is a jumbled mess and you don't know what to keep or what to toss and damn you are tired and just want to pour a glass of wine and watch The Daily Show. But you can't, because the mess is on the bed and you will not be able to go to sleep until you do something with it. You are tempted to throw it all into a laundry basket and sometimes you do, but then the mess calls and nags at you from that basket all night long and you sleep fitfully and wake up cranky.
copyright 2009 vickers

First Steps

I am a writer and my senior dog, Goldie, is a sleeper and an occasional chaser of rabbits, quail, nighthawks and tracker of javelina and other desert critters. We both have periodic bursts of energy where we cannot sit down, but must scatter shot run about moving and rearranging the elements of our lives. We are not a solitary couple. My husband John lives here too, but his engineering work has long hours, while my equally long hours of writing keeps me in a home office where Goldenrod, the 9 year old Senior Dog is my office mate and companion.
As any self respecting writer knows, a personal journal and a more public blog are essential to keeping the literate juices flowing. I have the journal, secret and old. I have graduated from email to the golden retriever chat sites and Facebook and creating a blog seems like the natural progression. I don't know if anyone will read this or comment or post to it, but it will be an interesting exercise none the less.
When starting a new endeavor, it seems right to ask what do I want out of this? What are my goals, my mission statement as it were. Not sure and no comment to both. Flowing, free-form, stream of conscience seems to be the best answer. I am hoping this blog will take me places I have not seen before, allow me to change my point of view and from it will emerge Jean the better writer and better human being. I think all that Goldie will be hoping for are more frequent desert walks and better aim from me when throwing the Frisbee. If you have any requests for the direction I may take, please share. I will enjoy your comments. Probably not take your advice, but enjoy your comments anyway.
copyright 2009 vickers