Hooking the Worm

My father has been in town this week. He arrived alone, without his baggage or other personal belongings, though he brought clothes and his fishing pole. This is a first for him, to stay this long and be this….available. He is not rushed or distracted which makes this visit, this very unexpected visit, alarming. He’s 72. His age coupled with his pursuit of wanting to spend time sinks my stomach. The elephant in the room is smoking a cigarette and saying, “Well, what’d ya expect.”

I can’t be the only one with an older parent. I can’t be the only one who’s hyper-aware of a finite amount of time left. Hyper-aware of the finite amount of time to commit to memory the wrinkles on knuckles, the pock mark on the cheek and hair growing out of the ears.

I did this with my mother. She was a sickly person and I knew, close to a year before she died that she was failing. Out of panic and knowing she was soon to pass, I started to save her voice mails. She left one in particular where she wished me a happy birthday and chuckled in a way that no one will ever match. I have them on my hard drive, a flash drive and in a safety deposit box. I know, it’s a little morbid but hearing her voice has brought me comfort. Hearing her chuckle has lessened my sadness because she chuckled, because she laughed.

Today my father said he was going fishing. This was a pursuit of his since his arrival. He loves to fish from the shore, from a boat, the pier. He announced he was going to the river (yes, that river) and would be there at 3:00. I asked if I could come and he smiled and said, “of course.” Though I had other “pressing” things to do, I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to fish with my dad. He bought the worms and brought the poles. I provided the hooks and weights.

We met at my sister’s house; walking distance to the river. With our gear in hand, we toddled down to a small white dock that jutted out forty feet into the current and we set our plastic water bottles down.  Though I knew how to attach a weight and hook, I feigned ignorance and asked for a tutorial. I needed to hear my dad, his words and direction. I wanted to watch his hands fumble over the nylon fishing line and be in the moment.

The big moment came when the worm had to be hooked. I never liked hooking a worm. It wants to live in the dirt, poop our nutrients and aerate soil. The most benign being on the earth will be sacrificed and tethered to a metal hook and cast out to a murky bottom. Poor fucking thing. I couldn’t do it. Sheepishly I turned to my father and asked for assistance. Actually, I whined and said, “I can’t do it.” His reply, “I’ll do it, give it to me.”

The elephant is still in the room, smoking a cigarette and saying, “Well, what’d ya expect?” And I say, “I expect it all.”

The Waiting River

The strangest sensation wafted over my body the other day. I was driving on a road that I have driven down for years. I know every curve and dip in the cement and where I can accelerate to gain the most speed. If I had to, I might be able to drive it blind.

At the most southern intersection is where the river transects the road. The frigid water of the Boardman River flows under the bridge and pools and bubbles and swells in the springtime or after a hard rain. The Boardman Lake is fed by springs and sits just south of where this river and this road meet. The Boardman spills its contents into the riverbed and drags and pushes particles and leaves and fish over rocks and tree roots. Much like a vein threading its way from the heart to the lungs, the Boardman River joins one lake to another. Its smallest width is less than two feet and widest is fifty yards.

At different times of the year I’ve seen Kayakers, the professional kind, with their brightly colored neoprene wet suits with corporate logos festooned on the sleeves, take their tiny boats and plunge and roll them into the clear water. They mimic life-and-death situations under the close supervision of a neighboring carp. I’ve walked the edge of that river with friends and loved ones. I’ve rented inner tubes and have floated, swam and slid on that river. Yes, slid. The Boardman froze the year I was eight. I grabbed my plastic sled and headed down to the library on Sixth Street. The Boardman’s solid state lay at the bottom of the hill and I as I gained speed I barreled through the protective bank and out onto the ice I went, spinning like a child’s top. The best times and the best fun.

The other day as I drove, the feeling that came over me was being able to feel the river. It was audible as it whispered, “Come, sit at my edge and rest your feet within me. Walk beside me and tell me a story and I will tell you one too. I have been here all along as you have gone on your adventure and have been to other countries. I have been here when you head was not and I will always be here. I have missed you.”

And I have missed it. Time to go for a walk.

Bridget

Word Play

My daughter came up to me yesterday with a mouthful of food. She cupped her right hand under her chin as if she were going to spit something out. Was she choking? Was what she ate too hot? Turns out it was neither. She was laughing and didn’t want the contents of her mouth spilling all over the kitchen floor. Apparently what she had to tell me was so funny, she couldn’t swallow her food. It took her a while to chew and gulp. Listening to her giggle and turn away in an attempt to compose herself started me laughing.

After the final swig, she gasped for air and announced that she is opening up a salon. As a parent we encourage our kids on any adventure. Since she didn’t tell me she was going to open a methamphetamine lab I was all for the idea! The salon wasn’t the funny part. It’s the name of the salon. Again, she started to giggle before she could tell me.

Feeling left out of the joke, I turned away from her and resumed what I was doing (nothing). Apparently this moved helped her calm down enough to blurt out the name. It was funny. I began to laugh too and the both of us repeated the name over and over to the point tears came out of my eyes.

She’s nineteen and her “firsts” have been gone for some time. Her first steps, tooth, boyfriend, etc. However, yesterday, she said her first, very funny, word play. After the tears were wiped away and the laughter gone, I thought maybe, just maybe she’ll be a writer. They grow up so fast, sniff, sniff.

Bridget

Finding The Right Word

The English language is frustrating. For example, when I took anatomy and physiology in college there was a word (or more) to describe every fissure, nodule and curve of the human body. I had stacks of flash cards on my kitchen table to help me memorize all umpteen-thousand words. That was for the parts of the body that were visible or could be identified with a push pin. Physiology….forget it. For some reason we have all these words to describe a medical process or a pathology. We have all the words to describe our physical surroundings in great detail.

However, the English language falls short when it comes to feelings. Of course, there are “emotional” words. For example: joy, longing, agony, desperation and…love. The emotional lexicon is so short and finite; it’s amazing that more attention has not been spent on developing words to better describe our human condition.  I’ve created some words to add to the emotional vocabulary. They are as follows:

Brottle: The mysterious emotional hole in one’s chest when missing a loved one.

Sentence: I have a brottle the size of Jupiter when I think of her.

 

Urnum: An emotional capitulation.

Sentence: I can’t do this anymore, I’m urnum!

 

Vess: Anger that which is motivating.

Sentence: Vess helped me lose weight.

 

What do you think Merriam-Webster?  Next time the words will be a little more hopeful.

 

-        Bridget

Mother

     It’s been two years since my mother passed away. Sometimes, when my sister looks over her shoulder at me and smiles, I see our mother’s smile. I hear her laughter when my brother’s laugh and inevitably, when someone says the word “arse”, I can’t help but think of her. But on no other day does her memory hit me more than St. Patrick’s Day. I’d like to share one of my stories about her.

     At recess I’d swing like a chimp on the monkey bars. I’d shoot out onto the playground with one idea in mind. The high bar on the jungle gym was coveted real estate and I was always determined to stake a claim.  One spring morning, as I swung to and fro, a girl from my class approached me. We never spoke in class and I wasn’t sure why she was talking to me. Our conversation began with saying our names and where we lived.

     She then asked, “Are you Catholic or Christian?” I stopped swinging and looked at her as if she had thrown dog shit my way. I asked her what the difference was between being Catholic than Christian. She didn’t know herself but was very adamant that she was Christian and that being a Christian was better than any other religion. I knew I went to a Catholic church, but was I Christian? I didn’t know. Panic started to seed in my stomach because this uncertainty happened before. When I was five, my siblings thought it was funny to ask me if I was a male or a female. I didn’t have that answer then, which was met with uproars of laughter and jeers. I still remember tugging on my mother’s skirt asking her if I was a female or a male.  

     As I walked home from school I knew my mother would be home. She’d be starting dinner in the kitchen. We went to church every Sunday. I attended catechism classes and was destined to be confirmed one day (which I’m still not, sorry Mom). My mother said the rosary on Easter and Christmas and all the holy days in between. I knew she’d be disappointed. All my Sunday mornings of sacrifice, confession and spiritual schooling would all be for not because I could answer this girl’s question.

     As predicted, she was in the kitchen. She was washing dishes in the sink when I placed my elbows on the counter and stared at her. She looked at me and asked, “What?” I recounted the playground conversation and confessed my ignorance. She reported that I was Catholic, but Catholics are Christians too. I was more confused than ever. How could I be both? When I posed this question she looked at me with frustration, just like when I asked about being male or female. Then and a smile crept across her mouth and this was her response:

     “If anyone asks you what you are, tell ‘em you’re Irish.” And she laughed her laugh and I did too. I liked that answer much better. Miss you Mom.

Bridget M. Callaghan

Honor Thy Writer

It’s not a secret that I love the Oscars. I love all of it, the speeches and celebrities and even the catty remarks from fashion paparazzi. Something re-struck me while watching the Oscars on Sunday night. The nominations for best-adapted screenplay were being shown. One could see the film nominations with the actor portraying their character and shown beneath the actor was the typed dialogue from the screenplay (or direction; nods to The Artist). Even as a writer I forget! The actors do not come up with the dialogue or direction…it’s the writers! Too easily I forget that Charlton Heston did not come up with, “Get your stinking paws off me you damn dirty ape!” Nor did Carrie Fisher just happen to blurt out, “Help me Obi-Wan Kenobie, You’re my only hope.”

It’s not very often we get to see writers celebrated. It’s always the actors who speak the words of the writer who are celebrated. Safe to say I’ve never watched a talk show where a screenwriter is being interviewed about their life and interests and acclaimed for writing that “perfect line”. In many ways, writers are the ultimate man-behind-the curtain. And for me, the curtain was raised again on Sunday evening.

Cheers to all writers, everywhere!

Bridget

A Hundred Words….

Happy Valentine’s Day Rogues!

A hundred words for love:

Attachment, kindness, tenderness, sensual, sacrifice, selfless, joy, sadness, together, food, stable, apart, wanting, ache, calm, hug, selfish, plead, touch, search, happy, heart, chocolate, listen, learn, fluid, complex, hunger, nuzzle, connection, beg, quench, amore, child, open, vulnerable, gentle, eager, risk, flower, unexpected, care, warm, light, laughter, tears, there, mother, playful, parting, volatile, allow, support, dog, sex, cry, motivation, thirst, confusing, kinship, affection, admiration, devotion, beloved, passion, similar, power, whisper, kisses,  thirst, rich, understand, strong, relax, sigh, give, receive, with, grow, change, pulse, long, allow, forgive, surprise, hold, cuddle, honest, pain, voice, defend, betwixt, butterflies, nerve, adore, smile, bind, change, yearn, family.

Only 900 more to go….

Reader, Writer, Orator

Ever notice how themes pop up in your life? I do, and this week it has to do with writing.

I’ve been given the opportunity to watch my niece and nephew for ten days while their mother and father sail the British Virgin Islands. During the first night of homework my nephew asked me to read his writing assignment (loved writing assignments in school). This particular assignment was asking the student to give pros and cons regarding energy drinks. I read the first line and stopped. Before I pointed out my nephew’s mistake, I asked him to read out loud what he had written. His mouth got half way through the first sentence and he realized his mistake. Oh joy!

This past week I had the opportunity to listen to an extraordinary writer read his work at Interlochen Arts Academy. Jack Driscoll, recipient of the Pushcart Press Editor’s Book award, read one of his short stories titled, That Story. His writing and character development is masterful. What’s just as amazing is his ability to read his work. He turns his words into melodic pros, leaving his audience spellbound. And I, I was stunned. This is a talent I have yet to hone.

Encourage yourself to read out loud. Have your kids read out loud. Read to your lover in bed and when given the chance, listen to a writer read their work.

Bridget

Editing, Shop Class and Sandpaper

 

We’re into our final edits for The Method Writers. It’s proving to be an exercise in communication and patience to say the least. Having one writer out of the state has brought another challenging variable to the mix. I’ve always donned myself as the “newbie” when it comes to writing a book. I’ve never done it. Writing the book was the easy part. My eyes have been opened to how much work goes into editing and polishing the final product.

The whole process reminds me of shop class when I had to make a birdfeeder out of scraps of wood. I cut and glued the birdfeeder within the first two weeks of class.  The next eight weeks were spent on sanding and polishing the sucker. At first 40-grit sandpaper was used to saw down the rough edges. I compare this to our story line edits when we were writing The Method Writers. Then 80-grit sandpaper was used to remove small imperfections and marks from the birdfeeder’s surface. We used an 80-grit edit when the book was finished. When I began to stain the birdfeeder I used 240-grit sandpaper or, in other words, a “very fine” sandpaper to remove dust and particles. This is where we’re at right now with our edits; removing the dust and tiny particles that are within the pages of our novel.

When we’re done using the 240-grit edit, we’ll find a “superfine” editor to add luster and remove any tiny blemishes from our novel. And we’ll pay them very well! My birdfeeder found its way to the bottom of my locker. It was eventually brought home and hung from a shepherd’s hook in the back yard. I think this is where the analogy ends as the next challenge, the next adventure will be in marketing and selling The Method Writers. Which reminds me of an economics class……………..

Distracted

 

After much thought I’ve decided that getting out of bed is the single most daunting task of humankind. It goes beyond clipping of toe nails, laundry and paying bills. If there could be a drug manufactured to erase the transition from sleeping to being fully clothed with a cup of extra strength coffee in hand, I will be the first to buy such drug. I’ll buy two years worth, just in case the medication is pulled from the shelf because some egghead found it to cause heart murmurs or scabies or some crap like that. I’ll risk my general health to bypass having to scrap together the will to get out of bed.

I’m not depressed nor am I lazy. I have a worse condition, it’s called being comfy. Believe it or not, this is being written from the Serta Sleeper on the second floor of Brightmoore Street.

Who knows maybe I’ll be able to start a sleep-in – minus Yoko. That way I won’t have to get out of bed. My fellow Rogues will bring me food, right? If not I’ll get sponsors like manufacturers of hot water bottles and memory foam pillows. Can anyone say eight hundred thread count?

Hey, here’s a thought…..let’s have all the Rogues in a sleep-in. That way we can do Oracles every day, I won’t have to get out of bed and sure enough, one of us will answer the door when the pizza guy arrives. Bliss!

Ok, fine…..getting up now.

-  Georgie Mae Perez