June Bliss...Cue Weeping and Pachelbel's Canon

 "April Showers bring May Flowers" as the saying goes.  Then the month of June thunders its entrance in a torrential downpour.  Figuratively, of course.  No other month has the potential to create the greatest emotional turmoil than June.  It's the month of brides and graduates; it holds pride for accomplishments and hope for the future.  It matters not if I personally know the "vision in white" or the one carrying the diploma.  All it takes is to hear the music and I become a sniveling mess.

When Wagner's Bridal Chorus (Here Comes the Bride) is performed as the bride makes her entrance and all turn to see, the on-switch for the waterworks display clicks.  The featured one could be wearing a beautiful designer dress or one made of duct tape.   It doesn't matter.  It's the music and the symbolic meaning that make tears well in my eyes every time I hear it played (and those tears usually spill down my face uncontrollably).

It's the same when I attend graduations.  Who knew Pomp and Circumstance could be so moving?  I'm determined each and every time not to shed a tear.  I'll stand without blinking for as long as my eyes can take it (the zombie/not enough sleep/under the influence look), then the lids close in relief and the dam breaks.  It's probably a good thing everyone is dressed the same as focusing is a bit difficult at that point.

And why is Pachelbel's Canon usually included as part of the wedding music repertoire?  Johann Pachelbel's little ditty creates emotional issues for me.  Perhaps it's because my older daughter is a violinist (or fiddler, depending on your preference) and was classically trained for a dozen years.  She performed Pachelbel's Canon so often over the years that she could play it in her sleep (I probably could too since I heard it just as much, and I don't play a musical instrument).  It is one of those pieces that will always cause me to turn nostalgic simply for the association to my child.  So the probability of tear duct action is great.

In all fairness to the season, the calendar doesn't have to indicate the month of June for a song or event to induce weepy eyed syndrome.  Simply standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. with its historical significance is emotional.  The same can be said about visiting a National Cemetery and viewing the simple uniformity of the landscape.   I have grandparents buried at one, so it may hold a little more significance for me.  Didn't John Denver sing, "I know he'd be a poorer man if he never saw an eagle fly" in one of his songs?  Well, seeing an eagle soaring freely is one of those touching times for me and the eyes get a little misty.  

Hearing the lyrics to Auld Lang Syne (attributed to the Scottish bard Robert Burns) creates an air of wistfulness for some reason, as do the July 4th celebrations when seeing fireworks synchronized to Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture, particularly if performed by the Boston Pops.  (By the way, Boston has to be the most patriotic city to visit for Independence Day, but that's for a future blog post I think.)

So June has its moments of sentimentality, perhaps more than the rest of the year, but the other eleven months are not without the need for a hanky on occasion.  It doesn't mean I'm a blubbering simpleton.  I suppose I just get carried away by the emotion and meaning.  Innocence, new life, hopefulness, pride, patriotism, honor.  These are words that evoke feeling and meaning to life.  They should stir something in most people.  Some of us just feel a little more deeply.

Boxed Life

The following is a flash fiction piece that I wrote a couple of years ago, called Boxed Life. As with all content here, copyright applies (©Veronica Randolph Batterson).

                                 Boxed Life

She turned on the light and allowed her eyes to adjust.  Thirty years.  Nice and neat, stacked compactly in a corner of her basement.  Three decades taking up as much space as the treadmill, an old rocking chair and dog crate, none of which were used anymore.

Are memories like collectibles, packed with bubble wrap and put away in storage?   Were they fragile things to recall when nostalgia demands a person to reminisce after a certain song is played on the radio?  There were some things she wished would never resurface, many too painful for her heart to recall.  Other recollections provided a sense of accomplishment only she could understand.

            She opened a box.  A first date, an engagement and a marriage leapt from the contents.  Photos of a large wedding and a honeymoon in Italy were tucked away.  A series of new jobs, vacations and living arrangements, until the perfect house for a family was found, were scattered within the memorabilia.

Pregnancy was not kind to her, with three miscarriages, until she finally gave birth to the perfect son.  There would be no more children, but her life was consumed with her only child, often to the exclusion of her frustrated husband.  Birthdays and holidays followed, year after year and shared with family and friends.  Many times her husband found excuses to be absent.  With each one, his absence was reflected in the photographs, which did not contain his image.

There was kindergarten, a traumatic time in her life. How could she possibly give her five-year-old to a stranger nearly every day for nine months?  She suggested home schooling until her husband put his foot down, stating a child needed to interact with others his own age.  Elementary school followed with play dates and Boy Scouts.  When middle school entered their lives, her husband barely acknowledged her presence, and her son suddenly changed from the angel she knew him to be to a stranger she tried desperately to get to know.

Attitude and anger nearly drove her out of her mind when high school made its presence known.  Disposition improved but other issues loomed.  Driver’s education classes and a learner’s permit tested her patience sorely.  Her husband always fought with their son when he had to be the designated passenger, so it fell on her shoulders to be the driving instructor.  School concerts, parent-teacher meetings, basketball games, homecoming, summer jobs and dating packed into four years of her teenager’s life.  Suddenly graduation loomed and her own life stared back at her, laying bare emptiness and few possibilities. 

On the day they took their son to college, it felt as if her heart were being ripped from her chest. She walked blindly through his dorm room, helping him unpack, keeping busy to prevent the tears from flowing.  She remembered conversation was light but strained.  No one wished to discuss how she was feeling.  When it was time to say goodbye, she promised to call her son after they made the four hour drive home.  He promised to call and text message whenever he could.  Her husband said little.

Two hours into their drive, her husband said that he wanted a divorce.  She felt nothing but numbness. He had found someone younger, prettier and more successful, someone with a career and independence.  He said she could have the house.

So here she was with that house, in the basement that contained thirty years of her life, boxed nice and neat, as if that had been a reflection of the years she had lived.  She stared, hardly believing where time had fled and fate had taken her.  She was happy once.  Could she ever feel that way again?  Her husband was gone, her child was grown and her house was too quiet.  Suddenly she was no longer needed in the capacity she had known for nearly nineteen years.

Turning off the light, she left the boxes.  They would be there tomorrow, just like her memories.    

©Veronica Randolph Batterson       

         

La Dolce Vita...Living the Good Life

Often I've been asked where and how I come up with story ideas.  It's difficult to answer as there is no set pattern or method to the madness of creative writing.  Life experiences, observations and imagination play together, mixing and blending just enough to produce something you hope others will read and enjoy.

I've always been one to have my "head in the clouds" as some would say.  As a child, I was a dreamer, imagining stories and putting them to paper.  My mind would soar simply from listening to a song on the radio. It was easy to create a storyline from the music I would hear.  I still do that, along with the daydreaming, but observing what goes on around me fuels my writing the best.  Simple, everyday life occurrences can make the most interesting stories.  Sometimes you learn a bit along the way.

On a recent trip to Italy, I was in full observation mode.  Of course the language barrier aided this somewhat (I don't speak Italian), but I learned to get by with the basics.  It helped that I was visiting my younger daughter who was studying in Rome.  I'll give her credit for the assistance.   I found how easy it became to watch and absorb when you couldn't communicate well orally.  Sights were more vibrant, sounds became sharper.  One saw the action and understood without uttering a word.

One day, my daughter and I were enjoying some gelato as we walked down the street (we did that a lot, by the way, gelato and walking and not necessarily together).  A young boy of about ten was skipping along quickly, a cone of multicolored gelato in one hand, when suddenly he tripped.  Now I'm not exaggerating when I say his little form became airborne.  It did.  A couple of one-handed cartwheels followed until momentum slowed enough that he rolled to a stop.  At first, the look on his face reflected shock at what had happened.  Then glancing at the hand holding the gelato cone, his expression changed quickly to something akin to male pride.  He had literally saved the cone.  Not one speck had been lost in that tumble.  And just as quickly, his mother rushed to his side, checking for bumps and bruises.  He glanced at the other hand, realizing he'd hurt it, and burst into tears.  I didn't need an interpreter to explain the conversation between mother and child. There was no need for an explanation of what I'd just witnessed.  That scene was purely simple and innocent and could've occurred (and does occur) anywhere in the world.

Another gelato story (I have a few) came during a very crowded visit to one of the more popular gelaterias.  As I waited for my daughter to receive our order, I stood in a corner, leaning against the wall and watching customers.  One lady in line kept holding up something that looked like a camera phone.  She pointed it in various directions of the room, so I started following the objects of her interest.  It was then I realized she had a small video camera, not a phone.  I saw her focus on the young men filling the orders...it made me wonder why no women were behind the counter.  I probably wouldn't have noticed otherwise.  Then she would record various customers; some waiting, some chatting with friends.  The place was so packed that I seemed to be the only person who noticed what she was doing.  Then she zeroed in on a man eating a gelato cone and he was thoroughly enjoying every minute of it.  He was focused on the pleasure of eating and his face reflected bliss.  At that point, something about it struck me as being very funny.  So I laughed out loud.  It caught the woman's attention and she looked at me and laughed too.  She continued to record the man, laughing with me as she did so.  The gentleman was never aware he was the object of our attention but he took great delight in finishing his gelato with relish.  Again, words weren't needed to share the meaning of something humorous.  I've no idea why she was using a video camera. Perhaps it was for a class she was taking or maybe she had a great sense of humor.  But it was something we've all seen regardless of where we might call home.

When visiting some of the more popular tourist attractions, we often encountered school groups.  All would be led by a teacher or perhaps a parent.  On one occasion, there were kids who appeared to be in middle school following an adult who looked like a caricature of Alan Alda.  He held up a cardboard cut-out of an unknown female whenever he moved.  This was so the kids could find and follow him in the crowds.  They spoke Italian and the boys and girls seemed to enjoy being in the company of their leader.  It then struck me that he was probably a teacher who everyone liked.  The kids were laughing and appeared to be having a good time.  Even though I couldn't understand a word of what they were sharing, I knew they were happy.  I recalled many times over the years, my children taking school trips in the company of their own teachers.

Observations lead to many things.  Knowledge.  Understanding.  Realization.  In my quest to write a story or two, I saw that simple experiences connect us as human beings.  We all worry about our children, laugh at something funny, cry at sorrow and want a good life.  We share compassion and feelings without sharing the words or speaking the same language. 

La Dolce Vita...Living the Good Life.  Interpreted in various ways and also the name of a 1960 film by Federico Fellini.  But universal and straightforward in its meaning.  Living a sweet life.

Things That Go Bump in the Night

For nine years we lived in a haunted house.  An honest to goodness, noise-making, door-opening haunted house.  It was a lovely Cape Cod style home in Michigan that had been built around 1938.  We were only the third family to own it but we coexisted with who knows how many unseen inhabitants.

Personally, I might be a little predisposed to paranormal belief, but my husband had a practical side to those things.  There were always logical explanations to be discovered for the unexplained. Until "The House".  It made a believer of him.

Our interest in the home came from its potential.  It had a full, unfinished attic, which had already been plumbed and framed.  Our intent was to add more bedrooms and a full bath, which we did, but with some interesting discoveries.  Strange things began as soon as we moved in, but when the renovations started, the activity level became pretty lively.

The first thing of significance happened to me shortly after we moved in.  One morning after I'd walked my daughters to school, I was sitting alone in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.  I should explain that the entrance to the attic had a full sized door from the kitchen.  Behind the door were the steps leading upstairs.  We kept the door closed because there was no heat upstairs (we hadn't started renovating at that point).

As I sat quietly at the kitchen table, with my back to the door, I suddenly heard a "click".  Jumping, I turned around and watched as the door slowly swung open. Creaking as it did so (it really did), I stood, about to bolt because I was sure it had to be an intruder.  But a quick glimpse on the other side of the door revealed nothing.  It scared the "blank" out of me (any word inserted here will suffice).

The clicking sound was the noise the bolting mechanism made as the door handle turned. There was no draft upstairs, the windows weren't open (it was too cold), and that door was sturdy.  It didn't open on its own.  There was no logical explanation for what had happened.  Eventually, we removed the door once the renovation was finished, but I always looked at it with trepidation from that point on.

The obvious spooky stuff like the television turning on and off, temperature fluctuations in certain areas and our dog staring at an empty room while wagging her tail, were common occurrences, as were other things. But the sounds were baffling.  They were loud, blatant attempts at what seemed like communication.

The noises started in a downstairs bedroom.  It began as scraping on the floor near a window.  The apparent assumption was that some animal must be creating it.  But we checked in the basement underneath the room and outside the window, all along the foundation of the house.  There was no sign of any unwanted critter to be found.   And the sound never moved anywhere.  It was only in that one location in the bedroom.  This continued until we completed the attic.  Then it stopped as suddenly as it started.

Or I should say the party just moved upstairs.  The strangest noise came from one of the finished bedrooms.  It was the sound of knocking.  We would stand in the middle of that room and the knocking would start at one end and loudly go the other.  It was always on the same wall, as if someone was rapping on the surface of the wall with his/her knuckles. It was frantic in nature and the sound moved quickly, often lasting for several minutes.  Was someone communicating with us?  Perhaps they didn't like the walls or felt trapped.  It was strange and one of those unexplainable occurrences that continued until we moved out of the home.

The most frightening occurrence happened after we'd decided to move. I was packing boxes in the bedroom where the original sounds started, and without warning, the light fixture that was attached to the ceiling fell to the floor.  Shattered glass was everywhere.  I was lucky.  Had I been about a foot closer to the center of the room, the fixture would've hit me over the head.  It was the only time I had really felt threatened by our experiences. Needless to say, we were happy to move.

We had been told by a neighbor that the original owner of the home was a widow who suffered a serious fall in the house.  The accident ultimately contributed to her death, but she passed away in the hospital.  If you believe in those things, one might wonder if she was the instigator of the mischief we experienced.  I personally felt a few poltergeists took up residence in our home.

If the popular paranormal show Ghosthunters had been around back then, we would've gladly turned our house over for an investigation.  Instead, we're left to speculate as to the "who" and "why" regarding our experiences and believing with certainty there were no logical explanations.

"I want to be a horse when I grow up" and "You mean I have to eat vegetables to be a vegetarian?"

Kids say the darnedest things.  Bill Cosby showed us with his comedy series of the same name during the 1990s.  Art Linkletter implied as well decades earlier.  Those of us who have raised children know it's true.  My two daughters are no exception.

Looking back, I couldn't pick which little nugget was the darnedest but two came to mind...one from each child.  So I'm using both for the title of this post.  Both girls get equal time.

My husband and I were never ones to discourage our children.  If they had dreams, we said anything is possible.  The word "can't" was not used in response to those kinds of discussions.  Imagine our surprise one day when our younger daughter, aged 3 or 4, blurted, "I want to be a horse when I grow up".  I should add that the child had an obsession with horses at that time of her life.  She had toy horses of various sizes and colors. They slept with her, ate with her (she'd arrange them around her dinner plate; pretend they were going to dive into her cereal bowl) and she carried them with her wherever we went.  So it shouldn't have been a surprise when she made that little proclamation. But it was.  How to respond to it was tricky.  Those negative words (can't, impossible, never) started swimming through my head as I looked at her innocent face.

Her sister, on the other hand, had different ideas. Two and a half years older, she was precocious and outspoken.  I knew by the look on her face that she wasn't going to put up with such a statement.  She was wisecracking at an early age.  So as her little eyes bored a hole into her younger sister, she loudly announced with hands on hips, "You can't be a horse when you grow up!". 

I then looked at my youngest and I couldn't help myself. "She can be whatever she wants to be," I meekly responded.  The older child gave me that look of, "You're the grown-up. I can't believe you just said that".  And always getting the last word, "It's not possible," came her confident little voice.  

It was quite some time until the horse loving child realized the probability of being a horse wasn't in her biological favor. But until that point we listened patiently as she proclaimed that it was her life's ambition. Her sister wasn't so patient, but got used to and enjoyed rolling her eyes whenever the subject was mentioned.  

A few years passed and the older child went through an identity crisis.  It happens to the best of them.  The mid to late elementary school years introduce a need to belong, which follows them into the "heathen" years (middle school), when all parents wonder who the stranger is that's eating their food.

So it came with great surprise when, after school one day, our oldest professed to being a vegetarian.  Shock is a better word.  You see, the child had an aversion to vegetables.  She was a meat, starch and cheese (especially cheese) kid.  Vegetables on the plate?  No problem.  Depending on the type of veggie, it was scooted, scraped, smashed or isolated like a fort surrounded by a moat.  But not eaten. Never eaten. Once, on discovering she'd ingested a few diced carrots that were mixed in with some rice, the child's gag reflexes went into overdrive.  Drama and vegetables were synonymous to her.

When the new vegetarian entered our household, I learned from her that so-and-so from school was one so she thought she would be too.  The look on the vegetarian's face when told the meaning of being a vegetarian was priceless.  "You mean I have to eat vegetables to be a vegetarian?"  Yes.  It would probably be a good idea to like vegetables too.

No vegetarian in the world converted to eating cheeseburgers as quickly as our daughter did upon that discovery. I've often wondered just what she thought the meaning was.  Perhaps it was artistic sounding to her and just enough to make her feel different but accepted in a "cool" way.

Kids.  They say the darnedest things. 

Joining the World of Ebooks

The title of this post might be misleading. I personally haven't purchased a Kindle or Nook...yet. But my second book, Funny Pages, is now available as an electronic download. So, in that respect I have joined the electronic age.

For only $3.96, readers can download the story as an ebook on Amazon and BarnesandNoble.  I'm told  it will eventually be available to ipad users as well through Apple.  So, Kindle users, here is the link: Funny Pages - Kindle Edition - Amazon and for Nook owners: Funny Pages - Nook - BarnesandNoble. Or, you can just check out the links to the right. If you don't like clicking on links (I don't either), then search Amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com for my books. You'll find them...I promise. Also, if you enjoy the book, please leave a review. Authors always appreciate them.

Billy's First Dance isn't available as an ebook...but why not just enjoy an old fashioned paperback? That's what we all used "back in the day", along with manual typewriters, rotary telephones and snail mail. Modern technology is wonderful, but I still love holding a book while I read it.

I might be convinced, however, that it wouldn't be too bad to own one of those e-readers...someday.

You'll Just Know

About four years ago we faced a decision that any pet owner dreads. Our family dog was ill and it was "just a matter of time".  No one really explains what that phrase means. You know the outcome...one day you'll no longer have that sweet family member by your side.  But it's how you get to that time and what it involves that have no instruction manual for guidance.

When Charlotte, our previous golden retriever, became sick, the veterinarian tried easing our worry and delaying the inevitable with suggestions of changing her diet and trying various "specialty" prescription medications. We became acquainted with the Compounder, a pharmacist who creates specific prescriptions in doses and consistency geared for individual patients. This patient just happened to be a canine.  I lost track of the number of times I drove to the Compounder's office building, located in an industrial area of town, picking up refills and new medications to try.  Often, the meds were as "hit or miss" as the food concoctions. They seemed to work for a while but it was never constant.  We tried all of the over the counter food the vet suggested and when that failed, we resorted to cooking bland food for her...chicken, rice, anything to give her sustenance.  She often refused eating from her bowl so hand feeding became the norm.  We were determined to get her to eat, so that didn't really matter to us.

Each visit to the veterinarian was always the same. The latest symptom was documented but there wasn't anything that could be done to stop the progression. At one of our last visits, when explaining how difficult it had become to get her to eat, I broke down in tears saying that I knew she had to be hungry. The doctor looked at me with sad eyes, and I wondered how many times he'd repeated this same scene in his long career.  His response of "As long as she's still drinking water..." gave me hope.

After receiving the terminal diagnosis, the one question we always asked of our veterinarian was, "How will we know when it's time?".  The response never changed. "You'll just know," he'd say.  That answer frustrated us.  How could we possibly know? The struggle became one of keeping our pet with us as long as possible versus preventing her from being in pain. She couldn't tell us she was hurting. And we were selfish. We wanted our dog with us forever.  What if we ended her life too soon?

I'll never forget the day when the time did come. It was the slightest little whimper that spoke volumes. I couldn't remember when she had last eaten and it had been days since she'd taken any water. Mobility was rather non-existent by the time. She had lost so much weight that we were able to pick her up and carry her, very telling since, at her healthiest, she'd weighed around 80 pounds. But her coat was still glorious and she remained beautiful...yet she spoke to me that day. The little cry that I hadn't heard until then and I knew. She told me she was hurting and I couldn't bear it. "You'll just know," the voice said, and I did.

Getting through the following weeks were difficult because everywhere we turned we saw our precious dog. Her toys, dog bed, collars, tags, leashes, dog food and medications were reminders. Those were easily remedied, as the meds and unopened dog food were donated to the local humane society and the rest disposed of.  But the intangibles hurt.  The memories were there.  Her enthusiasm, love and companionship filled our hearts with such joy that her physical absence made us feel empty.

We've since invited a new golden retriever into our home and Lily's capacity for life and love is as great as Charlotte's was.  There are times when "you'll just know" replays in my mind.  Now I'm certain anyone who has ever faced such a decision did know, in some way, when the time came.