This past winter was a day at the beach for a writer. Buried under 100 inches of snow, surrounded by 10 ft. tall drifts, my office became the adult version of a child’s snow fort. Trapped in a blue crystalline world with my imagination and my muses I was hard at work. Sorta, kinda….until the snow melted and the muses abandoned.
Today I saw two articles in my local daily honoring youth who had died of heroin overdoses. One was from a mother who wanted others to know her son was more than an addict, although heroin was the final definition of his 23 years on earth. He also loved baseball, his nephews and Friday night movies. He died on her couch at 3 am on Christmas morning, just 9 days into sobriety.
Last night I was the hostess for the monthly meeting of the writer’s network, a friendly meeting of self-sustaining writers in my area.
After we had gathered and before the formal meeting began we introduced ourselves. I hate this moment in every meeting. I hate to promote myself, but I also know that if I don’t offer a self-promotion, those listening will mentally dismiss me.
Ethel Pink and Bob, two young Blanding’s turtles, are on a fast track. In Massachusetts, Blanding’s turtles are a threatened species, but Ethel Pink and Bob are over-achievers in their underclass.
Last fall, most of their brothers and sisters became snack food for crows, hawks or raccoons. Those few with the luck to survive are now hibernating under a foot of mud. In contrast, Ethel Pink and Bob are vacationing at the local library, lounging in an 80 degree tank, snacking on a Paleo diet, attended to by a covey of librarians and enthusiastic children. They are receiving a “head start” on life.
My friend, Vera, tells me she is not an environmentalist. Not because she debunks climate change or hates polar bears.
Vera would qualify for “environmentalist” if I were the one doing the judging. Vera has been recycling for the past 35 years, long before anyone else was doing it. She is currently building a tiny house on wheels (THOW) using her own designs and labor. Sixty-percent of the interior of her tiny house is repurposed materials, including old drawers that will become stairs. She plans to use her “Silver Bullet” to teach others how to downsize into a tiny “houseprint.”
“Let ME finish making the bed and YOU advise Genevieve if she is having a heart attack,” I bargain with my husband, Joe.
Joe and I have always divided the common labors of a long marriage based on talents, skills and interests. It has been a fair distribution. I feed the cats and he changes the litter. When it comes to medical questions we double-team it.
A bloody mess lay near the median strip. A small body sliced in half by the passage of a car wheel, still wearing the tire imprint like a new t-shirt, the head and the rear of the animal still intact.
I am paying attention because I am looking for my cat. She has been missing for two days. Can this be Dolly?
It was leafy green and lay in my husband’s plate looking like a graduate of vegetable boot camp. He presented it to me on his twisted metal cafeteria fork. “What is this?”
I was surprised. Spinach in a salad carried the mystique of a slice of American cheese at the deli counter or a common nail in the hardware bin.
A week later, just before Passover, his botanical confusion returned. He asked, “By the way, what is the leafy green plant soaking in a glass of water in the refrigerator?”
Brought to you by Long Way Home the Rubbish to Runway annual show brings waste to the runway. See bicycle tubes turn into dresses and plastic bags transcend to Haute Couture. Highlighting the many creative uses of rubbish the show links the Long Way Home project in Guatemala with the Newburyport, MA citizens. As a fundraiser it raises funds and awareness of the many transformative qualities of art and trash.
‘The first requisite of civilization… is that of justice.”
—–Sigmund Freud