I am at a coffee shoppe filled with beautiful people who are engrossed in their work, engrossed in conversation, and engrossed in their coffee.
I am the one who is engrossed in my work, coffee, and other people's conversations.
Eavesdropping has such negative connotations. Let me reword it to make it sound like a respectable past time.
I am a story teller. This is what I do, and this is how many people know me. I recently wrote a story about a small child and her conversation with her grandmother that I overheard in an airport in Charlotte. Now, "creeping" is not what I do. I study my subjects to be able to tell their story - whether or not they know it.
The ladies next to me were engrossed in their conversation about their loved ones, and I would like to tell you their story.
Marge and Josie haven't seen each other for about three months because Josie's son just got married. Marge had been waiting very patiently for Josie to return Marge's calls, but understood that weddings are a big deal and take a lot of work.
Marge just had to see Josie, though, because her own son started dating a woman who Marge could only describe as a scarlet woman. Josie admittedly laughed Marge's choice of words, but then, putting on a brave face, spoke seriously of the weighty matter.
Marge is a respectable woman, and she has a reputation to uphold. She is in very high standing with her close knit group of church friends, but "Good ***! What will they say to me when they find out?!"
Josie also had a son who went the wayward way shortly after leaving the home, but he turned out alright. Just love him, Marge, everything will be fine.
Marge did not argue with Josie's sage advice, but her anxiety did not wane.
Marge works at her local library and is comfortable in her quiet lifestyle. Her husband rarely makes a fuss at home, and sometimes startles her when he speaks up. She has a nasty habit of forgetting when he's home. He usually works long hours, and her library job is far from full time. She gets to do what she wishes during her alone time.
Jerry is not nearly as concerned of his son's "predicament" (Marge's word) as his dear doting wife is.
"Come off it, Margie. He's a grown man. He can take care of himself."
"But he'll need his mother when this relationship turns south, and I'll be there reminding him of my warnings!"
"Yes, because that will be exactly what he needs at that time" he gushed, sarcasm dripping from his spoon.
Josie was much more understanding than Jerry, but she still gently pressed that Marge may be acting a little on the overbearing side. When I heard that statement, I knew without doubt that I was sitting in a Minnesotan coffee shoppe. We can't be too abrasive when we disagree with someone. It wouldn't be "nice."
The conversation turned to Will and Mary's wedding. It was outdoors, and it rained on them. Other than that, everything went off without a hitch and the ceremony was beautiful. It was the first time Josie had seen her mother-in-law cry. She was far from tears at Josie's wedding, many years ago. She seemed to wear a face of bittersweetness that day. Josie was taking away her youngest son, so the sentiment was almost understandable. It didn't take too long for Martha to accept Josie into the family, thankfully.
Ok, Josie, but back to my son! What am I to do?!
"Take two breaths, a shot of brandy, and get to know your son's girlfriend. You may be pleasantly surprised. I need to get back home now. The garden needs watering."
Friday, June 21, 2013
Monday, January 21, 2013
Winter's Bane
I believe there is movie of this title that I've not seen. I know absolutely nothing about it, but because the title deals with winter, I believe I will avoid it until the heat of summer.
Today is the coldest day in Minnesota for the past four years. That is significant, and it's bloody cold. As I type this, it is ten-below-zero air temperature, and negative thirty-one with wind chill. This is Minneapolis, folks. We have the "Urban Heat Effect" which basically means we have milder temps than the rest of the state, yet it feels like -31 right now.
Many of you know how much I love the cold. And if you know me at all, you know that I just lied. I can accept 78 degrees, but 95 is where I'm comfortable. That is a 126 degree difference to what the current temperature is.
I'm COLD!
I have become very good at avoiding the outdoors during the wintertime. I rarely get talked into "playing outside" even for "just a few minutes" because "it's not that cold out!" Because it is that cold out. Believe me.
I am able to comfort myself a little on days like today by reminding myself that every record breaking cold temperature day I spend in Minnesota, is one frigid day closer to moving to warm weather climates where 80 degrees seems a bit nippy.
When I was a little boy, fifty below didn't bother me. I just didn't think about it. I would carry five-gallon buckets of warm water across the yard to my dad's goats in temperatures that would cause frostbite in ten minutes. That was life and that was OK. Then I started traveling and I found places where warm weather was the norm and I fell in love with heat. I was ruined for the cold and I didn't care. I started researching what it would take for me to get back to those countries as quickly as possible.
One of those steps is finishing a bachelor's degree, which will be mine to claim in five short months. I will not make any promises that I will still be living in Minnesota come June.
During my cold weather days, I know what it takes to keep my spirits up. Living in conditions that are less than prime forces you to know yourself in a way that a comfortable lifestyle cannot offer. It is similar to my diet. I have learned so much about myself by restricting what I take in. In the same way, frigid days force me to find healthy ways to function when I just want to hide under my covers until spring comes knocking on my door.
The best thing I can do on days like today is leave my one-room apartment and write. Or hang out with my friends. Today I choose writing. Though this is more of a collection of rambled thoughts than a story, I find solace from the harsh cold in writing it. Thank you for hanging in there with me.
Today is the coldest day in Minnesota for the past four years. That is significant, and it's bloody cold. As I type this, it is ten-below-zero air temperature, and negative thirty-one with wind chill. This is Minneapolis, folks. We have the "Urban Heat Effect" which basically means we have milder temps than the rest of the state, yet it feels like -31 right now.
Many of you know how much I love the cold. And if you know me at all, you know that I just lied. I can accept 78 degrees, but 95 is where I'm comfortable. That is a 126 degree difference to what the current temperature is.
I'm COLD!
I have become very good at avoiding the outdoors during the wintertime. I rarely get talked into "playing outside" even for "just a few minutes" because "it's not that cold out!" Because it is that cold out. Believe me.
I am able to comfort myself a little on days like today by reminding myself that every record breaking cold temperature day I spend in Minnesota, is one frigid day closer to moving to warm weather climates where 80 degrees seems a bit nippy.
When I was a little boy, fifty below didn't bother me. I just didn't think about it. I would carry five-gallon buckets of warm water across the yard to my dad's goats in temperatures that would cause frostbite in ten minutes. That was life and that was OK. Then I started traveling and I found places where warm weather was the norm and I fell in love with heat. I was ruined for the cold and I didn't care. I started researching what it would take for me to get back to those countries as quickly as possible.
One of those steps is finishing a bachelor's degree, which will be mine to claim in five short months. I will not make any promises that I will still be living in Minnesota come June.
During my cold weather days, I know what it takes to keep my spirits up. Living in conditions that are less than prime forces you to know yourself in a way that a comfortable lifestyle cannot offer. It is similar to my diet. I have learned so much about myself by restricting what I take in. In the same way, frigid days force me to find healthy ways to function when I just want to hide under my covers until spring comes knocking on my door.
The best thing I can do on days like today is leave my one-room apartment and write. Or hang out with my friends. Today I choose writing. Though this is more of a collection of rambled thoughts than a story, I find solace from the harsh cold in writing it. Thank you for hanging in there with me.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Meeting
Here's a snippet of a project I'm working on:
By Christmas that year, Stephanie had
entered into our lives so thoroughly that it seemed obvious that she would
spend some of the holiday with us. We planned it that she would come over the
day after Graham came home from University. We had our hopes that something would
spark between them, but we refused to let on. Graham was smarter than that,
though.
“I know what you’re thinking, Mom.
You want me to fall in love with your intern just as much as you have.”
“Oh sweetheart, you don’t know that.
I just think she’s a sweet girl and you should try to be her friend.”
“Dad is grinning. I know what that
grin means. Remember when you wanted me to ‘just be friends’ with the neighbor’s granddaughter? Look how that turned out!”
“Oh don’t be so hard on your mother,
Graham. She only has your best interests at heart.”
“If by ‘your best interests’ you mean
‘grandchildren,’ then yes, she has my best interests at heart.”
Ilsa had to leave the room because
she didn’t want Graham to see her laughing at him. She had always been a bad liar.
I followed her into the kitchen where she confided that she and Stephanie had the
same conversation, nearly verbatim, the day before.
“They would be perfect for each
other! Look how similar they are!”
“Similar doesn’t always mean perfect,
darling. They are young. Let’s just see where the cards land after tonight.”
The doorbell rang a little later. I
looked at Ilsa who was just as inquisitive as I was. Stephanie never rang the
doorbell. She usually just came barging through the door hollering to see whether or not we
were in. I went to answer and sure enough, it was her. She
also had two bottles of wine; a deep pinot noir for me and a chardonnay for
Ilsa. She had gotten to know us quite well, I thought, and greeted her with a
hug.
“Ready?” she asked.
I winked my response and commenced
the typical hollering that accompanied her arrival.
“Ilsa! Sarah’s here!”
“Who?!”
“I mean Samantha!”
“What?!”
“Oh wait, she says her name is
Stephanie!”
“Quit being an ass, Anderson, and let
her in!”
I tried not to be blatantly staring
at my son the first time he saw her future wife, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t
paying any attention to his old man. It was the first time I had seen my son at
a loss for words. One more point for the good guy team, I thought. I threw
another wink towards my wife who was also not paying attention to her old man. Her
face was written with another “I told you so” that she would never voice.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Breathe
For me, to write is to breathe.
I have taken a semester off of writing this blog so that I could concentrate on school. You will be happy to know that it paid off. I did very well in school this semester.
I was writing throughout the semester. I had many papers due and one class was strictly a 15 page paper. It was not completely creative, though, and I cannot explain how I've missed writing. Now that I have time to start again, I just can't seem to get back into the groove. Taking so much time off has made me lazy. I have more ideas for excuses to not write than ideas to write about.
For inspiration, I started reading a few classical authors of the same period. I read F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatzby. You may claim that I read it in light of the new film that recently hit theaters if you like. That was not the reason, though. I read it because he was an author from St. Paul. I want to know how Mid-Western authors write. The story was, in my opinion, rather drab, though Mr. Fitzgerald's writing style sucked me in. He describes the scenes with such fluency that I could almost taste the setting.
I recently watched Midnight in Paris with Owen Wilson. He travels back in time to visit with the expatriate authors of Paris in the 20's. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein are all brought to life through the film. Curious about this part of history, I picked up Hemingway's memoire on the subject. A Moveable Feast is a fascinating read. I am only half way through it right now, but I have gained some much needed inspiration from Hemingway. Reading his other works, one would wonder if he liked anything or anyone, but in this book he goes into detail of his relationships with other writers and of his favorite cafes and restaurants. The man was writing the memoire near the end of his life, which was a very dark period for him, but he was able to look back on the time with happy nostalgia.
He also gives advice to other writers. I don't believe this was on purpose, but he speaks in the second person pulling you into the story. He talks about working (writing at the cafes and at his office) but uses "you." I often think it is me trying to order my second beer and write down the story before the afternoon fades to evening.
He tells me that I should never run my inkwell dry when writing. As in, if I'm writing a story and I have just a little bit more to add before the end of the day, I should leave it as is and come back to it the next day. I should allow the little bit of ink soak overnight; mulling it over in my sleep so I can write even more when I go back to work. Otherwise, with nothing to chew on, there will be nothing to write in the morning.
He also suggests that I not think of the story while it is percolating. I should instead pick up a book of the current authors and see what other people are writing about. This will keep my mind occupied so I don't lose my train of thought, and will keep me up to date with my peers.
This time period was very romantic. Several authors are living cheaply in Paris, reading each other's works and critiquing them. It sounds lovely, though I'm not completely sold. They had hard lives, and everything was not perfect. I guess I would rather have the community they had, without the lifestyle.
These are some tools I have picked up while on hiatus. I hope they will prove useful and helpful and that you will continue to read my musings. Thank you for your patience.
I have taken a semester off of writing this blog so that I could concentrate on school. You will be happy to know that it paid off. I did very well in school this semester.
I was writing throughout the semester. I had many papers due and one class was strictly a 15 page paper. It was not completely creative, though, and I cannot explain how I've missed writing. Now that I have time to start again, I just can't seem to get back into the groove. Taking so much time off has made me lazy. I have more ideas for excuses to not write than ideas to write about.
For inspiration, I started reading a few classical authors of the same period. I read F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatzby. You may claim that I read it in light of the new film that recently hit theaters if you like. That was not the reason, though. I read it because he was an author from St. Paul. I want to know how Mid-Western authors write. The story was, in my opinion, rather drab, though Mr. Fitzgerald's writing style sucked me in. He describes the scenes with such fluency that I could almost taste the setting.
I recently watched Midnight in Paris with Owen Wilson. He travels back in time to visit with the expatriate authors of Paris in the 20's. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein are all brought to life through the film. Curious about this part of history, I picked up Hemingway's memoire on the subject. A Moveable Feast is a fascinating read. I am only half way through it right now, but I have gained some much needed inspiration from Hemingway. Reading his other works, one would wonder if he liked anything or anyone, but in this book he goes into detail of his relationships with other writers and of his favorite cafes and restaurants. The man was writing the memoire near the end of his life, which was a very dark period for him, but he was able to look back on the time with happy nostalgia.
He also gives advice to other writers. I don't believe this was on purpose, but he speaks in the second person pulling you into the story. He talks about working (writing at the cafes and at his office) but uses "you." I often think it is me trying to order my second beer and write down the story before the afternoon fades to evening.
He tells me that I should never run my inkwell dry when writing. As in, if I'm writing a story and I have just a little bit more to add before the end of the day, I should leave it as is and come back to it the next day. I should allow the little bit of ink soak overnight; mulling it over in my sleep so I can write even more when I go back to work. Otherwise, with nothing to chew on, there will be nothing to write in the morning.
He also suggests that I not think of the story while it is percolating. I should instead pick up a book of the current authors and see what other people are writing about. This will keep my mind occupied so I don't lose my train of thought, and will keep me up to date with my peers.
This time period was very romantic. Several authors are living cheaply in Paris, reading each other's works and critiquing them. It sounds lovely, though I'm not completely sold. They had hard lives, and everything was not perfect. I guess I would rather have the community they had, without the lifestyle.
These are some tools I have picked up while on hiatus. I hope they will prove useful and helpful and that you will continue to read my musings. Thank you for your patience.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Your Regularly Scheduled Blogging will Resume Shortly
Friends, family and valued readers,
I must apologize for my sudden disappearance from the blog. I abruptly stopped writing so I could continue my education with the hopes of graduating within the school year.
I am on schedule to receive my bachelor's degree in Communication Studies this coming May. I plan to resume my writing after this semester is over, and more regularly through the coming semester.
Until then, I simply ask for continued patience. I will be scripting more stories in the near future.
I would like to share a brief story with you, though, while I have a moments peace from homework:
Several years ago I was working overnight shifts at a nursing home. My direct supervisor was a charming old lady whose smile was nothing more than less of a frown. She was stingy on generosity and had a lightning fast response to goofing off. Her number one rule was no phones while working the floor.
It was midnight and I was writing up the menu for the next day's meals. Right next to me, Nurse Ratched was setting up the medication for her next rounds. Wouldn't you know it, but my cutesy chime sounded a new text message.
I held my breath as I glanced over at her. Her furrowed brow indicated that the chime did not go unnoticed.
"Was that you?" she scowled.
"Um, yeah." I said, without really thinking, "I farted."
For the first time, I saw a genuine smile grace the face of the nurse. She walked away without another word. She eventually became my favorite nurse to work with.
I must apologize for my sudden disappearance from the blog. I abruptly stopped writing so I could continue my education with the hopes of graduating within the school year.
I am on schedule to receive my bachelor's degree in Communication Studies this coming May. I plan to resume my writing after this semester is over, and more regularly through the coming semester.
Until then, I simply ask for continued patience. I will be scripting more stories in the near future.
I would like to share a brief story with you, though, while I have a moments peace from homework:
Several years ago I was working overnight shifts at a nursing home. My direct supervisor was a charming old lady whose smile was nothing more than less of a frown. She was stingy on generosity and had a lightning fast response to goofing off. Her number one rule was no phones while working the floor.
It was midnight and I was writing up the menu for the next day's meals. Right next to me, Nurse Ratched was setting up the medication for her next rounds. Wouldn't you know it, but my cutesy chime sounded a new text message.
I held my breath as I glanced over at her. Her furrowed brow indicated that the chime did not go unnoticed.
"Was that you?" she scowled.
"Um, yeah." I said, without really thinking, "I farted."
For the first time, I saw a genuine smile grace the face of the nurse. She walked away without another word. She eventually became my favorite nurse to work with.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Birds of the Air
When I was little, people would ask what I wanted to be when I grew up. A bird. Everytime I was asked, I said I wanted to be a bird. I was convinced if I worked hard enough, I would sprout wings and fly over the trees to make a nest for my family and me.
That didn't happen. I work in a call center right now. That doesn't mean that the desire has gone away. One of my favorite things in the world is to fly, and I do it every chance I get. Which isn't terribly often.
As I started understanding more about biology and the way the human body develops, I realized that wings were not on the table for me. I watched a movie, I believe it was called "Fly Away Home", where a girl took a gaggle of geese and taught them how to fly. She had to migrate with them, so her dad built her a small aircraft so she could fly with her children to a warmer climate. At that moment I realized that if I were to fly with birds, I would be required to have a machine to do the flying for me. I was a little disappointed.
Since then, I haven't really figured out what I want to do with my life. Dana and I have dreams of living overseas and working in community development, or investing in a certain community to love the people there, but what does that look like? I guess we'll figure that out when we get there. Wherever "there" is.
Sometimes I think it's awful to ask a kid what he or she wants to do with his or her life at a young age. It takes a bit of the fun out of being a kid. What do you want to do when you grow up? I don't know. I don't even know what I want for dinner. I don't even know what toy I want to play with next. Leave me alone and let me be a kid!
Kids are really good at living in the moment and as adults, we lose sight of that. We're always looking at what we're going to do, rather than what we are doing. We should encourage living in the moment. If they want to become a bird, then we should ask what type of bird rather than shooting them down.
That doesn't mean we get to avoid planning and being responsible with our time and resources. We do need to be conscious of staying in the present at the same time.
Today at lunch, I was observing birds. They were swimming around in the Mississippi, then they got out and cleaned themselves. They then propped themselves up on one foot and took a nap. How is this a bad thing? I was very tempted to follow suit until I looked at the murky river and decided I would rather not contract a vile disease.
I still want to be a bird, though. That desire will probably never leave. I can't decide if I would be a bird of prey with the mountains as my home, or a sparrow that can dart in and out of tiny spaces in a blink of an eye. I'll get back to you on that.
That didn't happen. I work in a call center right now. That doesn't mean that the desire has gone away. One of my favorite things in the world is to fly, and I do it every chance I get. Which isn't terribly often.
As I started understanding more about biology and the way the human body develops, I realized that wings were not on the table for me. I watched a movie, I believe it was called "Fly Away Home", where a girl took a gaggle of geese and taught them how to fly. She had to migrate with them, so her dad built her a small aircraft so she could fly with her children to a warmer climate. At that moment I realized that if I were to fly with birds, I would be required to have a machine to do the flying for me. I was a little disappointed.
Since then, I haven't really figured out what I want to do with my life. Dana and I have dreams of living overseas and working in community development, or investing in a certain community to love the people there, but what does that look like? I guess we'll figure that out when we get there. Wherever "there" is.
Sometimes I think it's awful to ask a kid what he or she wants to do with his or her life at a young age. It takes a bit of the fun out of being a kid. What do you want to do when you grow up? I don't know. I don't even know what I want for dinner. I don't even know what toy I want to play with next. Leave me alone and let me be a kid!
Kids are really good at living in the moment and as adults, we lose sight of that. We're always looking at what we're going to do, rather than what we are doing. We should encourage living in the moment. If they want to become a bird, then we should ask what type of bird rather than shooting them down.
That doesn't mean we get to avoid planning and being responsible with our time and resources. We do need to be conscious of staying in the present at the same time.
Today at lunch, I was observing birds. They were swimming around in the Mississippi, then they got out and cleaned themselves. They then propped themselves up on one foot and took a nap. How is this a bad thing? I was very tempted to follow suit until I looked at the murky river and decided I would rather not contract a vile disease.
I still want to be a bird, though. That desire will probably never leave. I can't decide if I would be a bird of prey with the mountains as my home, or a sparrow that can dart in and out of tiny spaces in a blink of an eye. I'll get back to you on that.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Time is not on Your Side
How many months of the year have 28 days in them?
All of them.
It's interesting how time passes. Some days seem to just drag when you're doing something you find extremely boring, or if you're waiting for a big event like your wedding in 18 days (shout out, Charles and Ruth!). Despite these dragging days, suddenly the summer is over, you're about to graduate college and you've been married over a year (shout out, Dee!).
I remember in middle school I would go baling with my great aunt. Her baler was broken and didn't push the twine completely out of the way of the oncoming grass. I would have to jump off the tractor after every bale and pull the twine 6 inches to prevent it from tangling in the next bale.
One of these long baling excursions, I was bored almost to tears. I consoled myself by saying that time isn't actually slowing down, I just think it is. By the next day, I would be doing something infinitely more interesting and soon enough, I would never have to do this again. Here I am, several years later, still very thankful that I'm not standing on that tractor anymore.
I didn't hate being with my great aunt so much as the fact that my presence was unnecessary. On several occasions, my dad and uncle both offered to fix the glitch, but my aunt liked the company. She refused every time because she didn't want to bale alone.
When I got too big to sit on the tractor, I would drive behind Harriet in her Rendezvous, in AC, listening to music that I brought with me. My aversion to baling with Harriet quickly diminished.
Time is interesting in other forms, too. There are seasons in life that seem to take forever to get through. Like college. I thought I'd never obtain my bachelor's degree, but I'm now beginning my final year at university. By May, I will be the proud owner of a diploma stating my eligibility to work. I don't know what type of work I will be eligible for, but I will be eligible to work.
This summer has been interesting to get through. In June, I wasn't sure I would be able to survive an entire summer sitting in a cubicle, then racing off to a second job afterwards. Three months of 50+ hours of work every week can really get to someone. Granted, I know a lot of people who work a lot more than that, but when it comes to being at work and paying bills, I'm weak. This Friday marks the end of this season, and I am very excited about it.
I was waiting to go on break this morning. I watched the clock go from 9:58 to 9:59. OK, one more minute and I can clock out. Has anyone ever told you that a watched pot never boils? Well, that's not true. Nor is it true that a watched clock never turns 10:00 am, but I'll be damned if it was only sixty seconds.
All of them.
It's interesting how time passes. Some days seem to just drag when you're doing something you find extremely boring, or if you're waiting for a big event like your wedding in 18 days (shout out, Charles and Ruth!). Despite these dragging days, suddenly the summer is over, you're about to graduate college and you've been married over a year (shout out, Dee!).
I remember in middle school I would go baling with my great aunt. Her baler was broken and didn't push the twine completely out of the way of the oncoming grass. I would have to jump off the tractor after every bale and pull the twine 6 inches to prevent it from tangling in the next bale.
One of these long baling excursions, I was bored almost to tears. I consoled myself by saying that time isn't actually slowing down, I just think it is. By the next day, I would be doing something infinitely more interesting and soon enough, I would never have to do this again. Here I am, several years later, still very thankful that I'm not standing on that tractor anymore.
I didn't hate being with my great aunt so much as the fact that my presence was unnecessary. On several occasions, my dad and uncle both offered to fix the glitch, but my aunt liked the company. She refused every time because she didn't want to bale alone.
When I got too big to sit on the tractor, I would drive behind Harriet in her Rendezvous, in AC, listening to music that I brought with me. My aversion to baling with Harriet quickly diminished.
Time is interesting in other forms, too. There are seasons in life that seem to take forever to get through. Like college. I thought I'd never obtain my bachelor's degree, but I'm now beginning my final year at university. By May, I will be the proud owner of a diploma stating my eligibility to work. I don't know what type of work I will be eligible for, but I will be eligible to work.
This summer has been interesting to get through. In June, I wasn't sure I would be able to survive an entire summer sitting in a cubicle, then racing off to a second job afterwards. Three months of 50+ hours of work every week can really get to someone. Granted, I know a lot of people who work a lot more than that, but when it comes to being at work and paying bills, I'm weak. This Friday marks the end of this season, and I am very excited about it.
I was waiting to go on break this morning. I watched the clock go from 9:58 to 9:59. OK, one more minute and I can clock out. Has anyone ever told you that a watched pot never boils? Well, that's not true. Nor is it true that a watched clock never turns 10:00 am, but I'll be damned if it was only sixty seconds.
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