Play First and then Work. . .

The first day I was here, Friday, was all about getting settled in, of course. Then I had a Double Sabbath--that is to say, a Day of Rest within 90 days of rest, and that was great! I had a lazy morning and then went to a little Adventist church in North Sydney. Naturally, I was invited to dinner, and naturally they had (Adventists will get this) haystacks! LOL And they were delicious, too!

Then I went hunting for an Atlantic beach. For quite a while I thought I wouldn't find one, but I did, and it was utterly private--not another soul came during the hour and a half I was there, even though the weather was so amazing I waded! Sorry, I didn't take pictures, so I can't show you, but here are some Cape Breton beach pix, anyway:

Yes, those are my bare toes, just to prove it's possible in late September in these northern climes that are wrapped in the Gulf Stream, or the Atlantic Current, or whatever it is. This beach, however, was all rocks. No Hawaii-like sand here.

Sunday I settled down to begin work. Spent the morning slaving over a bunch of stuff which I threw away in the afternoon and did all over again. . . Such is the life of the writer!

2013 Writing Sabbatical--Day One: Two Rainbows! Double luck!

I'M HERE, I'M HERE, I'M HERE!!!!!

Unfortunately, so I only got about 4 hours of  sleep my last night in the states. But I left my friend's in New Hampshire a little before 5 am Thursday, so I was miles into Maine before the sun woke up enough to show me a pretty, sunny/cloudy day, with leaves getting down to business and starting to turn. It took longer than I expected to get out of Maine, but I did get to the Canadian border by 11:20. What I had totally forgotten, and left out of all planning, was that I promptly lost an hour! That customs officer just yanked it right out of my watch! Or maybe it was the Canadian air that was responsible. . . Anyway, it was abruptly 12:20 instead of 11:20.

At first, New Brunswick was pretty, colors also off to a good start, but the clouds started darkening and spreading, and suddenly would splash mist across my windshield, as if I’d driven through a small cloud without knowing it. By halfway through, it was raining most of the time, that irritating kind that makes you turn your wipers off, and on, and down, and up, and off again… It settled down to rain in earnest by the time I entered Nova Scotia, at 4:06 pm. Then it lightened up and got pretty, and a chubby rainbow appeared over my way! It was really fat and misty, like baby clouds made it, and didn’t quite know how to color. I took it as a good omen and hoped we were out of the rain, but it started misting again right away.

A little while later, there was a second rainbow! This one was right over the road, and I was trying to drive through it, but of course it kept receding and finally faded. It was brighter and more distinct, though. I was driving dangerously, rubber-necking to count the colors.

So, more rain across the mainland of NS, which seemed to take forever, but I crossed Canso Causeway to Cape Breton Island at 6:30, which was only 2 ½ hours. Then I got stuck behind slow traffic, but made it to the cabin about 8:40. 

I lay on the hood of my car, nice and warm from all the driving, and stared at millions of stars. The sky was so thick with them that I could hardly make out the usual constellations! The river was chuckling to itself and the stars were singing and. . . . . . 

I AM SO HAPPY!!!!!

The Christmas Dollar, Part Four

Cindy Halloran studiously rolled her snowball all around her front yard until it was big enough to make a nice round head. Steve was making the bottom roll because he was the biggest. Mikey was making the middle roll. This was going to be the best snowman in town. After they made the snowman, Daddy had promised to take them all sledding. Even the baby. Mama said it wasn't too cold if they bundled up.

"This is the bestest Christmas I ever had!" Cindy cried joyously.

"That's because you don't remember any other Christmases," said Steve. He didn't seem very happy this year. Neither did Mama or Daddy. Cindy didn't know why.

"I got a whole dollar," she reminded him.

"Big deal," said Steve.

Cindy decided not to cry. She made a snow angel instead. Then she saw a man coming down the sidewalk.

"Mr. Gruffman!" she called out happily. "Isn't this the bestest Christmas ever?"

Mr. Gruffman growled at her, but Cindy didn't mind. She liked the way his eyebrows jiggled. "I got a whole dollar! What did you get for Christmas, Mr. Gruffman?"

"Nothing!" growled Mr. Gruffman, not stopping.

Cindy stood stock still. Then she ran after Mr. Gruffman. "Nothing?!" she cried. "Why? Were you bad?"

Mr Gruffman looked at the sky. "Yes," he snapped. "I was bad! Now run along!"

Cindy couldn't believe it. Nobody could be that bad! It must be a mistake. "Wait, Mr. Gruffman! Please wait!"

Mr. Gruffman stopped and turned around. "Stay in your yard and leave me alone!" he yelled. But Cindy thought anybody might be cross if they got nothing for Christmas!

Slowly, she reached into her pocket. "Here," she said.

Mr. Gruffman just looked at her. "It's my Christmas dollar," said Cindy. "You can have it. Look - if you wiggle it, the man smiles."

Very slowly, Mr. Gruffman held out his hand. He didn't mean to take the dollar. He just wanted to see it. But while he was still staring at it, torn and taped right across Washington's face, the little Halloran girl ran back to her yard, apparently perfectly happy to give up what he suspected was her only Christmas present. He stood, frozen, and gazed after her. Pastor Jones' Christmas sermon scrolled through his mind.

Then, still in slow motion, he went to the Hallorans' house and knocked. Lou came to the door. Mr. Gruffman didn't know he was going to say it. The words just seemed to come out of his mouth. "I want to build a wing onto my house. Could you do the job?"

Hidden in his picket, his hand clung to a torn dollar bill.

The Christmas Dollar, Part Three

Joe Peterson dressed carefully and walked down the street to church. The money that nice young man had given him for Lucy's pearls crackled in his pocket.

Pastor Jones gave a good sermon about the widow's mite. "She has given all she had." It made Joe think of Lucy again. But then, everything did. He had an idea. "Pastor," he said at the door, "use this for the church for Christmas. Something special. Whatever you think."

"Well, thanks, Joe, but are you sure you can afford this?"

"Oh, yeah. It was a windfall." Joe waved it off.

In his study later, Pastor Jones looked into the envelope. It was more than he had expected. And he knew just how he wanted to use it. He got on the phone.

"Lou Halloran? Listen, could you possibly build a stable for a live nativity scene in front of the church? I'd pay you, of course."

Lou Halloran sounded suspicious. "This isn't charity, is it, Pastor?"

Pastor Jones laughed. "Are you kidding? Have you ever seen me with a hammer and nails?"

"Well, all right."

"And Lou? How about dressing up as a shepherd and playing your panpipes? People would love that!"

"I'll think about it."

Lou got off the phone feeling like a heel. He ought to be able to support his own family. The Salvation Army had even brought them a food basket, for pete's sake! He had wanted to refuse it, but the looks on his wife's and kids' faces stopped him.

Well, whatever jobs he got, he'd do right, anyway. He spent two days on the three-sided shelter for the nativity. He even let himself be talked into dressing up in a bathrobe and playing Christmas carols. His little Cindy made an adorable angel, and reveled in the thought of Daddy being a part of things.

Cindy was there when he counted the money. "Look Daddy! A funny one! I wish I had a dollar like that!"
Lou laughed. "Silly, that's a ripped one. Wouldn't you rather have a nice new dollar?"

"No, Daddy, I like that one. It makes the man look funny!"

Well, he could certainly afford to give his little girl a dollar if she wanted one! On Christmas Eve, Lou folded the dollar carefully and poked into Cindy's stocking.

Her excitement on Christmas morning would have been worthy of a million dollar bill. She jumped into his lap and hugged him, and Lou hid his wet eyes in her hair.

The Christmas Dollar, Part Two

"Merry Christmas!" Dr. Andrea Martin blew through the door of her office the next day with a cheery greeting for her new assistant, Mark Vasquez. With a new fiancee in the picture, he could use all the money he could get. That's why she was delighted with the surprise she had for him. Mark looked puzzled when she held out the envelope.
"I had an emergency call, and it made this possible. Open it."
Mark looked inside. "A Christmas bonus! I've only worked here three months!"
"And made yourself indispensable. Enjoy!"
Mark was more delighted than his employer knew. He had been saving for a really special present, and now he had enough.
He took a tattered clipping out of his pocket. "Lady's pearl necklace," it read. And the price was unbelievable. Imagine Maria's face when he gave her real pearls! He called, and to his joy, the man said he still had the necklace.
That evening Mark hurried to the address he'd been given. A bent old gentleman answered the door.
"Mr. Peterson?"
"Yes, come in."
Mark stepped into the dim house. It smelled faintly musty.
Mr. Peterson shuffled over to an old piano and took down a case from its littered top. When he opened the case, Mark felt dizzy. The two-strand necklace shone as if with its own light. A sapphire hung from it like an angel's tear.
He touched it gingerly. "Are you sure you want to sell this, and for so little?" he couldn't help asking.
Mr. Peterson looked up at a faded portrait on the piano. It showed a glowing young woman wearing the pearls. "I gave them to her for our tenth anniversary." He sighed and turned to Mark. "She can't wear them anymore. Didn't seem right to have them lying about. Some woman will love them like she did."
"My fiancee," said Mark, and something made him get out his wallet to show the old man Maria's picture.
For the first time, Mr. Peterson smiled. He looked years younger. "Lucy would like that," he said simply.
After the young man had left, visibly excited over his treasure, Joe Peterson spread out the bills on the closed piano keyboard. One of them was so tattered it ought to have been reclaimed by the bank. He looked up at the picture and smiled. "I wish we could see her face when he gives them to her, Lucy. What'll I do with this money? I don't need much anymore."
He still hadn't decided when he went to bed that night.

THE CHRISTMAS DOLLAR, Part One

Harry Gruffman muttered to himself as he strode down the sidewalk. Christmas! Something jumping or bobbing or circling in every store window. Lighted reindeer, blinking trees, garish reflections on the dirty snow and slush. A good month for storekeepers and electric companies. Gruffman turned in at the department store door, narrowly missing a squealing child and its mother. He ignored them.

In the doorway was the ubiquitous bell ringer, bundled to the ears, with a red nose and a red bucket. "Merry Christmas, sir!" chirped the young thing under the scarves, clanging busily.

Gruffman glared at her and dug in his coat pocket. "I tell you what," he barked. "I will give you this whole dollar if you never tell me merry anything again!" He brandished a tattered dollar, torn and taped across Washington's stiff grimace, stuffed it into the bucket, and stamped through the door.

"Well, if it isn't Scrooge himself!" Melissa Ware giggled and kept ringing.

That night, helping Captain Adams count the money, Melissa saw the torn dollar and laughingly told the story of the funny old man with the fierce, bushy eyebrows. The captian laughed too, but said, "Christmas isn't merry for everyone, you know."

"That reminds me," said Melissa, "I had this great idea! Coudn't we buy some stuff for the Christmas baskets from the farmers themselves? My neighbor, Mr. Yoder, still has a lot of potatoes, and he could use the money."

"Good idea, Melissa," said Captain Adams. "That way our money will help people twice."

Two days later, Captain Adams was at the Yoders' Amish farm buying potatoes and eggs. As he counted the money on the Yoders' kitchen table, he saw the torn dollar and smiled to himself. He prayed that the unknown man's charity, reluctant or not, would bring him a blessing.

Late that night, there was a crisis on the Yoder farm. Little Rachel's pony went down, and nobody knew what to do. "We've got the potato money now," said Grandmother. "And my egg money. Send Reuben for the vet, Jacob."

So Reuben galloped away to the next farm for Dr. Andrea Martin. An hour later, Rachel had tears of gratitude in her eyes. Lightning was much better, and Dr. Martin said he would be fine.

The veterinarian didn't charge the Yoders her full fee. She knew they had it rough right now. But as she drove away in her old truck, she was grateful for the extra money. It meant she could do something she had feared she would not be able to manage this year.

She didn't even notice one tattered dollar.

Grief

Grief, I've decided, is like a giant fun house. Not fun, at all, just full of traps.
You're walking along and suddenly everything goes all stretchy and distorted, like one of those nightmares where sound becomes something from a monster movie and movement is no longer subject to the laws of time and space.
Oh, right, you realize. It's one of those wavy mirrors, that's all. Maybe an amplifier with all its knobs turned all the way up. You try to wake up, can't, and discover
this is no nightmare.

This is real.
She's really gone. She's really not coming back.

You clamp your hands over your ears to hide from the screams, but it doesn't work because they're coming from inside you.
So you bend every muscle to dragging your legs through the quicksand that seems to be holding them, and finally you can inch your way out of that particular section of the fun house.
For two minutes, you're better.

Then something jumps out and shrieks at you, and your heart tries to escape its cage of ribs. You throw your arms over your head, crying like a baby, but there's no Mama to comfort you, so the crying just goes on.
When it finally stops, you try to lift your head, which now weighs 200 pounds, mop up your face, and make a teeth-gritted dash through the first door you see.

Hurrah! You're on the porch! Out! There's sunshine! You take a deep breath
and your lungs seize up like an old car engine running without oil.
It was an illusion. You're not on the porch. There is no porch. There is no sunshine. It's the reflection of the flames, coming closer, coming to consume you.

I am not sure how long this goes on. Great loss first flung me into this sub-quantum Dali landscape almost a year ago. I thought I was getting close to the back door. I thought all I had to pass was the claustrophobic hallway, where the walls squeeze you until you can't breathe. And maybe the tightrope over the broken glass. I thought I would be out soon.

Wrong.
 There was a sudden atomic explosion and I time-warped right back to the beginning. Here we go again. Familiarity is not a help. It increases the horror. I know what's around that bend.

I'm not going. You can't make me.