Two bad dogs
December 26, 2009 · Leave a Comment
We have this horrid little terrier. Actually we have two and they are both pretty bad but for completely different reasons. So it’s safe to say we have a horrid little terrier and you could put either under that same umbrella.
Artie is timid–no wait, that’s Artie in a good moment. He’s afraid, terrified, petrified of people and has an insane fear of men. The two men he fears the most are my husband and older son. All living under the same roof. Either he is scurrying away to hide or barking madly. It’s maddening to live with.
The second dog, Honey is an adorable little scottie who loves people but hates any dog other than Artie. I mean go-for-the-throat hates, instant snarling and attack-mode hate. She’s tiny so it’s surprising that the bigger and more menacing the dog, the more fervent her loathing and attempts at attack are.
So there it is: a dog that can’t be around people and a dog that can’t be around other dogs. No happy medium here, the extremes of the terrier heart.
26 December 2009
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Two bad dogs
December 26, 2009 · Leave a Comment
We have this horrid little terrier. Actually we have two and they are both pretty bad but for completely different reasons. So it’s safe to say we have a horrid little terrier and you could put either under that same umbrella.
Artie is timid–no wait, that’s Artie in a good moment. He’s afraid, terrified, petrified of people and has an insane fear of men. The two men he fears the most are my husband and older son. All living under the same roof. Either he is scurrying away to hide or barking madly. It’s maddening to live with.
The second dog, Honey is an adorable little scottie who loves people but hates any dog other than Artie. I mean go-for-the-throat hates, instant snarling and attack-mode hate. She’s tiny so it’s surprising that the bigger and more menacing the dog, the more fervent her loathing and attempts at attack are.
So there it is: a dog that can’t be around people and a dog that can’t be around other dogs. No happy medium here, the extremes of the terrier heart.
December 26, 2009 · Leave a Comment
We have this horrid little terrier. Actually we have two and they are both pretty bad but for completely different reasons. So it’s safe to say we have a horrid little terrier and you could put either under that same umbrella.
Artie is timid–no wait, that’s Artie in a good moment. He’s afraid, terrified, petrified of people and has an insane fear of men. The two men he fears the most are my husband and older son. All living under the same roof. Either he is scurrying away to hide or barking madly. It’s maddening to live with.
The second dog, Honey is an adorable little scottie who loves people but hates any dog other than Artie. I mean go-for-the-throat hates, instant snarling and attack-mode hate. She’s tiny so it’s surprising that the bigger and more menacing the dog, the more fervent her loathing and attempts at attack are.
So there it is: a dog that can’t be around people and a dog that can’t be around other dogs. No happy medium here, the extremes of the terrier heart.
21 December 2009
Another Writer's Beginning
I have been writing for my entire life, probably longer than I’ve been reading because my mother saved pieces of paper with my scribbling on it that’s dated around the time I was two. I’ve always loved putting pen to paper to make a story.
Writing became serious for me when I was in junior high school: my teacher read a story I wrote to the class. She thought I had potential and encouraged me to keep writing. She was also a tough grader and often tore apart my work because of poor grammar, wrong word usage, hack phrases and unoriginal ideas. Most of the class hated her because she was so hard to please but I worshipped her; a good grade from Mrs. Joseline was like getting published in The New Yorker Magazine. I have had good English teachers since but none that drove or inspired me as much as my 6th grade teacher and I’ve wondered what I would have become if I could have stayed with her longer or at least stayed in touch. Unfortunately we moved before my 6th grade year ended and I never met anyone who demanded good writing from me.
I continued to write and believed I had talent. Unfortunately I lost the best voice of reason and guide for my writing when I was twelve. Mrs. Joseline helped lay a firm foundation but I left way to soon for me to continue a straight path as a serious writer. I dreamed that someday I’d write a book and be a famous author. That is most likely where the train derailed. The desire to be a famous author is probably one of the worst reasons to write. The second worse reason is the desire to “share” your story when your story is unfinished, uninteresting and you are still an unformed writer.
I’m not published because I’ve submitted what I believed I should “share” instead of working, learning and refining the craft of writing. My submissions had been rejected, some kindly, others not so kindly and still others sent back with no comment whatsoever. I’ve saved my rejections but looked at them very little because of the discomfort I have with Rejection.
Recently (well about a year ago actually) I looked at the rejections and reread my submissions. I saw my writing in a completely new light and it was pretty bad. It wasn’t just the grammar, it was also the wrong word usage, hack phrases and unoriginal ideas. I needed Mrs. Joseline! It was difficult, no impossible to be objective about my own work when I’m head-over-heels in love with it. In giving the romance time to cool off, I saw that my submissions, while potentially promising, were really so much of all of what my beloved teacher would have nearly driven her red pen through the paper writing “RE-DO!”.
Writing continues to be a daily endeavor. I feel edgy and cross if I don’t write. As I get older (good grief, what a hack phrase!) I see my writing mature. I still fall in love with my stories but I can be more objective. There are several reasons for that: reading good writing, research, studying style and grammar are instrumental to elevating my level of writing. Unfortunately none of the those are as compelling as my old teacher, but they have added dimension and depth.
I also believe that age and maturity give a deeper perspective on content as well as insight. The writing of my twenties is so different from what I write now: I was kind of whiny and superior at the same time–really insufferable. That’s an unfortunate trait I’ve come across in reading other young writers and authors who spew forth haughty rants and cop lofty attitudes without having done enough living to back up any of the grandiose airs. It reads as shallow, hollow and fake.
My next step is to find another teacher or a real writing group that critiques and challenges me. I have so many projects and ideas that are undone. I know I’m a good starter but a lousy finisher. So frustrating. What will become of all I’ve done is not as pressing to me as finishing well what’s been started.
Writing became serious for me when I was in junior high school: my teacher read a story I wrote to the class. She thought I had potential and encouraged me to keep writing. She was also a tough grader and often tore apart my work because of poor grammar, wrong word usage, hack phrases and unoriginal ideas. Most of the class hated her because she was so hard to please but I worshipped her; a good grade from Mrs. Joseline was like getting published in The New Yorker Magazine. I have had good English teachers since but none that drove or inspired me as much as my 6th grade teacher and I’ve wondered what I would have become if I could have stayed with her longer or at least stayed in touch. Unfortunately we moved before my 6th grade year ended and I never met anyone who demanded good writing from me.
I continued to write and believed I had talent. Unfortunately I lost the best voice of reason and guide for my writing when I was twelve. Mrs. Joseline helped lay a firm foundation but I left way to soon for me to continue a straight path as a serious writer. I dreamed that someday I’d write a book and be a famous author. That is most likely where the train derailed. The desire to be a famous author is probably one of the worst reasons to write. The second worse reason is the desire to “share” your story when your story is unfinished, uninteresting and you are still an unformed writer.
I’m not published because I’ve submitted what I believed I should “share” instead of working, learning and refining the craft of writing. My submissions had been rejected, some kindly, others not so kindly and still others sent back with no comment whatsoever. I’ve saved my rejections but looked at them very little because of the discomfort I have with Rejection.
Recently (well about a year ago actually) I looked at the rejections and reread my submissions. I saw my writing in a completely new light and it was pretty bad. It wasn’t just the grammar, it was also the wrong word usage, hack phrases and unoriginal ideas. I needed Mrs. Joseline! It was difficult, no impossible to be objective about my own work when I’m head-over-heels in love with it. In giving the romance time to cool off, I saw that my submissions, while potentially promising, were really so much of all of what my beloved teacher would have nearly driven her red pen through the paper writing “RE-DO!”.
Writing continues to be a daily endeavor. I feel edgy and cross if I don’t write. As I get older (good grief, what a hack phrase!) I see my writing mature. I still fall in love with my stories but I can be more objective. There are several reasons for that: reading good writing, research, studying style and grammar are instrumental to elevating my level of writing. Unfortunately none of the those are as compelling as my old teacher, but they have added dimension and depth.
I also believe that age and maturity give a deeper perspective on content as well as insight. The writing of my twenties is so different from what I write now: I was kind of whiny and superior at the same time–really insufferable. That’s an unfortunate trait I’ve come across in reading other young writers and authors who spew forth haughty rants and cop lofty attitudes without having done enough living to back up any of the grandiose airs. It reads as shallow, hollow and fake.
My next step is to find another teacher or a real writing group that critiques and challenges me. I have so many projects and ideas that are undone. I know I’m a good starter but a lousy finisher. So frustrating. What will become of all I’ve done is not as pressing to me as finishing well what’s been started.
16 December 2009
Getting over it is a life process.
I am divorced. Many, many years divorced and remarried far longer and much happier to no longer categorize me as a divorcee but as a twice-married. I qualify, if anyone was truly interested that I was very young when I married the first time. At this present time, that is it. My life is my marriage and my two sons, the oldest is the son of the first husband but has been beautifully raised by my current and beloved husband. We are well into our second decade of a wonderful life together and that first marriage is so distant and of little consequence to my life at present.
Ah, there are times when it rears its ugly little head, jabs me in the throat and makes a dogs breakfast of my entrails. Most of the nastiness has to do with dealing with Mr. Ex regarding our son. That is the one point of leverage still although so much time has passed and the pieces fell where they should with my belief that if I held to what was best for our son, things would eventually work out well. They have, bad behavior revealed itself and my darling son has been able to hash out the difficulties and live a reasonably harmonious life, balancing between two people who do not like each other one bit. What a challenge, I marvel at my son's resiliency when I think of it.
I was young when I married. Not too young to marry but I was certainly a young bride. I was far too young to be involved with my first husband when we began our relationship. It was inappropriate, for he crossed a perilous line and took an enormous chance that I'd go along his scheme. I was so smitten, overwhelmed by his attention and his conviction that I had a magical power that drew him, a power that he had no control to resist. He made it seem to me that I was the one who was manipulating him to be in the relationship, that he was the puppet while I controlled the strings.
It was compelling and convincing to me as a 14 year old (he was 22 at the time). The emotional binding and mental control took place for nearly a year before the relationship became physical. I believe, whether he actually planned this or not, that he had to be certain of absolute power before he took it to a physical level because he would be in jail or on parole if he crossed the line with me at the age of 15 and I didn't keep my mouth shut about it.
I did, he's a free man. It's too late to do anything about it. I married him when I was an appropriate age and to dwell upon it for me is useless and fruitless. I used to gnash my teeth, rend my garments, pull my hair. WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY? It was a deep, cold, black well for many years. Why did he do this to me? Why couldn't I see what it was and not let it happen? I did not ask for any of it or the abuse that followed. Why did my son have to have such a wretched father? If I could truly find those answers, I would still not find the peace I yearned for in seeking them.
The peace I found was in working myself out of a victim's role and image. My peace came when I was able to live independently in my own apartment, send my son to school and after-school so I could work to pay for all I had without him and his terrible presence: the crushing, overbearing, abusive being that he is. My peace continued to expand and free me to meet good friends, to not avoid people who might become close enough to me to figure out how truly awful my life was. My peace is nearly complete now, over twenty years later: married to a good man and living a genuine, fearless life. My joy has been seeing my oldest son grow and become who he is, not who he could have been while living with such a manipulative, aggressive parent.
There are huge pangs. I know my actions made scars on my son. I know I could have done better, felt I could have been stronger at times and fought harder for what was right, but those convictions are through the eyes of one who is well into midlife, not one who was the age that I married, coincidently that is the same age as my older son is now. I look at him and say, "He is still so young."
I promised there was a reason for my deep loathing of the "Twilight" series and it is all of the above. Stephanie Meyer, unintentionally I am certain, described the foundation of my miserable abused life with my first husband: a forbidden relationship with a much older man, isolation from parents and friends and complete, absolute power over this young woman who was supposed to be so powerful in her innocent ignorance. It was destiny. The manipulations of the older man stating he is powerless in her presence, that he does not want the attraction but can't help it because she's the one with the power that he is helpless to resist. It's an extremely seductive and skillful way to gain control easily, completely over a vulnerable young woman.
Ms. Meyer's heroine "Bella Swan" is her muse for her fantasmagorical vampire love/lust ouvre and I'm thankful it was so laboriously long, just overrought with simpering and snivelly passages. BUT(and that's a pretty big but) it has the blueprint for how to be a real predator which obviously jangled a very raw nerve for me.
I read (while cringing, groaning and throwing the books across the room) the rest of the series to see if it continued to maintain the seductive notion that a young woman is truly fulfilled when she's helplessly, hopelessly in love with a dangerous and forbidden man. It did but it was unrealistic, immature and rang with a hollow, completely false tone. It imploded upon itself in the end and when the dust settles it appears it is just a badly written series about forbidden fantasy love. Most young girls adore this stuff at some point in their lives then move on unscathed, uncaught by a real-life predator.
Ah, there are times when it rears its ugly little head, jabs me in the throat and makes a dogs breakfast of my entrails. Most of the nastiness has to do with dealing with Mr. Ex regarding our son. That is the one point of leverage still although so much time has passed and the pieces fell where they should with my belief that if I held to what was best for our son, things would eventually work out well. They have, bad behavior revealed itself and my darling son has been able to hash out the difficulties and live a reasonably harmonious life, balancing between two people who do not like each other one bit. What a challenge, I marvel at my son's resiliency when I think of it.
I was young when I married. Not too young to marry but I was certainly a young bride. I was far too young to be involved with my first husband when we began our relationship. It was inappropriate, for he crossed a perilous line and took an enormous chance that I'd go along his scheme. I was so smitten, overwhelmed by his attention and his conviction that I had a magical power that drew him, a power that he had no control to resist. He made it seem to me that I was the one who was manipulating him to be in the relationship, that he was the puppet while I controlled the strings.
It was compelling and convincing to me as a 14 year old (he was 22 at the time). The emotional binding and mental control took place for nearly a year before the relationship became physical. I believe, whether he actually planned this or not, that he had to be certain of absolute power before he took it to a physical level because he would be in jail or on parole if he crossed the line with me at the age of 15 and I didn't keep my mouth shut about it.
I did, he's a free man. It's too late to do anything about it. I married him when I was an appropriate age and to dwell upon it for me is useless and fruitless. I used to gnash my teeth, rend my garments, pull my hair. WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY? It was a deep, cold, black well for many years. Why did he do this to me? Why couldn't I see what it was and not let it happen? I did not ask for any of it or the abuse that followed. Why did my son have to have such a wretched father? If I could truly find those answers, I would still not find the peace I yearned for in seeking them.
The peace I found was in working myself out of a victim's role and image. My peace came when I was able to live independently in my own apartment, send my son to school and after-school so I could work to pay for all I had without him and his terrible presence: the crushing, overbearing, abusive being that he is. My peace continued to expand and free me to meet good friends, to not avoid people who might become close enough to me to figure out how truly awful my life was. My peace is nearly complete now, over twenty years later: married to a good man and living a genuine, fearless life. My joy has been seeing my oldest son grow and become who he is, not who he could have been while living with such a manipulative, aggressive parent.
There are huge pangs. I know my actions made scars on my son. I know I could have done better, felt I could have been stronger at times and fought harder for what was right, but those convictions are through the eyes of one who is well into midlife, not one who was the age that I married, coincidently that is the same age as my older son is now. I look at him and say, "He is still so young."
I promised there was a reason for my deep loathing of the "Twilight" series and it is all of the above. Stephanie Meyer, unintentionally I am certain, described the foundation of my miserable abused life with my first husband: a forbidden relationship with a much older man, isolation from parents and friends and complete, absolute power over this young woman who was supposed to be so powerful in her innocent ignorance. It was destiny. The manipulations of the older man stating he is powerless in her presence, that he does not want the attraction but can't help it because she's the one with the power that he is helpless to resist. It's an extremely seductive and skillful way to gain control easily, completely over a vulnerable young woman.
Ms. Meyer's heroine "Bella Swan" is her muse for her fantasmagorical vampire love/lust ouvre and I'm thankful it was so laboriously long, just overrought with simpering and snivelly passages. BUT(and that's a pretty big but) it has the blueprint for how to be a real predator which obviously jangled a very raw nerve for me.
I read (while cringing, groaning and throwing the books across the room) the rest of the series to see if it continued to maintain the seductive notion that a young woman is truly fulfilled when she's helplessly, hopelessly in love with a dangerous and forbidden man. It did but it was unrealistic, immature and rang with a hollow, completely false tone. It imploded upon itself in the end and when the dust settles it appears it is just a badly written series about forbidden fantasy love. Most young girls adore this stuff at some point in their lives then move on unscathed, uncaught by a real-life predator.
13 December 2009
"Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Vol. 1"
12/13 Sweetman gave to:
Mastering the Art of French Cooking (Vol. 1)
by Julia Child
my rating: 5 stars
shelf: read
recommended to Sweetman by: Julia Child
recommended for: anyone who has their own kitchen
read in January, 1967 | owns a copy
Sweetman said: " A must-have for all who have their "own" kitchen. It's a monument, the sign of someone who knows how important it is to be able to present a beautifully roasted chicken, a perfect white sauce or asparagus done to the "nth" degree of tenderness.
Keep in mind I said someone who knows how important it is to cook this way. The actual execution of nearly ALL of my beloved Ms. Child's recipes require a professional kitchen, a legion of specific and expensive cooking tools and at least a week to pull it off--and of course nothing really comes out as good as it's supposed to.
This is Mastering the Art of French Cooking, a lifetime of experience in the perfect cookbook, written in the voice of my hero, Julia Child. She kept me company when I was sick on the couch, she enthralled me with her genuine love of cooking and knowledge of what she created. She was the first woman in my television memory who donned an apron and didn't mince around the table looking perfect (June Cleever) or bumble around the set like a clown (Lucille Ball). Julia Chile worked the set, the food, the props and it was even better when things went flying or fell or splattered all over the place because that was really cooking!
Even as a kid, I knew I'd never cook the way she did. The amounts of butter nauseated me (I ate a whole spoonful on a bet as a kid and the taste of plain butter still makes me sick), the ingredients--especially the minute "dabs", "sprinkles", "a touch" where things I'd never have just waiting to be added in my kitchen--I knew this as a child! But I loved and appreciated her passion and her desire to share what she loved with the rest of us. This cookbook, following me around from kitchen to kitchen with me leafing through the recipes and reading the introductory chapters is my testament to her.
Mastering the Art of French Cooking (Vol. 1)
by Julia Child
my rating: 5 stars
shelf: read
recommended to Sweetman by: Julia Child
recommended for: anyone who has their own kitchen
read in January, 1967 | owns a copy
Sweetman said: " A must-have for all who have their "own" kitchen. It's a monument, the sign of someone who knows how important it is to be able to present a beautifully roasted chicken, a perfect white sauce or asparagus done to the "nth" degree of tenderness.
Keep in mind I said someone who knows how important it is to cook this way. The actual execution of nearly ALL of my beloved Ms. Child's recipes require a professional kitchen, a legion of specific and expensive cooking tools and at least a week to pull it off--and of course nothing really comes out as good as it's supposed to.
This is Mastering the Art of French Cooking, a lifetime of experience in the perfect cookbook, written in the voice of my hero, Julia Child. She kept me company when I was sick on the couch, she enthralled me with her genuine love of cooking and knowledge of what she created. She was the first woman in my television memory who donned an apron and didn't mince around the table looking perfect (June Cleever) or bumble around the set like a clown (Lucille Ball). Julia Chile worked the set, the food, the props and it was even better when things went flying or fell or splattered all over the place because that was really cooking!
Even as a kid, I knew I'd never cook the way she did. The amounts of butter nauseated me (I ate a whole spoonful on a bet as a kid and the taste of plain butter still makes me sick), the ingredients--especially the minute "dabs", "sprinkles", "a touch" where things I'd never have just waiting to be added in my kitchen--I knew this as a child! But I loved and appreciated her passion and her desire to share what she loved with the rest of us. This cookbook, following me around from kitchen to kitchen with me leafing through the recipes and reading the introductory chapters is my testament to her.
10 December 2009
04 December 2009
"Lying in State" A short, short, short story
Lying in State
Royal Helmann Dorset III was lying in state at Colbin's Funeral Home. He was dressed in his perfectly pressed navy wool suit, a crisp white dress shirt, his favorite maroon silk tie, the one with the subtle black hash marks. In his hands was placed a small, new bible and around his neck, resting on his favorite tie was a gold crucifix. Jack Colbin had done a nice job with Roy, his final resting pose was dignified. His face had the same expression in death as it did in life, it didn't look dead.
It was quiet at Colbin's, but it was always quiet. In two hours a hushed gathering of mourners would stand in small huddles, murmur and whisper among themselves about how good with was that Roy didn't suffer. They would solemnly shake Luella's hand and tell her they were sorry for her loss. The wake of Royal H. Dorset III would last about 3 hours as per his desire. And according to his final wishes, all mourners would have to file past his open casket (it was their choice to pause or kneel) to pay respects to the widow Luella Jeanne Hastings Dorset.
The weight of the silence in Corbin's seemed to press in on the windows and doors, if any living thing was in the building at the time, he or she may have said the atmosphere grew heavy but there was no one save the corpse of good old Roy. Suddenly the air was shattered with a blinding flash of light accompanied by a booming thunderclap. The deathly silence was destroyed by a blaring fire alarm. A supercell storm broke directly over Cobin's Funeral Home. Lightening struck the chimney and the a hole in the roof smoldered while bits of burning wood, shingles and brick pelted the green manicured lawn.
The fire department responded within 5 minutes and Jack Colbin was there within ten. Thankfully the lightening strike didn't cause the whole building to blow up. The damage was limited to the chimney, a small area of the roof and to the main room with the fireplace. Ash and cinders had blown down into the room, coating everything in a layer of gray dust. Some of the cinders scattered about the fireplace and made small burns where they landed. The very unfortunate thing about this was that was where the corpse of Royal H. Dorset lay, per his parting desire. Damage to the room was superficial, a good cleaning crew would have the room ready for the wake that afternoon, but the body, there was no quick fix to that.
Roy lay in his open casket, his skin singed and peppered. Somehow the blast had retracted his lips from his teeth and caused his hands, which had been so comfortably clasping the small bible to pull back and up toward his chest. His head, which rested on the soft white pillow had raised up several inches and his peacefully glued-shut eyes were wide open. It looked like good old Roy had gotten a hard glimpse at his future. Jack Colbin could have, with time and hard work, repositioned Roy to his more comfortable repose but there was nothing he could do about the skin or lack of lips and eyelids. As it was, all Jack could do was slam the lid of the casket closed and inform the widow Dorset that it would be impossible to fulfill her departed husband's wishes for an open casket.
Not one single mourner present at the wake (which took place one hour late due to the unexpected weather) was disappointed with the closed casket of Royal Helmann Dorset. No one wanted one last look at that smug face.
Royal Helmann Dorset III was lying in state at Colbin's Funeral Home. He was dressed in his perfectly pressed navy wool suit, a crisp white dress shirt, his favorite maroon silk tie, the one with the subtle black hash marks. In his hands was placed a small, new bible and around his neck, resting on his favorite tie was a gold crucifix. Jack Colbin had done a nice job with Roy, his final resting pose was dignified. His face had the same expression in death as it did in life, it didn't look dead.
It was quiet at Colbin's, but it was always quiet. In two hours a hushed gathering of mourners would stand in small huddles, murmur and whisper among themselves about how good with was that Roy didn't suffer. They would solemnly shake Luella's hand and tell her they were sorry for her loss. The wake of Royal H. Dorset III would last about 3 hours as per his desire. And according to his final wishes, all mourners would have to file past his open casket (it was their choice to pause or kneel) to pay respects to the widow Luella Jeanne Hastings Dorset.
The weight of the silence in Corbin's seemed to press in on the windows and doors, if any living thing was in the building at the time, he or she may have said the atmosphere grew heavy but there was no one save the corpse of good old Roy. Suddenly the air was shattered with a blinding flash of light accompanied by a booming thunderclap. The deathly silence was destroyed by a blaring fire alarm. A supercell storm broke directly over Cobin's Funeral Home. Lightening struck the chimney and the a hole in the roof smoldered while bits of burning wood, shingles and brick pelted the green manicured lawn.
The fire department responded within 5 minutes and Jack Colbin was there within ten. Thankfully the lightening strike didn't cause the whole building to blow up. The damage was limited to the chimney, a small area of the roof and to the main room with the fireplace. Ash and cinders had blown down into the room, coating everything in a layer of gray dust. Some of the cinders scattered about the fireplace and made small burns where they landed. The very unfortunate thing about this was that was where the corpse of Royal H. Dorset lay, per his parting desire. Damage to the room was superficial, a good cleaning crew would have the room ready for the wake that afternoon, but the body, there was no quick fix to that.
Roy lay in his open casket, his skin singed and peppered. Somehow the blast had retracted his lips from his teeth and caused his hands, which had been so comfortably clasping the small bible to pull back and up toward his chest. His head, which rested on the soft white pillow had raised up several inches and his peacefully glued-shut eyes were wide open. It looked like good old Roy had gotten a hard glimpse at his future. Jack Colbin could have, with time and hard work, repositioned Roy to his more comfortable repose but there was nothing he could do about the skin or lack of lips and eyelids. As it was, all Jack could do was slam the lid of the casket closed and inform the widow Dorset that it would be impossible to fulfill her departed husband's wishes for an open casket.
Not one single mourner present at the wake (which took place one hour late due to the unexpected weather) was disappointed with the closed casket of Royal Helmann Dorset. No one wanted one last look at that smug face.
03 December 2009
Letters to Elwyn
Dearest Elwyn,
Well it's been a busy household with the puppy, as you can imagine. I am getting over that we couldn't keep all of Duchess's "rat-faced bastard pups" as Mr. McNulty referred to them exclusively and it was not easy trying to pick just one of the five! My choice was based on the personality and temperament of the puppy and I ended up choosing the one I called Bitsy. She's the smallest and most quiet which will probably please Father (or not upset him). I've shed dozens and dozens of tears over Skippy, Dutch, Clark and Nipper but Mother assures me they will find good homes. Porter has been chained to the back porch since we discovered his amorous ways and does nothing but howl Needless to say there has been tension which causes Father to start "medicating" earlier in the day, which then, in turn leads to a good deal of sighing and clucking from Mother and Auntie Mae.
I took your advice and have inquired at the hospital for a training position. I will be meeting with a Sister Bernadette on Tuesday which is very exciting! I never thought of nursing as a career but you are right, it is a nobel profession and it will certainly give me some good ideas. Plus I will start a savings account for our future. I don't see myself as a career woman after marriage, Elwyn, you don't have to worry yourself about that, but to be able to add to the comfort of our future is quite a thought. Mother grudgingly assented after consideration. She says she hopes I have more luck working with the halt and the lame than I've had in my other endeavors. Honestly, she can be such an old cow at times.
I am enclosing my latest poem. The frost along the window pane inspired me. I have dedicated it to you and made a copy for "Our Memories" book. You didn't say anything about my last story in your letter and I'm hoping it's because you're giving it a good deal of thought and attention.
Stay warm and dry out in the woods, Elwyn. You know how susceptible you are to lung irritations in the cold weather! If my new career is a go, rest assured I will care for you if you take ill, but until I'm properly trained, you're at the mercy of the linemen and lumber jacks.
I look forward to your next letter and await more eagerly your arrival on the 20th.
Yours Truly,
Dorothy
Well it's been a busy household with the puppy, as you can imagine. I am getting over that we couldn't keep all of Duchess's "rat-faced bastard pups" as Mr. McNulty referred to them exclusively and it was not easy trying to pick just one of the five! My choice was based on the personality and temperament of the puppy and I ended up choosing the one I called Bitsy. She's the smallest and most quiet which will probably please Father (or not upset him). I've shed dozens and dozens of tears over Skippy, Dutch, Clark and Nipper but Mother assures me they will find good homes. Porter has been chained to the back porch since we discovered his amorous ways and does nothing but howl Needless to say there has been tension which causes Father to start "medicating" earlier in the day, which then, in turn leads to a good deal of sighing and clucking from Mother and Auntie Mae.
I took your advice and have inquired at the hospital for a training position. I will be meeting with a Sister Bernadette on Tuesday which is very exciting! I never thought of nursing as a career but you are right, it is a nobel profession and it will certainly give me some good ideas. Plus I will start a savings account for our future. I don't see myself as a career woman after marriage, Elwyn, you don't have to worry yourself about that, but to be able to add to the comfort of our future is quite a thought. Mother grudgingly assented after consideration. She says she hopes I have more luck working with the halt and the lame than I've had in my other endeavors. Honestly, she can be such an old cow at times.
I am enclosing my latest poem. The frost along the window pane inspired me. I have dedicated it to you and made a copy for "Our Memories" book. You didn't say anything about my last story in your letter and I'm hoping it's because you're giving it a good deal of thought and attention.
Stay warm and dry out in the woods, Elwyn. You know how susceptible you are to lung irritations in the cold weather! If my new career is a go, rest assured I will care for you if you take ill, but until I'm properly trained, you're at the mercy of the linemen and lumber jacks.
I look forward to your next letter and await more eagerly your arrival on the 20th.
Yours Truly,
Dorothy
02 December 2009
Letters to Elwyn
Dear Elwyn,
I received your lovely letter this morning and let me assure you that it has been the bright spot of my day. There has been much ado in the household lately. Dear old Porter is the object of a questionable scandal here. Now you know because you saw him last August that he's as old as Moses and can barely get about. Heavens knows, all he does is sleep! Unfortunately that is not the notion of the McNulty's over on Elm Street.
Mr. McNulty marched over before 9 a.m. yesterday and began pounding on the door in such a ferocious manner that I was certain it was the fire department! Father had not really begun the day (he's been sleeping in a bit since his retirement) and the new custom of the house is to keep it rather quiet until Father's head is less "atrocious" (which is the way he describes it every morning. Auntie Mae says his head would be less atrocious if he pulled it out of the bottle which causes Mother to go around "shishhhing" us all). Anyway, the banging got Father up and about in a faster manner than he's been accustomed but what was worse was what was waiting for him on the other side of the door! Mr. McNulty began a terrible raving rant about, of all things, Porter! Evidently they have a "prize bitch Cocker Spaniel" who they've raised to show at the Kennel Club shows but all that's off now because she's expecting a litter of mongrels! And Mr. McNulty is absolutely certain our old Porter is the "pa"! Well the shouting and insults were flying to and fro at our front door until Mother could finally pull them in and calm each down enough to try to figure this out. Oh Elwyn, there must have been at least 10 people gathered on the sidewalk before poor Mother got them inside, all were smirking or outright laughing!
Mother made them both come to the kitchen and have some coffee while we heard Mr. McNulty's woeful tale. Evidently Porter has been spending a good deal of time in the McNulty's backyard and under their porch. Mother tried to perish that thought because Porter is so old and getting so lame. He practically sleeps around the clock and has to be shoved out of doors. Mr. McNulty said he wasn't "buying it" which cause Auntie Mae to gasp a little and remind him that that type of slang language isn't spoken in this house. Mother then asked Father if it is possible that Porter could be roaming about the neighborhood but Father was too busy glaring at Mr. McNulty. It appears to be a stand-off until their dog has her litter and as Mr. McNulty stated, "If any of those pups come out looking like liver-spotted, snaggle toothed derelicts, you will have some answering to do!" Father just waved him off with a "Bah!".
Mother called over to Mrs. McNulty at the more hour of 10 a.m. to have a more civil discussion but she was promptly told to please come and collect our Porter from underneath their back porch! Both Mother and I walked over as quickly as possible and there he was! Elwyn, I had no idea the old boy was living a double life. Mrs. McNulty was polite but frosty. Mother asked what was the time of their pet's confinement (??? which I gather means when she's going to have her puppies) and was told it was likely 2 weeks or less. Mother said it would be best to see the puppies before any more accusations are flung about. Then I had to haul old Porter out, which wasn't easy because he really didn't want to come and he's gotten so fat lately. He howled all the way home which made us something of a spectacle and Mother's "Shishing" didn't help one wit!
Father's been harumphing in the front room all morning and Mother and Auntie Mae have been sighing to each other in the sitting room. It's been quite the trying day until your letter arrived to break me out of the worry and the gloom. I'm please that you like your new position and find the work less trying. Please do continue to save as much as you can for our future, I think we may need be supporting a litter of Porter's offspring!
Yours truly,
Dot
I received your lovely letter this morning and let me assure you that it has been the bright spot of my day. There has been much ado in the household lately. Dear old Porter is the object of a questionable scandal here. Now you know because you saw him last August that he's as old as Moses and can barely get about. Heavens knows, all he does is sleep! Unfortunately that is not the notion of the McNulty's over on Elm Street.
Mr. McNulty marched over before 9 a.m. yesterday and began pounding on the door in such a ferocious manner that I was certain it was the fire department! Father had not really begun the day (he's been sleeping in a bit since his retirement) and the new custom of the house is to keep it rather quiet until Father's head is less "atrocious" (which is the way he describes it every morning. Auntie Mae says his head would be less atrocious if he pulled it out of the bottle which causes Mother to go around "shishhhing" us all). Anyway, the banging got Father up and about in a faster manner than he's been accustomed but what was worse was what was waiting for him on the other side of the door! Mr. McNulty began a terrible raving rant about, of all things, Porter! Evidently they have a "prize bitch Cocker Spaniel" who they've raised to show at the Kennel Club shows but all that's off now because she's expecting a litter of mongrels! And Mr. McNulty is absolutely certain our old Porter is the "pa"! Well the shouting and insults were flying to and fro at our front door until Mother could finally pull them in and calm each down enough to try to figure this out. Oh Elwyn, there must have been at least 10 people gathered on the sidewalk before poor Mother got them inside, all were smirking or outright laughing!
Mother made them both come to the kitchen and have some coffee while we heard Mr. McNulty's woeful tale. Evidently Porter has been spending a good deal of time in the McNulty's backyard and under their porch. Mother tried to perish that thought because Porter is so old and getting so lame. He practically sleeps around the clock and has to be shoved out of doors. Mr. McNulty said he wasn't "buying it" which cause Auntie Mae to gasp a little and remind him that that type of slang language isn't spoken in this house. Mother then asked Father if it is possible that Porter could be roaming about the neighborhood but Father was too busy glaring at Mr. McNulty. It appears to be a stand-off until their dog has her litter and as Mr. McNulty stated, "If any of those pups come out looking like liver-spotted, snaggle toothed derelicts, you will have some answering to do!" Father just waved him off with a "Bah!".
Mother called over to Mrs. McNulty at the more hour of 10 a.m. to have a more civil discussion but she was promptly told to please come and collect our Porter from underneath their back porch! Both Mother and I walked over as quickly as possible and there he was! Elwyn, I had no idea the old boy was living a double life. Mrs. McNulty was polite but frosty. Mother asked what was the time of their pet's confinement (??? which I gather means when she's going to have her puppies) and was told it was likely 2 weeks or less. Mother said it would be best to see the puppies before any more accusations are flung about. Then I had to haul old Porter out, which wasn't easy because he really didn't want to come and he's gotten so fat lately. He howled all the way home which made us something of a spectacle and Mother's "Shishing" didn't help one wit!
Father's been harumphing in the front room all morning and Mother and Auntie Mae have been sighing to each other in the sitting room. It's been quite the trying day until your letter arrived to break me out of the worry and the gloom. I'm please that you like your new position and find the work less trying. Please do continue to save as much as you can for our future, I think we may need be supporting a litter of Porter's offspring!
Yours truly,
Dot
Letters to Elwyn
2 December
Dear Elwyn,
Thank you for your nice letter. It's been too long since I last heard from you and I am so pleased that you will be coming by this Christmas. I can imagine that your pets are enjoying the verdure as we've been so fortunate as to have such nice weather so long into this fall. As you know, our dear old Porter has his arthritic joints and the longer we can keep winter at bay, the better it is for the dear old thing!
I have been writing a bit lately, but it flags and wanes. My interests vary and I can't seem to keep an idea or notion to completion! I fear I haven't the fortitude or stamina to finish a single project. Mother always said, "Well Dorothy, I guess you're a good starter!" and that was about the best compliment she could give me for all my effort. She gave me a very small wire bound notebook yesterday and said it should do for all my grand ideas.
Father does well in the morning but tends to "tire" as the day runs on. He still believes in his "medicine" and his doses are starting to come earlier and earlier. It does put something of a strain on poor Mother who tries to plan afternoon with the ladies but it's been difficult since his retirement. He tends to hover about or shout out comments to their observations from the adjoining room. Mother often sighs as she notes that his retirement has been a trial for her. Auntie May says her patience is running short with Father and declares he's going to be the town something-or-other if he doesn't get his head out of the bottle. Father's retorts usually have something to do with packing her valise and ushering her out to another of Mother's sisters if she doesn't like this roof over her head. Dear me, it does get a little tense but I feel it makes for some interesting observations in my story ideas. Unfortunately Mother has forbade me to write one word of family "doings" in any of my stories. I think she's still a little upset about my "Memories of Easter" essay published in the "Saturday Pages" last spring.
Bud will be home for winter break in a couple of weeks. That's always a great time. He brings such life to the house! He's written to me promising a grand New Year's celebration. I think he plans on attending a party in the city and he's promised to bring me this year. He's been playing with a jazz band at college and he says they've actually come to sound quite good. Mother and Father obviously don't know a word of this, so promise me you won't spill the beans at Christmas, you won't will you Elwyn?
Well that's all for now. I'm off to help Mother prepare dinner. I'll send you my latest story as promised when I finish it! My best to your folks and to Agnes.
Yours Truly,
Dot
Dear Elwyn,
Thank you for your nice letter. It's been too long since I last heard from you and I am so pleased that you will be coming by this Christmas. I can imagine that your pets are enjoying the verdure as we've been so fortunate as to have such nice weather so long into this fall. As you know, our dear old Porter has his arthritic joints and the longer we can keep winter at bay, the better it is for the dear old thing!
I have been writing a bit lately, but it flags and wanes. My interests vary and I can't seem to keep an idea or notion to completion! I fear I haven't the fortitude or stamina to finish a single project. Mother always said, "Well Dorothy, I guess you're a good starter!" and that was about the best compliment she could give me for all my effort. She gave me a very small wire bound notebook yesterday and said it should do for all my grand ideas.
Father does well in the morning but tends to "tire" as the day runs on. He still believes in his "medicine" and his doses are starting to come earlier and earlier. It does put something of a strain on poor Mother who tries to plan afternoon with the ladies but it's been difficult since his retirement. He tends to hover about or shout out comments to their observations from the adjoining room. Mother often sighs as she notes that his retirement has been a trial for her. Auntie May says her patience is running short with Father and declares he's going to be the town something-or-other if he doesn't get his head out of the bottle. Father's retorts usually have something to do with packing her valise and ushering her out to another of Mother's sisters if she doesn't like this roof over her head. Dear me, it does get a little tense but I feel it makes for some interesting observations in my story ideas. Unfortunately Mother has forbade me to write one word of family "doings" in any of my stories. I think she's still a little upset about my "Memories of Easter" essay published in the "Saturday Pages" last spring.
Bud will be home for winter break in a couple of weeks. That's always a great time. He brings such life to the house! He's written to me promising a grand New Year's celebration. I think he plans on attending a party in the city and he's promised to bring me this year. He's been playing with a jazz band at college and he says they've actually come to sound quite good. Mother and Father obviously don't know a word of this, so promise me you won't spill the beans at Christmas, you won't will you Elwyn?
Well that's all for now. I'm off to help Mother prepare dinner. I'll send you my latest story as promised when I finish it! My best to your folks and to Agnes.
Yours Truly,
Dot
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