Do you see the dog?
If dogs could fly, would they get trapped in trees? Would they chase sticks thrown by the wind, and drop them in the clouds?
If dogs could fly, would it be considered lucky, like a bird, if they pooped on your head?
If dogs could fly, would it be easier for them to lick your face? Would they sit on the roof, like Snoopy, to sleep?
Do you see it now?
At the mall this morning I walked into a shop, where the clerk behind the counter was speaking on the phone. Her name, according to her name tag, is Theresa Thomas. I stood before her and she held up her hand to indicate that she was almost finished with her call, so I did what anyone would do. I eavesdropped.
As it turns out, Ms. Thomas was talking to someone who wanted her name. This is how her half of the conversation went:
Her: Yes, that’s right.
pause
Her: It’s Thomas. Right. T H O M A S.
pause while I thought to myself, Couldn’t they have figured that out? She pronounced the ‘th’ like one would say the word ‘throw.’
Her: Thanks. Bye.
Her: (to me) Can I help you? (or at least that’s what I think she said. I was distracted by the ingenuity of this woman’s parents and the fantasy of how she might pronounce her first name.)
Her: Can I help you?
Me: OH, yes…
And so it went.
Thufferin’ thuccotash, some people, eh?
This brought to mind a place I worked as a secretary/receptionist, long, long ago in the time before children. The company’s salesman, Mike Daoust, insisted on making sure everyone knew how his name was properly pronounced.
“‘Doe,'” he told people. “Just like a deer.”
So one day I was sitting at my desk, shuffling papers and trying to act like I was working, when a man walked in the door looking for Mike.
“Can I tell him who’s here to see him?” I asked the broad, red-faced man who streamed with sweat across from me at the desk.
My finger poised over the intercom, I couldn’t believe my luck.
I smiled and pressed the button, “Mike, there’s someone here to see you.”
“Who is it?” he asked.
“It’s Ray, a drop of golden sun.”
I was tired of that job anyway.
My best friend John, to me: It’s nice having you or someone intelligent to talk to once in a while.
It was February when I signed up for the A-Z April Blogging Challenge. At the time I had energy. “I can do this!” I said. “It’ll be easy!”
I even decided on a theme way way wayyy back then. “I’ll write about writing!” I said.
Well, with a week left to go I’m putting a brave face on and I’m saying, “Yes! I can still do this!” I moved the badge to the top of my sidebar, and I’m waving it proudly.
Meanwhile, I’m gathering all the notes I’ve written on napkins, in the notepad on my phone, on the ceiling in my bedroom… yeah, that was back in February … on what exactly to write about, and I shall give it a go!
How will I keep it fresh and entertaining? Life, of course. Rather than gobbling about the rules and guidelines, I shall devote the month of A-Z on writing, to how I pull from the observations, characters, emotions, etc., etc., I find in everyday life and apply them to creating stories and all the elements which go into them.
It’ll be … fun!
If you’re reading this and you’re joining in the fun of A-Z April, please let me know in the comments so I can follow along with your posts. Let’s have … fun together!
Where’s your communication book? I’ll ask your teacher to tell you.
It’s the most common phrase that is signed in my household, aside from, I love you, and Go to sleep already.
The problem is, of course, that my son Alex doesn’t ‘speak’ the same language as I do, and sometimes I’m the one at a huge disadvantage. I, whose life consists of putting words together to make meanings clear, am unable to communicate with my own offspring. What kind of sick force in the universe came up with this irony?
Tonight I had to try to explain to Alex why he wasn’t able to eat from my plate. It’s something that I allow him to do on occasion–not something I allowed my other two sons to do–since he doesn’t eat much more than one piece of anything, being that he’s tube fed. But now, since I’m not sure I’m completely over this bug, it’s a no-no. Germs are not something I often talk about, and so once again I’m faced with my lack of knowledge, and my incompetence in being fluent in American Sign Language.
Can you fathom the frustration at not being able to say the simplest of things? With a hearing child, the conversation would be over in four or five sentences. “I’m sick, and if you eat from my plate you might get sick. Why? Because there are these things called germs – tiny things like bugs crawling around in my food. You still want some? I thought not.”
Instead? It’ll have to wait until tomorrow.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m grateful that I have the resource of the Deaf school to back me up when I need it, and especially that they are teaching my son to communicate with his peers. What scares me are the stories I was told by a few different Deaf people of their hearing families – that they grew apart. The Deaf have their own community. In fact “Deaf” is capitalized when the word is used to describe a person in the same way American is – because it denotes that very community. It’s only by virtue of the fact that Alex has a global intellectual delay that I might have to care for him well into adulthood.
In the meantime, I’ll keep trying to learn his language. Because once he’s twenty-one and has to leave school, I won’t have a communication book to write in. And I’ll be at a complete loss for words.
Everywhere you look, the snowbanks, though dirty from the mixture of sand and salt, have melted partially and become delicate lacy formations, much like coral.
It’s difficult to get a good picture of it. It’s very pretty though. If you click on the picture you can see the detail.
So there you have it. Enjoy my dirty snow.
29. Count ’em. I slept for 29 hours yesterday and into this morning. It seems I caught the dreaded stomach flu bug that’s been going around hereabouts for the last couple of weeks. I just hope I don’t give it to the kids. Luckily, they weren’t here yesterday. Who knows what I’ve left it on though.
I’m feeling better today. Coffee is my gauge – if I’m able to drink it, I’m good. And I did. So yippee for me.
Thanks to everyone who commented on my blog. I’ll get back to you once I’ve done everything I should have been doing yesterday. The worst part is, I had a weekend off and didn’t even look at my manuscript. Damn it.
Music has a place in the hearts of many—one might even say the majority of people; it’s what we listen to in our cars when we’re driving as fast as we can (legally of course 😉 ); it’s what we employ to escape the doldrums of life; it’s our background noise; it’s the panacea that allows our souls to heal.
But what of the artists who create it? We treat them these days as though the owe us. We steal from them, and the internet allows us to without reserve. Think about that…
That’s not what this post is about, however. I want to talk about the quality of the recordings we hear in this age of digital everything. Have you ever heard anything on vinyl? Do you remember why it is preferable, even though you want to preserve the cover, to take off the plastic wrap from the outer sleeve of a 33 and a third record?
I am so happy I kept all my records. I have here, in my house, the very first rock album I ever received–Christmas of 1977–“Frampton Comes Alive.” I have many of the CD versions of the old albums I still possess–“Equinox” by Styx, “A Night at the Opera” by Queen” (which I most gratefully received for Christmas last year as a limited edition vinyl copy)
and I’m able to do a direct A to B comparison. Believe me when I say that if listening to a CD is great, experiencing the same on vinyl, is like being in the same room as the band as they record it. Where digital is a flat wall of sound, vinyl surrounds you like you’re standing inside the music. It penetrates. It removes all other thoughts. It allows you to be fully in the moment, where no cares can invade. It is healing.
If you ever have the opportunity to listen to vinyl, do. If you ever have the chance to buy a turntable, do. Vinyl is coming back. Embrace it.
I was sitting in front of the bank manager’s desk yesterday, with the bright March sun shining right in my eyes when she asked me, “Are you still a ‘homemaker’?”
“Yes,” I replied. But that’s not really what I was thinking. What I wanted to say was, “no, I’m a writer.”
But then, I figured she’d ask me who I was working for, and I didn’t, of course, want to tell her I didn’t work for anyone but myself.
It’s questions like this that make a thousand thoughts run through your head at once. All the ‘what ifs’ and ‘why don’t I just come out and say it?’ and ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’ It’s funny how fast the brain can work in these moments. The decisions that we make in a split second, some of which can change our lives forever. And what’s scary is, how many times in, say, a year, these split-second decisions come across our desk, our plates or our lives. I can’t remember how many times I’ve said to myself, if only I’d said this, or that. Whether it was something that would have altered my life to a degree that I might not have recognized myself in ten years, or whether it was merely something witty, those moments pass us by like so many lost opportunities and baseballs we know we should have been able to catch if only we weren’t afraid of the pain of impact.
One day I’ll be able to change that decision. I’m going to say, “I’m a writer,” and I’m going to smile broadly AND I’m going to say I work for myself. One day.
Part of ‘Stream of Consciousness Saturday’ (SoCS) – this week’s prompt here: https://lindaghill.wordpress.com/2014/03/21/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-march-2214/
Please join in! It’s open to everyone!
