The Pine Cone Dilemma

While we were golfing in Shallotte, North Carolina we came across some very interesting critters, not the least of which was a pine cone the size of a football. I decided to bring it home with me. The Canadian border agent had other ideas. She saw it in the back of the car, said we had to do a U-turn back to the US and toss it into the woods before we could enter Canada.

The US border agent's deadpan response when we explained why we needed access to his country for 3 seconds was, "Pine cones fall from trees." I think his between the lines message was "What the fuck, you crazy-ass Canucks!" He suggested we toss it in a garbage can at the Duty Free. We did.

Back at the Canadian border less than 5 minutes after our first attempt at re-entry, the previously ornery agent greeted us with a smile and a, "Well, hello again!" We told her what we did. She let us enter Canada safe in the knowledge that she had protected our country from the dreaded North Carolina pine cone of death.

To those of you who have collected bags full of pine cones and brought them home to use for Christmas crafts or other sundry purposes, you should be ashamed that you released pine cones on innocent citizens. Now Canada is only safe for Americans who know how to handle this horrific threat to life and limb. I think I'll go buy a gun. But what will I use for target practice?

A Year of Triumph and Tragedy

In a few hours we will say farewell to the year 2012 and ring in 2013. Tradition dictates that we take stock of what occurred over the last twelve months and make plans to get our act in gear in the new year so as to avoid some of the pitfalls of the previous one. And so I shall...

My year was filled with the best and the worst events I've ever experienced in my life. That may sound melodramatic but it's essentially true. In February my father died and in August the love of my life moved in with me. The yin and yang of my year.

As if it isn't enough to have these two events in the same year, the anniversary of my first date with Richard is two days before the anniversary of my father's death, which occurred on Valentine's Day. That's a lot of emotion to deal with all at once but somehow I managed to get to the last day of the year in one piece.

My hope for 2013 is to enjoy what I have and worry less. To work hard and play harder. To love more and take people as they are with all their flaws and goodness. Okay, that's a pretty long laundry list. How about just to love? Love is a good starting point.

So goodbye 2012 with all its ups and downs. Hello 2013, let's ride this year together!

Mancala (a story)

Tasie scanned the dry earth before him and began to worry. The rains would soon come and he had no seed to bury under God's perfect soil. His father would not understand how he could have lost the only money they had to buy new seed. Seed was hard to come by but money was even more rare. It had felt foreign in his pocket, weighing him down on one side like an unbalanced yoke. He'd have preferred to carry unequal buckets of water over the precious currency that his father had entrusted to his care. But Tasie was 14 years old now, a man according to all tribal traditions, and purchasing seed was a rite of passage he had failed at miserably.

Last year his cousin Yuki reached manhood and was given the same task to perform, among the many other rites of his age. The celebrations went on for days after Yuki brought home enough seed for half the village let alone his immediate kin. They had been able to grow squash that year, a food not consumed by their family for nearly a generation. Yuki was a hero.

Tasie's father said only one thing to him when he handed over the seed money. "My son can do better."

He walked proudly to the market that day, waving to his friends and uncles as he went, seeing the hope in their eyes as he strutted. He believed his father's words for he had achieved greater things than his cousin on many occasions before despite Yuki's seniority. Tasie was better at hoops than his older cousin. He could pick more beans in the same amount of time. His dung beetles raced faster and he could pronounce English words better than almost anyone. To say he and his cousin were rivals was a gross understatement of fact. They were more than that; they were enemies too.

Tasie could see the village in the distance, some miles away yet across the Mara. Sparse tree clusters provided the only shade between him and home. It was near peak day so he sought out the densest of the trees to wait out the heat and gather his thoughts. He needed to prepare for his father's reaction, which would undoubtedly be severe. At best his punishment would be restrictions, he would never be allowed to marry and have children. After all, his inability to provide was profoundly obvious. At worst banishment; stripped of all tribal recognition, nearly naked, he would be turned out of his village to fend for himself among the lions. He would be labeled 'hyena', a scavenger not even good enough to be eaten.

Tasie sunk to the dirt, leaning his back against the soft bark of a Marula tree and began to cry. His eyes darkened and a trickle of water cut a path down his dusty face. "I am not a man," he lamented as he cried. "I am not a man." He repeated this over and over until heat and exhaustion took hold and he fell into a deep and troubled sleep. He dreamt he stood in front of a mountain of seeds; his joy overwhelmed him as he ran toward it. As he neared he heard laughing and saw his friends pointing at him. Their brilliant smiles dug into his soul as he realized they were mocking him, strutting exaggeratedly beside him. But each time Tasie pointed to his seed mountain, trying to show them his success, their laughter grew louder. He stopped running and tried to talk to them but they would not listen. Suddenly the images of his friends dissolved and he was surrounded by hyenas. They circled his carcass, waiting to consume him once his heart ceased its beating. The sound of the hyenas was very loud in his ears and he tried to scream but no sound came.

Tasie's eyes snapped open from the nightmare. He was lying on the ground looking up into the eyes of his cousin, Yuki.

 ___________________________________

"Cousin," Yuki said, "What are you doing? Where are the seeds?"

Tasie was too disoriented to reply. The sun had moved his shade away and his face was no longer protected. It hurt to squint his eyes. It hurt to think about his predicament. Why did it have to be Yuki who came to find him?

Tasie sprang to his feet, ignoring the helping hand proffered by his cousin. He dug his feet into the dust and held up two clenched fists. "Stay back!" he shouted, and for a moment he wondered where the circle of hyenas had gone. Yuki's eyebrows touched the sky and a big grin spread across his face. Yuki was not only a year older, he was much bigger than Tasie. His shoulders were so broad that hugging him would only be possible if you had orangutan arms. He towered over Tasie. Even Yuki's teeth were bigger and when he spoke it was like distant thunder.

"Where is your seed, cousin?"

Tasie shook his head as if to shake away the unpleasant memory.

"The money, then."

Tasie continued to move his head left and right but tipped it forward in shame. Yuki was the winner now. Tasie was nothing. Yuki looked at the sun, gauging its position then looked around the entire horizon. Tasie was certain that Yuki intended to do him harm and was checking for a witness. Yuki's heavy gaze came to rest on his small cousin.

"Come." Yuki began to walk east, away from the village. Tasie did not follow. "COME!"

Tasie shuffled along in Yuki's wake. Before long they neared the market. Yuki brought them to the seed vendor, who eyed the young men suspiciously.

"Wait here." Tasie's feet became bricks and he stopped. Yuki went to the vendor, who crossed his arms tightly as if to repel any reasonable conversation. Yuki spoke, gesturing to his small cousin as he did, but the vendor simply shook his head. Yuki did not back down. He began to yell and gesture wildly about, drawing the attention of other businessmen at the market. The vendor suddenly dropped his arms and Tasie feared for his cousin's life, for although Yuki was big for his age, the vendor was a strong man of 30 years and had arms the size of Tasie's torso. But instead of a fight, the vendor began to laugh.

Yuki motioned for Tasie to come near so he picked up his heavy feet and slowly made his way toward the two men.

"He will play another game of Mancala for a bag of seed."

What? Tasie couldn't believe his ears. How did Yuki know he had lost his money to this vendor over a game of Mancala? That he had risked his own ego for a double or nothing bet? Why was his rival doing this thing for him?

"Well?" The gigantic vendor bellowed. Tasie nodded. It was his only chance for redemption.

In the back of the vendor's hut the wooden Mancala board sat on the ground. The board was the most beautiful one Tasie had ever seen, with carvings all around and a head indicating its strategic importance in decision-making. Tasie had played Mancala with stones from a very young age. His village elders had a board they used for deciding who would lead their people. It was a game of strategy, the winner of which showing superior leadership skills.

The vendor filled each smooth well along both sides of the board with 4 seeds and indicated for Tasie to begin. He knew that being first was a disadvantage but Tasie had an unorthodox way of playing that he hoped would work to his advantage. He pulled four seeds from one of the wells and systematically deposited them in the subsequent wells, picking up the seeds from the fourth well and continued in this manner until he deposited his last seed in an empty well. The vendor chuckled to himself and took his turn accordingly. The object of the game was to move all of the seeds into the collection well at the end of the board. The last one to move the final seed into the collection well was the winner. The boy and the man moved adeptly and with speed. An average game would last no more than 3 minutes.

Tasie had played the first game against the vendor believing only that he would win but he played this game with the full knowledge that he could lose everything. He played with every ounce of strength, energy and cunning that he could muster. When 12 seeds remained in scattered groupings on the board, Tasie realized that the vendor was going to lose. He could not let on that he knew for a less-skilled player could still make a mistake now that would lose him the game. Tasie was smarter than the average player. He would not make a mistake this time.

The vendor took his turn, leaving 9 seeds on the board. Tasie hesitated. The vendor grinned but Tasie was putting on a show of doubt when he really knew exactly what to do. The vendor leaned back.

"Double or nothing again, Boy?"

Tasie's face went hot. He looked over at Yuki who shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if to say 'don't do anything you can't undo'. Tasie scratched his head for the benefit of the vendor.

"I...I guess so."

The vendor let out a belly laugh and Tasie felt spittle land on his cheek. He reached out toward the wrong well and the vendor's pupils dilated. Then he moved his hand to the next well and in 12 seconds neatly claimed the remaining seeds. Yuki came running over to him to view the empty board. The collection well was full. The vendor's eyes drew together in disbelief. He patted the board as if he had missed something. He searched the ground under the board to see if a seed had fallen out of a well, nullifying the game. But all seeds were in the collection well.

 ___________________________________

Yuki fashioned a yoke by tying one bag from each end of a sturdy branch. Tasie carried his winnings easily across his shoulders, which somehow seemed bigger now. The cousins walked in silence. When they were just outside their village Yuki stopped.

"I must leave you now, cousin."

Tasie set the seeds down. He looked up into Yuki's gentle face. "How...?"

Yuki grinned and kicked up some dust.

"Last year when I was sent to market for seeds the very same thing happened to me. Your father, my uncle, took me back and I played the best Mancala game of my life. Uncle said someday I could return the favour. Now some day you can do the same. But for now you need to take your seeds home."

Tasie watched as his cousin slipped away behind a hut. Just before he disappeared he looked one last time back at his cousin, held his number 1 finger up to his lips and said, "Shhh."

Tasie loaded the seeds onto his shoulders once more. The bags easily held twice as many seeds than his cousin had brought home the previous year. He lifted his chin, began to smile and strutted toward home.

 ___________________________________

The End

Some people have a six-pack...I have a keg.

Through my adult life I have battled with the number on the bathroom scale. I wasn't a chubby child, I grew fast so I was tall and just the right size for my height even though I towered over everyone in my class, even the teacher. I never thought of myself as fat, just a bit larger than everyone else. I was not lazy. I played sports, I rode my bicycle, I hiked and walked, I enjoyed life and all of the food that came with it. I'm a better cook for having tasted such a variety of foods and spices.

Here I am, at the penultimate age of 49. I am on the cusp of that earth-shattering milestone called "Fifty". Half a century. It's not half my life though 'cause I doubt very much I'll live to 100. So I'm more than half way home, God help me.

Over the years I've tried to lose weight. Weight Watchers told me not to pay attention to the number on the scale but to listen to my body, watch the changes in the mirror and see how my clothes fit. And yet at the beginning of every meeting they weighed me in and they measured my success by a number. Despite my constantly wounded ego, I was moderately successful, I lost 67 pounds. Shopping in the section where there are no X's in the size label, that was a big day for me. It was short-lived, however. I was also very active in hockey and I worked out to the point of nearly puking at least twice a week. I venture to say I did not enjoy my workouts. There was no opiate-like adrenaline rush. Instead, my brain constantly screamed 'why' at me, as if this torture was simply a slow and painful way to die, rather than the key to a healthier life. That was nearly ten years ago and a lot has changed.

I've put the 67 pounds back on since then. In fact, I've put on another 20 on top of that. If I don't look in the mirror, I feel okay. I don't need to be reminded that I'm overweight by checking it out in the mirror, don't you think I know it? I close my eyes and breathe deeply and life is good, I feel happy. I don't see that my ass comes through a doorway fifteen seconds after me. I don't notice that my double chin is more like a triple chin. How is that, in any way, a measure of who I am?

What I do see is that my mother puts her arms around me and tells me that she loves me, just like she did when I was a kid. I see that the man I love looks at me with gentleness and it stirs up the butterflies in my stomach when he strokes my face. I can admire fields of flowers (my eyeballs didn't gain any weight). I can walk with a girlfriend at lunchtime, we can talk about nothing in particular and my soul comes away warmed by her friendship. I can sip a cup of coffee and exhale with an "aaaah" of appreciation. I can pet a kitten and make it purr, giggling as it tickles my face with its whiskers. I can read, watch tv, smile, laugh and feel loved.

None of these things have a weight requirement.

Why then, do I allow myself to worry about the number on the bathroom scale? It taunts me. I know it is higher than it has ever been. There is no number that defines me, not even my age, there is only the way I choose to be and I choose to be me. And whatever that number ends up being on the bathroom scale, so be it. As long as I am happy, my doctor is happy with my health and I am surrounded by people who love me, then nothing else matters.

Although the world if full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it. ~Helen Keller

I take a few tentative steps and sharp pains shoot up my legs. It would make sense if my shoes were too tight but these are the same shoes I wear every day. They are well worn and the leather has expanded to fit my feet perfectly. No, these pains are something else.

Each step is excruciating but I have come to recognize the agony for what it is, a constant in my life. Like Avogadro's number it is never changing, permanent. As my foot hits the pavement the pain moves up my body and I am flush with inner heat. Yet, my skin is prickled and the hair on my arms stand up as if I've been thrown into a blast chiller. My eyes cloud and I realize that I've been holding my breath. I let out what's left in my lungs and lift my shoulders, inhaling deeply but the expansion in my chest puts pressure in areas I can't name and the pain explodes like white lightning behind my eyes. I exhale and begin to receive much needed oxygen slowly and shallow. The only way my body will allow. I fight against the pain just to breathe.

I take more steps and the shooting pain sets up a rhythm. I am able to handle its predictability but then the wave hits me. A dull ache washes over me like warm bathwater on dry skin. But this is overwhelming in its urgency. The sharp pains are still there but I am awash with a full body ache, my thoughts floating, struggling to focus.

I put one step in front of the other. I concentrate on one thought. Get through this day. 

My body is heavy as lead, my skin electrified. A dampness clings to me and I am chilled, yet inside I am on fire. I feel like an oven that is capable of producing ice. Ice from fire. I am an enigma.

My pace is slow but progressive and although my body cries out at every move, I do not stop. I am pulled by a desperate need. It's a bubbling in my chest. A desire to be useful. I cannot let this day go by without accomplishing something. Anything. The list is long and my energy is limited. Persistence is all that keeps me going.

This motherfucker will not take me down today. This pain is conquerable. Just.

I don't know what lies ahead. I don't plan that far. All I know is if I lift my foot, move it toward my destination and place it down I can move forward. I do it and my body cries out in protest. My eyes narrow and I clench my fists. What's next, my foggy mind asks rhetorically.

Lift, move, place. Lift, move, place. Breathe. Repeat.

Will there ever be relief? I don't know. All I know is this moment and my determination to get to the next moment. The pain isn't going anywhere, but I am. I am going to live my life and the pain, sharp or dull, sudden or indefatigable, can go straight to the dark, soulless hell it came from. At least, I can imagine it there, struggling in its own pergatory to survive.

My eyes begin to clear and the air around me seems drenched with oxygen. I feel a burst of energy reaching out to my limbs, assisting them effortlessly in their task. The grey, dreary day seems imminently brighter and I feel the hand of my Higher Power embrace my pain. The ache does not dissipate but I find a new strength in my core that steels me against its onslaught.

I am not alone. Thank God.

I take another step and beyond the stabbing pain in my legs, I feel the cushioning sole of my shoe hugging my arch, stroking me in a motherly way. There is hope. My jaw relaxes into what would be a smile if my face was not still contorted in agony. Around me people walk. They do not see my pain. They see that my brow is knitted and I am without humour. They avoid me, giving a wide berth, enough for a freight train.

The train in my head blows its whistle and on the next exhale, a single syllable escapes my lips. It is an agonizing groan but sounds more like a growl. A startled woman looks up at me and her berth grows as she crosses the street to avoid coming anywhere close to me. Her dog scuttles away with her. A young man, texting on his cell phone, jolts my shoulder as he passes, sending a debilitating spasm down my spine from the impact. He barely notices what he has done to me. It's just pain but they don't feel it. They don't want to understand it. Where there is pain, there is fear.

I lift my foot, move it forward and place it down on the pavement. I do the same with the other foot and then I repeat. Just get through this day and bless them, Lord, for they know not what they do.

Squirrel!!

Some people are able to work systematically. If they have ten tasks to do, they begin at number one, complete it, move on to number two and so on. I am not like that.

I am easily distracted. Squirrel!

From the Disney Pixar movie "Up!"

If I have ten tasks to do in a allotted amount of time, I will complete them in a haphazard manner until the time runs out, working a bit on one then moving to another then back to the first then starting on the fifth. And if I only complete eight or nine, the ones I leave incomplete could very well have been the first ones on the list. Let's face it, nobody can really get a specific number of tasks done in a specific amount of time. I just don't think it's possible to always allot the exact amount of time required for everything. I can't even get this blog done without checking my email after I write a paragraph or stopping halfway to make a pot of coffee. The truth is, I started this blog entry weeks ago and it has sat in my Drafts folder ever since.

I'm not saying that distractions are a bad thing. I like to think of myself as a multi-tasker, able to work on many tasks at the same time, or at least very close to each other. There is a theory that says the human mind cannot actually multi-task but some people can become very good at moving between tasks quickly and efficiently so it appears as though they are doing two things at once. I like to think of myself as one of those people.

Others may disagree, especially when I give them a blank stare instead of an answer to their question. But they don't live inside my head. When it seems as though there is no ATP production going on inside my skull, there is actually a myriad of activity. I could have any number of thoughts occupying my attention. For instance, I may be composing a paragraph for my book, creating my next journal or blog entry, trying to remember the name of an actor I like, figuring out if I have enough clean underwear to last the week so I don't have to do laundry, taking inventory of my fridge contents from memory and coming up with a balanced meal to prepare later in the day, listing off my work tasks and their deadlines and then prioritizing them accordingly, fantasizing about my amazing boyfriend, replaying a conversation that went horribly wrong, wondering what to do for the weekend, worrying about money, or tossing a mental coin over whether I will have tea or water to quench my thirst.

All of this can quite easily be derailed by a phone call, email, text, conversation, look, loud noise or need to pee. And then it starts all over again with my brain asking questions or perusing ideas to reconstruct the list it once had bouncing around. The quick brown fox...I wonder what idiotic thing Mitt Romney said today...who was that guy in that movie where he kissed the girl right before he...I could make a salad for dinner if the tomatoes are ripe...don't forget to email the Dean after the enrollments are done...I wish I was kissing Richard...and on and on and on.

Multi-tasking. It's not for everyone.

Write, right?

There is a saying among writers, 'a book writes itself". That's obviously not true and my recent lack of sleep can attest to that but in an odd way I understand this phrase. In the same way that Michaelangelo stated his sculptures already existed within the marble, he simply removed the unnecessary bits, I have come to know how my characters can drive the creative process in a way that seems to remove me as an element.

Creating a book is a bit more like a puzzle where you have infinite combinations of your source material (words, sentences, chapters), how you put those materials in order is the key. Brian Henry, book editor and creator of the Quick Brown Fox blog/newsletter/email, has added to that idea by saying 'it doesn't matter what you write about, but how you write it'. This contrasts with the commonly held belief that you should write what you know, in other words, the more you know your subject matter, the easier it is to write about it.

I have to agree with Brian here and my acquiescence has only come about in the last few days after I participated in a marathon writing contest, the 3 Day Novel Contest, where writers are challenged to write a complete novel from start to finish in 3 days. That's 72 hours of complete and utter mental torture. At times I felt I was doing okay and that I'd make it to the end but there were other times when I was in a blind panic wondering why I did this to myself.

After the first day of organizing my thoughts and writing what I was convinced was a stupendously bad beginning chapter, I realized I would need to forgo sleep if I was going to create anything close to a novel in three days. I went on the 3DNC website and re-read their survival guide. They indicated that the first day is usually a complete write off (no pun intended) and I didn't feel I had wasted the day or created complete garbage prose but I could see how it takes time to get into a flow so I accepted the less than successful first day blues.

I managed three hours of sleep before I was rudely awakened by an inspired thought. I went to the computer and began to type. And I typed. And typed. I have no idea where the inspiration came from or how the words formed themselves into sentences. They just happened. I wrote dialogue with ease, something that has been a vexation in my writing. Normally I avoid it. But here I was putting words in my character's mouths that fit with who they were, or rather who I had made them. I wrote a Texas accent. I flirted with clichés and skirted stereotypes. I danced.

Late into the evening of the second day, I was at about 4.5 hours sleep, 2 pots of coffee at home, 2 trips to a coffee shop to meet a fellow 3DNC writer to commiserate and 1 trip for fast food. I needed to sleep so I did what every sane person does, I went grocery shopping. I thought I would clear my head of the jumble of ideas. All I did was people watch and add to the tippy pile of plot twists, dialogue and descriptive text already threatening to take me down.

At midnight I resumed writing. It was at that time, for no apparent reason, that I wrote things I hadn't preconceived. I wrote new characters who hadn't existed anywhere except in that moment. And as I forced myself to breathe through the giant lump in my throat and goosebumps all over my body, I was presented, from somewhere deep inside me, with infinite possibilities for the outcome of my story. My book began to write itself. I named one of my characters after my father, something I hadn't given a thought to but it made perfect sense in hindsight. I wrote a speech that one character delivered. I was writing dialogue like it was second nature. And I couldn't get rid of the goosebumps.

Mid-morning I wrote a sentence that wrapped up a chapter. It was a powerful sentence and I wept. I asked myself what came next and the answer was 'nothing'. I had my ending. I spent the rest of the day editing, expanding on prose that I had previously glossed over, where I had made editor's notes to come back if I had time. I had time.

I read through the entire manuscript, knowing I would need to re-write the first chapter and was surprised to find it wasn't as bad as I remembered. My inner editor had been very critical in the beginning but somewhere after the first midnight passed, I killed her. There was no time for self-doubt or criticism. I had a novel to write, dammit.

I met my co-conspirator shortly after midnight. We both had finished on time and were set to submit our manuscripts (hers after she typed up her hand-written notes) and we were surprised to learn we had both created roughly the same number of pages and words (64 pages and 16,661 words for me, 62 pages and 14,983 words for her). The next day was spent in a daze and sometime that evening I began to cry. The first few tears came down as simple tear duct effluent. In fact, I didn't know what was tickling my cheek until I brushed it away. Then the floodgates opened. I was emotionally spent.

I have since vowed to write on the weekends when my domestic partner is working and I have the house to myself. Oh, and I can't wait for next year's 3 day novel contest because although it was a painful, emotional and physically exhausting experience, I would do it again in heartbeat.