The Write Way Home

Thursday, November 30, 2006

In Love and War

Today is the twentieth anniversary of Eric's and my First Kiss.

Today is also the anniversary of the famous Battle of Franklin.

I'm not going to look into that too deeply.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Fingers and Toes

First, the toes. The week before Thanksgiving was "Parent Observation Week" at the girls' ballet school. Asking me to show up to something like that without a camera is like asking me to show up without my arms. Above, you can see just a few of the half-a-million or so shots that I took.

Rachel is first; I'm just so proud of her for having been promoted to Ballet III this year. She's sweet as can be, and her strength right now is the beauty of her arms. Would that I could look so graceful.

The first picture of Maggie is during her regular Ballet IV class; the second is, obviously, during her Pointe class. To see my daughter on her toes -- she, who for the past six years has dreamed of the day she would dance en pointe -- was beyond earthly description. You should have seen her walking across the floor (to Respighi -- I love Respighi). I would have been flat on my face after the first step.

Secondly, the fingers. Much to my chagrin, this blog has begun to be inundated with spam in the comment boxes. That's why I've had to turn on the word verification. I'm so sorry! I hate those things -- especially since Blogger sometimes forgets that it needs to actually display some letters so that wannabe commenters can type them. Small problem there. But I'm tired of deleting stupid posts that say, "Hi, don't delete this," followed by a string of useless and occasionally quite nasty links. So your fingers are going to have to do a little extra work when you leave a comment here.

Eric will say "I told you so," but what can I do? I held out as long as I could.

And now it's back to writing...and to wishing I had some chocolate...

Monday, November 27, 2006

Just Another Homeschooling Moment...

I will never argue that my son is brilliant. He's creative, smart, quirky, and filled with a dry wit that continues to sharpen as he matures.

Of course, knowing all this doesn't mean I'm never blindsided by something he says or does. Or, in this case, by something he's written.

We're using a comprehensive grammar course for his ninth grade English credit this year. He's doing well (and I think that's surprised him). Of course, he doesn't do his assignments the "normal" way -- you know, write down the answers with a pencil.

No. Jonathan uses the computer. And he gets a bit...creative.

Each section (A, B, etc.) gets its own weird, dependent noun clause, such as:

Crusty sausage wrapped tighly in warm, wet buns and stuck into a huge blackish snowdrift.

Or...

Romulan hairs scattered around a campfire, which is surrounded by a deep, green moat full of fat, juicy fish.

Naturally, I am expected to read each one of his creations aloud before correcting his answers. This makes the going-over-the-last-lesson's-written-assignment much more fun. And when it comes to grammar, fun is good. Right?

Today, though, he topped himself. Instead of simply writing the answer to number one of his Review Exercises, Jonathan wrote the following:

I am very sorry to say that I cannot possibly understand that language. It makes no sense; therefore, I find it nearly impossible to complete this exercise. It seems to be written in a foreign text, supposedly a variation of Old English. When occurrences like this appear in Mennonite or any other texts, I find that I must continue with my work and skip the illegible sectors. When one tries to read such a tract of writing, they may experience some frustration on a minor scale. If too many of these tracts appear, the scale of frustration may be major. This is why I cannot correct this problem. I will be continuing my work without any further word on this tract.

It would have taken him one tenth the time, had he simply answered the question.

Further down the page was a brief section on direct and indirect quotation. Jonathan felt compelled to write the following:

Please note that, with my innate grammar abilities, I do not need to inscribe punctuation. Speaking in different terms, I necessitate no practice at all on this particular matter. Thank you for your compliance.

And. People. Wonder. Why. Homeschooling. Makes. Me. Crazy.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Happy Second Birthday To Me

Just a quick Sunday post to say....I posted my first blog entry on November 26, 2004.

Under duress. Eric made me do it. I started out as a Reluctant Blogger.

Now, I can't seem to keep my mouth shut.

Thanks to each and every one of my regular and not-so-regular readers. From New York to London, from San Francisco to Calgary, I'm glad you're here.

And I hope you'll stick around for the next two years!

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

It's Not Easy Being a Foodie

"Foodie." You know -- folks that are into gourmet food. Real food. Where food is life. When bad food ruins an entire evening. Foodie.

So things like "free samples at grocery stores" are generally snubbed unless it's right before lunchtime and I'm really hungry.

Being a foodie makes things like "potluck dinners" a nightmare. Why? Because most people's "homemade fare" consist of ingredients like "instant rice," "canned peas," "Cool Whip," and "Campbell's Cream of Crap." And I don't eat that stuff. Or cook with it.

So the traditional, American "Turkey With Stovetop Stuffing, Canned Yams, and Greenbean Casserole" doesn't flip my cookie.

Really, you're allowed to like all of the above. This is just me, personally. I'm a foodie.

Except that I can't afford to be a foodie. I'd love to serve foi gras as an appetizer and a braised rack of lamb for dinner. But if I did that, my family wouldn't eat for the rest of the month.

So. I compromise by choosing good food at a reasonable cost, and I make it all myself.

Well, either that or I commission Eric to make it. Like his famous sausage stuffing. (Made, of course, with all-natural, nitrite-free bulk sausage from Wild Oats.)

So tomorrow we'll start out with warm artichoke dip and sharp cheddar cheese with crackers and sweet mustard, followed by a main course of turkey with sausage stuffing, whipped sweet potatoes, brussels sprouts with carmelized onions, and a corn souffle. Dessert? Why, homemade pumpkin pie with freshly whipped cream, of course!

You know what I'm going to say next, though. Thanksgiving isn't about the food. I can't express the depth of my thankfulness for yet another opportunity to rejoice with my family in the countless blessings that God has bestowed upon us.

(How many prepositional phrases can you fit into one sentence?)

Be blessed. Eat small portions. Savor the smiles of your children, the voices of your loved ones. Relax. Take a long walk with someone dear to you. Squeeze every moment from the day and make it your own. And remember to say "thank you."

A joyful and peaceful Thanksgiving to you and yours!

Monday, November 20, 2006

The Reason For My Existence

I was at the pediatrician's office today. Like most doctor-type offices, the key pad for the debit card is one of those rectangular things with squishy keys. The receptionist handed me the keypad to enter my pin number, and I punched it in.

Without warning, the reception burst out laughing. This wasn't a chuckle or a polite social noise; this was all-out laughter. In a burst.

So I looked at her and said, "What?"

The expression on her face told me that she was laughing at me. Now, this isn't unusual. People laugh at me on a regular basis, and it's not because I'm trying to be funny. No, people laugh because...well, I don't really want to go there. They just laugh.

The receptionist, still laughing, said, "You just don't want those germs, do you?"

In a flash I understood her laughter. I had punched the keypad with my knuckle. I always do that. I mean, who wants to touch those nasty keys with their fingertip, for heaven's sake? It's such a habit for me that I don't even think about it. I just use my knuckle.

"Oh, I always do that," I said (she was still laughing). "I use my knuckles for everything."

Naturally, she then began to empathize with the germ thing, claiming that she didn't like touching elevator buttons and the like.

"Now you're backpedaling," I said. And she laughed some more.

In all my years of using my knuckles to touch nasty public surfaces, no one has ever noticed, let alone laughed at me. I suppose, in a way, it's comforting to think that a gal who works in a pediatrician's office is conscious of the existence of bacteria on touchy-feely surfaces (like the entire waiting room).

Except, I've knuckled those things in the pediatrician's office for years, and no one has laughed at me.

Maybe this gal was a little less uptight than your average receptionist. It takes a very "real," very comfortable-with-self person to laugh out loud at something a stranger does. Fortunately for her, I'm not easily offended. I laughed right along with her and enjoyed the moment. After all, it's cool to bring laughter to someone's life without even trying.

That's me, in a nutshell -- existing for the amusement of others.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go wash my hands.

Friday, November 17, 2006

The Quantum Reality of Novel Writing

If a> and b> are possible outcomes, then so is ca> + db> for any c,d where c2 + d2 = 1 so the number of alternate universes is infinite.

There you have it. Test next Thursday.

Seriously, those of you who indulge in the excrutiating art of writing fiction will understand what I mean when I say that planning a storyline is akin to studying quantum physics. Each choice must be weighed and considered according to what its possible results may be. And the more carefully chosen these choices are at the beginning, the less major rewrites will need to occur later. Consider:

If Character A leaves with Character B at the end of Chapter two, the story will flesh out differently than it will if Character A sticks around with Character C instead.

A story set in the middle of winter will have different variables than one set in summer.

If LaDiddle Fontaine finds out in Chapter Three that Brawn Fannigan has been cheating on her, her storyline will run a different course than if she doesn't find out until Chapter Eighteen.

On it goes. In short, every possibility needs to be mentally fleshed out to the Nth degree. Hence the quantum reality. Because it all goes on at the same time inside a writer's head. And when someone opens your office door and sees you staring vacantly out the window and you tell him to leave you alone because you're working -- well, he's not going to believe you, is he?

He just doesn't understand quantum reality.

So I've been stuck in quantum flux for days and it has absolutely nothing to do with my recent Star Trek: The Next Generation viewing (we didn't even get to that episode yet).

(Yeah, the Worf episode. Dave knows what I'm talking about. So do all you closet Trekkers that are pretending you didn't hear me.)

That's me, in a nutshell. I'm hoping to break through the chaos soon and decide upon a stable reality for my story so that I can move forward.

But first I've got to fold some laundry. Oh, that I could find a reality without any housework in it.

(Insert melodramatic sigh here.)

Have a fabulous weekend, my friends!

Labels: writing

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

The Hermione Moment

For the non-Harrypotterites among you: I'm talking about the moment at which you were the only one who knew the answer, or the only one who aced a test, or the only one the teacher singled out for praise, or...you get the idea.

This is, of course, a thinly veiled excuse for bragging about my son. He's taking a Physics course for high school credit, and yesterday in class the teacher handed back their most recent tests. Jonathan's lab partner received his first, and exclaimed that he had received a 91 -- only one mistake. Then Jonathan received his test paper.

He scored 100. His lab partner was angry.

Sounds like typical male competitiveness, right? The old who-is-higher-on-the-totem-pole in the average classroom.

The Hermione Moment.

Naturally, I took Jonathan out for lunch to celebrate. Anyone who aces a Physics test deserves a turkey sandwich with pasta salad, at the very least.

I remember an unusual Hermione Moment from my own life. If you're around my age, you may remember the reading comprehension tests we used to take. I think they were from Weekly Reader -- you know, read the paragraph, answer the questions, read the next paragraph, yada yada.

Well, I walked into my English class the day after having taken the test. My teacher was an Uber-grouchy old maid of whom I was terrified. Yet on this Stellar Fourth-Grade Day, the woman loudly announced (she did everything loudly) that I, Jill Schafer, was the only student in the entire fourth grade -- nay, in the entire history of fourth grades in her teaching career -- who had ever gotten 100 percent on the Weekly Reader test. Ever.

She initiated applause. I'm sure she also initiated less than warm and sappy feelings from my fellow classmates.

There you have it. A Hermione Moment.

The summer before my junior year in high school, my drama director asked me if I could hit a high C. I could, and told him so. Somewhere deep inside, I knew that he was casing me for the lead role in the next musical. Even so, I was nervous and uptight at the auditions, just like everyone else. Yes, I landed the role (Lili in Carnival). Yes, the high C sounded as squeaky and untrained as one might expect from a seventeen-year-old upstart.

It was a Hermione Moment nevertheless.

Now it's your turn. What was your most memorable Hermione Moment? Or what is the Hermione Moment you wish you'd had, but never did?

Let's see who can climb to the top of the totem pole!

Monday, November 13, 2006

Captive Audience

Eric is currently in traction three times a day. Don't ask. It's a cervical disc thing. (He's doing just fine -- really.)

Anyway, the traction contraption (contraction?) is set up in the foyer, which is adjacent to the parlor (a.k.a. The Room That Will One Day Contain a Mason and Hamlin Baby Grand But That Now Contains An Out-of-Tune Baldwin Full-sized Upright). So my darling has been requesting that I play the piano for him while he sits with his head in a medical noose.

I've played Chopin. Brahms. The theme from On Golden Pond. I've sung Mozart arias and excerpts from Handel's Messiah. At the end of each piece, Eric "claps" with his foot (it's the only part of his body that he can move, besides his eyelids).

And it's dawned on me. In our eighteen years of marriage, Eric has never listened so intently to my playing. Sure, he's "heard" me playing and offered the occasional, "That was nice, sweetheart." More often than not, he doesn't really notice that I'm playing -- or if he does notice, he starts boisterously singing alone.

Nothing could possibly be more annoying than somebody belting out Beethoven that's meant for the piano.

If I'm singing something from an opera, he usually ignore me, or starts to sing along.

Nothing could possibly be more annoying than somebody singing along when I'm trying to sing a soprano solo.

As if I have a lot of opportunities to play and sing in the first place! My beloved piano has been relegated from my primary passion -- four or more hours a day of practice during my college years -- to an offhand hobby that keeps me in tune with the music within.

Back in my Golden Days, Eric came to my junior recital. Mind you, we were barely friends at the time. He had already graduated, yet there he was, ready to listen to my performance. It was no small thing, either; Eric Boehme didn't show up to any old recital. He had to be convinced ahead of time that it was going to be worth his while to attend.

I was duly flattered. And at the reception he complimented me, and I thanked him for coming. Then he said -- I kid you not -- "I like your dress. I like that thing along the bottom."

Okay. I was wearing an ice blue gown with a wide, satin ribbon trimming the hem. So there stood Eric Boehme complimenting me on the "thing" around my bottom hem. Surely this was the marker of an upcoming romance, yes?

So. That was a lifetime ago. And now I finally have his rapt attention once again -- not because I'm wearing a dazzling gown and playing Poulenc, but because his head is strung up on a pulley attached to a fourteen-pound water bag.

Sometimes you take what you can get.

Requests, anyone?

Friday, November 10, 2006

Things In My House That Aren't In Yours

To round off the week on a lighthearted note, I thought I might challenge you to match -- or supersede -- my list of Unusual Items. Mothers of teenage sons will, of course, have a distinct advantage. Nevertheless, it is my firm belief that nobody else can claim the following:

* Live, freshwater clams in the bottom of a fish tank
* An empty organic cranberry juice bottle, saved for its "beauty"
* A dried-out toad (ex-pet), completely intact (albeit a bit gaunt)
* Borax powder all over the garage floor
* Four dead baby oak trees in a green plastic pot
* Napkin people
* Two bottles of "Fleet"
* A nine-inch largemouth bass, frozen solid (staring from my freezer shelf with his blank eye)
* The bottoms of a cut-off pair of pants, hanging from my foyer light fixture

Okay. Your turn.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

One Hour and Sixteen Minutes

That's how long it took me to vote yesterday.

I'm usually not that diehard about things that have the potential to make me go postal. And it was actually my second trip to the polls. I first popped in around 8:00 in the morning, thinking it would be nice and quick, like it always has been in the past (yes, even during the 2004 elections).

Nope! There was at least an hour's wait and I couldn't stay that long. When I returned later in the afternoon, the line was just as long. It snaked over and around itself like a human reptile in the confines of the hallway, and I had to take a severe leap past my Fear Of Doing The Wrong Thing In Public Places in order to find my way to the end of the line.

I survived. My lower back was hurting by the time my turn came up, but I was fairly proud of myself for sticking it out.

This is so not like me. I didn't even have Eric to chat with or a book to read (I thought I'd look a mite foolish balancing my huge, hardcover copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince). But I did it. I stood in a long, crowded line all by myself for over an hour. I didn't have a panic attack, faint, or have a sudden need to use the bathroom.

Now you know why I'm a writer. Sitting alone in a quiet room makes me happy.

But so does being an American. And so I voted. I hope you did, too.

Monday, November 06, 2006

Pointe To the Stars

For six years, my daughter Maggie has dreamed of dancing en pointe. Last week, she was fitted for her first pair of pointe shoes.

This is no small thing. In fact, it's a rather Big Thing in the life of a young dancer. Buying pointe shoes isn't like buying flip-flops or a pair of sneakers. It's a fine art in and of itself -- so fine, in fact, that Maggie's ballet instructor met Maggie and four other ballerinas at the dance store in order to personally fit each pair of shoes.

As for me? I just stood there gaping, camera in hand. You know that "stupid" feeling that comes over you when you're watching somebody do something you don't understand on even the broadest level?

No? Okay, it must be me.

Anyway, I'm definitely "stupid" when it comes to pointe shoes. I stood there marveling at Mrs. Cadle's adept pinching and squeezing and eyeballing. I tried to decipher the Pointe Shoe Language that she and the saleswoman were fluently speaking.

Nope. It escaped me. So I beamed at my beautiful daughter instead, welling up with the mother-pride that goes hand in hand with moments like this. The beauty of my daughter's feet in a pair of pointe shoes is, for me, a slice of heaven.

The Cloud Nine upon which Maggie was drifting, however, dissipated rapidly when she discovered that she would have to wait for her actual pair of shoes. The store didn't have the "B" width in stock.

Talk about a Crushed Twelve-year-old. Oy! Still, the shoes were ready to be picked up two days later. Of course, when she tried them on, they were too small. And this time, Mrs. Cadle wasn't there to pinch and squeeze and nod her head.

Fortunately, a very helpful woman got Maggie just what she needed (same width, a half-size up), and she came home glowing and sparkling with her pointe shoes and satin ribbons in a bright pink bag.

I still felt stupid. But at least Maggie had her pointe shoes.

Lest your curiosity by piqued, I'll confirm that, yes, pointe shoes are expensive. This First Pair, however, is a gift from the Very Best Granmom In The World (a.k.a. my mother), who herself danced en pointe years ago. What a beautiful gift for one's granddaughter! Not to mention a beautiful gift for one's daughter and son-in-law, who are sort of breaking out in hives over the potential cost of pointe shoes during the next several years.

Times two. Rachel is only a year or two behind her sister.

Still. I couldn't be more pleased. I'm almost as excited, I think, as Maggie. Of course, I'm not the one who will be dealing with bloody toes and aching arches. Being a Ballet Mom is far less painful than being a dancer.

My beautiful daughter. How I love her!

Labels: parenting

Friday, November 03, 2006

John Matteo

Now that my sister has made her official announcement, I can say it, too: My new nephew has arrived.

He weighs just under six pounds and is a bit on the yellow side (my sister claims that he looks like a glow worm), and I wish more than anything that I could hold him for just five minutes.

This is what happens when you live too far away from people who are dearest. They do interesting, life-changing things like having babies, and it doesn't even seem real.

It's probably better this way, though. I'm too frenetic to be of much use during exciting times like bringing home new babies. I think everyone is probably glad that I'm tucked safely away in my home in Tennessee. "Doting from a distance" is something that we faraway aunts learn to do.

Anyway, my Perfectly Beautiful Niece now has a sweet little brother, and I am just so happy for my sister and her (wonderful) husband. These are life's kindest moments -- a reminder of God's undying love for us in the form of a precious, new baby.

Welcome, little John Matteo. I can hardly wait to meet you!

Thursday, November 02, 2006

Shark Boy

Have you ever seen a new tooth grow right in front of a baby tooth? It's...um...interesting.

Spencer has been sporting a "double tooth" for months, right in the front of his little mouth. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, so I didn't say much. But...ugh, you know?

Recently, he announced that he was actually a shark. (Sharks have more than one row of teeth, in case you didn't know that.)

Today we had our regular check-up at the dentist. Spencer was nervous because he was afraid that Dr. Gilliam would yank the tooth, amidst great pain.

I tried to downplay it, told Spencer it would be fine. Of course, I went to the Dentist From Hell as a child, so maybe I didn't sound too convincing. When I was only eight, an abscess appeared on my upper gum, right in the front. Instead of taking an X-ray, my dentist opted for four shots of Novacaine (one of them underneath my tongue) and a wee scissors that snip-snipped the abscess right off of the gum.

There was a lot of blood. My mother ran out of the room (to be sick in the restroom). And I bled for over six hours and had to return to the dentist at midnight, still bleeding.

That is my dental history. I am not the best support system for those in dental distress.

The good news is that Spencer's stubborn baby tooth came out so easily that he didn't even know what Dr. Gilliam was up to. It was an astounding moment; I applauded. The relief and wonder on Spencer's face was...well, priceless.

And now he's wearing his dead tooth around his neck inside a plastic molar with a lid.

Mission accomplished. No nasty shots, no vomiting mother, no need for behavioral therapy. Tooth in a box, prize in pocket, shark boy no more.

That sums up the crux of my day. Excitement beyond measure.

Here's hoping your day held a bit more romance and intrigue than mine.