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Monday, January 30, 2012

First Love

by Susan Matthewson


Georgie fell in love for the very first time in Mrs. Wilfley’s third-grade class at Troy Hill Elementary on the first day of school in September. She also learned a lesson about boys that she was too young to know she’d learned at that time, but that she’d use to her advantage later on.


She was just eight years old that first day of school, but by the time she turned 13 she would have learned that lesson so well that it would make her one of the most popular girls at Troy Hill High. But on this day, September 7, 1961 that was all far in the future. Georgie was very much tangled up in the present, nervous about her new teacher and who would be in her class.

The school bell rang, and the children raced for the front door like a swarm of hungry puppies. They scrambled, jumped and tumbled up the stairs, nudging each other here and there, yelping and squealing. They squeezed through the big double wide front doors five and six at a time. In the tumult, Georgie stumbled on a step and dropped her lunchbox, which burst open and popped out the carefully wrapped sandwich and big red apple her mother had packed for her.

Georgie grabbed at the sandwich and stuffed it back in the box, struggling to keep her balance amid the hustling, bustling students, but the apple bounced once and started to roll down the stairs. Trying to keep an eye on it through a forest of knee socks and sneakers, she yelled out, “Hey, stop that apple, someone!” She was about to give up on it and let herself be swept along by the scampering children when a little boy bounced up beside her holding the apple, plopped it into her lunch box, grabbed her arm, and rushed up the stairs with her.

Once in the doors, Georgie and her apple rescuer stopped for a minute to catch their breath, wondering where Mrs. Wilfley’s third-grade room was. They turned to each other then and said at the same time, “Where is the class…”. Both stopped in shock at the same moment as they looked at each other face to face for the first time. The surprise left both of them staring, mouths agape. Missing one front upper tooth, red-haired, freckle-faced, blue-eyed Georgie gazed thunderstruck at a male version of herself—a red-haired, freckle-faced, blue-eyed boy, also eight and also missing one front lateral incisor.

It was love at first sight for Georgie. She stood rooted to the floor in a daze. But the boy shook his head as if to chase away a bad dream and took off down the hall, yelling, “The poster says Mrs. Wilfley, Room 115.” He seemed totally unaware that a Great Moment had just occurred as Huckleberry Finn and Pippi Longstocking came face to face under the big ceiling clock in the front hall of Troy Hill Elementary.

Georgie raced down the hall, skittered through the door of Room 115 right behind him, plopped into the desk beside him, and melted into her very first romantic obsession. Her heart raced, her breath gasped, and her eyes flashed their very first fetching flirty glance at the object of her affections who was paying not one bit of attention to her.

Mrs. Wilfley began the roll call as the students settled down. “Children,” she said if you have a nickname you prefer instead of the full names listed on the attendance roll, please call it out after you say ‘Here.’”

Not knowing her love’s name, Georgie listened closely to hear the name he answered to. “Gerard Evans,” Mrs. Wilfley called out.

“Here,” said the most beautiful red-haired boy in the world. “Please call me Gerry.”

Georgie sat impatiently through the morning tasks associated with the first day of school—the assigning of cubby holes for belongings, seat assignments, announcements, rules of the classroom, etc. She couldn’t wait for the first recess because she was determined to mark Gerry as hers from the very first day.

At recess, she followed Gerry to the playground, tagging right behind him, as he and Ted Bondi headed for the tetherball pole. The other girls were gathered at the swings or the teeter totters, where they giggled and whispered. But Georgie ignored them and took a stance by the tetherball court as Gerry and Ted began a game.

Gerry glanced over at her. “What are you doing?” he asked. “There are no girls in this game. Just boys. The girls are over at the swings; you should go over there,” he said firmly, but without rancor.

“I just wanted to know where you’re from.” Georgie asked. “You didn’t go to school here last year, at least I don’t remember you at all.”

“I just moved here this summer,” he said as he reared back, hit the tetherball with his fist, and sent it flying around the pole. “You better go over there with the girls. You can’t play in this game.”

“Who says?” Georgie challenged. “And why not?”

“I say,” responded Gerry, “because girls can’t hit the ball hard enough. They’re too easy.”

“I can hit the ball plenty hard; you just wait and see. I’m not leaving.”

Ted then jeered back, “Go on, Georgie. Go over with the girls. This is boys only.”

“I am not leaving,” repeated Georgie. “I want to play tetherball and you’ll see I can play just as good as you. You have to let me. It’s only fair.”

“Oh, yeah,” Billy said. “Whatcha gonna do? Go tell the teacher like a tattletale?”

Georgie crossed her arms across her chest, and with a defiant look, said, “No, I’m not going to tell the teacher. I’m just going to wait here for my turn.”

The two boys continued their game and ignored Georgie until she decided to make it impossible for them to ignore her. She started cheering them on, calling out “Good shot, Ted,” and “Way to go, Gerry.” She clapped her hands, whistled through her teeth, and jumped up and down. Though she was focused on Gerry, she cheered Ted when he made a good shot, too. Before long the boys were competing as much for Georgie’s attention as they were to win the game. Unaware of the effect that Georgie’s cheering and compliments were having, they picked up the pace and intensity of the game until both boys were sweating and breathing hard. Finally, with one big powerful hit at the ball, Gerry pushed it up and away over Ted’s head and the tether wrapped around the pole before Ted could hit it back.

Georgie stood up and clapped. “Great game. You guys are really good. But I promise I can hit the ball hard. Come on, give me a chance. Who knows, I think I could win. We’ll never know unless you let me try.”

Georgie’s enthusiasm and energy had softened the boys’ attitudes, but the suggestion that she might be able beat either one of them decided the matter. That was an outcome that could not be left in doubt.

“Okay,” said Gerry. “I’ll play you once and then Ted will play you once, but that’s all. Got it?”

So, with a little feminine psychology she didn’t even know she knew, Georgie weaseled her way into the tetherball game and grabbed the attention of both boys. While Georgie played against Gerry, Ted stood on the sidelines and cheered. But he didn’t cheer for Gerry; he cheered for Georgie. Gerry won the game fairly, but kept his word and let Georgie play Ted. He cheered for Georgie, too.

Although she couldn’t really define it, Georgie knew that something had shifted since the boys first attempted to chase her away. Somehow she had become the center of the boys’ attention and the tetherball had become just an object the two boys used to impress her. It would be a few more years before she’d completely figure it out, but she learned right then that she liked being the center of attention…more specifically she liked being the center of boys’ attention with the emphasis on boys in the plural.

Georgie stayed in love with Gerry Evans until Christmas. Then like all first loves, it was a perfect love until it wasn’t. At Christmas, Ted gave her a turtle in a terrarium. She named the turtle Gerry and fell in love with Ted.







Monday, January 23, 2012

A Heart and Brain Trying to Break Free

by Nancy Grossman-Samuel

I can dispel words from my brain quite quickly, but not many of them are worthy of being reread even by me, no less hoisted upon the unsuspecting eyes of strangers and friends. Friends might be a little more forgiving, but strangers – well, it’s their prerogative to dislike, criticize, and demand their time back.

How do good writers do it anyway? How do they get and then allow their ideas to spill from brain to fingers to keyboard or paper and pen?

I am so jealous. I want wonderful ideas. I want to come up with poignant conversations between characters that will change the course of history – or at least my own life, but I hesitate to begin. The voices stop me. I start, erase, start and delete some more.

I move to the piano, but that’s little better, mostly I just bang along. If only I could play a Chopin Nocturne like Arthur Rubinstein or Yuja Wang I would never leave my piano. I would play all day and all night. I would annoy the too close neighbors, but then, if I were that good, they might even enjoy it. But to WRITE the nocturnes. I am in awe. I am in awe of creativity.

I go back to the other keyboard and Pandora accompanies my attempt to put my thoughts on paper but she forces me out of my chair and away from the keyboard where words are my for now enemy and encourages my body to move. So I oblige and start to dance. I piroet and leap up and down my empty hallway. One of my cats sticks its head out of a door and I sway toward him like a leaf being blown by the wind. He tilts his head; he thinks I'm good; he is enjoying it; I am enjoying it. I continue to float up and down the hallway to the strains of Telemann. I stand on toes, move my ancient limbs as the music demands. I become self aware and am glad that only my cats are here to enjoy the spectacle of me.

Creativity – it’s so important. So fulfilling. If I could just allow myself to experience and express without the judgments and feelings of frustration then at least I could entertain myself. And what is more joyful then feeling filled by the happiness of having created something that at least I enjoy – even if no one else ever will?

It’s child-like - creating just for the fun of creating. Expressing for the fun of expressing and not caring a whit for others’ opinions. When did others’ opinions become my gods and rules and guides? When did I kill my own internal guidance that tells me what I enjoy whether or not anyone else does? How do I get it back? How can I loose myself from the shackles of the god of opinion? I think there is no higher calling, nothing more important than learning to listen to the beat of my own heart and to experience and express from that.

But for now, I share the ramblings of a heart and brain beginning to break free.

Monday, January 16, 2012

Santa Ana, 9/8/94

by Susan Cameron

I wrote this in 1998 (I think!) about an incident in 1994. I still like it. :)
(And I'm glad Santa Ana has calmed down tremendously compared to back then).


I fling my bulletproof vest on the chair and open my first beer.
We worked the war zone on Third Street tonight.
My adrenaline's still pumping, nerves jumping,
heart thumping, body ready for flight or fight;
Genghis Khan would get his ass capped if he rolled up here.

Kafka couldn't invent this place. Teenage killers roam
while their parents cower trembling behind window bars.
Their bullets play with babies: "Tag, you're hit!"
And that's it. Tiny coffins, processions of beat-up cars
head to the graveyard to take the innocents home.

This story is as old as time, as old as Cain and Abel,
as old as I feel right now. But Attila the Homeboy is young.
He rips through flesh and crunches bone, a predator high on
testosterone and unconcerned with right or wrong.
There's no guilt or redemption in this fable.

So off we went to war again -- blue suits versus black,
shirts and skins -- to make the world safe; another story
you've heard before. The players change but the game
stays the same. We busted a hundred and got some glory;
but they'll make bail, and they'll be back.

Susan Cameron, copyright 1998


Monday, January 9, 2012

No Clouds for You

By Liz Zuercher

For my photographer husband, Gary, the perfect ocean sunset requires just the right configuration of clouds, but any clouds in the sky will send him to the beach in pursuit of his next great photograph. Lately, though, Mother Nature has not cooperated.

Late each afternoon he checks the sky. If there are clouds he is out the door in a flash, on his way to the beach. If he returns with stooped shoulders and a slow gait I know the clouds were gone by the time he reached the ocean shore.

I’ve gone with him on some of these excursions, and I’ve seen how fast the clouds can disappear. It’s uncanny. One minute you are looking out toward the horizon and perfect tufts or swirls decorate the sky. You turn your back on them for an instant, and when you look again they have flattened to a murky haze. Then before your eyes even the haze dissipates entirely and all that remains is an empty ceiling turning gray in the waning light.

Gary has taken this dearth of clouds to be a taunt by Mother Nature. He hears her saying, “No clouds for you.” That has become the mantra that describes any number of situations in our lives. Anything that is beyond our control invokes the mantra. Anything that doesn’t turn out the way we’d hoped. Anything that makes us sigh. No clouds for you. The words themselves have become a big sigh.

But while Gary mourns the absence of literal clouds, I wish the figurative clouds in my creative life would dissipate as quickly and effortlessly as those perfect tufts over the ocean at sunset. I have been trying to shoo my clouds away for five years as I’ve worked to bring a complete novel out of their shadows. But they’re stubborn, refusing to clear. They obscure the path and I get lost. Those clouds frustrate me. I want them to give way to clear skies where unobscured sunlight illuminates the road to the end of the story. I yearn for easy, carefree cloudless writing days. I want Mother Nature to say to me, “No clouds for you.”

Or so I think. For Gary the clouds are necessary to his art. They create tension, drama and conflict. They make his sunset photograph interesting, give dimension, color and contrast to his image. The clouds are the picture. They are the art. They are what draws people’s eyes to the picture, what speaks to them and touches them and makes them say “What a beautiful picture. Isn’t nature the best artist?” The clouds don’t obscure the light, they define it, reflect and amplify it, scatter it across the sky in a million different directions. Without them, the picture is dull and uninteresting, and it goes unnoticed.

So maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe the clouds are the story, and I need to examine them more closely instead of shooing them away.