David Campbell, You Ruin Everything!

She was my first 'real' doll. We were very, very poor and until then I'd owned only used or homemade pillow dolls. This one came from a surprise Christmas gift, and I vowed I'd never lose her.

Seventeen inches tall, molded of finely colored peachy plastic, with flowing blond hair and rooted eyelashes and beautiful blue eyes, this doll was everything I'd ever dreamed of. She came with a pair of pajamas, an undershirt with a tiny bow, and a red cheerleader outfit.

I loved that doll. I loved that red and white cheer outfit, too. It embodied everything that I was not- peppy, coordinated, popular. I named the doll Kimberly and I cherished her.

One day I was brave enough to bring her to school for show and tell. Things went fine until the bus ride home through the rolling hills of Tustin. I had changed Kimberly into her pajamas and had stored her little cheerleader outfit in the plastic baggie that had held my corn chips for lunch. I held my doll and looked out the window, content in the fact that I'd be home within ninety minutes (it was a long bus ride!).

For absolutely no reason whatsoever, David Campbell, that red-haired child of discord that was in my class, suddenly snatched the little baggie out of my hands and tossed it from the open bus window. I screamed once, flailing wildly at the window in futile desperation.

"Why did you do that?!?" I shouted at him through my tears. He merely grinned through his freckles and plopped back down in his seat. I implored the bus driver to stop so that I could find my little bag of clothes, but she was an evil woman and ignored me, rattling down the dirt roads at a good clip of 55mph. Not only did she ignore me, she punished me for yelling instead of David for stealing my belongings. Welcome to my life.

***

I can not remember how many times our bus was stopped by the side of the road while a driver waited for David to stop making trouble. For the second-to-last kid on the bus route, and one acutely subject to motion sickness, each day's ride was a grueling affair. Kids who got off on early stops did not care how much trouble they made for others. I only wish he could have experienced getting home so late in the winter that it was actually dark in the Northern Michigan afternoon. Maybe he wouldn't have been subject to as many half hour delays. Knowing David, however, he probably wouldn't have cared.

David ruined field trips and class visits and playground equipment and lunch outings. He tripped people doing the three-legged race on the last day of school, and he was waiting to steal your cookies on the first day of school. David Campbell was a menace.

***

We had a little biology lesson going on in sixth grade class. A terrarium had found a worthy occupant in a small painted turtle. As time went on, we added a frog for company and some random bugs for food. At some point in time a Mason jar appeared with a single frog egg. This was watched curiously every day- sixth graders, for all of their apparent aloofness, are very inquisitive creatures.

The egg grew and became a tadpole. I missed some of these stages due to illness, but I remember returning to school and heading right for that Mason jar. There he was, swimming placidly in the water, utterly unaware of his impending doom.

We did our studies and were released for lunch hour. I remember cruising out of the classroom and hearing a ruckus behind me, but ignoring it. Partway down the hall, two boys from my class passed me, headed back from the cafeteria, pounding the floor in their rush. These were not boys who ever skipped a lunch, so their urgent need to be in the classroom disturbed me. Could something be wrong? I turned my steps back to the classroom and popped my head around the doorframe just in time to see David Campbell's red head flung back and the Mason jar in his hand, empty.

He had eaten the tadpole.

After lunch recess, we shuffled back into the classroom, ready to finish our studies. David sat smugly in his chair, cutting notches into his desk.

The entire terrarium was gone. Our teacher stood before the class with a grave look on his face.

"I have an announcement." He said simply, "Due to people's lack of respect for the animals in our classroom, we will no longer have any animals in this class. People interested in animals may study them in books, in the library."

David did not get punished, to the best of my knowledge. Turns out, there were no actual rules about kids eating classroom experiments. He did, however, get salmonella. He disappeared from school after vomiting on the schoolbus one day, and was not seen again for two months. I suppose being an idiot does occasionally pay back.

Cellspin test

Cellspin... I'm trying to find a decent Blogger interface for my iPhone. Let's see if this is the one.

If You Seek A Pleasant Peninsula...

...look around you.

That's the state motto of Michigan. I've always been kind of intrigued by the simplicity of those words, and equally intrigued by the sheer magnitude of beauty of my homeland.
Michael and I took a day trip to Pellston last week, stopping at a beach in Charlevoix on our way. It's beautiful up there, of course. If it weren't, there wouldn't be multimillion dollar developments for the privileged, I suppose.

Here are a few photos of Fisherman's Island State Park:
Lake Michigan


This beauty reminded me why Solomon had his temple built of cedar. What a majestic tree!


The rocky outcropping got more intense as the trail wound on. I found it amazing that so many varying life forms can live on and in amongst the rock.
Especially this tree. Stubbornly clinging to the edge of the rock, it seems to flourish despite circumstances. I'm sure there's a lesson in there somewhere...


Here's another life form I found in some rock shoal. Genus: husbandus contentus



Miles of rocky shore, conifers reaching to the sky, and scrubby growth. It is so peaceful on a Michigan beach...

The path to the beach was steep, but the sand felt lovely on the toes.


A turtle was swimming out to sea, ostensibly to catch his dinner. We saw a snapping turtle, too, but didn't have the camera on hand for that one. Those things can bite your finger off!

The Sins of Our Fathers...

"Cheese."

"Eh?"

"Cheese. I made cheese, Nonna."

"What?" Her voice is so weak, so feeble, that her words trail off at the end, every one. My mind races, what is cheese in Italian? Do they even have one word?

"Mozzarella." I let the 'z' and the 'r' and the 'l' roll richly off my tongue, using all of my meager memory of Italian pronunciation, hoping she will understand so that I do not make her feel foolish. If I pronounced it this way in the country store up here, people would laugh at me, but Nonna does not, the sounds are familiar to her brain. Still, she does not catch the word.

"Muh-?" I can hear the hazy confusion in her voice, with a little edge of frustration. I take a deep breath and try again,

"CHEESE. You know, CHEEEESSSE."

A strangled sound comes from the other end of the telephone, she still does not understand. But I cannot give up now, I have to tell her that I made cheese- mozzarella, from her homeland- I did it, be proud of me, mother of my father!

Finally, it clicks in her mind, after another long drawn out loud word.

"Oh!" She cries, happy now to communicate, "Chiz! You make this?" She laughs at me, the strange granddaughter who writes books and carves jewelry and moves too often and now makes cheese. "You find time to do this, after your work?"

"Yes, somehow, Nonna. Its fun. I made pickles too!"

"Peeguls?"

Oh dear, what have I begun? I should have left it at chiz, but now she must know about the peeguls. "Pickles. Pickles." I repeat, wishing that I had kept my mouth shut.

"Peeguls? Oh! You mean Bugles?"

"No, Nonna, pickles. You know, like with a sandwich? Pickles."

"What is this?" After 53 years in America, she still pronounces her letter 'i' like the Italians do- as a long 'e', also her 's', at the end of a word, is a 'z'. So 'is this' sounds like 'eez theez'. It is forever endearing.

"You know what pickles are, Nonna. Cucumbers, giardineira, pickles!"

Giardiniera is a well-known pickle mix, but it also translates to 'in the garden'.

"You do this in your garden?"

"No," I sigh, ignoring the chuckles of my co-workers. A conversation with my nonna is always plainly evident, as I have to yell slowly. "Pickles. Piccolo." Even as I say that word, I wince, knowing that it was the wrong word. It sounded right to my tongue, but my brain knows piccolo means little. Now the poor woman is even more confused. She continues repeating the sounds while I dash to the computer and pull Babelfish. Pickles. English to Italian, enter. There.

"Sottaceti!" I shout, thinking this will work. But I cannot remember the rule for 'ce'. Is it 'ch', or 's' or just 'ck'? I pronounce it all three ways, but she does not recognize the word. She is northern Italian, part Czech, actually, so the word is just as foreign to her as 'pickle'.

This goes on for a few more minutes before I give up and persuade her to forget it. She is silent for a moment, then asks casually how the children are. My throat tightens, because I know where the next question will go.

"Great!" I shout into the receiver, hoping to divert her next question, "They are enjoying summer! They are good girls!" I mention something about my oldest child, who was named after Nonna's mother. She takes a moment to remember the name. My heart sinks, she is getting so very old, so very, very old...

She takes a breath, her voice frail and weary suddenly. "And your father?" She says it 'fadder'. My stomach clenches.

"I don't know, Nonna. I don't speak to him."

"Oh."

There is silence on the phone. I can picture her, two hundred miles away, her thinning white hair bobbing softly as she nods her head. She nods a lot, ostensibly to make up for the language barrier.

"He is...?" She wants to know more of this renegade son of hers, the son who has broken her heart once and for all. We have almost the same conversation nearly every time we speak, which is why we don't speak more often. "Where is he?"

I tell her. Then, led some more, I tell her the few details of the divorce, how he isn't keeping up his end of the deal, as usual. He owes money, lots of money, to many people, especially my mother. Nonna wants to know what he is going to do about it, if he has sold his store yet, what he plans to do. I know none of this. All that I know is that her son, my father, is a dishonest and broken man who has chosen madness and a young Phillipino Internet bride over his family. I do not want to know about him. I want to forget about him. The memory of him, he who I loved and hated so fiercely, makes me tremble inside.

"It is hard..." she complains to me, "so hard, tesora." Tesora means treasure. All of her granddaughters are tesora and cara (my heart) and mi anima (my soul). The Italians have a neverending supply of beautiful pet names for their loved ones. They also have plenty of curses, many of which I heard as a child in my grandmother's home.

"I know, Nonna." I am in my office now, with the door closed. My co-workers may be amused by the loud repetition, but this is not stuff they need to hear. "Its just as hard for me, he's my dad. I want to have a sane dad, someone I can talk to."

"Who what?" She who was lucid for a few moments is now back to not understanding, not hearing right. I wonder if she does it on purpose, if she deliberately hides from the pain of her profligate son. But maybe this is not a wise deduction, for she asks about him every time.

She asks a few more questions, fishing for any hint that he might be changing his ways, seeing the light, humbling himself. But I truly do not have hope to offer her. Her voice gradually sounds thinner, weaker, and I curse myself for even answering anything. But the curiosity is worse than the knowledge to her. I steer the conversation to other things, wishing that I could grab my father by the shoulders and shake him until the blocks fall out of his head, until he sees how he has wounded his mother and his children and his sisters and his wife and everyone around him. I extricate myself from my conversation with Nonna and go home to cook supper. Pralines and chicken and rice pilaf and steamed vegetables and blueberry glaze from my fresh homemade jam. I cook frantically to drown my anger, burning my tongue to a blister on the hot pralines. The pain feels almost leveling and the salt of the blood starting suddenly in my mouth brings me a bit more to reality.

I look at my children, hovering hungrily near the kitchen counter. I wonder vaguely if any of them will ever break my heart- be it drugs, crime, apathy, or just plain stupidity. Did Nonna ever see it coming? The brave dark-haired woman who came to Detroit so very many years ago with two small children who had taken their Communion early, did she know her grandchildren would attempt unsuccessfully to reassure her one day?

Am I, who is so much like him, going to break my own family's heart some day? I've heard plenty about the sins of the fathers, and I fight off the arrogance and selfishness and paranoia every day. So far, I'm winning, so far I've managed to conquer the demons of my past. If I can keep this up for another forty years, maybe it will be all right.

Maybe then I'll have paid for my father's sins.

Publishing Attempts

They say everyone thinks that they have a book inside of them.

They say writing that book is only one third of the work. Then its up to finding an agent.

Well, I've written the book. I've even written a sequel. And another sequel. I've gotten lots of good reviews from friends and family, and one or two iffy reviews. I didn't have the nerve, however, to look for an agent. Too afraid of rejection slips and form emails.

Then I matured a little, or something along those lines. In June of this year, I finally wrote my query letter, perfectly worded (we hope!). I found a few agents, starting mailing & emailing query letters and and synopses and sample pages.

I've had two ignores and two rejections so far. Its great! I don't feel discouraged or inclined to no longer write. I am going to keep sending my work off until I've been rejected 100 times. If my spirit doesn't break by then, I'll have finished my sci-fi and can start sending that off. Its written from a completely different voice, longer, more detailed, less humorous, more emotional. It is also a series, like the mystery novel, but will spread out over more years. Its 'harder' writing.

So, I'm on a journey of sorts. Doing this took more nerve than I've ever been able to muster. Eventually I'll be on a bookshelf somewhere, beyond the ones of dear friends who've bought my book out of pity.

Wish me luck, ya'll. Its a long, hard road.

Fear of Heights

What fear of heights?


Here's Michael today, 180' (that's feet, people) up in the air, fiddling with his dad's wireless internet service thingie.

I took a couple more shots, angling to try to get the perspective right, and then my accursed camera died. Again.
Dangnab camera, a relic of 2004. We need to start a camera fund, and I swear my posts will be more interesting. Anyhow, today the girls and I also conquered a little bit of our fear, climbing 50' up on a 'treetop' platform in the Old Mill Creek State Park, at the tip of Michigan's mittened middle finger. From there, we could see the Mackinaw Bridge, Mackinac Island, and a lot of Lake Huron. It was gorgeous, and my camera was, reliably, dead. We stood up there for a few minutes, drinking in the sight, feeling the sturdy steel platform sway gently beneath our feet. Then our knees wobbled from sheer terror, and we clambered down.

Now my thumb itches because some wretched creature bit it while I was positioning myself in the woods trying to photograph Michael. I'm going to go medicate it and go out and stare at my monkey husband again. I'm going to think of his grandfather, paralyzed after falling out of a tree two decades ago, and I'm going to pray that he comes down safe.

I'm more afraid of heights from the ground.

Things I Learned Painting Faces

Every third weekend in July there is an art fair here in Cadillac. Replete with food, entertainment of all kinds, art ranging from mediocre to spectacular, and fun kid stuff- it is a lovely break in the middle of summer.

Several years ago, my little sister Julie, then just a scrawny teenager, began painting faces for a few bucks a pop. She'd set up a little stand at the art fair, arrange a semi circle of paint pots and glitter applicators, and sit down. The kids would throng the stand, sweaty dollars in hand, and come out decorated with butterflies, cobras, flowers, lightning, lizards, and nearly everything imaginable! I have had the opportunity of helping out on the off-year, making a few bucks while plying the two-dimensional art that I don't often get to.

Its been a while since then- all of us girls have our own kids now. My sis is still thin- but a lovely lady today, the worship leader and a pastor's wife at her growing church. We've missed a few years due to childbearing, work, not being around... but for the most part Julie's been there most every July, painting faces in the hot July sun.

This year I got to help out again. And I learned a few things that I thought I'd share:

1) The most wiggly of children is capable of extreme stillness if they know the payoff is within reach.
I had kids that could not stand still in line, yanking on mom's or grandma's hand while they shimmied and squirmed and knocked my paints over. The minute those kids were in the chair, and received a friendly admonishment to sit still or we couldn't paint their flaming guitar- they were a statue. Some kids try so hard to sit still that their faces scrunch up and they tremble just a bit.

2) This is the closest I will ever get to being Santa or the Easter Bunny.
Seriously, I have never seen kids stand in a boring line for so long other than to sit on Santa's lap! We even had kids stand in the rain! They would wait, studying our sample boards intently, being just about as good as kids can be. Some would wait for well over thirty minutes. I don't think I've ever willingly stood in line for anything for that long, but maybe as a child time meant something different to me...

3) Children are precious.
This is a platitude, I know. I have never been a fan of the mini-human. Sure, I have my own kids, but I have never chosen to be in the company of children- noisy, dirty, irritating little snots that they are. But for some reason I don't feel this way any more. Maybe its maturity, maybe its the simple fact that my own three noisemakers are at Grandpa's this week and I miss them. Or maybe it is just that, in a world full of vileness and apathy and greed and war, there are these tiny spots of innocence where all it really takes to set the world right is a handpainted rainbow (with sparkles, mind you!) on a thin, sticky little arm. Every single child that sat in my painter's chair was a darling capable of melting any hardened heart, if given the chance. There was the young girl who asked me if her painting was 'permnanent', the little boy who wanted a whole-face skull in order to scare his grandparents, the tiny tykes who could barely voice their choice of painting (a cupcake, inevitably), and the very serious little girl who needed to customize every color of her forehead tiara painting.

4) Glitter can cover a multitude of evils.
I have come from an artistic family. My mother is a phenomenal painter, my dad sculpts & draws, my middle sister is a wonderful decorator and has a good eye for color, my youngest sis is an amazing artist, and you regular readers know what I do. So I'm not your average gimpy street fair face painter, with a catalog of one soccer ball, one primary color rainbow, and one unrecognizable puppy. Julie and I have a pretty good repertoire of designs, all using multiple tones, color gradients, and fine detail. However, there is the odd brush stroke that cannot be undone, the line that bent when the arm or cheek moved. There is the lizard leg that went just a tiny bit canterwonky, or the flower petal that reaches out a quarter inch beyond its peers. A good dusting of fine cut iridescent glitter can make it all look better...

5) Our children are becoming normalized to mass production.
Julie and I painted our sample boards ourselves. Although we are the artists on the black canvas boards, and we are the artist on the peanut butter-smudged cheek, there is just not a way, really, to have every five-minute paint job be the exact same. Most kids would pick a painting off the board, then watch us apply it to their arm. Often, a confused look would cross their face when this strand of unicorn hair was longer, curlier, or more aqua than the strand on the board. Very few kids minded, and most were happy to have something unique, for them. But I realize their confusion when I watch a cartoon, or wander a toy aisle. Images of Disney princesses and Bob the Builder pass before my eyes- licensed character that have to look exactly like the next one. Mass conformity is scary. Keep your kids away from it if you can.

6) Incredibly simple things can make a child's day.
As an adult, I have somehow lost my ability to just be delighted. There is always the next thing to get to, a load of dishes to be washed, a bill unpaid, a headache forming just beyond the worries of the day. My favorite paintings to do are face. When you do a kid's arm, they pretty much get to watch it unfold, and are generally happy, but unimpressed with the result. When you do their face, however, they don't know what the heck is going on. They can feel the fine wet bristles tickle their face, they can see Mom's head nod in encouragement, and they can see what shade of yellow I'm using next. But they see the whole work all at once, in a mirror. There is generally the same reaction- an open mouth, glowing eyes, a little gasp. They linger over the mirror, almost touching the still-wet paint, afraid to smudge the little bit of art on their person. It is a moment of sheer delight, and they usually skip away happy. I need to find some things that delight me, and remember to just shove everything else out of my mind and experience that gasp, that uplifting of the shoulder blades, that joy.

I bet you do, too.

If its Tourist Season, Why Can't We Shoot Them?

Every weekend they come. They fill the small local highway with their SUVs and their boat trailers and their lavish campers. They come up on M115 because that's the straightest route from the Metro Detroit area. These people do not come from Detroit, however, they hail from wealthier zip codes like Novi and Farmington Hills and Clarkston.

Many of then have come since they were children. It is something of a family tradition, going 'up North'. Some own cabins up here- perfectly functional houses on a small body of water. Some camp- the little state campground a mile from my house swells to capacity during the summer. When I drive by, the scent of firewood and grilling meat assails my nostrils.

We thought the high gas prices would keep them away this year- but it hasn't, not one bit. Many who have chosen to stay home this year because of gas are being replaced by people who are traveling closer. But a far greater percentage of people just aren't affected by the gas prices. One can see that in the idling Lexus GX outside the liquor store, or the Lincoln Navigator that gets fired up to drive the owners from the campground to Chico's Taco House, a distance of some half a mile.
They bring money to the area, that is true. Cadillac, Houghton Lake, Traverse City, Beulah. All towns that do not really have a lot going for them without the fickle tourist season. Towns with water, towns with closed factories and hopeful storefronts and stacks of boats by the shore.

These people come here to get away from the hectic crushing pace of life in their own towns. Every time I find myself for even an hour in the vicinity of Square Lake Road or Dixie Highway, I remember why my father transplanted away from that. Here there is peace, quiet, solace in nature. In Bloomfield Hills and Rochester there is traffic and noise and road rage and cell phones and trendy clothiers and salons. These people work in the squat office buildings all week, or in the upper echelons of the crumbling American auto industry, or they own businesses that cater to their fellow upper class Michiganders. They do this all week, fighting the traffic and the hustle and the road rage. The women work out and have their hair elaborately tinted, then bring those gleaming heads and hard bodies up here and down drinks all weekend. The men work hard but they don't seem to work out, and they bring their paunches and baseball caps and sandals up here and grill steaks and drink beer and boat all weekend.

Sometimes the women shop in the downtown areas. They do this in clutches, clones of each other tripping into the stores and ignoring the help and picking daintily through the racks of offerings. Some are kind, some are not. They bring the attitude of downstate up north into our towns. The locals see the large sunglasses and streaked hair and Hollister shirts and do their best to imitate it. But you can always, always tell a local from a tourist. We have a more relaxed set to our shoulders, a few more pounds on our bodies.

The traffic that the tourists bring is amusing. Miles of gleaming vehicles will get stuck behind one slow-moving RV on the two-lane highway. By the time the families tumble out of their cars in the Burger King parking lot, they are rumpled, tired of traveling, at odds with each other. They are never quite sure where they are going, except for the ones that have come here since childhood. Negotiating a turn across the secondary highway is a suicide wish sometimes, as many of these massive cars have no regard for any other vehicle on the road.

The Fourth of July is always a huge tourist weekend, with throngs of weary vacationers heading this way and that- to the fireworks, on a beer run, in amongst the smoking barbecues and fluttering American flags.

Then comes August- hotter and stickier than the very name leads us to believe. The tourists stay in their cars more now, running the air conditioners that leave little pools of water in every parking lot, remnants of society determined to have their leisure at any cost. The lakes here are just now fit to swim in, it has only been a few months since a foot or two of ice has melted, you see.

By September, things have slowed down somewhat. Labor Day weekend is the one last hurrah, then many families have to get their offspring to school and college and life. The park begins to empty out, the neat little stacks of firewood dwindle and disappear inside a local's barn or garage. They'll wait there, quietly, resigned to their solitude. Kind of like us, the local people that must stay here through the long and harsh winter. We don't have to struggle with the traffic any more. There will be a few short bursts of it throughout winter- hunting and ice fishing and snowmobiling and skiing draws them up again. These sports, however, bring up a rather different set of people. Burly men with large pickup trucks and voices that carry across a starkly cold landscape.

We're in the midst of it now, this tourist season. There are a few farm stands by the roadside, selling the lovely cherries that this area is famous for. Hotels stand at the ready with clean towels and indifferent 'continental breakfasts'. The local eateries have extra high schoolers ready to bus tables and fetch bread. The stores stand hopefully at the ready- maybe this year we'll make some money, maybe this year we can make enough to get us through the winter. Maybe this year we'll be the ones who leave our town and join the fray and the hustle and the noise and the traffic of down there, so that we can own the 5 bedroom 3 bath house on the perfectly manicured suburban corner, with three luxury vehicles in the garage and a party to attend every month...

all images via flickr, courtesy of farlane, a true Michigan appreciator

and then we look around ourselves- at the lakes and the pristine forests and the peeling paint on our homes and the wild weather and the driving snow and the towering, whispering red pine... and we think to ourselves- maybe not.

short story

she was tall, svelte, willowy.

he was rotund, swarthy, greasy.

together they made a pair worthy of the attention of everyone around them. Nicola and Cherchek. Cherchek and Nicola. fidelity was not required of either, but they adhered to it as if their life depended upon it.

they worked the casinos along Monte Carlo- Nicola insulting American women until their eyes would widen and their cheeks redden. that's one thing about those American women- they never know how to deflect the curled lip, the rolling eye. it is personal for them, inside their insecure little minds, very personal. the American women would stumble off to their American husbands, angrily demanding valiance and chivalry that had never been taught the American men, not since the Victorian times had chivalry been taught in the United States.

but, lo and behold, who would those women find drinking and laughing with their spineless husbands but a toady man with a large face and a gravelly voice. while the American women tottered on their pointy heels, sputtering rage and insecurity, their male counterparts would blink confusedly, unsure of what to do or say. and that is the point where Cherchek would sweep in with flattery and condolence. would she, the lovely lady, allow him, the lowly Cherchek, to assist in any way, any way at all? not to be a braggart- Cherchek would lower his eyes always at this line- but he was something of an experienced regular in this area, someone the casinos actually relied upon to keep things running smoothly...

the American husband would blink once more, assuring his wife that this toady man was really a good sort, and if he knew how to handle these damned uptight foreign women, then he would be quite a boon indeed.

and Cherchek would sweep off in all of his greasy-haired glory to accost the arrogant Nicola. but, no! the American woman would invariably put a hand out to stop the valiant man- no, not like that! because if there is one thing a wealthy American woman can handle less than an insult, it is a confrontation amongst what she regards to be her own class. but what did the American lady want of Cherchek then? surely she would not sit and stifle her anger at an insult? surely she required justice, requisite humiliation?

confusion is often the greatest weapon of all. next to confusion, in human weaponry, is obligation. by this time, you see, Cherchek had ingratiated himself to the couple. he would suggest drinks, a round of games in another gallery perhaps, and more drinks. he would apologize for his fellow people, although he and Nicola were not even from the same country- what did Americans know of the world outside of their television box and cozy vehicle?

and eventually Nicola would saunter into their gallery, whether they were playing craps, or roullette, or blackjack... she would find them and she would tilt a perfect eyebrow at the American woman and she would sit down- ever so gracefully on the edge of her seat. the American woman would become suddenly conscious of her every move, her own bulk compared to the lissome woman across from her, her own clumsiness in stark contrast to the measured grace of a single wave of Nicola's hand.

and here is where Cherchek would move in for the kill. he would lean across the table and encourage the American couple to humiliate the beautiful woman- humiliate her in a way that she would feel forever- with her pocketbook! bet hard against her! you have more card knowledge, Cherchek would elbow the American man, more card knowledge than this slip of a woman across from you- look she has just called on a knave of spades! how foolish, how clumsy!

and in her turn, Nicola would suddenly notice the American couple as an adversary. she would fidget, just a bit this turn, a tiny bit more the next turn. Cherchek never made eye contact with Nicola, and she never so much as glanced in his direction. she would pull out a cigarette and fumble with the lighter, cursing it under her breath. the American woman would sit up a bit more straight in her chair, would hold her head up a little higher than the last turn. as her confidence grew, so did her betting.

of course you know the end, the end of every single couple that crossed the paths of Nicola and Cherchek. it wasn't just Americans, oh no. sometimes it was Japanese groups, sometimes English folk who hadn't seen the racket before.

but it was a beautiful game, all such a beautiful game, for Nicola and Cherchek. and they would smile at each other in their hotel room later, smile as they undressed and counted their earnings. it wasn't a bad thing, they reminded each other every single day, not a bad thing at all. it is an education that we provide, and an amusement for the tourists.

and all such a beautiful game.

by sarah j. christenson, july of 2008

Satisfaction

There's a sound coming from my kitchen. Now, I normally don't like sounds- aggravating things that they are- but this sound is different. It sounds like success, like providing for my family's future, like something that I did right, for once.

Plip! Plip! ...Plip!!

It's the sound of my jam jars sealing. Jars full of fresh Michigan strawberries- washed, hulled, crushed, sugared, boiled...

...and preserved. Preserved for up to one year. I've done enough batches that we should have strawberry jam for quite some time. There are whole berries in the freezer, sliced and sugared also, and strawberry ice cream sauce in an old salsa jar in the fridge. A new box of Ball jars awaits this coming Tuesday's pickling endeavors, and there is homemade panir in my cheese drawer, homemade clarified butter cooling on the counter, homemade oatmeal bread waiting for the extra jam to cool, and a batch of raw milk kefir in the fridge. There's homemade creme fraiche and beef stock, things that I have saved some money by making myself.

My feet hurt and I'm kind of sick of my kitchen, but its one of the greatest senses of satisfaction I've felt in a long time!

Big deal, some of you say- you who either see no use in homesteading or have been living this way for many years. But it is a big deal, to shake off the chains of commercially prepared food and control a little bit of what goes into our bodies. To have the pride of holding up a piece of bread, dripping with hot jam, and know that we made the bread, the butter, and the jam- all by ourselves. No high fructose corn syrup, no MSG, no hydrogenated vegetable oil. Its a feeling of complete and utter satisfaction- not just with jam and bread- but with life in general! A life that allows us to read what we please, eat what we please, worship who and where and when we please, and always have the opportunity for better things.

I'm blessed. I'm satisfied. I may not have it all, not nearly. My bills are behind and my hip hurts and my car got dinged up even more today, but I have a home to rest my head in tonight and a fan to blow cool summer night breezes on me and a slender husband to curl up against and beautiful sticky-faced girls to climb into bed tomorrow and kiss me before breakfast.

And maybe for breakfast we'll have some bread and jam. Just because.