I realized recently that I have spent so much time revising my novel from NaNoWriMo that I have not posted any fiction on my blog in a while. Okay, fine, I've mostly avoiding posting any of my stories; NaNoWriMo just makes a good scapegoat. So, I decided to share a short story that is about Heidi, the character in the story "Shut Doors" that I shared back in July. This one is an anecdote from her childhood.
Dandelions Usually, five-year-old Heidi did not enjoy visiting her elderly neighbor Mrs. Williams because she was sure that Mrs. Williams’s fat, gray cat was going to pounce on her and scratch her the way it had attacked the poor little mouse toy on their last visit. But each week, her mother checked on Mrs. Williams and insisted that Heidi come visit, too. At least this visit, the cat was purring innocently on Mrs. Williams’s lap inside the living room while Heidi and her mother brought the laundry in. Well, really, her mother Lauri was gathering the laundry; Heidi was busy exploring the yard. She grinned as she watched the dandelions bob in the breeze. Everywhere she looked seemed to be overflowing with the bobbing yellow flowers. Curious, Heidi tip-toed carefully around each dandelion, wondering just how many of these spots of sunshine lived in the backyard. “Heidi,” her mother Lauri, called from the clothesline in the backyard, “Come back over here where I can see you.” Heidi looked up. She had wondered into the sideyard without realizing it. “Coming,” she called, careful to avoid crushing any of the dandelions under her mary janes as she slowly returned to her mother. Lauri smiled as she paused in folding the sheets to watch Heidi’s slow progress. She knew that Heidi had a good reason for taking such oddly placed steps. “Can we go home soon?” Heidi asked once she reached her mother. “Soon. I want to check that Mrs. Williams has supper ready before we leave,” Lauri said as she unpinned the last sheet from the clothesline. She picked up the laundry basket and started walking toward the house, holding a hand out for Heidi. “Mom,” Heidi cried out. “What’s wrong?” Lauri stopped and turned back. “You broke the flowers.” Heidi pointed to the smooshed dandelions Lauri had just stepped on. “You know, Heidi, some people call those weeds,” Lauri said, planning to use the moment to teach Heidi about flowers. Heidi thought a moment and stared at the crushed yellow flower that had amused her earlier. Then she cocked her head in a way her mother was familiar with. “But what does God call them?” And in her mind, the matter was settled. Lauri smiled, and hand-in-hand, they walked to the house, carefully not hurting any more of the dandelions.
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I love options. That is why Friday is my favorite day of the week: it equals potential. By Saturday, the weekend is already half over; By Sunday, the weekend is over as Pre-Monday sets it. But Friday, oh, Friday holds the potential for an amazing weekend. That is also why I love gift cards: I hold on to them for months, imagining the wonderful things I could buy with them.
Yet, I hate options. Back in high school when I worked at Donut World, I regularly encountered people who could not handle ordering donuts for their co-workers. They would calmly announce their intention to buy a dozen donuts and then freeze as I stood by the display case waiting for them to pick some flavors. This phenomena is so normal that comedian Brian Regan turned it into part of his stand-up routine. “You have a lot of donuts,” those people say. (Yet, those are the same people that say we have nothing if we are out of only the two flavors they want.) And they all follow the same pattern. They start with “I want one glazed; how many do I have left?” “Eleven,” I say. Still overwhelmed, they stand in indecision’s grip for several silent moments before adding a chocolate frosted to the box. “How many left now?” they check. “Ten,” I say. “Okay, okay, add two with sprinkles and one cream filled. No, wait, take away one of those sprinkles. How many are left now?” An eternity of basic arithmetic later, they finally leave with their donuts, and I move on to the next customer, who mercifully orders a medium coffee with two creams and ten sugars (true story). You get the picture. This last week, I reminded myself of my beloved indecisive Donut World customers. I had a costumed event to go to. The theme of the day was “Fictional Characters.” Really? You couldn’t help me out at all by narrowing it down for me. Suddenly, I simultaneously wanted to be everyone and no one. Drunk of the wine of Choice, I snubbed my nose at every blasé idea that my friends suggested. “You could go as Elizabeth Bennett,” they said. “You have a dress for that.” “I want to go as the Scarlet Pimpernel,” I moaned. I didn’t have the outfit for that. “You could go as Velma from Scooby-doo,” they patiently suggested. “You’ve done that before.” “That’s too expected,” I said. “I want to go as Princess Leia.” I didn’t have the outfit for that, either. The crazy thing is that had the event coordinators given some boundaries, I would have instantly come up with my costume. “Come as a Disney character!” Inside Out’s Fear, got it! “Come as a character from classic literature!” Got it: Rosalind from Shakespeare’s As You Like It! But “Come as any fictional character ever,” quite frankly, overwhelmed me with possibilities and blinded me to realities. I’m sort of surprised I decided on a costume at all. And even though the event was inconsequential and long over, I’m still mulling over what I should have gone as. Perhaps I should have gone as Mary Poppins. Or the chimney sweep! Like my favorite children’s literature character Clementine, I have astoundishing ideas sproing into my head all the time. Fortunately, unlike Clementine, my mouth usually doesn’t surprise me by blurting out these ideas, but sometimes, I feel sorry my astoundishing ideas because I can’t use them, but someone should. So, if any of you want to adopt any ideas, I have some that need a good home.
One idea in particular has been weighing on my mind for a while. I was minding my own business watching tv, and during the commercials, an idea sproinged into my head (this is a frequent side-effect of commercial-watching for me. I have decided that if I ever become a sociologist, my main subject of inquiry will be commercials.). Here was a poor man with a pained smile yelling a phone number at the screen while walking awkwardly through a used car lot. Although annoyed by his yelling at me, I felt sorrow for him because someone convinced him that this commercial was a good idea. I also feel sorry for the lady in the commercial at the competing car lot: she has to talk to a cartoon smiley face. I understand why her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. So, since Americans love their reality tv and their make-over shows, I thought: what if we combined those two loves to rid the world of sad local commercials? It’s pretty much two rights cancelling out a really big wrong. The first step would be to nominate terribly made local commercials. The commercials with the most votes each week would be chosen to be made-over. The make-over teams would be composed of film students, acting students, marketing students, etc. These are people who are studying the field and could use some hands-on experience. Each week as these teams are given new challenges, they would build skills they need for their future careers. Naturally, this show would need an element of drama in it, so each week one of the teams would be eliminated (someone else can figure out how). And they would have normal challenges thrown at them like non-existent budgets, local actors, and equipment failure. Each week would also have a different theme like “The Holiday Season,” “Going Retro,” “Talking Animals” (scratch that last one—there is no need ever for talking animals in commercials). This astoundishing idea is free for the taking because it is too good of an idea to keep to myself. Clementine would say that this is Being Responsible. Oh, and if you haven’t read any of the Clementine books yet, you really should. That idea is free, too. In teacher school, we learn a lot about students: what brain processes they develop at different stages, why they sometimes behave like aliens, and what strategies to use to keep them in-line. But one thing that no one told me in teacher school was how much fun teaching teenagers is.
I have a list that I started my first year teaching of insults that students have inadvertently given me; some of these insults were actually intended as compliments. One senior, for example, after looking at my ID card said, “You’re right, Miss Lane. You really do look better with short hair.” He, poor boy, did not understand why the girls in his class scolded him thoroughly for that one. I just laughed. And then there was the student who was trying to convince me that I should just keep reading aloud to them instead of having them move onto the next activity: “But, Miss Lane, you read so well. You’re like a grandma!” For the record, I was fresh out of college at the time—far from grandmotherhood. For some reason whenever I teach Faustus, funny things happen. The first year I taught it, I assigned roles for our read-through and handed people their costumes, regular routine for the students. The costumes are token pieces, a hat for one, a tunic for another, all worn over street clothes. While I introduced the scene, the students put their costumes on normally until I saw something else that no one in teacher school prepared me for—the student playing Faust was taking off his belt and undoing his pants in the back of the room! Apparently, he thought the pantaloons that were large enough for two people to fit in wouldn’t go on over his pants and did not understand my panic at his stripping in my classroom. The next year, Mephistopheles threw our female Faust over his shoulder at the end and ran out of the room with her. Another Faust could not say Mephistopheles’ name to save his life, and after every attempt to say the demon’s name, the rest of the class, in chorus, would say the name for him, prompting him to try again, sending us into a vicious cycle of failed attempts. And during last year’s cold read, the Evil Angel embraced her role, reveling in her descriptions of hell until she came to the line “the damned souls,” at which point she looked at me wide-eyed and asked in the meekest sotto voce: “Can I say the d-word?” It was a full five minutes before Faust and I had stopped laughing enough to be able to let her keep reading. So, as another week begins, I brace myself for whatever humor this year’s reading of Faustus sparks, and I remind myself that being told that I look like cotton candy is a compliment and that a student reassuring me that I am “not an artist” because I’m a writer is not an insult. |
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