Road Rage

Sometimes I wonder if there's a new element in the air making people crazy. I especially wonder when I find myself fighting an urge to do something stupid while I'm driving, like drag a car that's trying to pass me. (By the way, I lost. A Pontiac Vibe, even a very nice Pontiac Vibe, is no match for a Datsun 280-Z.)

That type of behavior is totally out of character for me as I am normally a very mild-mannered person. Some of my friends even call me Maryann Milquetoast.

But I'm beginning to understand Road Rage.

I get it when I'm tooling along the Interstate with my cruise set about seven above the posted speed limit. Then I glance in my rear-view mirror to see the grill of pickup truck bearing down on me like some wild beast straight out of Japanese animation.

Why does he wait until he's crawling up my bumper to pass? We're on a flat stretch of road for Pete's sake. He could clearly see my car while he was still a half a mile back; plenty of space and time to move over. But, no, he's got to practically crawl into my trunk just to let me know what he thinks of my lollygaging.

Road Rage also threatens when I get stuck in a construction area where two lanes are siphoned into one. Nobody likes the idea of a delay, but most folks simply sigh and get in line. But some folks think they don't have to. Despite the signs that have warned for a mile that the right lane is closed ahead, drivers zoom up to the flashing arrow and inch their way into the bottleneck.

Of course, they don't consider themselves a primary cause of the bottleneck. Hey, they've got places to go and people to see, and they're just making sure they get to their places faster than anyone else. Too bad for the fools who all dutifully lined up in the left lane.

As they force their way into the line, careful not to make eye contact, do they really think we don't know what they're thinking?

Years ago when I had a big Chevy van, I liked to straddle the line between the two lanes to prevent cars from slipping around me. I'd seen a Semi driver do this once and thought it was a nifty idea, but an eighteen-wheeler is a lot more imposing than a van.

I still had people try to squeeze past and we'd do this weird little road-dance familiar to racing fans who've watched drivers maneuver to keep a car from passing on the straight-away.

Keeping all the cars behind me did wonders for my blood pressure. I could feel it subsiding from near stroke level with every little giggle of delight. And I didn't even mind that the success had less to do with driving skill and more to do with the fact that I was driving a vehicle that wouldn't even notice another dent.

Of course, this isn't something I could try now. People no longer vent their frustration with severe pounding on their steering wheels. Now they pull a Colt 45.

Taking a Break

My son called recently to tell us that his wife had gone to visit relatives for a few days and had taken their baby. So he was alone in the house - except for the dogs - for the first time since baby's arrival in their lives.

He sounded a little wistful as he talked about missing the normal routine of feeding, bathing, and entertaining their little girl. Without his family at the house, he didn't know what to do when he came home from work, so he threw the ball for the dogs, but that diversion only lasted a few minutes. They are old and play time is very brief now.

But he also sounded - did he dare even say the word - free. He mentioned going out with a friend the night before and having a beer, also mentioning that he couldn't remember the last time he'd done that. Then in case we misunderstood the thrill in his voice, he quickly clarified that he's not entertaining thoughts of abandoning family responsibilities for nights out with the boys. It just felt good to revisit his carefree youth when he didn't have to worry about who might be worrying if he didn't come home at a reasonable hour.

I understood completely. When my husband traveled for business, I occasionally welcomed a brief respite from all that it means to have another person to defer to. If I didn't feel like cooking a regular meal, I could get by with soup and sandwiches for the kids. That was definitely not my husband's idea of a meal. I could read in bed at night for as long as I wanted without worrying whether my light was bothering him. And I could soak in the tub until I turned into a prune without holding up anybody's shower.

That didn't mean I didn't love my husband and enjoy his company. It was just nice to be alone now and then. And when I was finally able to say that to him, he admitted that those short business trips were like a vacation for him, too. He could actually watch an entire television program without some kid bounding through the room in hot pursuit of the brother who punched him for no reason.

I actually think those brief 'vacations' from regular family life can strengthen a relationship. When my husband returned from a trip were thrilled to be together again. Now he could fix all the things that broke while he was gone and I could practice my cooking again.

Who's Taking Care of Us?

They’re suing the Colonel? When I first heard it, I thought it was a joke. The Center for Science in the Public Interest (CSPI) filed a suit against Kentucky Fried Chicken because the company still fries chicken in oil that has trans fat in it. I guess the CSPI has concluded that we are not smart enough to decide for ourselves if we want to take the health risks of eating our Extra Crispy drumstick now and then.

Since the folks at CSPI are so concerned about my health, I decided I should check them out. According to their Web site, “CSPI is a consumer advocacy organization whose twin missions are to conduct innovative research and advocacy programs in health and nutrition, and to provide consumers with current, useful information about their health and well-being.”

The Web site also lists their mission statement which is comprised of three main goals:

To provide useful, objective information to the public and policymakers and to conduct research on food, alcohol, health, the environment, and other issues related to science and technology;

To represent the citizen’s interests before regulatory, judicial, and legislative bodies on food, alcohol, health, the environment, and other issues; and

To ensure that science and technology are used for the public good and to encourage scientists to engage in public-interest activities.”

All very noble ideals, but I don’t remember them asking if I wanted them to represent my interests, and nobody in my family recalls hearing from them either. And why should we be so concerned about trans fat now when the CSPI wasn’t concerned about it in 1988. That’s when the organization pressured McDonald’s to stop using beef tallow to cook french fries and basically dismissed the dangers of using hydrogenated cooking oil that contained trans fat.

So why is it suddenly so bad for us? In moderation, I don’t think it is, and if you do a Google search of Trans Fat, you find many Web sites that state all the dangers of ingesting the stuff, but there are some that hold a different view. For one: http://nutritionnewsfocus.com/archive/TransFatMyth.html

It’s no wonder that consumers are baffled when it comes to what is harmful and what is beneficial to our health. Scientists can’t even agree, and every other year some study refutes what another study proved.

What I would like to know is what happened to common sense in this frenzy of studies and litigation and media hype. Unless you’ve lived on a desert island somewhere, you’re aware of the problems of obesity and poor nutrition that are swiftly outpacing smoking as a major health issues in the United States. We now know that we should not subside on a diet of fast food – especially of the fried variety – and we need to eat more fruits and veggies. Think of it as a tasty alternative to medicine. Would you rather take a pill to control your cholesterol or take a walk and eat an apple?

Okay, maybe some of you would prefer the pill. That’s your choice. But if organizations like CSPI continue to try to regulate the food industry through litigation, or pressure to the FDA to step in, we won’t have choices any more.

So maybe we should start taking more responsibility about these health issues before we lose all control. I am really going to be pissed if someone outlaws Funnel Cakes.

A Writer's Workspace

When we built our house a number of years ago, the spare bedroom was delegated to be my home office where I would write the novel that would enable my husband to retire and live off my royalties. I’m not sure if the agreement stemmed from some magnanimous gesture on his part, or if he was just sick and tired of my creativity cluttering up the rest of the house. This new room was the place where my typewriter, along with other bits and pieces of sewing or craft projects would reside. It was to be a true segregation of life essentials and creative essentials.

Initially, the system worked well. I maintained my right to my creative room through thick and thin and the advent of the twins. We bought bunk-beds and stacked kids in the corners of one bedroom so I wouldn’t have to give up my precious space.

But over the next few years, I found the lines between ‘life’ and ‘creative’ dimming. Space in the kids’ bedrooms became so scarce that more and more of their clothes and toys found their way to my study. And every time we had a houseguest, our oldest daughter would sleep on the sofa-bed.

One day I discovered that I had one kid’s pajamas in one of the desk drawers with the first chapter of my novel. Her socks were in the middle drawer with my pencils, paper clips, and used typewriter ribbons. Her training pants were piled in a corner on top of a stack of jigsaw puzzles that wouldn’t fit in the closet.

During an extended visit by my mother, our eldest moved into my study for several weeks. That was not a fun time. I enjoyed my mother immensely, but sharing space with an incredibly messy twelve-year-old girl was not my idea of a good time.

She shared my creative bent, so there was no telling what kind of painting project I might have to dodge to wend my way to my desk. Assuming I could actually find it under the mountain of discarded clothes tossed in the general direction of the hamper next to the desk.

During those times of ‘invasion’ I could also forget any impulse for late night writing. Which, by the way, was usually the only opportunity for uninterrupted creativity, unless I fell asleep.

What I find absolutely amazing as I look back on those years of chaos, is that I actually managed to get a great deal of writing done.

The other thing that amazes me, is that not all that much has changed. Despite all my efforts to be neat and organized, my current office is often as messy as that old one. And I don’t have any kids to blame.

I know. I'll blame it on the cats.

MUSINGS ON THE WRITING LIFE.....

At age ten I decided to be a writer. My friend and I were in our favorite reading spot, a small clearing in a wooded area with a blanket between us and a colony of ants. I hugged my just-finished book to my chest, watched wisps of clouds drift across the blue expanse of sky, and relived every precious moment of the story.
“I’d love to do this,” I said.
“What?” Karen continued to read and munch on a cookie.
“Write stories. Books.”
I watched for her reaction and it took about three seconds for the words to sink in. Then she closed her book and sat up. “Then lets do it. We’ll be famous.”
Fueled by mutual enthusiasm we started putting words on paper in simplistic efforts to create our own essence of the books we loved so much. My fantasy was to write a story so wonderful it would inspire some future ten-year-old girl to spend an entire afternoon sprawled in a wooded hideaway savoring my book. Maybe she’d even decide to perpetuate the species.
We carried our dream through high school and into college, where we tried to adopt a Bohemian attitude that seemed fitting for “future famous writers.” I went to a boring Community College, but Karen went to Wayne State University in Detroit, a creative oasis inhabited by artists, dancers, musicians, and writers When I visited her, we’d put together some ‘appropriate’ outfits and join a party where people loudly debated the merits of Joyce in one room and read original poetry in another. We were both so naïve, we had no idea that the blue haze hanging over these rooms was not from the incense.
What I didn’t know then and took me too many years to learn. was that there’s nothing magical about establishing a writing career. I wasn’t going to become a better writer by absorbing that funky atmosphere. No publisher was ever going to be there to ‘discover’ me. And I’d never write a single thing if I didn’t stay home now and then and ratchet a piece of paper into my old Underwood manual.
Sure, there’s magic when the words just flow and you know these last ten pages are the best you’ve ever written. There’s magic when your characters start talking to each other and the lines zing. There’s even a bit of magic in finding that one word that says so perfectly what you’re trying to convey.
But there’s no magic on the business side of writing. Sometimes there's luck – being in the right place at the right time with the right project. More often, success comes after diligently studying the marketplace, editing and rewriting your book until you never want to look at a single word again, and learning how to ‘sell’ yourself.
We who put pen to paper or fingertips to keyboard, do so out of a driving need to say something. Thoughts, ideas, opinions, feelings stir around inside us seeking expression. If we never make an investment of time and effort into the ‘business’ of writing, our expression will have a severely limited audience.
I may never be ‘famous’ as that long-ago dream envisioned. And I may never earn enough money to buy a country estate and while away my golden years in obscene luxury. But I can take comfort and pride in the fact that I did, and still do, face that blank sheet of paper everyday and make myself put words on it.
And I’d like to think that Karen is doing the same thing. I lost track of her before I ever had the chance to tell her she was much better at it than I am.

IT’S NOT ALL GRAVY...
...MUSINGS ON THE WRITING LIFE

As we all know, writers are by nature very insecure people, especially in the early years when perhaps the only thing we get published is a letter to the editor and that’s cut from four paragraphs to three lines. In fact, for years basic insecurity was the only thing I had to affirm my credibility as a writer.

But even in my moment of greatest anxiety, I never reached the heights (or should I say the depths) of insecurity as did Glenda Gibberish. She wrote an entire book on squares of toilet tissue and hid each page in an empty roll. When her husband, Harry, asked about all the cardboard cylinders lining the dresser, Glenda told him she was making toys for the gerbils. That worked well until he decided to take an interest in the welfare of the pets. She lost one whole chapter in a single afternoon.

Realizing that would never do, Glenda resorted to stuffing the rolls in her underwear drawer, in the empty cookie jar, and in the springs of the old sofa bed. She figured she was safe since she put her own clothes away and nobody ever bothered with the cookie jar since she never baked. But she forgot about her mother-in-law’s visit. Oddly enough, the other woman said nothing when they unfolded the bed, but Harry gave her one of those looks that we women enjoy so much. Then he surprised the gerbils with new toys.

This ruse went on for years and she couldn’t bring herself to tell a soul that she was writing. Then one day she was hit with this overwhelming urge to “out” herself. It was the same compulsion that drives a dieter to a banana split at Dairy Queen and try as she might Glenda couldn’t shake it. So she had lunch with her best friend.

“Oh, no. Is it serious?”

“Not right now, but it could be.”

“How long... I mean, have you been this way forever?”

“Since I was a little girl. But, you know. It isn’t the kind of thing you just drop into casual conversation.”

“Good. Maybe we can keep it from getting around.”

“Don’t worry. I have plenty of editors looking out for me on that count.”

“Have you told Harry yet?”

“No. But he did wonder about the sudden demise of Jake the gerbil. I think he choked on a particularly graphic sex scene.”

“Harry?”

“No. The gerbil.”

“How have you managed to keep it from Harry?”

“Right now, I tell him I’m going into the closet to straighten up a few things. But that’s not going to last long. Sooner or later he’s going to remember that I don’t like to straighten anything.”

“Don’t worry. You can trust me with your secret.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind if you told a few people. My book comes out next month and I need the publicity.”

Healing

Pretty little flowers all in a row.

Not that year.

That year a few scraggly weeds lived in the spots usually reserved for the pansies that thrived early in the Texas growing season. Normally, when the sun burned too hot, the pansies would be replaced with petunias, then later with periwinkles. Those hardy little flowers can thumb their noses at the worst heat thrown at them.

Attending to this ritual of planting has always been an important part of my existence. Some days I’d rather be out digging in the dirt than doing almost anything else. The process feeds me deep inside in a way that defies articulation. But those who share this passion understand.
When it was time to plant the pansies that year, I was in the hospital after a complicated kidney surgery. The weeks recuperating at home ate up the rest of early spring when cool nights and mild days nurtured the ‘people’ flowers and let them smile to greet a new day.

My heart ached when I was strong enough to walk out to the front porch and sit on the swing. The empty flower beds looked so lost and forgotten, and I yearned to dig my hands into the dirt. I thought of asking my husband to plant something, just a geranium or two for a splash of color, but resisted the urge on two counts. He had enough to do with taking care of the kids, the house, and his job. Plus, it wasn’t the flowers I missed so much as the process. I could wait a few more weeks and still have plenty of growing season left. It lasts forever in Texas.

Petunia season came and went, and still the flowerbeds stood empty.

I’d had a bit of a set-back in my recovery. Some nerves had been damaged during the hours-long surgery and the pain was still incredibly severe. That forced another trip to the hospital to see if anything could be done.

By the time I got home again, we were well into periwinkle season and my flowerbeds had grown lush with weeds. My instinct was to lean forward in the swing and pluck out a clump of clover, but the look from my husband, rich with unsaid words, stilled the impulse.

I’m sure he meant well. Like so many spouses standing on the outside he felt so helpless in the face of my pain and limitations. He only wanted to protect me. But my heart yearned to be digging in the dirt. It was a deep and powerful ache that wouldn’t go away.

During my next visit to the doctor, I asked if he thought it would be okay to do a bit of gardening. “I’ll be careful,” I said. “And I just feel this great need.”

The man could have posed for a Norman Rockwell painting as he sat on his little black stool with one finger tapping his cheek. Then he spoke. “Personally, I think there’s something very healing about dirt. Although I don’t recommend eating it.”

He paused to acknowledge the smile with timing so perfect he could’ve been on the comedy circuit. “But I do recommend filling your hands with it. Smell it. Work it. Let it fall through your fingers. It won’t cure you, but it won’t hurt, either. And maybe it will make you feel better where it matters.”

Several hours later I knelt on the grass. I ignored the pain that ran down my side and into my leg and leaned close to the dirt. The trowel felt good in my hand as I loosened a small section of the flowerbed. Then I picked up clumps of earth and crumbled them, letting the rich black dirt stream through my fingers. I reveled in the cool dampness; the pungent aroma. Then I dug a hole big enough to hold the single Marigold.

“Ah,” my heart said. “Just what you needed."

Introduction

My very first publishing success was a weekly column that I did for a local newspaper in a suburb of Dallas. It was a humorous look at family life and at the time I had plenty of family to draw material from; five kids, two dogs, a couple of hamsters, and a husband thrown into the mix somewhere.

When the original column started, the one thing I didn't expect was notoriety. I wasn't used to being recognized in the grocery store, unless it was by the cashier who remembered me coming through her line with two grocery carts full of baby food; and usually the only adult I talked to in the park was myself.

With the exception of a few close friends and neighbors, I also didn't expect to have many fans. (Is insecurity a prerequisite to being a writer?) So it was quite a pleasant surprise when people stopped me in the store, or came up to me at the soccer field to say how much they enjoyed reading the column. It would also prove to be embarrassing on the occasions I just ran out to get something at the last minute and wore my ten-year-old cutoffs and a stained tee-shirt. That was proper attire for a hard-working Mom, but hardly fit being a celebrity.

Family reactions to my new-found fame varied. I, of course, was thrilled. When the cover story and first column appeared I found it very difficult to bring myself to perform such mundane things as fixing supper, washing dishes, and bathing kids. I kept telling myself that certainly a 'famous writer' should not have to stoop so low, but alas, I couldn't get my kids to see the logic in my reasoning. For some strange reason they thought they still had to eat, so in the newspaper I was a 'famous writer' and in the kitchen, I was still the 'maid.'

Our two oldest kids seemed to be thrilled to see their names in the articles, unless I delved into something they weren't ready to share with the entire Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex. Then they'd run home from school and demand to know how I could be so cruel.

Our six-year-old seemed a little vague about the concept. How did what I typed in my study get into the paper? And why was the newspaper printing it? (I told him not to knock a good thing. At least I was getting paid.)

He also wanted to know what the title, IT'S NOT ALL GRAVY, meant. "We don't have gravy hardly ever."

"That's what I mean."

He still didn't get it.

My husband's reaction was a mixture of pride and endless teasing. He'd always supported my quest for publication and when the endless stream of rejection slips threatened to overcome me, he'd always tell me to hang in. Someday it would happen.

But he couldn't, and still can't, resist the occasional dig. Sometimes he comes into my office to inquire whether he can interrupt the famous author at work. Depending on what he wants, I might accept the interruption. Cooking dinner is not even on the list of things I'll stop for, but there are other offers well worth the break.