If you are looking for my latest post, “What Not to Say to a Widow,” I am sorry, but I decided to remove it. I don’t want to offend anyone. I received two messages that indicate that the post could be offensive. That was not my intention. I was trying to use black humor to make a point about being widowed. Sorry for any inconvenience.
There will be a new post in the next day or two.
Thank you.
Author’s note: This is a short , short story based on an incident in my novel, Loving Christy. Hope you enjoy it!
It was Friday night, the first night of her new job waitressing at O’Malley’s Bar and Grille, and Sandy was nervous.
Entering the bar, she quickly joined the staff sitting around a table in the back dining room. Tom, the bartender and manager, introduced her to everyone.
“Sandy’s going to be helping out on weekends as a waitress,” he said nodding toward her. “So, this is the setup. You and Peggy work the dining room at your assigned tables. Peggy’s going to give you the fifty-cent tour, and show you how it’s done. Right, Peggy?”
Peggy looked Sandy up and down. “If you say so. It ain’t exactly rocket science. You take orders and bring food, and make sure you get the money.”
Ignoring his ace waitress’ cavalier attitude Tom continued, “I’ll show you how to order at the bar. Okay?”
Sandy nodded, wiping her sweaty palms on her pant leg.
“Don’t worry; it doesn’t get too busy until around six. And the rush ends by eight-thirty,” Tom said.
Peggy smiled smugly. “C’mon, green horn. Let’s get started.”
The restaurant soon filled up, and Sandy found herself rushing from bar to kitchen to dining room and back again. She thought that she had the routine down, but every time she went to pick up an order, Peggy beat her to the platters of food, insisting they were for one of her tables. Soon Sandy’s customers were complaining that they were waiting too long to be served. She apologized over and over again and finally resorted to offering free desserts and extra refills on the drinks to quiet their complaints of being slighted.
Meanwhile, Peggy sailed around the room like a queen visiting her subjects, flirting with the men, planting a baby pink lip-sticky kiss on the older men’s bald heads.
Tom called from the bar, “Sandy, here’s your order for number five.”
When She started to reach for the drink, Tom leaned forward and narrowing his eyes, said, “You’re embarrassing us, girl. All I hear are complaints. Maybe this job is too hard for the likes of you.”
Sandy’s shoulders slumped. The pace was so hectic; she didn’t have a moment to catch her breath.
“And how many free desserts have you served? You’re paying for them, you know.”
Suddenly Peggy charged up and began to load the beers and soft drinks onto her tray.
“O-h-h-h, no, you don’t,” Sandy said firmly. “This isn’t your order.”
“Try and stop me,” Peggy answered, flipping her straw-like bleached blond hair.
Sandy elbowed Peggy out of the way, quickly picked up her order, and delivered it to the waiting couple. The wife, a bulky woman who wore knit pants and a sweatshirt with Buffalo Sabers emblazoned on it, scowled and said. “Finally! We could a died of thirst waitin’ for you.”
Sandy wanted to snap at the woman—and her husband who wore a baseball cap with the Buffalo Bills logo. Instead she bit her lip.
“Sorry ma’am, I’m new and I’m just learning.”
“Well, next time we’re askin’ for Peggy. At least she can get the food out before midnight.”
The woman shifted her bulk on the chair. Sandy saw Peggy scurry across the room with yet another tray laden with food.
“Oh shit,” she snapped. The woman looked startled.
“What did you say, miss?”
“She’s got my orders again!” Sandy said angrily, as her tray fell to the floor. It clattered. Everyone in the small dining room sat at attention.
“You witch, give me those!” Sandy shouted as she lunged toward Peggy.
“Help someone! She’s gone crazy!” Peggy screamed frantically.
Sandy grabbed at the tray Peggy held in front of her like a shield. She yanked the tray toward her, and the plates started to slide toward the floor. Peggy righted it, and pulled hard in her direction. Sandy countered with a solid tug. The plates clattered and filets of fried fish the size of a baseball mitt became airborne. Both women watched, mouths agape, as the fish spiraled toward them. They ducked, sending the large tray clattering to the floor while Cole slaw, macaroni salad, French fries, rye bread and butter rained down on the nearby tables.
The patrons screamed and covered their heads with their hands. A few of the women held up overstuffed purses like umbrellas.
Other diners sat with their forks frozen in mid air.
Tom emerged from the bar, his face scarlet. Sandy thought she saw a pulse throbbing on his temple.
“What the hell are you two doing? Pick up that mess. And serve these customers.” Tom’s voice was filled with rage.
No one breathed in the silent room.
Both women bent down and scooped up mashed fish, slimy macaroni and limp French fries.
Hours later, after the frenetic rhythm of the dining room calmed down, Tom cornered Sandy and Peggy in the service area of the bar. A few of the regulars were seated on high stools, drinking beers and badgering each other.
“Listen you two. The only reason I didn’t throw your sorry asses out of here earlier is because it’s hard to find help.
Peggy sneered. “You ever think of paying better?”
Tom glared. “Another night like this and you’re both out on the street. Think about it, ladies—there’s only one other job where you get take-home pay the day you work…is that what you want to do? Everyone can be replaced.” He strode away.
Peggy leaned forward and, with her face inches from Sandy’s growled, “I can make your life pretty miserable, tightass. And if you think tonight was bad …well, I’ve been known to send other waitresses home crying for their mommies.”
Sandy wondered if working at O’Malley’s would be worth the hand-to-hand combat in the war Peggy just declared. Feeling the dollar bills in her pocket, the tips she had earned that night, she imagined the money piling up, paying for new clothes, and maybe a car. Grabbing her bottle of water, she raised it as if proposing a toast.
“Don’t worry, Peggy. I’ll be back and ready for combat tomorrow. Cheers!”
My brother Tommy died on March seventh. He was only 62 year of age—much too young to leave this earth.
He battled cancer twice and had a heart valve replaced about 15 years ago. He survived all that, only to succumb to a virulent blood infection. It seems unbelievable that something that ought to be curable wasn’t. That he fought his way back from really frightening things like a rare cancer and then lymphoma only to die from an infection. But that’s what happened.
He left behind a daughter and a wife, the two people he loved most of the many people he loved. He left behind a family mired in grief, trying to make sense of the unthinkable.
He left behind a grieving community of students and fellow professors at Canisius College in Buffalo where he taught for many years. He was eulogized in several newspapers and on Face Book. His students posted tributes to him everywhere— there are at least three tributes to him on You Tube. They held a memorial service the day after he died. My brother’s legacy is incredible. And yes, it is a comfort.
But the fact remains that he no longer walks this earth. He no longer has his list of questions to be asked. He no longer writes long posts on Face Book, full of humor, literary references and practical wisdom, and music and poetry. He no longer will arrive at a family gathering with a joke disguised as a story. He no longer will meet with students to give them advice and guidance. He no longer will hold one of our baby great nieces or nephews in his arms and coo at them, telling them how smart, how beautiful, and how loved they are.
Tommy will never rave over my sister’s cooking, or ask how she manages to make dinner every Sunday for the whole family.
I’ll never receive an email from him telling me that he thinks I’m wonderful, that he wishes me nothing but the best. That a song he heard reminded him of me. He’ll never ask me how my late husband and I managed to get through Dan’s final illness.
No, his voice has been silenced.
His wit, his love of the people around him, of life, of literature, his thirst for meaning, his love of God –all that made him who he was—is now memories. We will keep Tommy alive in stories that we will tell one another: In the posts on Face Book that are colored by grief, in the tearful telephone calls, in the photos we share, the moments we recall.
Pranks he pulled, games we played, silly moments, a rare argument, tumble over and over again, like a never-ending cascade of snapshots through my mind.
My husband’s death six months ago followed by this unthinkable loss, has cast me adrift. I feel like a rudderless boat, floating on a sea of loss, confusion, and sorrow. I am buffet by waves of ennui, too sad to do much more than I have to do. Just getting through the days that become weeks and soon will be months.
I am like a swimmer paddling frantically for the shore. Afraid of drowning in the grief that numbs me.
Stress has been the constant drumbeat in my life for a long time. For the last several years, I helped my husband cope with cancer—the first one almost 6 years ago— the one he survived. And then about a year ago he was diagnosed with a second, new, cancer that ultimately took his life. Sprinkled in those years were some other health issues, deaths, and usual problems of daily life. Like most people, I did the best I could to cope.
Both my husband and I loved the beach—I found the action of the waves as they send watery fingers reaching out to the shore to be soothing. It’s as if the ocean is taking my anxiety and pulling it away and washing it out to sea.
Whenever one of us needed a break, Dan and I would head to the beach
Both of us slept better at the beach, and reveled in the soothing sounds of the ocean and breezes. It was our haven and a place we delighted in. We went to the beach because we loved it, too. Not just to deal with stress, but for renewal and to revel in the power of the ocean and the sun playing on the waves, shimmering like diamonds.
We often talked about moving closer to the beach—imagining a beach-bum existence where we would spend days digging our toes into the warm sand and learning the moods of the ocean. We dreamt of watching the full moon rising over the sea; something we happened upon serendipitously at Vero Beach, a favorite destination.
We never moved to the beach—it was a dream unfulfilled. When my husband was diagnosed with lung cancer a year ago, we vowed that we would make that dream come true when he recovered. Alas, that too, was a dream.
I still go to the beach when life gets to be too hard—when friends disappoint, when I am faced with situations that I can’t control, and especially when I need to connect with God. That’s where I feel God’s presence most strongly.
I often go by myself. In some ways, I prefer the solitude. Company would be nice, especially at dinner—but I like to be able to set my own schedule or lack of it.
When I was in Catholic grade school, we sang a hymn that had this refrain, “Shoreless ocean who shall sound thee, they eternity is round Thee, Holy Trinity, Holy Trinity.”
Sitting on the beach, or walking along looking for seashells, that hymn becomes my conscious thought. And then peace washes over me and I find I am energized to face another day, another week, another month and maybe even another year.
“…fiction is like a spider’s web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners.” Virginia Woolf
I had a unique experience recently. My book club, the Pageturners, chose my novel, Loving Christy to discuss.
I pondered how to handle this discussion. Being a former teacher, my first inclination was to ask pointed, challenging questions that honed in on setting, theme and character development, much like I would have done with my students. Thankfully, common sense prevailed. Thinking back on the many wonderful discussions our club has had over the last nine years, I knew that I should trust this intelligent, insightful group of women.
My book club is almost ideal—everyone reads the selection, everyone comes prepared to discuss the book, and everyone participates. In fact, we rather pride ourselves on our in-depth discussions. We are not one of those groups who agree they liked the book and then order lunch. We meet in one another’s homes, carefully select books, and research the author before we gather to discuss the book.
So, the stage was set.
But I must admit that I was a little nervous—what if they didn’t like the book? What if the smattering of bad language (in context) was offensive? What if they thought I had completely missed the mark with this novel?
I decided to share the interview that I wrote as part of my publicity packet to start the meeting. Those questions set the groundwork—where did I get the idea for the story, where did the characters come from, why did I write the story?
What ensued was an in-depth discussion of the characters, the setting and the theme. It was a revelation and a joy. My book club sisters had insights into the story that surprised even me. They saw the characters as well drawn and believable. They had empathy for Peggy, the down-on-her luck antagonist. They related to Christy’s struggles—most of them came of age at the same time. One woman pointed out descriptive language that appealed to her.
It was a wonderful experience for me as an author. I write to communicate—and this discussion authenticated me as a writer in a way I have never experienced before.
When my book club sisters left my home that day, I felt joy and excitement.
Yes, it would be exciting to hit it big—to be a household name and make oodles of money. But, in truth, this discussion was the payback I really wanted—to know that my little novel, a story that insisted on being written, resonated with other people, brought them hours of pleasure, and forged connections among women of differing backgrounds.
My novel, Loving Christy is now a reality!
I know that because there are three boxes of books stacked up in my living room waiting to meet their new owners. I am slowly, but surely, distributing the books to those who pre-ordered them. (You can go to Amazon.com and download it to your Kindle, or buy it at either Amazon.com or Barnes and Noble.com.)
Evidence of the positive feedback I’ve received from people who have read Loving Christy on already can be found at the Amazon web page that features my book. (Just type in Loving Christy.)
How does it feel to be a “real author,” one with a tangible book to my name? Truthfully,I have mixed feelings about it.
Writing a book is not for sissies—it’s really hard work and you have to be willing to accept criticism—lots of it. Before you begin writing a book, you must commit to it, because you’ll live that book every waking hour of your day. The book will literally occupy most of your thoughts. You’ll spend hours putting words on paper, rereading them, rewriting them and then agonizing over them. You’ll spend days and weeks and months making your characters come to life.
Then there’s the research. Writing about a place or time that you have never experienced requires extensive research to capture the flavor of your setting.
The plot must make sense—it must be plausible and have enough action and believable events to move the story along. In modern writing there is no greater sin than breaking the commandment to “show, not tell.” That means using dialogue and action to let the story unfold, instead of making statements.
Did I mention that you have to do all of this using fresh language and not relying on cliches?
And you must write at least 70,000 (yes—thousand) words to even try to market the book.
After you have labored on the book, then the real fun begins—trying to get an agent. Writing query letters are a skill, and to make it even more interesting, every agent has different criteria. If you don’t follow his or her criteria to the letter, you can expect that the agent won’t spend even 60 seconds reading your cover letter. All of your hard work is destined for the “circular file.”
Finally, you have an agent or a publisher!
The real work begins now…
An editor is assigned who will comb your book for flaws and faults—that you must correct.
Eventually, you’ll receive a draft that you must read to find any flaws that slipped though. After that, another draft arrives and you read the novel again, to make sure as many corrections were made as possible.
Somewhere along the way, a cover is designed which (hopefully) you will like.
Finally the day comes when several boxes of books (which you have paid for in advance) arrive on your doorstep . You look at them and realize that now you must sell them…you must create buzz about your novel!
All by yourself.
Then a magical thing happens, someone reads your book and sends an email, writes a review on Amazon.com, or tells you how much they liked the book.
And like an addict looking for a fix, you find the half-finished manuscript you started. And you begin writing the next novel.
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Thanks to Ginger Allain for the wonderful author page she designed for me.
You can visit my author page at: http://www.squidoo.com/loving-christy
You can order copies of Loving Christy from me at kglascott230@gmail.com.
Sorry, Merry Christmas people, I’ve decided to make the change to saying Happy Holidays.
Let me explain.
Yes, I love Christmas and believe that it is actually the birthday of Jesus Christ—to me, it is a holy day. One of many holy days that are celebrated during the winter months: Hanukah, Kwanzaa, Winter Solstice and so on. Each day is legitimate to those who celebrate it.
So I think it behooves me as a Christian to honor other traditions, to acknowledge that my holy day isn’t the only one.
I also believe that Christmas has been co-opted by merchandisers and other profiteers. That bothers me, because I think it has replaced the sharing of Christmas with wholesale consumerism and greed.
Now, I do draw the line at calling Christmas Trees Holiday Trees or Christmas cookies Holiday cookies and so on. We wouldn’t tolerate calling a Hanukah Menorah a Holiday Menorah, would we? And I must admit that parodies of the “Twelve Days of Christmas” leave me cold. Using Christmas Carol melodies as the basis for songs to encourage gift giving (which I heard on a Target ad) offends me. Recordings by name artists of Christmas Carols where they torture the beautiful melodies and words are offensive because they use songs that are actually hymns to sell records. I am sure that many of those melodies are public domain which means that the artist pays no royalties to sing them—once again using Christmas to make money.
So, if you are a Christmas person and I know it, I will wish you a Merry Christmas. But I think the generic Happy Holidays is much more suitable for those I encounter in the business of living—clerks in stores, servers in restaurants, personnel in offices. That way, I know I am wishing them well for whatever holiday they celebrate.
Merry Christmas to all of you! Enjoy your holidays!
“Take out the papers and the trash!”
If you are of a certain age, you’ll remember these words from a popular song in the 50’s.
This has become my new anthem. Our trash goes out every week on Monday night, and I consistently forget to do this annoying, but necessary task.
This is what happens: I clean up the kitchen, maybe do some laundry, walk the dog, read a little, play a few word games on the I Pad, check emails, and then work on my writing.
Finally, when the clock reads way too late, I realize that I better go to bed or I won’t be able to function in the morning. So, I close up the house and tell Sparkle ( my dog) that it’s time to go “night –night” ( yes, I talk baby talk to her).
And then, like a thunderbolt in a cartoon, I remember that ( oh God!) I forgot to take out the trash. The next twenty minutes are spent scurrying around the house collecting trash, making sure the refrigerator is cleaned out, wrestling the trash can and the recycling box out to the curb. All the while I am doing this, I sing the refrain from that 50’s hit song to myself.
Then the next morning, I drag the huge trash can ( which is almost as tall as I am) and the recycling box back into the garage.
Every week I resolve to do this onerous task earlier in the evening. When my husband was still alive, he would sometimes not take the recycling out or not empty the waste basket in the den which contains only paper. I would accuse him of being selective in removing the trash. When I was a kid, I thought that taking the trash out was gender identified—it was a boy’s job, not a girl’s job. If I was called upon to it, I would resent having to do something that my childish mind-set dictated that girls’ shouldn’t have to do.
So, now I’m on my own. Obviously I don’t want to live in a house with trash—no matter how late it is when I remember it. So, I do it—like everyone else.
Maybe I’ll remember this task at an earlier time some week. Maybe it will become a routine. And then I can adopt a new anthem.
News Flash!!
My novel, Loving Christy is available right now on Amazon.com., Barnes and Noble, and available for Kindle. If you would like a signed copy, you can email me at kglascott230@gmail.com.
I am a widow now that my husband passed away. I don’t like the word widow. It conjures up images of old ladies in rolled black stockings shrouded in “widow’s weeds”—black clothes hanging off their backs. Women who no longer exist, who are mere shadows of who they used to be. Women, who unlike the rest of us, know that their best days have ended.
I don’t feel that way.
Yes, I grieve. For how much Dan loved me. For my husband’s company. For his humor. For his very presence. For the joy he took in our daughter. For how much he loved his dog. I even grieve for how much he could annoy me.
It is very hard to get used to living in my house—not our house, driving my car—not our car, talking about my daughter—not our daughter. The very language of being alone takes getting used to.
I know that I present a brave face to the world. For the most part, my emotions seem under control. At times, I am sure that I seem almost clinical. I tell people that he died because there was no other option; that his health had deteriorated to such a degree that it was the only thing that could happen. His last few months were so drawn out that Dan’s life had become a living death. There was little to hope for—certainly not recovery.
When I look in the mirror, I see an intense sadness in my eyes. My days are spent listlessly doing things I have to do—taking care of all the errands that accompany a death. And there are many: the lawyer, Social Security, the bank, the retirement system, credit card companies, the DMV. Everyone needs something from me and I have no energy to do any of it.
Sometimes I would like to lie in bed, or sit in a chair and sleep until it feels better—whenever that will be.
I have to reinvent myself. Find ways to fill in the lonely evenings. Find friends to have dinner with—because the prospect of eating my evening meal alone is too painful. Come to terms with the fact that certain of my couples’ friends will no longer see me as “fitting in.”
My family and friends tell me that I am “strong.” I can show this so-called “brave” face to the world—while inside I’m an emotional mess.
Sometimes I’d like to completely fall apart. Am I foolish to soldier on? I don’t know.
All I do know is that I feel like an enormous scoop of my soul is missing. Someone asked me recently how I was doing. I told her that it felt like I had lost my arm. She nodded and said, “Oh.” What else could she say? What else could I say?
I hope that, in time, the rawness of this pain will be dulled and I can enjoy the new life that has been thrust upon me.
People surround me. Perched on uncomfortable folding chairs, we are jammed into a small space squeezed between the shelves in a book store.
Voices make a hub-bub, and I look around to see the other fledgling writers. Some are young. But most are older, like me. A lifetime of experience lines our faces.
Some people sport long shapeless tee shirts and shorts several sizes too big to define a body underneath. Others wear long skirts and tie dyed shirts. I even see someone wearing a fringed vest. Gray hair is pulled carelessly into unruly pony tails which are held in place by leather barrettes. And few people have long braids that trail down backs. A woman climbs over me to find a chair. Her hair is too long and uncombed and she is wearing a gypsy skirt.
Aging hippies, I think.
The ladies with money sit nearby, their perfectly coiffed hair a sharp contrast.
What unites this strange band of fellows is one shared belief: that the words we write should be read. No, our words must be read!
I wait for the speaker, a successful author, to begin to fill me with her wisdom. Like a school girl with a homework assignment, I begin to page through her book, a how–to for writers.
She fiddles with the projector, exasperated because it won’t do what she wants it to do.
Finally a man arrives, his baseball cap firmly placed on his head, with a bulky bundle of keys on his hip. He adjusts the projector and it throws pictures of rich and beautiful authors on the screen.
My desire is to be a member of their club.
I want to rise above the rabble around me, the young and the old, the experienced and the apprentice and write something that is compelling and uniquely mine—a real book, with a glossy cover placed prominently on a bookstore shelf.
I’ve seen web sites featuring books with covers designed to entice a reader to open the pages of the book. The authors of these books were once hopefuls like me.
I worry that no one will get to know the characters that have lived in my imagination for so long. I want someone other than me to care about them with all their human frailties and strengths.
I am humbled to realize that even if my work sees the light of day, nothing will change. Turmoil and war and discord will still reign—and people will still pray for peace.
My reverie is broken when the author starts to talk about the business of publishing, warning us of the overwhelming amount of work involved, of the sacrifices we will have to make. And of the almost non-existent chance we have. She causes me to think about my choice.
And then I go home, boot up my computer and begin to work my current novel. Because every time I write the best sentence I can, a thrill runs through me.
And so, I continue to write.
