It’s better to lie 7  –  the election
(08.11.2022)

What’s happening with my sister?  I haven’t heard from her in over six weeks!  Of course I’ve been so busy myself, with getting the garden ready for winter, putting away all the summer things, bringing in the wood (and putting away the new wood I have ordered!), not to mention having had my sons and daughters, my nieces and nephews and my grandchildren all here off and on, that I didn’t in fact realize I hadn’t heard from Susan in so long, until today.  When Charles was alive I had more help around the house.  But now it’s non-stop from morning to night, whatever the season.  Well, maybe between Christmas and New Year’s there’s a lull, but that’s about it.
And if the ordinary work wasn’t enough, there are always problems.  Last month it was the dishwasher: it wouldn’t empty out, and there was a backlog of dirty water.  I tried using drain cleaner, but that only turned the dirty water green.  Finally I called a plumber and he found the problem in less than five minutes: a piece of broken glass was blocking the mechanism.  £100, thank you very much.  Then it was the car: battery dead, and when the garageman saw it he said that’s not all that’s worng with it.  He  presented me with an estimate for £1000 in repairs and an offer of £300 for the motor if I cared to sell it to him.  Of course I chose the latter.  I never use the car in town anyway; even if the bus lines aren’t too convenient, I can walk just about everywhere, including the train station.  This week it’s the telephone—I mean the landline.  Thank goodness the mobile phone still works so I could call the phone company.  They’ve been working on the problem for three days and still haven’t solved it.  And it’s been two weeks since the printer has been on the blink.  Luckily I printed out my absentee ballot before that happened.
That reminds me: if I don’t get that ballot off today it won’t get there in time.  Even now it’s touch and go.  After I send off an email to my sister I’ll sit down with a cup of tea and fill it out.  There, the email’s gone off, let’s see about the vote.  Something of a pain voting for candidates in an American election when I now live in England; but it’s a patriotic duty and must be done.  And I keep hearing that this mid-term election is crucial.   No doubt it is to the rest of my family who still live over there, so let’s get on with it.  Fill in all the little round holes with black ink, make sure you don’t make any extra marks or the ballot won’t be counted, that’s fine; easy this time, just vote for the Democrats all down the line.  There, that’s done!  I deserve another biscuit.
Oops, how clumsy!  I’ve spilled my tea.  All over the ballot, over both sheets, and the ink from the one has stained the other, with words that aren’t supposed to be there.  Oh dear!  They’ll never accept this ballot now, I’ll have to print it out again. Crumb, I can’t print it, the printer’s on the blink!  Even if I could, it’s raining outside, and it’s ten blocks to the post office.  And if the letter doesn’t get there by four o’clock it won’t go out today and then it’s sure to arrive after the deadline.  Forget it, what’s one vote in the midst of 200 million?  Throw out the ballot and have another cup of tea.
Oh, there’s a reply from my sister.  She excuses her long silence.  Well, I’ve been uncommunicative too.  She says she’s been working day and night since mid-September, to get the vote out.  That’s right, she’s always been very civic-minded, and I can imagine how tirelessly she has been at it.  She asks if I’ve voted.  Of course she does, she always does.  And up until now I always have.
How can I admit I have not voted and no longer can?  No, I can’t tell her, that’s all there is to it.  I’m usually a stickler for truth, but in this precise situation I have no choice.  This time, it’s better, far better, to lie.
 

 

Patrice's story

I was born in 1952.  My mother was 20 when I was born.  She had had three babies by then.  The sister between my brother and I died shortly after birth from a heart condition.  Many years later, when I had the capacity to think about my mother with compassion and maturity I realized that it was likely that by the time I was born she was depleted beyond imagination and still grieving from the loss of her second child, Bernadette.

 

My mother was in an unhappy and violent marriage, living an ocean away from her mother, and her culture. She was among my father’s family who did not approve of the marriage and, who, as a whole shunned both her and to some degree, us.  The marriage, even after their attempts to fix what is so clearly broken, fell apart.  And she fell in love.  With the man who would become my step-father. 

 

I was a dark haired, dark eyed, serious child.  The product of two hazel eyed, light haired and light skinned parents.  My brother had the white blonde hair and blue eyes of my mother’s side of the family.  My birth heralded a new look.  I was three by the time my parents separated for good.  My biological father had hinted and, frankly stated that I couldn’t be his because I didn’t look like him.  My mother in a monumental shift in reality supported this fiction to my father, and to me.  It became the reason why my father was unkind to me, treated me differently than my brother, sent him gifts on my birthday, or threatened to leave me behind while he took my brother out for lunch, or to a baseball game. It was far easier for me to accept that my mother had been having an affair than it was for me to accept that my father simply disliked me.

 

The fiction lived for years and years – I can’t really remember when I knew that it was a lie, one my mother told because she longed for it to be true, and one I accepted because it made the discomfort of being my father’s daughter a little easier.  But somewhere between childhood and angry adolescence I became aware that there was a great deal about me that was quite similar to my father.  And that, if you took the time to look one generation back, to my father’s side of the family – those that survived – I was clearly their genetic outcome.  My father’s brother, my uncle who is 94 years old now, says when he sees me, “It is like looking at my mother’s face”.  It gives me pleasure because it gives him some peace.

 

A fractured relationship to the truth slides through my family’s history like a snake.  Forked tongue speaking half truths, full lies, and embroidered events.  All told, hand to god, as if documented in stone, until inconveniently uncovered by a truth teller, or anyone who was perplexed by mismatched facts and impossible realities.

 

There was a point in my own life where I decided that I would no longer lie.  Nor would I let anyone believe that I believed the lies I was told.  I became the truth teller in my family.  It was a singularly unpopular stance. One that led my mother to suggest boarding school (we could not afford that), sending me to a kibbutz in Israel, or shipping me off to live with my bio-father (that’s a shady story for later). 

 

My stance on not lying has softened somewhat since my teen years. I tell polite lies, “It’s a lovely party”, “No, I’ve never heard this story before”, “Yes, your child does have remarkable rhythm”.   They have their purpose and if saying a polite lie saves someone from hurt feelings – or unnecessary misery I go for it.  But I still find it a balancing act – that requires attention and compassion to myself and others. 

Annemarie's story

The Cow's Lament: Is it better to lie

 

To lie or not to lie…that is the question.

Whether it is advantageous to stand

In this verdant field of grass and clover

To note the falling pressure and scowling sky

And so, by lying, preserve a patch that's dry?

Should we swipe a luscious bunch of grass

And watch  scudding clouds  begin to cover

A darkening sky, predicting rain, wet weather,

Stay standing to ruminate, to meditate on

Humans' behaviour to four-legged beasts.

Take a pause - is there respect

That makes a calamity of a whisking tail,

Flicking unwittingly 'cross the cowman's face,

And, so angered, he docks those hairy tools

Which, when we stand opposing one another,

Can flick the flies from our bovine eyes?

To stand, to ruminate and ponder

The pain of punctured ears, of metal tags

Numbered, lettered to classify each cow

When in times past we had proper names

Like Buttercup and Bessie, Daisy and Flame.

We were not attached to man's machines

But knew instead the hands of gentle milkmaids.

Now hikers cross our fields, view our curious faces;

When spooked we stare and stalk, then nudge,

And sometimes chase, surround, stampede

To keep you from our newborn calves.

 And is it better to lie down to chew the cud,

And in reposing ease the rumbling rumen

And rest our weary legs, perchance to dream?

Yes , when cows lie down it’s no harbinger of rain,

Just a growling stomach, tired legs, an urge to sleep!

 Jackie's story

It’s better to lie

She furtively glanced at me across the seat in the high speed train.  I know because I was struggling to read   one eye on my screen  and one eye on the person opposite me.    Spread before her were a packet of crisps, chocolate bars half eaten, a sandwich,  French style filled with cream cheese and ham, gerkins and too ripe tomatoes that sqashed out of the bread and dripped down onto the train table;

Shall I go on …shortbreads and gum sweets and what was a little worrying a litre bottle of white wine

I, had a bottle of water, a few almons and walnut mix in my pocket.    As I settled into a good book on my kindle,   I was constantly interrupted by crisp crunching and packet opening, cringing every time her now greasy fingers touched our communal table and using the train seats to wipe with.  Turning the pages of the free magazine and squashing bits of crumbs and crisps between the pages.  Made a note not to look at that magazine even if I was bored.  The wine was drunk out of the bottle as no cup or glass were visible.   And as the train jerked on  its track for a second caused her to dribble she then hiccuped for at least ten minutes ;  a loud hic up with mouth open and no attempt to hide the sound.  Like a bird who had swallowed a peanut.

 

Another 2.5 hours to go.   The train was full,  not a spare seat to move to and as other passengers were enjoying their packed lunch or café prepared meals fell asleep – my neighbour continued to crunch her way through her feast.   

Then in one movement she looked up – greasy hair parted from her grey green eyes and I recognized her.    She had put on a stack of weight. Not surprising seeing what she stuffed into her body.

Now, I remembered her clearly from Junior year in high school. Her straight brown hair always in a braid which the boys in our classes pulled relentlessly.   I remember her cry as they teased her about her clothes.  Long skirts, see through shirts with no bra, oxford shoes and short socks, hairy legs and dirty fingernails.  So very different from the polished high school students in my top Californian high school.   The girls were sleak haired,  balerina shoed and shaved their legs, underarms and whatever other hairs they could remove from their bodies.   The boys were impeccable and wore so much eau de cologne the school smelt like a perfume factory.

For some odd reason this girl (who I won’t name)– continually tried to befriend me.  Phone calls, written notes in class and always came to sit next to me at the canteen.  I couldn’t be rid of her.  She stared at me with undying love, followed me around and even tried to take the same classes as me.     It was embarrasing and at the time I didn’t understand the ways of the world.       Then I changed schools and she was out of my life – until now.

 

I believe we know each other she suggested.    Oh no, I replied, you must be mistaken.     In some cases its better to lie.

 Geraldine's story

IT’S BETTER TO LIE

 

When Rosaline put the phone down, she was shaking so much that she could hardly breathe, and sunk down into the nearest armchair.

This had been going on for such a long time without anyone noticing and she had thought it could have been for years and years, maybe for ever !

You could no longer see  her lovley fair skinned face with her dark blue almond eyes, her circomflex accent eyebrows and her fine greek nose.  Behind her hands, streams of tears were escaping hidden by  her dark curly hair.

What was she going to do ?  What would she tell her family : her great husband who loved her so dearly, her 2 boys and her young daughter who were the most important people in her life. Would she have to tell them the awful truth or would it be better to lie ?

Fifteen years ago, just after her daughter Jane was born, Rosaline went through a very hard postpartum depression : she loved her husband, James,  her two boys were funny, lively and loving chaps.  The household didn’t have any financial problems as James was running a     well-known lawyer’s business. But, she just couldn’t put herself together, each morning and face the coming day.  Everything looked grey, miserable and she was just unable to straighten her mind, feel positive and get on with it.

James was feeling very unsettled with the situation : how come his beloved wife looked so sad, felt so hopeless.  She would spend days wandering around the house not knowing what to do with herself, suddenly bursting out into tears .

What could they do about it ?  Should they ask for someone’s help ? After longly discussing the situation, Rosaline accepted  Jame’s suggestion to finally go and see a Psychologist.  They went together for the first meeting : there were loads of tears shed, sobbing, emotional feelings during the session and they finally agreed that Roseline should start a psychotherapy with Math O’Connor which could keep going for quite a while as they discovered a real huge bag of bones linked with Roseline’s childhood that needed to be delt with.

And that’s when Roseline started going to see Mister O’Connor weekly, every Thursday afternoon from 2 to 3 p.m.  The first sessions were difficult and painful as they stirred up a lot of forgotten critical situations experienced  while growing up.  She would come home with red swollen eyes and a soaking wet handkerchief.  Her children didn’t ask any questions but they most certainly felt something very strange was going on.

Little by little, as the months went by, they discussed undoing thousands of knots problem after problem, and things were getting straightened out.  Roseline was feeling better : she was much happier, she would sometimes even be singing in the house when busy with certain chores and started drawing or painting exploring and exercising her creative talents.  She started taping some of her pictures in her daughter’s room, then in some of the house’s corridors.  Things were getting better.

When she thought she could do without Mister O’Connor’s help, she discussed the situation with him.

-       Mr. O’Connor, I think I’m feeling better now and could try and drop the sessions with you ! What do you think ?

-       Oh ! Roseline, it might be a bit early : I think you’re still a bit frail and there are still many things we should yet talk about.  For instance, your relation with James.

They worked on the subject for another  10 weeks and Mr. O’Connor that we can call Math now, had a problem, a very big problem.  He felt addicted to Roseline : he didn’t have to see her more than an hour a week, but he really couldn’t do without her during that particular hour.

So, when Roseline suggested again that she maybe could put an end to her therapy, he took both her 2 hands in his own, held them very tightly and just said : « It’s impossible, Roseline, I need you, I need your presence, maybe I even love you » !

-Oh my God ! Not you !  I’ve been resisting so long taking you in my arms and secretly dreaming of you, your body, your smell, touching you all over, but I love my husband so much !

- Well, we could give it a try ! Within the minute, they were both naked, rolling together on the couch, hands, tongues, sex all muddled together, small and louder screams coming from deep inside them, and after a hughe orgasm, they lay flat, sweating and panting ….

- Oh ! How fantastic.  I’ve never had such pleasure in my life said Roseline, smiling and then laughing and laughing and laughing. Math held her tightly in his arms and very gently said :

«  we could just swap our therapy sessions to…..well….to this new…..Heu…convention ? »

And so, ever since, Roseline and Math would have their Thursday 2 to 3 session and she would go home light, happy and fulfilled.

Till this terrible phone call :

« If you carry on with your Thursday Therapy, we shall make it public.  And everybody will know it’s a sexual therapy… ».

Where did that come from, who was to know, was it someone bluffing ? 

The rest of the day Roseline felt devastated, didn’t know who could help, how she could escape the scandal, and went to bed with James, feeling restless and maybe even feverish.

Next morning, it was a Monday, she called Math to tell him she would be cancelling their weekly meetings.

-       « But you can’t do that, he exclaimed ».  Not after fifteen years.  We are both going to suffer like hell. By the way, why do you want to cancel ?  Have you fallen in love with another man ?

-       Oh no ! Said Roseline.  I still love James very deeply and I don’t think I could cope without our Thursday afternoon sex therapy, but I’m being blackmailed,  at least I got this strange call… and she told him all about it.

-       - Don’t worry, he said.  Nobody can know what goes on in my therapy cabinet.  Professional secret.  So, it’s better to lie, to deny and never change our position as to our behaviour !

-       - OK. I’ll try and keep silent and zen about it all and we’ll discuss it next time we meet.

Which they did, the following Thursday that felt more like therapy than sex, and Math having told her he had received the same call and completely denied the facts they were accused of.

End of story.  Lie is sometimes very efficient and ever since, every Thursday, the shutters close in Mr. O’Connor’s cabinet from 2 to 3.

 

A long way away

Annemarie's contribution

A Long Way Away.

Laden with parasol, tartan rug and her book she navigated her way through the sand dunes, between dense grey-green clumps of marram grass. Already she could feel sand insinuating itself into her shoes and Simon, too close behind, her trod on her heel. Muttering to herself she could feel irritation, both physical and mental, prickling her feet and brain. This was not her idea of a holiday at all she mumbled under her breath. It had been Simon's wish to spend leisurely time on the coast. Glimpsing the beach she was dismayed how crowded it was and only midday.

'Here we are,’ said a jubilant Simon placing the picnic basket down - much too close to a family of five, thought Helen.

On the hot gritty sand she spread out the tartan rug, remarking how worn it was, threadbare and lacking wool like a scraggly cat, ribs showing through mottled fur. The sand would probably come through it. Parasol stuck firmly in the sand, she shrugged off her outer clothes. She lay down on the rug and surveyed her body, the disagreeable bulges of middle age yet another disappointment. She jerked her eyes away and jealously admired two young women turning their  bronzing, oil-slicked, slender bodies like two chickens in an oven perfecting the ideal golden roast.

The children, a bare four feet from them, squealed with delight as they ran up and down fetching water for their sandcastle, which with screams of joy they promptly destroyed. She shut her ears to the noise. It was  their first weekend away since he’d come out of hospital and she was determined to be little kinder to him, aware of her brusque, sometimes sharp-ongued treatment of Simon.

She arranged the picnic she’d specially prepared - asparagus flan, roast beef baguette (organic meat from a local farmer) and tomato salad (from their own home-grown heritage tomatoes). Simon meanwhile opened the bottle of Frascati wine which she watched glug-glugging into the glasses.

    She began to relax, savouring the crisp, citrusy taste of the wine, when a rowdy group of teenagers chased each other, thudding along the beach, barely missing Simon and Helen. She said nothing. She tried to ignore the abrasive crunch in the asparagus tart. She gritted her teeth (was that the sand?) as she bit into the beef baguette. And in the tomato salad - was that Himalayan salt mined from the Punjab region of Pakistan or was that sand sprinkled from the soles of passing strangers?

She sighed and wiping off as much sand as possible from her body, sand which had crept in and secreted itself almost everywhere, she picked up her book. The day was turning out as badly as she’d imagined

“I’ve blown the lounger up for you,” Simon puffed. “I'm going to have a short snooze; why don’t you have a swim and a float,” he suggested. His face was red, whether from the sun or from blowing up the plastic lounger, she wasn’t sure but she grudgingly grasped the lilo and with her book protected in a plastic bag she approached the waters edge and gingerly climbed aboard. Plastic bag balanced on her stomach she back stroked her way over the waves,  away from the other swimmers. She extracted her book and lay on her back for a leisurely, peaceful read which quickly evolved into a sun-induced slumber. She was awoken by a splash of cold water, a rogue wave swamping the inflatable. Surrounded by shimmering waves she shielded her eyes against the afternoon sun; but where was the beach? How long had she dozed? Why had Simon not missed her?   She licked her salty, crusty lips and tried to shout for help but her throat was dry with fear. At the same time she frantically tried to bale out seawater with her damp book. She stared in all directions and as her eyes acclimatised to the bright sun she could just about see the faint hazy blue outline of a coast…a long way away, a very long way away.

Sarah's story

A long way away  4  (the brother-in-law)

Yes, he remembered the last time he had seen her.  In her house—it used to be "their" house, hers and his brother's, but now his brother was dead—and for some reason he had gone to see her.  A bad choice.  He remembered the teacup she had served him his tea in.  He had lifted it to his lips and then just looked at her.  She had looked back, not getting it.  So he had explained to her, "It's chipped."  She had given him a look of such scorn that he knew exactly what she was thinking: "I'm not inviting you back here again." 
"Fine," he had thought.  "I certainly don't intend to come back anyway."
He knew that her children didn't care for him.  Ostensibly it was because he hadn't been at his brother's funeral.  He had flown home and had been there when Richard passed away, but then he had had to get back; it wasn't his fault the man took so long to die.  At the time he was still working, and Indonesia was a long way away.  Now he was retired and home again in his birth country, with his Indonesian wife; they even lived in the seaside town he and his brothers and cousins had spent all their childhood holidays in.  When his parents had died twenty years ago he had taken the old house there on the coast, for his retirement, leaving the apartment in town to the youngest brother Robert, who preferred that; Richard, by his own choice, had taken the investments and with the money bought the old house in the country where his widow Anne was living now.  His widow.  Roger felt a certain smug sense of triumph: he was older than Richard, but his wife wasn't a widow.
He and his wife saw nobody.  Several cousins and their children still had summer places there and even came out sometimes in the off season, but they did not "'frequent each other".  There were times when they passed each other in the street without saying "hello".  They did not even invite him to their mother's funeral--his aunt, after all.  Anne had attended, he heard, and with one of her children to boot.  He, Roger, had got the news only two days after the funeral, on a printed announcement.  He and they were the only members of his generation left; the others were already dead.  Except Anne.
And now she was on the news again.  About to publish a new book.  He had vaguely followed the list of books that had come out in the past years.  One was billed as "a family history" and that had caught his suspicious interest.  "She'd better not write about our family," he had thought and had actually gone out and bought it.  He never went farther than the first ten pages and the table of contents, however, because it was about the other side of the family: hers.
But this time it was "the story of a marriage."  Oh boy, he'd get her this time.  He read the description; it certainly sounded like their family, or at least, his brother's marriage.  He read down farther and saw you could order it online.  It was pre-publication, so you wouldn't get it for another two months.  But he'd get it, and read it, and then he'd attack her in court.
Two months later the postwoman rang the bell at a holiday cottage on the coast.  She rang twice and no-one came.  As she stood there wondering, a neighbour came out of his front door and spoke to her.
"Er, ah," he said.  "There's nobody there.  The owner died last week and was buried two days ago.  His wife, er, his widow, has gone back to her own country."
"Well," said the postwoman, "the book's paid for.  There's no point in sending it back to the publisher.  Why don't you take it?"
The man, whose name was Gilbert, accepted the package with thanks.  Then, as he was retired, he sat down in an armchair and opened the book.  After half an hour or so he called to his wife, "Say, Christine, you should read this.  It has some rather crusty things to say about our ex-neighbour."  She came in and he read her out a passage and they both laughed.  Then Gilbert settled down for a most enjoyable day's reading.

 

 

Patrice's story

Long ago and long, long away  (Minford Place)

 

The first apartment I remember, and I can’t say if it is really a memory or something I’ve cobbled together from stories and photograhs from childhood, is the apartment on Minford Place, just a few blocks from Crotona Park in The Bronx, New York.

 

It was a large building surrounded by an iron work fence.  There were Four O’Clocks planted around the outside that I remember blooming with little yellow flowers late in the day.  There is a photograph of me in a playsuit with a pinafore top surrounded with a lacy ruffle.  The bottom is not much more than something to keep the diaper in place with ruffles on the butt. I am holding the railing with my right hand and I think I am about 16 months old.  The look on my face is one that I have been burdened with my entire life.  I am staring at the camera, my mouth slightly open with a wary look in my eyes.  I know it was my father who took the picture with an old Pentax bought – or perhaps liberated – from the PX.

 

There is another photograph, taken around the same time, of my brother Gary, not much older than me but past the toddler stage, hanging onto a tree, his mouth wide open, yelling.  I’m sure it was taken at Crotona Park – part of a series. 

There is another one of me with my mother sitting on a blanket in the grass, me laying on the blanket beside her.  I am younger in that picture – but I think I can still see that look of wariness. 

 

These photos are all black and white, though I know the dress my mother is wearing is a blue silk one she bought before she left for the States.  I swiped it from her when I was a teenager and felt gorgeous in it.

 

My parents met in West Berlin, post World War II.  My mother was 17 or 18 years old-my father an American Army soldier who had escaped Germany with his Jewish family in 1941.  My father was a boisterous rebellious character.  For the older son of a middle class Jewish family to join the military was frowned upon.  But his good German and American citizenship served the military well and I think the discipline – as much as he paid attention to it – served my father well.

 

The story they told once the dust of their divorce had settled enough for them to be in the same room and for them to tell stories, was that my father was having coffee on Unter de Linden Strasse and my mother was walking along, window shopping.  She was noticeably pretty, with strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes.  My father wolf whistled and made a crack in English.  She responded in English and that was the beginning.  He was everything my great-grandmother would hate: American, of German descent, in the military, he would take my mother away – perfect.

--

Patrice A. Naparstek
GypsyDog.info

 

 Paula's contribution

The writing group luncheon was in full swing: wine glasses shimmering around the table, forks lifting to eager mouths, gossip and so much more being shared, a slight breeze ruffling the seemingly casual yet perfect hairdos of the women gathered on the terrace to share food and friendship. As the meal wound down, cheese and then dessert dispensed with, the stories began. Wine glasses refreshed, one by one, the five women read their interpretations of that month’s theme. And as usual, each story was completely  different from the one read before; each story was a wondrous and imaginative rendering stemming from a prompt of just a few words.

 

When the stories had been told, and the praise had died down, it was time to determine the host of the next meeting, and most importantly, the theme. A few ideas were thrown out, but the group could not decide. Finally, someone had the idea of writing each idea on a piece of paper, and putting that paper in front of Eve, who ceremoniously closed her eyes and jabbed her finger onto the page, choosing one of the ideas jotted down.

 

A long way away. 

 

That would be the theme for the next month’s stories.

 

Well, Paula thought, we aren’t meeting again until October 17^th. That’s a long way away. I don’t have to think about this for a good long while. Of course, Paula, whose background was in daily journalism, usually wrote her story on deadline, often the day before the monthly meeting,  sometimes even the morning of. And they usually turned out ok.

 

Jackie, musing on the theme, which was one of her ideas, after all, decided she would have a good long think about what she would write about. She very much enjoyed reflecting on such things as she worked in her studio every day, creating lovely pieces of art.

 

Sarah, walking home across the village after lunch, already had five ideas in mind, and immediately sat down at her computer to begin. By the end of the day, she had written six stories. And so many more ideas were dancing about in her head.

 

Patrice had to think about this. A long way away, she thought. Well, that could be almost anything, couldn’t it? She decided she would sleep on it; something would magically come to her, as things usually did. Besides, she had a habit of ignoring the theme and writing whatever the hell she wanted to, anyway.

 

Annemarie, who was not able to attend the lunch, learned of the theme via the group email that went out after the luncheon, and thought, “Bollocks! A long way away? Whatever shall I write about?” But then she turned her attention to the meal she was making for friends that evening, and she knew that she would eventually find exactly the right words and feelings to create a beautiful story. But not today; she was much too busy.

 

Geraldine, who was traveling and so missed the lunch, read the email with the next month’s theme, and wondered, “What in the world? Oh, well, I’ll come up with something. I always do.” And it would be topical and probably frightening, because Geraldine was the moral center of the group.

 

Eve, driving home from her first writing group luncheon in months, didn’t give it a thought, because she was unlikely to write anything at all. She was just happy to have been enveloped in the love and care of these women she had come to know so well. 

 

And at the appointed day and hour of the next writing group luncheon, each woman arrived with their stories in hand, eager to share a meal with friends, to share what they had written, and, more importantly, to share that camaraderie that exists only among people who have a common passion and a common purpose: in this case, putting words on paper to express thoughts and feelings and imaginings without fear of ridicule or criticism. It is, truly, a lovely way to spend an afternoon.

 

 

Geraldine

October 17th 22

It’s a long way away, said the spider to her two new born babies who were looking at the ceiling where they lived, hoping to be able to cross it to the other side for more food catching !

 

It’s a long way away said the hedghog to her husband who wanted to change to the garden on the other side of the road, and so many of us get killed by fast cars when we attempt the journey !

 

It’s a long way away thought the cat who had been displaced by the family who didn’t care to keep him any longer as a pet and wasn’t quite sure he’d be able to find his way back home for another try to seduce them, as he really loved the house and surroudings.

 

Its a long way away to run out of reach of the hunters thought the boar, dashing through the woods at a supersonic speed to keep alive !

 

It’s a long way away one these slippery stones,  said the horse to his wife as they were taking four people for a run in the carriage between the Opera and the Eiffel Tower !

 

It’s a long way away said the salmon as he went to start his trip to spawn on the other side of the ocean !

 

It’s a long way away sniffed the Afghan Hound at the start line when he discovered how long the race would be and remembered he was there to win it !

 

It’s a long way away to walk to school moaned Albert as his parents, aware of environment problems, suggested he would now walk the kilometer between home and school and this would also be very good for his health and would help him grow into a nice independant person !

 

It’s a long way away to go on the college trip to Florence, thought Emily, as their teacher explained to them how they would travel there by bus, crossing the Channel, then France, then through the Alps (highest mountains in Europe !) and finally down the Italian motorway !

It’s a long way away, thought Richard, as he was planning a 4th year University exchange to finish his Degree in California, Silicone Valley, hoping for an interesting job and life after the experience !

 

It’s a long way away to sail around the world thought Amanda when her beloved husband said he needed a break from home and was planning a round trip on his friend’s small sailing boat !

 

It’s a long way away to reach the moon, thought Armstrong as he stepped into the rocket with his pal wondering if they would ever get there and step on the satellite !

 

What about reaching Mars in the near future ?  Is it such a long way a way and will mankind have to consider the possibility of reaching another planet to save itself from destruction ?  After all, Planet Earth would really be better off without us !  And who knows, maybe this alternative is not that far anymore…

 ______________________________

Jackie

 

A long way away

Smoke flies were starting to bite me.   I could feel them creeping up my long sleeved shirt and leaping onto my neck, biting my ankles and jumping onto my hair.   They were tiny,  jumping like fleas but slightly bigger.

I had time to observe them as the service truck coming to pick up my broken down car wasn’t scheduled for another ¾ of an hour.     The sun was hot, boiling hot and I couldn’t shelter in my car as it was parked on the off bay just off the autoroute.  This was the main toll road going West of Lyon towards the Dordogne.    I lent against the shade of the telephone post and prayed someone would answer.

Hallo – vous etes en panne?      Yes, I cried please help.

As I scrutinized the horizon amid pounding trucks, caravans and hooting Saturday voyageurs on their way to or back from their holidays I hoped that the depanneur who was coming to save me would twist his magic wand and the car would start again and I’d be on my way.   It was 11:30 and I’d left home at 8:45 hoping to be at my destination of 650 kms from home  by 4pm.    a holiday much looked forward to and booked way back in January and much deserved to my mind.     

I waited safely on the other side of the crash barrier surrounded by the smell of burnt grass and shrubs which was very strong.   I imagined the fires that had been happening all through the summer in the West of France had got to here – and the worst of the worst I’d be smoked out by the still fuming grass sides of this autouroute n° 71.

 

The fix it man arrived – hooked me up and had my car on the back of his truck in a flash.   Aren’t you going to look at the engine I naievley asked?    What, with this traffic, Madame are you mad have you seen how fast they are going and how dangerous it is.     look just ahead how lucky you were not to have been caught out in the tunnel – then I saw the sign of the tunnel of 1,5 kms long just up ahead.     What a nightmare that would have been to have been caught slowing in a long tunnel.   

The garage he took me too was , well I’m not sure where.   In a small village and of course was a Renault garage.   Oh no, we can’t repair VW’s here you’ll have to wait until Monday and its now 12:30 on a Saturday and we don’t open on Saturday  afternoons.        Can’t you just look I said check the oil, water?  I said hopefully.     No we’re only authorized to look at Renault he declared.    But, he and his wife did very kindly offer to put me up for the night.   I declined gracefully.   

So, the insurance company

Sent a taxi to get me to the nearest Hertz rent a car – he took 1 hour to get to me and 1 hour to get to wherever it was.    The young lady in the Hertz rent a car office told me that sadly the only thing she had left on her books to lend me was a Jumpy van you know the type with no windows in the back and just side mirrors.      I said that I had another 450 kms to do and had never driven a van before – she jangled her diamond covered wrists , flicked her blonde hair over her shoulder and said ;  “Madame, have confidence in yourself”.     Cheeky soul I thought as I climbed in trying to set the GPS.

I did arrive at my destination but only at 9:30 pm. And it was pitch black.

 On the way I must have touched the navigation screen and switched it to little roads and not the motorway.    So I did the 450 kms on tiny switchback roads and pretty villages where you had to slow down to 30kms. An hour.       The place I was going was impossible to find in the dark.   I went round and round having to u-turn the monster van in and out of mistaken roads and paths.    I rang my hostess and she came to get me.   Relief.     I was shown to a lovely room with my own bathroom – I had booked a cheaper room with shared bathroom but the person had desisted at the last minute so I was in luxury.       The other retreaters were already seated at the dinner table (they had waited for me)   how kind … and I had an amazing dinner and welcome by everyone.    

The next morning I broke the coffee pot spilling boiling coffee down my thigh then  after having rinsed out my linen pants put them on and they promptly split right up the bum.        This has got to stop I thought ..so from then on I moved very slowly, picking up cups with extreme caution, making sure I did not fall down steps or break my leg or such …. Can you imagine!   No I can’t.   The holiday was wonderful, the ladies amazing and I stitched my heart away for 6 whole days.    The swimming pool was to die for and I highly recommend a holiday like this but if you are driving do check that the rodents haven’t chewed up your wires under the motor of the car.

 

The Greenhouse

 Paula's story

We are a very Catholic family. That’s an important detail for you to know, because it informs every decision that came afterward.

 

My name is Maya O’Malley. I am 13 years old. And in the course of one day, my understanding of my world changed forever. 

 

I come from a big Irish Catholic family. I am the youngest of five; my older brothers and sisters are each two years apart, then there’s a five-year gap, then me. My dad has six siblings, so I have aunts, uncles and cousins almost too numerous to count. Although we are scattered across the country, we are together at every family wedding and funeral, during holidays, and summertime reunions every other year at one of my uncle’s place in Nova Scotia, up in Canada. 

 

Of all the many, many members of my family, my absolute favorite is my cousin May. She’s a lot  older than me, and she is just the coolest. She’s single, and she lives in a loft apartment like you’d see on Instagram or something. She’s a senior analyst at a big investment firm — whatever that means — but she says that’s just to pay the bills. In her spare time she creates the most beautiful collages out of fabrics and ribbons and bits of things she finds, well, I don’t know where she finds all the stuff that she uses to create her art. She is starting to be recognized by local art galleries — she has had a few exhibitions — and I just know she is going to be a famous artist one day. I want to be just like her when I grow up. 

 

Anyway, one summer afternoon, I was home doing a whole lot of nothing — isn’t summer wonderful? — when May came to the house, looking a little out of sorts. She said she was fine, but her hello kiss was a little distracted, and instead of talking to me as she always does, full of questions about my latest crush or what I’ve been doing lately, she just asked, “Where’s your mom?”

 

I told her Mom was out puttering around in the greenhouse, checking her roses and no doubt cooing to her plants. My mom can be weird that way.

 

May disappeared out the back door, and I walked out onto the back terrace to watch as she walked down the path to the greenhouse, then greeted my mom. The two of them hugged, talked, but then they cried, hugged some more, sat down, then talked a long time. By then, I was curious but bored, so I went back inside, and upstairs to my room to read the latest murder mystery in a series set in the Dordogne region of France. I’m going to go there one day!

 

At some point, May must have left, because Mom came into the house, came upstairs, stuck her head in my room and asked me if there was anything special I wanted for dinner. I asked for her homemade Mac and cheese, my favorite.

 

Later that night, long after dinner was over and the kitchen was cleaned, Mom and Dad came into my room. “There’s something you need to know,” Dad said quietly, taking my desk chair, as Mom sat down on the bed next to me.

 

And here’s what they told me:

 

My cousin May was raped when she was 15 years old. Amid all the trauma of that event, she and her parents decided together that she would have the baby and put it up for adoption, because, well, that’s what good Catholics do.  That’s when one of May’s uncles and his wife asked if they could adopt the baby, keep it in the family, raise it as their own child, give it all the love it deserved. May and her parents, not really too surprised at this display of generosity and faith and family strength, happily agreed.

 

About a month before the baby was born, the man accused of raping May went on trial, and my cousin May testified against him. Eight months pregnant, she took the stand in the courtroom, and in a strong and clear voice, identified the man at the defense table as the man who attacked her that night, months ago. It didn’t take long for the jury to convict him and send him to prison.

 

Soon afterward, May’s baby was born, a little girl who had so much O’Malley in her — her eyes, her wide smile, her thick, dark hair —that her new parents could hardly believe it. She took her place in the family, a sweet and happy child who grew tall and strong and smart.

 

Twelve years later — just two days ago! — the man was paroled from prison, and immediately tracked down my cousin May. He called her, and threatened to find the child and tell it the awful secret of its birth, but said he would stay silent if May came up with several thousand dollars.

 

My Irish Catholic family closed ranks. There was no awful secret: every birth is a miracle, and this one was no different. And blackmail is blackmail: it would never end. So the family decided to call the rapist’s bluff, report the attempted blackmail to the police, send the man back to jail, and tell the child the story themselves, in their own way.

 

And that’s how I found out that my adored cousin May is actually my mother, my parents are my aunt and uncle, my siblings are my cousins, my other aunt and uncle are my grandparents.

 

So I ask you dear listeners, to put yourself in my place. Does this change anything? Does it change everything?

 

 _________________________________________

Jackie's story - based on a conversation I overheard in a café in Dijon some time ago.   Where is he? I can’t imagine  why he’s not here Did you see the time? He said he’d be here at midday and its well past Yes, almost 5 minutes past now Where could he be Where is he? He should be here by now I asked him what time he’d come And he said at midday So where could he be then I don’t know, perhaps he went to see his mother Yes she must be in quite a state After what happened Something awful, so terrible that... I can’t imagine anything worse Do you think he s forgotten to come No he never forgets anything His father called him   “elephant boy” his memory was so good Well then where can he be Did she find out what really happened? She must have done,  with all the police and enquires and everything After 50 years of marriage she must be feeling quite lost Wouldn’t you? Yes, I guess so, and such unusual circumstances That’s for sure It was in the newspapers you know No I didn’t know My neighbour showed me the article And I cried when I read it Pass it over I’d like to read it too Oh dear,  what a tragedy So awful …. That’s why I’m wondering where could he be? I hope he doesn’t do anything silly Where is he? Can you look outside to see if he’s coming down the road No nothing yet I just wonder what is going on Such terrible news especially as they wanted one so badly His mother always had it on her wish list, but never expected one and then that to happen Boom ! – Just like that His father was inside and keeping himself busy Very sudden it was – I guess life is like that one day you’re here and the next ….gone! When did they say it happened? just the other day An accident?      No – a bolt of lightening came out of the blue  –  struck during the storm and everything  exploded with the force of it – scattering the roof into tiny shards and started a fire … Completely destroyed it was What ? Well the greenhouse of course His mothers new greenhouse with his Dad inside Devastated the boy is He said he’d come by Well I don’t know I wonder where he has got to ? Picking up the pieces Iguess   ___________________________________________________________ Annemarie's story As the first fine droplets of drizzle caress my cheeks and hands I make my way through the arched doors of the greenhouse. Not any old greenhouse but a teak, metal and glass temple. The rain is pattering on the roof, splashing from a drainpipe, barely audible, on a leafy shrub, drumming on the lawn. Rivulets tumble down the glass bouncing off the iron framework. I gaze at the slender copper-coloured beams of teak supporting the intricate framework, elegant blackened metal arches and circles connecting the side and quirky curved metal struts undulating across the panes. No green beneath my feet in this arid region of deserts but flagstones and gravel and metal grids beneath which water is trundled through the arteries of iron pipes. Beside me plants with downy foliage and flamboyant flowers.  Here you can marvel at the large blooms of the South African king protea and wonder at the bottle brush-like flowers of Australian Banksia.The stone plants and bear paw succulents from South Africa  fascinate, as do the Australian kangaroo paws and grass tree which bears its exuberant head of glaucous hair on a thick wrinkly trunk. In the dry gravel are succulents with fleshy leaves, globe or barrel-shaped to maximise their capacity to store water; some with  spines but no leaves  to minimise evaporation, and ferocious spines to to protect them from predators and deter grazers. Fibonacci spiral patterns appear in the whorled leaf arrangements, that channel rainfall to the roots. Segmented, gnarled or twisted this motley crew of cactii have stories to tell; strange, misshapen or just plain rude these shapes are sculptural.       I pass through another modest door into the hot humidity of tropical rainforest, the dark forest floor an intense competition for light giving rise to the high dense canopy. Coffee, kapok and  bananas with leviathan leaves, bromeliads clinging to stems of trees collecting moisture and nutrients from the debris in their upturned reservoirs. Twining its path through the trees the wonderfully named Strongylodon macrobotrys, its racemes are covered in inverted, jade coloured claws which flower in spring and can reach 90 centimetres in length. The showstopper of the tropical pool is a giant Santa Cruz waterlily, whose leaves unfurl to reveal ferocious spikes on the underside, leaves like enormous green pie dishes, performance platforms for birds. The flowers of this plant last only two nights turning from female to male during that time. Carnivorous pitcher plants and cascading passionflowers with fluttering purple stamens add to the diversity. Another wooden door and inside the aroma is enticing. Mediterranean herbs assault the senses. 'Are you going to Scarborough Fair?   Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,' I hum quietly to myself  recalling an old English song, 'remember me to one who lives there…'. Here the plants are more familiar but I marvel just the same. I see blue skies through the old glass panes and realise the rain has ceased.  I hear the hum of insects, see butterflies flitting from flower to flower, testing and tasting the nectar. What better way to spend a rainy afternoon travelling the world through a sea of plants. Emerald, celadon, jade, chartreuse, mint, olive, citron, pea, bottle… there must be more than fifty shades of green and you can see them all in the Cambridge Botanical Garden Glasshouse…the Greenhouse!   A story from Patrice Louisa and the Bear Louisa sank lower into the tub encouraging the bubbles to foam up over her breasts to her chin.  The tiny scratches on her arms and legs stung for a moment then subsided.  She snaked one long brown arm out from the bubbles to lift the wineglass sitting on the edge of the tub.  The glass was beaded with condensation.   She sipped the cold wine and held it in her mouth for a moment before putting her head back and swallowing.  She felt it slide down her throat and into her stomach—the contrast between her internal and external temperatures was so great that it gave her a jolt.  The hot water melted her tired muscles – she hadn’t know picking berries would be so strenuous but she was pleased with her loot -- three large bowls of shiny ripe blackberries.  Two and half bowls were already in tidy zip-loc bags stacked in the freezer like a miser’s money against real and imagined hard times.  The last half bowl sat on the kitchen table with a plate over it.  The heavy cream was in the fridge, a whipping bowl cooling in the freezer compartment on top.  She hoped Hank would be back by the time she finished her bath because she wasn’t going to wait for him to festoon those berries in home made whipped cream and eat them on the deck in clean pajamas while watching the sunset.     On the way to picking berries she’d had a close call with three hysterical deer that burst from the tree line and danced madly around in front of her—long legs poking up and down like pistons.    One had headed dazedly for the grate of her car.  Louisa slammed her foot onto the brakes and turned the wheel giving the deer enough time to come to its senses –what little it had – and follow the rest of its herd into the woods. Her heart had pounded for a while afterward and she drove more cautiously the rest of the way, scanning the tree line and the fields to make sure they didn’t sneak up on her again.   The day before she had seen a mother black bear and two cubs walking across the road north of the farm as if off to attend The Teddy Bear’s Picnic of her favorite childhood song. It was the first time she had seen bears and she was delighted by how much they looked like picture book bears with their rounded shoulders, big paws and shiny coats.  She’d had an almost overwhelming desire to follow them off into the woods but some atavistic good sense kept her from doing so.  That and the notion of how embarrassed she would have been to have to tell Hank how she’d wound up in a tree too scared to come down until he found her.  Louisa felt a tingle of pride over the things she had learned these last few months. Even this morning after losing a few of the ripest berries to the long grass underneath the bush she had figured out how to cup her hand beneath the berry and pick with her index finger and thumb creating a cup for the ripest berries to fall into when she jostled the bush.  While she still found living so far in the north at times daunting and occasionally lonely she relished the life she had, the stark beauty of the landscape, the encounters with nature and animals, time to read and write and most of all, the time with Hank.  For a moment she listened to the rumble of his voice in her head and hoped again that he would make it home in time to join her for berries and the sunset and her smelling like bubbles and clean pajamas.     Over the sound of NPR in the living room she heard movement in the kitchen and was pleased that he had arrived just as she was thinking about him.  She yelled out in a fake French accent, “Henri, I’ll be right out.  Don’t touch those berries”, then stood up in the tub with islands of foam dotting her body.  She rinsed off with the hand held shower being careful not to dilute her wine.  There was a crash in the kitchen that she attributed to the breadboard falling over, which it did with irritating regularity. “Are you okay?” she yelled.     When she opened the bathroom door she was wrapped in a bath towel with her hair turbaned into another one and holding her glass of wine.  Clouds of fragrant steam poured out from behind her.  She was disappointed for a moment that Hank wasn’t sitting on the couch, she knew he would like the picture she made and maybe she would wait for the berries with the right enticement.  She padded into the kitchen calling his name.  She was smiling already wondering which of them would unwrap her towel first when she saw Hank sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor.  Only it wasn’t Hank.  It was a black bear who had knocked her bowl of berries onto the kitchen floor and was snuffling them up, leaving trails of black raspberry juice as he chased them along the floor.       Louisa was outraged.  How dare he eat her berries, she had labored for them like a farm hand and she had the scratch marks on her arms and legs to prove it. He should pick his own.  Then the bear looked up and while he still looked like a story book bear he was quite a bit larger and her startled yell when she noticed made him startle in turn and for a moment the both of them looked at each other round eyed and still.  The stillness passed and suddenly the kitchen was a tumble of portly black bear looking for his escape scrambling and sliding on the slick vinyl while Louisa flapped her bath towel and shouted.  She was shouting, “Those are my berries, I have the scratch marks to prove it, you’d better get your stinky bear hide out of my kitchen right this instant before I turn you into a rug to use in front of my fireplace that doesn’t exist but so what?”  The bear, in his confused tumbling for escape, luckil, found the door and helter-skeltered down the back stairs before Louise incensed - started flinging at him the cast iron pot and empty tea kettle that had been sitting on the stove.  The bear skittered over the field, his rump bump-bumping for the trees as fast as he could with Louisa losing ground rapidly but still flapping her towel and shouting at the top of her lungs stopping finally, stark naked where the driveway met the field.     She hadn’t seen that Hank’s pick up was also in the driveway and that he stood one leg in the cab and one out on the driveway watching in astonishment.   Louisa turned toward him realizing quite suddenly that there had been a bear in her kitchen and she was standing, naked, in the driveway.  She began to cry with belated tears, belated fears.  Hank came up to her, wrapped her in his arms, holding her head against his shoulder and listened as Louisa snuffled out that the bear had taken their berries and scared her and made a mess of the kitchen and she was fine but from now on they would lock the door wouldn’t they?  He kissed her head, her cheek.  Tried not to laugh quite yet and asked her if there was any whipped cream left.