It would seem this is my approach to that novel I'm "going to write someday." Five minutes a day on my Apple will keep the doctor away... and keep me in writing shape until I "have time to really concentrate."
After nearly 8 years of daily blogging, I should be ready, right?
I do have at least 3 different "stories" in mind for books. I have started all of them. Ha. No really. I'm serious. I guess I just have to pick one and go with it.
Here is a sample of the one I may call
Little House Out Back. It's fiction but will be based on some deep, dark experiences of childhood. Of course, I have to determine if I can bring more levity to it
to balance it. That is my challenge.
In the meantime, read on and feel free to give me constructive feedback...
PROLOGUE
I’ve hated the smell of shit since I was 9 years old.
I can say that now that Momma’s gone.
“Shit!” It feels so freeing to let it out. “Shit! Shit!
Shit!” I say, pounding the steering wheel for emphasis. I glance skyward,
assuming our generous God found a place for Momma’s wayward soul up there. I
half expect her shaky hand to reach down and shove a bar of soap in my mouth.
Did I mention I’ve hated the taste of Dove since I was 9
years old, too?
I pull into the old driveway, feeling the ruts jostle me
around like the rickety roller coaster at the county fair. My hand becomes a
human seatbelt for the goods in the passenger seat. It just wouldn’t do to have
my rare evidence of domesticity all over the floor of the car.
With a grateful step on the brake, I park it in my old spot.
I step out of the air-conditioned car and immediately feel two beads of sweat
racing down my back as if the elastic band of my control-top panty hose is the
finish line. It’s too damn hot to be wearing nylons, black ones to boot. And
this black polyester dress – really, why must convention call for such nonsense
when the heat index tops 90?
My arms juggle my purse and two pans of bars as I make my
way up the front porch steps, carefully avoiding the creaky bottom one, a habit
from my sneaky teenage years. I pause at the door, pondering a knock, which is
fruitless at this point. I use my free hand to wrangle it open and go in.
Everything from the faded roses on the wallpaper to the
worn-out carpet in the entry way is familiar to me. Yet I feel like an
intruder. This is not how I wanted to return.
Voices from the kitchen beckon me to the back of the house
before I sink into a bout of despair. A quick glance around the kitchen,
though, tells me this would be the place to do it. Every available counter
space is filled with comfort food – dessert pans, cookies, casseroles. It looks
like a Lutheran potluck dropped out of the sky. And frankly, it sort of did.
I nod to the Ferguson sisters and search for an opening to add
my pans to the mix. “Ooh, what have ya got there?” Do they really care what I
managed not to burn?
Now I see why they call it “comfort food.” To avoid
dealing with the most pressing topic at hand, talk often turns to the neutral
and comforting topic of food. I hand over the pans and let them decide if the
contents are worth discussing further.
Sensing my chance to escape, I excuse myself and head down
the hall to the bathroom. The mirror
tells me my clothes aren’t the only things melting. So much for the industrial-strength
hair spray!
I sit on the toilet and glance up at the wall. There it is.
That damn poem Momma insisted on hanging on the bathroom wall the day we got the
“inside potty.”
The Little House Out
Back
Among my childhood
memories
One thing I can’t
forget
It’s the little house
out back
I seem to see it yet.
Out there beyond the
lilac bush
It stood so drab and
bare.
We never called it a
bathroom
For no baths were
taken there.
In summer there were
hornets
In winter it was cold
But it served a useful
purpose
For the ones who had
to go.
Though many years have
come and gone
I gladly would go back
And enjoy once more
the comfort
Of the little house
out back.
~ Anonymous
I was 10 years old when we finally got indoor plumbing. No,
I wasn’t a child of the Depression, a Baby Boomer or Amish, for that matter. But
our country had already turned 200 years old before we finally got flush
toilets in 1978.
We weren’t dirt poor – just regular poor – though we did
qualify for free lunches. We had always had running water, electricity and a
big black-and-white television in a mammoth console that ate up half our living
room space. I loved that TV. At the time of the "inside potty" appearance, I remember my heart was torn that year between
Ponch and the Fonz, and sometimes Pa Ingalls. I could sure relate to those Ingalls girls and their lack
of porcelain facilities.
But all that took second billing to the big arrival.
When we did finally add onto our house with its “full bath”
on the main level and stand-alone pot in the basement, my mother hung up that
poem on the wall of the bathroom as if to say, “Let’s not forget those
wonderful, cozy memories of the outhouse.”
Looking at the poem still hanging there, I can’t help but
conjure up nasty and painful memories of that stinkin’ place.
Oh, Momma. Did you think we could just flush away the past?
Did you forget or did you just not care? Why is that damn poem still here and
you’re not?
I miss you, Momma.
Shit.
CHAPTER 1
The first time I got stuck in the outhouse was the day I came
face to face with the devil.
I had just finished my duty in record time, which one tends
to do when surrounded by stench and buzzing flies. When I opened the door to
leave, I stared straight into the eyes of a red-haired monster. Just one
glimpse of those fangs and I slammed the door in his evil face.
Great. Now what?
So... that's it so far! Thoughts?
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