Why is this man smiling?

The buttons and posters appeared one day and then were quickly taken down, but some of us snagged the swag before it could be recalled. Apparently, some lackey in the marketing group had prematurely pulled the trigger on an elaborate campaign to launch… whatever was being launched.

A couple of days later the items reappeared: buttons bearing the grinning mouth and nose and bottom rims of the glasses of the famous founder of Microsoft, and posters that said "why is this man smiling?" 

We, the denizens of early-90s Microsoft hallways and rabbit-warren offices -- about 10,000 of us -- had no idea. Until we opened our email later that day and saw an invitation to an event on one of the ballfields in the center of campus. 

What exciting program was being announced? Speculation flew. Bonuses for all? Some kind of award? A trip to Hawaii? Our expectations were high. This was a company, after all, that gave generous bonuses every six months along with stock options that were zooming skyward along with the company's valuation; that literally had a "morale budget" for every group to spend as they saw fit for parties, outings, beer and snacks at meetings, whatever we wanted, just to keep us all happy and productive. 

We trouped out to the ballfield at the appointed time. A stage was set up at one end. Music boomed over loudspeakers. Tables around the perimeter were laden with buckets of beer and wine and sodas and massive trays of sandwiches, chips, cookies, and snacks. We helped ourselves, clinked bottles and congratulated ourselves on doing whatever we had done to deserve this, and then waited.

After a while, Mike Maples appeared on stage. Mike was the head of marketing. At the time, his sister, Marla Maples, was married to Donald Trump. He got asked about her all the time, and always admitted sheepishly that yes, he was related to that Marla. He made a few introductory remarks but didn't reveal our purpose in gathering. He left that to BillG, as everyone called him.

Bill Gates took the mic. 

Bill shared the exciting news that, in the plaza between buildings 16 and 17 and even as he spoke, paving stones were being replaced with plaques commemorating every product the company had shipped to date. As each new product shipped, he told us, new plaques would appear. Walking the plaza, which he dubbed the Walk of Fame, would afford a person a chance to tour Microsoft's illustrious history of shipping great software. 

The silence was deafening. If we hadn't been standing on a grassy field, you could have heard a pin drop.

Then Bill held up an oblong slab of plexiglas and announced that, in addition to the awesome Walk of Fame, every time we shipped a new product, everyone on the product team would be given one of these obelisks and a metallic sticker with the name of the product and the date, which we could then affix to the plexiglas. The more products you had a part in shipping, the more stickers you would amass. 

Stickers? This all came down to stickers? The disappointment was palpable. We waited for the other shoe… the cash awards that came with it, the trips, the big stuff. Nope, there was nothing else. The Ship-It Award, as some genius in marketing had decided to call it, was nothing but a piece of plastic with spaces for stickers.

And that was it. We were encouraged to party and enjoy the treats, and then to make our way to the Walk of Fame to look at the plaques and bask in the glory of shipping cool stuff. Everyone drank as much beer as they could get their hands on and laughed at the anticlimactic event.

When we got back to our offices, there was an email from Mike Maples with the subject line "Shi&-It Awards." Yes, someone had made a monumental typo in the subject line. It seemed the perfect end to a bizarre day. 

Great Courses Exercise 11

Write a scene two ways: as surprise (where reader and a character learn of a plot development at the same time) and suspense (where reader is in on the plot, but at least one character isn't)

Surprise: Carrie’s POV

I’ve always loved the beach, and John’s never been that into it, so I was surprised when he suggested going to Alki that afternoon. 

Before he could change his mind, I grabbed my sandals and jacket and headed out the door. I waited in the car, fiddling with my phone and checking Facebook, while he found his car keys and locked up. Silly me, I even posted a status, all breathless and goofy, about how we were going beachcombing together. Later, I really wished I hadn’t done that. 

We found a parking place and made our way down to the beach. I tossed my sandals in the dry sand, rolled up my jeans, ran to the water’s edge, and started looking for treasure. I breathed the briny air and let the sound of the waves and seagull cries take me to my happy place, where nothing mattered but the search for elusive bits of shells and sea glass. 

Pretty soon I noticed that John wasn’t anywhere near. I’d left him behind as I plied the sand in my beachcombing trance. I looked up and saw him standing up on the dry sand about ten yards away, his hands on his hips and a displeased expression on his face. I knew he didn’t share my zeal for beach glass, but I decided to ignore his grimace.

“Come on!” I said. “The water’s not that cold!"

“It’s January. The water’s freezing,” he said. 

“You don’t have to get your feet wet! Just come here and walk with me,” I said, holding out my wet, sandy paw. He shook his head with undisguised disgust. 

“Okay fine, you’re not into beachcombing. How come you wanted to come down here today, anyway?” 

“I was actually hoping to talk to you,” he said. “Maybe you can stop mucking around down there and walk with me." 

I stood there, my back to the waves, trying to decide if I wanted to go with him. Then he closed the distance between us and stood in the dry sand, that unpleasant expression still on his face. I knew something was wrong. That’s when he dropped the horrible news. 

“Here’s the thing,” he said. 

I never liked it when he used that phrase. It never boded glad tidings.

“I’ve been having an affair,” he said. 

A wave washed over my feet and got my jeans wet. I felt swamped.

“What?” I said. 

“You heard me."

“But John, you can’t,” I said. It was a moronic, nonsensical thing to say. More waves washed over me. I was too stunned to move, and now I was wet up to my thighs. 

He moved toward me, took me none too gently by the arm, and dragged me up to the dry sand as if he were pulling a toddler out of a wading pool. I went with him, resenting his touch. 

“Yeah, I can, I did. I still am."

“Who with?” I asked, but immediately after the words came out I knew that it was a woman he worked with, who I’d met several times, who we had entertained in our house with her husband, who I even sort of liked. 

“Jessica,” I said.

“Look, I don’t want to get into it,” he said.

“Sorry, bub, I think you’re already into it,” I said, kind of amazed that I’d pushed back. “It’s Jessica, right?"

“Yes."

“Do you love her?” 

“Yes."

“Do you still love me?"

“I haven’t been in love with you for a long time, Carrie,” he said. 

My legs were stinging from the cold salt water. I began to shiver, and I reached out to him, hoping he would take me in his arms and comfort me, and this would all be a sick, bad, joke. But he just stood with his arms crossed, stony-faced.

“But I love you!” I said, knowing it didn’t matter. “We can work it out, I know we can. I would forgive you. We could go to counseling. I know I’m partly to blame for this."

He seemed about to laugh as I said this. 

“Carrie, don’t be so fucking clueless. I’m not going to counseling with you. I want a divorce."

I couldn’t stand to hear any more. I found my sandals and crammed them on my sandy feet, and started running back to the car, not even caring if he was following. 

Suspense: John’s POV

Today’s the day. I’ve put it off too long. I’ve got to tell her. Jessica has given me an ultimatum. If I don’t tell her this weekend, she’ll break it off with me, and I couldn’t handle that. 

“Let’s go to Alki,” I say. Carrie looks surprised. She knows I hate the beach, knows I’d rather have a root canal than wander around on the wet sand. Maybe this isn’t sending the right signal, me asking her to go to a place she loves in order to give her the bad news. But’s it’s out of my mouth, and she has already put on her jacket and left the house.

I keep her waiting for a few minutes while I find my keys and shoes and a jacket, and I send a quick text to Jessica, to let her know that I’ll be coming to her in a little while, after.

Carrie chatters happily on the way to the beach, talking about how much she loves it there, about how she wants to look for washed-up junk down on the shore, about how she’s hoping we can grab dinner at Salty’s after taking a walk. She’s planning our afternoon and evening and not even noticing that I’m not saying anything. 

She takes off for the waves like a puppy, jumping out of the car and running before I can even finish parking. I follow her, sighing. This is going to be harder than I thought. She’s distracted, like a toddler, and I’ll have a hard time getting her attention. 

I follow her while she messes around in the sand, finding and pocketing bits of stuff, making noises like she’s just laid her hands on the Crown Jewels, not caring that her feet are getting wet. I walk on the dry sand, waiting to see whether she even notices that I’m not with her. 

Finally, she stops and turns around and sees that I’m at least ten yards behind her. 

“Come here, John!” she says. "The water’s not that cold!”

Yeah, right. I don’t answer her, or move any closer.

“Could you come up here?” I say. “I want to talk to you."

She looks chastened, like a scolded child, and I wait for her to come to me. She slogs her way out of the water and stands there shivering, looking like she expects me to give her my coat or something. I’m annoyed, want to tell her she shouldn’t have gone in the water in January. But that’s not what I need to say. 

“Here’s the thing,” I say. There isn’t any way to do this except to do it. Better to rip the bandage off quickly. 

“I’m having an affair,” I say. 

She looks stunned. I can’t believe she’s surprised. I thought she’d have figured it out by now, with all the late nights away from home, the text messages on my phone. I haven’t exactly hid my movements. 

“Who?” she asks. And a second later, she says, “Jessica.” So she sort of did know. I’ve worked with Jessica for years. We’ve had Jessica and her husband to our house for dinner. I felt bad about that, playing footsie right under our spouses’ noses. It was a big turn-on, though. We had mind-blowing sex later that night, in my car in a parking lot, after both of us made excuses and snuck out of our houses.

“Do you love her?” she asks.

“Yes."

“How long?"

“I don’t want to go into it. Look, Carrie. I don’t love you anymore. I want a divorce."

She starts to cry. I really hate it when she cries. Her face is ugly and crumpled and her nose is red. She says a few things about how she still loves me, about how she’s pretty sure it’s her fault I cheated, how she wants us to go to counseling, patch things up. How she’s willing to try to forgive me. Every sentence hardens me even further. I don’t want to be with this woman anymore. 

“No,” I say. “There’s no point.” 

She turns and runs toward the car, tripping in the soft sand and falling on her face. I don’t care. I take her home, and then I leave. Jessica and my new life are waiting. 

Great Courses Exercise 8

Story from 2 lines of overheard dialogue.

“So he bought an AK47, like, just for fun,” he said.

Peter and Megan were at Starbucks, where they stopped for Frappucinos nearly every day after school. The place was crowded with soccer moms with kids in tow, fueling themselves before hauling their kids to practice, and a host of teenagers who had nothing else to do until dinnertime. 

“What’s an AK47?” she asked absently, not really caring but wanting to kill time until their order came up. 

“An assault rifle,” he said. “AK stands for Automatic-Kalashnikov. It’s made in Russia, and it’s one seriously badass rifle. The barrel is grooved, which makes it so that the bullets…”

Peter launched into a long, technical explanation of how the gun was manufactured, and the details of its killing potential. 

Their drinks were ready. The barista called out their names. Peter collected their cups and handed Megan her order. They found a table. He kept up his monologue throughout. 

Megan listened with half an ear, her mind wandering. She was thinking about her outfit for Tolo, which was coming up in only five days. She wasn’t sure about the silver sandals, whether they would stay on her feet when she danced. Maybe she should go to Nordstrom and see if she could find anything better. Megan had invited Peter to Tolo over a month ago, as soon as tickets went on sale. Back then she had been in the throes of a crazy crush on him, but as the month had worn on, her interest had started to wane. She still wanted to go to the dance, of course; after all, she was on the planning committee. She had to go, had to show up in her finery on the arm of a handsome boy, whether or not she still liked him.

“Interesting,” she said, when he finally paused for breath. He opened his mouth to continue his lecture, apparently not understanding her ironic use of the word.

She blurted, “So, Peter, did you book the limo yet?"

“The limo?” he asked, staring at her gap-mouthed as if he’d never heard of a limousine. 

“You know, a large vehicle driven by a chauffeur, engaged for the purpose of riding in style to a formal dance,” Megan said, striving to keep her tone light and flirtatious.

“Wait, I was supposed to book a limo? But I thought Tolo was, you know, girls invite boys."

The boy who could riff for thirty minutes on nearly any topic, whether or not he knew anything about it, apparently had not the first clue about the logistics of a high school dance. Or maybe he was feigning ignorance. Megan looked at him incredulously. 

“We talked about this,” she said. 

“I think I would remember you telling me that I had to hire a limo,” he said.

“So, I take it the answer is no,” she said. 

“What’s wrong with going in my car?” he asked. 

She ignored the question.

“What about dinner?” she asked. “Did you make reservations?” 

His blank expression told her the answer. She was starting to hate his ugly mug. How could a boy who was so smart be so incredibly dumb?

Great Courses Exercise 7

Write dialog, then add more. 

Version 1. Just dialogue:

“I love walking on the beach, don’t you? It’s just so nice—wading in the surf and looking for beach glass."

“We're missing the game."

“Aw, pooh, there’s always a game on. It’s not every day you can enjoy the sunshine at Alki. It’s a perfect day for beachcombing!” 

“Whatever. I don’t see what’s so interesting about pieces of old beer bottles. It’s just trash."

“Trash? Only if you lack imagination, honey. There’s a million things to do with beach glass. Remember that candle holder I made for you last Valentine’s Day? It was pretty and romantic, wasn’t it? I used that red glass and white sand and…"

“I guess. Look, I’m going up to Salty’s to grab a beer and catch the rest of the game."

“You are? Oh, but I’m not nearly done soaking up the sun. I don’t want to go into that stinky bar."

“Suit yourself."

“You’re taking off without me? But I thought we were going to spend the afternoon together. John, wait!"

Version 2: Dialogue and tags. 

“I love walking on the beach, don’t you?” said Carrie. “It’s just so nice—wading in the surf and looking for beach glass."

“We're missing the game,” said John.

“Aw, pooh, there’s always a game on. It’s not every day you can enjoy the sunshine here at Alki. It’s a perfect day for beach combing!” said Carrie. 

“Whatever. I don’t see what’s so interesting about pieces of old beer bottles,” said John. “It’s just trash."

“Trash? Only if you lack imagination, honey. There’s a million things to do with beach glass. Remember that candle holder I made for you last Valentine’s Day? It was pretty and romantic, wasn’t it? I used that red glass and white sand and…"

“I guess,” said John. "Look, I’m going up to Salty’s to grab a beer and catch the rest of the game."

“You are? Oh, but I’m not nearly done soaking up the sun. I don’t want to go into that stinky bar,” said Carrie, sounding a bit like a toddler who doesn’t want her nap.

“Suit yourself,” said John.

“You’re taking off without me? But I thought we were going to spend the afternoon together. John, wait!"

Version 3: Dialogue and slightly more descriptive tags.

“I love walking on the beach, don’t you?” said Carrie. “It’s just so nice—wading in the surf and looking for beach glass."

“We're missing the game,” said John curtly. 

“Aw, pooh, there’s always a game on. It’s not every day you can enjoy the sunshine here at Alki. It’s a perfect day for beach combing!” said Carrie, her voice rising in pitch. 

“Whatever. I don’t see what’s so interesting about pieces of old beer bottles. It’s just trash.”  

“Trash? Only if you lack imagination, honey. There’s a million things to do with beach glass. Remember that candle holder I made for you last Valentine’s Day? It was pretty and romantic, wasn’t it? I used that red glass and white sand and…"

“I guess,” said John, interrupting as Carrie began to wax rhapsodic. "Look, I’m going up to Salty’s to grab a beer and catch the rest of the game."

“You are? Oh, but I’m not nearly done soaking up the sun. I don’t want to go into that stinky bar,” said Carrie, sounding a bit like a toddler who didn't want her nap.

“Suit yourself."

“You’re taking off without me? But I thought we were going to spend the afternoon together. John, wait!” she cried, her voice taking on a quavery tone. 

Version 4. Dialogue and description/narrative.

Carrie and John were walking on Alki beach. Carrie had removed her shoes and tossed them carelessly against the sea wall. Her feet were in the shallow surf, her jeans rolled to her knees. John was six feet away, up on the wet sand, still wearing his new white Converse All-Stars, trying to avoid the waves. 

“I love walking on the beach, don’t you?” said Carrie. “It’s just so nice—wading in the surf and looking for beach glass.” Just then a wave washed over Carrie’s feet and soaked the rolled-up hem of her jeans. She screamed, then stood and looked out at the waves, laughing.  

“We're missing the game,” said John. He turned away from the tide and looked over at the boulevard lined with sports bars, coffee shops, and restaurants. Just then, a loud groan could be heard from a patio crowded with guys wearing Seahawks jerseys and holding glasses of beer.

“Aw, pooh, there’s always a game on. It’s not every day you can enjoy the sunshine here at Alki. It’s a perfect day for beachcombing!” Carrie bent over and sifted through the wet sand at her feet. She picked up a bit of blue glass and pocketed it. She looked at John, beaming. 

“Whatever. I don’t see what’s so interesting about pieces of old beer bottles. It’s just trash.” He spit a large wad of tobacco on the sand, where it was engulfed by a wave and washed away with the shards of plastic that dotted the beach. 

“You lack imagination, honey. There’s a million things to do with beach glass. Remember that candle holder I made for you last Valentine’s Day? It was pretty and romantic, wasn’t it? I used all that red glass and white sand and…"

“I guess,” said John, interrupting her description. "Look, I’m going up to Salty’s to grab a beer and catch the rest of the game.” He turned and began walking away, toward the crowded patio.

“You are? Oh, but I’m not nearly done soaking up the sun. I don’t want to go into that stinky bar,” said Carrie in a whiny voice. She stood there in the surf, her back to the waves, watching John go. Moisture pooled in her eyes and her nose grew red.   

“Suit yourself.” John slogged through the soft dry sand, leaving Carrie in the waves.

“You’re taking off without me?” Carrie's voice faded as John left her for the crowd and the game. "But I thought we were going to spend the afternoon together. John, wait!” 

Version 5: Dialogue and narrative and inner monologue (John’s POV).

Carrie and John were walking on Alki beach. Carrie had removed her shoes and tossed them carelessly against the sea wall. She splashed her winter-pale feet in the shallow surf, her jeans rolled to her knees. John walked six feet away on the wet sand, still wearing his new white Converse All-Stars. He was nervous about getting them dirty and wet. Also, it was January and the water was cold. He wondered why Carrie thought it was fun to freeze her feet off in Elliott Bay. 

“I love walking on the beach, don’t you?” said Carrie. “It’s nice—wading in the surf and looking for beach glass.” Just then a wave soaked the rolled-up hem of her jeans. She screamed like a toddler who has never seen a wave before, then stood there like a fool, getting even wetter. He could hear her laughing like an idiot. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, embarrassed.   

“We're missing the game,” said John rather loudly so that she would hear him over her goofy laugh. He turned away from her and looked longingly at the boulevard lined with sports bars, coffee shops, and restaurants. A loud cheer, then a groan, could be heard from a patio crowded with guys wearing Seahawks jerseys and holding glasses of beer. Something important must have happened in the playoff game, and he had missed it. 

“Pooh, there’s always a game on. It’s the first sunshine all winter! It’s a perfect day for beachcombing!” Carrie bent over and sifted through the wet sand at her feet. She picked up a bit of blue glass and pocketed it. She looked at John, beaming as if she’d just found one of Her Majesty's Crown Jewels on the Seattle beach. 

“Whatever. It’s just trash.” He spit a large wad of tobacco on the sand, where it was engulfed by a wave and washed away with the shards of plastic that dotted the beach. She wrinkled her nose like she was about to make a comment about his habit, but then her expression changed and she raised her right finger in the pose that meant she was about to deliver one of her little speeches. 

“You lack imagination, honey.” He winced. He hated when she used that endearment. She didn’t notice, and went on with her flight of fancy. "There’s a million things to do with beach glass. Remember that candle holder I made for you last Valentine’s Day? It was pretty and romantic, wasn’t it? I used all that red glass and white sand and…"

“Yeah,” said John, not so much in agreement but as a way of interrupting her chatter. He didn’t want to go near the topic of the pink-and-white monstrosity that he had chucked in the garbage as soon as he got home from their date. "Look, I’m going up to Salty’s to catch the rest of the game.” He turned and began slogging through the soft sand, toward the crowded patio. He didn’t care whether she followed him. 

“You are? But I’m not done yet! I don’t want to go into that stinky bar,” said Carrie, her voice getting louder and whinier. He wanted to slap her when she sounded like that.

She stood there in the surf, her back to the waves, watching John go. Moisture pooled in her eyes and her nose grew red. He turned around and looked at her, and saw that she was about to cry, but he wasn’t about to let her manipulate him into missing the game, again. 

“Suit yourself.” He kept walking, leaving her at the water’s edge.

“You’re taking off without me?” Her voice faded as he left her for the friendly, beer-soaked bar, hoping he wasn’t too late for the second half. Her heard her cry plaintively, "John, wait!” He was done waiting for her. 

Great Courses: Exercise 5

Write a paragraph about someone you know as if you were introducing them as a fictional character.

In the kitchen she is a scientist, intent on testing a gastronomical hypothesis of her own design. Her measurements are scrupulous, accurate to a gram. Her movements are methodical as she chops, minces, and juliennes. A pile of vegetables is transformed into a cord of multicolored matchsticks. The recipe is propped on a spotless countertop, and she consults it frequently as she moves from one step to the next. She knows what must be done and she will not be rushed. Offers of help are politely declined. Her guests wait, salivating and impatient, as the skillet emits a symphony of sizzles and crackles and clouds of exotic spice-scented steam. When at last the meal is ready she gives precise serving instructions and watches, her brow furrowed, her face tense, waiting for the contented sighs, the rapturous phrases as plates are rapidly filled, emptied, and filled again. She tastes, she frowns. Good enough, she thinks, but not exactly right. She’ll have to do better if she wants to win the prized sous chef position at Lola.

Great Courses Exercise 3

1. Try to rewrite the scene of Mrs. Dalloway walking down Bond Street in the first-person style of the Great Gatsby, or, perhaps, in the terse and more literal-minded approach of Dashiell Hammett. In other words, see if it’s possible to evoke Mrs. Dalloway by having her tell us what she’s thinking directly or by simply describing what she does or says as she moves through the scene. Conversely, see if it’s possible to apply Virginia Woolf’s stream-of-consciousness technique to Sam Spade’s hard-boiled world and still keep the scene tense, energetic, and suspenseful.

First person:

I have always loved Bond Street in the morning. So vibrant, so full of life. I needed to buy flowers for the party. Even though I could have sent my maid for them—Lord knows there were any number of tasks to do at home—I decided to attend to this insignificant detail myself. I made the short walk from my townhouse to the flower stall. On my way, I perused the shop windows, noticing that the merchants have begun to get in things like gloves and shoes, thing not seen since before the war. 

When I was a child I would walk this same street with my father, and he would comment on the wares we saw in the window displays, like the gloves he called “nearly perfect,” gloves made of kid dyed every color imaginable, that I would forbear to beg to touch, knowing I would never be allowed. 

Why is it that some people, like my father and I, appreciate fine wares like shoes and gloves, and draw pleasure from choosing and owning them, and others, like my daughter, cannot be bothered with them? In my opinion, appreciation for fine things says something essential about a person’s character.

Literal-minded:

Mrs. Dalloway walked down Bond Street on Friday morning, not briskly but not dallying either. She wore a peach-colored duster over a calf-length ecru dress, stockings, and sensible-heeled T-strap shoes. A long flower-print fringed scarf around her neck reached below her waistline. Her wide picture hat matched her coat. She carried a closed parasol over her arm. 

She peered into a few windows that she passed, wrinkling her nose at certain merchandise (that obviously didn’t meet her exacting standards). She didn’t greet any of the people she met. She walked steadily until she reached the flower stall. 

Once there, she quickly looked over the flowers on display and made her selection.

“Roses, I think,” she said to the florist. “Ten dozen. White.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” said the florist. Mrs. Dalloway flinched. (Indicates we know what she is thinking: She was used to being called “My Lady” by people of the working class.)

“Send them to this address,” said Mrs. Dalloway, reaching into her pocket for a calling card and handing it to the florist.

“Right you are, ma’am,” he said.

She turned and quickly walked the short distance home.

Great Courses: Writing Fiction, Exercise 1

Start from an image. 

Description:

The woman is neither very young nor very old; I would guess she is in her 30s. Her clothing places her in the lower middle class. She is wearing a pink knit shirt and a silver necklace. She has dark hair and is wearing a silver stud placed off-center in her right ear. We see her in profile, the right side of her face, in tight close-up. In front of her is a silver microphone. She appears to be mid-sentence, her mouth open and her lips forming a word. Her eyes are blue and heavy-lidded. She is serious, no smile on her mouth or eyes. We see very little of the background or the rest of her surroundings; there what looks like is a stitched leather bench to the left of her shoulder and the suggestion of a railing to her right. These elements make her seem framed in a small box. Her face is well lit, as if she is being filmed. 

Who, What, Where, When, Why?

After the operation, Siobhan began to bleed profusely. She felt it start even as she walked home from Maeve’s place. She’d been warned about this, and had been provided with a thick pad by the grandmotherly woman who had performed the procedure in Maeve’s parlor, but she hadn’t expected the voluminous flood she felt between her legs, a stain that would ruin her best jeans if she didn’t take care of it immediately. Siobhan reached home and ran to the cottage’s only bathroom, ignoring her mother’s call from the kitchen. The gory sight overcame her, and she collapsed in a graceless heap on the linoleum floor. Siobhan’s mother found her there, bloody and senseless, sussed out the situation, slapped Siobhan awake, and then promptly called the police. She didn’t stop to ask Siobhan how she’d arrived at this predicament. That story was as old as the green Irish hills, and Maureen O’Leary didn’t need to hear it to know what must be done.

“Mam, don’t do it,” screamed Siobhan from the floor of the bathroom when she heard her mother speaking into the phone, telling what had happened and giving their address. “It’s none of their damn business, what I done.” 

Maureen slammed down the receiver and came to bathroom doorway. She stood there, hands on hips, blocking the door and frowning down on her daughter.

“Dammit, Siobhan, you know I had to,” she said.

“You didn’t,” said Siobhan. “Nobody had to know. Don’t you care? Don’t you know what’ll happen to me now?"

“P’raps you should have thought of that before you spread your knees. Who was it, missy? Sean Casey? Denny McGrew? Michael O’Callahan? Or do you even know? And who did this to you?” she asked, indicating the bloody mess.

“I’m not answering that, Ma. You don’t need to know. And they won’t care. The law doesn’t apply to  men, they stick their pricks in whoever they want, no thought to consequences, it’s only the women who have to pay the price."

“Oh, that’s fine, you and your vulgar speeches. Have sex all you want, and no consequences for you, that's fair, is it? And I find you here, flushing my grandchild down the toilet instead of doing the right thing and having that baby. You’d no right, missy, and what’s more, you broke the law. I had no choice but to turn you in."

“It’s not a child, it’s only blood,” said Siobhan, though she knew it would further rile her mother .

“’Twas a child, plain and simple, in God’s eyes, daughter. And you’ve gone and killed it. You’ve sinned and you’ll pay for it."

“I’ll go to jail, mother. Is that what you want?"

“What I want is for my daughter to behave like the good Catholic woman I raised her to be. Not the slut I see before me now. You’d better change clothes and get ready to explain yourself to the police. They’ll be here any minute."

Control

Georgina had had it, totally had it with Jerry. To say she was at her wits' end didn't begin to describe her irritation. All around the house were projects he'd begun in a fit of energy and enthusiasm and then abandoned, half finished, leaving tools and supplies and whatnot right where he'd put them down. For example, there was the hole in the kitchen under the telephone, which he'd cut 10 years ago in a fit of modernization that she'd never quite understood the need for. A box with wires sprouting from it dangled below the rectangular hole, instead of having been housed neatly within it and then plastered over so that all the wires and connectors were hidden. For 10 years she'd looked at that ridiculous hole with the ugly aluminum box dangling there. And for 10 years she'd hoped that all the guests who visited their home would blame the mess on Jerry, not she herself. She told Jerry she'd forego all future birthday gifts if he'd just finish that one project. To no measurable effect. 

Finishing was a big thing with Georgina. She hated leaving projects midway through, the materials and byproducts and preliminary sketches and wasted bits all strewn about the dining-room table or her sewing room or wherever she happened to be working. Jerry didn't seem to even see what she called messes. Indeed, they didn't appear to share a definition of the word. Tools and parts and wires and screws lying on the coffee table or kitchen counter or wherever were evidently invisible to him. And so she had learned to live with it. 

She was walking the dog one sunny day in July, stewing about the undone things at home, thinking that maybe she would try to get a job so that she could leave the house every day and go to a neat office, where she wouldn't have to be surrounded by those unfinished projects. In her right hand was the dog's leash and a blue plastic bag of poop she'd just finished picking up. The dog strained at the leash, threatening to pull her shoulder from its socket. Why hadn't she ever taken him to a second training class, she wondered. He was a terrible dog, out of control and random, sometimes stopping and refusing to go another step, sometimes wandering into the neighbor's yard to do his business, sometimes running ahead of her, like he was doing now, so that she could hardly keep up. She knew that she was supposed to be in control, not the dog. It was another reminder of how little in her life she did control.

Youth's a Stuff Will Not Endure

The six teenagers arrive at a sheltered stretch of sand on Windansea Beach just as the tide is at its lowest point of the afternoon. It is a school holiday in February, and the day has dawned clear and sunny and it is now around 2pm and the temperature is in the mid-70s. Five girls and one boy, members of the same cheer squad or gymnastics team, are there to practice some of their more daring acrobatic moves in the sand. Or perhaps they’re just there to show off, to draw the stares of the sedentary beach-sitters on this popular stretch of Southern California seashore.

They shed their cover-ups and flip-flops, pile them on a rock with their towels, and gather on the beach. The boy looks to be about 14; he’s slender and wears his hair in a short brush cut. He’s sporting the brightest bathing suit of the bunch, knee-length shorts in a window-pane print of black and white, yellow, pink, and aqua. He stands there, grinning, then flings his body skyward in an effortless back flip, landing in the soft sand above the waterline and laughing with glee, with the sheer joy of being able to do something so thrilling and daring and making it seem dead easy. The girls join him, and the group forms a circle, facing each other, and then first the boy and then each girl in turn performs a perfect back flip, in sequence like a line of chorus girls doing a rolling wave of high kicks. They laugh and congratulate themselves and perform the stunt a few more times, glancing up at us each time, we the middle-aged observers perched in our beach chairs on the nearby rock ledges, to see whether we’ve noticed the precision and beauty of their achievement. We have.

Then one of the girls steps out of the circle and fetches a camera from amongst their things. The boy enjoins the others to line up and perform another stunt, a sort of aerial splits move, while the girl attempts to capture them in the camera’s memory. The boy counts “5, 6, 7, 8” and the five of them leap, doing a sharp pump of their arms and spread-eagling their legs, three feet off the ground, touching their toes with outstretched fingers. They repeat this a few times until the girl gets the shot.

A couple of grizzled surfers, potbellies straining against their black neoprene suits, arrive and perform the series of stretches that will enable them to ride the waves with minimal pain and hopefully no injuries, one more time, not the last time but maybe the second to the last. The teenagers line up and do one last trick, the camera poised and timer set so that they can all be in the picture. And then they don their sweats and flip-flops and collect their towels and leave, shouting “Shotgun in Rachel’s car!” and “Dibs on the Pringles!”, riding off together to enjoy the rest of this holiday afternoon.

We onlookers watch them go, smiling at the energy and enthusiasm of the young people, thinking about how our heads would spin if we even contemplated attempting such moves. The teenagers, full of life and justifiably impressed with themselves and eager for our attention, seem unaware and yet somehow perfectly aware of how beautiful and enviable they are. But what they do not know is that in this moment they possess the most flawless, lithe, and responsive bodies they will probably ever posses. They are unaware that we adults watching from the rocks, those in our 30s tending small children, and in our 40s enjoying the feel of the sun on our aging skin, and in our 50s and 60s wondering if we will be able to get up out of our low beach chairs, are remembering our own youths, about how we spent days like these on beaches like these, wearing daring bathing suits on our tanned bodies, frolicking and flirting and feeling our firm limbs effortlessly responding to our every impulse, laughing in the sun, innocent of the fact that this day of ease and pleasure would never come again, or anyway not ever exactly like this.

Woman in a circle

Judy was in Spain with her husband and two teenage sons. It was her first trip to the country of her ancestors. About time, she thought, seeing as how her five brothers had already visited there and returned to bore her with their photo albums and stories of the shrewd bargains they’d made on touristy junk in tiny Spanish towns. A talent for haggling must be in their blood, each one of them had bragged. After saving for a few years, Judy and her husband Jerry had managed to secure two weeks in a small pension near Spain’s northern coast. They’d also found a decent rate on a nonstop flight from JFK for the four of them, though it was still an appalling sum. Yes, it was Judy’s turn now, and here she was, sunning on the beach while Jerry and the boys rode bikes in the small beach town.

Before he’d left with his father and brother, her younger son Will had drawn a rough circle around her chair in the sand, intoning mock-seriously, “Stay within this ring, fair lady, while I search for golden treasure in the land of our ancestors. Do not leave the protection of this circle or you will surely perish.” Judy laughed and waved him off, glad of a few moments to herself in the midst of the tumbling togetherness of their vacation. She loved her husband, her chivalrous Tolkien-besotted son and his quieter, less demonstrative older brother, but she wasn’t used to spending this much time with all of them.

Judy gazed out at the harbor. Gleaming white yachts floated serenely at anchor. She imagined their owners, suntanned and clad in white, the women with gold earrings and bangle bracelets, the men with ascots and double-breasted blazers, their faced hidden behind designer sunglasses, stepping off their dinghies into waiting town cars, being carried off to three-star restaurants where they would be attended by obsequious yet punctual wait staff at intimate meals designed by world-famous chefs. She envied them, these yacht people. Their wealth cushioned life’s sharp edges, their passages made smooth by factotums and drivers and maitre’ds, all anxious to please. As she watched the shadows lengthen at her feet, she mentally added up what they’d spent on food so far and began scheming a way to get dinner into her hungry boys for as little as possible. Eating meals in restaurants was so expensive, and their travel funds were dwindling fast. She contemplated what it would be like to walk into the finest bistro in town and let her boys order anything they wanted, never even glancing at the prices on the menu, insouciantly dropping a wad of Euros on the table at the end of the meal and then strolling back to the hotel, slightly tipsy on champagne and overfull of rich foods. No use wasting time lamenting what you cannot have, she thought. Better to be grateful, to make the most of this brief interval in the sun.

Around her, children played in the sand. Their parents—mothers, mostly—stole glances at magazines or paperbacks they’d stashed in beach bags in hopes of reading a few sentences in a row while their young charges busied themselves in the shallow water. Judy remembered the years when her boys were little, when she would have given a large sum, if she’d had it, for a few moments alone on a beach, or even in her own back yard. She knew that she was supposed to look back fondly on that time, and regret that her babies had grown into awkward, pimply, fractious teenagers, but she didn’t. Honestly, she hadn’t enjoyed taking care of tiny, helpless people who made messes, failed to take regular naps, and sucked her dry with their demands for attention every moment they were awake. She watched the young mothers, who sighed as they left their books to chase errant toddlers, and felt, mainly, relief that that stage of her life was over.

She thought about Will, how he’d spent all of his free time in the past year reading and re-reading The Lord of the Rings, watching and re-watching the Peter Jackson films, writing about Middle Earth and debating with other fans on his blog, which he’d sweetly titled “My Precious.” Of course he also played video games and chatted with several friends at a time on MySpace, but at least he usually did his homework before he logged on. Will was 15, and hadn’t yet shown any interest in dating. Judy admired his energy and focus, and wished she could write 500 words a day on anything she cared about. Maybe she should start her own blog. What would she call it? Life in the Middle Ages? It Sucks to Be 40? She wasn’t sure she could think of enough things to write about to keep a blog going, anyway. Not that she really had time for writing, between work and family and everything.

Judy mentally smacked herself on the forehead. Here she was, sitting on a gorgeous beach in Spain, nothing to do but relax in the sun, and she was worrying about money and complaining to herself about not having enough time to take up a hobby. Worrying and complaining, those were her hobbies. They were portable, at least. She could do them during those wakeful hours in the middle of the night, during her commute, even on a sunny beach. She sighed and looked down at the imaginary moat that Will had drawn for her. Will was such an easygoing son, demanding less and less of her time as he grew into young adulthood. Her other son, Walt, was another story. Walt was, well, difficult.

Walt had been born too soon, in more ways than one. She’d become pregnant with Walt on their honeymoon. What a cliché, she thought. They had waited until their wedding night to have sex. They had used birth control. And yet, Walt had arrived less than nine months later. He’d been born at 36 weeks. Really. Not like the kids in high school who had had to get married, and who told their elderly aunts that their babies were premature. No, she and Jerry had done things in the proper order, yet on their first anniversary they already had a four-month-old squalling son. They hadn’t been ready for an infant, as if anyone ever was.

He was colicky, crying for hours every day during that first year. No amount of rocking comforted him. Judy discovered that if she turned on the faucet, the sound of running water would sometimes calm him. So she spent a lot of time in their small apartment bathroom, watching her own tired face in the mirror as she paced the floor with her son. She and Jerry had just learned to cope with this stage when Walt left behind colic and started throwing screaming purple tantrums whenever anything around him changed. Walt, it seemed, was exquisitely, overly sensitive to his environment. They learned that they had to move slowly with Walt, talking soothingly and trying desperately to avoid startling him.

As he grew into a toddler, the allergies and asthma had started. Walt’s early school years had been fraught with the difficulty of finding foods he could eat and preventing him from taking foods that might kill him. He couldn’t eat the home-made cupcakes other kids’ moms brought to school on their birthdays. He couldn’t eat most of what passed for food in the school lunches. Judy packed him safe lunches every day and dreaded phone calls from the school nurse. Walt was now in high school, and still had difficulty adjusting to changes. He hadn’t outgrown that or the allergies. He was finicky and unattractive, possessing not a lot of brains or particular gifts or talents to counterbalance his lack of good looks. He was the kind of kid that other kids teased and avoided. A loser, in short. What a thought for a mother to have about her own flesh and blood, Judy chided herself. But it was true.

To-Do List for the 2nd Half of Life

1. Let go of grudges. Especially, those against people who don’t even know I’m holding them.
2. Make something, alone or with other people, as often as possible.
3. Climb every mountain. Well, not every mountain. Maybe just one mountain.
4. Don’t just sit there, do something about something important.
5. Write. Often. Get better at it.
6. Discover and appreciate great art.
7. Learn new stuff, and then share it or teach it so it sticks.
8. Forgive myself, every day.
9. Breathe.
10. Choose to be peaceful, kind, and loving. Repeat as necessary.

Keeping Chickens

It seemed like a good idea when Mike and Diane brought home the seven baby chicks: there would be one for each of them and the two boys, plus a few spares. There was plenty of room for a coop and ranging yard on their property. Mike planned to build a hen house and put up a fence. The chickens would have freedom to roam—more than the so-called free-range chickens you could buy at the co-op grocery stores that abounded in their town. The family would enjoy cheap, fresh eggs, and maybe once in a while they would dine on a chicken they’d raised themselves. The boys each named their chicken: Shane called his Tree, and Matthew named his Zorgon. But things didn’t go quite according to plan. Do they ever, when animals and small children are involved?

Kona, the family dog, is part border collie. He never sits still if there’s someone around to throw him a Frisbee. Herding the five goats on Mike and Diane’s two-acre property is his main doggie job. It turns out he’s also a pretty good hunter. He must have assumed that the new chicks were just one of the perks of his job. He caught and ate two of them before Mike could get the henhouse built. Kona is smart, though, and once Mike and Diane convinced him that the chickens were off limits and indeed were his new charges, he left them alone.

That didn’t stop the coyotes, however. Two more chicks disappeared within a week, even after the coop was in place. Mike figured that the chicks would bed down there and be safe at night, but that’s not how it worked out. Either the coyotes were smart enough to open the henhouse doors, or the chicks were caught wandering in the yard. So Mike started locking the chickens into their coops at night. During the day, Kona guarded the yard from predators looking for a tender, free snack.

Three hens survived to gorgeous, buff-and-gold-feathered adulthood and began laying. Most days you could open their coops and find one or two freshly laid golden brown eggs. Since there is no rooster, the unfertilized eggs would simply rot if left in the coop, so the boys gathered the eggs every day. Farm-fresh eggs—how fine! And they were, until the boys caught sight of what the chickens ate: they saw one of the chickens walking across the yard, a garter snake wriggling in its beak. In a few seconds the snake was gone, consumed in a few squirmy bites by the omnivorous chick. Now the only person who would touch the eggs was Mike: Diane and the boys were not interested in eating snakes, bugs, and worms, even if only by proxy.

Zorgon, Tree, and the nameless spare chicken now roost in the clematis vines under Shane and Matthew’s bedroom window and enjoy a fine life as family pets, protected by the loyal Kona and assured of a long life and, probably, death of old age. This family would rather eat a block of tofu than one of their free-range friends.