Lost horse in spring

My fingertips trace the soft concave velvet of the side of a dying horse's nose. In twilight, the awkward, well-meaning vet blends sympathy with science, explanations of angle and force and bone density that soften to "I'm sorry" and painful quiet. The horse's owner, quivering with grief and strength, will not cry until later, but I let my own tears mark the passing as the pink vial empties.

The vet checks breaths as they still, heartbeats as they cease. Legs move, then stop. In the darkness, our faces are kept secret as we wait.

"Corneal reflex is the last thing to go," the vet says after a while, which explains why, after death, the little horse watches us mourn him.

Mozart

Poor, neglected doggie sleeping on all my blankets

Lola hates it when Mommy writes.

First day of the rest

For seventy-five dollars (twelve and a half percent of what I paid),
I leave my dress with a younger bride and drive away.
Ascending the hill, I wait for the sadness. At the crest, it catches up.
But with it comes the sight of this open road ahead,
unexpected December sunshine,
blue sky and white clouds all the way to the horizon.
I am wearing barn jeans and a comfy sweater.
The steering wheel feels good in my hands.  

SHAME

It is an hour and a half past lunch
when I realize that I didn't steal food.

It isn't the unplundered buffet table
that draws tears near,
nor the empty pockets in my backpack
that could easily have harbored bread
and those little packets of mayonnaise
that would have hardly taken up any space at all,
that would have been easy for kind others
to pretend they didn't see.

No,
It is the hour and a half, the unscrutinized assumption
that there will always be more food,
that opportunities can be ignored,
that pockets can be empty for no better reason
than a lack of attention and a busy schedule.

It is the ninety minutes I spent ignorant
of everything I've ever learned the hard way.

Mind your Bus-ness, Part II

More bus letters. I wish these were fake.

Dear Bus Driver,

That stop sign jumped out from nowhere, did it? Tricksey, those stop signs.

Could you hand me my stomach? I think it's on the floor under the fare box.

Thanks,
Sarah

 

 

 

 

Dear Incessantly Whistling Guy on the Bus,

I'm glad you're happy.

I'm glad that taking the 7 a.m. to Milton, with its chronic overcrowding and its unusual odor this morning that I'm trying not to examine too closely, makes you happy. I'm glad that crowding elbow-to-elbow with strangers on a bus that navigates Route 60 like a raft on rapids fills you with cheer.

You know what fills ME with cheer?

Peace and quiet on the freakin' SEVEN A.M. TO MILTON.

Shhhhhhh,
Sarah

 

 

 

 

Dear Bus Driver,

You are now the hero not only of myself, but of the ten horses you rescued from a late breakfast. Thank you for recognizing the distant bobbing of a 32-ounce John Deere coffee mug in your rearview mirror as what it was: a cry for help. Less heroic drivers have told me that stopping in the middle of the block is forbidden, so I appreciate you making the exception. And I appreciate that when I arrived on your bus, gasping for breath, hair askew, holding my too-loose jeans up with the hand not already gripping, essentially, a full-sized coffee pot, you only smiled mildly and waved off my thanks.

I know you've seen worse. I've written many of them letters.

Still, I'm sorry you had to see that.

Love,
Sarah

 

 

 

 

Dear Transit Authority,

Sending one of your smaller buses on the Number 2 route between the hours of 8 and 3 on a rainy weekday is like setting up a game of Tetris, if Tetris pieces had sharp elbows and carried wet umbrellas, and if, when a line filled up, instead of disappearing, it just sat there, squirming and glaring, smelling of value brand deodorant and cigarette smoke.

Please send a larger game board.

Squished,
Sarah

Dear Guy on the Bus,

You are pretty sure you look tough, watching us from under your beanie, silently mouthing along with whatever badass music is playing on that iPod.

Dude. We can hear your music. We know it's Pink.

I love you,
Sarah

 

Bus Chronicles, Part I

I used to ride the city bus a lot.


It was kinda scary. And somewhat amusing. But mostly scary. To keep myself amused and distracted during my forays into the colorful world of public transportation in a small West Virginia city, I wrote letters to my fellow passengers and to the drivers whose mercy we were riding on. Here are a few of those:

Dear Bus Driver,

You missed your calling. The way you welcome us aboard and inform us of our route and eventual destination, I half expect you to recite our cruising altitude and share with us the local time and temperature at the Eastern Heights Save-a-Lot.

But just so you know, we're not actually supposed to go airborne.

Bring us in for a safe landing, buddy.

Best,
Sarah

 

 

Dear Bus Driver,

When you ask the passengers for directions, my heart sinks a little.

When you bypass a stopped police car by going the wrong way on a one-way street, my heart sinks a little more. Guess the helpful passenger who supplied detour directions forgot that little detail.

I swear, some days getting to work is like playing Grand Theft Auto: City Bus Edition.

Miraculously Still on Time for Work,
Sarah

 

 

Dear Lady in the Next Bathroom Stall at the Bus Station,

Well, that was the most unnecessarily specific answer I have ever heard anybody give when someone on the phone asks, "What are you up to?"

Could have just said, "Not much." Although apparently that would have been a lie.

Best of luck,
Sarah

Dear Creepy Guy at the Bus Stop,

Let me help you by providing you with a "Does the Nice Lady at the Bus Stop Want to Talk to You" checklist.

Is the nice lady at the bus stop me?  YES ___  NO ___

If you checked "yes," then she doesn't want to talk to you.

Best,
Sarah

Dear Dad on the Bus,

You are awesome. Kid struggles to ring the stop bell, you give it a stealthy tug. Kid reaches blindly for his hood, out of sight behind his neck, you lift it secretly into his reach. Kid fights to drag half his body weight worth of bookbag down the bus steps, you sneak a finger under the strap to make it lighter. That kid can do anything, thanks to you.

Love,
Sarah

 

 More to come ...

Dear Teacher, please excuse Sarah from blogging. She was busy falling (apart, and also down). Insert forged signature here.

So, here's what happened.

Well, not all of it. I don't feel like talking about the Thanksgiving divorce or the lonely Christmas or the creepy spinster attic apartment or the hours spent learning how to decoupage, which are the root reasons I haven't been blogging. You just do not need to know all of that. It's possible I lived on little else but tea and honey and Kleenex and Brandie Carlisle songs for over a month, and it's not something I'm proud of.

 But I do feel the need to at least make an attempt at explaining why I have completely neglected everything writing-related, including but certainly not limited to this blog. So what I will tell you is that, back in April, I pretended to be Superman. That isn't to say that I jumped into a phone booth and popped out wearing tights and a save-the-world expression. No. What I did was, I attempted to run. Tripped. And sailed into the air like I knew how to fly.

What I didn't know how to do was land, so I came down full-force on my right knee, on a floor that is nothing more than thin carpet over concrete. And of course, being the super-sharp thumbtack that I am, I hopped right back up and kept running. It wasn't until twenty minutes later, cutting my pantleg up the seam to reveal a right knee roughly the size and color of a rotten cantaloupe that I realized: Crap.

Seven weeks, one surgery, one obnoxious knee immobilizing brace, and the development and frequent employment of a colorful vocabulary later, I still can't do a straight leg raise, or, more importantly, kick people. And, boy, oh boy, are there people I would like to kick. Namely, myself, for forgetting that I am not graceful enough to run, for any reason, ever.

My weirdo friends keep asking to see the photos, so I'm going to share them.Warning: the link you are about to click on is extremely gross!


 WARNING: Here be yucky-looking kneecaps!


That's where we are now -- seven weeks post-injury, four weeks post-op, and scheduled for a second MRI and an EMG to figure out why I still can't perform a straight leg raise -- or, as I've mentioned, kick people.

So that's what happened. And between surgery, recovery, and having to move out of my now-inaccessible creepy spinster attic apartment, I haven't been writing a whole lot. But I have collected all sorts of medical terms and unsettling hospital observations and weird nurse characterizations and colorful sailor vocabulary to use when I do get back to it!
 

Also, here's a completely unrelated classified ad (cue innocent hum):

WANTED: Someone I don't like. Your job duties would consist of standing in front of me until my right leg remembers how to kick. Volunteer position, no pay. Would look kick-ass on a resume. ;)

A few more stones

1/5 - End of every good day, we sweep the stable, hay and mud chased out the barn door, where at dusk we will forget not to walk through it, track it onto our neglected kitchen floors.

1/6 - In the gray, cool, dead-grass, damp-air, January meadow, one yellow flower whispers, "Bright things can grow here. Wait."

Mindful Writing Challenge (Small Stones)

January is the month of the Mindful Writing Challenge, and although I have been absent from this blog for some time, I have been picking up my small stones. I'll try to post them daily going forward, but here they are so far:


1/1/13 - Down the block, I hear fireworks and car horns honking. The dog flicks one ear. The cat twitches her whiskers. I pull up the covers.


1/2/13 - Cold sunset shines off the ice in hoofprint puddles. Anywhere this is true, I fit.


1/3/13 - She scratches blue ink on a page full of numbers, compares the sum to bills crunched in her fist. Adding three hundred, but counting just two. Over and over and over.


1/4/13 - He grips my fingertips, frustrated to the core. His handshape familiar, I flip my own hand to meet his, declare thumb war. His eyes raise to mine, smile, marvel: Teacher's lost her marbles.

No-Bake Cookies, Sarah Style

Check fridge and cupboards for ingredients.

Go to market and buy missing ingredients.

Walk dogs (because any time you leave, however briefly, they feel they must be walked on your return, or they will pee on your floor)

Over medium heat, melt one stick - crap. There's only half a stick left.

Go back to market. Buy butter.

Walk dogs.

Over medium heat, melt one stick of butter, a pile of sugar that looks like it might be one and three quarters cups, five Bento-box-sized-forkfuls (forksful?) of cocoa, and a coffee mug of milk.

Remove from heat. Answer phone. Walk outside where you can hear better. Talk about work.

Go inside.

Walk dogs.

Return mixture to heat. Bring to a boil.

Boil for the length of "Ghost of the Knoxville Girl" by Doug and Telisha Williams.

Remove from heat.

Drop by Bento-box-sized-forkfuls (forksful?) onto clean-ish Tupperware lids.

Wait till the cookies set up.

Acknowledge that they aren't going to set up. Eat with a Bento-box-sized fork.

In a panic, curse and run back to the kitchen to turn off the burner.

Leave the dishes for morning.

The Weight of Books (and Other Things)

Sometime between finding out I was the winner of PEN American Center's 2012 Phyllis Naylor Working Writer Fellowship and the day that the winners were announced to the public, I found myself on the floor of my studio apartment, trying to prop up a broken futon with a copy of SHILOH.

It was a nice futon once. At least, I assume so. It was given to me by my former neighbor, Jim, who at fifty-five owns the last house on his block that hasn't been converted into college apartments. What this means for Jim is that he's got first dibs on all of the "I don't want this anymore so I'll leave it on the curb" furniture that gets put out by the students. Since Jim's house is pretty much full up on curb furniture at the moment, he is constantly passing some of his best finds on to his friends, family, and favorite former neighbors.

Jim is pretty much always on the lookout for one thing or other that I need for my apartment. Now, don't get me wrong. It isn't that I can't afford furniture. I have an amazing job that is comprised of a series of random tasks such as "wear a sparkly green leprechan hat," "chase a bicycle down a school hallway," and, my favorite power trip, "be in charge of the potato chips."  But a while back I decided not to work full-time, because I want to leave time in my day for as much writing as possible. Also, there's that pesky problem of lots and lots of old debt that I'm determined to pay off -- so, okay, yeah. I can't afford furniture.

As my futon was an adopted stray, I can't be sure how old it was by the time I started sleeping on it. All I know that it was a lot less pretty after the left rear leg bent in half under my weight. Hence, the propping.

I tried bricks, but the problem is, bricks are a set width. Books, on the other hand -- books come in all shapes and sizes. With a single bookshelf, I've got endless combinations not only of entertainment and information, but also, it turns out, futon building blocks.

It's a complicated art, finding the exact combination of reading material to prop up your sleeping surface. Of course it would have made sense to try my own books, but my last copy of LIVVIE OWEN LIVED HERE got stolen at a school visit in the spring (which -- a kid wanted it -- cool!), and the last few BODY OF WATER holdouts were still packed from that same school visit (because, clearly, four months isn't enough time to unpack one box). THE GOODLY SPELLBOOK was an obvious choice at 475 pages, but it proved to be just a touch too thick (maybe 450 would have worked). DRESSAGE FROM A TO X and PONY CLUB C-LEVEL MANUAL (which, okay, is for kids who ride horses), put together, didn't quite reach, so I grabbed a couple of paperbacks to fill the gap.

Of course I was grabbing by width and cover strength, not title, so it was a shock when I found myself sitting on the floor, surrounded by discarded futon-propping attempts (which would all be lovingly returned to the shelf once I was better-rested), clutching a copy of SHILOH.

SHILOH, which was written by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor -- the generous and talented author who made possible a working writer fellowship intended to ensure that authors can, among other things, afford a flat surface to sleep on while still being authors.

The details of the award, as well as the 17 other literary awards being granted this year by the PEN American Center, can be found on their website. I'm in stunningly good company, and it's difficult for me to stop hyperventilating about these particular judges reading my work long enough to realize that I actually won something. I'm completely over the moon about this award, and humbled by the faith the judges have put in me and FREE VERSE. I'm also extremely grateful to Phyllis Naylor for providing such a thrilling opportunity.

When I was fifteen, I won a county writing contest, and I got to go to the state awards ceremony. The keynote speaker was Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, and I was too shy to say six words. Luckily, my mother, also a writer, was with me, and helped facilitate my verbal skills. Ms. Naylor was kind enough to stick around after her talk and answer some questions from the two of us. It was the first day I realized that people actually did this writing stuff for a living, and now all these years later, she's still making it possible for me to stay the course of a writing career.

And how do I repay her?

By stuffing one of her fabulous novels under the corner of a futon?

I think not. SHILOH went back on the shelf. So did the dressage books and the magic books and all my other books of varying widths but equal value. As for the futon? It turns out a combination of bricks and half-filled notebooks can be used to prop.

Plus, I can always lie on the floor to read.



(Author's Note:  I have since procured a sturdy and well-built futon, courtesy of my friend Janell -- so, you know, no worries, Mom!)

I'm off to camp! You coming?

It's Camp NaNoWriMo time!

The gist? Write a novel, start to finish, in August. It's just like regular NaNoWriMo, except it happens in August instead of November. The point is to write quickly, to write without stopping, to write something terrible that you can revise later into something great. It doesn't work for everybody. But it works for me - both my published novels were NaNo novels.

So I'm there (under the name "sarypotter") and I'd love to see you there, too!

I'm gonna start writing here in a sec. Yes, I am. No earthly clue what I'm writing about. My novel has neither a title nor a plot. Nor characters. Nor any words, yet. Thank goodness it's only August 1.

I will not pretend that I'm going to blog daily during Camp NaNo, because - um, yeah - I don't blog daily anyway. Sorry about that. My computer is broken. Very broken. I haven't seen it since April.

Which means I'm noveling via text message.

I'm gonna need a lot of S'mores.

Places I Have Lived, Continued

Friday, there were storms. And inside the little apartment off 14 1/2 Alley, there were no lights to see by. I sat with my dogs and my cat and a dozen half-filled boxes, waiting to see so I could finish packing. This weekend, we moved into an apartment above the park, not far from Huntington's new "World Class PetSafe Dog Park." We have dogs and cats and park-goers for neighbors. In trying to count -- because I always lose count -- how many moves this makes, I felt "moved" to go back and re-read something I wrote a few years back. In case you've got a few minutes and you'd like to know, here are the places I have lived: http://swdooley.blogspot.com/2009/05/places-i-have-lived.html And now I've got to add a few more: 43. When we got back to West Virginia, we stayed with my parents. My niece Marilyn was 13, and she cooked elaborate meals that she would not eat, and wrote menus for them so we could choose. We sat in rocking chairs and ate from the garden. We lay on our backs on hot pavement in the dark and watched fireworks. Who says you can't go home again? 44. We moved to Wyoming County. This was the first house we owned. We painted the walls. We sat in the dark. We watched snow cut us off from the rest of the world. I drove on tangled roads and dodged coal trucks. I taught kids I didn't know how to teach. I lost a friend. I left things unfinished. I saw cover art for Livvie Owen Lived Here. I wrote Body of Water and lived through part of what would someday be Free Verse. We nursed Buddy through Parvo. We worked in the yard, but the work was never done. We walked through grimy snow to Sunoco and bought off-brand dog food. We waited for the thaw. 45. Huntington! We moved to the apartment on 14 1/2 Alley. We got married on Independence Day. We found a home for Buddy, who needed a yard and water and not a tiny apartment in the alley. We found Oscar. Then Winifred. Both Dachshund mixes with attitudes bigger than their tiny, silly bodies. Jake and I separated. Then slowly found each other again. I wrote Ashes to Asheville. Then Free Verse. Livvie Owen Lived Here, then Body of Water, were published. We made friends with the neighbors for maybe the first time ever. We sat on porches and watched storms blow in. On Saturday, we moved. And now we are in number -- 46. The sweet, bright, light apartment on the park. Hardwood floors and a crappy futon and new countertops and promise. And the story continues.

A book festival, a blog post, and also, the dog ate my homework.

Hey, guys,

Just wanted to pop in to mention two things:

1. If you're in the Huntington, WV area, be sure to check out the Ohio River Festival of Books. I'll be doing presentations at several local schools, and there are a slew of great authors planning some awesome events!

2. I'm over at Smack Dab in the Middle today, talking about April showers and what they bring. Come on over, ya'll!

3. (Did I say two? Yeah, well, I stink at math!) I'm sorry I've been absent for so long! My computer has been in the shop (read: with the computer-savvy parent of one of my students) for over a month. I promise to return as soon as my computer does!

Ten Things We Teachers Wish For

Thank goodness, Saturday is St. Patrick's Day -- it's not on a school day this year! My absurd level of joy at this realization got me thinking about the things teachers spend their wishes on. Here are ten:


10. That St. Patrick's Day will fall on a weekend. Wow, do kids love to pinch their teachers, who are far too frazzled to remember to wear green on a specific day. (Most days we're lucky just to make it to school wearing pants.)


9. That April Fool's Day will fall on a weekend. Not because the April Fool jokes are difficult to spot. But because they Never. Get. Old. Geesh, some years my kids seem to think April Fool's Day lasts clear into May! And more than once, I've had to explain that flunking a spelling test is NOT an April Fool occasion.


8. That the bell will ring, and our little Pavlovian children will let go of our hair out of habit when they realize it's time for lunch or the bus.


7. That it's just allergies.


6. That the principal/parent/supervisor/teacher from down the hall will walk in just ONCE when things are going RIGHT and nobody is throwing a tantrum or climbing on a table or drawing on their neighbor with a Sharpie.


5. That the paperclip is just lost, not swallowed.


4. That our kids will magically "get it" - whatever "it" happens to be that day.


3. That we will hear more laughter than tears from our kids.


2. That spontaneous communication will happen, and we will be lucky enough to get to know the true personalities of these funny little people who tolerate us on a daily basis.

And, finally ...

1. That it will snow.

Contest: What did you drive your family crazy with?

Who wants a free audiobook?

If you answered, "Me!," then post a comment on this blog or on my Facebook page telling me about a time when you had a favorite song or movie that your family hated, and you will be entered in a drawing for a chance to win a free audio copy of Body of Water or Livvie Owen Lived Here!

For me (oh, there are so many to choose from), I think the movie I tortured them with the most had to be Danny. This was 1993-ish, and we would occasionally check out a VCR and a few movies from the video store. My favorite movie was Danny, which is a late-seventies film about a girl named Jamie who loves a gray pony named Danny (played by a pony named William Tell -- but I forget who plays Janie). I watched that thing over and over from the time we rented the VCR until the time it went back, with reluctant breaks to let other people watch stuff. I rewound the horse show scenes over and over. Worse yet, when the movie went back to the video store, I trotted and cantered in circles -- in my sister's bedroom, no less -- reciting the ENTIRE movie start to finish. Including the music. And the neighing. (Autism spectrum? Me? Whatever do you mean?)

In the novel I'm currently writing, there's a kid who loves horses, and she tortures her family in much the same way using a fictional horse movie. I'm having a blast writing the dialogue!

Of course this all made me wonder whether I was just the most annoying kid ever, or whether y'all had similar obsessions. Tell me your story in the comments (or on Facebook) and on March 1, I'll draw names to receive one of my audiobooks (Body of water or Livvie Owen Lived Here) -- so you can, you know, listen to them over and over and annoy somebody.

I can't wait to hear your stories!

Yoga. (Ish.)

I've recently started taking yoga classes, and I have to say I love it. In fact, I love it so much that I've started practicing at home. I find that it really helps to center me and clear my head prior to writing.

In case you're not familiar with yoga, my lovely assistants and I have prepared a quick primer:


Standing Forward Bend (with optional puppy-swatting):






Downward, facing dog:






Locust Pose (with doggie spotter):





Give up and let the dogs win:

FOUND: Stray Hippo. Call to claim.

Found: Hippo. Gray, approximately 0.5 inches in length. Clean and well-mannered. She is clearly a treasured pet and I'm sure your kids miss her.

She was found in the dark recesses of my purse on 2/21/2012 at approximately 6:45 a.m., just as the Barboursville bus pulled out of the station. I was looking for my headphones and discovered Rover (as I've taken to calling her) hiding in one of the front pockets, along with sixty-five cents in nickels and a squished Mike & Ike.

Rover has had a big day.

She started with some art:




spent some time reading:










met some (scary) new friends:







did some riding:




visited the amusement park:




blogged about her experiences:




and has been treated like royalty by her foster family:







But I know she misses her real family. If you have lost your beloved pet hippo, please call.


(This is all by way of saying that I love my job as a teacher -- one of the few professions in which you will periodically discover random zoology concealed in your belongings.)

(Also, yes -- I do have a miniature ferris wheel, a tiny horse, a paint set, a tiara, and a cat on my desk. Doesn't everybody?)

Chickens and Libraries

Yesterday, I posted over at Smack Dab in the Middle about how much I love libraries.

I didn't tell you about it until today, because ...

Okay. I cheat. I'm a cheater. I'll admit it. When I write NaNoWriMo novels, I stop using contractions because I want to get credit for two words instead of one. In college, I was known to occasionally edge the margins in by a milimeter or two, and it's possible I spent some time comparing Times New Roman to Courier to figure out which font edged the research paper text onto the required tenth page.

I'm in this writing group called The Patchwork Writers, and they're crazy people, every last one of them. I mean, yeah, it's a writing group. Big surprise there. But what I'm saying is, they've got this ... incentive? That they use to motivate their writers to meet personal goals. They set a deadline and then each writer participating in the challenge sets and announces their goal -- a certain word or page count, completion of a project, or, in my case in the most recent challenge, a certain number of promotional activities or blog posts per week.

And if you don't meet your goal? You have to wear a chicken suit.

In public.

Oftentimes to a writing event.

And the kicker? These crazy, wonderful people with whom I spend my writing time? They actually have not one but two chicken suits between them.

So, as I mentioned, my current chicken suit challenge involves blog posts and publicity. I'm supposed to write a blog post or otherwise promote my books at least four days per week.

Yesterday I posted at Smack Dab. If I'd posted that link here yesterday as well, it would have been wasted as far as the chicken suit challenge is concerned.

And I don't want feathers.

Sorry.

Valentine

Card after card,
I read phrases that don't fit.
You are not shelved with the others.
You are in between the lines.