The Write Obituary

Obituaries kill me.  Is it my imagination or have they changed over the years?  I was always under the impression it was more of a fill in the blank type of thing.  Wife of/ Daughter of/ Mother of/ Predeceased by, etc. 

Each Saturday morning, I open the Toronto paper actually looking forward to reading the obits.  The stories are meaty as a juicy half hour biography segment on TV.  I love those biography shows.

In one story...oops...biography...sorry...obituary, the deceased wrote his own obit.  Before he died, of course.  He sounded confused.  I am serious when I say that.  He wrote something like... well, I guess it’s over, or something to that effect.  I felt sad reading it.  His obituary was short and to the point.  Although, it changed subtly towards the end.  It wasn’t written in first person at the end.  Like, maybe he died while he was writing it and someone else finished up.  I swear that crossed my mind after reading it.

I mean no disrespect to the deceased.  One day I’ll be in the obits column, right?  Well, not in the Toronto paper. The announcement will probably be in one of those online publications.  The Lambton Shield will carry it.  They post nice pictures too. 

That’s another thing.  Should it be a current picture?  I’ve seen pictures of gorgeous gals with long hair, a saucy smile, and a hat tipped to a rakish angle.  Reading the obit, it is a surprise to learn the woman was in her late eighties when she passed.  I do appreciate seeing what they looked like in their prime.  Maybe there should be two pictures.  Like a before and after, if you will.  Where was I?  Oh, yes.

I love the obituaries that relate a lifetime of memories with kids, grandchildren, cousins, Uncle Fred from Borneo...  The canoe trip up the river with Sally, that night at the Super 6 with Gloria...sorry, again. 

Don’t forget the education and all those degrees.  University, college, on-line classes, correspondence courses, first aid refreshers.  In some cases, that’s a couple of paragraphs in itself. 

Every workplace and every change of address from 1942 to present is included.  I mean, really?  Be honest now.  Tell me what you think.  Is it necessary?  Seriously, one obituary posting fondly remembered Bethany, or whoever, decorating the church bulletin board.  I AM NOT making this up.

I began to wonder, as any writer would, about my obituary.  Being the control freak I am, maybe I should write my own.  I can only imagine what it would look like if I didn’t.

Phyllis Humby finally passed away this morning at the age of 98.  Last week, on the way to the pantry under the stairs to get a bottle of ketchup, she got her feet tangled up in a pile of sheets on the laundry room floor,.  The family decided to do without ketchup and continued with their meal unaware that Nana Humby was in distress. 

Phyllis was quite a talker.  She talked all the time and mostly no one listened.  Then she began to write.  It was much quieter.  She loved her great-grandchildren with a passion and liked nothing more than to read to them each time they visited.  Unfortunately, it was always the same old Trixie Beldon or The Bobbsey Twins book.  Some years ago,the visits ended.

Her neighbours will never forget how Phyllis wheeled her garbage out to the road every Monday night and how with pail and shovel in hand, she cleaned up the yard after her beloved pets.

Phyllis Humby, wildly enthusiastic about life, accepting of death.  Rest In Peace.

Staying Busy the Write Way

I sit at my computer, fingers poised above the keyboard waiting for a bright idea to filter through my brain and transpose into words:  namely my weekly blog.  I wait for inspiration.  Without inspiration, poets could not philosophize, novelists could not fictionalize, and columnists could not publicize.  And bloggers...well, bloggers could not blog!

It’s curious what goes through a person’s mind when it's open to inspiration.  In my mind now is a question I am often asked.  Not exactly a flash of inspiration but niggling enough to address in this week’s blog.  How do you keep busy in your retirement?  What do you do all day, they want to know. 

I am never sure if my answer is adequate.  I write, I tell them.  They nod and wait for more.  Well, writing takes up quite a bit of time, I explain.  It is not always the story writing that takes the time.  It is what I do with the stories. 

I am currently promoting a short story collection about my experiences in the retail lingerie trade.  Stories dealing with stalking, death threats, renegade squirrels, and menopausal women during a full moon.  Almost twenty years of memories. The stories are mostly humorous with a few sombre notes.  If you were a patron of my business, don’t panic.  All the names are changed to protect the guilty.

Last week I forwarded queries to publishers and agents concerning this project.  You see, a query letter is a pitch to sell your work.  First and foremost, the storyline must be described in such a way that the book is immediately perceived as a best seller.  You must convince them by your credentials and personal depiction that you can single-handedly sell each copy by way of tours, book signings, interviews, book club visits, web sites, blogs, etc.  Oh, and that should be achieved in about three paragraphs.  It is a one shot deal. 

I feel certain that I will gain interest in this book by year’s end.  In the meantime, I will dodge rejection letters and re-work the query until I get it right.

Further taking advantage of last week’s confident mood, I put together submissions of miscellaneous stories to three literary journals, and I mailed sample chapters of my novel−along with an optimistically irresistible query letter−to unsuspecting acquisitions editors. 

Writers spend a vast amount of time marketing their work.  I noticed an online comment from a novelist lamenting just that.  He wondered what it would be like to forget about marketing and stay immersed in the world of fiction.  It would be delightful. 

I remember spending hours...days...weeks...months at the computer, caught up in the characters and the storyline of my first writing endeavour.  There was never a thought to the afterlife of the story.  It was the ultimate experience. 

Did I say ultimate experience?  It was exciting but the ultimate experience for writers is seeing their work published.  If there are any writers who disagree, feel free to challenge that statement.

Some authors prefer to self-publish.  That eliminates the time−years in some cases−that it takes to find a publisher or agent.  It requires diligence, a sound business sense, and an unrelenting quest to explore every promotional path.

So far, I am trying to have my books published the old-fashioned, traditional way.  Every published author who has succeeded through perseverance inspires me.  That inspiration keeps me busy in my retirement.  Any more questions?

The Write Library Etiquette

We lined up in small groups, invariably holding hands with a partner.  The heels of our leather shoes tapped along the polished surface of the hallway leading to the double doors.  I remember the excitement.  There it was.  Parked along the curb.  The Bookmobile! 

Proceeding in what a casual observer would consider an orderly fashion, I inwardly squirmed like an excited puppy.  Anticipation peaked at the two-step entrance as the stuffy smell of new carpet wafted through the open doorway.  The blue floor-covering looked pristine− even though that was not a word in my vocabulary at the age of seven.  I recall hesitating, wondering if I should remove my shoes. 

Entering the mobile library and circling the rows of books was as thrilling to me as a field trip.  I don’t recollect having field trips as a child, but if I had, I could not have been more eager.  We did not speak−not even in whispers.  In a well-behaved manner, we waited patiently while the librarian initialled the card at the front of our chosen books, each of us mouthing the word thank you as we turned to leave. 

Beaming, I stepped down to the pavement, bony knees protruding from my box pleated navy jumper.  I walked smartly back to the classroom; a book tucked tightly against my skinny frame.  A treasure I could enjoy for a whole two weeks before the Bookmobile rolled around to our school again.

That memory and my love of books and libraries have not diminished throughout the years.  Yet as time passes, I notice a change in the library etiquette.  It is not the reverent silent oasis of my childhood.

I introduced my granddaughter to the library when she was a toddler.  The small local branch had a spacious colourful children’s section that included an abundance of wooden puzzles and a play table with an assortment of stimulating toys.  I would read a storybook with her perched on my lap and then allow time for puzzles and play.  It was our habit to choose another storybook to read after we returned home. 

This became a much-anticipated activity.  Now as Sophie approaches her fifth birthday, we still include a trip to the library with each visit.  Her little sister Sadie accompanies us whenever possible.

Sophie and I have explored several libraries within the county.  I instilled in my granddaughter a respect for libraries.  We must refrain from making noise, and aside from quiet reading, keep conversation to a minimum.  Much to my chagrin, at the age of three, Sophie shushed two talking librarians.  This is a libaary, she reminded them.

However, visiting the larger centres is very different.  The noise level has increased considerably.  I am disappointed to see children racing and screaming, falling down and rolling on the floor.  Mothers slouched in chairs balancing a Tim Horton’s and an iphone.  The play areas resemble day care centres.  The first time we encountered this behaviour, Sophie clung to my side.  Inexplicably, I felt I had let her down.  That I had misinformed her.  That I had taught her something that was no longer relevant.

Sophie looked at me and said, No running in a library.  Right, Nana?  My reply was lost in the din.

My Cones Are Not Write

My cones are not normal.  I had no idea.  My husband pointed out my flaw.  Look, Phyllis.  I looked.   

That day standing in the bathroom, he said, I like them but you do realize they don’t match.  What do you mean they don’t match?  I took a closer look.  I pulled the blind open and stood in the natural light.  Are you sure?  He laughed.  Phyllis, it doesn’t matter to me but I thought you should know.   

I suppose I always knew but never stopped to think about it.  Never wanted to admit it.  My face flamed in embarrassment.

I snatched the shower curtain off the rod.  After all, I had only draped it there so I could show my husband how coordinated everything looked.  The grey towels−the grey shower curtain.  Only the curtain wasn’t grey, was it.  No, it was brown.  In the store it looked grey.  The same as the valance across the window.  It wasn’t grey either.  It was somewhat blue-ish.

Recently I decided to do a makeover in our open concept bungalow.  I painted the bathroom when my husband refused to get involved.  When he saw my shaky paint line along the ceiling and the wavy baseboards, he took on the task of doing the mammoth kitchen project and the guest bedroom.  Whew!

From the guest room my husband called out to me, anything but green.  Okay, I shouted back as I left for the paint store.

There it was.  The proof was on the wall in broad strokes.  It was grey in the store, I muttered.  His silent accusation brought me to a higher pitched defence.  I know it looks green now but I’m sure...My voice trailed off.

I always acknowledged my problem with dark colours.  I came home with a pair of black dress pants for my husband that the tag defiantly sku’d as navy.  Of course, everyone knows that dark brown, black, and navy are nearly indistinguishable anyway. 

It was more than that now.  I no longer trusted myself when it came to choosing colours.  I thought of the living room curtains I brought home last spring.  They looked a perfect match for the sea green accessories.  At home they transformed to a brilliant turquoise. 

Marv prepped the kitchen for painting.  Pick up some paint Phyllis, he said.  Gritting my teeth and grumbling under my breath, I swung the door closed behind me. 

This isn’t green is it, I asked the young recruit at the paint shop.  The ring in his lower lip quivered but he kept a straight face.  You see, I floundered, I have a little problem with certain shades.  Nah, this is yellow, he said.  No, I certainly don’t want yellow.  Is this one yellow, too, I asked, peering at a paint chip?  No, that’s peach.  Frustration was mounting.  I wondered how he would describe me to his friends.  A dizzy old broad came in for paint today and kept asking me the colours.....

Exasperated, I left the store only to return the next day.  This time I brought home paint chips for the kitchen.  My husband eyed them.  Yes, the top portion will be a medium grey, and below the white chair rail will be espresso brown.  He nodded his approval. 

It was a relief to find a person at the paint store to help me with the colour selection.  He understood when I explained my affliction to him.  No, it’s not the young person with the lip ring.  He seemed to avoid me.

Unable to shake my frustration, I turned to my trusty laptop and Googled!  The first thing I discovered is that colour blindness is rare in women.  Only .5% of women are born colour blind to 8% of men.  Various web sites confirm that my condition is not colour blindness, though it sure feels like it. 

Further research resulted in a believable explanation.  Here it is folks.  I have Protanomoly.  Self-diagnosed, of course.  But it fits.  I have a problem, not with most primary vivid colours, but with the saturation of colour in various shades.  The way I understand it, the retina is made up of rods and cones; rods being responsible for night vision and the cells responsible for colour perception are the cones.  Cones are located in the centre of the retina.  People with normal cones are able to see all different colours and subtle mixtures.  Aha!

Now I know for sure.  I don’t have the write cones.

The Imp on Your Write Shoulder

With my son’s permission, I am sharing a letter I gave him on his twenty-fifth birthday− ALMOST TEN YEARS AGO.  Any parent can attest to the swift passage of time when we think of the ages of our children.  I have never talked about the imp with Brodie.  Did he appear?  Somehow, I think he did. 

Wishing you continued happiness and success, Brodie

Happy Birthday

Love, Mom

So here is the birthday letter that marked his first milestone!

My darling son Brodie,

I am going to share something astonishing with you.  You are old enough to hear about this now.

At some point in everybody’s life, a little imp crawls out from behind our ear, (I kid you not), slides down our neck and onto our shoulder.  He takes a look around and then taps (it’s more like a sharp flick) on our ear lobe to get our attention.  He says, ‘So, bud, is this it then?  Is this where you wannabe forever?  Are we here to stay?’

Whoa.  It’s startling.  Quite a revelation.  You look around and see your world through the eyes of this annoying imp.  What a jolt.  He forces you to take stock.  You begin thinking, ‘What have I done, and what do I want to do?  Where am I and where do I want to be?’

It sounds like I’m making this up but believe me it’s true.  Besides, would I lie?  I don’t want to alarm you but you are almost 25 years old.  This is a definite milestone in life.  The imp can appear earlier of course...or later...but he will definitely show up.  I’m speaking from experience.  Actually, it happened to me twice but that’s another story. 

I must warn you.  When you look through someone else’s eyes, you see things you never saw before.  Sometimes it can be wonderful and you start appreciating everyone and everything you have.  Other times, though, it can be scary.  The opportunity only comes when you have the imp’s gift of vision.

It’s quite a power trip knowing you alone rule your destiny.  Think about it.  You make it all happen.  And having that pesky little imp on your shoulder is not necessarily an irritation but a support system.  When he shows up you know it’s time to move on to your next stage of life.  Enjoy it to the fullest.  I gave you life; it’s up to you how you live it.

With pride and love in my heart

I wish you the happiest birthday

Your loving Mother