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A.I. is one of my favorite movies. There are so many haunting, beautiful, even creepy things in that movie that I simply cannot get out of my head. The scene at the bottom of the ocean where David stares longingly at the Blue Fairy. Google becoming our own Dr. Know. The Flesh Fair. The interaction between Gigolo Joe and the lonely woman (heartbreaking!). The tenderness between Teddy (Teddy’s in the Science Fiction Museum and Hall of Fame, by the way.) and David, even though they’re both Mechas. The Mecha’s ability to recreate one, happiest day for David. Kubrick’s vision and Spielberg’s touches of wonder (and the fact that the “sweetness” in the film was really Kubrick’s) make this one of my favorite films of all time. So much more to talk about, but it is all tangential to what I really want to write about.
Tonight I was thinking about David’s Happiest Day. (Short AI help here for those who haven’t seen/have forgotten. It is 2000 years later. All humans have died. The world is covered in ice. Aliens are excavating New York and find David and Teddy. They are able to understand humans better because David and Teddy have been so well preserved. The aliens scan Teddy’s and David’s memories and find that all David ever wanted was to be Monica’s son. Although they cannot make David a “real boy” they are able to use Monica’s hair [which Teddy has had safety pinned to himself for 2000 years (!)] to bring her back to life for one, perfect day. Out of gratitude, they thank David by granting his wish, if only for one day. Phew!)
What would my happiest day be like? It would be a Sunday. At my parents’ house. Susan and Jacob would be there. My dad would cook some monster piece of meat (Ribs probably. They’re my favorite and he always makes them for me when I’m home.) on the grill, and my mom would be busy canning something, or making some beautiful crafty thing. Susan would probably be busy listing books on EBay, with a Diet Coke not far away, and Jacob would be acting like an 8 year old boy. Sammy and Billy would be busy being dogs and all the assorted cats would be wandering in and out, sleeping, eating, bringing dead things to the back step because they were proud. Maybe Tom would sit on my lap for awhile.
It would be warm outside, and sunny. That beautiful, blinding Idaho sun that I’ve seen every July of my life. The garden would be just beyond manageable. Hops, tomatoes, grapes, squash, and who knows what else, would be threatening to take over the yard. I can hear Sammy opening the screen door with her giant lab/border collie paws.
Susan might make a cheesecake (she makes the best) and I’d make way too much of something; scalloped or mashed potatoes, cupcakes, stuffed jalapenos – it doesn’t really matter, I’d just make too much. My mom would make a salad, and we’d all dutifully eat it, not that we’re opposed to such a thing, but when ribs are involved, it can be a tough call. We would have that bread from the Basque bakery in Boise (I live in one of the best food cities in the world, yet cannot get over my missing Basque food).
I can hear the tv trays (we used to eat at the table every night, but not any more) opening, and can see everyone’s drinks ready for eating. And we’re talking. Loudly (we’re not a quiet group). Not about anything important, probably what is on tv. A normal, once-a-week Sunday at my parents’ house is my absolute favorite day.
So, that’s it. My perfect-happiest day. Family. Food. Farm. Idaho Sunshine. That’s all it takes.
If you could have one, happiest, perfect day, what would it be?
Makes my heart smile.
I know, I know; it’s not even Christmas yet, but here comes a post about 2011! Humor me.
So my plan for 2011 is to have some goals. (I don’t like that word, but you get the gist with it; I’m looking for a better word.) Not some grand, “I think I”ll build a school for every child in Africa by the time I’m 40,” type objectives, but some simple, attainable and important-to-me milestones. I know it’s still a few weeks out, and technically I give myself until January 26 of each year to start my new year (birthday), but this is my 32nd year, and I’d like it to be a little different. You see, up until this point in my life, I haven’t had any goals. Zero. Not a single one. Sound crazy? Well, it’s just been how I’ve operated until now.
Generally, I haven’t had a clue about what I want to do with myself. (Side note; I hate Times New Roman, and had to stop mid-thought to change my font-in the Word draft. TNR was killing my soul.) This is not a new thing. I couldn’t decide where to go to college. In college, I couldn’t decide what to major in. I couldn’t decide on a career (this is a HUGE issue for me, and I hope to figure out more about this in the coming year).
So yeah. Basically, aimlessness has been a pattern of mine for as long as I can remember. I haven’t ever really felt like I’ve fit-in. I am malleable to the point of losing myself. I tend to meld my personality into something different when I’m in a relationship. Recently, yes, it’s taken me a LONG time, I’ve realized that I’m a different person when I am in a relationship and stop doing the things that I love (or at least think I do) and am good at. Not that I am co-dependent on the boy; I’ve explored that, and just don’t think that is it. I had an ex-boyfriend tell me a few years ago that I am better outside of a relationship. I didn’t understand what he meant at the time and was sure it was something negative about me (great self-esteem there). But in hindsight, I realize that he is right and that I should have thanked him.
Instead of holding my own in a relationship (because that would require my actually knowing what I want) I tend to find someone and look to them for inspiration. You play rugby? Maybe I should play rugby or at least start following the All Blacks. English food? Ruby Murray? I’ve never thought of it before, but maybe it should be my favorite. Now exposure to different things through different people is not a bad thing at all. But for me, when I am in the confines of a relationship, I kind of stop exploring and finding things on my own. I look to my partner for all of this. This. Is. Not. Good. I don’t know where the hell I’m heading and think that maybe, possibly you just might have a clue. Or so I’ve reasoned it.
And get this; I have lived in my apartment for almost a year and still haven’t unpacked or settled-in yet. It was the same in the last THREE apartments before. I’ve been so hesitant to build a life, a home, on my own. I have never wanted to be that woman. I have always wanted to have the partner, the shared life. But maybe this isn’t the case? I don’t know. But, I do know I’m tired of living like a perpetual guest in my own home. So, a big part of 2011 will be spent nesting. Buying actual furniture. Finishing painting the rooms. Making it comfortable, for me. When I moved into this apartment, I started out with the same gusto. But then, I started dating British Boy and well, I was sidetracked. I dated him for too long, and let the rest of my life slip away. That was almost a year of my life, and what do I have to show? A mostly empty apartment and a year spent being very lonely even when in what I thought was a relationship. I am so, so transient. I don’t want to be that.
Anywho, as you can tell by now, I have a terrible time staying on the task at hand. Which leads me to goals. (Still don’t like it.) I want 2011 to be different. Don’t get me wrong, 2010 was a good year, but I don’t have it just right, or even close enough, just yet. I still dated the wrong guy for too long. Didn’t think before I acted. And so on, and so on.
The goals I will strive for in 2011 will include things like, trying a new recipe once a week (or cooking through some cookbook ala Julie and Julia, which I kind of hate to admit, but really, really love and find inspiring). And, that’s all I’ve got so far. I want things that are tangible, so I will need to keep track of them somehow. I think I need to start off small and see some accomplishments actually happen. I don’ t see this often. I am compiling a list of goals in my brain for now, and will eventually transfer them to this page. Be patient with me; I still have a few weeks. And, this is a horrible way to end this post.
It’s the day after my half-birthday. Yes, I’m 31 (and a half), and I still (did you ever?) mark my half birthday. Why you ask? For one, it is my grandmother’s birthday. My grandmother was, and still is a huge influence in my life. It is hard to believe that it has been almost five years since she died.
That being said, here’s one of the most tragic/romantic stories I’ve ever heard, and it happened to my own grandmother.
My grandma was born in 1920, so was a young woman when World War II began. She wanted to join the WAVES (truly inspiring/amazing organization for women in the 1940′s; look it up!), and help with the war effort, but her father insisted that she finish college first. So, she finished up at Missouri State Teachers College, with the intention of joining the WAVES once she was finished.
While she was attending college, she was pen pals with a high school classmate who was serving overseas (I don’t remember which branch, but think it was the Air Force). The connection between them deepened. Soon they were in love. My grandmother believed they would marry when he returned to the US.
Time went by and my grandmother’s sweetheart returned to their hometown. Only he didn’t propose to my grandmother, but got down on his knee for the girl next door instead. Really. Really, really. The entire time he had been writing to my grandmother, he had carried on a similar, and apparently more important, relationship with the girl living next door to my grandma. Now, I’m not sure how two girls, relatively close in age (I’m assuming, I really don’t know much about this woman), living next door to one another in rural Missouri did not realize they were writing to the same man (or maybe they did, but kept the depth of the relationship a secret? Or were in open competition? I don’t know, but like to think about it), but all signs point to this being the case.
So what did my grandma do? I am sure she was heartbroken (we’ll get to that part in a bit), but instead of crumbling she finished school, and moved to San Diego to do what she could for the war effort.
Although she had a teaching degree, my grandma didn’t have a certificate to teach in California. My grandma’s first job was working as a secretary at a furniture store in Escondido. Here, she made more money than she would have as a teacher. One day a man came in and began talking to my grandma. It turned out that he was the superintendent of the city’s school district, and urged my grandmother to start teaching under an emergency certificate. So she did.
Somewhere in the middle of all of this, my grandma met my grandfather. My grandfather was from Oklahoma, and was building airplanes for Hughes Aircraft, because he wasn’t accepted into the military (because of poor vision, or malaria, I don’t remember which. More about him in a later post). In addition to this work, my grandfather also took care of his brother who was a few years older, but needed constant care (I think he was suffering the effects of malaria).
My grandma was 25 or so by this time (which really, was straight-up spinsterhood back in the day) and wanted to get married. My grandfather did too, but had his brother to take care of. He did not want my grandmother to have to take care of him. So, he waited until his brother died. He then took him back to Oklahoma and closed that chapter of his life. Once this was done, he returned to California and proposed to my grandmother.
They lived a happy life. My grandfather owned a chicken ranch, and my grandmother taught school. They raised my dad. They were married for fifty some years (need to look that up) when my grandfather died. I always felt bad for my grandma when we were little, because my grandfather was sick for as long as I can remember. He had a stroke when I was really young, and died when I was 19. Most of this time, I can remember him barely able to walk without a walker, and speaking with a slur. They had retired and followed my dad and mom to Idaho to be around all of us, and almost as soon as they did this, he became sick.
So, years went by. One day, after my grandfather had died, my grandma told me this story. She also showed me a fairly recent picture of the man who had broken her heart. He had gone on to have a full life without my grandma, and she had done the same. However, they had been in touch for years (I’m not sure when they reconnected, but they certainly had). They still wrote letters to each other, though now they were of a much tamer nature, I am supposing. When my grandma died, we received flowers and a card from this man.
My grandma always made sure to tell me that she had had a good life. She was thankful for everything that she had. And she was right; she did have a good life. But, I always wonder if she had the love that she wanted. I know that she loved my grandfather, but I don’t know if it was the same as she had loved the other man. Of course it wasn’t the same, but was it more of what she was after? I don’t know.
I don’t know what this says about love. I think about it a lot. I try to apply the lessons to my own love life. Love is patient. Love does not always look like you expect it to, but if given a chance, it is constant, and lasting. Or, maybe this man humored my grandmother through her entire life without reciprocated feelings. Or, it was something in between. I will never know, but it is interesting to think about, and in a painful, nostalgic way, beautiful.
I’ve been thinking a lot about why people blog. And I think it boils down to this; people blog out of loneliness. People are lonely for various reasons and in various ways, and it isn’t always a bad thing. I know that I tend to wear my loneliness as a good thing. Maybe this means that I am more of a loner? I don’t know.
Relationship Reflection
Recently I’ve dated two people. And when it got right down to it, I realized that although I did enjoy the time I spent with these men, I was content, and even happy to spend time alone. So why is this?
Early in my dating life, I craved companionship nonstop. I lived and breathed the relationship, and in the process, I lost myself. All that mattered to me was the person I was in a relationship, making them happy, and making them not leave me. I did nothing alone, or just for me. I could feel myself slipping into this pattern in one of my recent, shorter relationships. Luckily, it ended before I got in to deep again.
An ex-boyfriend once told me that I was much better when I was single. I was more fun, more interesting, more me. He said that relationships weighed me down. We never talked about this when we were together, but I trust his perspective after the fact; he knew me single and as part of a couple.
It is interesting to me that I spend so much time in a relationship trying not to get the other half to leave. Why would they leave if it were right? And, why did it matter so much to me if they did? If they left, clearly, something wasn’t right.
Now, I’m noticing that I am reluctant to get into a relationship with anyone. Yes, there is a lot of baggage there, but part of it is my desire to remain autonomous. This desire is very strong within me right now.
In the past I spent so much time trying to be the person that my partner of the moment wanted me to be. I will not do this again. I want someone who loves me for being me. That is it. I don’t want, and will not, try to fit a mold that someone has constructed. I lose myself. It is exhausting.
And, yes, I am late in realizing this, but I would much prefer being happily alone than trying to be something I am not just so I can have a man.
Loner
So, what is it about being a loner that I find so appealing? I am still dissecting this, but am now realizing that it is an incredibly important part of my being. Some of my happiest, most fulfilling moments have been experienced alone. And although this is sad to me in the Romantic, no one to reflect on the past memories sort of way, I am still very thankful and love that I have experienced these things.
I particularly love traveling alone. I have driven across the country three times, alone. I have never been on a road trip of this length with anyone else. Not that I am against it; but it just hasn’t happened yet.
I love waking up with someone, with my legs tangled up in theirs, but honestly, I can do without it. My bed is comfy, and I enjoy company occasionally, but all in all, I am content.
I also wonder if geography is part of my issue. My closest relationships tend to be with those not in the same location. I talk constantly with my friends in other parts of the country. But, I don’t really spend a lot of time, outside of work, with people. Is this weird? Maybe. Is the distance a form of safety net (from what, I don’t know)?
I have built an incredible life for myself. I have experienced so many more things than most of the people I grew up with. I am so thankful for this. I did think I was “behind” or doing something wrong because I wasn’t married with 2.5 kids and a picket fence at this point in life, but the truth is? I would be bored to death with this life. Smothered. Suffocated. Those are the words I related to that life.
But then I wonder, is it just because I haven’t found the right person to share my life with that I feel this way? Is that it?
I don’t have any idea. All I can do is keep living my life, exactly as I want it. If someone comes along, wonderful. If not, I have an awesome life.
I dreamed I was in a park with you. A theme park of sorts. It was a huge, Disneyland meets New England, sort of park. It was the size of Boston. I lived in the park. You came to stay with me in the park. We shared a room (not having sex). We were getting to know each other again. Starting a new relationship. We met one afternoon in the park in the sunshine and talked. Loved each other. Had deep meaningful conversations with each other. Connected. Both of us were becoming fulfilled in this new relationship. The sun went down and we went to bed in our own beds, in the same room, not because we didn’t desire each other, but because we were waiting to grow into that.
Then over night, you involved her. I awoke and everything was different. You brought her into my room, in my park (since you didn’t live there, this is how I see it). You rented a double bed for the two of you in my room, and had the park staff deliver it. So when I awoke, there was my bed in the room, and the bed for the two of you. Now I felt invaded in my space.
I had to go to work. You were going to meet me in the sunshine once I was done and we could talk, love each other and continue to grow together. We were committed to this. We were looking forward to this. Excited about this. I tried to get there. Obstacle after obstacle got in my way. The trains weren’t going where I needed them to take me. I couldn’t walk fast enough because of my ankle. I kept getting lost. People told me the wrong way. Cabs took me to the wrong places. I couldn’t get through to you to ask you to wait. I could not get a message through to you. I couldn’t reach you. Finally, I received a message from you that was just one of those silly weatherman cartoon suns, but this one was angry, and fading.
Later, I looked at my phone and there was a message from you saying that you were not going to be able to make it. You told me that the sun was not going to be out. It had passed. You had waited as long as you could for me in the sunshine, but were now going to go and meet her at a bar. The sun had set. You had moved on. I was not welcome here. I had welcomed you into my room, my park, and then you brought her. Once you brought her, I was not even welcome in my own place.
I went back to my room, and the double bed that you had rented, and your bed that was originally there, were both gone. All that was in my room was my single bed, and darkness. The sun was gone. I was alone.
Then I woke up. The mind does interesting things with what is really going on.
Today I watched an episode of Dead Like Me (which I just found, and have decided I love), and one of the characters described people as being of two camps: bowling balls and pins. I think, for the most part, I have been a pin in my life. I have “gone with the flow,” or “drifted,” or whatever other cutesy name you want to give it. And, I have to say, everything has generally turned out well. I have a great job, great friends, and am generally pretty happy. Yes, there’s the whole love/partner piece still missing, but I think this will be the case for quite awhile. (Side note: I have realized lately that something is different in me, that something has changed when it comes to men, love, relationships. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. It is kind of like a hole, or that my heart is covered in scar tissue and can’t really feel anything right now, and I’m not really in any hurry to let it feel anything again. So, we will come back to this some other time.) What do I want? I am blessed to be smart and crafty enough to basically have whatever I want in life, so why can’t I decide?
I’ve been thinking that I need a plan, so here are the basics of it. I don’t know where the plan will get me, but it is a start.
Things I want to do:
- Move back to New Orleans.
- Remodel a house in New Orleans (I can see this in my mind, and think about it frequently.)
- Play roller derby.
- Be an artist.
- Be happy.
- Be in better shape.
- Get another degree.
- Save enough money to have a nest egg.
- Pay off my bills.
- Buy a new-to-me Jeep.
- Find a way to do my job from Louisiana, or find an equally satisfying job there.
- Open my heart again.
- Stop wasting time.
- Travel: Mexico, Africa.
- Do more outdoorsy things.
- Not be lonely.
- Go to the dentist and doctor.
Pretty simple list, really. Some of them actually involve planning, and some of them don’t. And of course, this is just a sarting place. I am sure that I will edit/add to/delete things again and again.
I guess the next step is figuring out how to get to each of these goals? I should be pragmatic and plan and save and then move back to New Orleans when everything fits. But, I really don’t want to. I want to jump. I know it will all work out in the end, but I don’t know how I will do with the uncomfortableness that comes with jumping again. I am just now settling from my last jump and would kind of like to not do it again for awhile. But then again, I don’t want to get bored either.
Hmm… I can think on it, awhile, but not too long. Thinking is what makes people never do anything and only dream about it. I don’t want to live a life of regret.
I was shaken a little when I heard, but that’s just it–I was shaken, a little. Not utterly destroyed, not hurt, not really–much, come to think of it. Just shaken. As for you, and me, and US, well, I’ve put that all in a nice little box, wrapped it in kraft paper, using plenty of tape, and tied it all together using string and a neat little bow. Right now, that box is still in the middle of the floor, but soon I will tire of tripping over it and will put it on a shelf. As time passes, I will add more things to my shelf, and eventually, well this box, the US box, will get pushed all the way to the back, with plenty of other boxes in its way. I am sure I will come across this box again one day, probably several times since it will always be on my shelf, but only when I am looking for it.
I have moved across the country three times for a boy — twice for the same one. Yes, three times. What does that say about me? I don’t know, and am trying to figure it out.
The first boy was Jeremiah. He was on his way to Bible College (really.) in Seattle when I met him. He had stopped in Idaho to visit family. I met him at a party at his aunt’s house, and we fell in love quickly and completely. We were utterly unsuitable for each other. I am/was much more like the Bible School attending person he thought he wanted to become than his real self. Falling in love quickly and completely blinds you; you are only able to see the other person through a filter — not that I am saying anything new here at all; I realize that countless things have been uttered on this theme for as long as there has been love.
Anyway, as happens in all relationships, our true selves began to show through, and we weren’t at all what the other person needed/wanted. But, I (maybe we? I don’t know) was too stubborn to let go when I should have, and kept up the relationship for entirely too long.
Jeremiah bounced between jobs, was sometimes homeless, and generally unhappily searching for his place in the world. I was living at home, working a dead-end job, and trying to go to school at a second rate university. At one point in our relationship, Jeremiah had a breakdown. One of his best friends died, and he lost it. He went to the funeral, and spent the better part of a year following Phish around the country, even dabbling in selling weed to pay his way. He was gone. Somewhere in the Midwest. No cell phone. No email. No contact.
Instead of letting go (because we were obviously so well suited for each other) I tracked him down at his friend Jason’s parents’ house in North Dakota. He told me he was in trouble. That he had cheated on me, not then, as we were apparently not together then, but before — God was I dumb. That he was at the worst point in his life. So what did I do? I went to him. I finished my last week of classes, and met him in Minneapolis. Here, he was practically living in a van (I know; so weird that I got mixed up in this), and “living” with his friend Allison, who I am pretty sure made her living as a full fledged drug dealer.
Good God, what was I thinking? All I could see was love (which wasn’t even really there, the more I look at it), and it didn’t matter to me that I was putting myself in danger — drugs (not just weed, and not just using it either, though I swear I never touched ANY of it, still, just to be around it …), alcohol, so many illegal activities a thousand miles away from everything I had ever known. WHAT WAS I THINKING? How did I believe in the fairy tale so much that I could do that to myself?
Luckily, I didn’t last long. All I would do is hide in “our” bedroom while Jeremiah did whatever with his friends in the basement. One night, Jeremiah was gone, and Allison came home and started throwing things; I swear she broke everything in the kitchen. So I left. I got out of the house, and went to the park behind the house and hid until I saw Jeremiah come home in his van. Then I ran out and told him what happened. It just wasn’t working. This life wasn’t me.
Then next morning I called my grandma and she bought me a plane ticket home for that day. I think I was about 23, and I suppose that is an age where you are supposed to be messing up royally as I had done, but it still makes me mad that I let that happen to myself.
So was that it? Was that the end of Jeremiah? Of course not! A few months passed, and Jeremiah and I talked again. I had finally moved out of my parents’ house, and had found a great place in downtown Boise. It was pricey for me (at $500 a month!), but I knew that if I had a place then Jeremiah would come back (again, what the hell was wrong with me? how degrading is that?). Not that Jeremiah was a completely bad guy. I do believe that he loved me; he just wasn’t the right one for me.
So, Jeremiah came back to Boise (I bought him a ticket). I remember going to Savers before he got to Boise and buying him two new outfits. He literally didn’t have a thing. So, he moved in. It seemed like we were happy again. But, eventually our true selves showed through everything again. Jeremiah decided that he wanted to become a country music star (and guess what? he has.) and I wanted him to be something more suitable, say an accountant. Anyway, Jeremiah was embarrassed of me when we were out, and never wanted me to come and see him play (this seems to be a theme in my relationships — I embarrass him when we are out). Things got bad. I broke (okay, smashed, destroyed) his Martin. He wrote an album full of country songs about me. I moved to Louisiana. And that was that with Jeremiah.
The week is almost over again. This weekend, I HAVE to move the rest of my things, and repaint my old bedroom. I am not looking forward to it, but once I am done, I won’t have to go back to my old place EVER again! Hooray! Then I can be completely in my new place.
I was thinking about Africa again today. I think that I have to go there at some point, or will dream about it for the rest of my life. But, that brings up an interesting thought, well to me anyway. Do we always need some dream to hold onto? I think this is how I have lived my life for the most part; I have only experienced a few moments actually in the moment. Most have been through hindsight or looking forward. Is this unique to me?
I remember being maybe seven or eight and realizing (I can see exactly where this happened too; on 10th Avenue in Caldwell, Idaho, in the backseat of my parents’ gold Impala) that it was so much better to look forward to going to the fair, and remembering the fair than it was to actually experience the fair. This theme repeated itself with dances, vacations, and the other moments of youth.
One exception to this that I can remember is the Republican National Convention in 1996. I can honestly say I lived every moment of this. I can remember exactly how it felt to get sunstroke in the harbor while waiting for Bob Dole’s boat to arrive. I can remember the temperature outside, and the way it felt to have Jeff’s arm around me when we were evacuated from the dorms at 2am. I can remember seeing a picture of Jeff and I asleep in a hammock in the sunshine, in the LA Times the morning after it was taken, realizing that we were a part of this huge event.
So what was different about that one event? I can’t put my finger on it–exactly. Though I do know there were differences. I was extremely excited. This was one of the first times I was ever away from home. This was the first time I had ever had slept in a bed with a guy (not that we had sex mind you). I took everything in. I hardly talked to my parents. I didn’t know anyone. And I had an amazing time. And it was crazy–something that most of the other people in the country were not experiencing for whatever reason.
Volunteering for Katrina was like this at first; eventually it got to be very routine, but in the beginning, it shared the same energy. The similarities between the two are pretty obvious. I was untethered–I entered both experience without knowing another soul. It was a BIG deal–one was a political convention that only comes along every four years, and the other, well, the greatest natural disaster our country has seen. During both experiences, I was a part of something so much bigger than myself, yet I still felt like I was a part of history; sound strange? That’s how it felt.
I also got quite a bit of attention from boys at both; something that generally doesn’t happen in my everyday life. What was it about me during those times that guys seemed to like so much? I liked me more during those times; maybe it is as simple as that?
I want to think about this and dissect it a bit more later. Something good to sleep on.
I want to take another stab at this piece of writing that I was working on a few months ago:
When Old Lady Sweet died they found a chest full of frozen tomatoes. Not canned, or quartered, or macerated in any sort of way, just whole Big Boys and Early Girls, some still on the vine, their skin shriveled and papery as lanterns. And they were solid; froze all the way through the consistency of croquet balls.
Clearing out the icebox and chest freezer fell to the man next door. Nathaniel had lived next to Miss Sweet for near thirty years, exchanging pleasantries, surplus casseroles and zucchinis in August (they both lived alone) and fruit cakes at Christmas. The tomatoes weren’t the strangest thing he’d seen. Peculiar, yes, but folks leaning that way always seemed a bit more interesting, rather than “off.” He supposed that in a whirl of embarrassment she had bagged them all up and placed them in the freezer, not wanting to unload them on her neighbor already full to the gills with his own Nebraska Weddings—in his opinion, the only tomato worth giving a second thought. She couldn’t just throw them out now could she?
So there they sat. Frozen in threes and fours placed in paper sacks and stacked neatly in the left corner making a tower almost clean to the top. What was he to do with them? He knew damn sure he didn’t want to drop them—that would break your toe quicker than anything.
(It is originally found here.)
This may be my favorite thing that I have written, particularly the first paragraph. But what to do with it? Should something have happened to Old Lady Sweet? That seems a bit conventional. And, she was an old lady. I don’t necessarily want to go killing her off. I was thinking that she died just because she was old. I could make the majority of the story take place in flashbacks…that could be interesting. Maybe Old Lady Sweet and Nathaniel had interesting lives when they were younger. Did they cross? Maybe. Or, I could go a completely different direction. Maybe some young couple moves into Ms. Sweet’s old house, and Nathaniel watches them. Hmmm… Gears are spinning. That’s good.
I suppose I need to narrow in on a time frame for the story. If the two of them were young during WWII, then this would be late seventies/early eighties? I don’t know if I like that. Maybe they were young now, and it takes place in the future (not dystopian or anything like that). Or, just sort of “anytime”. However, I would like there to be something big–a shared experience that they both had when younger. Sort of like Hurricane Katrina for me. Something that happened to many people, that many people who were not directly involved at least knew about and experienced from the outside. WPA? CCC? Right after the Depresssion? So much to think about.
I have no idea where the idea of Old Lady Sweet came from. I woke up thinking about her one morning. I can see the garage. It is in the humid, hot South, surrounded by her immaculate yard (reminds me of how grandpa kept the garage and garden).
Is this how ideas come to “real” writers? Hmmm…
