Archive for the ‘Personal Anecdotes’ Category
The neater part of my desk…
It started about two years ago.
Life always has its challenges and never more so than when you and your husband decide to adopt two kids from foster care. We wanted a family, wanted to give deserving kids another chance in life, and most of all out of love. These kids needed an awful lot but perhaps the biggest challenge facing us was they were 9 and 12, to be exact. And like most things, one has to be fully committed to making positive changes in these kids’ lives, and so Andrew and I did our absolute best working hard towards doing just that.
It isn’t easy, but parenthood rarely is, but we’re brave folk and did what we could. Along the way, bits and pieces of ourselves kind of went by the wayside, as most parents find true. Fortunately, we had something to help us along. Andrew has his photography (and he’s magnificent at it) and I found fiction writing.
You see, I’ve always written. I’ve composed brochures, ad copy, web content, teacher’s guides, children’s activity books, radio scripts, flyers – you name it – and I’ve got a mountain of evidence to prove it. All of it’s either informational or cold, hard facts. No fantasy, no imaginative story lines, no arc or explosive ending. Just…information.
Two years ago, my sister Gwen and I went out to lunch. My kids were at the beach and Andrew was enjoying some precious alone time. Gwen says, “You look awful. What happened to you?”
“Parenthood, that’s what. These kids – they’re work!” (I’m leaving out a MULTITUDE of details…use your imagination)
“C’mon,” says Gwen, “You’re not the only parent out there. What’s up? You used to be so creative. You were a musician. You produced shows. You lived in New York City for 20 years! You owned an apartment in Manhattan! You ordered food over the phone and stayed out until dawn. Where did that Gretchen go?”
Truth was, I hadn’t a clue.
Gwen knows what a sci-fi fanatic and astronomy freak I am. Sat on the board of an astronomy club affiliated with the Museum of Natural History in NYC, and yes, that certain famous astrophysicist was also on the board and he’s really one of the nicest, down-to-earth people I’ve ever met. Never missed an opportunity to look up to see what’s there. Received “Sky & Telescope.” All that and more. “So this is what you do,” said Gwen. “Tap into that and come up with a story. I’ll help you.”
A few months later, Andrew went off to England to visit his family, the kids were in bed and I sat in front of the computer and stared. I tentatively placed my fingers on the keyboard and let them glide over the letters. They hit letters that turned into words. Those words turned into the roughest of outlines. Andrew came home, we went out for coffee and I told him about it. After listening to my story, he joined in. Here we were, in a java joint, flushing out finer details and possible motives. Before you know it, he became hooked, too.
Andrew’s a fanboy, so his input’s invaluable, especially when it came to world building. We both weighed in on my plot devices, creations, characters, what they were up to and the messes they found themselves in. When I got to the end, he came up with such an amazing twist, I never even considered it, but once he said it, it made perfect sense. And believe me, it’s a doozy.
Once I hashed out these ideas in prose, Gwen helped me make nice with it. She’s the MFA in creative writing, a college professor and is published by Harper Collins (see above paperback in picture, one of her collection in print). She played devil’s advocate, told me what was stupid, or good, or on its way to being good but most of all she convinced me I really did have talent and could do this.
I joined a fine writer’s group where nearly all the members are published, and at least half are bestsellers. I participate in their writer’s conference that attracts over 300 people each spring, using it to hone my craft and make connections. I’ve kept up on trends and buried myself in my office spending hours writing, or trying to. Andrew constantly sends me links on things he believes will help and Gwen keeps checking my work. Best of all, I have a circle of writer friends who keep me keeping on, encouraging me when I think I no longer have it in me. I even got a cousin of mine involved – he’s a MAJOR fanboy and he’s reading the book to see what he thinks, and my librarian friend, who read a VERY rough draft last February, is reading it once more.
Yes, folks, I’ve gotten through four rewrites, but I’ve gotten extremely favorable feedback and possibilities for it (the printout of the manuscript is also in the picture). I have to admit I’m really proud to have shaped this story, but ever grateful that I had a cheering section helping me get through it all. Along the way, I’ve learned to let my nonfiction self go (and BOY, was that hard!) and embrace sentences in quotes that weren’t grammatically correct (clue from Gwen: read your quotes out loud. Do you talk like that? No? Then don’t write it that way!) and let my brain accept the unacceptable (tip from Andrew: why not? It’s your world, after all).
I guess my last thought is this: you can’t do it alone. So don’t. And sure, you can write. Everyone has a story to tell.
Even me.
Even you.
Now get going and write it!
It’s November here in the United States, specifically in New York State. Nothing’s weirder here than the weather this time of year. I’d like to illustrate this point with the following picture:
This was my house last Friday. On first glance, it would appear to be a pleasant scene, just a hint of snow to make things pretty. Upon further inspection, however, the Japanese maple wasn’t through with its leaves. Sure, there’s a neat circle of leaves on top of the snow, creating an artistic touch, but honestly, if the tree had its way, it’d rather let this season pass without having to worry about the next one butting in. “Say, wait,” the Japanese maple thinks, “this is my season – fall – and I’m not finished dumping my leaves just yet. Winter, BACK OFF!”
Yesterday, I arrived at work. My place of employment is next to a river that cuts through a mountain ridge. It’s my practice to check out the river after I park my car. It’s pretty, so it gives me a positive note upon which to begin my day. This is what I saw:
At first glance, I’m thinking this is kind of weird. Is this an alien message? Not quite a corn crop circle, but indeed some sort of symbol. Check it out: it’s a clearly-defined crescent, or even a “C”. Could it even be some sort of map? Within the shape, there’s a few distinct islands floating. Maybe this is a harbor or a bay, and those little shapes floating within could depict landing places, or locals/islands where pickup/dropoffs are designated. Or perhaps someone/thing with a name beginning with “C” is supposed to do a task? Could this be a sign from up and out there, calling for immediate response?
Sure, the rational part of me’s thinking it’s just an eddy and that’s how the water’s flowing as it slowly freezes. But one never knows the messages lying beneath the forces of nature…
I’d say it was the early 1990s. Happened so long ago I can’t quite remember the exact year.
On this particular Friday, there was a a bit of civil unrest and a march downtown, towards the World Trade Centers; the cause, an injustice and the ensuing protest either worried people or, as was often the case in New York, completely ignored. I chose the latter as I headed to my favorite midtown Irish pub to meet my friend Louise for an after-work drink. We often met there on Fridays and became friendly with some of those who shared in our weekly ritual. You could tell it was a good Irish pub; over half were natives of the Old Country.
“Say, what’dya think of that?” said one young Irishman, pointing at the TV.
“The protest? Typical day in the city. It’ll be forgotten by the time we leave here,” I said.
He laughed. “Yea, and I heard in the subway here that the Trade Center had burned to the ground.”
Rolling my eyes, “Like that’s ever going to happen.”
* * *
It’s a few years later. Another Friday. I’m rushing to Grand Central Station with my skis slung over one shoulder, my backpack on the other. There’s more chaos than usual and even though I had my train ticket in hand, I struggled to get out of subway and into the station. I ignored all the brouhaha and raced for the train that was due to leave in less than a minute. Unsteadily wobbling towards the train that would eventually take me to my cousin’s place in upstate New York, a sympathetic conductor holds the doors for me as I leap aboard. The doors close instantly and the train lurches forward.
Every seat’s taken, but where am I going to go with my load? I lean against the sides near the doors and lose myself in my thoughts, until I can’t help but notice nearly everyone is talking about The Explosion.
“What explosion?” I ask a commuter.
“You mean, you haven’t heard?”
“No, I’ve been stuck in meetings all day. What happened?”
“A van drove into the parking garage at the World Trade Center and exploded. Not sure, maybe six, seven, ten? I don’t know, but people got killed. Don’t know everything yet, but the word is it’s an act of terrorists.”
I scrunch up my face in disbelief. “Here? That sort of thing only happens in other countries.”
The commuter shrugs and says, “Don’t know everything yet. Could be some kids unhappy about something. Story’s still developing. Whoever it was, they were wackadoo.”
By the time I arrive at my destination, my cousin knows more. “Yes, that’s right. People died. Lots of damage. The parking garage is totally wrecked. People were eating their lunch in a break room when they died.”
“God, how horrible. Does someone really think they can blow up the towers? Don’t they know they were built to withstand a 727 crashing into them?”
* * *
What a gorgeous day, I thought to myself as I boarded the No. 1 train going uptown. It was a Tuesday, and I held auditions the day before. I produced shows for kids and I looked forward to calling those who made the cut, and writing letters to those who might be on second string. I worked at Lincoln Center at the time, on the 6th floor. The door opens and the receptionist says, “Did you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“A plane crashed into the World Trade Center.”
“What, is the pilot blind?” Shaking my head, I continue to my office.
Turning on the computer, I read the parade of emails that churned through and sipped my coffee.
Suddenly, a woman screams. “The second tower! It’s hit!”
She has an itty-bitty TV that’s mainly used to watch videotapes. Turning it on to learn more about what the receptionist has said, the image of a second plane crashes into the other tower flashes on its screen. Everyone runs towards her office to see. Pretty soon, it’s evident this is no ordinary day in New York City. It’s probably the worst one in my life. Ever.
My sister calls. “Oh, thank God you’re there! I’m standing in a towel and I’ve been trying to reach you for over a half hour. There’s hardly any phone service.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
She tells me. An iron taste fills my mouth as I can’t quite grasp the news that my beloved New York is on fire, the Pentagon is too, plus somewhere out in Pennsylvania a plane seems to have been shot down. And perhaps more’s about to happen, but no one knows…yet…for sure. “Don’t freak out,” she says, “You must remain calm to be safe. Do you hear me?”
“Sure,” I say, but wonder what safe translates into on this occasion.
Our executive director calmly informs everyone that since Lincoln Center is a tourist site, it’s being considered a target and we are to evacuate. Gathering up my stuff, I turn off the computer and leave. I’m too frightened to be scared, too much in shock to worry about what comes next.
Yet, there are shreds of encouragement tucked in corners. The cataclysmic events that brought down two towers united a city of eight million. As I walked home from Lincoln Center to my apartment in Murray Hill, the roads were clogged with traffic going nowhere. Sidewalks were lined with crowds, each gathering in front of anything that broadcasted. Monitors and displays in store windows, formerly showing videos of the latest whatevers, now presented a variety of news stations. A cop, hands waving in exasperation, shouted to a lady, “Ma’am, I can’t tell you what’s going on because I don’t know what’s going on.” Crossing through Central Park, an overturned garbage can held a boom box, ringed with listeners. A Parks Department pickup truck played its radio for anyone that cared to hear.
I crossed Sixth Avenue. My eyes were drawn to a particular, peculiar image in the distance: a distinct, crooked, Y-shaped double plume of smoke. I deny its existence and move on. Drifting down the streets, aware that I was headed home but unable to process the unfathomable series of events, I look up at the crystal-clear blue sky. How can it be that such a gorgeous day brought such a horror?
This must have been what Pearl Harbor was like, I remember thinking.
Yet for all of this, no one, and I mean no one panicked. They helped. Store owners handed out water and sneakers to tired passers-by. The police, aided by academy cadets, stood on every corner and did their best to help people on their way, soothe them, or, in a few instances, embrace those who worried aloud that their son, daughter, husband, wife, friend or other family were trapped and died. “Just get yourself home,” I heard one cop say, “and keep the faith. That’s what I’m doing.”
I finally arrive and turn the key in the door. My neighbor hears me and rushes out to give me a hug. “Come over,” she says.
“In a minute,” I reply.
My answering machine is full. Friends from England, Australia, Germany and throughout America have tried to reach me. All are crying. All fear the worst. I try to send an email but there’s no more service. My neighbor’s door is open and I walk in. She’s glued to the TV. We both have friends who worked there, and I have a close friend who worked across the street. Suddenly, a huge cloud of smoke heads uptown and we rush to close the windows. At the same time, F-16s fly over. “Oh, God, what next?” my neighbor says.
“Don’t worry,” I answer. “We’re safe.” But for how long?
Later, I return to my apartment. I’ve eaten nothing and don’t care to. Can’t watch the news any more; the sirens blaring and planes above tell me what I tune out. Closing my eyes as I fruitlessly try to sleep, the repeating image of crashing towers plays a loop in my brain. The next day is equally beautiful, but eerily silent. Going for a walk at 6:00 am, when the city’s just starting to bustle in earnest, it’s noiseless and still. No one goes to work. Nothing is open.
Days after, the odor of burning electricity drifts throughout the city. I can still smell it. A few blocks from my home is Bellvue Hospital, set up as a triage but turned into a morgue and memorial.
Gradually, life returned. Through all the tragedy and sorrow, New Yorkers, ever a resilient bunch, picked up their daily habits and continued on, showing the terrorists that NOBODY’S going to mess with THEIR city! We shopped, dined and enjoyed each day for our friends and family that could no longer.
Exactly three weeks after this horrific event, a British man, a friend of a friend, came on holiday, having booked months in advance.
Nine months later, we married.
Twelve years later, we still are, very much in love and quite happy.
Thirteen years later, we’ll never forget that each day brings with it fresh opportunities for love, forgiveness and hope that one day, we’ll all figure out a way to get along in peace.
Remember that, and the lives of the victims of that tragic day will not have been lost in vain.
Don’t tell me you have seen every single episode of The Twilight Zone at least a million times. The show’s like crack; after a few seconds upon landing on whatever channel the show happens to be airing, it becomes impossible to turn off. There must be scientific studies lurking about that analyze the particular section of the brain that demands one watch TZ without interruption. Or, diabolically, Rod Serling placed subliminal messages within the episodes. Viewers trance out, drool a bit, say to themselves, “So that’s where William Shatner got his start!” (Hint: John Lithgow reprised one of the roles, but WS actually starred in two episodes)
I attribute my own particular attraction to this show when my age came in single digits. At that point, most shows were in color but still watching the black and white ones wasn’t unusual or weird. TZ didn’t make sense and that was fine by me. Later, in college, my friends and I stayed up well past midnight to catch episodes and quasi-pretend to be surprised (impossible, since the show was fodder for our misspent youths) or comment on the double meaning of the episode (“To Serve Man”). Even now, during marathon showings, I manage to sneak in a little quality TZ time and hope to catch one of my favorite episodes.
After my Mom passed, inevitably we had to sort through her drawers. That’s never easy. Personal belongings are an assessment of one’s life; items chosen by Mom had purpose and meaning. A favorite scarf, her mother’s wedding ring, photos of people I’ll never meet whose names are lost to time – all jammed without mercy in her vanity top drawer. Major natural disasters wouldn’t have budged the contents. Mom kept all her accumulated possessions bound together like old friends who see no reason to part company.
One afternoon, I chose the unwieldy task of sifting through her clown car dresser. I say this because I marveled at the amount of stuff she shoved into it. The more I grabbed at old clothes, hats, papers, candles, etc., the more intrigued I became. So tightly packed had everything become, items towards the back refused to relinquish the turf they so jealously guarded over time.
Nearly emptying the bottom shelf, I came across a cardboard box, slightly smashed and held together with an ancient rubber band. Since I had no clue what was inside, I opened it. Within the box rested a collection of miniature masterpieces, lithos of relatively unknown artists combined with a few superstars. I shuffled through them, saw the obligatory Van Gogh “Sunflowers” plus a few other Greatest Hits.
And there it was: Pig Girl.
Glancing at me, her brown eyes hinted at nonchalance. Pig Girl appeared as a young woman, possibly a teenager, with a round face and pug nose, sassy upturned brown hair, charming white hat, her collar tied with a bow tie that seemed to float in a sea of crisp whiteness. She wore a brown outfit suggesting a school uniform.
It hit me then: this one’s from that Twilight Zone episode, “The Eye of the Beholder.” In it, pig people valiantly try to plastic surgery-ize a gorgeous woman, regarded by the Piggians as hideously ugly. Perhaps the young, confident Pig Girl lifted herself straight from that episode. Charmed her way into the studio of the artist (Frango? Franga? Franca?) and insinuated herself into the Masterpiece collection. She had a partner, too, a clown boy. No siree, Pigitty wasn’t going through life on this planet alone. She had this fella for fun times:
Hobo-clown, sporting a look of resignation on his face, seems determined to find a purpose despite his genetic mutation. Both he and Piggity survived the DNA splicing of human and pig, they planned to make the best of it and damned be the world.
Can you imagine what might come next if these two produce an offspring? What horrors might come of that?
I closed the box and its unsettling contents rested once more in their dark shelter. I must admit, their presence haunts me still. Strangely, I can’t find Piggity. She seems to have vanished. Kind of scary, don’t you think?
So here’s a word of warning: when a parent dies, use extreme caution going through their former possessions. It can be a real trip through…The Twilight Zone.
As I put the finishing touches on dinner the other night, the phone rings.
It’s my daughter, hysterical. I can’t understand anything she’s saying. After the third attempt, she tells me she’s in an accident.
It’s every parent’s nightmare to hear those words. Yet, some sort of calming influence overtook me. Deep inside, there was this instinct that said, “Steady, now, it’s really going to be all right, but you must keep a clear mind.” So I did. I told my husband and son what happened, said to go ahead and eat, and I’d let them know what happened.
Our house, fortunately, is only a mile from the site. I rush down there not knowing what to expect.
It’s going to be a long night.
Rain had cleared and the sun lowered in the sky, but the roads were still slick. A curve taken too fast and a car spinning out of control. An inexperienced driver overreacting to a potentially fatal situation.
The police hadn’t arrived yet, but a medical technician helps my daughter, the passenger, after checking both she and the driver. She calls 911. My daughter’s friend is able to move and gets out of the car. The technician (who happened to be driving to work and passed the scene right after it occurred), assists my daughter into the driver’s seat. She’s in pain and extremely frightened. A neighbor witnessed the incident and also called 911, then rushed to the scene. He waves vehicles on as I get out, explaining who I am. Then the police and EMT show up. After a few questions, they put both on backboards and lift them into the ambulance.
I feel numb. It’s like that’s someone else’s kid there. I see this car, smashed up, and am grateful nothing worse had come of it. To be honest, I don’t even know how I made it to the hospital. My mind certainly wasn’t on the road.
Once at the hospital, I meet up with her friend’s parents and sister, who are both parts calm and rattled, as am I. I took pictures of the accident and sent them via my phone to theirs. Our kids are lifted out of the back of the ambulance. My daughter’s friend cries. Although he held himself together admirably at the scene, suddenly the impact of the incident overtakes him. I can’t possibly feel angry or upset with him, only sorry that the entire thing happened.
We are fortunate to have a good hospital nearby. Immediately both kids are checked out by a full retinue of nurses, technicians and doctors. All sorts of tests are taken and monitors are hooked to their arms and chests. The friend’s father and sister pop in to see how my daughter is doing. I assure them she’s holding together rather well. I join them and visit her friend. He’s still upset and I make him laugh a little. That reassures me as well.
Laying perfectly still, my daughter is in shock, going over and over in her mind the events leading up to the accident. “We were laughing and joking, and the next thing you know we T-boned the tree,” she says, minus the tears now. I wet a paper towel and wipe the smeared mascara from her face. It refreshes her. “I felt really sticky,” she said. “That’s probably from the airbag and whatever dust and goop flew up from inside the car,” I say. “Besides, you don’t look so much like an accident victim now,” I continued, cleaning the last bits of blackness from her cheeks. She smiles.
The hours drag on as both kids go for CAT scans, MRIs, X-rays and a whole battery of tests. I’m aware of the fact my daughter hasn’t eaten or drank for hours, and go to the cafeteria to check out the diminishing supply of food available at this late hour. Water and a ham sandwich seem to be the only palatable things remaining in their stocks. Returning to the room, she’s not allowed to eat until the tests come back clear. Finally, at nearly 11:00 pm, they say she can have something. My daughter is starving and wolfs down her food.
Finally, we’re released. The doctor tells her she’s going to be okay, but really, truly stiff and sore for a few days and tells her to take it easy. We drive home under the stars shining up in the sky. I sigh, paying even more attention to the now-dry roads. We pass the curve where the accident took place, and my daughter eyes warily the scene. A boy only two years older and the star wrestler of her school, took a similar curve way too fast two weeks previously. He died, ending a life full of promise. Realizing her life could have ended similarly, my daughter now says with great insight, “Man, we were lucky, weren’t we?”
I reply, “Yes, you certainly were.”
Quietness fills our car as we pull into the driveway. I help her out and up the stairs. Everyone’s in bed, fast asleep. I finally make it there myself, grateful this evening was over, and everyone was safe in our house.
Moon, Stars and Beyond 