What up dawg?

Some of the pieces that I have written are the from my experience at the Southern Nevada Writing Project. This is one.

Spot

 

            Many years ago, early in our marriage, my husband had a pair of white shorts that had some how gotten a small, black grease spot on them.  I threw them in the wash and of course, the spot remained.  I tried again.  This time I sprayed some magic spray wash that was supposed to get the stain out of them.  No good.  It was still there.  My mind slipped to the Shakespearean quote, “Out, out damned spot.”  I really wanted to defeat that spot.

            I would not have been so adamant about removing that teeny black spot but the position on the shorts made me suffer from consternation.  My husband was not too pleased with the location either.  That speck was situated on the lower stitching of his fly.  It almost screamed, “Look, look.  I’m right here.  Look at this crotch.”  I was determined that I would get that spot, no matter what.

            That led me to my next method.  Clorox.  Boy, I knew I’d get that evil spot now.  I poured a generous amount of Clorox in a bucket and plunged that offending portion of his pair of shorts right in there.  Now I’d just wait while that spot disappeared.

            After allowing what I considered an appropriate soaking time, I examined the white shorts.  I lifted them from the bucket, held them in front of the light, and hollered to my husband to come into the kitchen. 

            “Jon, I got the spot out!” 

            Jon rushed into the kitchen with questioning eyes.  His face reflected the awe of what had transpired as he gazed at the shorts in my hands.  I repeated, “I got the spot out.”  He laughed, huge doubling over laughs.  I giggled while looking at him making sure he really thought it was funny.  For you see, the spot in the crouch of his shorts was now a hole approximately 5 inches in diameter.  The Clorox had eaten away the fabric.  There was no more spot, and now no more white shorts. 

           On occasion, when my husband says he has a stain on some article of clothing, I am reminded of how I got the spot out of his shorts.  He simply says, “I got the spot out” causing us both to burst out laughing.

 

 

 

 

       I wrote this one about my dog, Mandy.  

Mandy

            Mandy had big brown eyes and a smile that captured my heart.  She wiggled her tail so that her entire body got into the action.  If I squatted to the floor and called, she’d come running lickety-split into my arms ready for hugs and kisses.  I could purse my lips and say, “Kiss, kiss,” to end up with her lapping my face and mouth.

            Mandy was the family’s dog.  The kids begged to have a dog.  I knew the responsibilities of having a dog.  I was the one who cleaned up after her messes.  I took her to the vet to be groomed and get vaccinations.  It was up to me to train her which meant getting up in the night to take her outside.  I went to bed the night we brought her home and cried, “Why did I do this to myself?”  But this cocker spaniel puppy was more than just added responsibilities.

            Mandy was full of love.  She couldn’t get close enough to me.  She pushed her body into my chest.  She laid on my lap, in my bed, on my feet.  I worked in the garden, and she watched me from her shady spot in the grass.  She even helped chase away the bunny rabbits that ate the vegetables.  I stayed up late watching old movies, and she waited to go to bed when I went.  She was always near.

            Until later. 

She didn’t want to be petted.  Her head was bony.  Her rib cage became increasingly noticeable.  She circled round and round before she would lie down.  She stood at the door to be let out and stood at the door to be let in not knowing what she was doing, definite signs of dementia.  She no longer wanted to be near me.  She moved away after moments of holding her. The bed was too high for her to jump on, so no more sleeping near her.  She quickly left if she was lifted up on furniture.  My Mandy was growing old.  So old I knew I had little time left with her.

            I knew the day would come when I would have to make the decision to end her suffering.  One winter day I took her to the vet for the last time.  I thought it would be simple since she had become so detached from me.

            I carried her through the door and was greeted by the vet’s assistant, Sara.  She asked if I wanted to stay while they administered the drugs.  I shook my head and handed Mandy to Sara.  In awkward silence, I mustered up a final goodbye.  I didn’t stay.  I couldn’t stay. 

I sat in my car; tears welled up.  I held on, determined not to cry.  I made it home with few tears, but Mandy would no longer be there to greet me, wiggle her tail, or kiss like she had for the last 16 years. 

            I continued my stoic front for another day; then finally by myself, I sobbed.  I stood in the kitchen releasing my anguish with tears so deep my body rocked.  I wept into a dish towel trying to muffle the sound, not wanting to share my grief.  Mandy is gone. 

My husband found me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders.  I found comfort in his firm grasp.  We cried together, both feeling our loss and grief.  Little Mandy is gone, but she remains a welcome memory of a lost love.

 

 

 

This is a story about an experience I had in college.

One Jump

            “Climb out on the strut.”

            I stepped through the open door, placing my feet on the angular bar that connected the wing to the wheel of the airplane.  My hands clenched the upper support bar.  Wind whipped through my jump suit flapping the edges against my skin.  I was ready.  No turning back now.

            “Go.”

            I let go of the plane, arched my back and fell spread-eagle through space.  This was it.  The moment I had been waiting for.  A semester of college classroom instruction was ending with an application of all that I had learned in skydiving class.  No worry about pulling the rip cord.  I had a static line that would pull it for me. 

            At the speed of 1000 ft. per minute, I dropped with my limbs outstretched.  Then whomp!  I felt a tremendous jerk like I had reached the end of a giant spring that bounced up after it was extended.

            “Oh, my gosh.  I’m stuck to the plane,” I thought.

            I looked up to check out my situation.  The chute was open.  Huge.  Circular.  Safe.  Floating.  “This is great.”  All I could think about was how I would be able to tell my kids and grandkids about this incredible experience.

            Everything on the ground looked tiny just as I expected.  What I didn’t expect was the sound.  It was perfectly quiet, absolutely no sound except for my own noises. I was astounded by the silence.  I have never heard anything like this peacefulness before, but it was only a brief encounter with stillness.  The drop lasted a few short minutes.

            I was getting used to dangling from the parachute cords so I pulled on the toggle cords.  Pulling on the toggles turns the chute and I was now facing the drop zone target.

Closer.  Closer.  The target was below me.  But I kept going.  I missed the drop zone and was heading for the roof of the airport building.

            “What do I do now?” I yelled.  I pulled the toggles again.

            Shouts from the ground were wasted on me since I couldn’t hear anything helpful in my state of panic.  The earlier silence of the drop now ended.  Falling.  Dropping.  Down, down.  I escaped the rooftop.  Faster, faster.  Now the earth seemed to rise up to grab me.  Directly over the center of a lagoon, I dropped like the yolk from a cracked egg shell.  Splosh!

            There I was soaked in a jumpsuit, helmet, and army boots with not just one, but two rip-stop nylon parachutes the size of an average school classroom surrounding me.  The emergency chute opened when it hit the water.  I had never considered drowning as a hazard associated with skydiving, but that’s exactly what could have happened to me.  Fortunately, I stood up in waist-high water.

            By this time my instructor was sitting on the fence next to the water telling me to get out.  He smirked as he watched me struggle with cords and nylon.

            Later that evening I dined on pizza with my parents and brother, Mike.  “Hey, Deb, did you ever jump out of a plane for your parachuting class?” Mike inquired.

            “Yeah, today,” I replied.

            Mom said, “I told you not to do that.”
            Maybe that’s why I took the class to begin with.  I wanted to do something my mom said I shouldn’t do.  Maybe I jumped out of a plane because it was a goal I had set for myself.  Maybe I parachuted just for the sake of being able to say I have done it.  I think it is probably a combination of all those reasons.  But one thing I do know for sure is that this one jump was enough for me.  I don’t need to skydive again.

 

 

This story tells about how I injured myself.

Winged 

            “Jenny, call your dad,” I cried to my daughter from the playroom.  I was trying to sound composed although I was in excruciating pain.  My sewing machine needle impaled the middle finger of my left hand.  I was trying to get away with sewing the cording in the bat wing of the Halloween costume without putting the zipper foot on the machine.      

            This Halloween my four-year-old son, Jason, was going to be a bat.  The costume had a jumpsuit, a hood, foot coverings, and attached wings that spread out when he lifted his arms.  The wings looked authentic with the cording imitating the wing’s cartilage.  I just wanted to finish stitching while the kids were playing in the other room in our basement.

            I zoomed through the fabric with record speed.  In the blink of an eye the needle was up then it plunged through my fingernail down to the bobbin thread below.  Instantly I jerked my foot off the presser foot.  My mind raced.  “Don’t let it go up and come down again,” I mentally prayed.

            Calmly, I loosened the screw to the needle to remove it from the machine.  I took the scissors and clipped the thread on either side of my finger and gently pulled it away from the machine.

            “Jenny,” I said, “tell Dad I need him to come home.” 

            I went upstairs to get a towel and some ice, cradling my hand.  Away from the kids and waiting for my husband to arrive, I cried.  I sat on the couch holding my hand like a tiny bunny rocking my body back and forth.  Ow, ow, ow.  I couldn’t wait for my husband to arrive and help me.

            About 20 minutes passed and my husband, Jon walked through the door.  He looked astonished as I sat nursing my wound.  He wanted to take me to the hospital, but I said, “No, that would cost more than an office visit.” 

            It was a short trip to the doctor’s office and I got in immediately.  The doctor injected my finger with Novocain and the needle was yanked out with a pliers.  Looking at that needle in my finger it appeared huge like a nail, but after it was removed, it returned to this little skinny thing that wouldn’t cause much damage at all.  Only my finger was killing me.  And like most puncture wounds, there was little or no blood, but there is a risk of infection.  I had to have a tetanus shot so my whole arm hurt.

            After I healed enough to manage the sewing machine, I finished the costume and Jason made the perfect bat.  I took lots of pictures to remember how cute he looked.  My finger continued to hurt though.  Sometimes I accidentally bumped it on cupboards while cooking, and my finger throbbed with pain.  I couldn’t believe it would take so long to heal. 

            About four or five weeks later, the wound was still healing.  I examined my finger closely.  I noticed the tip of the sewing machine needle.  It was still in my finger.  I worked it out of my finger, pushing the skin, poking it with my fingernail, squeezing until the sharp point was in my grasp.  I couldn’t believe the needle was still in my finger.  It must have broken off when the doctor pulled the rest of it out.  No wonder it still ached when I touched it.  When I picked out the tip of the needle, it finally was completely gone.  Now the wound would heal, and the fingernail would grow back.  From now on I’ll always take time to put the zipper foot on the sewing machine so I won’t be winged (injured) especially when I am sewing a bat wing.