Seven miles from home, an accident had funneled the interstate traffic into a twenty minute a mile crawl. Finally, after we crept past the fire and tow trucks we hit clear interstate.
Rob prepared to enter warp speed.
And then the unthinkable happened.
I saw it peripherally from the mirror on the visor. Peripherally, because I’d turned to stare at Rob when he groaned. The green leather couch, airborne, headed toward a maroon van. We watched in hind-sight horror as Rob pulled onto the shoulder. The van stopped in time, and the loveseat wedged against the bridge railing.
We couldn’t leave it -- visions of late night traveling child-laden vehicles careening into the couch tormented me. Rob threw the truck into reverse and wobbled toward the wayward furniture on the nearly non-existent shoulder. I glanced into my side mirror and spied a light pole rapidly approaching.
My husband hates it when I gasp or scream when he’s driving. (Okay, so I get nervous sometimes.)
I whimpered and yelled, “Pole!” It sounded something like this. “Pole! Screech, crumple. Pole!” Need I tell you that he kissed the pole and flattened his fender on his almost new white pick up?
Not only does my husband have an excellent sense of humor, he also possesses great self-control. A tiny trickle of negative words were expelled in his sigh. He straightened up the truck and backed as far as he could.
Cliches best describe the atmosphere in the cab -- deafening silence and tension that could be cut with a knife.
He parked, waited for barreling semi’s to pass and jumped out of the truck. I followed, urging caution. The traffic flew. My hair whipped around my face, slapping me, and tiny sand shrapnel pelted me. At one point a semi kissed the shoulder as it barreled past and the resulting vacuum made certain that I’ll never need a face lift. (I don’t recommend this, though.)
I made suggestions. He answered them with muttered comments through a locked jaw and took off to push the couch out of the path of the traffic. I am smart enough to know that sashaying onto the interstate to help him would be a very bad idea. So I crawled back into the truck and prayed.
After back-tracking to the previous exit and four-wheeling into the ditch beside the interstate, we arrived home with our hard won couches.
And after a few short hours my husband spoke to me again.
Ahhhh, the joys of marriage, and free furniture.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Bouncing Couch Adventure - Part 2
The couch would not budge through the door. My husband, being a handy guy, disappeared and returned with a large flat-blade screwdriver. He grabbed the couch, pushed it backward, undoing the millimeter we’d gained, and popped the pins from the door hinge.
It didn’t help.
My friend scratched her head. “We got it in here.”
Rob directed me to lift and tilt. We did, close, but still no way was it going to go through the door.
We set the couch in the corner, lifted the loveseat, and tasted success. Not so difficult, just had to slide it just so and then hug the doorway before it popped through on the other side.
My friend’s husband arrived. His face twisted as he hemmed and hawed while watching us try every possible configuration. “We got it in here.”
He took my place.
Something beautiful and primitive followed. A sweaty guy ballet of grace and agility finally nailed the sweet spot. The couch moved. They stumbled into the hallway.
Two other doors had to be dismantled. More engineering feats ensued.
While the guys grunted and conquered, I got involved in packing the kitchen.
The couch was birthed a mere thirty minutes after we arrived.
Two hours later, we set off toward home.
We couldn’t leave them to pack alone when they’d given us a free couch.
Rob was in surprisingly good spirits when we left.
We were both unaware of what waited for us down the road.
It didn’t help.
My friend scratched her head. “We got it in here.”
Rob directed me to lift and tilt. We did, close, but still no way was it going to go through the door.
We set the couch in the corner, lifted the loveseat, and tasted success. Not so difficult, just had to slide it just so and then hug the doorway before it popped through on the other side.
My friend’s husband arrived. His face twisted as he hemmed and hawed while watching us try every possible configuration. “We got it in here.”
He took my place.
Something beautiful and primitive followed. A sweaty guy ballet of grace and agility finally nailed the sweet spot. The couch moved. They stumbled into the hallway.
Two other doors had to be dismantled. More engineering feats ensued.
While the guys grunted and conquered, I got involved in packing the kitchen.
The couch was birthed a mere thirty minutes after we arrived.
Two hours later, we set off toward home.
We couldn’t leave them to pack alone when they’d given us a free couch.
Rob was in surprisingly good spirits when we left.
We were both unaware of what waited for us down the road.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Bouncing Couch Adventure
My husband deserves some sort of medal. Not only has kept me for almost twenty-five years, he’s also managed to keep his sense of humor.
Well, most of the time anyway.
I think he’s currently searching for it after yesterday, but I’m confident that he’ll find it.
Some women bring home stray children -- others stray animals. I’ve done both. In addition, I have perfected the art of procuring stray furniture. Furniture that doesn’t have anyone who really wants it pulls at my heart strings.
In my defense, I’m collecting only because we need to furnish a couple more rooms in the remodeling of our home.
Last winter in the snow and ice, hubby and I scored a load of great wood storage pieces. I need storage, I crave it. And I have a wall all picked out for this huge conglomeration of wooden hidey-holes. My husband, a carpenter, has a soft spot for fine furniture, so we left smiling. Of course, he smiled less as we puzzled-pieced the furniture into the shed, but I’m confident he will love the look when it’s all installed in the proper room.
The rooms needing furnished are in the painting stage, so my quest has intensified. A co-worker, the poor girl who is building, see previous post http://kellyklepfer.blogspot.com/2006/06/scribbles-and-scrambles-i-packed-food.html, offered me a leather couch -- free for the hauling.
If there is anything I love more than storage furniture, it would be free furniture.
Free is a relative term, I’ve noticed.
We set out to bag our couch yesterday, one of the warmest days of summer. “Kind of a nice contrast to the last furniture run in the bitterness of winter,” I suggested to my husband. He offered a tight smile. Not a good sign.
Interestingly, there were two couches, in great shape. So I rubbed my hands together and clamped down on the vocal glee. My husband shot me the look. I hunkered down on my end of the big soft couch and we headed for the door…I pushed, he pulled. Nothing happened.
That’s when it got fun. To be continued…..
Well, most of the time anyway.
I think he’s currently searching for it after yesterday, but I’m confident that he’ll find it.
Some women bring home stray children -- others stray animals. I’ve done both. In addition, I have perfected the art of procuring stray furniture. Furniture that doesn’t have anyone who really wants it pulls at my heart strings.
In my defense, I’m collecting only because we need to furnish a couple more rooms in the remodeling of our home.
Last winter in the snow and ice, hubby and I scored a load of great wood storage pieces. I need storage, I crave it. And I have a wall all picked out for this huge conglomeration of wooden hidey-holes. My husband, a carpenter, has a soft spot for fine furniture, so we left smiling. Of course, he smiled less as we puzzled-pieced the furniture into the shed, but I’m confident he will love the look when it’s all installed in the proper room.
The rooms needing furnished are in the painting stage, so my quest has intensified. A co-worker, the poor girl who is building, see previous post http://kellyklepfer.blogspot.com/2006/06/scribbles-and-scrambles-i-packed-food.html, offered me a leather couch -- free for the hauling.
If there is anything I love more than storage furniture, it would be free furniture.
Free is a relative term, I’ve noticed.
We set out to bag our couch yesterday, one of the warmest days of summer. “Kind of a nice contrast to the last furniture run in the bitterness of winter,” I suggested to my husband. He offered a tight smile. Not a good sign.
Interestingly, there were two couches, in great shape. So I rubbed my hands together and clamped down on the vocal glee. My husband shot me the look. I hunkered down on my end of the big soft couch and we headed for the door…I pushed, he pulled. Nothing happened.
That’s when it got fun. To be continued…..
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Serials and Scenarios - TL Hines - Waking Lazarus
I had the opportunity to read Waking Lazarus in May. What a read! See below for links to my CBD review, Tony's Amazon page and his blog.
Since you'll have to wait a couple of days to get your hands on the book - I thought you might like to know a little bit more about the author and the inside story of Waking Lazarus.
I read somewhere, a long time ago, that one of the quirky cartoonists spent some serious formative time in his basement. Apparently he had an older brother who had a lot of fun at his expense. Do you have any strange life-shaping quirks that show up in your writing style?
That's interesting. I grew up in the country, away from other kids my age, so I spent a lot of time by myself. Oddly enough, I spent a lot of that time in the basement of our family's home, listening to music,reading, writing and drawing. So I think that obviously shaped me as a writer: any writer has to be comfortable spending chunks of time alone.I do have some mild obsessive compulsive tendencies--very minor forms of the kind of thing Jude Allman struggles with in the novel. For instance, I tend to count letter groupings in words, over and over,when I'm not actively thinking about something. I'll find myself looking at a sentence, or repeating what someone has said, and grouping what they've said into letter clusters of two, then three, then four letters. Does that shape me as a writer? I don't know. But my mind tends to chew on words and patterns, and I love repetition and patterns in my storytelling. I don't think that's a coincidence.
How many times did you second-guess your subject matter? Waking Lazarus' sub-plot includes child endangerment and is intense in some spots. Did you rewrite, hesitate, cut or pray?
You know, I didn't really ever second-guess my subject matter. I was always comfortable that I was writing the story I was meant to write.I've had reservations about it being in the CBA market; but then, I had reservations about it being in the ABA market, as well. It seemed to me to be in the gap between the two. When it came time to write some of the hardest scenes, I chose, very consciously, to let the worst stuff happen off stage. First, because I didn't see any need to concentrate on that--it's not what the story is about--and two, because the reader can do a much better job envisioning it than I can explaining it. I think some of those parts are very creepy for readers precisely becauseI don't describe them. One scene was cut in the final edit that, now that I think about it, I'm glad stayed on the cutting room floor. Dave,my editor, wanted to cut it because it was extraneous; I was fine with it because I think it might have pushed a few people over the edge,creepiness-wise.
Your writing is tight and compelling and I found myself pulled into the story immediately. My husband even got sucked in because I left it on the kitchen table. He rarely picks up a book for pleasure. Where does your story weaving skill come from?
I don't know, to tell you the truth. I'm a voracious reader--a couple books a week, when I'm on track--and I think anything you read can impact you as a writer. I don't consciously try to emulate anyone,although I do have to say I read a lot of Stephen King when I was ayoung teen. That formed me as a writer, in many ways.
My husband struggled with and was a bit angry with the choice in subject matter and almost set the book down a couple of times, but couldn't. He's now glad he chose to finish the book. What would you like to say to people who might get angry or hostile over the content of Waking Lazarus? What difference would it make if those people had not actually read the book?
Interesting, and I'm glad he finished it. I've taken to telling people it's a book that deals with dark subject matter, but it's not a dark book. Seems like an oxymoron, I know, but I really think that's true:the ultimate message of the book is positive. I'm not out to glorify the darkness in the book at all; it is what it is. And I don't have any problem with the dark subject matter. After all, the Old Testament itself deals with some rather grim subjects. But I will say this: in the darkest places, a ray of light shines all the brighter. I hope folks can read the story, and see that I was concentrating more on that ray of light than on the darkness surrounding it.
What's next for you?
I'm working on my second book for Bethany House, which will release Summer of 2007. It's tentatively titled VALLEY OF SHADOW, and it's about a woman who hears her dead father speaking to her from the shadows. He tells her the spirits of the dead occupy the shadows of our world, and recruits her into a secret government network that communicates with the shadow operatives. But all is not as it seems.Soon, she discovers the true nature of what the shadows are--and the true nature of what they want.
See my review and more comments from Tony here: http://www.christianbook.com/Christian/Books/product?item_no=202049&netp_id=431423&event=ESRCN&item_code=WW
or earlier comments on Scrambled Dregs......
http://kellyklepfer.blogspot.com/2006_05_04_kellyklepfer_archive.html
Waking Lazarus Amazon page is -http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0764202049
TL Hines blog is -http://www.tlhines.com/blog/
Since you'll have to wait a couple of days to get your hands on the book - I thought you might like to know a little bit more about the author and the inside story of Waking Lazarus.
I read somewhere, a long time ago, that one of the quirky cartoonists spent some serious formative time in his basement. Apparently he had an older brother who had a lot of fun at his expense. Do you have any strange life-shaping quirks that show up in your writing style?
That's interesting. I grew up in the country, away from other kids my age, so I spent a lot of time by myself. Oddly enough, I spent a lot of that time in the basement of our family's home, listening to music,reading, writing and drawing. So I think that obviously shaped me as a writer: any writer has to be comfortable spending chunks of time alone.I do have some mild obsessive compulsive tendencies--very minor forms of the kind of thing Jude Allman struggles with in the novel. For instance, I tend to count letter groupings in words, over and over,when I'm not actively thinking about something. I'll find myself looking at a sentence, or repeating what someone has said, and grouping what they've said into letter clusters of two, then three, then four letters. Does that shape me as a writer? I don't know. But my mind tends to chew on words and patterns, and I love repetition and patterns in my storytelling. I don't think that's a coincidence.
How many times did you second-guess your subject matter? Waking Lazarus' sub-plot includes child endangerment and is intense in some spots. Did you rewrite, hesitate, cut or pray?
You know, I didn't really ever second-guess my subject matter. I was always comfortable that I was writing the story I was meant to write.I've had reservations about it being in the CBA market; but then, I had reservations about it being in the ABA market, as well. It seemed to me to be in the gap between the two. When it came time to write some of the hardest scenes, I chose, very consciously, to let the worst stuff happen off stage. First, because I didn't see any need to concentrate on that--it's not what the story is about--and two, because the reader can do a much better job envisioning it than I can explaining it. I think some of those parts are very creepy for readers precisely becauseI don't describe them. One scene was cut in the final edit that, now that I think about it, I'm glad stayed on the cutting room floor. Dave,my editor, wanted to cut it because it was extraneous; I was fine with it because I think it might have pushed a few people over the edge,creepiness-wise.
Your writing is tight and compelling and I found myself pulled into the story immediately. My husband even got sucked in because I left it on the kitchen table. He rarely picks up a book for pleasure. Where does your story weaving skill come from?
I don't know, to tell you the truth. I'm a voracious reader--a couple books a week, when I'm on track--and I think anything you read can impact you as a writer. I don't consciously try to emulate anyone,although I do have to say I read a lot of Stephen King when I was ayoung teen. That formed me as a writer, in many ways.
My husband struggled with and was a bit angry with the choice in subject matter and almost set the book down a couple of times, but couldn't. He's now glad he chose to finish the book. What would you like to say to people who might get angry or hostile over the content of Waking Lazarus? What difference would it make if those people had not actually read the book?
Interesting, and I'm glad he finished it. I've taken to telling people it's a book that deals with dark subject matter, but it's not a dark book. Seems like an oxymoron, I know, but I really think that's true:the ultimate message of the book is positive. I'm not out to glorify the darkness in the book at all; it is what it is. And I don't have any problem with the dark subject matter. After all, the Old Testament itself deals with some rather grim subjects. But I will say this: in the darkest places, a ray of light shines all the brighter. I hope folks can read the story, and see that I was concentrating more on that ray of light than on the darkness surrounding it.
What's next for you?
I'm working on my second book for Bethany House, which will release Summer of 2007. It's tentatively titled VALLEY OF SHADOW, and it's about a woman who hears her dead father speaking to her from the shadows. He tells her the spirits of the dead occupy the shadows of our world, and recruits her into a secret government network that communicates with the shadow operatives. But all is not as it seems.Soon, she discovers the true nature of what the shadows are--and the true nature of what they want.
See my review and more comments from Tony here: http://www.christianbook.com/Christian/Books/product?item_no=202049&netp_id=431423&event=ESRCN&item_code=WW
or earlier comments on Scrambled Dregs......
http://kellyklepfer.blogspot.com/2006_05_04_kellyklepfer_archive.html
Waking Lazarus Amazon page is -http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0764202049
TL Hines blog is -http://www.tlhines.com/blog/
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Scary and Sensational - Til Death Do Us Part
My husband, Rob, and I have been married almost twenty-five years. This is a miracle.
I’m not kidding. Someday, I’ll have to share bits and pieces of how God intervened when we selfishly set out to destroy each other.
Our pastor ended Sunday’s sermon by announcing the name of a couple and requesting that they join him. This isn’t a common event.
The couple left their chairs and headed forward. She leaned on him because she normally uses a cane. It was a slow journey.
I’ve shared a few laughs with them, and a few paragraphs of dialogue. I know she suffers from arthritis and that he’s a hard worker. One of their sons and his family attend church with us, and I’ve noticed that the females seem to have a good relationship.
As they climbed the stage steps, the pastor shared his reason for calling them. This couple has been married forty-three years and the husband requested the opportunity to publicly renew their wedding vows.
They stood, facing each other, and recommitted their lives to the other. Her eyes didn’t leave his face, nor did his leave hers. Overhead light revealed all the wrinkles, bald spots, and pounds that had crept up on them during their time together.
Then he sang to her. A song he has sung for forty-three anniversaries, whether in the midst of sickness or health, want or plenty, joy or sorrow, he sings the same song. I’ve never heard it before, it’s all about longing and patience and desire.
No flowers, one song sung a cappella, no attendants, reality etched on the faces of the bride and groom – I’ve never seen a more beautiful ceremony.
And Hollywood thinks it understands reality.
I’m not kidding. Someday, I’ll have to share bits and pieces of how God intervened when we selfishly set out to destroy each other.
Our pastor ended Sunday’s sermon by announcing the name of a couple and requesting that they join him. This isn’t a common event.
The couple left their chairs and headed forward. She leaned on him because she normally uses a cane. It was a slow journey.
I’ve shared a few laughs with them, and a few paragraphs of dialogue. I know she suffers from arthritis and that he’s a hard worker. One of their sons and his family attend church with us, and I’ve noticed that the females seem to have a good relationship.
As they climbed the stage steps, the pastor shared his reason for calling them. This couple has been married forty-three years and the husband requested the opportunity to publicly renew their wedding vows.
They stood, facing each other, and recommitted their lives to the other. Her eyes didn’t leave his face, nor did his leave hers. Overhead light revealed all the wrinkles, bald spots, and pounds that had crept up on them during their time together.
Then he sang to her. A song he has sung for forty-three anniversaries, whether in the midst of sickness or health, want or plenty, joy or sorrow, he sings the same song. I’ve never heard it before, it’s all about longing and patience and desire.
No flowers, one song sung a cappella, no attendants, reality etched on the faces of the bride and groom – I’ve never seen a more beautiful ceremony.
And Hollywood thinks it understands reality.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Keep Me Away From Scissors
If I had a few missing front teeth I’d pass for a first grader. Okay, I’m short, but that’s not why I look like a seven-year-old.
It’s the bangs, as defined – hair chunk(s) commonly used as forehead covering. Except my forehead isn’t so covered.
I should know better.
Artistic license comes with curly hair which I, for the most part, possess. With straight hair, one has to be extremely careful because every scissor stroke shows. With curly hair, you can slice and dice and still show your head in public. And maybe that’s why God gave me a mop, because I don’t look so good in hats.
My bangs aren’t curly just a touch wavy, which is sometimes nice, but not when it comes to cutting them. I have to be very, very careful when I take scissors to those precious few inches of self-image.
When I was a wee lass my mom acted as my beautician. My bangs were always a bit on the short side because she’d get concerned about the left and right side of the bangs being similarly located on my forehead.
At sixteen I ventured into trimming my own bangs. I didn’t realize that hair shrinks when it dries. I ended up with something that resembled the fuzzy, sticky-outy corner brush on some vacuum cleaners.
That wasn’t so cute at sixteen.
Of course, I’m not so thrilled with myself at forty-three either.
My eldest daughter had a stab at my bangs. Once. And I have a picture to immortalize the event. Yeah. Everyone in my family, near and extended, got a big kick out of the grand idea of letting a twelve-year-old cut my hair. In hindsight I would’ve at least waited a day or two after my grandma’s big eightieth birthday celebration.
Yesterday, I’d had enough of seeing the world through dark fringe, and enough of my hubby’s cute comments, “Hey, I wondered where you went.” and, “It has eyes!” from his repertoire of clever quips.
I ducked into the bathroom and chopped. I cut below my eyebrows and didn’t try to even up or get creative or anything deviating from my hard and fast rules for bang shearing.
And this morning I woke up needing a plaid jumper, shiny Mary Janes, and a lollipop to complete my school-girl ensemble.
Hmmm. I guess at forty-three I should be thrilled to look young. Think this could catch on in Hollywood?
I could design a bang cutting ruler that would guarantee instant youth. A face lift is worth what, twenty years max? I could get you thirty-five – easy.
It’s the bangs, as defined – hair chunk(s) commonly used as forehead covering. Except my forehead isn’t so covered.
I should know better.
Artistic license comes with curly hair which I, for the most part, possess. With straight hair, one has to be extremely careful because every scissor stroke shows. With curly hair, you can slice and dice and still show your head in public. And maybe that’s why God gave me a mop, because I don’t look so good in hats.
My bangs aren’t curly just a touch wavy, which is sometimes nice, but not when it comes to cutting them. I have to be very, very careful when I take scissors to those precious few inches of self-image.
When I was a wee lass my mom acted as my beautician. My bangs were always a bit on the short side because she’d get concerned about the left and right side of the bangs being similarly located on my forehead.
At sixteen I ventured into trimming my own bangs. I didn’t realize that hair shrinks when it dries. I ended up with something that resembled the fuzzy, sticky-outy corner brush on some vacuum cleaners.
That wasn’t so cute at sixteen.
Of course, I’m not so thrilled with myself at forty-three either.
My eldest daughter had a stab at my bangs. Once. And I have a picture to immortalize the event. Yeah. Everyone in my family, near and extended, got a big kick out of the grand idea of letting a twelve-year-old cut my hair. In hindsight I would’ve at least waited a day or two after my grandma’s big eightieth birthday celebration.
Yesterday, I’d had enough of seeing the world through dark fringe, and enough of my hubby’s cute comments, “Hey, I wondered where you went.” and, “It has eyes!” from his repertoire of clever quips.
I ducked into the bathroom and chopped. I cut below my eyebrows and didn’t try to even up or get creative or anything deviating from my hard and fast rules for bang shearing.
And this morning I woke up needing a plaid jumper, shiny Mary Janes, and a lollipop to complete my school-girl ensemble.
Hmmm. I guess at forty-three I should be thrilled to look young. Think this could catch on in Hollywood?
I could design a bang cutting ruler that would guarantee instant youth. A face lift is worth what, twenty years max? I could get you thirty-five – easy.
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