Continued Pratfallian Memories..... Yesterday we visited Pat's silent dance of fall avoidance. Today we have the audio version.
The next tumble I remember witnessing was one of great sound and no visual. My brothers (though it seems there was usually only one brother’s name on my parents' lips) borrowed tools often.
Apparently, a project needing a screwdriver and basement stairs had been completed earlier that fateful day.
Someone didn’t get the screwdriver returned to its proper home but had instead left it lying on the wooden basement stairs.
This was in the day of glass soda bottles.
Full glass soda bottles containing sugary soda lined the basement stairs.
Pat returned home from work as the children innocently did homework at the kitchen table or helped with dinner preparation.
No man in his right mind would stop and ask the children if anyone had created a death-trap on the basement stairs.
No right-minded child of Pat’s would dream of creating a death-trap with Pat’s name on it.
So we’ll chalk it up to childish oopsidity.
Pat began his descent.
I think we’ve all forgotten what he needed from the basement.
A roar. A crash. A thumpity-whumpity-whump-thump poured out of the dark basement doorway. A crescendo of tinkling shattering glass then joined the rhythmic whump, thump, bump.
To say that all blood left the faces of the children in the kitchen would be an understatement. With large alien eyes we glanced nervously around the room bouncing our eyeballs from one sibling to the next to the mom who stood statue still with a tomato in one hand and a lip firmly captured between her teeth.
A long few seconds followed where no one breathed.
But suddenly, a giggle tickled the base of my brain. The sounds, the crash, the thought of my father sweeping the steps clean with his body began to torment me. I too, chomped on my lip.
A fist, holding a screwdriver appeared from the basement, followed by my non-too-thrilled father. “Who put this screwdriver on the stairs?” The words were a bark which only added to my need for a guffaw.
The boys scattered, a noise, issued forth from Pat. A snort. A chuckle? He shook his head, Mom put her hand to her mouth and let loose a nervous giggle. The flood gates opened.
We laughed and then we cleaned up soda pop.
Next week I'll share the private and public side of Pat's amazing pratfalls.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Monday, February 05, 2007
Scribbles and Scrambles - Pratfall Pats #1
I suppose my delight with excellently executed tumbles stems from my upbringing, maybe as far back as birth because many of my memories are peppered with falling Pats.
It’s been awhile since I shared a Pat. And for those of you who haven’t been introduced, Pat is my dad. He has two distinct personas. Not personalities, but personas. He is a starched-white professional, church pillar and all around go-to guy. On the other hand he is a wild-haired crazy man who does his own stunts and sometimes other’s stunts as well. I believe I’ve mentioned the leg toss…this is when someone begins to tumble and Pat’s leg shoots out in some bizarre attempt to catch the person which really only adds another humor beat and an occasional bruise.
Pat, over the years, has mastered the art of the tumble. One could go as far as to say that Pat might be the Chuck Norris of falls. (If you don’t get this reference, Chuck is da man in many circles.)
My first Pat Pratfall encounter would be something I witnessed via home movies. This technology won’t ring a bell for the younger readers of this blog so I’ll explain it thus: think camcorder without sound which captures rapid-style still pictures on film which is then threaded through a machine, not unlike threading a sewing machine needle, for viewing pleasure.
My mother or grandparents had captured a slippery battle between man, car, child and snow – on a hill. Much sliding and twisting occurred. The child, clutched in Pat’s arms stared wide-eyed over his shoulder as she swooped and dipped in his dance to open the ice glazed door on the station wagon. Pat ended on a triumphant note in that little skirmish, which is good because I was said child.
He held me because I sported a war wound I’d received while playing in my closet and stepping on a huge nail attached to a six foot piece of woodwork. Which is a story for another day.
Tumble number two tomorrow.
It’s been awhile since I shared a Pat. And for those of you who haven’t been introduced, Pat is my dad. He has two distinct personas. Not personalities, but personas. He is a starched-white professional, church pillar and all around go-to guy. On the other hand he is a wild-haired crazy man who does his own stunts and sometimes other’s stunts as well. I believe I’ve mentioned the leg toss…this is when someone begins to tumble and Pat’s leg shoots out in some bizarre attempt to catch the person which really only adds another humor beat and an occasional bruise.
Pat, over the years, has mastered the art of the tumble. One could go as far as to say that Pat might be the Chuck Norris of falls. (If you don’t get this reference, Chuck is da man in many circles.)
My first Pat Pratfall encounter would be something I witnessed via home movies. This technology won’t ring a bell for the younger readers of this blog so I’ll explain it thus: think camcorder without sound which captures rapid-style still pictures on film which is then threaded through a machine, not unlike threading a sewing machine needle, for viewing pleasure.
My mother or grandparents had captured a slippery battle between man, car, child and snow – on a hill. Much sliding and twisting occurred. The child, clutched in Pat’s arms stared wide-eyed over his shoulder as she swooped and dipped in his dance to open the ice glazed door on the station wagon. Pat ended on a triumphant note in that little skirmish, which is good because I was said child.
He held me because I sported a war wound I’d received while playing in my closet and stepping on a huge nail attached to a six foot piece of woodwork. Which is a story for another day.
Tumble number two tomorrow.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Serials and Scenarios - Robert Liparulo Under the Microscope
Ha - get it. He wrote Germ....Under the Microscope. Sorry, I just cracked myself up.
Hmmm. Updated blogger.com where is the color option? Usually I get colorful. Today we'll just have to be boring black and white. I've bolded Bob's answers to my questions.
A man and woman sit at a table in an upscale restaurant. They each have a cell phone to their ear. What are you overhearing? Tell me about this couple…..
She: I hope we’re not late. I love the first act.
He: We have plenty of time. Don’t worry. Have you decided what you want, yet?
She: You order for me. No, wait... the Veal Oscar sounds good.
He: Are they still listening?
She: Yeah, the guy’s even leaning closer. Say something provocative.
He: I told you not to call me here!
She: Now they’re totally confused. Let’s call the waiter...
This is a fun-loving couple who call each other and chat when other people are eavesdropping, simply to freak them out.
Favorite turn of phrase or word picture, in literature or movie.
It’s from Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Rings, the movie (but lifted in spirit from the book). Gandaldf to Bilbo in Moria: “We cannot choose the time we live in. We can only choose what we do with the time we are given.” So often, it’s easy to complain about the situation we’re in, but the important thing is how we handle ourselves, despite the situation.
A close second: “We’re going to need a bigger boat.” From Jaws.
What would you write if there were no rules or barriers? (epic novels about characters in the Bible, poetry, greeting cards, plays, movies, instruction manuals, etc.)
Comes a Horseman, Germ, Deadfall (the manuscript I’m just finishing), and whatever comes next. I always write as though there were no barriers or rules. I write what I want to read. I write what tickles my curiosity. I’ve been blessed to have had short stories, articles, and novels published, and to have sold screenplays. I’ve been able to make a living writing what I want to write. Most writers are rebels to some extent. Otherwise, we’d all have corporate jobs. And if you’re going to rebel, why pander to rules?
What makes you feel alive?
Many things, but primarily, being with my family. Huddled on a bed, watching a movie, playing a board game, hiking in the woods, building sand castles on the beach—no matter what we’re doing, as long as we’re all together, I feel the most alive. If I have to narrow it further, I’d pick that last scenario: building sand castles on the beach with my family... on Maui... on Big Beach.
How does something worm its way into your heart? Through tears, truth, humor, other?
The “worm” thing isn’t a nice image, but I getcha. What gets me the most is unfulfilled expectations of happiness: The failed marriage, the promise of a great day that doesn’t happen. I was in the ER the other day because of a cut on my arm. Parametics wheeled in a boy of about eight on a gurney. He was moaning over and over and calling for his mom. She was behind the gurney and the parametrics, reassuring him. “I’m here, sweetie.” He went past me and he looked miserable. Blood and bruises on his face. His pain made me sad, but what anguished me was his pain in the context of what he expected the day to bring when he woke up that morning: certainly not that. That dichotomy between what-could-have-been and what-is gets me every time.
Which compliment related to your writing has meant the most and why?
Well, the compliment that gave me the biggest thrill wasn’t a review. I was in the lobby of a New York City hotel, where the first meeting of the International Thriller Writers organization was taking place. The lobby was filled with authors whom I had admired for years: David Morrell, Lee Child, John Lescroart, Tess Gerritsen. In walked the brilliant writer David Dun. David had given Comes a Horseman a glowing endorsement, and I approached him to thank him in person. In a really loud voice, he said, “I hate you! You’re a better writer than I am!” Of course he was joking, but I looked around and all these great writers were staring at us. I just beamed.
What criticism has cut the deepest and why?
I don’t mind criticism... too much. I know what I write isn’t for everyone. But I don’t like it when people pass judgment without getting the facts. A friend of mine won’t read my books, because he’s afraid they’re too violent or too scary. I understand not liking certain genres, not liking to be scared, but I wish he’d give me the benefit of the doubt and at least start one of them. He’s an important part of my life. It’s disappointing that he can’t share in something else that’s important to me.
What would you do today if you knew you had only a week to live?
Spend it with my family. I’d want to have fun with them, but I’d also want to make sure they realized where I was heading and that everything would be all right. My number one task in life is to tell my children about Christ, to get them thinking heavenward. Three of them have accepted Christ and are showing the fruit of that. But I’d want to assure them that my passing shouldn’t shake their faith. (My youngest is only fourteen months.) They I’d go about making as many memories as we could squeeze into a week.
Pick one of the following recipes and give me a paragraph or two.......
Unidentifiable antique, the scent of pipe tobacco and the drizzle of rain – make a scene.
Curtains blew in from the open window. Raindrops, flashing silver as they caught the moonlight, rode the wind to land on the leather chair, the side table, a pipe in its stand. Recently extinguished, the meerschaum exuded a fragrance like walnut and cherries. The beads of water pattered onto the ancient and worn item resting on the table, beside the pipe. Grey threads of steam hissed up from a dozen spots. Then it moved, rotating like a head on a neck. Thin rods, spindly as spider legs, piston out and down, clicking against the wood. The body of the contraption rose, now resting on the rods... the legs. A noise outside the study made the thing jerk around. It crouched low, seeming to wait for whoever was coming.
If you missed the links to Germ -http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0785261788
or Bob's website - http://www.robertliparulo.com
Have a great weekend. And keep warm. Unless you are in a balmy location then "pfffttt" enjoy your weather.
Hmmm. Updated blogger.com where is the color option? Usually I get colorful. Today we'll just have to be boring black and white. I've bolded Bob's answers to my questions.
A man and woman sit at a table in an upscale restaurant. They each have a cell phone to their ear. What are you overhearing? Tell me about this couple…..
She: I hope we’re not late. I love the first act.
He: We have plenty of time. Don’t worry. Have you decided what you want, yet?
She: You order for me. No, wait... the Veal Oscar sounds good.
He: Are they still listening?
She: Yeah, the guy’s even leaning closer. Say something provocative.
He: I told you not to call me here!
She: Now they’re totally confused. Let’s call the waiter...
This is a fun-loving couple who call each other and chat when other people are eavesdropping, simply to freak them out.
Favorite turn of phrase or word picture, in literature or movie.
It’s from Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Rings, the movie (but lifted in spirit from the book). Gandaldf to Bilbo in Moria: “We cannot choose the time we live in. We can only choose what we do with the time we are given.” So often, it’s easy to complain about the situation we’re in, but the important thing is how we handle ourselves, despite the situation.
A close second: “We’re going to need a bigger boat.” From Jaws.
What would you write if there were no rules or barriers? (epic novels about characters in the Bible, poetry, greeting cards, plays, movies, instruction manuals, etc.)
Comes a Horseman, Germ, Deadfall (the manuscript I’m just finishing), and whatever comes next. I always write as though there were no barriers or rules. I write what I want to read. I write what tickles my curiosity. I’ve been blessed to have had short stories, articles, and novels published, and to have sold screenplays. I’ve been able to make a living writing what I want to write. Most writers are rebels to some extent. Otherwise, we’d all have corporate jobs. And if you’re going to rebel, why pander to rules?
What makes you feel alive?
Many things, but primarily, being with my family. Huddled on a bed, watching a movie, playing a board game, hiking in the woods, building sand castles on the beach—no matter what we’re doing, as long as we’re all together, I feel the most alive. If I have to narrow it further, I’d pick that last scenario: building sand castles on the beach with my family... on Maui... on Big Beach.
How does something worm its way into your heart? Through tears, truth, humor, other?
The “worm” thing isn’t a nice image, but I getcha. What gets me the most is unfulfilled expectations of happiness: The failed marriage, the promise of a great day that doesn’t happen. I was in the ER the other day because of a cut on my arm. Parametics wheeled in a boy of about eight on a gurney. He was moaning over and over and calling for his mom. She was behind the gurney and the parametrics, reassuring him. “I’m here, sweetie.” He went past me and he looked miserable. Blood and bruises on his face. His pain made me sad, but what anguished me was his pain in the context of what he expected the day to bring when he woke up that morning: certainly not that. That dichotomy between what-could-have-been and what-is gets me every time.
Which compliment related to your writing has meant the most and why?
Well, the compliment that gave me the biggest thrill wasn’t a review. I was in the lobby of a New York City hotel, where the first meeting of the International Thriller Writers organization was taking place. The lobby was filled with authors whom I had admired for years: David Morrell, Lee Child, John Lescroart, Tess Gerritsen. In walked the brilliant writer David Dun. David had given Comes a Horseman a glowing endorsement, and I approached him to thank him in person. In a really loud voice, he said, “I hate you! You’re a better writer than I am!” Of course he was joking, but I looked around and all these great writers were staring at us. I just beamed.
What criticism has cut the deepest and why?
I don’t mind criticism... too much. I know what I write isn’t for everyone. But I don’t like it when people pass judgment without getting the facts. A friend of mine won’t read my books, because he’s afraid they’re too violent or too scary. I understand not liking certain genres, not liking to be scared, but I wish he’d give me the benefit of the doubt and at least start one of them. He’s an important part of my life. It’s disappointing that he can’t share in something else that’s important to me.
What would you do today if you knew you had only a week to live?
Spend it with my family. I’d want to have fun with them, but I’d also want to make sure they realized where I was heading and that everything would be all right. My number one task in life is to tell my children about Christ, to get them thinking heavenward. Three of them have accepted Christ and are showing the fruit of that. But I’d want to assure them that my passing shouldn’t shake their faith. (My youngest is only fourteen months.) They I’d go about making as many memories as we could squeeze into a week.
Pick one of the following recipes and give me a paragraph or two.......
Unidentifiable antique, the scent of pipe tobacco and the drizzle of rain – make a scene.
Curtains blew in from the open window. Raindrops, flashing silver as they caught the moonlight, rode the wind to land on the leather chair, the side table, a pipe in its stand. Recently extinguished, the meerschaum exuded a fragrance like walnut and cherries. The beads of water pattered onto the ancient and worn item resting on the table, beside the pipe. Grey threads of steam hissed up from a dozen spots. Then it moved, rotating like a head on a neck. Thin rods, spindly as spider legs, piston out and down, clicking against the wood. The body of the contraption rose, now resting on the rods... the legs. A noise outside the study made the thing jerk around. It crouched low, seeming to wait for whoever was coming.
If you missed the links to Germ -http://www.amazon.com/exec
or Bob's website - http://www.robertliparulo.com
Have a great weekend. And keep warm. Unless you are in a balmy location then "pfffttt" enjoy your weather.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Scribbles and Scrambles - Wait Just a Second
This isn’t a post about spectacular tumbles. It’s about the way our minds work and process information. See, I can be normal. I'm not twisted all the time.
One of my favorite patients came to see me today. A routine visit so he was feeling fine. Since he’s pretty healthy I only see him every once in awhile.
He stepped into my x-ray room and we took a few 8 x 10 glossies. We usually get an annual chest x-ray and then while they are dressed (or undressed) for that we jet them across the hall for an EKG. It usually works well but sometimes the EKG’s get bogged down and the patient has to wait awhile in my room. I’ll come out of my dark room and find patients weeping on the scale, playing with my model of the spine or reading medical posters.
Today, I stepped out and my patient said. “Can I ask you what that is? Is it a level?” He pointed to my clock. It’s a drug clock so it has product information on the face and sported the colors of the medication. Often drug paraphernalia is gimmicky, funky numbers, odd shapes, usually not your normal items.
So I stared where he pointed. “Well…it’s the second hand, it fell off.”
He turned red and laughed. “Oh, I thought it was a statement about how the drug leveled something out and the level was crooked so it wasn’t good advertising.”
Isn’t that funny? Our surroundings determine the way we look at things sometimes. He expected some weird gimmick so he didn’t even consider that the item was what it was. In another setting he wouldn’t even has questioned the fact that it was a second hand. It was that obvious. But because he saw things differently in light of his location, he questioned what he knew to be true or likely.
How’s that for a spiritual lesson? Do you ever second guess what you believe to be true because of your surroundings? Does your faith feel foreign in some situations? Do you avoid entering a church because you expect that reality changes and things will be skewed, that somehow in a church a second hand isn’t a second hand anymore?
One of my favorite patients came to see me today. A routine visit so he was feeling fine. Since he’s pretty healthy I only see him every once in awhile.
He stepped into my x-ray room and we took a few 8 x 10 glossies. We usually get an annual chest x-ray and then while they are dressed (or undressed) for that we jet them across the hall for an EKG. It usually works well but sometimes the EKG’s get bogged down and the patient has to wait awhile in my room. I’ll come out of my dark room and find patients weeping on the scale, playing with my model of the spine or reading medical posters.
Today, I stepped out and my patient said. “Can I ask you what that is? Is it a level?” He pointed to my clock. It’s a drug clock so it has product information on the face and sported the colors of the medication. Often drug paraphernalia is gimmicky, funky numbers, odd shapes, usually not your normal items.
So I stared where he pointed. “Well…it’s the second hand, it fell off.”
He turned red and laughed. “Oh, I thought it was a statement about how the drug leveled something out and the level was crooked so it wasn’t good advertising.”
Isn’t that funny? Our surroundings determine the way we look at things sometimes. He expected some weird gimmick so he didn’t even consider that the item was what it was. In another setting he wouldn’t even has questioned the fact that it was a second hand. It was that obvious. But because he saw things differently in light of his location, he questioned what he knew to be true or likely.
How’s that for a spiritual lesson? Do you ever second guess what you believe to be true because of your surroundings? Does your faith feel foreign in some situations? Do you avoid entering a church because you expect that reality changes and things will be skewed, that somehow in a church a second hand isn’t a second hand anymore?
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Serials and Scenarios - Germ
Hey kids. Germ is the focus of the water cooler discussion in Christian fiction this week. Germs and water coolers, doesn't sound like a good idea. Keep reading...it gets worse.
Robert aka Bob Liparulo even answered some of my questions. I'll shoot those into cyberspace on Friday.
Germ: The details.
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0785261788
Germ: The author link
http://www.robertliparulo.com
Germ: The Review....
I anticipated the release, even itched, to get my hands on "Germ." I didn't read "Comes a Horseman" but followed comments and reviews of Liparo's first novel. I knew "Germ" would be a book that generated conversation.
Violence and gore is one of the charges leveled against "Comes a Horseman," " Germ" contains blood and guts, too. This isn't an easy read. The subject matter is rough. But the gore isn't gratuitous or sensational, its sharing a story that is very visual and sense oriented. So much so that if you can't do suspense or strong violence you may want to avoid it. I can't watch war movies because of what the death and violence do to my spirit, but I clipped through "Germ," so use that as a guide if you are squeamish.
Another topic of discussion that's come up is the "lack" of strong Christian threads throughout Liparolo's work. I have a few comments about that, too. There is no prayer printed on the last page, or extremely evangelical characters, but I found a realistic and positive protrayal of a Christian character that presented love and forgiveness within the pages of "Germ."
What do you want from your Christian fiction? If you are looking for a salvation plan based story, you probably won't be satisfied with the Christian content in "Germ." But if you like art that points out the differences between redeemed and unredeemed with the themes of love and redemption swirled throughout the story like subtle brush strokes adding light on a painting, you'll likely appreciate Liparulo's subtle touches.
As far as story goes. I can see why there is talk of a movie. I had actors picked out for most of the parts. This story is suspenseful, thrilling, twisty and edge of seat. A scenario so not farfetched that it hits a little too close to my comfort zone.
The book is also well written with some vivid and often beautiful descriptions (or vivid descriptions that just might curl your toes.)
"Germ" is a great read. I recommend it.
Robert aka Bob Liparulo even answered some of my questions. I'll shoot those into cyberspace on Friday.
Germ: The details.
http://www.amazon.com/exec
Germ: The author link
http://www.robertliparulo.com
Germ: The Review....
I anticipated the release, even itched, to get my hands on "Germ." I didn't read "Comes a Horseman" but followed comments and reviews of Liparo's first novel. I knew "Germ" would be a book that generated conversation.
Violence and gore is one of the charges leveled against "Comes a Horseman," " Germ" contains blood and guts, too. This isn't an easy read. The subject matter is rough. But the gore isn't gratuitous or sensational, its sharing a story that is very visual and sense oriented. So much so that if you can't do suspense or strong violence you may want to avoid it. I can't watch war movies because of what the death and violence do to my spirit, but I clipped through "Germ," so use that as a guide if you are squeamish.
Another topic of discussion that's come up is the "lack" of strong Christian threads throughout Liparolo's work. I have a few comments about that, too. There is no prayer printed on the last page, or extremely evangelical characters, but I found a realistic and positive protrayal of a Christian character that presented love and forgiveness within the pages of "Germ."
What do you want from your Christian fiction? If you are looking for a salvation plan based story, you probably won't be satisfied with the Christian content in "Germ." But if you like art that points out the differences between redeemed and unredeemed with the themes of love and redemption swirled throughout the story like subtle brush strokes adding light on a painting, you'll likely appreciate Liparulo's subtle touches.
As far as story goes. I can see why there is talk of a movie. I had actors picked out for most of the parts. This story is suspenseful, thrilling, twisty and edge of seat. A scenario so not farfetched that it hits a little too close to my comfort zone.
The book is also well written with some vivid and often beautiful descriptions (or vivid descriptions that just might curl your toes.)
"Germ" is a great read. I recommend it.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Scribbles and Scrambles - Window Surfing
I must confess I’m a little sad.
True, I’m sleeping tucked away in my new bedroom, safe and sound and bordered by my almost completely functional closet. True, the scaredy cat finally made an appearance. We feared she’d hide in a dark downstairs corner forever. This poor cat freaks when the floor squeaks, can you imagine her distress with all the power tools and the clunk of work boots overhead?
No, the touch of sadness is because of a new change in the landscape of construction.
The small hole in the wall is gone. For three days we had a special portal from old to new, and with a few bone-jarring cuts with a diamond blade super-cutter the whole wall fell. After the dust cleared (cough) my eldest daughter leaned toward me and whispered. “when we climbed through the window, it was like entering an alternate reality, like Narnia.”
Had I known Narnia lie on the other side of the window, I would’ve climbed through in my church clothes. Really.
Sigh.
But there was a wee bit of an accident to lighten the mood.
One of Rob’s friends came over to help with the wall dismantling. After the debris clean-up (cough) Rob brought in a small set of three steps. My husband, amazing builder/carpenter/hunk that he is has been doing quite a bit of recycling. Nice on two counts. 1) huge money savings. 2) takes the edge off new so it doesn’t feel cookie-cuttery.
Rob set the steps next to the wall and said “these are NOT attached, DON’T step on them.”
My mom and I and our buddy then stand around and chat about the openness of the room, Rob’s great work/ideas and blah, blah, blah. Apparently we ALL suffer from short-term memory loss because the buddy, whom I’ll call Joe_ stepped on the top step.
Mom and I watched in horrified silence as Joe_ hesitated and then surfed the set of stairs. In slow motion he shimmied while the steps bucked him off. He landed in three sections, feet, knee, hands.
All that lacked was sunshine and some Beach Boy’s music. (We had plenty of grit/sand.) (cough)
Silence.
By now you all know that a good tumble kicks my funny bone into gear. But I’ve never seen Joe_ in a compromising situation such as this, and a man face down on the floor, no matter how gracefully he arrived there might not appreciate the background music of giggles.
In the silence, he pulled himself off the floor, then bent over double and laughed.
I don’t need to tell you what I did, after I asked him if he was okay of course.
True, I’m sleeping tucked away in my new bedroom, safe and sound and bordered by my almost completely functional closet. True, the scaredy cat finally made an appearance. We feared she’d hide in a dark downstairs corner forever. This poor cat freaks when the floor squeaks, can you imagine her distress with all the power tools and the clunk of work boots overhead?
No, the touch of sadness is because of a new change in the landscape of construction.
The small hole in the wall is gone. For three days we had a special portal from old to new, and with a few bone-jarring cuts with a diamond blade super-cutter the whole wall fell. After the dust cleared (cough) my eldest daughter leaned toward me and whispered. “when we climbed through the window, it was like entering an alternate reality, like Narnia.”
Had I known Narnia lie on the other side of the window, I would’ve climbed through in my church clothes. Really.
Sigh.
But there was a wee bit of an accident to lighten the mood.
One of Rob’s friends came over to help with the wall dismantling. After the debris clean-up (cough) Rob brought in a small set of three steps. My husband, amazing builder/carpenter/hunk that he is has been doing quite a bit of recycling. Nice on two counts. 1) huge money savings. 2) takes the edge off new so it doesn’t feel cookie-cuttery.
Rob set the steps next to the wall and said “these are NOT attached, DON’T step on them.”
My mom and I and our buddy then stand around and chat about the openness of the room, Rob’s great work/ideas and blah, blah, blah. Apparently we ALL suffer from short-term memory loss because the buddy, whom I’ll call Joe_ stepped on the top step.
Mom and I watched in horrified silence as Joe_ hesitated and then surfed the set of stairs. In slow motion he shimmied while the steps bucked him off. He landed in three sections, feet, knee, hands.
All that lacked was sunshine and some Beach Boy’s music. (We had plenty of grit/sand.) (cough)
Silence.
By now you all know that a good tumble kicks my funny bone into gear. But I’ve never seen Joe_ in a compromising situation such as this, and a man face down on the floor, no matter how gracefully he arrived there might not appreciate the background music of giggles.
In the silence, he pulled himself off the floor, then bent over double and laughed.
I don’t need to tell you what I did, after I asked him if he was okay of course.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Scribbles and Scrambles - Monday Jottings
Guess where I slept this weekend?
In my bed, in my new room!
Call me a Pollyanna, but I know that underneath all the bags and boxes lies a room of great beauty. And in spite of every inch of muscle in my entire body which screamed as I lay down to sleep the first night, I know I'll soon sleep like a baby. Even though I must now either exit into the cold Iowa winter to enter the downstairs or crawl through a hole in the wall eventually I will have a whole inner-connected house.
I do like the uniqueness and adventure of the whole process. I suppose there is something to be said for ripping off a chunk of plastic and "voila!" exposing a perfect room.
But if that was the case, would I truly appreciate it?
And the story factor. What a tragedy it would be if my children couldn't reminisce and laugh about crawling, in their Sunday best, through the hole in the wall. Or how about the treasure maze from the kitchen to the unfinished stairs to half dry-walled painted walls to nearly-completed-except-for-the-pile-of-flooring living room opening into the piece-de-resistance - the perfect bedrooms?
On another note, I love cracking people up. Or maybe I just love easy laughers.
My day job gets a bit dry. We're talking medicine, x-rays, insurance and blah routine. My clinic is a far cry from Grey's Anatomy, though I could share some sentences that would curl your toes. Did you know that food is often used to describe bodily malfunctions? I'm sure watermelon flesh gives you a lovely visual.
But I digress. Today, I had a giggler. She made me feel like Jerry Seinfeld. This is the line that really got her going..... "Okay, you can step back and breathe now if you didn't breathe at okay. I hate it when I have to say, 'oh, honey, you're blue. In x-ray talk okay means you can breathe.'"
She laughed so hard I had to hold up on the second x-ray.
When you got it, you got it, what can I say.
And should you not agree with her assessment of my humor -- feel free NOT to comment.
In my bed, in my new room!
Call me a Pollyanna, but I know that underneath all the bags and boxes lies a room of great beauty. And in spite of every inch of muscle in my entire body which screamed as I lay down to sleep the first night, I know I'll soon sleep like a baby. Even though I must now either exit into the cold Iowa winter to enter the downstairs or crawl through a hole in the wall eventually I will have a whole inner-connected house.
I do like the uniqueness and adventure of the whole process. I suppose there is something to be said for ripping off a chunk of plastic and "voila!" exposing a perfect room.
But if that was the case, would I truly appreciate it?
And the story factor. What a tragedy it would be if my children couldn't reminisce and laugh about crawling, in their Sunday best, through the hole in the wall. Or how about the treasure maze from the kitchen to the unfinished stairs to half dry-walled painted walls to nearly-completed-except-for-the-pile-of-flooring living room opening into the piece-de-resistance - the perfect bedrooms?
On another note, I love cracking people up. Or maybe I just love easy laughers.
My day job gets a bit dry. We're talking medicine, x-rays, insurance and blah routine. My clinic is a far cry from Grey's Anatomy, though I could share some sentences that would curl your toes. Did you know that food is often used to describe bodily malfunctions? I'm sure watermelon flesh gives you a lovely visual.
But I digress. Today, I had a giggler. She made me feel like Jerry Seinfeld. This is the line that really got her going..... "Okay, you can step back and breathe now if you didn't breathe at okay. I hate it when I have to say, 'oh, honey, you're blue. In x-ray talk okay means you can breathe.'"
She laughed so hard I had to hold up on the second x-ray.
When you got it, you got it, what can I say.
And should you not agree with her assessment of my humor -- feel free NOT to comment.
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