Gearing Up For NaNoWriMo

November is the month of NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month.  Over 300,000 crazy writing people from all over the world have set aside the month of November to write 50,000 words.  I'm one of them, my young nine year old daughter is one of them.  We have been preparing ourselves for the big write.  We have notebooks and exercises and we talk about it.  She is formulating her story I'm researching mine.  We spend more time at the computer each day.  I'm not sure what my husband thinks about the whole thing, he is not very expressive.  To really give us a boost in the write direction, pun intended, fate has planned a visit by my brother and his wife.  I love my brother dearly and have missed him most of my adult life and I love his dear wife of at least thirty or more years of marriage, so I am excited.  They are driving down from Canada and will stay with us for one weekend.  You would think that a drive of that magnitude would grant a longer stay but that's not the case since most of the vacation will be spent on the road.  Apparently he and his wife love road trips and are not bothered by the long drive.  This is something I get, since I have always enjoyed a challenge and am not put off by adventure.  Their visit will coincide with the end of the first quarter of the great NaNoWriMo. This requires much cleaning and getting ready on my part.  Not for the great Write but for the Great Visit.  Cupboards are being completely emptied and shelves washed and papered and most things being thrown away. Piles are being deleted and rooms turned upside down. This is all happening at the same time that we are finishing out the harvesting and storing of our garden and produce and the planting of garlic. The permanent garden beds are being winterized and the green house filled up ready for the great winter sleep. This is all going to be such a blessing for NaNoWriMo because, the big work will be done before the writing starts. The house will be in order for the first time in the history of me living in it, the garden will be finished and the strawberries covered, the garlic planted. All these things will be done and I will have perfection under my belt for the Great Write. The first week of November is a school vacation for us. Our little one teacher, one student homeschool will be closed for a week. We will be writing. I will try to get most of my words written in that first week. I hope I will be ahead by the time my brother and his wife arrive. This will be great. I will relax and enjoy the precious time together knowing that I have the secret weapon, of plenty of words written, stored away . I cannot possibly sit and write non-stop for hours at a time, but need ample time to move around and do regular duties in between writings. I did this when I wrote the fairy tale about Little Richard. I washed the dishes and cleaned up from a birthday party while I wrote the fairy tale. It was a great way to open the channel to the next discovery in the tale. I would be washing dishes and get the idea and hurry to dry my hands and get to the keyboard to type it out, then back to the dishes until the next idea came. I feel that it is much better to have real world things to do while I’m writing. I can smell and breathe and have accomplishments away from the writing. It produces energy. The things which take away energy from me are, facebook, complaining, worry, and disorder. Perhaps facebook isn’t always draining if I only read some really positive truths about the writing process and how we just need to get to it. But mostly it is as draining as watching TV, which I don’t do. Complaining I can manage, I just try not to do it, it leads to bad thoughts and accusations which will stop the creative channels up like constipation. Worry I will have to learn to manage since I am a mother and when I am presented with dramatic problems to which there is no known answer and the proposed quality of the child’s life is descending rapidly into the pit of gloom and may not recover ever, I tend to tense up and hover around the phone, waiting for them to call and say they have it figured out and will be ok and for me to not worry. Disorder will be solved by the amount of cleaning and purging I am doing now. Those are the things which threaten the writing process. There is one other thing which both my daughter and I will have to work out together. No interrupting someone who is typing. Even if my hands are not moving. If I’m at the computer please don’t show me some picture you have created on a Kindle App. I can’t look at it and the interruption just blew my words right out of my head. This goes for me too. I will have to be quiet while she is at her computer. We have to respect each other’s writing times and inspirations. This will be good for us. I am setting my standard at 2,500 words a day seeing that several days it will not be possible to write much and other days none at all. I put a counter on my blog wall, hopefully it works, to show you how I am keeping up. When the month of November is over, I will put my novel away and focus on my Elsie book until it is finished. I will be designing and illustrating the pages for the picture book and try to have it finished in time for Easter 2015. Then I will get my novel out and begin to work on it again. I don’t even know what it will take because I have never done this before, but I will keep you, my readers, informed about the process as I learn. Join NaNoWriMo to write your novel in a month. It is free and fun and supportive. https://nanowrimo.org/sign_up

by:  Elizabeth Williams  I'm sorry it is so long, 1,071 words, I can't seem to write anything shorter than 1,000 words anymore.  I had already written my morning pages today.  My word count for today is: 2,093

Little Richard - a Fairy Tale

As part of the warm-up to NaNoWriMo I signed up for this writing assignment.  I was given these words and these instructions;

- Fairy Tale, Carnival, old key -

Here are the rules:

1. Genre - Your story must be written in the promoted genre. However, some cross overs are allowed. For example, if you get Suspense your story could also have elements of historical fiction. 
2. Location - The bulk of your story must take place in the specified location.
3. Object - Your object must be incorporated somewhere in the story. How much the object has to do with the plot is up to you.
4. Length - 1000 words. 
5. Time - submit your story by 10 pm Sunday October 19 to be within time. 
6. Keep it clean - per the rules of the Nanowrimo forums should you choose to share here.

This is my story, fairy tale,

Once upon a time in a far away town lived a little boy named Richard. Now Richard didn’t live in an ordinary house like most of us do, because Richard didn’t have any parents, and in those days there weren’t any foster homes or orphanages. Richard could have had a place with a group of poor thieves but Richard would not steal. As a result he had to find his own way in the big world of this small town. He lay down at night in the shelter of an old wooden box, and tucked into a bag once used for feed. The floor and back wall of his tiny abode leaned into the backside of a pile of warm horse manure. The man who’s pile it was allowed little Richard to stay there as payment for collecting manure from the streets. The man sold manure as fire bricks and made a very meager living. He could not afford to feed little Richard. Richard spent the nights before he laid himself to sleep, foraging the compost bins and garbage of the towns folk. He managed to find a crumb here and a crust there. Some of the towns folk beat him if they found him digging in the garbage. Sometimes dogs chased him away, wanting all the scraps for themselves.

Every year in the summer the carnival came to town. For two weeks the townsfolk partied and enjoyed themselves. Poor Richard longed to go to the carnival and play the fun games with the other little children. He longed to run races and play kick ball. But Richard was much too poor to go. He often walked around the outside of the wall which surrounded the carnival. He imagined what was going on inside. The music, singing and dancing. He imagined the games and shows going on. He especially imagined all the good food there was to eat on the other side of the wall. Every evening he ended up going to his little bed in the manure hungry and tired listening to the hilarities of the towns people in the distance. Every morning he went inside the walls of the carnival while everyone was still asleep and picked up the horse droppings from the day before and put them into his bag. He made several trips through the carnival and back to his pile. Every evening when the town folk came out to play, little Richard went back to his wooden box.

One day when he was picking up horse droppings inside the carnival walls he heard the cries of an old man coming from a tent. Cautiously he peered into the tent and saw that the man had fallen. He helped him get back up and asked him if he needed anything. The man said he had given him all he needed and thanked him. Before Richard left the man handed him a key. He told him to hold onto it. Richard didn’t know what to say. It didn’t look very valuable, rusty and pitted. But it was special only because the man gave it to him and he couldn’t remember when he had been given anything other than a kick or a hit. He hurried back to his box, dragging the last bag of manure behind him, there he pulled a string out of the feed bag and threaded it through the hole in the top of the key, tying the string together he made a loop which he put his head through. The key hung from the string and lay hidden beneath his thread bare shirt. That night he lay in his bed holding the key tightly in his hand.

The next day when the sun began to glow in the western sky and the lights were being lit along the streets, Richard heard a commotion coming closer down the road. A horse drawn carriage was making it’s way toward the carnival. Richard could see the crowd of towns folk gathering around it, following it. It must be the Royal family making an appearance at the carnival. He knew he would have to pick up the droppings after they passed by so he waited with his bag the key hidden underneath his shirt. Just as they neared the place where he waited the carriage became stuck fast on a rock. Two guards stepped down from the carriage and stood one by each side while the footman tended to the wheel. Richard watched the guard in awe. He stood straight and proud, ready to fight for the Royal family, his face motionless. Richard thought he saw a slightest smile around the corners of his mouth and a twinkle in his eyes. Richard turned to follow the road and gather the droppings from the royal horses as quickly as he could. The droppings would fetch a better price and his master would be happy. He hurried through his tasks and came back to the spot he had been at. The guard still stood in his place. The footman was almost just finished loosing the wheel from between two stones when a golden decorative flower loosened from the side of the carriage and fell at Richards feet. Quick as a whistle Richard picked it up and held it in his dirty hands. Immediately a cry came from the crowd. “Thief! Thief!” His eyes grew large as he looked around him. Men were coming at him and grabbing him up. “Thief!” they shouted. Too scared to be frightened he did not feel the beating he was receiving at the hands of the indignant crowd. A voice rang out above the noise. “Stop!” He heard. It was the most beautiful voice he had ever heard. A woman stood in front of him. It was the Queen. He could see the King just behind her and a girl about his size peeking out of the carriage. He handed the Queen the golden flower proudly. “Your flower fell off your carriage, Your Majesty.” He said looking at her and handing her the flower. But she was looking at the key which was hanging around his neck. It was not old and rusty anymore, it was shiny and glistening golden in the evening light. “The golden key!” she exclaimed. She picked up Richard, golden flower, key and all, except for the bag of manure, she didn’t pick up that, and carried him to the carriage. The King and Queen and the little Princess took Richard into their family and they lived happily ever after. After that Richard went to the carnival every year and danced and played and made music and ate lots of very fine food.

Written by Elizabeth Williams, 1,113 words.

The House 10

Josh sees a beautiful house. The House is the most beautiful house he has ever known. He does his best to care for the surrounding grounds. He wants them to match the house in beauty. If there is anything which needs to be repaired or painted he offered to do it but in all the time he’s known the house it has not needed anything major.

That month, Teddy, Greta and I spent more time outside. Exploring and investigating the out buildings, the hedges, the gardens and remaining orchard, reveling in the last of the years warmth. We found a chicken coop, which looked like it hadn’t been used in a long time. We found what looked like an herb garden and a glass greenhouse. Several panes were broken. I began to think about the spring and how much fun it would be to plant a little garden with the children. To grow some herbs again and maybe even get a few chickens. I smiled at myself. There are a lot of things I could do. I have my whole future ahead of me. I looked at the kids, they have their whole futures ahead of them. What a great place for them to grow up. I thought briefly about the meager plans I had had for them just a few months ago compared to the possibilities ahead of us today. Gratitude filled my being. I had an impulsive desire to bless my Grandma and thank her by doing something special for her. From around the other side of the barn I heard the excited cries of the children calling me. I went to see what new treasure they had found. There was a wall made of large stones about three feet tall. Greta had managed to climb to the top and was sitting up there looking around. Teddy was attempting to climb it but was having difficulty. I was concerned about safety of course and ran to Greta, to save her from a possible tumble and pick Teddy up and set him up beside her. We looked over the wall and saw that it was a large enclosed rectangle filled with tall weeds and small brush. The wall had crumbled in several places where vines had pulled it apart. I took the kids off the wall and we began to walk around it. I was looking for an opening. I wondered why I hadn’t seen this before. There were still a lot of places to discover. Today we had already found several new and interesting places on the property. We came to a place where the stones had fallen down and both the kids scrambled across and stood triumphantly inside the wall.

“Can we have a picnic?” Greta asked immediately. I smiled, she is so much like me. It does look like a great place for a picnic. Like archaeologists taking a break for lunch.

“Should we go and get one now?” I asked. “It’s a good time for a snack.” Both kids agreed and took off for the house.

Back in the kitchen I realized that it was already time for lunch. We put together a few sandwiches and cut celery and an apple each. I cut the apples in wedges for the kids. We found a basket in the pantry and some linens in the closet. The basket had swinging lids. Teddy stood on a chair opening and closing the lids as I placed the things in the basket. I filled a jar with milk and packed a couple of cups. I grabbed a blanket from the couch to spread on the ground.

“I’m ready,” announced Greta. She came into the kitchen with a hat on. One of Grandma’s hats I believe. Teddy wanted a hat as well. Greta had discovered a box of fabulous hat’s in the closet. We all donned one turning and smiling at our reflections in the long mirror. They were all much too big for Teddy but he was adorable. He had chosen a straw, small brimmed hat embellished with fall flowers and a checked sash. I tied it under his chin.

“We better get started,” I announced. “We don’t want the milk to spoil.”

So we headed out with our hats and our basket. I felt light and free. Of all the things I had ever dreamed of doing, this one had never entered the line up, but it was by far the best one yet. I wondered how many more beautiful experiences like this one I would have with my children. My life was joyful right now. The remembrance of Georgia’s visit becoming dim and the rocky stressful life with Stan growing further and further away in my mind as I trekked through the weeds to the little stone wall beyond which our inaugural picnic would take place. A plan began to brew in my mind. A plan for Grandma. A plan for her to come back to the house. To visit at first and then perhaps to stay. In my mind, I worked out the sketches of the plan while I sat on the blanket in the weeds eating a light lunch with the kids running around. At first they sat nicely on the blanket. It was a mere formality however, and it didn’t last long. I watched them play while I thought about what I would need to do to get the place ready for Grandma. I decided not to say anything to her yet.

Greta and Teddy were yelling for me. They had found something in the weeds. I went to investigate. It looked like a large rock. We pulled the weeds away. Some of the weeds were almost as tall as me. As I pulled the weeds out I began to realize that this was not a rock but a headstone. The front and back, polished. I scraped weeds away from the face of the stone. On my knees in front of it I read the words; Loving father and son. Henry Theodore Platte. March 21st, 1966 - September 15th, 1998.

By Elizabeth Williams.

The House 9

In the afternoon I sat next to my Grandma on the little couch in her room. We drank tea together. The events of last night seemed far-away and foolish now. I looked at her, really looked. Dark, soft, natural curls, accented by silver lines, graced her head. Her hair, always clean and freshly groomed. Her skin, soft and delicate a beautiful pearly pink. She didn’t cover it with powders and creams. She had a secret skin beauty.

She’d say, “Lottie, beauty doesn’t come from the outside.” As she ate her daily avocado and cucumber. Her skin held a soft beauty as a result, without creams nor moisturizers. Without powders and blushes. I admired her so much. Yet she looked much older than she really was. Her undressed dark eyes spoke volumes about pain and suffering and yet they seemed to smile in a simple beauty rarely seen. Only a few months ago I had sat beside her bed preparing myself to lose her forever. I barely knew her then. Now she sat upright on the couch beside me, her fingers caressing the edges of the warm teacup. A miracle. On nice days we walked outside. Today we sat and had tea. Greta and Teddy lay on the floor, coloring. Their pages lined the walls of her small but comfortable room. I wondered so much about her.

“Tell me about the house, Grandma.” I eventually burst out. She quietly set her cup down and looked into my eyes. She held my gaze like that and I saw in my mind a parade of events. The little girl I had seen in the window reflection, other children running outside under the fruit trees in the orchard. I saw children playing with chickens and feeding a pig. I saw grownups and then a dark cloud, the color of ink, blot all of it out. I started. She must have sensed what had happened because she took my hands in both of hers and squeezed gently. Her eyes had flooded with tears but she kept her gaze on me. In a moment I looked away and she dabbed her eyes with her napkin.

“Are you comfortable?” she asked.

“Oh, yes!” I returned

“It’s yours now. I won’t need it anymore.” She said quietly.

“But…” I began. I couldn’t absorb the fact that she keeps saying the house is mine. She must mean that in a hospitable way. You don’t just give a whole house and property away. Then there is the creepy way it moves and creaks and sometimes groans.

“It groaned.” I said quickly, half hoping that she wouldn’t notice.

“Things happened.” I added.

She became a little fierce in her response. “Don’t let them in. The house knows.” I looked at her in amazement. The house knows what? I wondered. She was so vague but I got the impression that the subject was now closed and she wanted to see what the children had drawn. Exclamations over the artwork ensued. Laughter and explanations filled the space around me. I found new places to tape the pages so that Great-Nana could see them. We began our good-byes. I put my arms around her shoulders and held her close for a moment. It felt so good to be there. There was a strength in her yet her body was so small and frail. It was as though courage filled her up and spilled over onto me. I kissed her gently. As we parted she smiled her infectious smile and announced.

“Inside is safety, Dear. Discovery is inside.” She held one hand up in a triumphant pose. Greta and Teddy copied the pose triumphantly, falling into the spirit of the stance. I made an attempt at the pose myself, though I was weak in it from feeling silly. I didn’t know what she meant by it.

We drove away. The kids happy. I wondered, why can’t I get any real answers from Grandma, only more questions. The kids were chatting about their artwork and the crayons. They love the crayons at Great-Nana’s. Somehow everything at Great-Nana’s is better, more wonderful. Even the cookies are better. I began thinking about Aunt Melinda. I should call her sometime and ask her about it. Maybe she knows something. She has been to the house, just never actually lived in it. Perhaps Grandma has confided in her. I know they are close.

We saw Josh, the neighbor, mowing the lawn, perhaps for the last time this year, as we pulled into our lane. I stopped to open the gate.

“Can we get out and run Mama?” Greta asked excitedly.

“Run?” asked Teddy, clapping his hands.

“OK” I gave in and unbuckled Teddy, while Greta unbuckled herself. I let them run beside the drive, shouting and jumping as they raced beneath the Maples. I closed the gate behind me, they had a head start and I drove slowly keeping my eye on them. When we got to the house I parked the car in the garage. I didn’t go into the house but walked around, running free with the children. I put my arms out and pretended to be an airplane. We flew around until we found Josh. He stopped his tractor and we went up to him.

“Ma’am?” he questioned.

“Nice day, Josh!” I declared.

“It sure is, ma’am.” He agreed.

“Josh,” I demanded, “what do you see?” I gestured with my arm the whole house, looking at it with pride.

“I’m not sure what you mean, ma’am.” He stammered uncertainly.

“Well, what do you see?” I reiterated. Sweeping with my arm again. This time I looked at him. He looked around.

“The house.” He said, still a little uncertainly.

“Well, what kind of house? A nice house, or a dilapidated house? Is it painted nicely? White with clean trim? Is it in good repair? Or is it broken down and in ruins?” I looked at him again and then back at the house.

By Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, 1,000 words. 
Previous chapters of The House:  The House 8,  The House 7,  The House 6, The House 5 , The House 4 , The House 3 , The House 2 , The House 1
Next chapter:  The House 10

An Awesome Therapy

Yesterday I spent some time in the morning researching websites which talk about freelance writing jobs and how to get those jobs. There were lists of available jobs right now. There were message boards to go through to look for jobs. It was exciting to think that perhaps I could write a blog post, magazine or e-zine article and get paid. There’s nothing like getting some monetary reward for something you love to do. I love to write. I write something almost every day. I would love to get a job doing that. Especially if it were something I can do at home like that. Write a few articles a week and have some spending money. Oh the things I could do with some spending money. I began to look through the opportunities. Lots of topics. Art, design and photography; audio and multimedia; business and finance; computing and IT; entertainment and humor; food and drink; health and fitness; lifestyle; parenting and family; sport and leisure; travel and international; web development; writing blogs; etc. All these lists being very serious about their topic and expecting an educated mind to respond, perhaps with some serious research done.

I have forty-five posts on my blog. All of them quickly typed off the top of my head, from my heart. I have more than that in Scrivener. Nothing serious. I question whether anyone would read my posts never mind pay to have them. I write what I want to write. I write what I like. I just write. One morning I wrote a one thousand word page of nothing in particular. It was rather like a painting loaded with colors, vibrant and soft but with no definite shape or recognizable spaces. Words come streaming out and I an observer. Sometimes I have to change something because I do have a little education and even I know when something won’t work or just plain isn’t right. I have read some books and I have paid attention to some stuff.

These lists of topics intimidated me. I looked at them. I wasn’t even interested in them. If I did feel qualified to write for them, I’m not sure my writing would fit in. I don’t do things like ordinary people. I don’t live like ordinary people. I don’t raise my children ordinary either so even the parenting lists went over my head and out the door. I couldn’t write for the finance columns. What do I know about art? I love art and I like to make art sometimes, although I haven’t picked up a paintbrush since Debbie was here. I couldn’t write about housecleaning and homemaking since I know very little about either. I couldn’t write about being a good wife. Did you know that people actually write about that? Chickens and gardening, well, I’m no expert and I don’t follow the rules even though I read all the available books about chickens, they were impractical and unnecessary and I have had to find my own way. If people knew how relaxed I am with my chickens, well, lets not write about it. My chickens practically take care of themselves and I fill waterers and feeders and open and close doors at night and in the morning and we gather eggs. A child can do it. People write books about it, whole books, long books as though it’s a very important thing to write about. Gardening, well, I’m just learning about that and there is so very much to know and it changes all the time. I’m still reading up on it and learning from Grandpa and from our local farmers. I see gardens in people’s backyards and I’m jealous of them even though I have my own. “Look, they have a beautiful garden.” I say thinking about my own fenced off weed patch which delivers so much to our family in the way of food.

So it seems that I don’t really have anything to offer anyone that could pay a reward to me. I suppose I’m challenged now. Should I become interested in these topics? Should I foster an interest in the American lifestyle enough to write about it? Perhaps I should pretend I was given one of those assignments. Pick one and do my best with it. See what happens. Perhaps I should write about how you don’t need any of that advice at all and that you should just go with your best instincts and make sure that you love you own life just the way you are. Perhaps we should all just stop trying to do everything right and just do what’s best for yourselves and your families. Don’t send your kids to school if you don’t want to. Of course you have to get permission for that. Don’t participate in organized sports if you don’t want to. Don’t go around trying to get the edge on everyone else and don’t go making sure your kids are getting the edge either. Just make sure that they are getting enough sleep. Make sure they have lots of time for play. Make sure they are eating real food and drinking plenty of clean water. I don’t think that kind of writing would be readable never mind getting paid for it. People want to be told how to live. The next best way to do things. That’s why we have our Martha Stewarts. We wouldn’t have those kinds of key people if we weren’t trying to be taught how to make our beds and fold our sheets and what to do with stuff. We wouldn’t have a lot of key people and magazines if we weren’t trying to be like everyone else and know about everything else. I suppose you have to be a little bit interested in the rest of the world if you are going to sell any writing. Perhaps a lot interested. I suppose I should get an education. I’m sure it’s not too late. Or maybe I’ll just write everyday because I enjoy it and it’s an awesome therapy.

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,012 words

The House - 8

That night I lay on the bed, my two little ones snug against me, sleeping. Their contented breathing sounds comforting me. My eyes wide open, thinking. I didn’t get up and type. I didn’t want to leave the children, not with Georgia in the house. I tried to understand what may have happened to her but could not make any sense out of the little I knew. She had seen Stan. I was tempted to get up and confront her but I didn’t. The little I did know was already overwhelming me. I went through a lot of emotions, anger, frustration, confusion, and loneliness but I must have fallen asleep at some point because I was waking up just as the sun was rising. I heard Georgia talking. She must be on the phone. The talking got loud and soft as though she were pacing back and forth. I wonder if she slept at all. I got out of bed covering the babies back up. In the kitchen Georgia was pacing. The look on her face told of a stressful night. She didn’t see me at first. She was complaining about the house to someone on the phone. It’s old and run down. No running water, doors won’t open, no food in the fridge or cupboards. Not fit to be lived in. I walked into the kitchen and turned on the coffee maker. The sun was shining into the breakfast nook. Rainbows danced on the wall behind the couch. I had placed a few crystals in the window, just right to catch the first rays of morning sun. She must have tried to sleep on the couch. I turned the tap on, cool water streamed out. I stuck my hand in the stream and let it run over me. Maybe she means the hot water. I turned it on and waited until it became warm, it didn’t take long and it was too hot to keep my hands in. Perhaps she was talking about something else. Anyway, the house is not run down and the fridge is amply stocked, she must be talking about a different house. I went to the bathroom. The door was closed. I opened it. As I was turning around she rushed past me breathing the words out, “Finally!” Her tattered suitcase nearly knocking me over.

I took my coffee to the breakfast nook. It would be great if we could talk before the kids get up.

A rush and she was out of the bathroom, “I’ve got to get out of here. You better come with me.” She announced breathlessly. “This place isn’t fit for living in.” Her voice becoming shrill.

“Excuse me!” I looked at her squaring my shoulders.

“Well,” she said, “If you won’t, at least let me take the kids to a safe place.”

I was standing up now. The house groaned. It was loud. She shivered.

“Get your stuff, let’s get going.” She turned nervously around as though to help me with something.

“The children and I aren’t going anywhere.” I glared at her. Last night she needed a place to stay, today she’s planning to relocate us. “You’re crazy!” I said. “You’re not taking my children anywhere. You need to leave now.” I said it firmly and looked at her. I wish I knew why she thought it was her business to check up on us and decide if our place was suitable or not. She looked at the counter where a cup of coffee waited for her. I had thought to sit down and have some coffee with her, talk to her and find out what was going on with her. But that was before she began blurting out statements about the safety of my children.

She began to drink the coffee, black. “We all need to go.” She said.

“Why?” I asked, curious.

She began to speak but changed her mind and continued to drink, as though in a hurry. Presently she said in a rather whiny voice. “I came to see how you are doing!”

“Who sent you?” I asked, “Stan sent you, didn’t he?” I should have figured but still I was surprised. It’s not like him.

“Stan!” she sneered. Then who, I wondered. “You would be so much better off.” She added quickly. “Now that you’re not with Stan anymore. There’s nothing stopping you.”

“Where would I be better off?” I demanded. Then it dawned on me, the cult, but I kept quiet.

“It’s been a long time Lottie.” She said in a kindly sweet tone. “You probably don’t remember much. But things are different now. We’ve changed. It’s great. We can do so many things now. You belong with us. The children belong. She paused.

“So you-all are allowed to cuss now too?” I mocked. “Look at you! Driving up here in a beat-up old car, wearing torn up clothes, acting like a God-forsaken orphan, needing a place, telling me you know what’s best for me, and my children? I don’t want to know who put you up to this, but I have a pretty good idea.” I stopped and walked towards her. She backed away.

“Do it for the children, Lottie.” She begged as she gathered her bag in one hand her sweater in the other. “Think of them. They belong, you belong.” She turned to go, tripped over the rug in the hallway and crashed into the wall. A string of expletives poured out of her mouth. She started to cry as she pulled herself together and left the house. “I can’t believe you want to live here. It’s haunted. I had the worst night ever.”

I can’t say that my night had been that great either. I watched as she drove away. It was such a relief to hear her noisy car getting quieter as she drove further and further away. I turned toward the house. Greta was standing in the doorway. “Is the bad scary lady gone now, Mama?” she asked. 

By Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, 1,004 words. 
The next chapter of The House:  The House 9Previous chapters of The House:   The House 7,  The House 6, The House 5 , The House 4 , The House 3 , The House 2 , The House 1

Something I Can Do

The last thing I wanted was to be like everyone else. It seemed to me that everyone else was moving in one direction. It was a direction I didn’t want to go. It came from anger perhaps. The anger of losing my sweet baby to brain cancer in a world which holds no answer. Give money, give money. But still no answer. We are helping people, but I am not helped. Everybody I see is eating stuff which isn’t really food. Stuff which comes in wrappers and foils, boxes with pretty writing and fancy artwork. Little plastic cups with tasty stuff, but none of it food. Treats at the walk-a-thon, rallies and benefits, taste and smell good but don’t resemble food. Plastic water bottles, juice boxes and bottles and liquids in plastic. Plastic bottles piled high in cans, dirty, smelly. On garbage day, large cans lining the road on both sides, full of garbage. Everyone putting everything into their mouths. Nobody saying, “What is this?” Nobody questions. All the people saying, “Eat this way. This is what we do. We eat this at breakfast and this at lunch. We go to places where they feed us for dinner. We like it like this. You do this too. It is easy. It is fun.” All the people going to doctors and taking medicines. This is what we do. We all do this. Everybody has pain. The doctors say, this is what happens it is normal. The whole world is drinking and eating the same thing. I see pictures from other countries, they all have plastic soda pop bottles. They all have Coke. The food is in packages with pretty writing, boxes and bottles and tubes and tubs. Food is not in sacks and baskets. Everybody says they don’t feel well. Everybody is hurting somewhere and feeling afraid, but they keep on putting this stuff into their mouths. I don’t want to eat like that. I just can’t do it. I read and read. Every package and bottle, box and tub has words. Really small words. Sometimes the words are so small I need a magnifying glass. I read the words under the title ‘ingredients’. Our family stands in the grocery store and reads the words. We say, “What does this mean? How do you say this word?” We look for the food in the list. We don’t buy it because we don’t know what it is. The first time I went to the store and read the ingredient lists I came home with nothing. I cried. I went to the garden and put my hands in the dirt. We turned the earth and planted seeds. We weeded and waited. Meanwhile we bought fruits and vegetables fresh at the market and at the store. We bought organic, we bought local. We did not buy boxes or packages. We did not buy tubes and tubs. We put food into our cart. It didn’t look like much. We bought flour and yeast and baked bread at home. We rolled out our own tortillas. We made our own cookie dough. In the spring and summer we ate from our garden. Peas, lettuce, radishes, asparagus, onions, peppers, tomatoes, beans, potatoes, eggplant, cabbages, cucumbers, zucchini. We had too much food. We gave it away. We worked hard. It was fun and it was easy, it took time and it drew us together. I take my basket out to the garden and bring it back full. We feel well. We don’t go to the doctor. We don’t need a doctor because we are well. We don’t need medicine. We don’t eat what isn’t food. We aren’t like everyone else. We do different things. We don’t put garbage out on Thursday’s. We don’t have much garbage. We compost. Making food, growing it and storing it takes a lot of my time. Sometimes I am tired. Sometimes I don’t want to make my food. I think that it is a lot of work. It would be nice to eat what is already prepared. People think it will be OK but I studied the big foreign words on the ingredient lists. It is poison. It would not hurt you to eat a little poison one day in your life. But everyday, all day long, all the food that people eat is poisoned. Poisoned with artificial ingredients, colors, flavors, enhancers, conditioners, emulsifiers. It is all poison. It says ‘natural’ but it is still poison. People get sick and then they take medicine which is also poison. Their bodies get tired of fighting the poisons and begin to break down. Bit by bit people don’t feel well. Bodies which are deprived of nutrients and real food don’t have much to fight foreign germs with. Diseases begin to spread. Fear spreads too. The body is too weak and cancer begins to grow. The doctors say, “More poison is the answer.” The body becomes too weak and cannot heal without good nutrition. The doctors say, “Artificial vitamins will help.” The artificial vitamins contain more poison. My body is not artificial. It needs real food. My body is a part of nature. I need to eat from nature. I decide it is not easier to eat the way the rest of the world eats. It will be easier in the long run to provide my own food from nature, bake my own bread and roll my own tortillas. I decide that I have chosen a good path. I have chosen a healthy path. I am not angry anymore. There is something I can do. I can feed my family real food. I can grow herbs for healing. I can keep busy growing and storing and preparing good healthy food. I am thankful for the dirt and what it will grow for us. It is a good thing that I can give other people hope for a healthier life that isn’t expensive and doesn’t cost much more than effort. This is a lifestyle. I am beginning to notice that I am not alone. There are other people who eat real food from nature and prepare it themselves the way people did before there were packages. It is a good life.

Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, 1,035 words.

Reading and Writing

It’s really late to be writing my morning pages. I’ve read and read this morning. It is the kind of reading which makes you want to write. I can’t walk away from this keyboard now after having read these wonderful pieces. I read about Hillary Mantel. A face book page called Writers shared a feature article about her. About how crazy and lovable, how sensitive and how cold. The article was written in the www.newstatesman.com. On the outside a quiet lovable, interested lady. On the inside a driving force of real and surreal ideas cramming her brain to be let out. Her real life sufferings forming and shaping who she is and driving her imagination. I loved the article. I felt as though I had been to her apartment to meet her and had found in her a kindred spirit, reciprocated by her. I couldn’t pull my eyes from the page and read more quickly so to be finished in time to wake up Chloe. Alas, I let Chloe sleep in but finished reading the story. Inspired I kept scrolling and found an article by Lev Grossman, How Fatherhood Ruined His Life Plan and made him the Writer He is Today. Excerpted from “Daughter Pressure” by Lev Grossman. Several things he said resonated clearly with me. Experiences from his childhood and the crumbling of the shell he had grown around himself as a result, due to his relationship with his brand new daughter. It was a wonderful read and completely inspiring. I just can’t walk away from my morning pages now. So even if it is nearly nine o’clock in the morning and today has not only school in it, but also a couple of loads of laundry, clothes to put away and some to iron first, bread to bake and all the usual cleaning up and straightening including an overall vacuuming ending with home made pizza and a movie, morning pages it is. I’m actually really quite good at making up time. I’ve had a lot of practice due to an insufferable capability for procrastination. I’m normally slow and methodical and then click, boom, I’m freaking everybody out because I just got focused and aim to accomplish a ton in the remaining time or bust. I’m really feeling not too bad. My mind seems to be doing the best lately. I noticed on my morning walk around the chicken coops and subsequent search for the dog that my mind is not rebelling at being up at the crack of dawn any more. I was recalling how I wouldn’t bring the dog with me because, of course, she would wander off and have things of her own to do. It would irritate me no end to have to make my body walk the extra steps to go and find her. It’s not like I could holler for her either. My voice didn’t use to work in the mornings. She wouldn’t listen if I did holler. Those memories come from a time when neither my body nor my mind felt well. Now at least my mind feels well and I’m bringing my body along and it is also liking the experience very much. I am able to talk to the chickens and the ducks. The roosters stop their crowing to listen to my soothing talk. My voice isn’t scary to them in the mornings any more. I remember opening the coop door once as they came out in a rush, happy to be let out into a new day and saying “Good morning” in my very bad morning voice. Suddenly they all stopped and ran back in. I was sorry I had tried to greet them. But now my voice is awake, soft and comforting in the mornings and I can talk to them without fear of frightening them back into the coop. I’m actually enjoying my morning stroll even the part where I go looking for the dog. I feel refreshed and ready for the day when I get back. Sometimes I have finished my writing sometimes I still have more writing to do. Morning pages were supposed to be unedited, quickly written, badly spelled, enlightening pieces designed to wake one up. I am having trouble writing that way. I recognize errors as they happen and I can’t seem to move on without going back and correcting them. I keep reading what I’m writing so I have to make adjustments. Really it is turning out to be more of an exercise in writing. I also have a hard time writing anything which may be negative about my life, even my over-eating habit is difficult to talk about in a negative way. I think it’s best to focus on stuff that is great. I do love what I cook. I love what I’ve grown in the garden and that I’ve figured out a way to cook it. I end up loving it and eating too much of it. I also can’t bear to throw it away, since I grew it and cooked it and all that is a lot of work. I love that I get to home-school our daughter and that we both love to write. I’m often listening to the keys on the other computer clacking away. Every once in awhile I hear satisfied or happy noises coming from her direction when she is writing. Like she just wrote something really good and is enjoying it. I love that she uses big words in her writing and nothing she writes makes any sense. I love that I get to garden and that I have a greenhouse now and a cold-frame and plants all around which are either pretty or producing food or both. I do like the dirt, I don’t care for spiders and grasshoppers. There are plenty of hard work aspects to gardening and home-schooling but writing, even though it can at time exhaust one, feels only like play. I love that about writing.  

Written by Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, morning pages.
1,000 words.

Today's Morning Page - Who is this character in my story?

I browsed face book when I got up. I didn’t write my morning pages first. I had a fairly light sleep because of some poison ivy on my arm. I am trying to dry it up with a steroid cream which I got with a prescription. I didn’t want to cover it because I had covered it up too much already. I want it to have some time to breathe. So I was conscious not to put that part of my arm under the covers even though it did want to be warmed up. Yesterday I had emailed my sister about a new part to a story I had written. I felt uncomfortable with a character because she was cussing and I wanted to know how it affects the story from my sister’s point of view. So I thought about it all night in the space between deep sleep and light sleep. It was a little more difficult to get up when the alarm went off and I took a number of snoozes. I had about fifteen minutes before the sun began to rise so I checked face book instead of beginning my morning pages. She had answered my questions and I was delighted with her answer. The sun is rising now and the chickens are let out and fed. I took a short walk back there because I had to find my dog. She must have found something because she was making a lot of activity in some under brush under the big maple at the back. The walk was good.

Yesterday, late afternoon Chloe and I went to the library. She checked out a lot of books. More than she can carry. Mark and I both had to take a stack. I worked out some more details with my Elsie book. I have done as much as I can do at the library and now need to print out the pages. I will make a mock book to practice reading it and to see how the words flow from page to page while reading out loud to a couch full of stuffed animals. With my work finished on the Elsie book I took out a piece of paper and began to write. I wrote about my character and how I felt about her walking into my story and using foul language.

“I was writing early this morning, just like I always do. 

 Only, today I was writing, “The House”. I had left the

 story in a creepy condition and was quite anxious to 

 discover who was at the door.  So, this morning when I 

 began to write the scene turned up a crude character 

 whose language was vulgar. I thought to stop it, but then

 I would have to change the story. Her very use of these 

 words defined her current characters condition. She 

 wouldn’t be the same person if she spoke like I do. After 

 I published it I began to wonder if I should let a 

 character cuss in my story. It has bothered me all day, 

 but then I realized that it isn’t my story really. I’m the          writer, writing it down. Something here is trying to be 

 said. It’s a problem when a book is published page by page.

 It is also a blessing. Edits will have to wait until it is          ended. Changing anything now will change the whole story. 

 The course of the story is what I mean. I have as much 

 control over this as one does of a dream. I hope the strong          language doesn’t spoil it for you my dear reader(s).”

I am becoming amazed at the process of writing this story. I am always just as curious as you. I think all week about the possible scenarios and how they could play out, but when I sit down to write the character takes over and I am but watching a show. I pay attention to which words I use to describe what is happening. I pay attention to grammar and tone. I do have some responsibility here. My sister confirmed my feelings that I should let the character be who she is because that is who she really is.

     “I think it's real. This woman obviously is not a good 
      person. Even the house is trying to keep her away. Real             writing says it like it is. There is bad language in 
      this world and it is part of this bad character. I love 
      it. You have me hooked. Love it. Love you”


    I am learning as I write. I chose to write this story because it played the most music in my head. I have other stories to tell someday, but I will try not to tell them all in the one story. Some stories will need their own pages to express themselves on. I’m not completely sure yet which story this one will be but I have a few very good ideas. I usually spend only one day a week obsessing and writing “The House”. I have other things I do. I garden, and preserve and care for the chickens. I have a home-school and a home.  I tend to take care of mostly everything here as my dear husband is always taking on large projects around the place. This month he is refinishing the garage. One new corner post was necessary because he found that ants had eaten the old one almost completely away. I worried about my garlic hanging in the garage, should the garage fall down. He has almost finished replacing the siding now and received a new window from his father to replace the old rotten one.  Someday it will be a brand new garage. He said it might have been easier to just start over, tear the old one down and build a new one, but I don’t know. Have you seen the inside of his garage? It isn’t used only for storing my garlic. A whole years worth.

by Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,000 words.

The House - 7

I waited for the door bell to ring but it didn’t. Loud thumping startled me and then the muffled sound of calling from the other side of the door. “Lottie, are you in there?” I went down the hall to the side door. All kinds of questions were flooding me. Who could be here? What do they want? Why the bag? Who would come here so late in the day? It is time for me to get the children ready for bed and now a stranger is at my door. Perhaps they are lost, but why the premonitions? Apprehensive, I opened the door and found myself staring into the face of an old friend. She was in such a state of upheaval. Even her bag was a mess. Broken handle tied together with string and old shoe laces. Her hair, once a symbol of order and perfection was now tangled and disorderly. It looked like a self hair-cut hair style. Old make-up caked the skin around her eyes, darkening them and giving her a creepy appearance.

“Georgia?” I ventured.

“Can I come in?” she whined her question, as though she had a right and I was preventing her.

“Well, I suppose.” I stammered, not sure what to say. I moved out of her way and she walked right in and started looking around as if she might find someone else here. I checked the doorbell. It worked. Startled me!

“Oh, does it work?” she asked, “It didn’t work for me.”

Feeling strange I looked down the hallway toward the kitchen. The doors to the rooms were closed. The library and laundry room doors were closed. The door to the upstairs was closed and the great dining room door was closed. These doors were always open. The hair on my head stood up. This part of the house is the original house. The other parts were all added on later. Rooms were separated by doors and hallways. The kitchen off the back of the house had later been remodeled to accommodate modern appliances and part of it turned into a breakfast nook. It is a large open area with a small couch along one wall. It serves as an everything room, cooking, eating and lounging. The large door and four windows look out onto a veranda and the back yard where the children love to play. It is a warm and inviting space painted in shades of strong yellows and deep orange. The woodwork is a rich cherry red color. I love this room. I welcomed Georgia in. She was still looking around curiously.

She needed to use the bathroom. Even the bathroom door had closed. She could not open it. I went to investigate but had no problem opening the door. I have not felt afraid in this house before. It has been a sanctuary for me. But this night I began to feel overwhelmingly afraid. I was afraid of Georgia. I’m not sure why I was afraid of her. If I had run into her somewhere else I would have been happy to see her. But the way she came at the end of the day like this, unannounced, bedraggled and demanding, made me suspicious of her. I know what a friend feels like I think. I have had friends before, haven’t I? I had wondered, on a few occasions, about Georgia and wouldn’t it be great to see her again. I had imagined giving each other warm hugs and sipping coffee in a coffee shop somewhere. I had never imagined her like this. Even her car was so unlike her. Georgia was the one who had it all together. The promising one.

I was becoming afraid of the house as well, with it’s creaking and groaning, doors closing and locking and the doorbell. The way the house felt earlier before she drove up the driveway. The way it felt as though it were growing around me and pulling me in. The kitchen being the only place in the house which feels the same as it always does. I sat down between Greta and Teddy, my arms around them, thinking, thinking. What is going on! Loud banging and thumping on the bathroom door, some unladylike language and the door opened and then a crash.

“Oh my gosh, shit!” Loud gushing complaints coming from down the hall.

Teddy started to cry. It sounded like she had tripped on the rug and fallen down.

“Are you alright?” I ventured.

“This house is fuck'n haunted!” she cried out. “There is some really weird shit going on here.”

Now Greta was crying too.

“Georgia!” I cried out, “my babies are here, and we are rated G. Please!?”

“G! Lottie you haven’t changed a bit. I came here to see you, I need a place to stay. You’re the only person I can count on.”

“How did you find us?” I questioned, overlooking the weirdness of that statement.

“I ran into Stan. He said you had gone North and were staying with your Grandma. I looked her up on Google. Fuck him. He made it sound like you lived in a palace. He didn’t say you were living in a dilapidated haunted house. Fuck him.” Her hand went over her mouth. “I’m sorry!” Both kids were crying loudly. She looked at them with disgust. “I thought we’d catch up and drink some beers.”

“I don’t drink.” I told her. I was not liking her at all anymore. She was not at all as I remembered her.

“I don’t care,” she offered, “I can drink wine.”

“I don’t drink wine either.” I said, my voice becoming icy.

“What the fuck do you drink?” she demanded. Her hand swooped over her mouth again. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Water.” I answered and carrying Teddy in one arm led Greta out of the kitchen by the hand. We headed down the hall to the Master bedroom which was Great-nana’s room. “Sleep where ever you want.” I hollered back at her. We closed the bedroom door behind us. The room was warm and inviting. The Master bathroom and large bedroom, one large safe place. I felt the walls rap around us and sensed a safety in them. I knew that she would not be able to open any doors. I didn’t care. I couldn’t. I had two beautiful little people right here, who were tired and distressed, to think about and care for.

It was beginning to dawn on me that the house, which had been becoming creepy and had been filling me with fear, was actually protecting us from something. Something which had to do with Georgia. I touched the wall with my open hand and whispered, “Thank you.”

By Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, 1,123 words.


To read the next chapter:  The House 8,  The House 9
Previous chapters of The House:  The House 6,  The House 5 , The House 4 , The House 3 , The House 2 , The House 1

Family Outing

It’s strange how we have our usual tussle just prior to going out somewhere. I spend too much time getting things done and caring for myself. He works to the last minute and thinks he’s going, looking like that. We ended up in the car, everybody looking just fine, at a very good hour and happy to be getting out. The sun shining warmly on a cool September day. It felt great. Almost like a Sunday but midweek. We were still tussling a little but only in a lighthearted banter kind of way. I should have known he said four. I didn’t hear any such thing. I heard “We’ll leave when you are ready.” “Oh yes,” piped up little Pipsqueak, “he said ‘aim for four’”. “Well,” I bantered back, “I should think five thirty is very close, and we are still bound to have a wonderful time.” And a wonderful time we had. We played mini golf. It is our yearly tradition to play mini-golf during Pipsqueaks first school break. We got all kinds of big numbers getting the little ball to go into the hole at the other end of the green mat. I bumped my ball carefully and it rolled down the green and plopped into the hole. We each had a hole-in-one. One each. But most of the time it took four to ten tries. I took some pictures. The little park was set up beautifully. It was on a farm turned into an activity, ice-cream, restaurant, park. Mini-golf, batting cages, driving range, ice-cream parlor/sandwich shop, restaurant, gift shops, petting farm. In the fall they have a corn maze and horse drawn wagon. In the warm months they have a barrel train for children to take rides and tractor pulled wagon rides. This weekend they will have a gathering of all things related to wool. There will be sheep and Llamas. There will be a sheep shearing. Long tents will be filled with vendors displaying their hand spun yarns, knitting machines, weaving looms, spinning wheels. It will be a colorful, interesting display. They come every year from all over the country. We love to go to it. We will be there on Saturday. Every year in October they have a pumpkin festival. It goes on every weekend. Kids come from all over to pick out a pumpkin. We grow our own pumpkins but we like to try the corn maze and Pipsqueak likes the barrel train.

We finished a round of golf and wandered off onto the grounds towards the ice-cream parlor. It was our dinner time and we sure did feel strange heading for the ice-cream before having dinner. It has been over three years since we ate our food in a paying establishment. No fast-food, no restaurants, for over three years. It was a brave decision but it was unanimous. He said, “We’re headed the wrong way if it’s dinner we want.” We headed the way that led to dinner and a beautiful walk it was. Baby oak trees lined the way. I got Pipsqueak to stand beside one, the one with the acorn, and smile for the camera. We didn’t feel bad going into the restaurant, we knew what to do, we’ve been in these places before, just not for thirty-seven months. It was a wait to be seated place. The decorations were all farm things from the past. We are particularly fond of past farm relics, so the place was a delight to see. It was built like a big wooden beam barn. The rafters were full of antique relics.

We sat at the table. He left his reading glasses at home so I had to read the menu to him. Pipsqueak colored a picture of a cow on a tractor. Beautiful coloring using four colors. We ordered and waited. We talked about how long it had been since we had eaten ‘out’. “We deserve to eat out,” I decided, “we’ve been very good.” We all had a laugh. A waitress brought a signature appetizer out to our table. I went to hand the plates around and one was very dirty so we stacked them back up and just ate off the serving plate together. The ginger cake was very good. The applesauce was thin and lacked flavor. The butter tasted off. I began to think about how we eat at home. How we grow carefully, pick and preserve. How we buy what we need with utmost care, the cleanest and the best. The flavor on the plate at home is rich and bold, without added flavor enhancers. Eggs are full of flavor without need for salt, potatoes are robust, meat is rich. The beans we cook straight from our own backyard are flavorful. It is hard to match that. We bowed our heads and blessed the Lord. We ate our food thankfully but I will have to say that the special part about that meal was not the food, but the idea that we were eating ‘out’. I had ordered a sweet potato casserole as a side dish. After a couple of tastes I began digging around in the little pan for the sweet potato part. The sweetness of it was not from sweet potato but from sugar, which was burning my throat. There were nuts which I love in such a pudding, but the sugar burned. I gave it to him for his dessert. He is used to sweet as he uses it in his coffee. I am not used to sweet. I don’t use sugar at all and what we use at home is a raw unprocessed sugar called ‘Sucanat’. I like my sweet potatoes with only their own sweetness.

After three years and one month of making our food at home, bread, tortillas, ice-cream and puddings, raising our chickens and tending our garden, drying herbs and freezing corn, beans and peas, I will say that, it is worth it, every bit.

Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, 1,004 words.

The House 6

That night after the children had fallen asleep, I got up and went to the library. The typewriter sat on the desk just as I had left it the night before, the pages I had typed lay beside it. I put a new piece of paper in the typewriter and began to type. I typed for about an hour letting my fingers choose the words. I didn’t pay much attention to what I was writing but listened to the clacking of the keys and the ding at the end of each line. It was a soothing experience and I let the words flow. They poured out of me onto one paper after another. It was relieving to let the words out. It had been a strange day, from the vision in the conservatory this morning to the car in the driveway. Questions about the family, the house, and now questions about who was here and what they wanted. Could it have been the children’s father? How could he be driving an expensive car like that? How could he know where I was? I hadn’t told him anything, just that we were going north to Aunt Melinda and Grandma. I wondered who it could have been. It wouldn’t be mother. She was living in a commune type thing, and hadn’t shown any interest in me since I married Stan. She hadn’t even wanted to see the children though we hadn’t lived far from her. Why would she care now? I felt a burn around my neck as I thought about my mother. My fingers jammed the keys on the typewriter. I can’t go down that road again I thought as I straightened out the keys. I turned my thoughts to the children. How they tried to help clean the windows, and the ladder incident. I laughed. That’s better. Tomorrow we’ll finish working on the conservatory windows. That is something I can look forward to. I will file for a divorce. I will have to look into that soon. I’d like to get that over with. I sighed, my fingers had stopped typing. I pulled the last page out of the typewriter and laid it on the desk with the other pages. Typing on one of these older typewriters is slow and rhythmic. I love the sound and the way it feels to my fingers. I caressed the keys gently before I headed to the bathroom to get ready for bed. I didn’t think too much about the car after that. It didn’t show up again. Perhaps it was a salesman.

A few days later I was sitting out on the kitchen porch with my laptop, watching Greta and Teddy riding their bikes. I felt an awareness come over me. It is hard to explain. The weather was turning cool enough for the children to wear a light jacket outside after their supper. I had finished cleaning up the kitchen and sat down on the porch. They were riding up and down the path behind the house, playing it was a road with stop signs and traffic lights. Teddy was calling out the stops and Greta was calling out the buildings along the way. She was pretending to pass by the pet store and the grocery store. There was a post office, and a farm. She yelled at the farmer. Teddy turned into a fireman at one point and got off his bike to put out some imaginary fires. It was beautiful to watch them play. So much goes on in their minds. They don’t get caught up too long on any one thing, moving smoothly from one thing to another. They play very well together and don’t fight too often. There is a lamp post at the end of the path, it is the gas station. I tied a short rope to it so that they could get some gas. It’s really important to be able to put gas in your bicycles. It is also surprising how often it needs to be refueled. I felt the house becoming large around me as I watched the children. It wasn’t touching me but I felt that it was holding me, pulling me. I looked at the children so happy and free. I had a sudden urge to get them into the house. The screen door blew open and gave me a chill. I called to the kids to come inside. They complained a bit but I went out and helped them get their bikes put away. It was almost time to come in anyway. The clouds were darkening and the wind was picking up. It was cheerful in the kitchen and I poured the kids a glass of milk each. I felt comforted. We sat there and drank milk and ate cookies. I am close to these little ones, each of us a part of the other. We couldn’t survive without each other we are a family.

Outside there was a loud noise of a broken muffler, a worn out engine coming to a stop, then the sound of a car door slamming shut. I looked out the window. An old beat up vehicle stood parked in the drive and a tired looking woman dressed in old clothes and with untidy hair carrying an old bag was making her way toward the house. She must be coming to the side door. She will ring the bell. The house groaned. I have never heard it make that noise. My head prickled from top to bottom. The kids must have sensed my apprehension because they were quiet. A woman coming up to the door shouldn’t be intimidating, but I felt afraid. Maybe it was the feelings I had about the house. Feelings about it pulling me inside and seemingly wrapping itself around me. I had been feeling strange for about an hour now. There hasn’t been a visitor here since we moved in. This house is my heaven. I waited for the door bell to ring.

 Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, 1,002 words.

The next chapters of The House:   The House 9
Previous chapters of The House: The House 5 , The House 4 , The House 3 , The House 2 , The House 1

To read the next chapter:  The House 7  The House 8

The House 5

I woke before the sun. The sky was the color of ash in all shades. It was going to be a foggy morning. I slipped out from between the still sleeping babes. There was a chill in the air and I realized the minute my feet hit the floor that I would be needing a pair of slippers. Taking a spare blanket I wrapped it around myself and headed for the kitchen. I love my early morning coffee before the demands of motherhood wake up and plan my day for me. I love to sit in the conservatory, sip my first cup and watch the sun rise. I sat in Grandpa’s chair. He must have been a big man because I always feel like such a little girl sitting here staring out at the large space around me. Perhaps today I will fix this room up. I could find some plants in town. We could go to the city. It may be a good day to find some new bikes for the kids. I sat there dreamily sipping my coffee which was disappearing much more quickly than I like. I like this moment. Making plans for this room. Washing all the windows will be interesting. I stood up and walked toward the center windows, a flash of color startled me. I stopped abruptly. The sun was illuminating a wall of thick fog and the gray was giving way to a blanket of white. I looked out the window and saw a what appeared to be a reflection of the room. A little girl in white nightgown was fixated on a beautiful huge Christmas tree. I blinked. Could it be a memory? Was I at this house at Christmas time? I will have to ask Grandma. There is so much I don’t know. So much I don’t remember. I looked at the spot where the reflection had come from. It was a great place for a Christmas tree. Maybe I am having a memory. Feeling as though the room was full of people walking around, talking and laughing, a warmth and peacefulness surrounding me, I stood in the place where the tree may have been and looked around at the bare room. This room has seen a lot of times, celebrations and sorrows. I wondered why the tree would have been in the conservatory and not in the great room. Lots of questions for Grandma were crowding into my head but they were interrupted by the patter of little feet.
After breakfast we set to cleaning the windows in the conservatory. Greta and Teddy started off using a whole roll of paper towels on the lower windows. They became distracted once they got to the cardboard roll and began to fight over it. I let them unroll another roll of towel so that there could be one for each. My goodness but I think I will use all of that on these windows. I soon decided to use cloth towels and put the wad of paper in a drawer. Mid morning we made a field trip to the garages to find a ladder and Teddy decided he should be the one to use it. Greta didn’t want either of us on the ladder, she said it frightened her. We didn’t make much progress and soon abandoned the project for lunch.
Great Nana was extra tired today so I didn’t ask her any of my hundreds of questions. They could wait until tomorrow. It was warm outside and we walked around the grounds together. But she didn’t want to stay out long.
On the way home we stopped at a small Walmart on the other side of town where we found new bikes and several decent plants for the conservatory. Most nurseries were already closed this time of year so these would have to do for now. Greta and Teddy were nodding off on the drive home. They still needed their afternoon naps. I feel so privileged to have this place to drive home to. This place to bring the children. It has so much space and is so full of adventure. They have been so happy here these last few months. I turned into the driveway with so much thankfulness in my thoughts. I feel as though I can deal with almost anything when I have a good safe place to call my home. The gate stood open. I know I closed the gate when we left. I wondered who could be here. I haven’t had a visitor here since I moved in. Aunt Melinda keeps saying she will stop out, but she hasn’t made it out yet. The neighbor who mows the lawns just rides his lawn mower over. The guy who farms the hay fields, he drives his tractor across the field. He doesn’t use the driveway. I pulled slowly up the long drive and turned the corner around the garages.

An empty black Audi Convertible sat idling off to the side. A Kentucky license plate disclosed the owners identity. Could it be? Would he dare to come here? No phone call, just show up? Was he alone? Where is he? My thoughts a mess, and feeling so vulnerable I pulled into the garage and closed the door behind me. He is not here to pick up the children with a car like that. Greta had noticed the car in the drive. She wanted to know who is here and then Teddy started asking questions. Both of them so tired, I rushed them through the house to the bedroom. We lay down on the bed together. Whoever is out there can wait. I’m not very good at pretending because both of them sensing my tension sat up and looked at me. “Mommy,” said Greta, “shall we look for the person who belongs to the car?” “Let’s make it an adventure!” I bravely announced. We looked out one window and then another, to see if anyone was there. Not seeing anyone we went outside. The car was gone. We walked down the drive a short distance to see if the gate was closed and it was. Puzzled we went inside again to try for that nap.

Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, The House, 1,036 words.

Previous chapters of The House:  The House 4 , The House 3 , The House 2 , The House 1
To read the next chapter:  The House 6, The House 7, The House 8