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

A Brand New Book

On Saturday I woke up late.  Well I didn't really because I had two wake ups since I went back to bed after I let the chickens out.

My second wake up was around 11 am.  Did I just admit that?  Anyway I sat up really surprised that I had slept in so late and partly really glad that I had and there on the head board was a brand new book.  I love my daughter so much.  She knows me so well.  It must have come in the mail and she opened it and brought it up, ever so quietly and placed it there on top of my phone so I would be sure to see it.  

This book has a wonderful cover.  Writing and eating all mixed up on the cover.  A beautiful plate next to a pen and a spoon.  It was a delicious sight.  I picked it up and went downstairs holding it close to my heart and grabbed a cup of coffee.  I read only one chapter Saturday and one more on Sunday.  I am soon to read the third chapter.  The book is called The Writing Diet by Julia Cameron.  Write Yourself Right-Size.  It's not really about dieting though.  Whew.  Glad I cleared that up.  I'm not a diet kind of person, although I've been through a number of diets.  I still end up the weight I am and less healthy for the effort.  I'm a real food person and I believe there are too many other factors involved in weight problems for them to be addressed only by strict restrictions or additions.  This book is more about unlocking and unblocking ones creativity which ends up changing ones life around to reflect that.  Being free to be who I am meant to be changes everything about me.  

The writing diet is a life-style change which uses writing as a discovery tool.  I've already been on this path now since the middle of July and I am taking it a step forward. I have gotten into the habit of writing first thing in the morning.  It is a habit now.  I just want to tell you that if I can do this and create this habit in me then you can too.  You just have to be brave and get started. In this book the morning pages is a type of writing done early in the morning before your other writing or duties.  

 Morning pages are very personal so I won't be sharing them.  I am not going to be sharing my 1,000 words at all anymore.  I will be posting the next chapter in 1,000 words or more of the story I'm writing for you, The House, every week.  So you will get to keep reading it.  I find that the 1,000 words I'm writing in my morning pages are not taking as long to do as a proper piece for posting so I have some extra time which I need to start using to work on Elsie's Easter.  I'll still be making regular daily posts on my facebook page.

The Writing Diet by Julia Cameron is one in a lot of books by this author.  You can find it on Amazon.  I don't get any kind of benefit from you buying anything on Amazon unless you buy one of my used school textbooks.  I'm just putting this here for your benefit in case you want to read this book along with me and discuss it with me on my page.  I paid 1 cent for the book and it is brand new plus shipping, 3.99.  Regularly 13.95. US

Fluff

I want to write the happy stuff. I want to explore a world full of good. I have created a little world here of my own, full of good stuff. Yes, there are weeds, and there is mud, but those are good things too. Natures stuff. My fingers want to write about sorrow and grief but I want to write about the good stuff. I keep having to start a new page and there it is again. I want to tell stories about fluff. Good things that make us laugh and tickle our funny bones. I used to get in trouble as a child, because I couldn’t be serious. I would cause such a ruckus at the dinner table where my mother, bless her heart, was trying to keep order while feeding ten hungry children. She did a pretty good job as well, and I spent many a meal-time eating my dinner alone in the bathroom. I wasn’t one of those picky eaters that make you wonder how they survive let alone grow. I was a wiry active child with a hearty appetite and could put down a lot of food. No one at my mothers table was allowed to be picky. It really was no joke, finding enough food to fill that many tummies and my mother worked hard to get each meal on the table. She did it without my father who traveled with missionaries most of the time. Life was so much more peaceful, I imagine, with me in the bathroom that I was often forgotten about until someone had to go. I would have promised to not be funny anymore but such a thing never occurred to me. My mother reprimanded me in my adult years many times for not taking life more seriously. When I was expecting my youngest and also going through empty nest syndrome I became severely depressed. I sat in the doctors office with my husband one day, he unaware that anything was out of order, and I began to tell the doctor how I was hoping to drive straight off the highway on the curve going sixty-five and how it alarmed me that I had such thoughts. I told her that every day on my way home from work the feeling gets stronger and I’m afraid that one day I’ll do it. My husband is completely surprised by this because he had no idea. I told the doctor that the only reason I had for not having done that yet was that I knew it wouldn’t be fair to the baby who hasn’t gotten to live yet and if there was a way to know that she would live I might try it. I blurted it out in a gush of tears. She said it was a very serious matter and put me on an antidepressant which I took faithfully to the end of the pregnancy and a little after. In a few days all my tears had turned to laughter. I laughed at work, I laughed on the way home, I laughed after work. Anytime I wanted to talk it would come out in a kind of laughing voice. Everything was so funny. Hence a telephone conversation with my mother where she is asking me if I take anything seriously at all. I’m telling her about the kids, how grown up they are and what they are doing. None of it approved by my mothers strict religious standards. I’m so proud of them. I’m laughing and happy. I was truly on happy pills. I told her I was on pills to make me happy and they also make me laugh even if I’m trying to be serious but it was much better than killing myself. Oh dear. My poor mother.

I’ve been through a lot more since then and so have my children. I know that I need to write it out but I’m afraid. I’m afraid the depth of the sorrow and grief will overwhelm me again. The repercussions of living with grief on the body and on those I live with. I want to brush it aside and see beyond. What is beyond? It can’t only be fluff. I’m afraid to look inside at the world of pain and suffering. Not all of it has to do with the one grief. There are other griefs. There are years of pain from other sources from my own past choices to the choices of others. The term ‘move on’ doesn’t always apply and often makes me angry. Very often we need to ‘move through’. There is a path to freedom. To sidestep the path may only prolong the journey. My fingers seem to know the way, but I don’t want to go. I want to find a lighter, easier, more fun solution. But my fingers know the way. I wonder if there is anyone who has an easy fluffy life. Can you relate to an easy life where everything is always great and never a word of hurt. A life where everyone understands everyone and no-one is lonely or tired. Where no one is selfish or greedy for gain and no one is bitter nor mean. Where we don’t have to deal with anything or have nothing to overcome. Where no one is sick and no one is poor and no one is lame or blind. Where there is no war or unfair law and government works for our good. I don’t know of that life and I can’t really relate. I don’t suppose many would. I don’t take any pills now. I don’t try to laugh my way through. I have wanted to truly feel, as unpleasant as it may be, the feelings that come with life and death. The feelings of grief and fear. Real feelings, real life, real writing. Once I decided to grow, to begin a journey toward freedom, the words began to flow. I am still afraid. There is so much hidden. Yet there is so much to look forward to and the journey has just begun.

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,015 words.

Free

Sometimes I want to run. Sometimes I want to fly. Sometimes I want to climb a mountain high and yell my voice into the sky. I want to skim across the water letting my fingers feel the sparkling droplets showering me. What I really want is to be free. I want to walk with my head held high, my arms hang loose and my footsteps sure. I want to reach wide with my arms and lift you up and hug you close and swing you round. I want to be that butterfly that gently flies from flower to flower, and barely sits to sip the nectar. I want to test them, the flowers, every one. I want to be free. I want to sing like the little birds and let my tune mingle in, with all the creatures far and near who’s little voices blend. I want to hear my echo bounce from cliff to cliff and around the world to come back to me in muffled waves and greet me like a friend. I love to be above the noise and hear the silence still. Like the rolling hills of Scotland high, the silence greeting me. I’m tempted at the break of dawn, as the mists of night disappear, to open my door and shout, “happy day” to the glow of the rising sun. I wish that every moment here was full of grins and giggles and happy smiles from peaceful faces, wishing me well today. I want to be free. I want my work to be easy and quick. Like a shake of a god-fairy wand. And the place is clean and orderly and we’re ready for lots of fun. I treasure the days when my heart is free and I sing through the morning chores. We dance lightly and happily to the barn and chatter with the hens in the yard. We scatter the corn and gently scold the two who are pecking each other. I am so amazed at the greeting I get, when they run with flapping wings and flying leaps squawking loudly. They come from everywhere, full of excitement to see what we have brought. It is a greeting for me. I love that about them. I’d love to be that free. I love to pick the garden’s fruit and dig them from the ground. It gives so much and for so long before it sleeps again. The weeds grow too and nourish it and bless the ground between. The insects work all summer long and at night they sing their song. I long to be so carefree here. They don’t mind who listens in. They don’t have leaders and don’t organize, they simple lift their song and all together one and all they cheer the garden on. The frogs lay lazy by the pond waiting for food to fly by. They sit so still and for so long they look like they’ve turned to stone. Their tongues so fast you can’t see them grab the fly as it passes by. Sometimes I’d like to tell the world to stop and listen to the earth with me. The roosters sit atop the perch and greet the morning in. They each take turns and crow the very best crow that they can give, then they crow together. The chorus reaches to the sky, they keep on crowing until the sun is high and the mists are gone. They say, “It’s a new day, it’s a new day, wake up everyone.” That’s what they say in the mornings. In the afternoon if the day is long they stand in open space and crow to the clouds as they scurry past, “It’s a great day, it’s a great day, today is a great day.” The cat and the squirrel give such a show in the late afternoon, up and down in the trees and across the grass, they play in the rustling leaves. And sometimes the squirrel is chasing the cat and I laugh at the crazy pair. The ducks waddle from side to side and push the hens out of the way. They open their bills and “Quack, quack, quack,” “Look out!” they say, “We’re coming through.” And the little girl chases the ducks today and makes them mind their manners. She takes a stick and says to them, “This is the way, go home, you great big bullies.” They waddle back home and slide into the pond and “Quack, quack, quack.” The pond is good. I would like to be able to climb like a cat or a squirrel, to be so quick and light. I could swim like a duck in a pond and try to go under but be too light and make the water splash everywhere. To have that grin that the ducks have and look like a silly thing, but be ever so smart, because you know they are. But I wouldn’t want to live with their mess. They can’t fly because they are too big, but they run with wings open wide. The underneath feathers look like angel wings all beautiful, creamy, white. They wear such beautiful clothes and they care for them with pride. I love how they put each feather in place and squeeze the water out. They find a spot where the grass is long and in the weeds they hide. The drake keeps watch as his ducks take naps and rest in the evening sun. I gather the eggs and carry them in my shirt. I’m happy as I walk to the house. I sure am glad that I have a bed and I don’t have to sleep in the weeds. I’m not that fond of the mud and I couldn’t sleep in the trees. I love to listen to the crickets at night and the croaking of toads and frogs. The chorus is loud as the day is done. “It’s been a wonderful day!” they yell. I want to shout to the moon. Like the nearby coyotes howl at night. “It’s been a wonderful day.” I want to be free like that. 

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,018 words.

Talents

I looked up the word talent this morning. It has several meanings yet all of them are related. Talent can be a gift, aptitude, characteristic bent, flair, endowment, unit of weight or money, a measure of giftedness, or ability. The dictionary quotes the story of the talents in the Bible. Matthew 25:14-30. The story goes that a higher power has given a different amount of talent to three individuals. It is assumed that the talent is money. It could be anything, really. The talent is your gift. One of the people buried the talent because he didn’t want to ruin it and perhaps lose it. He later gave it back to his owner untouched. The other two people, used their talents and increased them. When the owner came back they had grown in talent, both of them. They got to keep using their talents and continued to grow, but that first person has his talent taken away from him because he didn’t use it. I think everyone has some talent or gift. It may be helping, with money or things. Maybe it’s artistic and creative. Perhaps it’s something else like caring for other people. That is a gift. Nurses, teachers, service providers, there are a lot of people in those fields but some are really gifted making a difference in another persons life. One talent isn’t really more important than another yet some are valued more than others. Musical talents are held in high regard by most. We mostly all love some kind of music. Music is deep in our souls. It’s not just using our voice or instruments it’s much more than that. Music is in the ground reverberating all around us, a rhythm. The birds and bugs and flying things and creeping and crawling things all in time with time. Roots and wiggly things, moving and growing and bursting out. Children clapping, shouting, running, crying, playing. It’s all music. The ocean heaving, sighing, crashing and rivers spilling, it’s all a song. We all have it. Breathing, blinking, shivering, relaxing. Music is everywhere and it is definitely a gift and we all love some form of it. Some folks open their mouths and it is beautiful music. Not everyone can do that. Some have gifts with children and really caring for them, like foster parents and others who give their time making a difference in the lives of children. You know there are so many gifts, the more I think about it the more I realize that I’m surrounded by gifted people doing awesome things in this world.

I remember sitting in church and hearing about gifts and talents and using them. I could never figure out what my gift was, though I tried and tried. I thought perhaps it was taking care of children, but then their was always those really annoying ones. I thought maybe it was music, but I couldn’t get the rhythm nor could I hold a tone. I struggled to learn every note on the piano and every instrument I could lay my hands on, but none of them bonded back with me. I love to listen to music, but I don’t think that counts as a gift. I thought maybe it would be in crafts, but while I’m great at following someone else’s plans I don’t have any real gift there and I quickly get bored with it. I couldn’t be a nurse because I don’t like to clean up after other people and I faint at the sight of blood. I couldn’t teach a regular classroom because I think kids should be outside playing and I fall apart at the whining. Anyway I’m much too childish. I love to cook but I wouldn’t call it a gift. That’s more of a need, really.

I loved it when I worked in a company that let me develop the entire plan and structure for publishing their books and then develop my own skills in graphic design and proper layout and pagination. Working with the public and taking pride in my work. That job got deleted because someone from the big city came and bought the company out, taking it away to automation. Thankfully I had already left the company to be a stay-at-home mother and wasn’t left stranded like so many others. I could take my skills somewhere else but the methods have changed and their are so many gifted people in that field that have three year degrees in graphic design or four years in management. But skills and interests are not the same thing as gifts and talents.

So what is my talent? I like to talk. I like to tell stories, and listen to people. Inside me is an undeveloped and much neglected desire to write stories. To write them down. To find the truth and explore it in my own words. To show in writing the world as I feel it. My mind is inquisitive, not about real things, but about hidden things. Things between the lines. Curios about what isn’t seen and can only be felt. To find the words and write them down. Things we have all felt but brushed aside. To capture a moment in words much as an artist captures with oils on canvass a feeling in colors, hues and textures. It is a gift which needs to grow and develop into a skill. To use your gift is to become more skillful in it. To discover it more fully and find the joy in giving it, like a nurse who feels the blessing of having blessed the helpless. Like a crafter who has something of value to give and a musician who’s music is chosen to celebrate defining moments in other’s lives. Like the helper who knows exactly when to help and what is needed. The discovery of using the gift is as much a part of becoming skillful as the continued use. So the writer’s gift doesn’t grow and become more skilled without the reader. I am discovering my talent is in writing and am sharing it with you before it becomes lost or taken away.

The House 4

Those first few months in the house were like a dream. The kids loved the large spaces and investigated every corner in every room. I worked in one room after another dusting and vacuuming. Generally cleaning. I didn’t move much or do any deep cleaning yet, but I gave that huge house a fresh dose of love. The kids considered it a big adventure and gave names to the rooms. They investigated the grounds and buildings around the house. Every afternoon we took a walk, discovering together, the size and shape of the land around us. I spent the mornings looking for work. I hoped to get work which I could do at home. I was a graphic design artist and web designer. There were no jobs in this rural setting in my field. I did however land a small contract for a website design, but usually spent several hours every few days searching the assignment lists on-line. I took one here and there. It wasn’t much but it helped. After our noon meal each day we went to sit with Grandma. The children’s great grandmother. Today Teddy clutched in his little fist a crumpled bunch of wild flowers for Great-Nanna. The nurse put them in a vase and set it on her window sill. Great-Nanna’s eyes lit up when the children came in. Great-Nanna was sitting in her armchair. Her feet on the little stool. A light blanket which Aunt Melinda had crocheted for her draped over her lap. She was so little and frail. Yet her eyes shone with a bigness which declared the largeness of the soul inside her small body. She looked forward to these visits, the guide around which her day revolved. I couldn’t think how it was for her before I brought the children to live up here. Long silent days. I couldn’t imagine the hours upon hours spent wondering and remembering but still so silent. The only noise that of the nursing home residences and the nurses inquiring at scheduled intervals if she needed anything. Aunt Melinda had always been there for Grandma, a faithful loving daughter, yet Aunt Melinda was getting older and had health issues of her own. I hadn’t known much about what was going on until I took a weekend vacation from my life. I was at a turning point myself and had come at Aunt Melinda’s request to sit with Grandma after her surgery. It was a time of respite for me. A time to sit with my beautiful Grandma and think about my life. The anger and confusion of a love grown cold. The meaninglessness of my anxious life. The emotions and feelings that rose to the surface because of the rejection by the one person I had left everything else for. The little clues all coming together and making sense now. I had sat there beside her and wept. I had wept for myself. The years, I imagined, were lost now. I couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. I wept for my children. How different their life will be. What will they want and yearn for in time because of what is happening to their parents. Will it hurt them permanently? Will they be all right? At the end of that weekend I promised Grandma I would be back. I came back every weekend and sat beside her. She became a little stronger but we were sure that she would not be going home. That last weekend before I brought little Greta and Teddy up to the house she had pressed a key into my hand. She said in a whisper, “Lottie, this is the key to my house. It is your house now. You take this key and use the house for your own. Melinda will give you the book. Take care of it.” I was in awe. I hadn’t seen the house since I was a child and my parents had taken us up there for summer vacations. It was as though Grandma was giving me the key to freedom. Aunt Melinda confirmed what Grandma had said. She wanted me to sign the documents to be a caretaker on the property. We went to the bank and did all the necessary signing. That was the day I went to the house for the first time since I had been a child. I had made some hard decisions that weekend. I knew the house was home. It was drawing me in, into it’s walls, it’s history, it’s safety. It was much too big, but what a world it was. I wasn’t used to being able to breathe freely. I didn’t have to watch my step here. I didn’t have to worry about the children because this was their heaven. Our lives had settled into a routine with Great-Nanna as the center. In the evening I settled Greta and Teddy down in Grandma’s big bed. I lay between them and we talked and I told stories to them until they fell asleep. It was so peaceful here. After I was sure they were sleeping I got up. I got a glass of cold tea from the fridge and a piece of leftover cake and sat at the desk in the library. I put a piece of paper in the old typewriter and began to type. I typed for about an hour. It was relaxing, well not for my fingers but for my soul. Putting words onto paper that way. It was also invigorating. I can write anything I want. I can be anybody I want to be. Be anywhere I want to be. I can do anything at all that I want to do when I put my fingers on the keys and start to type. I looked at the typed pages. This typewriter definitely needs a new ribbon. But it was gratifying to see the words I had typed. They lay across the pages unrivaled. I ate the cake and drank the tea. Sleep was sweet between my two babes, in the middle of my Grandma’s bed.

Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, 1,017 words.

Previous chapters of The House:   The House 3 , The House 2 , The House 1

To read the next chapter: The House 5 , The House 6, The House 7, The House 8

Labor Day

Today is Labor Day in the United States. It is a national holiday to honor the working class citizens. I love it since it is usually the last big swim, for the kids, of the summer. Since my oldest daughter lives close by and she has to work today, definite irony here, we celebrated Labor Day yesterday. It rained and sprinkled but the kids had a great swim, or splash. I was so happy because it has not been a great pool summer. I chopped tomatoes, onions, green peppers, parsley and basil and shaped hamburger patties in my new summer kitchen, with my beautiful daughter. We watched the children swim and splash and only had to moderate a couple of times. When the children weren’t swimming they were only too glad to be given a job to do. They love to help in the kitchen. They also designed their own t-shirts, a craft Chloe my youngest daughter provided for them. I watched as they became completely absorbed in their projects and each of them had a different outcome. So much creativity. If you give a child the tools, it seems they already know what to do. We had a birthday cake for Great-grandpa who turned 78 last week. The house was clean as well, well somewhat clean. One of the doors was closed. The playroom door. I asked the children to please not open that door. I probably don’t need to say anymore about that, but there may be someone reading this story who can’t imagine why. The children couldn’t imagine why the playroom door was closed. It’s not really a playroom and hasn’t been used as such for a long time. It is a spare bedroom/sewing room/ironing room/storage room/toy room. I call it my angel room and I long to reclaim it. I have a horrible habit of gathering piles up around myself. My youngest daughter has the same habit and so does my husband. We all love it when the decks are cleared and it is easy to move about. But somehow it all just comes back. I have some sewing jobs to do but can not get near to the sewing machine. Sometimes I read about minimalists and I look around my little house. How could we have so much stuff? It just keeps coming. So I put it in the room and close the door. I am then able to quickly dust and vacuum and the home is clean and inviting. I am sure that the stuff in that room is important stuff and absolutely necessary to our survival but what I just realized is that I already moved everything into that room and didn’t take it out yet to deal with it before I had to make another contribution to it. This means that none of it was important at all, really. Doesn’t it? Writing this is making me want to stop writing and get in there and box it all up and send it away. I love that room. It is a light azure or bleu de france. It has strong pink and deep yellow and dark wood tones. I hung Elijah’s name on the wall as it was his room when he lived here with his mother before she passed from our world. Angels hang around his name and stand on the sills and shelves. When the room is orderly and clean it is a beautiful room. Why does it have to be either that room or the rest of the house? I am searching for the answer but until then the house is clean and inviting and might I say functional. Perhaps it is a symbol of the disorder of my soul. The conflicts which have plagued my life and still lay hidden deep inside. The disorder which writing has begun to discover and uncover. Who am I? What do I want to be? What do I want to do? The pushing away of oneself in a survival technique not so rare. Someday I will uncover the truth for you but today it is still hidden. Still hidden also for me. Like the mess in the room with the door closed. The order is taking shape where others can see but the mess hidden in the room is still to be dealt with. The soul is becoming free but the chains are still falling. The voice is being heard quietly, timidly for only a few. But courage is taking hold, is beginning like the popping open of a tiny seed, swelling from the moisture, in the dark. Sending it’s tiny tendril up to test the light, to see if it’s good. To see if it will hurt. What it finds is good. What it finds is strengthening. Courage builds courage, and truth brings more truth. Joy grows joy and faith becomes more faith. Discovery leads to more discovery and adventure blossoms. I relaxed in the evening on the couch with the children and we laughed together. My oldest daughter and I laughed. I laughed so hard I cried. These children, all unruly and bouncing around with life and curiosity, this is what Heaven is made of. How surprised will all the proper, dignified people be when they get to heaven and it’s all children just like these and their is no decorum or logic to their theories. They just are. They crawl all over me and their mother. My youngest who is for the most part the only child is surrounded by her niece and nephews and she thinks she is in heaven as well. My grandson who is nine got up in church last week and announced that he will be a pastor. But he doesn’t want to wait until he’s grown up because that is a long time from now. He wants to be a pastor now. The whole congregation praised the Lord for him that Sunday. Now here he is causing me, his grandmother to laugh so hard I am one of the children.  

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,011 words.