An October Visit

This is a short piece that I wrote in a short story writing class I took a couple of years ago. I remember that this was the assignment where the teacher, inspired by one of my favorite cooking shows: Chopped, provided us with four mystery baskets to choose from. Each had a writing ingredient. I can't remember the exact four or so ingredients that were in the basket I chose. I do remember a mood, possibly set in October, but that's about it. The other elements came from an experience and I tried to convey that feeling.

Yesterday this quote spoke to me; I'm going to place it where I can see it every day:

"Inspiration exists, but it must find you working." 

–Pablo Picasso

October Visit

Amanda washed off her hands and placed the carved pumpkin in a brown sack and headed out to visit her Aunt Rose and Aunt Vivian at Bluestone Retirement Community. As she pulled out of the driveway, she looked into the sky: clouds hung like heavy gray sheets, hugging the dry mountain peaks.

She rolled the window down, prepared to be alone with her thoughts. “I hope Aunt Rose is feeling better today,” Amanda thought out loud. The highway wasn’t crowded this Sunday afternoon. She let her thoughts drift into the breeze, into fields of dry grass that appeared stiff and stuck in place. She could feel the pierce of time looming low. She exited off the highway, took a few more turns, and pulled to the back parking lot of the Bluestone. 

When she walked inside, the light was dim as though it had been washed out. Oldsters pushed their walkers around, some wheeled themselves in wheelchairs, while others had assistance; some sat in the lounge area watching the television with a mix of alert and vacant faces. Nurses walked briskly past the slow moving oldsters. Finally, Amanda pulled herself away when she didn’t see her aunts and went into the facility’s ice cream parlor where she thought they might be. It wasn’t very crowded. There were a few circular tables with seniors seated around eating their chosen desserts. 

Amanda walked over to where she saw her aunts and noticed that Aunt Rose was eating while Aunt Vivian was not and wore a scowl on her face. Amanda felt a chill when she realized this would be a difficult visit. 

“Hello dear,” said Aunt Rose. “Sit down.”

“Hello Aunt Rose. Hello Aunt Vivian.” Setting the sack down on one of the empty chairs, Amanda pulled the pumpkin out and set it on the table. “Look what I brought you!”

Aunt Vivian turned her head and glared at the smiling pumpkin. “Hmmpf,” she said. 

“Oh, Viv, don’t be such a grump,” said Aunt Rose. “Thank you, dear. It’s lovely. You’ll have to forgive your Aunt Vivian. She’s having a day.” Aunt Rose took the last bite of her ice cream and dabbed her mouth.

“I thought it would add some cheer to your room. I hope you like it. It reminds me of when we used to carve pumpkins at your house.”

“There have been many adjustments since we’ve come to live here, dear—and well, it’s not the same as living in your own home and taking care of yourself.”

“I can only imagine how difficult it must be, Aunt Rose.”

“Well, dear, I think the adjustment has been especially hard on your Aunt Vivian—“

“It’s not home,” cut in Aunt Vivian with a slight snarl. “I miss my things. My home. My furniture. My independence. Bah!” Aunt Vivian waved her hand as if to wave away the ice cream parlor and to wave away Amanda and everyone there. She sat in her wheelchair with an unmoving pride on her face, stubbornness etched into her eyes. It seemed she wore the permanent mark of a struggle.

Amanda looked into Aunt Rose’s eyes and was comforted by the kind twinkle looking back into hers. She looked to Aunt Vivian and was only met with a cold icy feeling looking back. “I’m sorry that you feel so bad, Aunt Vivian. It must be difficult.” Amanda shuffled in her chair uncomfortably, trying to remain positive.

“It is, Amanda dear. I’m sorry to be so cold to you. It’s not you. Being old, losing your eyesight and hearing. These things are never easy to accept on top of losing your home—or rather not having the ability to stay in your home.”

“There, there, Viv, see I know you’ve got it in you to turn your scowl to a softer shade,” said Aunt Rose.

“I can’t control my moods, Rose. I’m not able to keep as upbeat as you. I don’t know why. I’m happy with the life I’ve lived. It’s just that when—“

“Aunt Vivian, remember when we all used to carve pumpkins…you always made the best one, with intricate details around the hexagonal eyes. It was as if your pumpkins would come to life and start speaking.”

Aunt Vivian’s eyes began to soften even more; she unfolded her hands and reached for the pumpkin that Amanda brought. Amanda pushed it over closer to her. “Yes, I do remember…my, my, it seems like so long ago. This is a nice pumpkin you’ve carved. Hearts for eyes and a four-leaf clover for the nose, how clever; and the mouth, why, it reminds me of a silly hill Billy with a missing tooth. Ha!” 

“Vivian, my goodness gracious, what has gotten into you.” Amanda and Aunt Rose look at each other and then they all start laughing. “Amanda, dear, would you like a scoop of ice cream, and since you’re so spunky all of a sudden, Vivian, maybe you’d like a scoop too?”

Amanda let out a quiet sigh of relief at Aunt Vivian’s change of mood. She had come to expect these ups and downs from Aunt Vivian. The two sisters began chit chatting, while Amanda’s thoughts were on the other topic she wanted to bring up, but had not. She didn’t want to spoil the mood. Maybe next time she would feel up to it.

“Dear…dear?, Amanda, dear…”

Custard Pie

There was a line in the small burger joint. It looked like the one I used to work in. I was getting closer to the front of the line; I would be next, but then an older Asian lady with white hair tried to cut in front of me. I glanced at her and said, "I think I'm next," just so she knew. She stood beside me and as she spoke to me, her elbow nudged into me. "No, I next." As the words came out of her mouth, one of the women behind the cash register came over to help the next in line. She was also Asian, middle-aged with short cropped hair. I leaned in and said, "do you have custard pie? All I want is a slice to go." She nodded. "Come with me." 

She led me back to the kitchen, which was huge compared to the small store front. I saw rows and rows of pie racks. She stopped in front of a metal freezer, opened the handle and told me to go in, that I'd find the pie at the back. I walked into the cold freezer. It was empty except for the few items hanging on hooks at the back. There were two donuts that I took off the hook and behind those was one small slice of custard pie hanging there hidden from view. I took the pie and put the donuts back. As I walked back to the front of the freezer, half way to the door, the lady smiled a toothy grin at me, gave a slight bow, and quietly closed the door. I sped up my pace and gave a knock to say 'ok I've got the pie.' When there was no answer, I rapped harder on the door. At this point, I became aware of the cold in my bones.

The Man who Stopped Writing

It was an ordinary day. The air smelled of honey, the bees buzzed to and fro. Clyde walked to the cafe with his book bag in hand. He had been working on his collection of essays, and it was his routine to complete all of his writing at Sandy's Sunshine Cafe. He needed to hear the pots and pans clinking, the customers voices; he needed all of his thoughts to be focused by the chaotic symphony of the cafe; through all of the noise, he found the gentlest quiet and it was just him and his laptop, sustaining each other.

The following day Clyde woke up to a sun drenched room. He stretched his arms in the air, then rubbed his dog Frederick's head. Frederick was an Irish Setter. He sat with his head extended, then got up and gave a happy bark to indicate that he was ready for his morning meal.

"Come on, Frederick, let's get you some breakfast."

Frederick wagged his tail in approval.

"Frederick, I'm almost done writing my collection of essays! I think today will be the day. Of course, I'll have to go through and edit, but I may wait a while, give myself some space first, then come back with fresh eyes. I'll begin a new project, I think."

Clyde smiled at his companion whose eyes seemed to take in everything he said. He set Frederick's food bowl down and he began to lap up his kibble.

After Clyde dressed, he combed his wiry hair, took his book bag from his office, and said goodbye to Frederick.

As he approached the cafe, he took in a deep breath. He entered the cafe, placed his order, and found a table in the middle of the room. He heard his name and went to retrieve his order: A double mocha delight with extra whipped cream. His laptop was open, the cursor was blinking, he took a sip of his mocha, placed his hands over the computer to begin typing, but Clyde felt a strange twinge soar through his stomach. He moved his hands from the keyboard. His mind was blank. He opened one of his documents to see if it would help. He read. He readied his hands again, but nothing happened. He felt as though he had forgotten how to write. Words would not come. Thoughts were bungled up. He felt so fine that morning. Frederick had encouraged him with his deep set eyes, with his wagging tale. What was different, he thought. What happened?

Even though he had been steadily working on his collection of essays, deep down he had felt that his writing was diminishing. He couldn't quite explain it. He was unable to articulate it and it had been haunting him for days. He had been avoiding the thought, trying to bury it, but here it was staring right back at him.

Had he been too caught up in his diminished sense of self as it related to his writing? He wondered to himself if it were quite possible to actually get worst at something that one had been doing for so long, something that was your life blood, that had come as second nature at one time. He didn't understand. How could you get worst at writing? How was that possible! He felt a combination of being paralyzed and dried up.

He took a few sips of his mocha, he tried to pull himself together, and then he typed: I can't write. What has happened to my writing. Where have my thoughts gone? He didn't feel any better, but he was glad to have at least written those words of truth. He knew he needed both a break and to keep at it. He knew that eventually he would find that spark again.

He became aware of the background noise that had been a source of joy. Today, though, the clanking and buzzing voices assaulted him. He felt that he needed to get out of there. He packed up, stuffing his laptop into his book bag with a thrust of defeat.