Reflections
on the Ninth Week of Spring – Tales
from a Fairy-Tale Life
Hydeholde
I live a fairy-tale life.
A
week ago Saturday, my
husband
drove his pickup eighty-seven
miles
to Pittsburgh and
swooped me away―from
three days of Pennwriters
workshops,
speeches, and book buying―for
a romantic dinner
in a
castle called
Hydeholde. While
strolling
under
towering trees, we
passed
flowering
mountain laurel,
forget-me-nots,
and magnolias then
climbed the
castle
stairs to a garret
with five,
candlelit tables.
The
waitress,
clad
in black and wearing
black lipstick,
left us with menus. We
had the room to ourselves. Spence reached across
our table
and squeezed my hand. “I
missed you. Wells
Wood’s been quiet.”
By
the time we
took our first bite,
couples
sat at three
other tables.
Murmuring
conversations
blended
with classical jazz background music.
Spence cut
a piece of elk loin. “What’d you learn at
the conference?”
I
bit into a fiddlehead fern with a
nutty,
green flavor and
crunchy texture.
Figuring
he didn’t want a summary for all
three days
of writing tips, I
selected an enigmatic lesson.
“File the serial numbers off.”
“What?
I can’t hear you.”
Hoping
to strike a balance of speaking
loud enough for Spence but not loud enough for
ears at the other tables, I raised my voice. “File the serial
numbers off. Timons Esaias says
stories are shape-shifters. Take the most interesting thing that
happened, change significant
details―like
the
century, gender, or
culture―and
write fiction.”
After
a half hour of concentrating on just the right volume for
conversation, I
needed a rest. I
gazed past Spence’s shoulder to
a
middle-aged
couple who
stared
into each other’s eyes.
Their
eyes dripped
love, but
their facial
muscles drooped
with
sadness. On
the table, their
hands lay side
by side.
He
said, “That’s
plan A.”
Her
thumb and forefinger stroked
his hand.
“And
plan B is . . .” He inhaled as if preparing
for a
dive to the ocean
depths.
“There is no plan B.”
Wiggling
in my chair, I
stifled a
whoop and silently repeated
another
lesson from
Timons Esaias. Think
like a writer. Watch people for mannerisms and quotes you can steal.
Spence
scanned the
garret. “What’s
so
exciting?”
“I’ll
tell you later,” I stage-whispered.
 |
| Janet and Spence at Hydeholde |
Later,
he told me
what excited him.
Monday, I held the phone between my shoulder and ear, prepared lunch,
and listened to Spence explain
how he’d
answered
questions for
the Cleveland City
Council
Health Committee about
a
grassroots
lead safe housing initiative.
As
soon as I finished making
the grilled
chicken sandwich,
I interrupted Spence. “I’m HUNGRY. I need to eat.” I
settled into my log chair, pulled a footstool under my feet, and
balanced the
lunch tray on my lap. The first bite
tasted smokey, moist, and divine.
I chewed and watched carpenter bees dive bomb the
log house. They
slammed against
the
sliding glass door. Thud-thud-thud.
On
my second bite, the phone rang.
Because
Spence might
have had a
second thought
or my friend Catherine might want
to postpone our afternoon tea, I pushed the foot stool away with my
feet, set the tray on the coffee table, and got up to answer the
phone. “Wells Wood.”
Noises
of an office fan, clicking
computer keys, and murmurings of distant voices came though the
speaker. Great. A
telemarketer.
After
a ten
second pause,
a man with an Indian accent said,
“Hello . . . hello . . . hello!”
My stomach growled. “What do you want?” His pitch better be worth
interrupting my lunch.
“Oh, hello. My name is Kyle.
I’m calling about your windows computer.”
A person I didn’t want to be
shouted at the caller. “I don’t have a damn windows computer!
You’re just phishing. You’d better hang up. Now!”
Not waiting for Kyle’s reaction, I hung up. And embarrassment
crashed over me like a tidal wave.
I
needed someone to assure me I wasn’t horrible so
speed dialed Spence.
He answered in his
cherry voice. “Hello, Janet Wells. What’s up?”
“I have to confess. I did something bad.”
His voice turned serious. “Okay . . .”
“I swore at a telemarketer,” and I told Spence the story.
“Didn’t you hear the news on Marketplace just now?” [Marketplace Morning Report, May 20, 2019, “How
does someone get scammed into buying $160,000 in gift cards?”]
I hadn’t.
“Scammers focus on senior citizens. People
call about a Windows computer. Then they trick seniors out of money.”
He harrumphed. “You did the right thing.”
Okay,
I didn’t fall for the scam,
but I didn’t
need to swear―an
out of characters
response.
Ooooh.
I’d
thought
like a writer. At
the Pennwriters Conference, Jessica Strawser
suggested,
Build
suspense by acting out of character.
Driving
home from lap swim midday
Tuesday,
I hoped I wouldn’t have
to deal with another
telemarketer over
lunch
and
glanced at
bunches of hemlock flowers on
the sides of the road.
If I ever poisoned a character in a story, I should
do
the deed
in May
when the villain could pick
the flowers―no
planning
ahead to store
leaves
or stems.
Feeling
the villain's power surging
through me,
I pushed the accelerator to climb a
hill
on Route 322 and steered around
a bend.
A
yearling―front
hooves on the berm, back hooves in my lane―stood
twenty feet ahead of me.
“Go!”
I
stomped
on the brake
pedal.
“Get
off the road!”
The
deer
swiveled
a
hundred eighty degrees.
Hooves scrambling,
it
pranced
in place.
The
car slowed from sixty
to forty
miles per hour and
headed
straight for the deer.
Lifting
my brake foot, I
tightened
my steering-wheel
grip
for
impact
and slammed the pedal
again.
Tires
screeched.
The
deer sprang.
I
held my breath and
steered onto the berm.
The
fender missed the deer’s
raised tail and
butt by
half an inch.
After
exhaling for
half
a mile, I
loosened my grip, giggled, and credited Jason Jack Miller
for a writing
lesson worth remembering. Setting
is part of the problem. Setting causes the
character to react with emotion.
Living
in a magical-dynamic
setting, creating suspense by acting out of character,
and marrying
a romantic hero . . .
I
live a fairy-tale life.
 |
| Hydeholde Garden |
