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