Reality Bites (Eavesdroppers Anonymous)

The Intrepid Eavesdropper

She's at it again.

The Intrepid Eavesdropper has been gathering One-Liners, tiny little morsels that have quite a punch to them. Each of them makes me wonder about the rest of the story: What happened in Rwanda? What is a Rodeo Commissioner, anyway? So - before I give them all away - here are they are.

Reality Bites: One Liners

1: "Hey. Tell me about Rwanda."

2: "She studied so hard. She took forty-five practice tests! When she finally took the test and sent it off to them...well...she never heard back. Never heard a thing. Nothing. Why? Why is that? Why would they do that to her?"

3: "How did you write it? I mean, seriously—how did you do it?"

4. (Extremely outraged.) "You never told me you had another grandkid!"

5. "The rodeo commissioner is coming on Monday with his score card."

6. "You know what Molly said to me this morning? 'Mommy! Mommy! My goldfish recognizes me now! He just did tricks for me in his bowl!' Isn't that too cute? I couldn't bear to tell her the truth."

Looking cute is a trick, right?

Snippet Number One: We'll Do Great Things

Two men are at the next table. Both have crew cuts. They're in their fifties, or maybe their sixties. One guy is doing most of the talking. He's excited. He talks fast, his words clipped, his voice full of excitement. He teeters on his chair, leaning back, leaning forward, rocking even. The back of his neck is pink from too much sun, and the bottom of his crew cut sticks straight out from his head like a bristle brush. Evidently, the two men are Christian film-makers, discussing a collaboration.

"I was in Ethiopia, doing a project," says Crew Cut. "I was working with Jeff. You remember Jeff? We were dragging our stuff around the villages, you know, doing our jobs, talking to people, spreading the word. We had the support of five churches, maybe six. I got back to my hotel one night, looked at my camera, and ... BANG! I said, why don't we make a documentary?" Crew Cut bangs his chair onto the floor, as if he were doing sound effects.

"How did it begin?" The other man is soft-spoken, but I feel that he is the one with the power, the one that Crew Cut is trying to impress. "Tell me how you got it going."

Crew Cut leans forward. "I knew I could make a documentary about what we were doing. I sat down that same night and planned it all out. Stayed up all night. I wrote it all down on a white board, every last idea. The story board, you know. In the morning I showed the story board to Jeff. He got behind it right away. He was all excited."

"Yes. He would be, wouldn't he?"

Crew Cut is in such a hurry to tell his story to this man that his words are starting to slur. "So we began filming, like two days after. We already had a camera, you know? Other people helped us. We had a driver, and Christian kids from the local church." Crew Cut crosses his legs, then uncrosses them. He leans forward. "The locals were confused about what we were doing, but we ended up with a knock-out film, you know?"

"You showed it around, if I recall?"

"Absolutely. In churches all over the country. People loved it. Craig Wright especially put his weight behind it."

"Really?"

Crew Cut's voice lowers. "But it all went sideways. Jeff got ran over when it went sour. He took the brunt of it."

"Yes. I heard about that."

They're silent for a long moment. They drink from their coffee. Then Crew Cut leans forward again.

"We're going to start a new project," he says. "We're going to bring Rick and Bobby in."

"Good thinking."

"There's a story there - I'll tell you the whole story if we end up working together. Rick fired Bobby's guys, the specialists that he'd brought in, and that didn't sit well with Bobby. It's like politicians, you know? They're jerks."

The quiet man regards Crew Cut. He seems to come to some sort of decision. "I like you," he says. "You're a great producer, and you're part of a good community. You have people backing you. "

I can tell that Crew Cut is almost weak with anticipation. And then it comes, the words he's been waiting to hear:

"I'd like to work with you.We'll do great things."

Why don't we do a documentary?

Snippet Number Two: A Special Case

Two women are squeezed into a nearby table. As in Snippet Number One, one of the women is doing eighty percent of the talking. I find her voice very irritating, very loud and gravelly. She talks with lots of animation, hand movements, shifting around in her chair, bobbing her head - she could almost be Crew Cut's twin sister. She has neck-length curly blond hair and sunglasses perched on her head. The second woman seems to have only two positions she's comfortable in: she's either resting her chin on her hand, or she holds her hands clasped primly together on the table. It's a sunny day. I get the feeling that Prim Hands would rather be anywhere rather than here, talking with Gravel Voice. It's my guess that both of them are administrators for the Seattle Public Schools.

"Those kids were wild," says Gravel Voice. "I went in there to help the teacher because she couldn't control them. I told those kids, no inappropriate touching. Absolutely no touching, ever. No touching other kids, even through clothing."

Prim Hands nods. "There were problems in that class, yeah."

"Where was the principal?" demands Gravel Voice. "The class was eroding! The parents were in an uproar. The kids weren't happy. The teacher was falling apart." She sets her coffee cup on the table. "The Principal didn't lift a hand to help that teacher. But you know what? She wants a readerboard!"

"I heard about that."

"She wants it to be up for 2018 - so we gave the school ten thousand dollars last May."

"Right."

"But she's a worthless principal. She won't see about getting a second person in that problem class."

Prim Hands sighs. "It wasn't part of my contract, but I did look into what we could do about her. Not much. Principals are a special case."

Gravel Voice coughs. "Excuse me," she sputters. Maybe her voice sounds the way it does because she has a cold? "Sorry about that. Horrible sore throat. Anyway, they said she was having a hard time. With her daughter." She pauses. "Do you KNOW what happened to that ten thousand dollars, by the way?"

"No. I didn't hear anything."

"She mislabeled the money - can you believe it - and they lost it!"

"No way."

"They have no idea what happened to the money we gave them. They must have spent it on other stuff. So now we're out ten thousand ... and they still want a readerboard."

Sorry, not yet, guys. You lost the money.

An Elephant Crashed My Wedding

An Elephant Crashed My Wedding

A True Story, Illustrated with Original Digital Artwork

(The events of this story took place three years ago, on my 20th wedding anniversary.)

Pre-Wedding, in Botswana, on a Safari Jeep

     I was being kidnapped, and there was nothing I could do about it. 

     It was evening. My husband, Richard, and I were on a trip of a lifetime to celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary - a tented Wildlife Safari in three Southern African countries - and at the moment we were deep in the savanna in Botswana. We were returning to our lodge from a late afternoon game drive, tired and dusty, yet exultant from having seen lions and leopards, and giraffe and alligators, and so much more. All I wanted was a shower, some food, and my comfortable bed in our delightful tented hut. It was amazing, how beautiful the savanna and forest were, how utterly gorgeous our open-air camp was, better yet than the pictures in the brochures had promised. I was in love with the Lodge. It reminded me of a tree house, straight out of Swiss Family Robinson, or those old Tarzan movies.

Our Lodge

     As we drove up in the Jeep, I noticed a huge bonfire nearby, in a cleared-out area in the forest near the Lodge. This was new, there had never been a bonfire on the previous nights, so what was up? Stranger yet, the minute I climbed down from the Safari Jeep, a group of women surrounded me. Firmly and insistently, they took my arms and whisked me away down the raised boardwalk toward the lodge.

     "Richard!" I called over my shoulder.

     "Happy anniversary," he said, grinning.

     "It's a surprise!" the ladies said.

     One of them took me by the hand, turned me toward her, and said she was going to be my honorary Auntie for the evening. Ah! Aunties! I knew about them. Our guide, Samantha, had already explained to us that in this part of Africa, "Aunties" and "Uncles" assumed an important parenting role in a person’s life. They were advisers, go-betweens, and confidants. All very well - but why did I need an Auntie?

     My "Auntie" and the other ladies – my other female relatives, they explained – took me to a tent and presented me with a lovely brown-and-white, African-style dress. "It's for you," my Auntie said bashfully, "We made it! All day, we worked on it when you were with the lions. It is your wedding dress! We chose the fabric, we cut it out, and we stitched it by hand." She held it up to me. "It will be so pretty on you. Here is the matching head-dress. You will tuck your hair up under it. I will help. You are getting married tonight!"

     I gaped at them in surprise. Married? I was getting married again? Here? How had they known it was my anniversary? Richard must have something to do with this! He was always full of wonderful surprises. This one promised to be the most amazing of them all.

     "Put it on," said my Auntie.

     I held the dress out in front of me to admire the tiny stitches and to hide the tears that were starting to drip down my face. The dress was beautiful. They'd even set in a zipper on the back. I couldn't begin to think how much work that zipper must have taken, to do by hand. I held the wedding dress out in front of me and let it fall to its full length. And then my heart stopped. It was tiny. The dress was gorgeous but not in a million years would it ever fit me! Even so, the ladies urged me to put it on. Afraid that I'd rip the poor thing, I wiggled it over my head - carefully - but it was no use. The zipper gaped open, leaving a bare place the width of the Zambezi river running down my back.

     "Oh ... this is ..." said one of the ladies, biting her lip.

     "...not so good," my Auntie finished.

     "We will fix this. We will put something around her shoulders," said another lady. After a flurry of alarmed-sounding conversation in their own language, a dainty white shawl was procured. They draped it artfully around my shoulders, then stood back and admired their work. My Auntie smiled in approval and put an African headdress on me. She tucked my hair under it, then proclaimed me ready. But before I could be presented to my prospective husband, I had to be educated.

     My Auntie gave me a very solemn speech about the duties of a new wife:

     1)   I must always respect and honor my husband. I must always feed him first, kneeling, and keep my eyes averted in his presence at all times.
     2)   I must never question anything he does.
     3)   If he comes home six hours late from the fields and smells of alcohol, I must not ask him where he's been.
     4)   If he comes home with a second wife, I must accept it and not complain.

     I told her I'd do my best. Except for the second wife thing, I thought, keeping the horror of such a thing to myself. Did my Auntie have to share her husband with another woman? I couldn't imagine accepting such a thing. Oh, yes. You'd better believe I'd complain if Richard came home with a second wife.

Waiting for the Wedding

     When the ladies were confident I would make a good wife, they herded me to the clearing in the forest by the bonfire, where the others of the tour group, and Richard, my intended, were waiting. Richard had his own "Family" too, just as I had mine. He was dressed in a white knee-length tunic and a woven hat. He'd been educated by his "Uncle," but his education was along the lines of: "Treat her well. Her skin is perfect and un-blemished, like polished glass. She is delicate. Do not break her." Richard told me later he thought this was code for: "Do not beat her."

     The two family groups, Richard's and mine, began to dance and jump and sing. They were boisterous and energetic, so enthusiastic that it didn't much matter that we couldn't understand the words. Their singing got louder and louder until it dawned on us that they were trying to out-sing each other. We got a sketchy translation later.

     My family was saying: "You don't deserve this woman. She is worth a lot of cows. You can't afford her." 

     Richard's family argued back: "We already paid for her. Send her over so she can start serving her husband! What is taking so long?"

     The two groups eventually stopped singing and began arguing. Of course, we had no idea what was going on. Why was Richard's Uncle yelling at my Auntie? Why was one of the men on my side of the family stomping his feet, flapping his arms, and shouting? All Richard and I could do was watch and wonder. 

     Later, it was explained to us that since this was the first time the Lodge employees had ever staged a wedding for guests, it wasn't exactly clear how they ought to proceed. In a village, a real wedding would have many rituals associated with it, and the wedding would take place over three full days. Obviously, a good number of important things would have to be left out of our wedding. The other reason they were arguing (they also explained) was that the people playing the roles of our families were from several different local tribes, each with slightly different traditions - and everyone wanted to use THEIR traditions for our wedding.

      And I'd thought they were arguing because my husband's family was refusing to pay the ten cows for me!

      The arguing stopped. Consensus had been reached, the wedding could go on. My Auntie sat me in a chair and put a veil over my head. “You must sit here patiently and wait for your husband. Look at the ground!”

Trying To Be A Good Wife

(My "Auntie" and Richard's "Uncle" Are Standing Right Behind Us)

       I sat, studying the gravel below my feet. Then Richard pulled my veil up over my head and kissed me. Everyone hooted and clapped. Later, he told me his Uncle had adamantly told him: “under no circumstances are you to kiss the bride. It is not done. It is disrespectful. Don’t do it!” Richard had dutifully agreed. But then, to his shock, the very same Uncle led him over to me, still sitting there in my veil, still looking at the ground. He told him to lift the veil and kiss the bride.

     "Really?" said Richard. 

     Uncle shrugged, grinning. “We wish to incorporate some Western traditions! Go for it!”

      Richard did. We had our first kiss as an African husband-and-wife.

     After that, they sat us down and told me that my first duty was to serve a meal to my new husband. On my knees. I filled a plate with bush food for him - stewed meat and vegetables and corn mash. Then I knelt, as I'd been instructed. The ladies giggled. They thought my kneeling technique left something to be desired. Richard did too. At least I managed to keep my eyes averted, like a proper wife.

      And then came something no-one had planned for, something that made us all gasp, freeze, and forget all about the wedding ceremony. There was something in the jungle! And it was coming toward us, crashing and snorting and making a huge amount of noise. All heads turned toward the place where the noise came from. The lead Safari Guide reached for his rifle. I reached for Richard. For the first time, I truly understood what "my heart in my throat" meant.

     Crash! Crash! 

     An enormous bull elephant plunged through the surrounding trees. His impossibly huge head and ears and shoulders intruded into our little clearing, looking like a monster from a horror movie, wonderful and terrifying at the same time. The elephant stood there, wild-eyed, dazed by the firelight. After a moment, he shook his head, flapped his ears, every bit as startled as we were. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Safari Guide level his rifle. Nothing moved for a very long minute. Then the elephant raised his trunk and trumpeted, backed up, and disappeared into the forest like an apparition fading into the darkness. All of us, tourists and guides and honorary wedding parties alike, stared after him in disbelief. It had all happened so fast, a matter of only perhaps ten seconds. 

     The elephant's visit was so frightening and unexpected that nobody managed to take a single picture, even though - as dedicated tourists and avid photographers - everyone but Richard and me had cameras around our necks. The memory would have to suffice. And what a memory it was.

The Same Elephant?

We saw this one earlier, from the Jeep, and he was none too pleased

     Richard's Uncle laughed, breaking the spell. “Good omen," he said, nodding. "Very good luck!"

     "That's the first time an elephant has ever come in here," said my Auntie.

     "They're usually afraid of fire," said another.

     

     The head Safari Guide inspected the surrounding trees. "It must have smelled the food." He instructed the other Guides to take up positions around the clearing.

     "Time to eat!” said Richard's Uncle. A universal sigh of relief went through the group. Everyone went to the bonfire to heap delicious traditional African finger food on aluminum camp plates. The last person to eat was the poor bride. According to tradition, she must wait patiently and loyally until the men, especially her husband, had eaten. Only then was she welcome to the leftovers.

     It was a wonderful evening. I’ll remember my African wedding for the rest of my life, and maybe the elephant will, too. Best of all, I am now properly married. I only hope Richard doesn't come home with a second wife.

The Intrepid Eavesdropper

And...She's Back!

The Intrepid Eavesdropper has had very slim pickings lately. Warm spring weather this past week has lured her subjects out of coffee shops and into the wild blue yonder, causing her to go days on end without adding to her eavesdropping notebook. But fear not. Today it rained. And rained. It rained so long and hard that people were driven back inside where they belong, where they could go back to having fascinating conversations for the sole benefit of an eavesdropping writer.

Oh Dear. What Shall I Do If They Don't Come?

Today's eavesdropping snippets were gathered in a few short hours at Zoka, while it was raining cats and dogs. I am sharing two short snippets and a longer one that I found particularly poignant. 

Snippet Number One:   Prime Bear Habitat

Two women are making their way slowly through the coffee shop. They're on their way out, and one of them is on crutches. She's hobbling in a slow, painful way, her foot encased in one of those newfangled shell things that isn't a plaster cast but isn't just for pretty, either. She grimaces with each step, but is trying to go quickly for her friend's sake, swinging the crutches in wide arcs with a clack-clack sound.

The friend is trying to cheer her up. "You're moving with those things! Speed Racer, you are."

"I'm talented, that's what."

They stop to let a mother and child pass.

The injured woman takes another tentative step. "But you know what? If a bear was after me, I'd be toast."

The friend pretends to look over her shoulder. "It's dangerous around here."

"No kidding. This coffee shop is prime Grizzly habitat."

They laugh, wrapped up in their own little drama. The friend holds the door open so her buddy can hobble out. I see them going slowly down the sidewalk, chatting and laughing all the way. Too soon, they're lost to sight. Lucky for them, the bears all seem to be hibernating.

"Speed Racer, you are."

Snippet Number Two:   Whatever Happened To Allie?

Six middle-aged people - four women and two men - sit at the large table across from me. The way they're carrying on, they must be old friends who haven't seen one another in a long time. I assume they're old high school buddies at a rare get-together. Loud laughter comes in waves from their table. Since my back is to them, I have a hard time attributing lines to certain people, but it doesn't seem to matter.

A woman howls with laughter. "Does anyone remember that night? Because later, people told me I had too much to drink."

"You did!" agrees a second woman. Her voice is thick, as if she's fighting a cold. "Seriously. You had way, way too much to drink."

One of the men says, "We all did."

"I don't remember that night but I do remember the night before," says a woman with a bit of an accent. She's German, maybe? "Some wild dancing, that's what I remember."

"We were drunk by the time we got there," says the man.

The first woman is laughing again. She stops suddenly. "Hey! We danced in the street outside the door, remember?"

"We did!" says the man.

There is generalized merriment, the sort of sounds made by people who've known one another for a long, long time. These men and women are comfortable together. They don't have to show off. I am surprised by a sudden desire to be part of their group. What high school had they attended, anyway? Had they gone to Garfield, my own high school? I grew up here in Seattle, so it's not impossible. I strain to hear any mention of a school, but they're intent on reminiscing about their wild party.

"I said some obnoxious things, right?" asks the woman with the loudest voice.

I hunch over my laptop, shaking my head as I type her words. Clearly, the woman could become obnoxious without too much extra effort.

"Oh my god," says the woman with the cold. "So did Allie. She said some pretty outrageous stuff too."

"Allie!" says the German-accent woman. "Allie! She was ... awful."

The comment brings forth a new wave of laughter from the entire table, and I wonder: was Allie awful in a "you're nuts but you're part of our group" way? Or was Allie awful in a "please get lost and leave us alone" way?

"Allie had such a great voice, though," says the second man, who has been quiet up till this point. "But she was so loud. God, that girl could talk. And she wasn't loud at the right times, you know?" He paused. "I wonder whatever happened to her?"

"She sent an email to me," says the almost-obnoxious woman. "Before that last thing."

"Me too," says a woman who'd barely spoken. She has a cute bleached pixie haircut (I looked). "I was going to answer her email, but I forgot about it in my inbox. I never wrote back."

The first man sounds wistful. "She sent me one too."

"And me," says the woman with the cold. Her voice sounds even more hoarse now.

"I didn't see her after that night," says pixie hair.

"Me neither," says German accent woman. "But my god. That party..."

"...was memorable," the loud woman finishes for her.

This is met with prolonged laughter. They've forgotten about Allie. They've moved on. Perhaps that was the way it had always been with them.

"I've got some video," says one of the men. "Of that night. Can you believe it?"

"You do?" says pixie hair. "Seriously? You have to send it to us!"

He promises he will. And then the conversation moves on. Their get-together goes on for another hour. But, dang it all. They have left me hanging! I want to see that video in the worst way. Is it of their "Memorable Night? It must be. What does it show? The dancing in the street? The obnoxious things they said and did?

Most of all, I want to see Allie. Awful Allie. Loud Allie. Allie who had a great voice, but whose email no-one had bothered to answer.

Which One Is Allie?

Snippet Number Three:   Have I Ever Let You Go Hungry?

There is a young family not too far away from me. Mom wipes crumbs from the table while Dad helps Little Boy, who is perhaps three years old, into a chair. Dad sets a napkin, a plate with a chocolate chip cookie, and a small glass of cocoa in front of him. Mom reaches over and breaks the cookie in half. This, predictably, sets Little Boy into a fit.

"Mamma! I want the whole cookie!"

Mom is gentle but firm. "We always cut it in half. Every time. You know that."

"But I want all of it."

"Look how big it is, honey. It's enormous. It's special."

"That's why I want all of it."

This makes me smile - I can't fault the little boy's logic. But he's getting pretty invested in the second half of the cookie - he's scowling. His arms are locked across his chest. Anyone can see that a tantrum is about to erupt.

But Mom doesn't seem to notice. "We don't usually eat so much sweet stuff," she says. "You're not used to it. You can have the other half later."

There is a weighty silence. Then, quick as lightening, the child grabs for the other half.

"No!" says Mom, somewhat less gently. "You heard what I said, Nigel. You can have half of it now and the other half when we get home."

Little Boy kicks the table leg whomp-whomp-whomp. "Daddy!" he wails. "Can I have it?"

"Mommy said no." Daddy sounds as if they've been through this before.

Little Boy begins to sob. He is heartbroken, as if he thinks he's about to die. But he quiets when Mom kneels beside him and takes him in her arms.

"Honey," she says, "have I ever let you go hungry?"

"But I want all of it!"

What I Overheard - Number Three

The Intrepid Eavesdropper Strikes Again

More Fascinating Snippets From Coffee Shops

I Wonder If They Can See Me?

As I prepare these snippets for this blog post, one thing keeps jumping out at me: A sense of unfinished business. As my eavesdropping alter-ego, I drop into and out of conversations, never hearing one in its entirety. But it's more than the fact that conversations are often clipped short. What's most disconcerting to me is that I usually have no clear idea what the people are talking about. 

To me, the uninvited outsider, it seems as if the conversations I hear meander around a subject, never mentioning the facts, never spelling out the details of the inciting incident, never explaining things so eavesdroppers can understand. But hey. I can't complain, can I? It comes with the territory. Having no idea what is going on adds to the mystery. With that in mind, here are today's snippets.

Snippet Number One:  "Oh, Mama, Please Don't Cry"

I'm in the Starbucks in the hospital lobby. Once again, it's raining. I'm in a cranky mood - my favorite table is occupied by a man writing on his laptop, a man who looks like he's settled in for a good long stay. I'm wrestling with a difficult scene of my novel. My hour-and-a-half of writing session is almost up. At any moment my husband will glide up silently behind me, touch my shoulder with a single finger, and startle the living daylights out of me. (The sneak.) 

It's his favorite way to pester me. I invariably jump. Sometimes I squeal. His favorite is when I jump and squeal. Because one of these days I intend to catch him in the dastardly act, I turn around in my seat every minute or so to check for his sneaky approach - and that's when I become aware of the woman.

She is pacing back and forth in the Starbucks, on her cell phone.

"Don't cry. Please don't cry," she says. She's upset.

Actually, it's more than that. She's beside herself, she's so upset. Her obvious distress is painful for me to watch. Obviously, this is not good fodder for my Intrepid Eavesdropper column, so I go back to my novel. I type two sentences. I glare at them. And then I delete them.

The woman passes by me again. "Oh, Mama, please, please don't cry."

I watch her from the corner of my eye. Poor thing, she's almost crying herself.

"I didn't mean it that way," she says so quietly I wouldn't have heard her if she wasn't passing right in back of me.

She walks out the door, and then in again.

"Mama, you know I'd never say that." She stands by the potted palm, sniffing. "...Just please don't cry."

She heads toward the door.

"I'm coming. Mama, I'm coming. Wait for me."

And then, she's gone.

I'm left feeling rather devastated on her behalf, wondering what on earth happened. Why was her Mama crying? What had the woman said that started such a cascade of tears? I'm still hearing her voice in my mind when it comes: the dreaded touch on my shoulder. I jump. I squeal. Once again I've had the living daylights startled out of me.

I'm Sorry, Mama

Snippet Number Two:  "It Never Ends, Does It?"

There are two college age women sitting side by side at the next table. They're studying vocabulary for a science class, going over words such as "en vitro" and "endoplasmic reticulum" and others that I do not catch.

The odd thing? Every minute or so, the women exchange laptops. As in: they pick them up, cords and all, and pass them across the table in a coordinated effort without saying a word about it. The table is small. It only barely accommodates the two laptops, the two mugs of mocha, and the little plates that hold the bits and pieces of their leftover cookies. The passing of laptops is not a big production for the women. They just...do it...and continue typing away and studying as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"Are you going home for Easter?" asks the one with her hair in a bundled-up ponytail. They're between vocabulary words.

Without missing a beat, they switch laptops.

"Uh-uh," says her friend, the one with the long strawberry blonde hair. "Are you?"

"No. But my Mom is making me an Easter basket anyway. Even though I'm not going to be there."

They switch laptops.

"Aw. That's so sweet!" Ponytail Girl says. "I never got Easter baskets." She types something, frowns, types some more. "Here's a new one. What is the behavior of (insert big scientific word) when under the influence of (insert a second big scientific word)? What's that again? Do you remember?"

"Um. Yes. It's (insert third big scientific word). Hey. Your touch pad is seriously f*cked up."

"I know."

They switch laptops.

"It never ends, does it?" says Strawberry Blonde.

My ears perk up. Are they talking about the constant switching of their laptops? Is that what never ends? But I am no more clued in by the rest of the conversation.

"I finished this one," Ponytail Girl picks up cookie crumbs with the tip of her finger. "But I have four more to go."

"I have five. Shit."

They switch laptops.

I'm frustrated over here at the next table. I'm none the wiser, and they're not helping me! What is it that never ends? She has five of what left? Does it have something to do with passing their laptops back and forth? Are they playing a game as they do their homework? I'm going insane over here, but I force myself to follow my self-imposed rules of listen, watch, record...but don't ask, don't get involved.

They switch laptops again and again, and again. I never do figure out what is going on. And then it all stops. Inexplicably and without discussion. Everything goes quiet at the next table. No more vocabulary words. No more switching laptops. The show is over.

Women with Laptops

My Writer's Studio - A Tour

...Which Studio Would That Be, Exactly?

I don't actually have a writing studio, let me admit that right away. It's entirely my fault - over the years, I have taken over every available space in our home. Twenty years ago, I created a wonderful painting and metal arts studio in my basement (photo below). Several years later, I made a ceramics studio in my former dining room (also photo below). More recently, I've stashed my sewing and leather working materials in the living room. It goes without saying that I have the most understanding husband in the world. So how can I complain about not having a writing studio? I look at it another way: I'm lucky! I don't have only one place to write - I have five of them. 

#1  At Home: The Kitchen Table

It has its advantages: It's comfortable. It's close to everything. I'm aware of what's happening with family members. My snacks and tea warmer are nearby. But by the same token...it's the kitchen table! I'm too available. Dishes need washing and dinner needs to be started and the front door needs to be answered and the cats need attention - and just look at that mess on the counter behind me. The kitchen table is right in the middle of family life and sometimes it's impossible to keep distractions at bay.

Writing At Home - The Kitchen Table

#2  At Home: In the Guest Bedroom

When things get too distracting in the kitchen, I take myself upstairs to the bedroom my daughter vacated when she moved out ten years ago. It's now the guest room, so that can be problematic at times. Also problematic is the view out the window. In the above photo, you can clearly see the neighbor's walkway to their house. A couple of weeks ago, I was writing but I kept noticing that their dog - a large, fluffy, sweet thing - was loose. Aw. Look. She's wandering around. Don't they see her? Isn't someone going to lead her back home? No? Really? There is no-one out there? She's heading down the block! Where is our neighbor? (Sigh. Harrumph. Sigh.) So I went out and retrieved her and took her home, which pretty much put an end to writing that afternoon.

Writing At Home - In My Daughter's Old Bedroom

#3  At Home: In Bed

Sometimes the story just won't stop, and I have to drag my laptop into bed with me. I have a nifty little table on legs that I set it on, and it works just fine for a couple of hours or until my back starts complaining. The mouse (I hate the touch pad on my laptop) is more problematic - the lap table is too small for it, so I have to prop it on a book on the bed itself. That works pretty well, as long as one of my five cats doesn't bat it around as if it were a real mouse. In the photo, you can barely make out Felix, our white-and-orange long-hair. He's to the right of the mouse, in perfect batting position.

Writing At Home - In Bed

#4  Out and About: Zoka

I love this place. I try to go there a couple times a week, and I like to stay for around three hours a session. I have my favorite table (the one in the photo). It's to the left of the entrance, and is perfectly situated by a convenient electrical outlet. The light from the huge window doesn't cast a glare on my laptop screen if I inch the table a bit out from the wall. It's perfect. I can people-watch. And I can put my plate of flour-less chocolate cake on the windowsill, as you can see in the picture. It's all so, so nice. 

Two days ago, when I was writing at Zoka, I asked the the very nice barista who manages the place to take this photo of me during a pause between her customers. After the photo was taken, I wrote an entire chapter of my novel - and the new material was keepers, quality stuff. I was so pleased!

At the Coffee Shop - Zoka

(Prime Intrepid Eavesdropper Location No. 1)

#5  Out and About: Starbucks in the Hospital Lobby

I find myself at this coffee shop once a week, on Tuesday mornings. The place is small enough that I get grumpy if I don't get my favorite table by the potted palm. I wasn't so lucky in this photo. A steady stream of people pass by, which can be either interesting or distracting, depending on my mood and on how my writing is going. On very special occasions, a friend of mine who works at the hospital can pry herself away from her post and join me for a quick break.

At the Starbucks in the Hospital Lobby

(Prime Intrepid Eavesdropper Location No. 2)

Other locations:

There are other places that I occasionally will take my laptop to, such as the waiting room at the dentist's office, or to my parent's house, or to the park. But the above five "studios" are the places that I have done the bulk of my writing during the past few years.

It's funny.

Certain locations, certain tables, certain chairs even, have become associated with the scenes that I wrote at them. As clear as crystal, I remember sitting at the table to the right of the one pictured above (at the Starbucks), putting together a favorite scene where my characters were having their first banquet at the inn of Inn on the Edge. I remember sitting there, sipping the froth off my mocha, and describing luscious almond croissants ... and steaming blueberry muffins ... and buttermilk biscuits with fresh butter and honey dribbled onto them... hey. I must have been hungry at the time!

That's all for now, except for the promised photos of my metalworking studio and my ceramics area. I must go make some blueberry muffins. It seems I'm hungry all the time!

Metals Studio, With Two Cats

Ceramics Area, Also With Two Cats

Snapshots of a Writer

An Art Show - Kind Of

This is the bouquet my sister-in-law sent to me 

when my first book was published. 

The image has been altered in very cool ways.

Last night, I was up until 2 o'clock in the morning altering photographs. I'd dragged my laptop into bed with me - I have this sweet little lap table to perch it on - and pushed away curious cats. I made sure the clack-clacking of the keyboard and clicking of the mouse wasn't bothering my husband, and then I let myself have fun. And it was fun. I had so much dang fun I couldn't stop myself. (See how I just used the word "fun" three times in a row? Rebecca, my editor, wouldn't approve! My excuse is that I was up until 2 o'clock last night.)

It's all because I discovered this wonderful picture-editing tool on my image program.

This was the original version. The mixer had to go. 

I use Microsoft Digital Image Suite 2006. I have no idea if that's a good editing program or not, but it sure has some fun ways (...fun!...and there I go again!) to alter an image. So I thought I'd alter a series of photos, some recent and some a bit older, and use them to illustrate and chronicle my writing past.

Me and my Breakfast Basket

It was about three years ago. I was at the first-ever writer's retreat in Icicle Creak, Washington, run by Hugo House in Seattle. I had this sweet little cabin all to myself. It had a bunk-bed ,and a table and chair combo for writing, and a picture window that took up an entire wall and let in streams of light at 5:30 in the morning. Perhaps best of all was the breakfast basket sitting on my doorstep each dawn. I Skyped with my husband (but not at 5:30 am!) and proudly showed off my basket. What you don't see is me taking out each thing individually and showing them to him. I'm not sure exactly how he did it, but he took this picture during our Skype session, which explains the weirdly cool angle. And now I've altered it and made it even weirder.

At the Starbucks in the Hospital Lobby

That's me in the white sweater. This is the same location where I overheard some of the snippets in my two "Intrepid Eavesdropper" posts. It's a nice little place, big windows, lots of people-watching. The funny thing is...in real life, as I sit here at the kitchen table on this Tuesday morning, writing this post for my blog - I am about to head to this Starbucks. In fact, I will probably finish the post at the very same table in the image! So how about that?

Linky the Writer Cat

Linky is a sweetie, but sometimes he figures that he's more important than my novel. On this occasion, I'd just spent ten dedicated minutes petting him, which was an odd sort of torture because I had a glaring typo on the screen that I badly, badly, badly wanted to correct so I wouldn't have to stare at it any longer. But no. Cat on arm is more important.

Working on my Novel

Gail Bridges, the Author

I was at the Emerald City Writer's Conference last October. I'd reserved a table at the book fair...because I am an honest-to-god REAL LIFE author now! I have three books! I have posters and swag and the whole bit. I asked the lady at the next table to abandon her post for a moment - this was about two minutes before the doors were to open - and snap this image of my first time publicly being an author.

Going to the Coffee Shop

My husband took this shot of me last week. I was out the door, on my way to Zoka (the second "Intrepid Eavesdropper" location). "Hey," I said, handing him the camera, "do you think you could take an Author Photo of me? Right now, right here?" He moved me from place to place and took probably six shots, none of which would come close to being an Author Photo. But what the heck, it was fun.

At the Coffee Shop

(Actually, it's the Starbucks in the Hospital Lobby.

I have yet to take a photo at Zoka.)

Healing Hands

This shot was taken four days ago. I set it up as an image for an article or blog post I plan to write soon, about the interview I did last week with an Energy Healer. I've been doing a lot of research for my new novel, "Over the Edge". I'm conducting a series of fascinating interviews with REAL LIFE healers and gathering boatloads of material.

But I needed a cool illustration for the post. So I dragged my son over and asked him to hold hands with me. Wonderful 22-year-old that he is, he didn't even complain. We tried various poses with our hands, and were shocked that it wasn't as easy as we thought it would be! My husband helped. He took picture after picture, shaking his head and saying, "Nope. Not this one. Try again." It took a while, but we finally hit gold!

That's it for now.

For my next blog post, I will share the final few images and describe how I altered them. Thanks for reading!

What I Overheard - Back by Popular Demand

The Intrepid Eavesdropper

(Number Two)

***

I'm at it again. Listening in on conversations. But it's okay because it's in the pursuit of a greater good - right? Improving my storytelling and dialogue skills is a viable excuse - right? Of course it is. So, without further ado, here is round two of the fascinating snippets I overheard last week in two of my favorite coffee shops. Today, I'll start with short and sweet and move to longer and more involved.

***

It's not wrong if I have a good reason.

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Snippet Number Four:  "Making It Better"

At the Starbucks in the hospital lobby, on a Tuesday morning. It's raining outside. A man is washing the windows with large sweeping motions. It's quiet in the coffee shop. All I can hear is the clicking of my laptop's keys and the swish-swish of the squeegee. There is a break between customers, and one barista is talking quietly to another. She puts her hand on her friend's arm and says this beautiful, heartfelt line: 

"You're less bubbly and happy than usual and I just want to make it better."

friends

***

Snippet Number Five:  "You're Having A Fucking Boy"

This is about as different as you can get. It's about half an hour later, and I'm still at the Starbucks in the hospital lobby, across from the Ultrasound Unit. A woman is on a cell phone, leaning against the shop's condiment bar. She's got the phone propped between her ear and her shoulder, and is shaking cinnamon and cocoa into her coffee as she talks. She stirs the coffee with quick, angry motions. To me, she seems more interested in her coffee than in the conversation.

She shouts into the phone.

"Guess what you're having?"

She listens to the person on the other end of the line, but only for a second.

"A boy. You're having a boy."

She makes a snorting noise.

"Another fucking boy."

She slaps a lid on her coffee.

"Yeah. It is."

She slurps her coffee, then stalks out the door.

***

This one still bothers me. There are so many questions that I will never know the answers to! Is this woman pregnant? She didn't look pregnant. Why is she annoyed that it's a boy? Does she already have five of them at home or something? Is she talking to the baby's father? She doesn't say "we're having a boy", she says "you're having a boy". Something seemed so wrong about this conversation.

All I can think is: That poor baby boy.

***

Snippet Number Six:  "Give Them Candy"

I am at my other favorite coffee shop, Zoka. I'm grumpy. I don't have my favorite table - I'm at the breezy table right in front of the door because that was all there was. But I'm coping. Not long after I arrive, two men pull out chairs from a large table clear across the room. One of the men - he's perhaps twenty-five years old and has the loudest voice I've ever heard - seems to be training the younger man (he's college-age) to teach an all-day-long SAT prep class. For over two hours, they discuss how to teach different sections of the exam to high school seniors - math, English, history.

"Essays," says the older man. "Some of them go on and on and on. Like this one."

The instructor flips open a four-inch-tall three ring binder, looking for a particular essay. He finds what he's looking for, then jabs the page with his finger. "You have to consider the voice. Is it too self-conscious? Too full of themselves? Look at this girl's essay." He turns a few pages. "Look at this part. She's inserting too much of herself here. Right there. See that?"

"Yes."

"And grammar. Identify the rules of grammar. Make sure they have a command of it - but then let them run with it and make it their own."

"Okay."

"That's the hard part. To know when they've gone too far."

The younger man nods and looks dubiously at the gigantic binder.

"Make a list," suggests the older man. "Put the most common things that give them problems up on the wall. Have conversations with them. Make them talk. Make them do worksheets, and then discuss them. Worksheets are good."

The younger man is scribbling notes. I think he looks flustered.

The older man leans back in his seat. "The best advice? They get tired around three o'clock. I say get some sugar into them."

"Really?"

"Always give them candy at the break."

I stop listening at this point - the minutia is mind-numbing. But as I go back to my own work, I can't help but think how lucky I am to be privy to this moment, and remember when my own children took the (very expensive) classes these men are discussing. I also know this: I would never have come up with this scene on my own. Never in a thousand years.

It really was this big.

***

Snippet Number Seven:  "You Just Have To Keep Going" 

The following snippet also took place at Zoka. It was the next day. Two men, dressed in slacks and collared, button-down shirts are sitting at the table next to me. No fancy lattes or mochas, just black coffee. Older man does almost all of the talking. He has a deeply lined face, a chipped front tooth, and steel gray crew-cut hair. He is constantly tapping his foot.

"I tell people to look at my hands." The older man holds out his hands. The nails are short and somewhat ragged, but clean. "I work with my hands. All my life, I've worked with my hands." Turns them over, shoves them in front of the younger man.

The younger man obviously knows what's expected of him and takes a good long look. "You work hard. You've done well."

Older man slurps his coffee. "Yeah. I have my guys. They go out there. Thirty years, they do their work. And people come to us."

"I've heard good things about your place."

"It's job satisfaction, that's what it is. I run a tight ship. Everything kept clean. Lots of light. No yelling at people. It's safer that way."

"Yeah."

A pause, while they both take a drink of their coffee.

"I keep the radio on to fifties type music," says the older man. "People ask me, why do you listen to that old stuff?"

"Well, why?"

"It doesn't get the customers riled up, you know? Not like that modern stuff." He talks about that horrible modern stuff for a while, then he moves on. "The most important thing is to keep the place safe. And clean. But you have to be careful. I tell my guys to be careful." He holds out his hands again. "Cause look what can happen. Look at that." He holds out his thumb. "I cut my thumb clean off! A short saw. They put it back on again."

The younger man gawks.

"See?" says the older man. "You can see where they did the surgery. The color is different."

Then was a long discourse about bone grafts, and skin grafts, and hundreds of stitches, and bandages that bled all over the place. The younger man looks kind of yellow by the time the older one is finished describing every little detail of his ordeal.

"Well. It doesn't look that good, but it works," says the older man, grabbing his coffee with the hand in question. "You just have to keep going."

The color is different all right!

***

And that's all for this time! I'll just keep going. I'll continue listening and gathering overheard dialogues and eventually I'll have enough for Intrepid Eavesdropper Number Three.

Thanks for reading!

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