Sharon Short, Author
  • Home
  • About
    • Behind the Scenes FAQ
  • Books (as Sharon)
    • My One Square Inch of Alaska
    • Josie Toadfern Stain-Busting Mysteries
    • Sanity Check
    • Patricia Delaney eGumshoe Mysteries
  • Books (as Jess)
  • Stories & Essays
  • For Writers
  • Contact

A Sunday Meditation: The Variety of Pumps and Traveling On

8/23/2015

1 Comment

 
Picture
Yesterday, my husband and I drove our younger daughter back to her college town to help her move into the house she is renting with several friends for her senior year of college.

We know we're blessed; still, we felt a bit sentimental as we pulled out of Athens, Ohio, our daughter's college town set in the foothills of Appalachia in southeastern Ohio.

So, my husband and I decided to stop at the gas station on the outskirts of town, ostensibly to get gasoline for our trip home, although our tank was just over half full. We didn't really need the gasoline, but we stopped at that gas station anyway, mostly because the stop delayed pulling away from the town too fast. Also, candy bars. That particular gas station has a nice selection. Never underestimate the healing power of candy bars, even for 50-something parents.

That particular gas station, on the corner of State Route 32 (also known as the Appalachian Highway) and a narrow country road, also has something else: pumps. Gasoline pumps, of course. But also an old-fashioned hand-powered water pump, right by the side of the road. 

We'd noticed the water pump before and wondered why it was there. Yesterday afternoon, we found out.

As we pumped gasoline into our automobiles, a horse-and-buggy clip-clopped up the road to the pump. An older Amish man got out. My husband and I knew that Amish folk live in the area--we'd once had a rather harrowing late-night experience of coming up on two Amish horse-and-buggies trotting along the Appalachian Highway as we came around a bend. Fortunately, we slowed in time and passed them safely.

But we never made the connected between the hand pump at the gas station and the Amish, until yesterday, when the Amish man got out a bucket, pumped it full of water, and gave his horse a long drink. His wife stayed in the buggy, rearranging a few things in a built in box in front of her. A buggy version of a glove compartment.

For a moment, the afternoon seemed to hang in surreal stillness. My husband pumping gas for our automobile. The Amish man pumping water for his horse. Me fiddling with change to get candy bars. The Amish woman fiddling with whatever was in the buggy box.

By the time I came out with our candy bars, the Amish man had finished watering his horse. The horse, buggy and Amish couple disappeared up the narrow country road. We headed up the Appalachian Highway back toward our home a few hours away in southwestern Ohio. We munched our candy bars, and commented on the kindness of the gas station having a water pump handy for the Amish, or for anyone else who might just need water.

As we fell into silence, then, I thought for a moment how the sight of a horse and buggy seemed to make time stop. Then I though about how of course, it doesn't. Though we can pause, to refill in whatever way we need to, soon enough we must travel on.
 

1 Comment

A Mom's Snow Days Diary

1/8/2015

2 Comments

 
Picture
NOTE: This piece originally ran as a Sanity Check column in the Dayton Daily News several years ago. Given the snow and -6 F temperature in my area, I thought it was worth a re-run!

Snow Day One.


Dear Diary,

What a delightful day with the children! School was cancelled due to a snow day—well, really, a bitter cold day, with a wind chill temperature of negative 20. Brrrr!

I made scrambled eggs and cinnamon toast for breakfast; a rare treat on weekday mornings, since we’re usually so rushed.

One of the benefits of self-employment is getting to take a snow day with my darling progeny! So, after breakfast, we all cuddled up in front of a blazing fire in the family room fireplace, read books, and played many games of Yahtzee, Uno, and Backgammon. Then we had hot chocolate. Even the cats and dog curled up at our feet. So cozy!

I’m so glad I took the day off to share with my beautiful offspring, as I’m sure tomorrow it will be warm enough for school to resume.

Snow Day Two.

Dear Diary,

What a surprise! A second day of school cancelled, again due to cold weather.

Warmed up left-over scrambled eggs and cinnamon toast for the children. They complained that the food was rubbery, but I patiently pointed out that elsewhere are plenty of children who would love a warm breakfast, however rubbery.

One can only take off so many days, even if self-employed, so I tried to work. Notice the word “tried.” With one kid watching TV, and the other listening to the radio, it was difficult to concentrate.

So I suggested the kids play Yahtzee and Backgammon and Uno again, just the two of them, while mom worked. Well, I tried to work—but I had to stop a few times to interpret rules.

No fire in the fireplace today… although I did light a candle and say a prayer.

The cats and dog are hiding.

Ah well. It’s supposed to warm up tomorrow.

Snow Day Three.

Dear Diary,

Yeah, it’s another !#$% snow day. This time because it really did snow.

Told the little rug rats they could scrounge up their own blasted breakfast; what’m I—their personal chef?

So they arm wrestled for the last piece of leftover cinnamon toast, and the dog came out of hiding to eat the last of the rubbery eggs. Haven’t seen cats.

Suggested to spouse that perhaps the kids should go see where daddy works. I guess he didn’t hear me through his ear muffs, since he didn’t respond… but he did look panicked as he ran out the door.

Thought I might have a few moments peace when the urchins got out Yahtzee, Uno and Backgammon on their own. But no. Who knew there were combat variations of these games?

Am considering applying for jobs that would force me to work outside my home office. Perhaps in Hawaii.

Heard a rumor we might get more snow flurries.

So instead of lighting fire or candles, I’m lighting a heat lamp and running all over town with it. Plus, I’m buying out the grocery’s salt supply and sprinkling it on the roads myself.

Not A Snow Day.

Dear Diary,

It warmed up to a balmy 20-some degrees above zero! School is in session!

The peace and quiet is astounding. I can get back to work.

Except… I think instead I might go see a counselor.

Because, truth be told, I miss my darling progeny and am counting the days until spring break…


2 Comments

Fireworks for Christmas? Yes... Ribbons of Light and Grace

12/23/2014

2 Comments

 
Picture
NOTE: This piece originally appeared in the Dayton Daily News several years ago in my "Sanity Check" column. Though our daughters are now adults, this is still one of our favorite Christmas memories, and I wanted to share it with you. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to one and all!

A few evenings ago, my family and I went out for dinner after a long Saturday of errands, chores, and activities. Not particularly remarkable, until our drive home.

Were those fireworks that we saw in the pitch dark sky?

On a bitterly cold Saturday night in December?

We quadruple-checked amongst ourselves and confirmed we really were seeing fireworks in December. And not just pretty-good-for-a-backyard-launch fireworks. A real, July-4-worthy fireworks display… only five months late, or seven months early, depending on how you like to look at things.

Now, as I mentioned, we’d all had a long day. And all we’d planned on doing after dinner was to go home and turn in early, since the next day promised to be busy, too.

But, suddenly, there were fireworks in the December sky, and our kids… for all their teenage posturing about being nearly grown-up… sounded just like they had as little girls, saying “Don’t go home yet! Find the fireworks’ location! Please, please, please, mom and dad?”

OK, that got us. It’s been awhile since our kids said “please, please, please,” in the manner of children.

So instead of turning right, toward home, my husband turned left, toward the fireworks.

A minute or so later, we found the source of the fireworks: someone was setting them off in a huge, wide yard. We pulled off the side of the road within yards of the fireworks’ set-up, and quickly realized this was no amateur endeavor; a fire truck was parked nearby, so whoever was putting on the display must have had a permit.

We weren’t the only people who’d followed the sight of the fireworks to their source. It’s hard to say, given how dark it was, but probably forty or more cars were parked on the sides of the road. And people were out, watching and cheering the display.

We, too, got out of our car and not only watched the fireworks display, but, close as we were, also felt it, reverberating through our bodies.

It was beautiful, not just because fireworks always are, but because it was such a surprise…

Fireworks in December…

Lighting up the sky.

Inviting anyone who saw them to come a little closer, take a little break, from the hustle of everyday life. From the extra hustle of the holiday season.

I have no idea who decided to put on the fireworks display, or why. Maybe in celebration of the season, of a birthday, of a special event?

I’ve been thinking about it ever since that evening, and realized that the “who” and “why” of the fireworks isn’t so important.

What’s important to me is the simplicity of the event. People saw, and responded to, and took delight from the lovely surprise of December fireworks, without planning or scheduling or deciding we’ll do this instead of that.

Sure, our kids gave us the child-like urging of “please?” but it took us only a micro-second to respond “yes!” and turn left, toward something unexpected and touching and lovely, instead of right, toward the familiar and comfortable and planned.

I wonder… maybe this is the real gift of this season: Rediscovering how to say yes, like a trusting child, to a surprising display of beauty when it beckons, unbidden, unpaid for or planned for, like streaming stars of light in a dark December sky… like grace itself.



2 Comments

Farewell, Sweet Cosmo

10/29/2014

1 Comment

 
PictureCosmo Short, 2001-2014
Eleven-plus years ago, our first (and only) family dog came into our lives.

Our kids (ages 9 and 11) had been campaigning for some time for a dog, even crafting a faux dog from an old milk carton and dragging the plastic pooch through the kitchen on a yarn leash every night while I made dinner.

What can I say? Cat lady though I am, I was finally worn down.

Our daughters had grown up enjoying visits with their godmother's beagle, so it only made sense to us to consider adopting a beagle. If we were going to adopt a dog at all. Which we definitely weren't, my husband and I assured one another one sunny Sunday summer afternoon in 2003, on a "let's just visit" trip to a beagle rescue near Columbus, called Beagles RRRRRR Us.

Ten minutes after we arrived, this smart funny little 2-year-old beagle focused on the most reluctant-to-adopt-a-dog member of our family, my husband. The beagle hopped into his lap, gave my husband a big wet beagle kiss on the cheek... and an hour or so later, we were on our way home with the beagle.

Within a few days, we settled on the name Cosmo, as in Cosmo Brown, as in the hilarious character from Singing In The Rain who does the fantastic song-and-dance "Make 'Em Laugh," because our new beagle had already done just that... made us laugh at his antics and cuteness.

Picture


This morning, my husband and I made the decision to let Cosmo go peacefully at our vet's office. Cosmo has been suffering from congestive heart failure for over a half year now. He was nearly 14, The three medicines we had him on had worked for a time, but finally those stopped working as his heart enlarged and pressed against his diaphragm. Nearly every breath had become an agonizing gasp. The only other option left was to let him pass without assistance, but that would have meant up to another two or so weeks of suffering for him.

Our daughters, now 21 and 22, were able to call in and say goodbye to their family dog via FaceTime in Cosmo's last hour. It was tough and emotional, as letting go of a beloved pet always is.

But I don't want to memorialize Cosmo with only sorrow. For most of his life, he was funny and cheery and loving, and I think he'd rather be remembered that way.

So instead, here's a look back, with the first piece I ever wrote about him, in my Sanity Check column that ran from 2002-2012 in the Dayton Daily News:

A few days after we got our new dog, I laid down the law: a never-before-experienced, super-sanitized cleanliness shall reign upon our household!

This was because I discovered that when a beagle shakes himself, fur goes flying everywhere. Including onto the table and countertop.

So, I called everyone together and proclaimed: We shall clean and sanitize the kitchen countertop and table with disinfectant before cooking/dining!

We shall have color coded sponges—the pink one for cleaning the cat/dog food bowls, the blue one for cleaning countertop/table... and of course the sponges shall be sanitized in hot water after each use!

And we shall teach the dog the all-important commands—Down! and Sit!—so that said dog shall refrain from begging in the kitchen or at the table!

After I proclaimed these quite reasonable commandments, several things happened.

The kids and husband gave each other long, knowing looks.

The cats snickered.

The dog hid.

Still, I persevered.

And made it through an entire day, following my own rules. Then, as I stood in my kitchen, proudly surveying its sparkling clean, super-sanitized floor and countertop and sink, my 11-year-old daughter came in and said, "Mom, weren't we supposed to make deviled eggs for the church potluck tomorrow?"

As we boiled eggs, the dog came into the kitchen. I said, "Sit!" He did, on my super-sanitized floor. Then gave me a look that barked, "Lady, I'm not so sure about living here, you know?"

My daughter and I cut the boiled eggs in half (on our super-sanitized cutting block), and put the yolks in a small (super-sanitized) measuring cup.

My daughter started mashing (with a super-sanitized fork) mayo and mustard and seasonings into the egg yolks. The dog, licking his lips, stood on his hind legs. "Down!" I said. So, he lay down and heaved a weary, bedeviled sigh.

And for the first time that day, I could empathize with the dog. After all my cleaning and sanitizing, I was weary, too.

So I said to my daughter, with years-of-cooking wisdom, "Dearie, let your smart, ol' mama show you a little short-cut!"

I got out the mixer and put just one beater in the small measuring cup that held the egg yolk/mayo/mustard.

The dog stood again.

And I took my hand from the measuring cup handle to point at him and say, "Sit!"... just as I turned on the mixer... thus turning the little measuring cup into a madly spinning Tasmanian devil that wildly flung egg yolk everywhere—on the floor, the counter, the ceiling, my daughter, me, the dog...

Desperately, I yelled at the mixer: "Down! Sit!"

It didn't heed my plea, and neither did the dog, who happily jumped up and down in a little dog dance, while yipping a little dog song: Hurrah! Hurrah! At last, cleanliness is not reigning! But deviled eggs are—raining, that is! Doggy manna from heaven!

My daughter unplugged the mixer.

I picked up the blue super-sanitized sponge.

And the dog eyed me with a look that woofed, "hey, maybe you're OK after all!" then started licking up deviled egg yolks from the floor.

I'm so glad I sanitized it for him.


Hey Cosmo... turns out you were much more than OK after all. Here's to you, up there in Doggy heaven, running around, whole and sound, yipping up a storm, and enjoying all the Doggy manna your sweet beagle heart desires.

1 Comment

An Ode To Cider

10/16/2014

2 Comments

 
Picture
NOTE: This piece originally appear in my Sanity Check column in the Dayton Daily News.
I stare at the last of this season's apple cider, which I have poured into a wine glass. I've chosen such a fancy glass for what most view as a modest beverage in honor of the cider itself, knowing that once I've imbibed it, I won't have the chance to enjoy cider for another 10 months or so.

I contemplate the deep amber color of the cider. I sniff the crisply tangy yet sweet aroma. Both color and aroma evoke in my mind's eye the scenery along the drive to the orchard where we always buy cider every fall, the Crossroads Orchard, west of the Miami River, nestled on a country road between Miamisburg and Germantown. I see the trees, turning yellow, orange, red, their colors so brightly beautiful against a sky burnished to a deep blue from a summer's worth of hot days, that it hurts, just a little, to look at them.

Then there's the drive back...


Read More
2 Comments

Corny, Ah-Mazing, Fun... And (Perhaps) Only In The Midwest

10/2/2014

1 Comment

 
Picture
NOTE: This piece originally appeared as part of my Sanity Check column in the Dayton Daily News.
My husband and two daughters want to spend a recent Sunday afternoon at a corn maze.  It'll be fun, they assure me.

I do not think this sounds like fun because I am, I openly admit, directionally-challenged.  I once ordered a AAA Trip-Tik in order to make the journey from Dayton to Lexington.

"It'll be a good learning experience for the kids," my husband tells me, knowing I'm a sucker for learning experiences.  "The challenge of a puzzle, using your wits..."


So I decide to be a good sport and go with my family to the corn maze.  I even leave behind the cell phone, the compass, and the backpack with flares and emergency provisions.  After all, my husband DOES have a good sense of direction.

When we arrive at the local corn maze, my nine-year-old decides we should split up into teams.  Her dad with her younger sister.  And her with me.

Fortunately, my nine-year-old has inherited her dad's sense of direction.  So I'm calm as we enter the maze and begin our quest: collect map pieces from mailboxes hidden in each of the twelve section of the maze until we've put together the whole map.  All is going well until my nine-year-old suddenly stops.

"What's the matter?" I ask.

"We're lost," she says, pointing at the mud puddle in which I'm standing.  "That mud puddle.  We've seen it before."

Apparently, in a maze, a sense of direction is only useful for helping you know when you're lost.  As the adult in the situation, it's up to me to figure out how we can work our way through the maze.

Just as I'm about to ask her to climb up on my shoulders and scream for help, a pair of young boys come whizzing by, whooping and hollering.  "We got lucky!  We found the piece for section two!"

Blind luck!  Now there's a plan!  "Let's just keep walking until we find the mailbox for this section," I say.  "How long can it take?"

Thirty-three minutes, it turns out. 

A young couple comes by, notes our discouraged expressions, and says, "If you're looking for the map piece for section three, it's right over there."  And gives us directions.

"That's cheating," my nine-year-old scowls. 

"Uh, huh," I say.  "Follow me."  We get the next piece.

Now we've tried a sense of direction, blind luck, and cheating to get through the maze, none of which are particularly effective.  Or satisfying. 

I remember what my husband said.  This is supposed to be a game, a puzzle in which you use your wits, right?  Fine.  If I'm going to freeze to death in the middle of a cornfield, I'm at least going to go down like a good parent and turn it into a life lesson.

Plus I'm out of ideas.  So I say to my nine-year-old, "You like games.  How do you go about winning games?" 

She thinks for a minute.  "How about—we use logic? We can use the map pieces we have to get to the bottom of the next section, then work our way to the top, always following along the right..."

That's just what we do.  Eventually, after about two hours, we find our way through the maze with a completed map.

As we exit, I say to her, "Honey, you really learned something today.  Life is just like a maze.  You can try blind luck or cheating, but using your wits is really the best way to get through.  Isn't that neat?"

And she looks up me and says, "Mom?  Can we get hot chocolate?"

1 Comment

Charity Blooms With Flower Planting

5/6/2014

1 Comment

 
Picture
I have to admit, when the six flats of band flowers arrived two days ago, my heart fell.  That's the first time I've felt dread upon seeing flats of flowers arrive on my porch.

The high school's marching band kids come around mid-winter, with cheery brochures depicting pretty pink and red and yellow blooms. Now, I know I'm not much of a gardener. But every year, I buy flats of support-the-marching-band flowers. Flats and flats and flats.

This mid-winter was no different. In fact, I bought from not one... not two... but THREE marching band kids. (A clarinetist, a color guard member, and trumpeter, for the record.)


Why? Well, by mid-winter, who isn't a sucker for a cheery brochure filled with pictures of pretty flowers?

Plus, I'm a sucker for kids who come up to my door trying to look cool, even indifferent... yet still looking a bit hopeful, even eager... as they pedal Girl Scout cookies and Boy Scout popcorn and coupons-I'll-never-use-for-stuff-I-don't-want-at-merchants-I-never-visit for wrestling/cheerleading/track/football/cross country. And flowers for marching band. After all, our daughters (one now in college, the other a recent college graduate) were those kids, plying our neighbors and friends and relatives who were ever-so-kind and patient. So I figure it's my turn to do the buying, now.

And, yeah, I'm a little sentimental. Our kids are long past the stage of selling stuff for their activities. And as much of a pain as it was to help them coordinate it all, I miss those days. During our oldest daughter's junior year of high school, I was even in charge of the marching band's flower sale. (She played trombone.) Nothing says spring like a high school gym literally filled from bleacher to bleacher, basketball hoop to basketball hoop, with flats of begonias, petunias, impatiens and marigolds.

Nothing says oh-God-why-did-I-agree-to-this like contemplating those flats and knowing I was in charge of making sure we had enough of every single variety to match every single order... those orders, by the way, numbering in the thousands.

But I'm still just a wee bit sentimental about those days.

So, I bought flats of flowers. And more flats. And more or less forgot about them until... they showed up on my porch.

And my heart fell.


Read More
1 Comment

So I Walked Into a Plumbing Bar and Then...

4/16/2014

1 Comment

 
Picture
A few years ago, our bathroom—like our house, like me—was 51 years old. The bathroom needed to be updated.

So we were tearing out and replacing most everything, except the cast iron tub. After all, it's a cast iron tub, and I think with just re-glazing it will be as good as new, except the plumber and contractor—both men—tell me that the handles and faucet are corroded and need to be replaced.

I know that either man, fairly enough, will add the price of his time for getting the replacement parts for me, and the purchase will delay the work another day or so. I want to save time. I want to save money.

So I ask for a list of the replacement parts, say I’ll get them at Lowe’s or Home Depot.

They laugh. Explain: these aren’t Lowe’s or Home Depot parts. These are plumbing contractor supply store parts.

OK, I say, where’s that store? These are nice men, gentlemen, who call me ma’am, and ask about my day, eat their sandwiches on the porch (though I tell them to bring their lunches inside; it’s chilly outside), and work efficiently and quietly. But suddenly, there’s a bit of a knowing look between them, a bit of a smirk… ladies can shop at Lowe’s or Home Depot, sure. But only real men can shop at a plumbing contractor’s supply store.

Now, I’m not a real man. In fact, I’m a real lady. Dressed in kitten heel ankle boots, cute with my tights and skirt, on the way out for real lady errands: lunch with other real ladies and picking up writers’ group white wine at the liquor store.

But in spite of being 51-years-old, I suddenly remember being told I couldn’t take woodshop in 6th grade, couldn’t learn the punch-card computer in 7th grade, and despite placing higher than every girl AND boy on the math placement test in 8th grade, being shooed away from taking higher math or science in 9th grade, and stopping with math or science all together after 10th grade.

Now, I’m sure not going to be held back from something so simple as buying parts at a plumbing contractor’s supply store because I am woman. Hear me roar.

So I demand the list, which the men give me, along with a bag of the old bathtub plumbing parts and directions to the plumbing contractor’s supply store, located in what remains of the warehouse and machine shop district of my industrial hometown.

After lunch and picking up the white wine, I find the plumbing contractor’s supply store. I walk in and am immediately confused, for indeed this is not a hardware store, a la Lowe’s or Home Depot or even a cozy Ace. 

This is a bar. 



Read More
1 Comment

Embracing the Power of Bare Arms

3/20/2014

0 Comments

 
PictureSharon in THE dress.
A few days ago, I went shopping for the just-right dress for an upcoming important occasion--our first-born's college graduation. I quickly found the just-right dress, nice but not too dressy for a crowded, sweaty sports arena on a late-spring afternoon.

Then I spotted another dress.

It was pale blue. Fitted bodice. Peplum waist. A-line skirt. Not the usual, loose-fitting style I go for, but so, so pretty.
 
It wasn't quite right for wearing to graduation. I didn't need a second dress.

On the other hand... both dresses were on sale. I even had a 50% off coupon. More importantly, I felt a sudden longing to try on something a little different, in both hue and style, from what I usually wear.

So I tried it on. The blue brought out the sparkle in my blue-green eyes. And it fit like a dream. I even thought, I look HOT in this dress. And I never think that about myself.

But then, as I stared in the mirror, a horrid feeling came over me. Not about budgets or the foolishness of buying a dress for an as-yet-to-be-determined event. But about the fact that the dress was also... sleeveless.

I have decent enough arms. I mean, they're attached, and they function, and my skin is smooth, but I'll admit it, I'm a bit chubby. Which means my arms are a bit chubby. Not particularly muscular.

I started to hang the dress back on the rack with its mates, but it was so pretty, that I just... couldn't. I toted it with me to the register. Maybe, I thought, if the coupon covers both dresses...

It did, but I was still wavering. "Sorry," I said to the check out clerk--a slender, beautiful sixty-something woman with a terrific smile. "I'm still trying to decide. I don't really have an occasion in mind for this dress."

"I do," she blurted. "I've been staring at this dress for days. It's so pretty! And I have a wedding to attend in a few weeks."

Now, most women hate the idea of showing up at an event only to discover another woman is there in the exact same dress. (Well, not the exactly exact same. That could be awkward. And crowded. But you know what I mean.)

I didn't know the clerk. There are no wedding invites on my social calendar. So the likelihood of us showing up at the same event at all, what's more wearing matching blue dresses, is pretty slim. Nevertheless, I was about to put the dress back after all--and trying to think of a non-awkward explanation--when she leaned forward and blurted again, "But I can't wear it. Because of my arms."

She looked so sad, so shamed.  So I did some blurting of my own. "What's wrong with your arms?"

Her eyes widened. "They're... they're flabby. They look... old."

Now, there was something about the notion of this beautiful woman, who'd lived long enough to no doubt experience and survive and grow from life, feeling so ashamed about her body--just as I had moments before with my worries about chubby arms--that incensed me. I wasn't angry at her. I was angry for her. I was angry at the cultural voices that whisper in the backs of the minds of middle-aged and older and chubby and not quite perfect women that only young and beautiful counts. Only the young and beautiful and--oh, God, please, the smooth and firm and slender, too!--need feel comfortable (so whisper those voices in slithery, demeaning tones) in lovely arm-baring dresses, no matter that women of all shapes and sizes and ages might be and even feel beautiful in such clothing, if only we could ignore those silly voices.

Well, I thought, screw that.

So I said, "My arms are chubby." I pushed the dress toward her, determined to buy it. "But I'm wearing it. Proudly. And you should too. Shouldn't we get to wear what we want sometimes, without worrying about what other people think, without hiding ourselves because, hey, we've lived awhile, and maybe it shows here and there?  You've probably survived a thing or two, just like I have. That merits an occasional reward, right?"

Her eyes softened she stared at the dress. She said, "I've survived cancer. Almost a year now."

I couldn't respond right away. Finally, though, I said quietly, "Congratulations. You will look beautiful in the dress. Your arms will look just fine. I hope you get the dress."

She nodded, smiled, and said, "I think I will."

I don't know if she did or not. But I hope so. What's more, I hope that I'll wear mine to some future occasion, and this woman will be there too, in her copy of the blue dress. I hope we recognize one another, and that we laugh, two women happy to see each other wearing matching sleeveless dresses. And I hope we hug one another with our bare, beautiful, powerful arms.

UPDATE 3-25-2014: This post has proven very powerful to women... more than a thousand have read it, it's been shared on the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop blog, and soon after its publication, women across Facebook began discussing the post and sharing photos of themselves in their own sleeveless dresses! To that end a new Facebook Group, Embracing the Power of Bare Arms, has formed as a rallying point for women to share their own 'bare arms' stories, photos and encouragement.

0 Comments

Getting Real About Story Telling (And Validation)

2/12/2014

1 Comment

 
Picture
By now, I write mainly because story-telling-with-words is a major part of who I am. It also makes me a saner, better human. Most days.

I've always heard the advice that good story-telling requires truth, so I won't lie; I'll admit that I want validation that this story-telling-with-words that I've made my life's work isn't just the equivalent of shouting into a void and hoping to hear an echo of my own voice. I want validation that I've reached, even touched, people, in some core way.

Validation, though, demands proof. So it's easy--and yes, human--to equate that validation with sales, high rankings, good reviews. And yes, I want those things. I wanted them yesterday, and I want them today, and I'll want them tomorrow.

But last night, I was a guest at a university class for teachers working on their master's degrees for teaching middle school and high school reading. I was so honored that the class read MY ONE SQUARE INCH OF ALASKA (a second year in a row!) and wrote papers about how my novel might be taught to teen readers. It was certainly complimentary and validating and delightful to hear teachers discussing my work--its theme, character motivations, imagery, and so on.

But then one of the teachers, who'd been quiet throughout, spoke up...



Read More
1 Comment
<<Previous

    Categories

    All
    Books I Love
    Creativity
    Cross Training For Writers
    Literary Life
    Movies
    My One Square Inch Of Alaska
    Pie
    Recipe
    Sanity Check
    Screenwriting
    Waxing Philosophical

    Sharon Short...

    ...is  a novelist, columnist, workshop director, instructor, and a pie enthusiast. As such, she blogs about the literary life, life in general, and pie. Definitely, pie.

    As Jess Montgomery, she writes historical mysteries.

    Archives

    January 2018
    August 2017
    June 2016
    May 2016
    August 2015
    June 2015
    March 2015
    January 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    October 2014
    August 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014
    March 2014
    February 2014
    January 2014
    December 2013
    November 2013
    October 2013
    September 2013
    August 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    December 2012

    RSS Feed

Proudly powered by Weebly
Photo used under Creative Commons from GabboT