Irene Peterson's Blog

So, I'm sleeping downstairs in the front room (old living room before the addition) on the sofa bed when at 2:54 am lights start flashing through the shades, through the front storm door, waking me out of a dead sleep.  Doorbell rings, full chime.  Front door, located about six feet from my naked self.  (I know, more than you want to visualize, so don't.)
What's going on?
Where is Elyse?
Has something happened to Karyn in Missouri?
Is the house on fire?

I quickly get my nightgown and robe on, follow the high beams to the side door where the bell is ringing again.
I throw open the interior door, step out into the freezing mudroom, unlock both locks on the outer door and throw that open to find a policeman standing away from the steps.

"WHAT?" I insist, my voice a deep alto from sleep.

"Is there a Michael Bizhos here?"
He mispronounces the heavy Greek name of our next door neighbor.
I say,  "No, he lives next door at 173 A.  This is 173.  They ran out of numbers or something."

The cop turns to leave, I say,  "You scared the hell out of me."
Nothing in response.

So, I make my way back to the front to see if he's going next door, and the cop leaves!
He woke me up at 3 am to find the guy next door then doesn't go next door?????

Lemme tell ya.  I never really imagined just how frightening it could be to have the politzei come banging on your door in the dark of night.  I'm still kind of shaky. 

And where were the other members of my family?  The deaf, still sleeping peacefully ones?

Still snug in their beds, no doubt with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads. 
Me?  I was looking up at the ARBEIT MACHT FREI over the gate....

I gotta stop watching that hitler stuff.

Sorry.
I'm having trouble sitting down and actually writing anything worthwhile.
The weather forecast is for snow. Lots of snow. Maybe six to 12 inches.
Now, I thought we were safe...Herb bought this huge snowblower in August. It is big and powerful and red so it doesn't get lost in all the white.
So he takes it out of the garage and pushes something and zooom, it starts right up then dies.

He worked on it for an hour.

Nada.

There ought to be some kind of winter equivalent of "our ass is grass", but I can't think of one. "Our plight is white"? How's that sound?

I hate snow.
I really, truly do.




So, tomorrow, when the wash is going on and the tree (if we actually get one tonight) is up and decorated, I think I will get Silver into even more trouble. This time, though, she's gonna call the police. Back in Middlebrook. Can you guess why?

Oh, yeah. I have an appointment for a PET scan next Wednesday. It better be good.

Okay, if you aren't interested in Christmas, you can skip this. I missed Christmas last year, remember? I was stuck in the hospital, waiting to find out whether I would live or die. Hey, that's dramatic, but it happens to be the truth.
Well, I didn't die, but I totally missed Christmas.
So, I'm trying to get it going here if nowhere else.

Relax. This won't hurt a bit. The singer was often referred to as the "velvet fog".
I just love this song and it is usually in my range.

Wait a minute. There was no way Cameron could have picked up those stones. They lay at the bottom of the loch and, as she had been warned repeatedly, the loch was very deep. The stones just looked like the ones she had skipped. Flat rocks looked like flat rocks, she reasoned. Perhaps all the dark stones had streaks of white in them around here, just as all the flat rocks near her home in New Jersey were red shale (and good for skipping.)
Maybe he had made a little pile of stones to tempt her into going down on the shore. Maybe he hadn't done it. Maybe somebody else had been watching her.
She stooped to pick up the white rock that had been placed on top of the pyramid. It felt warm to the touch and as she turned it over to examine it, some trick of the mind made her think of a roaring fire and her body relished the sensation of warmth in the mist of this Scottish morning. Odd, that. But the image vanished and the stone went cold. She stowed it in her pocket anyway as a souvenir. Was it illegal to remove rocks from the UK? Oh, boy.

Back at Thorne Cottage, Silver found a hearty if not heart-healthy breakfast waiting for her. Zara, looking neat and perfect in her part as usual, had the teapot in her hand, ready to pour as if she knew Silver needed it. It occured to Silver that, yes, she did need the tea, and oddly enough, Zara always seemed to know when to turn around and find Silver standing in the doorway. No, it was just coincidence. All these oddities were coincidence. She was out of her comfort zone in a strange yet wonderful country and things just happened out of her ordinary experience. There really wasn't anything weird going on.

"Zara, thank you," she said as she accepted the teacup. "I was wondering, have the papers come in yet?"
"Papers?" Zara wiped her hands on her immaculate apron, giving Silver a tilt of her head and quizzical smile.
"The newspapers," Silver explained.
"Oh, yes. The newspapers. Yes, they were delivered, but I'm afraid they aren't available just yet. Ross came down and got them earlier. I'm afraid you'll have to wait until he's through with them."

Silver fought the urge to grumble out loud. Dammit, Cameron had this really annoying habit of getting in her way all the time.
"Was there something you were looking for? There's the Internet...."

"No, I suppose I can wait. There's nothing all that important. I'm here to get away from news, not look for it."
Now, that was a lie. She'd come to Scotland to run away from so many things, but not necessarily the news. And no matter where she went, the news seemed to find her. Had the paper in Inverness published her story? She burned to find out, but kept the fire under control.
She could wait for Mr. BBC to bring the paper to her.
She'd enjoy her breakfast, chat with Zara and make plans for her day...plans that did not include harpoon guns and old gentlemen, no matter how intriguing they might be.

Halfway through her second bite of toast, Cameron appeared in the doorway, folded newspapers in his hand and a smirk on his face.
Zara wished him "Good morning, Ross," then escaped into the kitchen, leaving Silver and Ross alone together in the small dining room.

He seated himself across the table from Silver. The smile remained in place as he wished her a good morning that made her grit her teeth. Something about his tone of voice, something about the edge of attitude in it got her defenses prepared for battle.
But when he spoke again, his voice was pleasant, just a hint of a burr to it, more like Sean Connery than ever and Silver dropped her guard.
"I believe you may be interested in seeing this." He slowly placed a newspaper, folded deliberately to one page, in front of her, then drew back his hands and rested his chin on them.

Her story. He'd found her story. Pictures, luridly showing the harpoon cannon and the crowd of protesters, topped the page and the story hung down at least eight inches. Eight inches of space!
She read it through. They hadn't changed a word. Lovely! Just lovely. It was enough to give her a thrill of satisfaction--take that, Mr. Syndicate Evans--she had made an international debut. This one story, with such complete coverage...wow. Oh, wow.
The smile burst through her entire body.
Yet she said nothing.

Cameron leaned closer, chin still in his hands. "Good reporting, even for an American."
A compliment? Silver looked up from the newspaper to see that smirk back in the man's eyes.
"Why, thank you."

Zara entered with the man's breakfast and set it carefully in front of him. He looked to her, muttered a quiet thank you and set to eating. Once Zara left them alone again, he paused mid-bite, his fork still on the way to his mouth with egg yolk dripping onto his plate. Silver watched it drip with slight fascination.
He waved his fork slightly. Silver followed the motion, not willing to look at the man's face.
"Next time, however, I'd be a bit more careful to get the byline right."
"Huh?" The fascination broke.
"The byline. Is that really your name, Ms. McLaren?"

Silver picked up the paper and scanned the story.
"Oh, no!"
The byline, her byline! They'd screwed it up! Everything else was so perfect, but they'd screwed up her name.
Contributed by Sliver McLaren.
Sliver!
Oh, crap!

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

She took the proffered hand.
With one quick tug, Cameron pulled her to the top of the bank so that she ended up chest to chest with the man. And he didn't let go right away.
Silver felt the rock hard muscles of his chest, his inhalations, smelled the scent of his aftershave or soap, something that temporarily mystified her and drew her to him...maybe call it a spell or something.
Whatever it was, seconds dragged out while they stood there, chest to chest, with no apparent desire to separate.
He moved away first, leaving Silver feeling slightly bereft.
Wow. What the heck was THAT all about?
Silver stepped away, slid a bit on the loose dirt of the bank, but that big hand grabbed her once again and prevented her from landing in the loch.

Her tinted glasses slid down her nose.
Stern eyes glared down at her. "Foolish woman! You nearly fell in. Do you have any idea how cold the loch is? How deep? How dangerous it is to play on the bank? You Americans...."

"What about us? Hey, big boy, don't get me started or I'll go through some recent history wherein the US saved the...oh, never mind. And for your information, I was perfectly safe down there. I grew up on a lake in New Jersey. And I can swim very well. I would have made it up the bank without your help, thank you very much."
She had her hands on her hips now. That little thrill she had felt being close to him was completely gone, along with any feelings other than contempt for the man.

"Well, next time, I will just let you fall, if that is what you want." His teeth set in a grimace, but she noted that it made his face even more handsome while in what had to be its natural pose.

"Don't bother yourself. It won't happen."

He moved away from her slowly. "There are some steps a few yards away. You might want to utilize them if there should ever be a next time."
He pointed to a spot hidden from her view by a large shaggy bush, but Silver could see something beyond it. Phooey. The big jerk. Just who did he think he was?

To respond to that taunt would be useless. But it bothered her to continue to allow this guy to heckle her as if she were some cheesy comedian in a club. After midnight, when everybody else was drunk. Or something. She couldn't think clearly, couldn't come back with anything else, something so un-Jersey.
In a few hours, though, she'd have all the comebacks she could ever want, and they'd be damned good. In a few hours. Just not now. Grrrr! How annoying!
Had he done that to her?

What nonsense. Her brain had better rev up and start working right.

Anyway, she had had enough of the loch for now. She took the car and went for a drive, stopping here and there along the banks to shoot the scenery. Further down the road, she came to a huge group of people gathered, bearing placards and banners. Some sort of demonstration. What was going on?

"Save Nessie." "Leave the Loch alone!" "We love our Monster." "Scientists Go Home."
Uh-oh. That little thing inside Silver, that thing that said there was something newsworthy and ought to be covered, clicked on. She pulled over, grabbed her camera and slowly walked over to the crowd.

"They're after killin' our Nessie." Someone shouted at her as she clicked away. After a few more shots of the crowd, then a couple of the men mounting a large, wicked-looking device to the front of an old wooden boat, Silver let the camera dangle from the strap around her neck and took out her pad.
"Who are these people and why do you think they want to kill your Nessie?"

Instantly people reacted by swarming around her.
"See that? It's a harpoon gun. What else would they be doin' with it? They want to kill the beastie, not just look for it."
A man with a long beard and red nose touched her arm, causing her to swing around. "They have their boats with their devices and they're goin' to look for our Nessie, like they do every springtime. But they never have had a harpoon. Och, never!"
A woman who looked as if she lived with ten cats or more, that old, grey-haired-wart-on-the-side-of-her-lip look gave her away, along with the strands of cat hairs on her clothing wiped away tears. "They've angered the gods of the loch! They'll bring doom and destruction to all Scotland!"
"Ye've got to do somethin' to help!"

Silver stood in the crush. "I'm afraid...there's nothing I can do about this. I just happened by and stopped to take a look. I'm writing a book...about the loch. Taking pictures. I'm not really the press...well, I am, but not here."

Someone in the crowd grunted. "American. We're wastin' our time with the lass."

A collective "oh" swept through the crowd which started to walk away.

Yet one old man lingered. "Ye can do somethin', lass. The photos. Ye can put them on our website, send 'em off to the papers. Ye can do that, if you chose."

Silver looked at the old gent. He had a fair, weathered face. His clothing was tweed and flannel, baggy at the knees pants and black Wellies on his feet. Yet it was his eyes that really caught her attention. Blue, bloodshot, crinkled at the edges from laughing or crying, she could not tell, but the sincerity shone through, straight to her heart.

"Yes. I can do that. I can put these photos online. Are you people a group? I mean, do you have a name? A website? What's the name of the local paper? I can send these on to them, too."
His weathered face broke into a beaming smile. "Och, I knew you'd be the one, lass. I can feel the reporter in you."
Silver smiled back. "Must have been the accent that gave me away, huh?"
"Nay. It was the cameras, o'course." With that, he stuck out his hand. Silver accepted it with a hearty shake.
"I'm Jake MacDonald. I used to work out of Inverness, way back before you were born, probably back before yer ma was born."
"Can't you send in the story yourself? Do you still have any connections?"
Jake barked a laugh. "Lass, I've nothing and no one left anywhere. I'm ninety years auld. There's no one left would know my name."

"Well, I'm Silver McLaren and I work for a small paper back home, but I know how to write up a story and I can probably get in touch with some local news people somehow. I can't guarantee anything, mind you, but I will try, Mr. MacDonald. I most certainly will try."

"Good lass. That's all anybody can ask of you."

"Let me get a few more shots of the boat and the men and that cannon, then, and I'll head back to my computer, see what I can do."

"Just let them know what's goin' on here at our loch, lass." With that, Jake walked back to the anxious group and passed on what he knew from the looks of things.
Silver got her photos, checked the back of the camera to make sure she'd covered everything and got back into her car.

She'd seen several newspapers back at Thorne Cottage. She'd look to see how to get in touch with them and do what she could. As she drove, she made up a short news story to include with her photos. But by the time she reached the B&B, she wondered whether it was worth any effort at all. Did she really want to get involved?

She'd promised Mr. MacDonald.
Somebody, a complete stranger, trusted her to do what she could.
So she had no choice whatsoever.

Back at her lodgings, Silver looked at the papers, got online with surprising ease and slipped her photo card into her laptop. By the time she sent in her story and the photos, it was near teatime. At least, that's what her stomach told her. She'd missed lunch, something she was not used to at all. But there was no provision for tea at a B&B. Not really.

Downstairs, Zara was just pouring out a cup of tea when Silver entered the room.
"Perfect timing. Have a seat, Silver." Zara patted the chair next to hers. She had pronounced the word perfect as "pairfect" which made Silver smile. The way the Scots spoke had something magic about it. Oh, it was English, of a sort, and sometimes needed explaining and interpreting, but she loved to hear it.

"What have ye been up to today?" Zara inquired over the rim of her teacup.
"Oh, you wouldn't believe!" Silver sipped from the delicate cup, bit into a warm scone and eventually told her hostess the whole story.

"Ross would know what to do about that."
Silver hung her head. "I'm afraid I had another run-in with Mr. BBC today. There is no way he'd ever listen to this, not coming from me."
Zara's eye's sparkled. "Oh, what did you do to him?"

Silver gasped. "Me? Nothing. I did nothing to him. I was just down by the loch, taking pictures, and he comes along and insists I get up and gives me his hand, then scolds me about being close to the water and points out how stupid I am."

"I think he likes you, Silver."
After gales of laughter left both women, Silver shook her head in denial. "Whatever would make you say that? The man hates me."

Zara motioned for Silver to lean closer. "The verra fact he spoke to ye at all means somethin'. He hasna spoken to anyone willingly, not more than a few words, since he came here. And I saw him watching ye at the pub. I'd say he showed more interest in ye than he's shown in anything in months."
"No. No way. He's just a cranky old man, destined to be cranky forever. Makes me wonder how he made it in television, unless the BBC wants cranky reporters to give the news."
"Maybe," Zara said softly, "it was the news that made him cranky."

"Oh, hell. You're right, Zara. What was I thinking?"

"Go on, finish yer tea. We'll go to the pub for dinner tonight, if you've a mind to. I know the men will be waitin' on ye. Will ye let them down?"
Silver shook her head. "If you keep talking Scottish, I'll be doin' it soon, lass." Both women shrieked with laughter, spoiled only when Ross Cameron entered the dining room. The wet blanket had arrived. Party over.
Silver excused herself and left to look over her photos of the day.

Cameron did not make it to the pub that night. Pity, Silver mused. He missed a great time.

Just to be defiant or something, Silver woke early and strolled down to the loch early the next morning. A mist rose from dull grey water and waves slapped against the stones along the rim without mercy. Silver shrugged off the damp, letting it tangle her hair and kiss her face. Boy, it was good to be alive and in Scotland!
She thought of the steps Cameron had pointed out to her but didn't feel compelled to hit the beach. Instead, she scanned the width of it, noting that the waves reached nearer the bank than they had yesterday. Wait. There was something odd on the beach.
Silver utilized the steps, skirted the waters with care to come to the spot where she'd stood the day before.
A pile of stones, shaped like a pyramid, rose up from the limit of the waterline.
The stones, all flat with a skipping edge, were piled neatly, precisely. She stooped and picked up a peculiar white crystal one from the very top and some of the others. All dark, all bearing the particular whitish lines just like the stones she had chosen to skip.
Exactly like the stones she'd skipped.
No. It couldn't be.
Those stones had gone out into the loch, far from the shore.
No one could have retrieved them. They were just similar.
Cameron!
She'd bet he'd done this. To tease her. To annoy her. To tempt her back down to the loch after giving her such dire warnings.

Cameron!
What was he playing at?

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

Weak sunlight pierced through the lace curtains of Silver's room in Thorne Cottage, creeping up the duvet until it reached her eyes.
She awoke, scrubbed her hand over her face and lay abed, listening to the sounds of Scotland in the early morning.
There weren't any.
It was dead quiet with the pillow wrapped around her head and the thick duvet trying to block the light from her eye.
Had she been home, she'd still be sleeping.
Ever so slowly, she allowed her senses to open up.

Yes, someone was moving about downstairs. The clanging of something against metal, the sound of a door opening and closing. An occasional, "hush, cat" followed by the smell of something delicious wafting up the stairs from the cooker.
Silver inhaled deeply and that itch started in her stomach to find out what the smell was.

She luxuriated in the wonderful softness of the bedding. Stretched, smiled to herself, and allowed the rest of her brain to wake up...slowly taking in more and more, thinking about what she would do today, imagining how she could spend every second doing something useful, taking pictures, exploring. Yes. Great idea. Explore today with camera handy. Never know what beauty awaited, a small flower peeking up from the dirt, a dog in a puddle, a herd of sheep grazing on an impossible slope, or one of the towns, old as these very hills, or some interesting faces--she'd have to get releases from them if she wanted to publish a book, but everybody wanted their faces in a book. She'd learned that from the Chronicle. Everybody wanted that little bit of fame to show to somebody else...hey, I got my photo in the paper, did you see it?

Loud male singing broke through her reverie.
Huh?
She heard the drumming of the shower in the shared bathroom. That voice, singing deep, low, incredibly masculine. What was that? "Do you really want to hurt me? Do you really want to see me cry?"
Boy George?

Who the hell was singing Boy George in the shower?

She laughed when it came to her...oddly, through the mists of the highlands. Unless someone had moved into the B&B last night, it just might be that guy from the pub. The one who had followed her home. The one she had the little run in with last night. The guy who sat in the corner, brooding like the hero in a romance novel. Hah. No, that guy wouldn't sing Boy George.
He'd sing Wagner.

The singing stopped. She gave him a few minutes to dry off and get dressed and leave the bathroom before even getting out of her bed. Then she'd take care of business herself and pop downstairs to find out what had been cooking. Mmmm. Her stomach rumbled as she waited.

Finally, she heard the door creak open and shut again. Signal enough that the coast was clear.
Silver left the warmth of the nest, padded barefoot across the small hallway and tried the doorknob. The door opened easily, startling the man before the sink. Even through the foam on his face, he snarled without saying a word.
"Um, sorry," Silver apologized and slammed the door shut.

He'd been half naked, a towel wrapped around his hips, a slight dusting of dark hair across his broad, really massively broad chest. She hadn't looked any further, but as she stole back into her room, she wished she had.

She waited again, this time until she was sure he'd left the room after hearing his room door shut firmly, before attempting to use the bathroom again. The shower contraption was nothing she'd ever seen before. It took her awhile to figure out how to get a gentle stream going, but she'd rather have died than ask anyone for help adjusting it. The water wasn't rushing out, but she managed to soap and rinse off her body, wash her shoulder length hair and get out of the bathroom in about fifteen minutes, maybe a little longer. The towels weren't quite as lush as she had back home, but they worked. She used one to wrap her wet hair then got dressed. Wet towels littered the floor already, but Silver picked them all up and folded them. For some reason, she didn't want her hostess to think she was a slob.
But, it sort of rankled that it was okay for that broody guy to just let his towels lay where he dropped them. Hmm. His Q factor lowered just a bit. A great body and great voice didn't make up for being a slob.

Her hostess, looking just perfect for the part in a long, flowing flowery dress and crisp white apron, greeted her with a mug of coffee and warm smile.
"You heard the monster roar, did you not?" Her laughter tinkled like the sound of fairy bells.
Sheesh, what am I thinking?
"I'm afraid I interrupted him. Maybe we ought to put a bell around his neck."

"Ah, but Ross Cameron wouldna wear a bell. And you could no catch him to tie it on."
Silver smiled, sat at the table and helped herself to some cream for her coffee. No, I wouldn't try to tie anything around his big, fat neck. Well, maybe. So, his name was Ross Cameron. Why did that sound just a little familiar?

Zara replied as if she had actually heard Silver's musings. "Ross Cameron, you've probably heard of him. He covered the war in Iraq and Afghanistan for the BBC up until a few months ago."
Ahh, yes. That rang a bell. "Didn't something awful happen to him?"
Zara's face fell. "Aye. His camera man was killed."
"Oh." What more could she say? She remembered the intense coverage of the early stages of the war and the story of the bravery of the reporters who were imbedded into the troops to cover the fighting, up front, showing the rest of the world what was happening in nearly every stage. She'd thought about how difficult it must have been on them and also how deadly it had become for a few. No wonder Ross Cameron brooded.
"Derrick was my brother in law, well, my ex brother in law," Zara supplied. She quirked her lips into a half smile, as if remembering something pleasant but long ago. "Ross didna know that Derrick left him the pub and Thorne Cottage. It was quite a shock for him to come into it all. He wanted to give Thorne Cottage to me, but I didna want the responsibility of owning anything. I'm content just to run the place for him. But, that's enough talk. Would you like eggs? Oatmeal?
Bacon?"

Silver's stomach rumbled. "Eggs, please. Can you scramble them? And some bacon. I'll walk it off today on my ramble around the loch."

Somewhere after the first bite of breakfast, Ross Cameron entered the dining room and all useful conversation ceased. Zara kept smiling and chatted with Cameron but Silver hid behind her tinted eyeglasses and finished her food without saying a word before "thank you, that was lovely."
Not waiting for anything else, she got her camera cases and backpack and headed out to her car. But she didn't take off. The gentle lapping of the loch caught her ear and lured her to the shore, just a bit down the drive, then across the narrow road to the steep lake bank.
It didn't look much like the lake in her back yard...it was miles too big. The color was wrong, too, as her lake had been brown and sometimes deep green, but never the steely grey of Loch Ness. Of course, there were clouds in the sky now, just breaking up, thus causing the color of the water, but still...it was the sounds. Sounds of gentle water slipping up to the stony rim of beach, tapping the stones with an occasional harder slap made her smile again. Trees just about to explode with leaves, shoots of weeds and grasses and possibly flowers--all reminded her of the lake back home that would soon be blooming with wild roses and brushed by willows.
Loch Ness sounded like the lake in her memory--good enough reason to make her find a way down the bank to that small rim of flat land, studded with stones, along the loch's edge. She took a few shots of the water from that vantage point, some of the rocks, some of the coming greenery, then capped the lens and just stared at the water as it changed color.

Something blipped in the water. A silvery spark caught her eye as a tiny fish tunneled back into the depths. Silver picked around, found a flat rock and aiming carefully, skipped it across the dark water. Giddiness overcame her as she watched it skip six, seven times. She got another flat stone, felt it around the edge, adjusted it in her hand and let it fly. This one flew out at least ten yards, skipping ten times before disappearing under the tight waves.
It was fun.
She searched around, locating some broken stones with edges among the rounded pebbles. These glistened in the breaking sunlight. As she turned them to find the best edge, she noticed slim streaks of white, probably just quartz or something she reasoned. They reminded her of the gravel in her parents' driveway. Yep, that white was probably quartz. She didn't know rocks, but she knew quartz from diamond. This had to be quartz.
She chucked a few more stones, took a few more shots of the lake but couldn't snap fast enough to catch one of her skips. She'd have to work on that.

When she turned to make her way back up the bank, a large masculine hand reached down to her, startling her into taking a step back.
"If you're looking to drown yourself, take another step back. If you want help getting back up here, grab my hand."
She recognized the voice.
The mysterious, infuriating Ross Cameron.
To the rescue.
Hah!

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

You have to listen carefully to the words...Irene dies in this song...she jumps off a riverboat and drowns. I never liked it when I was a kid and the only reason it is here now is because of who is singing it.
Thanks to Midnight Bones for the direction.

Zara proved to be a warm and very entertaining woman. Slightly older, probably in her early thirties, she had a vivacity Silver admired, and a wealth of stories that could keep anybody fascinated. As to a valid explanation as to what had happened when they shook hands, her logic seemed to have flown out the door.
Silver kept the whole selkie/caul business to herself, but she knew, just knew that Zara would understand, even if she herself didn't.
What was with these Scots?

Anyway, as the sun began to set and the tea was gone and the scones (Zara called them skawns, how delightfully quaint!) consumed, Silver began to feel the need for real food.
"Is there any place around to get a quick meal? A McDonalds or Burger King, something like that?"
Zara gave her a blank stare for a few seconds, then it must have registered. She laughed politely.
"Och, no! There's nothing like that around here. Maybe in Inverness, possibly. Definitely in Edinburgh, but I sincerely doubt you want to be troubled to go that far. There's the pub next door. They serve a good dinner, now that the new owner has taken it over. I'll tell you what, let me take you there and introduce you around. The men will appreciate a new face. Maybe they'll leave me alone."

Silver pulled back. "Are they all... jerks? I've had enough trouble with men lately. I don't know...."
"They're no jerks, they're just...how can I say this? They're men without women of their own, more interested in sport than settling down. Most of them live with their mothers I do not doubt.
But they're harmless. You'll see. No one will bother you if you set them straight."

The pub stood nearly a football field's length from Thorne Cottage. There were no cars parked in the small lot. At first, Silver thought it might be empty, but when Zara pushed open the door, robust male voices greeted them with that half-blustering, half joking tone men get when they're discussing anything they deem worth discussing. In this case, once Zara and Silver were noticed, all talk stopped dead.

And several male jaws dropped.

They made their way to a table near the fireplace and sat. Still, no one spoke. Silver couldn't brush off her uneasiness. She looked to Zara who shrugged, then after apparently considering what to do, stood and announced, "Ye great louts, this is Silver McLaren from New Jersey in the States. She's staying at Thorne Cottage and you'd best behave like gentlemen. Go on, go with your football or whatever." She shooed them with her hand and sat, nonplussed.
Silver stifled a laugh. "Well, that's telling 'em."
"You have to be firm with these lads. They're thick sometimes."
The barman came over and handed each of them short plastic-covered menus while pointing out the fare on the chalkboard. He smiled broadly, favoring each woman in turn, but didn't leave. He must have been expecting them to make their decisions quickly.
While Silver studied the menu and he stood there, gawping, a most peculiar thing happened.
She hadn't noticed it when they entered the pub, but there were several large dogs sitting at their masters' feet. This wouldn't have been allowed in New Jersey, but evidently it was perfectly acceptable in Scotland. The dogs didn't stay where they were. Instead, they began slowly crawling in that odd-doggie way that seemed to show they were showing great obeisance, toward Silver's table.
When one wet nose touched her hand, she flinched it away until she realized what had touched her. Gently, she pet the dog's head and had her hand licked. Ew, slobber. The other dogs, seeing this acceptance, followed suit. Soon all the dogs in the pub were crowded around Silver and Zara, begging for attention.
It was strange, but, oh, well, what the heck. Zara laughed lightly, sounding like some sort of elf or fairy and after a quick look at her, Silver was forced to join her. The barman tried in vain to shoo the dogs back, cursing in some incomprehensible language and calling out to the dogs' owners to come and get them.
"Don't ye be botherin' these ladies, ye great louts!"
But Silver, putting up her hand, stopped him from going further.
She bent her head to look under the table and said quietly, "You're all so sweet, but babies, would you mind backing off just a little? I'll pet you all after I eat my dinner, if you will behave yourselves."
The dogs, tails wagging furiously, backed away to sit at their owners' feet.
Silver sighed.
The men at the bar and at other tables watched, their faces betraying their amazement.
Silver looked around to make sure no one was disturbed by her actions. All the men smiled back then whispered amongst themselves and went back to their pints.
All but one.
In the darkest corner of the pub sat a lone man who watched everything through lidded eyes.
Silver noticed him, the darkness not hindering her night vision ability in the least. He sat hunched over, definitely not part of the crowd, but listening to everything with little interest. She had the crazy idea of how the Hobbits first encountered Strider, sitting with his big hat covering his face, in that pub at the end of civilization. Wow, what a weird thought.
This guy wasn't wearing a hat, but he wore an air of "do not disturb" so Silver turned away.
Zara supplied an answer to her unspoken question.
"That's the pub's new landlord. He doesn't talk much."
"Oh. What's his story?"
"I'll tell you later. Now, let's eat." The barman placed their food before them, lingered until they thanked him and gave him a nod, then left rather reluctantly. What was with these people? Hadn't they ever seen an American before?

The food was good, substantial, with a flair she had not expected in a little out of the way place like this. After the dishes were removed, some sort of signal went through the men who began wandering over to their table in a non-aggressive shamble reminiscent of their pets.

The first introduced himself as one of the McGregor lads as if Silver should know the import of it all. Zara gently elbowed her and whispered in her ear, "There are eight of them, just so you know. Harmless, except on the dance floor."

"Hello."
He continued. "So, you're from New Jersey. Tell me, do you favor the football Giants or those Jets?"
Beside her, Zara tched. "Right away, you have to bother the lady?"
Duly chastised but not to be stopped, he hung his head.

Silver held in her chuckle. "The Giants. The Jets are okay, too, but I guess I favor the Giants."
The MacGregor perked up at this. All ears in the pub were on this conversation now.
"Yankees or Mets?"

Silver laughed this time. "Yankees. The Mets are good for a laugh every now and then, but I don't know about them any more. I've been a Yankees fan since I was a little girl."

The MacGregor boomed out to the crowd, "Did you hear that, lads? She's a Yankees fan!"
The ice broken, smashed to tiny shards by this declaration, Silver found herself surrounded by "the lads", introduced to them all, and pummeled with questions.

The huge television at the end of the room magically turned on and a baseball game, just starting, forced some of the men to divide their attention between Silver, who responded honestly but with her natural uncertainty since she wasn't really that big a fan of any sport, and the game, broadcast via satellite on delay.

She did enjoy her first night at the pub, however. Despite the constant questions about sports and the states--Have you never gone to a game? Ye have? How long ago? How are the new sports stadiums? Do ye think the Yankees have a chance a the World Series? How about the Mets?--she didn't feel put upon and eventually relaxed after explaining that she liked sports, but surely not as much as these men did. They told her all about their planned trip to New York to see at least one baseball game later in the summer and she told them it would be a great idea.
To which, every man jack of them took her approval as gospel.

Zara left the pub at about nine, making sure Silver knew how to get back to Thorne Cottage.
About ten thirty, the long drive and the time difference took its toll on Silver and she rose to leave. The game was going strong and the men bid her good night.
Whew! She sucked in a deep breath of the clean air, coughed out some of the smoke that had filled her lungs inside the pub and started on her way back to her room.
She walked without really thinking about where she was going, a long straight path between the pub and the B&B, listening to the sound of quiet broken only by the lapping of the lake waters against the shore. Then she heard footsteps coming behind her.
The hair on the back of her neck rippled alert as the steps came closer, followed by the click of doggie toenails against the stones in the path.
She stopped.
The footsteps didn't.
Silver spun around and saw first one of the old dogs who had vied for her attention in the pub, then noticed that the man who had been sitting alone in the shadows, old Strider, kept coming closer. She reacted in typical Jersey style.

"Are you following me, buddy?"
The man stopped in his tracks, scowled at her in the moonlight and shook his head once.
"I'm going to my bed, lady. I have no interest in you other than the fact that you happen to be going to the same place. This is not America. I'm not going to attack you. I just want to get home."
"Well," she felt just a little foolish, but then, she wasn't about to trust this stranger. "Well, you don't have to creep up on me."
By this time, Strider had come to mere feet away. He scowled down at her. "Then get out of the way and let me pass if you intend to stand there all night, jabbering."
With that, he brushed past her, called his dog away and continued on down the path.

Under her breath, Silver muttered to his back, "Jerk!"

Copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

Travel agents are wonderful.  They know so much.  Some of them must be psychic, Silver mused as she drove to her grandmother's house.  The agent had found her a lovely B&B to stay in...Thorne  Cottage.  Now, didn't that sound divine?  According to the brochure, it was rather isolated alongside one of the beautiful lochs scattered throughout Scotland.  It was in the Highlands and looked absolutely cozy.  Recently renovated, but still maintaining Old World charm.
Yeah.  Old world charm.  No wifi.  Nobody bugging her.  Peace and quiet and a chance to calm down, get hold of herself, get back on the right path.  Focus.
The paper can run itself for two weeks.
The only problem she could foresee was her grandmother.
Gram might not like the idea of being alone.

"Nonsense, dear.  You go.  Galena and I can cope just fine.  I'm on the way up from the chemo and she knows what to do for me.  Now that she has her driver's license, why, everything is great."
As she voiced this, Silver noted something in her eyes, just for an instant, something that showed the tiniest bit of concern or worry or fear, but it vanished in a flash.  Maybe she didn't really see it after all.  But it bothered her.
"Look, Gram, I can cancel the reservations.  No problem.  If you feel you need me in any way, I will stay here.  Probably a stupid thing for me to do anyway.  Running off on a whim, what with you here in bed and Mom and Pop on the other side of the world.  I...I think I'd better stay."

The old lady elbowed her way up the pillows.  "You'll do no such thing, Silver McLaren.  You have to follow this impulse.  You have to get away."
"No, I'd better stay here.  I can just...."
"Don't you dare cancel those plans, Silver!  Something made you make them.  Something pushed you.  I don't care whether the insurance man is coming, I can handle him.  Prove I'm alive!  Hah.  All he has to do is walk through that door and I'll prove to him I'm alive, all right.
But," she took a deep breath and pointed her finger at her granddaughter, "something told you to take that trip.  To take that chance.  Things have a strange way of working out.  Something put Scotland in your mind and you owe it to yourself to find out what."

Silver smiled at her grandmother's vehemence.  And whimsy.  "Gram, there is no great universal plan sending me to  Scotland.  I was pissed at that insurance guy and had to come up with some excuse not to be here when he showed up.  The guy was hitting on me, Gram.  I don't need that in my life right now."

"When will you need it, Silver?" 
The innocence of the question was totally unlike Gram.  Silver knew there was something more to it.  The old "you should be married or at least have someone special in your life" lecture was long overdue.  It had been at least four months since she'd heard it.  Damn.
"Oh, Gram.  Please."

"Oh, Silver, PLEASE!  Go to Scotland.  Visit castles.  Throw rocks in a loch.  Eat some haggis.
No, don't eat any haggis, eat some good shortbread and drink some fine malt whisky.  Buy yourself some nice plaid.  Do something, girl.  Find out what it is that sent you there and work with it."

That was a pretty long speech without once mentioning a man in her life or babies.  Silver shuddered.  Okay, she got the point.  She'd go.

"You never know what's just around the bend, Silver.  Something is calling to you in Scotland.
Find out what it is and embrace it."

"Oh, Gram!"  With a hug for the old lady, Silver resigned herself to her supposed fate.  "I'll go.
And I'll find out whatever it is that has called me to the land of my ancestors."
"They're not all selkies," Gram added.
"Now, that's comforting to know."

 She sat in the narrow seat, wedged between a short, sweaty businessman who groused about not flying first class and a semi-pro footballer whose shoulders crowded into her space.  Within seconds, both men were vying for her attention and Silver decided to feign sleep until the cabin lights went down and the men, out of courtesy or boredom, shut up.  The businessman fiddled with his laptop for awhile while the athlete plugged in his headphones and fell asleep listening to Michael Bolton.
Both men snored lightly, but enough to keep Silver awake for half the long flight.  She  managed to catch a couple of hours' sleep, but when the cabin lights flickered on and the steward hustled up the aisle, she was awake and raring to go. 
The sun was up but not out when the cab left Silver at the train station.  Idle thoughts led her to think that Harry Potter might have gone on this same platform.  Everything looked old and different and chilly and slightly foggy inside the huge building, lending it an air of mystery and unreality.  The travel agent had done her job well.  Ticket in hand, Silver boarded the train for Edinburgh.  This time her traveling companions were a trendily dressed mother with her two little boys who were enchanted to be traveling with an American and bombarded her with questions about cowboys and Red Indians.
"Don't mind them, miss," the trendy mother insisted  "They've been staying with their grandparents and Grandfather is mad keen on cowboys.  I guess that's all they talked about while they were there.  He even promised to take them to Texas when they got a little older."
Then, in an aside, she whispered, "I think they'd enjoy Disney World much more."
Silver smiled.  "I know I would."

Upon arrival in Edinburgh, Silver spent eight hours in the comfy bed at her modest and ancient hotel. In the morning, her rented car was waiting for her at the hotel door. 
"Remember to drive on the left hand side of the road, Miss," rang in her ears when she rolled away from the kerb. 
Thank GOD she'd rented an automatic!  Thought it was less than a hundred miles to Inverness, the traveling distance would be longer because of the rugged terrain.  Going up and down hills, skirting mountains...if she'd had to shift gears with her left hand while remembering which side of the road to stay on...well, she'd never make it.
The highlight of her trip consisted of being stopped four times while shaggy sheep crossed the narrow roads.  She ate a quick lunch while pulled over at a rest stop but continued on her way, determined to reach Inverness as soon as possible.  According to her schedule, she still had an hour's drive to the B&B.
She had to admit, though, that the Scottish countryside, with its hills and lush valleys and rugged terrain was everything she'd ever thought it was.  And old.  Everything looked old and slightly worn but natural, as if every cottage and kirk and fence and stone wall had been there for ages and would stay that way forever.   And that made her happy.  In the mists clinging to the valleys below, she felt oddly at home.  Not really home home, but perhaps some sort of racial memory or something from the stories her grandmother told her from the time she was a child.
If a Highlander wearing a kilt and kirtling on pipes leapt from the bushes and started playing, she'd not be surprised.  In fact, at one roadside pullover, she found just that.  An older gentleman stood in full Highland regalia, pipes askirl, entertaining a group of tourists who snapped away with their cameras.  They were a long way from home. 
But then, so was she.

As she drove, she marked places she wanted to visit during her two week stay.  Museums and shops and restaurants and galleries, maybe take a day to--oh, who knows?  Maybe just take photographs of the natural beauty of the country.  Maybe put it in a book.  Yeah, now that was a terrific idea!  A book about Scotland in springtime.  A travelogue.  Something to show her grandmother.  Maybe even try to get it published.  Sure, why not?  She could write and she could take good photographs.  She had two of her best cameras with her and her netbook.

Wow.  Excitement rose in her, filling her with a sense of purpose. 
Hey, maybe this was what she was supposed to do, what her odd whim had pushed her to do.  Something she'd never have thought of in Middlebrook, sitting at her desk at the Chronicle.
For the first time in a long time, Silver was buzzed.  
The excitement of this new twist to her life made it easy for her not to register the fact that she now took the low road along the shore of Scotland's largest, deepest lake.
Loch Ness.
 

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

You all know about Silver and probably where this is leading, but in case you didn't, here's a clue:






This was found in an article about some brand new old footage found recently, dating back from the mid 1930s. Of course, it didn't show the footage, but I thought this picture was nifty.

Now, this goes along with my recent post about Godzilla. If it were proven that there was something magnificently unique in Loch Ness, can you imagine how the world would respond?

The other day on the Science Channel or NatGeo I heard that strange whale noises were detected in Lake Champlain, upper New York state, bordering on Vermont. They claim to have "Champ" up there. Out in BC, Canada, there is a lake monster named Ogopogo, all monsters easily reference on the Internet.
Noises in a frozen lake? Noises like a Beluga whale makes?
Were these people smoking something or were they serious?

Why can't I ever find the answers to these simple questions?

Maybe I'll work on Silver later. It's too cold to work on it now.

Okay, I've had all my shots, pneumonia, regular flu and H1N1.
Today for the very first time in over one year, I'm going out in public with Karyn, alone.  No Herb to hold me up.  We're going shopping for clothes for her because it has been about two years since the two of us have been shopping together and she desperately needs blue jeans.

For the first time in my life, I have about five pairs, but most of them are too big.  I have one good pair.

I was wearing them when I broke my legs.
In the emergency room, I had to beg the people to remove them without cutting them.  It caused quite a stir, me begging, them being so used to just ripping away at pants' legs, but, by golly, the nurses helped lift my leg and my butt and I helped, too, despite the floppy foot and all, and the pants were removed successfully.

You never think of things like that.
I had clean underwear on...always have decent undergarments when leaving the house.  I guess it is okay to wear holey underwear, pinned bras or something, when hanging around your own abode, but--wait!  What if you were to fall and need the rescue squad to get you to the hospital?  Then everybody would see your crummy underwear!!!
And I mean everybody.

When I was in the emergency room, getting the foot put back in place, there were 12 people in the little room.  One was a dentist.  He showed me a picture of his little girl.  Distracted me.  I don't know why he was there as the foot is furthest away from the mouth you can get without blowing off the top of your head, but he was there.  Nice guy.
So...as a rule, I haven't worn holey underwear or pins in my bra since I was a kid and had the bad car accident that landed me in the emergency room, back in June, 1971.  Luckily I had good underwear on at the time, but as they were hauling me into the ambulance, all I kept thinking about was the state of my underwear.

I grew up, undergarment wise, that day, and never ever had less than perfect, clean undies since then.

{By the bye, our neighbor next door was taken to the hospital last night.  LIghts flashing, the hospital EMTs and the rescue squad all there, flashing and sirening.  Ken is a really sweet, nice guy.  He and I shared the hawks in the back yard.  I hope everything is all right.  I prayed for him and the rest of his family last night and hope all prayers regarding him are answered by the Big Guy.}

Infrequent streetlights did little to illuminate the alley behind the Chronicle office and most of the northern side of downtown.  Silver lifted her ever-present sunglasses, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimness.  When her night vision clicked in, she eased the Mini onto the pavement and slowly drove to her parking space behind the old brick building.  The loading dock was empty.  That meant the paper had been put to bed.  The crew had gone home.  All was quiet.
She should have felt fine.  The long day was over, she was ready to eat her frozen dinner and maybe watch some television.  Everything should have been peaceful and okay and it would have been, except for the tingling of the hair on the back of her neck.
Easing the Mini close to the back door of her building, she grabbed her camera bag and tote, carefully opened her door and swung her feet to the ground.  As she hefted herself to a standing position, the dark vanished in headlights.  Another vehicle pulled alongside hers.
Every nerve tingled.
She quickly pushed her keys between her fingers and let the weapon hand dangle at her side.
Oh, hell.
This was supposed to be a quiet evening.

"It's about time you got back."
Who the heck was that?  The car door opened and out came that obnoxious syndicate man, Evans.  What was his first name?  She'd never even bothered to look at the card.
"What are you doing here?"  Silver struggled to keep her voice even as her heart raced in her chest.  "I've said all I'm going to say to you."

He came round the front of his Lexus, holding up a large bag.  Chinese food.  Silver thought of sesame chicken and shrimp toast.  He'd been to Golden Dragon.  
"A peace offering.  I know you haven't eaten anything all day, Silver.  Mr. Lee told me this is what you usually order, so I took a chance."  He grinned, showing his perfect teeth in his rehearsed smile.
Mr. Lee's advertising rates just went up.

"Go away."  

Evans drew closer.  He'd taken off his suit jacket and undone his tie, rolled up the sleeves on his impeccable white shirt and tried to look casual.  Could snakes look casual?  Not in Silver's light sensitive eyes.

"Look, Silver, just because we had a little run in this afternoon doesn't mean we can't have a bite to eat and get to know each other."  He stepped closer, held up the bag of food.  "I even have chopsticks."  He tilted his head to the side, trying to look appealing or something, but Silver wasn't buying the act.

"Go back to where you came from.  Crawl back under the rock.  I'm tired and I want to go inside.  Alone.  Good night."

Evans set the bag on the hood of his car.  Silver edged toward the back of the building, her building, nearly at the back door.  Evans kept walking toward her, the smile still in place but his eyebrows downturned in question.
"What's the matter?  I'm beginning to get the impression you don't like me."

A laugh burst from her.  "Bingo!  Give the man a cigar.  Then go away."

He leaned his butt against the front of the Lexus.  "Now, Silver, if you don't want to talk to me in the office, you don't want to eat this delicious food I've brought, and this may be the only time I get to talk to you ever again, I'll have to say it all out here."
Interrupting, Silver raised her left hand.  "We have nothing to say to each other.  I am not selling the Chronicle.  Good night."  She made to open the back door.
Then he was right in front of her, caging her between his open arms and his large body.
"You're going to listen to me now."
Silver panicked, the fear rippling through her, her mind streaking toward oblivion but going nowhere at all.  She froze.

"Look.  I've figured you out.  You've got a degree from Columbia journalism. You interned at the Washington Post, for crying out loud.  You're here in this podunk town running a piffling little rag because you know you can't make it in the real world.  Journalism requires balls, and you, my sweet  Silver, don't have 'em.  So, why not sell this rag to my syndicate, get yourself a couple of kids and leave the news world to the big boys?"

Rage screamed through her brain.  When she opened her mouth to let it out, he dipped his head and planted his lips on hers.  His body pressed against hers.  Despite her rage and her fear, Silver realized he was completely aroused and mauling her.
Instinctively, she stopped struggling.
Her attacker, emboldened by her seeming acquiescence, moved to a more comfortable position, spreading his legs to encompass her more fully.
Silver rammed her knee into his nether parts then watched his eyeballs bulge as he dropped to the asphalt.

She flung open the door, got herself inside, relocked it and called 911 on her cell phone.

The Middlebrook police deserved a laudatory editorial in this week's paper, she decided, as she spoke with the responding officer. 
No, she didn't think an ambulance was necessary, but she did want her attacker to spend the night in jail, at the very least.  Yes, she had seen him earlier in the day, but there was no reason for him to think she wanted any further contact with him.  Yes, he had attacked her.  Yes, she had fought him off.  Yes, it must have been a good shot because he was still on the ground. Yes, please just take him away and let me go upstairs.  No, I don't want to call anyone.  No, he didn't get very far, thank you very much.  Send a tow truck for the Lexus and throw that bag of food away, please.  If that's all, thanks, Jim.  Good night.

Upstairs in her apartment, Silver fought tears as she undressed and stood in the hot shower, trying to wipe away the feel of his hands and lips and body with every scrub of the washcloth.
While her body reacted with disgust, her brain reeled with all he had said.  The anger rushed back in,  overtaking the humiliation and fear.
The tears came then, hot and washed away by the cooling shower water.
But somewhere in her head niggled a little voice that wondered whether he had spoken the truth.
Was she hiding from the world in Middlebrook, afraid to try her hand at the real world?

"NO!"  Her anger ripped away that stupid question.  It wasn't true.  The Chronicle was a good thing.  Everybody loved it.  Everybody needed it.  They had the world beyond Middlebrook on television and in the New York papers if they wanted it.  She provided them with the news that counted to them.  The Chronicle was home town news and as long as they lived in the town, even after they moved away, they needed to know what was going on in the place they called home.

"Oh, God!   Please let me forget this."  Silver prayed out loud as she pulled on her sweats, heated up her defrosted dinner, threw it in the trash then scooped out a huge bowl of Dutch chocolate almond ice cream for herself and brought it to the sofa.  When she was comfortably curled up with the clicker in hand, she found something on her favorite science channel and set to work on the ice cream.
The geology of Loch Ness seemed a safe enough choice.  A few mentions of the fabled monster, then rocks and continental drift and the interesting idea that Scotland had once been attached to New York had her calmed down in no time.
But it would be hours before she drifted into sleep.
And the dreams started.

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

So, I complained about being alone and mentally starved for companionship and something new in my life and wham!  Three friends showed up, one promised to come tomorrow and my lovely neighbor was supposed to come over but maybe she's too ill to come.  (Hey, kiddo, I hope you're okay!)

So, now I feel sort of bad for acting like a whiny self-centered bitch.
I guess I just am.

It is very lonely staying up here, only going out to doctor appointments.  Maybe I'm going a little more insane than I was before.

But staying awake last night, I did get the next episode in Silver figured out.  Watch for it.

(And a big, big thanks to Ms. Elliot who sent me her favorite book!  I started reading it already.)

I'm pissed off.
I just wrote this magnus opus about being alone in the house, for the first time, for many hours, and I lost it.
I even did it in pink.

I wrote about how Herb left with his mother for the airport at 10:30, the girls left for university at 11:00, Herb came back at 12:30 or so and told me he was leaving to pay the garage guys for their third try at fixing the A/C in the van, then going to the Legion.
He made me a peanutbutter and jelly sandwich for supper and put it in my He-Man lunchbox and brought it up here, set it on the potty chair.  There had better be a Thermos of milk in there, too, and maybe some cookies or grapes or something, because I will be alone here until at the earliest 7:00, the latest, 10:00 pm.

Last time I was left alone for any length of time, I fell on my way to the bathroom and sprained my ankle.  I had to drag my sorry butt into the bathroom, do what I had to do, then drag myself, crawling on my knees like a baby, back to the bed where I waited for somebody to come and help me with my rapidly swelling ankle.  (This is the same ankle I recently broke in three places.)

I'm lonely.  I'm stuck here, useless as a broken roller skate.
I'm sulking, because there is nothing I can do but roll to the bathroom, roll to the computer, roll back to bed.  I can't go anywhere.  Even if I put the boot on, there isn't anywhere I can go.
So I'm sulking.
All by myself.

Before he left, Herb said he was going to lock the side door. I asked him not to, in case I had to call 911, they wouldn't have to break down the door to get to me.  Hint, hint.

This morning, my mother said how surprised she was that I have managed to  maintain my sense of humor for so long, and not crack.
Oh, but I have cracked.  I've been on the verge of a nervous breakdown for months and months.
I'm useless.
There's nothing I really can do, nothing that matters, except write email and my stupid serialogs and talk on the phone if and when somebody calls.  They called when I had cancer, but this latest setback, well, nobody seems to mind.  I must have used up all their sympathy.  Oh, I don't blame anybody.  Who wants to listen to me rant?
Or feel sorry for myself.

I've already written this once.  It got lost in Livejournal land, probably for the best as that was much more pathetic than this one is.  I just don't want to have to write it again.

I'm sulking.
I'm miserable.
I'm pissed.
I'm pathetic.

Shit.

The coolest thing about the new camera was that she could show the photos to her grandmother immediately without having to print them.  There were some great shots of the interior of the Arts Center.  Maybe her grandmother would add some comments she could use in the article.  After all, she'd been inside the theater back in the 30s.  There weren't many people still alive in the area who could boast that fact.
And Gram was still sharp.
Silver sighed again.  She found herself sighing more and more lately.

"Galena!  How are you today?"
The Russian lady who took care of her grandmother laughed.  "Osheen chorosho!"
She enveloped Silver in a bear hug.  "She's coming out of the chemo.  Had some breakfast this morning already."

Silver reagarded this information carefully.  "Good, that's always good."
Galena gestured broadly.  "Go in, go in.  She misses you."

Gram looked up from the bed, surrounded by stacks of papers and copies of the Chronicle.  She smiled, dipping her head to see above her glasses.  "Well, don't you look beautiful today."
"I could say the same to you, Gram.  What's up?  What have you been doing?"

"Not puking.  That new stuff is great.  I highly recommend it."
"Atta girl.  So this stuff works?  No worshipping the porcelain goddess?"
Gram ran her hand over her head, a gesture that would have been far more effective had she still had her hair.  She sighed.
Silver wanted to hug the old lady but held back.  "What's with all the papers?"

"Just some bills.  Another letter from that syndicate about buying the Chronicle.  Doctor stuff I have to read through, supposedly.  The insurance company hasn't paid anybody yet and some of those doctors are getting touchy."
"I'll handle it."
Gram grimaced.  "You've go so much on your shoulders, dear.  I think I can wade through this stuff, but maybe you could check it over to make sure...."
"Consider it done, Gram.  Now, put that stuff down and let me show you the photos I got inside the new Arts Center.  I need some comments, some observations, if you can come up with anything."

"What's this?"
Gram held out the long shot of the aquarium, waggling it under Silver's nose.
Silver shifted, uneasy in her skin and hesitant to bring up the subject that had been burning in her brain all morning now.
"They installed these fish tanks with the lights and all, in the lobby.  When you come up the ramp, I guess that's what you call it, from the doors, it really lights up the lobby without being glaring.  It's subtle, and somebody with lots of cash donated the tanks.  The fish are really pretty."
Gram raised one eyebrow, cocked her head to the left.  "And?"
Silver stepped away from the bed, shoved her hands into her jeans' pockets and debated how to tell the odd part of the story.  She told her grandmother nearly everything, but this was weird, weirder than most of her usual stories.  What the heck?  It didn't mean anything, right?  It was just something weird.
"Gram, something odd happened when I stood in front of the fishtank."
The old lady's eyebrows shot over the rim of her glasses but she said nothing.
"All the fish sort of...I dunno...sort of grouped together behind me."
"All of them?"
Silver shrugged.  "Yep.  There wasn't a fish anywhere else in the tank.  They clustered directly behind me.  And when I stepped out of the way, they actually moved with me."
"Really."  Not a question, just an observation.  Gram didn't flinch at the revelation.  There was something peculiar in that, too. 
Just another peculiarity in a strange day so far.  And it was only noon.

After a few minutes' contemplation, Gram finally spoke.
"Remember back when you were seven and won the fishing derby?"
How could she ever forget that day?  The newspaper story had been laminated and still hung over her desk at the Chronicle.
"Yes, I remember."
Gram struggled to push herself up in the bed.
"Remember how you told me that trout jumped into your arms?  That you didn't use the fishing pole?"
The memories came flooding back. Crossing over the temporary bridge the park guy had made to cross the stream past the dam.  The excitement of all the kids in town lining the stream, fishing poles in hand, trying desperately to land one of the trout stocked in the water for the yearly derby.  The noise, the smell of worms and dirty water and sweat, and then that huge fish leaping into her arms.
God!  She could still feel it wiggling against her chest.
She'd won the prize for the biggest fish, despite the protests of some of the parents who said she hadn't used her fishing pole.  Her father had written up the story, careful to print the derby rules that just said the fish had to be caught by the child, failing to mention how that could be done.
She'd never gone to the derby again.
She'd felt too guilty.
And it had been her grandmother who had chosen to ease her guilt by telling her a story.  A story of Scotland and times long ago and fantastical creatures.  Of course, she'd felt a bit better, but that guilt stung her again, after nearly twenty years.
"You told me not to worry, not to let it bother me.  Then you told me a story about the selkies."

"Do you remember the story?"
"Of course.  It was a good story and I loved listening to you tell it."
"There was a reason I told you that particular story, Silver-child."
Silver sat on the edge of the bed once more.  Her grandmother, nearly bald from the chemotherapy, looking loose in her skin, her grey eyes faded into her head, leaned back into the mountain of pillows.  Silver reached for the old dear's hand and held it.

"Silver, your great-great-great grandmother was a selkie."

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

Another four weeks completely off my feet.
I am pissed.

The breaks are healing, though, and I get to use the ultrasound machine twice a day now.


It could always be worse.  The publishing world has lost one of it's champion editors in the passing of Kate Duffy at Kensington.  She was insightful, gracious, extremely intelligent and witty as all hell.  Apparently, she was suffering from cancer and undergoing treatment, but was brought low by an infection.  This is from the rumor mill, so I don't know how true it is--the cancer, yes, the infection, dunno.

She was tough but she was good.
What a loss!

"I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing."
                                                                                                                                                                               -----Agatha Christie

Hello?  There is somebody out there who knows exactly how I feel?
Yes, yes, yes.

But just reading this quote this morning put me in a better mood.  And my kids are home from university and I have someone to talk to, so I'm not as blue as I have been.

One of them has some chocolate hidden away somewhere.  I intend to ask for a teensy taste.

Today is the autumnal equinox.
That means that the sun's direct rays shone directly on the equator for the second time this year.  It also means that winter is on the way.  These direct rays are journeying down to the Tropic of Capricorn where they will signify the first day of winter.

It's a rather big deal.

In times long past, this event, this direction of the sun, the all-giving sun, would have been marked by some sort of ceremony to be sure.  At the very least, the sun would have risen from atop a particular stone in a henge somewhere, or shone through a crack in a stone wall.  People observing this would have known to get in their crops and prepare for the dark days ahead when the sun went down early and rose late.
It was a sign of hard days ahead.

So people had to be told.  If there weren't newspapers, there were neighbors or shamans.  But this coming of the darkness was news.

It isn't big news now.
Everybody can tell by the calendar that it is autumn, if you can't tell by the shortening of days and the leaves on the trees turning yellow and red. 
(Let's not mention the other half of the world where it is now spring!)

But back in the day, back when people weren't so scientifically sophisticated, perhaps the newspapers would have announced the exact day and time of the equinox.  They would have included other topical items, also.  Such as who was in town visiting whom, who was out of town visiting someone, some world news that might have been days old, weeks old, crop prices, hog prices, birth and death announcements...all things people living in a smaller world would have appreciated.

That's what we need again.  A bit of that, included in the worldly stuff that we like to think doesn't touch us in any way, or those we know.  I say, these little tidbits are important now, just as they were then.  To somebody, they're major news, they have an incredible impact on someone else's life.  We ought to know about that stuff.

Yes, we should.
Today, folks, autumn arrived in the northern hemisphere.

E.L. Doctorow is pretty famous.  According to the interview on CBS this morning, he's one of "America's most successful fiction authors" or something like that.
Nice.  He writes a book about the two reclusive brothers who were found dead in their mansion back in 1947 and it instantly shoots to the top of the NYT bestseller list.  Now, that is famous and successful.  I don't know how good it actually is, but the story it is based on is fascinating and ought to be an interesting read if you like the idea of someone fictionalizing the thoughts and actions of real people.

These two brothers, Homer and Langley Collyer, were rich.  They lived in Harlem, I think, in a huge four story mansion.  Harlem was fashionable at the time and lots of rich people lived there.
Only these guys were whacked in the head.  One, Homer, was blind.  There were no photos of him alive.  Langley had a couple of photographs but you could tell he wasn't happy to have his likeness taken.  In fact, he didn't want anything taken from him.  So, something snapped in his pea brain and he started hoarding.  Papers.  Garbage.  Books.  Magazines.  Garbage, mostly.  Then, in his increasing paranoia, he made boobytraps out of the garbage stacks so that anybody trying to break in on him and Homer would fall victim to a ton of crap falling on top of them.
Swell.  Only, his little plan backfired and Langley (I gotta look up how that is spelled) died buried in a ton of garbage from one of his own booby traps.  Homer died thereafter of starvation because his brother was dead and couldn't help him.

Now, there are two things I gotta comment on here.  First, these poor old guys were totally sick.  When police broke into the mansion because neighbors complained of the stink, they were confronted with all this trash and two dead bodies.  The public got a real charge out of watching the police and garbage people tossing through the crap.  That's sick, that's horrid, that's exactly what would happen now, only the two old guys would be on a television show, they'd be interviewed on Oprah, they'd be on the news for weeks, they'd have Dr. Phil helping them readjust to life among the hordes of people they had grown to hate.  We could have sorted 'em out just fine.

Secondly, but just as importantly, is the story of this writer.
He does at least 500 words per day.  He says that the characters just speak to them in their own voices and he writes it down.  His wife who is his first reader, says she never finds anything to change in his work.  It comes out perfectly.  He's 78, has been published since the early 60s when he was working in Hollywood as a script reader/writer.  His first book was a western that was made into a movie "Welcome to Hard Times".  I think I may have seen it on tv, I don't particularly like westerns because I had enough of them thanks to Warner Brothers television, Roy Rogers and Gene Autrey and Annie Oakley.  They were clean westerns.  They were unrealistic, perhaps, but they were fine by me as a kid.  I don't need my mythos dirtied up by ugly truth.  I like to think of dance hall girls as dancers, not whores.  Thank you very much.
But E. L. Doctorow wrote a "real" western.
He also wrote "Ragtime", which I did read.  It was interwoven truths with a fictional story.  I did read this one at the time it came out and I was most unhappy with it.  Too many things going on, too many historical figures interacting with the paltry characters he created that once again dirtied up reality.  He shoved in some weird Eskimo sex and African-American sex and lesbian sex and communists and Wobblies and race into a melange of too much stuff that was pretty meaningless, but long and researched and, well, long.

Books don't sell by the pound.
They sell by promotion and name and reviews.
They don't have to be good, really.  They don't have to entertain.  They have to be researched
and slogged through and woven into some sort of tale that has to be checked for accuracy and may prompt research on behalf of the reader, just to see if what Doctorow has written is true or fantasy.  Or any writer who puts out a heavy book.

We who wrote genre fiction have it so much easier.  We come up with an idea and we create characters who never lived and are probably too messed up or too wonderful to possibly exist on this earth.  We seek to entertain.  We love the happy ending.  We want our readers to enjoy the world we have created.  And we want them to be able to hold our books in their hands when they're on the subway or in the bathroom or just snuggled down on the couch in a corner of the house where there isn't much noise and there is good light.

Big difference.  We research the hell out our locations, we research the jobs our characters have, we look into possibilities for adventure and the plausability of what takes place in the story.  We do our bit, possibly more because we don't base our stories on actual events or people.  Oh, some kings might get thrown in, but they're minor characters at best.  We use our minds to make worlds.  We don't impinge on real people, real events, though we might get ideas from both.  I think our minds are far more creative and our books aren't too "heavy".
And we certainly don't get paid by the pound.

We hardly get paid at all.

Some of us will never see a dime for our thoughts, and therein lies the pity and shame.

I'm all for Mr. Doctorow writing his thick books.  He tells long, drawn out tales that are full of details and ideas.  Do they change the world?  Nope.  Do our stories?  Nope.  Are we in the same boat?
Not hardly.

This is the dilemma we face as writers and authors.  You get an idea and you pour your brains out on paper and screens.  Sometimes our words sell.  Most of the time, they don't bring in one penny.  Most of us never get interviewed by CBS.  Sigh. Another pity, for sure. 
But nobody can say that anything E.L. writes is any better than anything any of us who pound away at the machine day after day writes. 

Somewhere out here in the vast television viewing audience, CBS, there is at least one writer who is better than E.L. Unfortunately, he or she will never get interviewed by anybody.

More is the pity.
Keep sending out your stuff, people.  That somebody might be you and the world needs your thoughts and characters. 

You just gotta promote.

No, no, this isn't about me in any way, except that it has run through my brain and I think it is hilarious.
Forgive me, Mary Gilroy.

Remember when I wrote about the Hell's Angels having a picnic at the Eagles' Grove last Saturday?  And all the police and SWAT and Staties on alert?
Well, it turned out that there were absolutely no problems.  There were about 100 bikes and all the rest showed up in their comfy cars because the weather was iffy.  Nobody hassled anybody, no fights, no nothing.
All in all, it was a dud, except for the Angels who evidently had a good time.

Next day, the grove was full of Hibernians.
Fights broke out.
There was a hassle over bringing in their own beer.
Things got heated.
There were no cops.
Perhaps it would have been better had there been a huge SWAT truck parked in the lot.

I'm still laughing over this.