Three writers together; what might they do? Play a game!

Marilyn, me and Christine - at the Lucidity Poetry Retreat, 2017

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

                Early in April, three women were in residency at Dairy Hollow in Eureka Springs. Lee, from NOLA, Kay from Tulsa/New York, and Pat from AR. All three of us were working on memoirs. [They are not the women in the picture, except for me.]

                At 9:30, the night before two of us left for home, we gathered in the 505 kitchen. Kay brought a novel with her. “For a game,” she said. She and I drank wine; Lee had dessert: banana cream—a sliced banana (and a little sugar) covered by fat-free Pet Milk. I couldn’t—and still can’t—imagine anything with Pet Milk in it as tasting good.

                We “gamed” while we visited. Here are the rules: One writer picks a sentence or two from a novel, writes it on a lined sheet. Then she passes it to the next, who reads it (silently) and writes something that continues the first. But before passing it to the third writer, she folds down the first sentence so that only the second sentence is visible.

                The third writer reads the second sentence, then writes a response to that, folds it so that only her response shows and passes it on. Around and round it goes until the page is full. Here is the complete “story.”

                “Beth puts a finger to his lips. He stops talking. / “Don’t say it. I can’t hear it now. Let me have this moment of not knowing. This one moment.” / “Okay, I’ve settled down enough to respond to your accusations. But be nicer. Don’t forget to give yourself the feelings and not blame me.”

                “Oh, you narcissist! I come to you with my pain, and all you can do is say ‘Don’t blame me’!” / “That is not what I said. It’s complicated, don’t you get that?” / “No, it’s not. It’s simple. You simply admit you’re wrong and I’m not.” /

              “Oh, yeah? Is that what your ex-husbands would say?” / “No. In fact, they wouldn’t say that. Why bring them into this? Deflecting again? Can’t you have this conversation?” / “Yes, I could, but, why do it? It’ll just make things worse—if they could get any worse!” /

                “Of course, things can get worse! Aliens could land in Eureka Springs. The zombie Apocalypse could happen!” / “Sure. Make fun. This is funny to you, isn’t it? I’m done. When you get serious—if you get serious about dealing with this, you know where to find me.” / “Until then, I’m moving to Texas. Let me know when you’ve decided.”  THE END

                We three agreed this worked very well with “in-tune” writers. Since I changed the names of the other two, and they gave me the sheet, I transcribe it here without asking.

          The next morning, after we had coffee around the same table, Lee began her 10-hour drive south. I left two hours later for a four-hour drive. Kay stayed for three more weeks.

         In a day or two, two or three new residents checked in to the writers colony. Perhaps Kay will suggest they play a game. Every day is different. Every writer is different.  Every game will be different.

It’s so much fun being a writer.

[The women pictured at the top are poets from Texas and were in my workshop group. Here are the others in that group.] I have no photos of Lee and Kay, sorry to say.

Phyllis & Pat 

Mary and Carol             Above: Phyllis & Sandra

     

Mother Nature doesn’t always accede to our plans

Google image: Ozarks

            

                 BFF-Dot-from-Beebe and I have spent the past few days “on vacation.” Planned ‘way back in early August, Navarre Beach, Florida was to be our destination. An off-season, half-price rate made it ultra enticing.

 

               But as the time neared, Karen, the tropical storm, threatened. And came closer. Then closer. Predictions were dire.

 

                The condo owner called and cancelled us. With the rain they’d already had, he said, plus what would come with Karen, Navarre would flood and more than likely cause evacuations. Who wanted to spend an anticipated (Dot had never been to Florida) vacation holed up in some hotel with (possibly) the power off? Even if one’s son lived in the area?

 

              Dot was ready to go somewhere. We lobbed possibilities back and forth: Eureka Springs and Branson were two of them.

 

               “What about the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow?” I asked her. She was accepted earlier through an application process that included ten pages of writing samples, a list of publications and two references.  But, because at that time they required a 2-week minimum stay, she backed out, not needing to leave her place for that long.

 

                I’m an alumna of the writers’ colony, so I said, “Let’s call Linda and see if perchance she has two suites unoccupied/unscheduled. SHE DID!  And for the entire time we intended to be away! Serendipity! The rooms were in separate-but adjacent buildings, which was fine with us.

 

                I boarded Greye and Boots at the animal clinic, and we Taurus-trekked northward to the Ozarks (4 hours) instead of southward (10 hours) to the Florida panhandle.

 

              Even with the next-day’s rain, we both were happily warm and dry in our suites, complete with writing space, wireless hookup, coffeepot, snacks, good lighting—everything a writer needs for a productive getaway. Oh, and our laptops.

 

              Dot slept longer than usual the first night due to the extra walking, climbing and descending stairs, excitement, etc. Plus, she didn’t need to get up for work or to get Son off to work with a lunch. I usually sleep as long as I can anyway, having nothing but cats to cater to.

 

            We wrote and read and emailed and Face-booked. At mealtimes during the weekend, we ate from the residents’ refrigerator that held culinary leftovers—cauliflower, rice, soup, pasta, dilled potato slices, white cake with a lemon curd layer—plus sandwich makings, juices and milks. Or from food we’d both brought along.

 

           By Sunday night, the Corvette Club members had returned to where they were from—or were on the way home. The previous day’s rain had cooled temps down to jacket weather. I’d packed shorts for the beach, but did have two pairs of jeans amongst them. A windbreaker and one long-sleeved blouse were my only warmish duds, so Dot loaned me a denim shirt.

 

          Six other residents have moved in since we came, so this week at the common dinner hour, there were 8 writers around the dining table. Such sessions of good food, fellowship and sharing added to the serendipity of the alternative vacation—

 

                                                    ---the mountains instead of the beach.



I never tire of time in the Ozarks

Porch of Spring Garden Suite, Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow,
Eureka Springs Arkansas

by Pat Laster

 

Who but an over-achieving writer would take such pains to bundle up and go outside on a below-freezing Ozark morning? (With coffee, of course, even though a stronger roast than my usual half-caff.)

Answer: For one, a back-packed mountain man walking an ubiquitous incline toward downtown. For another, a dog walker. She looked over. I “Good morning”-ed and in response, she said, “I just saw a red fox go across the road. Beautiful! ”

So I’m in good company here in Eureka Springs, in Spring Garden Suite, my usual stable  at Dairy Hollow. I did ask for a room in the new “505” building next door, but Ms. Director forgot and instead, scheduled a writer who wanted to stay a month. I didn’t mind, especially when I discovered it was Tom S. from New England who was a co-resident several years ago.

MY MUSE

One leaf,
large and tattered, 
followed me inside, like
a cat waiting for the door to
open.

 “Hello
there! Come on in!
You’ll be safe from Jana’s
leaf blower. Here, join the ones I
picked up

as I
crossed the parking
lot yesterday. Right up
here under the lamp where I can
see you."

Behind me, cars and conversation. A writing workshop was scheduled for all day in the main house. If someone parked in front of “my” place, (six feet from the street) I’d have to move inside!  Or complain.

VIEW FROM THE STREET AT THE WRITERS COLONY FROM THE VIEWPOINT OF A DOG WALKER

Would you
 look at that! A
cleverly stuffed strawman
posing as a writer on this
freezing

morning.
No gloves, though. Life-
like hands, even holding
a Razorback pen! It IS a
writer!?!

Vehicles began parking on “our” street. But no one exited an SUV. Might it be a photographer? After all, there were now three papers in this town, though two of them seem to have the same information—written by different folks.

No newspaper photog, alas, but Tom walked by with a basket of breakfast and lunch fixings “so I won’t have to ‘bug them.’” He gestured toward the main house soon-to-be-awash with paying, workshopping writers. “Oh,” he continued. “Mind if I take a picture of you writing? I’ll send it to my wife and email or text you a copy.”

“Oh, no!” I said, followed immediately by, “Okay.” How did he know that at that very moment I was writing about a photographer? Karma?  Indeed, I DID look like an obese straw person!

Later, I went inside to refill my coffee mug—a leaf-motifed one from home. As I turned back to the door, sure enough, there was a vehicle immediately between “my” walk and the street. An older man with a knitted head covering carried his supplies down the stone slab steps to the entrance of the main house. The antique-car license also showed a Vietnam Veteran sticker. I forgave him immediately.

TWENTY SIX DEGREES

Colder,
but the maples
aren’t yet as vibrant as
last year, or hickories quite as
yellow.

 Turns out that the area’s prime color peaked last week. Maple, hickory and cottonwood leaves were now underfoot. Except the ones I brought in to grace my writing space.
 

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press, Benton Arkansas

In addition to writing . . .

by Pat Laster

Besides writing at the (ahem) writers’ colony this year, I decided to add another activity: a daily walk. With the ups and downs, hills and valleys, twists and turns in this town, I was pretty sure I would work up (walk up) an elevated heart rate.
DAY ONE: Dress: bluejeans, t-shirt, old walking shoes. Route: up the rocky eroded path across from the Colony to the Crescent Hotel parking lot, thence to the street winding down in front of St. Elizabeth’s Church to Spring Street, down Spring St. to #515, my home-away-from-home. Huffing, puffing up the hill (noticing rocks and roots I’d like to take back to Couchwood), catching my breath downhill and on the level street to “home.” Time: 25 minutes.
DAY TWO: Dress: knit tapered pants, a long-tailed, long-sleeved Henderson Reddie t-shirt that showed stomach/hip protrusions. Goal-within-a-goal: by the end of two weeks, no protrusions. Shoes had sprung a flapping sole; jury-rigged with a rubber band for the moment. Route: the reverse of yesterday, except downward on Spring Street instead of the rocky decline. Huffing and puffing on the upward climb, jogging on the downward stretch. Time: 25 minutes.
DAY THREE: Dress: same as yesterday; I didn’t even look for the aforesaid protrusions; I knew they were still there. Route: Of all the times I’ve been a resident here, I’d never ventured further down Polk Street--on the back side of the Colony--than to the Farm House across Dairy Hollow Road which at one time sheltered three more writers.
So, I decided to walk down Dairy Hollow Road which I calculated as north. Good. Not much traffic. Level. Nondescript dwellings, unkempt yards, and then a pasture-like area. Two deer bounded across the road from the forest to the green space.
On and on I walked. I knew there was a private or church school not far. Sure enough, there it was, at the T in the road. Dairy Hollow turned right and climbed severely. The other way climbed more gently so I took it. Besides, it was the direction “home.”
Anderson Road, it was, and it led to the ubiquitous incline, so I slowed. By that time, the rubber band had popped off and my right sole was flapping.
Folks, this was hard climbing. Especially for a 70-something who only walked to the mailbox or the pear tree or to the shed during the day. I’d been walking for thirty minutes. Ahead, I heard dogs and hoped against hope they were penned. They were, but my! they were large. And loud. I slogged on up and around a bend. Houses appeared. I finally saw a human and hailed him. “Any shortcut to the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow?” I asked.
He pointed as he talked. “Up here a’ways is a street to the left; it jogs more to the left to Tad’s, then to the Joy Motel . . . Don’t go to the highway,” he said. I thanked him, said, yes, I knew my way now, but lawsy me! I was at the junction of 62W, 62B and Scenic Route 62. I was mile upon curvy mile from home!
But at least I knew where home was. And it was still daylight though nearly six p.m. I walked on sidewalks not two feet from some houses. The autumn/Halloween decorations and chrysanthemums were everywhere. A white bush-flower that I knew but couldn’t put a name to except “Aberystwrth” (the Welsh tune to “Jesus, Lover of my Soul”) grew alongside the paths.
Finally, 45 minutes into my daily walk/slog, I remembered the plant name: ageratum. I had grown the blue kind many years ago.
One hour after I began walking, I stepped onto Writers Colony grounds. I’d made a complete circle. I deserved a treat, I did. So I gathered up food from the residents’ fridge (pre-ordered) and made the last few steps uphill to my suite. My treat: ice cream.
Forget losing the protrusions. I deserve this. #

c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press. Check out my poetry blog, pittypatter.blogspot.com, and my first novel, A Journey of Choice, on Amazon, etc.

Once more in the Ozarks to write

by Pat Laster

As I type this on a Wednesday evening in Dairy Hollow’s Spring Garden Suite, I haven’t yet investigated Little Switzerland--as Eureka Springs is often called--for its fall foliage.
However, the trip up Highway 65 afforded many sightings of yellow hickory, red sumac and sweet gum’s still-muted variegated colors. I determined to stop somewhere on the way home and buy a hickory and some sumac to go with the sassafras and crape myrtle already growing on Couchwood.
The wind and the change in temperature brought on another bout of sneezing and nasal drip as I drove through Clinton, Marshall, Dennard, Leslie, St. Joe, Bellefonte, Harrison and Alpena. At Green Forest, traffic was stopped across from the cattle-sale barn for ten or twelve minutes while some road overlay happened.
I arrived at the Writers Colony to find a new director, Mary Jo, with bad news: the toilet in my suite was acting ugly. A plumber had been called and was supposed to be on site that afternoon. If possible.
IF POSSIBLE??? But the stars were aligned as some folks describe it. I drove around the curve to the parking space as Mr. Plumber pulled up to my front door. While the young man worked, I carried in case after case (clothes and writing materials/books) and placed them out of the way.
I held the door while he brought in a “John-in-a-box.” I piddled around in the work space/kitchenette—the mini-fridge had not been turned up—and the microwave was uneven on its platform.
Soon, I heard the man say, “This isn’t gonna work,” or maybe he said “ain’t,” and traipsed back through the suite lugging the “cheap—one-hundred dollar,” er, john. “I’ll have to go back to the shop and get another one.”
“Where’s the shop?” I asked in alarm. “Rogers? Bentonville?”
“No, it’s in town,” and away he flew--as fast as anyone can fly while negotiating a hairpin curve and a steep climb from the valley.
While he was gone, I jury-rigged the crippled microwave with a 3 by 5 note card bent six ways to Sunday. It worked, but I added the situation to my evaluation form. The next writer will have the same problem if it’s not corrected.
Soon, the plumber, bald as an unwigged mannequin, returned with a “more expensive, but in these old houses, the only solution” toilet. Installed quickly. Problem solved.
Given my recent experiences, I asked him about recycling. “All but the porcelain—it’s clay—and the plastic.” About once a month, he loads his trailer, he said, and takes everything else to a salvage yard. The proceeds he splits with his boss. “About $200 a month,” he allowed. “Good pay for the likes of me.”
Now, it is Friday evening. Though there are two more residents here—one from Seattle; one from New York--they ate out, so I dined alone at the big table in the Main House. Vegetable-bean soup, tossed salad, cornbread and chocolate pudding left by the cook who leaves as early as she can—the economy has hit the non-profits hard—but not before placing sticky notes to “turn off the stove,” and “salad in the fridge; have a great weekend.”
I’m sure I’ll have a great weekend: no organ to play, no choir rehearsal to attend, no cats to feed, no pears to peel. I can sit on this front porch not six feet from the street, watch and listen as the bikers roar by this curve, the sound lingering, lingering as they maneuver the hairpin and the incline.
Maybe tomorrow night I’ll hear the clip-clop of the horse-drawn carriage rides.

c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press