I subscribe to a weekly newsletter from a website called Writer's Weekly. They hold a quarterly 24 Hour Short Story Contest. It costs $5 to enter, but the winning prize is $300, so I enter it sometimes for fun. They basically provide you with a topic, and you have 24 hours to write your story. Well, the contest was yesterday, and the following story is my submission.
I'm kind of proud of it, actually. It's an amalgamation of sorts for me. There are several little elements woven through it that are personal to me. I already posted the story, so it would probably make more sense for you to read it first, then come back to this paragraph. Apologies for my poor planning.
My grandfather's name was Arthur, as is my middle name after him. Most folks called him "Art," but we all called him "Gramps." I have taken a liking to saying, "My middle name is 'ART'," because of that. Anyway, he died in December of 1987 when I was 19. The last time I saw him was at Thanksgiving at my Uncle Larry and Aunt De's (Diana) house that year. He was not an artist, but a mechanic. The man could fix anything, and we all had running cars to prove it. I also named the main character after my cousin (it's good to be the favorite) Jennifer. Whenever I think of Gramps, I think of that last Thanksgiving. Making his final painting about playing hide and seek with one of us kids is a tribute to that.
I also tucked part of a lyric of a Dave Matthews song in there. Jessica, you may be the only one who finds it.
And finally, the title, "Snowflakes Without Agenda" was a phrase I came up with several years ago when my mom and I took a trip antiquing around the Murphys, Jackson, Yosemite area of California. On the way home, it began to snow to biggest snowflakes I've ever seen. They were easily silver-dollar sized and falling straight down because there was no wind [without agenda]. I liked the phrase so much, I've been dying to use it. This was my chance. I'm sure you'll see it resurface in the future.
Anyway, the trees in front of our house are beginning to drop leaves faster than we can pick them up. Ordinarily, this is a chore of fall that I dread, but this year, it has me extremely nostalgic for the past and hopeful for the future as my own family is starting to pass through its own set of seasons.
I would like to take this opportunity to let you know how much I apppreciate each and every one of you. If you are on the mailing list for my blog, you are one of the people I truly cherish and appreciate. Knowing you is something I treasure and you have enriched my life in ways you may never fully know. I hold these thoughts sacred.
Thank you for being you and sharing part of your life with me.
C
9.23.2007
SNOWFLAKES WITHOUT AGENDA
The vivid hues of the foliage seemed to bring the painting to life. Intrigued, she leaned closer, desperately wishing to be there, in that place so far away, and so long ago. Her senses seemed to respond to her subconscious desires when she suddenly inhaled the scent of wood smoke, felt a cold wind stirring her hair, and saw a movement in the distance...
“Grandpa, is that you?” Jennifer called ahead.
Silence answered back.
“Grandpa, where are you?” she called again, a little worried.
Still silence.
“Ollie, Ollie, Oxen Free!” she shouted.
From behind, Grandpa’s massive hands squeezed and tickled her, hoisting her high into the late autumn sky. His outstretched arms seemed miles long as she looked down at him, squealing first from fear, then laughter. The crows dispersed from the branches above as the clouds took the last of the sunlight away. Her laughter filled the air and echoed back from the distance with the sound of happiness.
“Where were you hiding?” she asked. “I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“I was just over there,” he said, “behind that big rock between those Aspen trees and that tall Cedar. You almost got me when you climbed up on that rock, but I saw you coming, so I buried myself in a pile of leaves. You were so close I had to hold my breath so you wouldn’t hear me. I almost passed out.”
Jennifer smiled and said, “Should we head back?”
“You think they miss us?” Grandpa replied.
“I’m not sure,” Jennifer said, “but I’m getting cold.”
“Alright then,” he replied, as they began to saunter back down the trail.
Blowing rapidly down the cobblestone road, the yellow leaves danced gold, the red ones burned maroon. More beautiful than reality, the dark orange leaves faded around the edges, as if they couldn't decide which color to be. Large, flat snowflakes began to fall, without agenda, as the crisp air turned cold. As the two returned down the path to Grandma and Grandpa’s stone cabin, the cobblestones had transitioned from gray to white. Smoke billowed out of the chimney, and flickered as it became one with the sky, smelling faintly of walnut.
“There’s no place as beautiful as Vermont in the fall,” her Grandpa would say every time they returned from playing Hide and Seek.
“Did the squirrels chase you off?” Grandma asked as the two passed through the door. “Dinner is almost ready. You two should go wash up.”
“Can you show me your studio again before dinner, Grandpa?” Jennifer asked, nearly pleading.
“Sure, Love Bug,” he said, and took her by the hand.
The two climbed the hardwood staircase to Grandpa’s loft studio.
“The lighting is much better up here,” Grandpa would always say as they entered the studio. Rolls of canvas stood at attention in the corner while row upon row of his old oil paintings lined the perimeter like soldiers ready for battle. He had started painting as a means of relaxation following a war injury. As his body got better, so did his paintings. Nobody ever counted, but there must have been a battalions worth of them. A hint of turpentine and linseed oil filled her nostrils when Jennifer noticed Grandpa was starting a new painting.
“What’s it going to be, Grandpa?” she asked.
“Something special,” he replied. “I’m not sure exactly how it’s going to turn out yet. You’ll just have to see it when I’m finished.”
“Could you paint something for me, Grandpa?” she asked.
“I’ll see what I can do, Love Bug. We better get back downstairs. Your Grandma’s sweet potato pie is waiting for us. I’m starving after hiding from you for so long,” he said, and smiled.
Grandpa took a seat in his favorite old, dusty chair. The hum of activity in the kitchen was palpable. Jennifer helped set the table. Diana, her mother, made homemade stuffing and cranberry sauce. Aunts and uncles and cousins sat around the table playing a game of cards while hints of thyme and rosemary saturated their noses and tickled their taste buds. Every year, without fail, they all knew dinner was ready when Grandma would call out, “Art, it’s time to come carve the bird,” which he would do, and everybody would eat and drink and laugh… telling the same stories, year after year, until everybody had enough to eat.
With her belly full of turkey, Jennifer’s head began to bob, as the tryptophan kicked in. Sleep began to take over her body. Her mother said, “Honey, why don’t you run off to bed. You look so tired.”
Jennifer pulled herself up on the sofa and said her goodnights to the room full of people, playing cards again and laughing. She walked over to Grandpa in his dusty chair, kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, “I love you Grandpa.”
“You too, Love Bug. Great Day,” he whispered back.
“See you in the morning, Grandpa,” she said.
“OK, sweet heart. Good night,” he said.
Jennifer ran off to bed, and slept hard underneath the flannel sheets and the thick down comforter, thinking of her Hide and Seek game as she drifted off.
“Honey, wake up,” said Diana, Jennifer’s mother. “Dinner is ready.”
“Give me a minute,” Jennifer said, “I’ll be right there.”
After freshening up, Jennifer sauntered downstairs and was greeted by 28 smiling eyes. With the traditional Thanksgiving feast spread out before them, Grandpa’s painting watched over the entire family as they ate and drank and laughed. In that moment, the air smelled of his cologne and sweet potatoes. It felt as if he was in the next room, so alive, sitting in his dusty chair, waiting for Grandma to call out, “Art, it’s time to come carve the bird!”
The painting on the wall had been the last he ever painted. It depicted the Vermont forest in late fall, leaves swirling around along a cobblestone path. Grandma and Grandpa’s stone cabin off in the distance. A solitary figure, holding a little girl’s hand as they walked toward the cabin and the snow began to fall. Being his last painting, everybody in the family secretly hoped to inherit it after Grandpa died last Christmas, but in his will, he had left it to Jennifer, as everybody knew he would.
“Who’s going to carve the bird this year?” Grandma asked.
Jennifer took the knife with a tear in her eye, a smile on her face, and the snowflakes fell outside without agenda.
“Grandpa, is that you?” Jennifer called ahead.
Silence answered back.
“Grandpa, where are you?” she called again, a little worried.
Still silence.
“Ollie, Ollie, Oxen Free!” she shouted.
From behind, Grandpa’s massive hands squeezed and tickled her, hoisting her high into the late autumn sky. His outstretched arms seemed miles long as she looked down at him, squealing first from fear, then laughter. The crows dispersed from the branches above as the clouds took the last of the sunlight away. Her laughter filled the air and echoed back from the distance with the sound of happiness.
“Where were you hiding?” she asked. “I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“I was just over there,” he said, “behind that big rock between those Aspen trees and that tall Cedar. You almost got me when you climbed up on that rock, but I saw you coming, so I buried myself in a pile of leaves. You were so close I had to hold my breath so you wouldn’t hear me. I almost passed out.”
Jennifer smiled and said, “Should we head back?”
“You think they miss us?” Grandpa replied.
“I’m not sure,” Jennifer said, “but I’m getting cold.”
“Alright then,” he replied, as they began to saunter back down the trail.
Blowing rapidly down the cobblestone road, the yellow leaves danced gold, the red ones burned maroon. More beautiful than reality, the dark orange leaves faded around the edges, as if they couldn't decide which color to be. Large, flat snowflakes began to fall, without agenda, as the crisp air turned cold. As the two returned down the path to Grandma and Grandpa’s stone cabin, the cobblestones had transitioned from gray to white. Smoke billowed out of the chimney, and flickered as it became one with the sky, smelling faintly of walnut.
“There’s no place as beautiful as Vermont in the fall,” her Grandpa would say every time they returned from playing Hide and Seek.
“Did the squirrels chase you off?” Grandma asked as the two passed through the door. “Dinner is almost ready. You two should go wash up.”
“Can you show me your studio again before dinner, Grandpa?” Jennifer asked, nearly pleading.
“Sure, Love Bug,” he said, and took her by the hand.
The two climbed the hardwood staircase to Grandpa’s loft studio.
“The lighting is much better up here,” Grandpa would always say as they entered the studio. Rolls of canvas stood at attention in the corner while row upon row of his old oil paintings lined the perimeter like soldiers ready for battle. He had started painting as a means of relaxation following a war injury. As his body got better, so did his paintings. Nobody ever counted, but there must have been a battalions worth of them. A hint of turpentine and linseed oil filled her nostrils when Jennifer noticed Grandpa was starting a new painting.
“What’s it going to be, Grandpa?” she asked.
“Something special,” he replied. “I’m not sure exactly how it’s going to turn out yet. You’ll just have to see it when I’m finished.”
“Could you paint something for me, Grandpa?” she asked.
“I’ll see what I can do, Love Bug. We better get back downstairs. Your Grandma’s sweet potato pie is waiting for us. I’m starving after hiding from you for so long,” he said, and smiled.
Grandpa took a seat in his favorite old, dusty chair. The hum of activity in the kitchen was palpable. Jennifer helped set the table. Diana, her mother, made homemade stuffing and cranberry sauce. Aunts and uncles and cousins sat around the table playing a game of cards while hints of thyme and rosemary saturated their noses and tickled their taste buds. Every year, without fail, they all knew dinner was ready when Grandma would call out, “Art, it’s time to come carve the bird,” which he would do, and everybody would eat and drink and laugh… telling the same stories, year after year, until everybody had enough to eat.
With her belly full of turkey, Jennifer’s head began to bob, as the tryptophan kicked in. Sleep began to take over her body. Her mother said, “Honey, why don’t you run off to bed. You look so tired.”
Jennifer pulled herself up on the sofa and said her goodnights to the room full of people, playing cards again and laughing. She walked over to Grandpa in his dusty chair, kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, “I love you Grandpa.”
“You too, Love Bug. Great Day,” he whispered back.
“See you in the morning, Grandpa,” she said.
“OK, sweet heart. Good night,” he said.
Jennifer ran off to bed, and slept hard underneath the flannel sheets and the thick down comforter, thinking of her Hide and Seek game as she drifted off.
“Honey, wake up,” said Diana, Jennifer’s mother. “Dinner is ready.”
“Give me a minute,” Jennifer said, “I’ll be right there.”
After freshening up, Jennifer sauntered downstairs and was greeted by 28 smiling eyes. With the traditional Thanksgiving feast spread out before them, Grandpa’s painting watched over the entire family as they ate and drank and laughed. In that moment, the air smelled of his cologne and sweet potatoes. It felt as if he was in the next room, so alive, sitting in his dusty chair, waiting for Grandma to call out, “Art, it’s time to come carve the bird!”
The painting on the wall had been the last he ever painted. It depicted the Vermont forest in late fall, leaves swirling around along a cobblestone path. Grandma and Grandpa’s stone cabin off in the distance. A solitary figure, holding a little girl’s hand as they walked toward the cabin and the snow began to fall. Being his last painting, everybody in the family secretly hoped to inherit it after Grandpa died last Christmas, but in his will, he had left it to Jennifer, as everybody knew he would.
“Who’s going to carve the bird this year?” Grandma asked.
Jennifer took the knife with a tear in her eye, a smile on her face, and the snowflakes fell outside without agenda.
9.17.2007
Put Your Box in a Box
Thanks this morning goes out to Kristin for sending me a link to this video. It is freakin' HYSTerical! I've been waiting at least 6 months to run across something this funny on YouTube.
Apparently, it's a spoof on a Saturday Night Live skit called "Dick in a Box" that included (I think) Justin Timberlake. Since Elliott was born, we haven't seen too much late night TV, so I'll trust the info I got on the web.
Anyway, here's to celebrating the BOX. Click the thumbnail or follow this link to check it out: [My Box in a Box Video]
Ha Ha Ha (Still laughing)
C
Apparently, it's a spoof on a Saturday Night Live skit called "Dick in a Box" that included (I think) Justin Timberlake. Since Elliott was born, we haven't seen too much late night TV, so I'll trust the info I got on the web.
Anyway, here's to celebrating the BOX. Click the thumbnail or follow this link to check it out: [My Box in a Box Video]
Ha Ha Ha (Still laughing)
C
9.11.2007
Moment of Silence
I just realized as I sat down to write today that it is September 11th. I hadn't given it a thought prior to now.
...taking a moment of silence to put life in perspective
...how easily we forget.
Cory
...taking a moment of silence to put life in perspective
...how easily we forget.
Cory
9.08.2007
Just Have to Bitch
I really can't believe this!
I've been thinking about this for some time, at least since I decided to go back to school and start writing again... I have been thinking I should register my name as a domain [ie www.coryfreeman.com]. Every time I have ever checked, it has been available, so just moments ago, I logged on to GoDaddy.com only to find out it has been taken! TWO F*&^%#$ days ago! It's not like my name is Jack Johnson. What a horribly sad day in Coryville. Now I have to pray, wait a year, and be ready to pounce. AAAARRRRGGGH!
Please send me condolences (That's 'D' as in 'dead'). I am dying here... at least kicking myself. What an idiot.
C
I've been thinking about this for some time, at least since I decided to go back to school and start writing again... I have been thinking I should register my name as a domain [ie www.coryfreeman.com]. Every time I have ever checked, it has been available, so just moments ago, I logged on to GoDaddy.com only to find out it has been taken! TWO F*&^%#$ days ago! It's not like my name is Jack Johnson. What a horribly sad day in Coryville. Now I have to pray, wait a year, and be ready to pounce. AAAARRRRGGGH!
Please send me condolences (That's 'D' as in 'dead'). I am dying here... at least kicking myself. What an idiot.
C
9.03.2007
A Tribute to Common Courtesy...
This has been bugging me for some time. The more I think about it, the more bothered I get.
It started at work. In the middle of a small emergency at the hospital, my bedside cart was void of some simple essentials: saline flushes, extra needles, that kind of thing. My job is hard enough. It is both physically and mentally taxing, and it can be scary when things go bad. When I sit and think about the things I am responsible for (fragile human lives, medications, making sure other people don't kill my patients) it doesn't seem worth the money I make for the risk I take (risk of physical injury, exposure to blood and body fluids, disease exposure). The last thing I should have to worry about is whether or not I have the right supplies to do my job, especially on days when I hit the ground running, and don't have time to even pee.
I don't know how many of you know this, but a few summers ago, I backpacked the bulk of the Tahoe Rim Trail (130 miles in July 2004 and 35 miles on 2 pick up sections in August 2005). It took about 12 days total, and was one of the most amazing experiences of my life, second only probably to getting married and the birth of Elliott. One of the things that made the experience so amazing was how pristine the trail and the lake have managed to remain despite years of use by so many people. The only way this is possible is through the efforts of every single person who uses the trails.
Most backpackers live by the mantra "Pack it in. Pack it out." Many other outdoor enthusiasts live by the principles of the "Leave No Trace" philosophy as well. Even the attendees of Burning Man (psychedelic living arts festival where over 25,000 participants build an entire city in the Nevada desert every summer during the week of Labor Day) manage to leave the Playa with nothing more than footprints of their existence.
So why is it that you can't go to Starbucks without having to wipe a spill left behind from the person before you, or to a gas station bathroom without practically having to do the splits to avoid the puddle, or to a concert without having to traipse around in trash and beer cans to get back to your car?
It's because Common Courtesy is dead!
None of us should have to leave notes to co-workers reminding them to put the lid down or use a toilet brush. You should not have to bust out a Clorox wipe just to feel comfortable sitting on a bus. And you shouldn't have to worry about getting Hepatitis A or E. Coli from going to a restaurant. Don't even get me started on sanitary (napkin) receptacles in coed restrooms.
I try really hard to live by the Leave No Trace philosophy. I don't litter. I clean up after myself at the sugar counter at the cafe, I pick up random pieces of trash. I drive my wife crazy with conversations of bread crumbs on the counter. Maybe I'm obsessive-compulsive in the making, but I just feel strongly that you should not have to clean up other people's messes in order to comfortably live your life.
Stephanie and I went to an art exhibit recently where her grandma was showing some paintings. It was very nice, hosted in a private home, very well-done. I went to use the bathroom (#1), and when I flushed the toilet, it began to overflow. The person who used it before me had clogged it up with who knows what. Luckily, there was a plunger nearby and I was able to spare the next person from a nuclear spill (and thinking it was me who clogged the damn thing). Who does that?
Don't get me wrong. I know in other parts of the world, people live in conditions much more deplorable than I can imagine. I am grateful I don't have to sleep on a dirt floor or try to cook my cup of rice with water that came from the same place the rest of the village squats to pee.
I have the issue in perspective.
But that's sort of exactly my point. If we all did our part, and did things "just because we should" the world would be a much better place, possibly even for those I just mentioned. There might not be world hunger. There might not be WAR. There might not be third-world nations. Maybe this is an oversimplification on the problems of the world, but I think if we simply did things just because we should, the world would be a better place-- for everybody.
There. That's my rant. Remember to wash your hands.
RELATED LINKS you might find fun:
Leave No Trace
Tahoe Rim Trail
Burning Man
It started at work. In the middle of a small emergency at the hospital, my bedside cart was void of some simple essentials: saline flushes, extra needles, that kind of thing. My job is hard enough. It is both physically and mentally taxing, and it can be scary when things go bad. When I sit and think about the things I am responsible for (fragile human lives, medications, making sure other people don't kill my patients) it doesn't seem worth the money I make for the risk I take (risk of physical injury, exposure to blood and body fluids, disease exposure). The last thing I should have to worry about is whether or not I have the right supplies to do my job, especially on days when I hit the ground running, and don't have time to even pee.
I don't know how many of you know this, but a few summers ago, I backpacked the bulk of the Tahoe Rim Trail (130 miles in July 2004 and 35 miles on 2 pick up sections in August 2005). It took about 12 days total, and was one of the most amazing experiences of my life, second only probably to getting married and the birth of Elliott. One of the things that made the experience so amazing was how pristine the trail and the lake have managed to remain despite years of use by so many people. The only way this is possible is through the efforts of every single person who uses the trails.
Most backpackers live by the mantra "Pack it in. Pack it out." Many other outdoor enthusiasts live by the principles of the "Leave No Trace" philosophy as well. Even the attendees of Burning Man (psychedelic living arts festival where over 25,000 participants build an entire city in the Nevada desert every summer during the week of Labor Day) manage to leave the Playa with nothing more than footprints of their existence.
So why is it that you can't go to Starbucks without having to wipe a spill left behind from the person before you, or to a gas station bathroom without practically having to do the splits to avoid the puddle, or to a concert without having to traipse around in trash and beer cans to get back to your car?
It's because Common Courtesy is dead!
None of us should have to leave notes to co-workers reminding them to put the lid down or use a toilet brush. You should not have to bust out a Clorox wipe just to feel comfortable sitting on a bus. And you shouldn't have to worry about getting Hepatitis A or E. Coli from going to a restaurant. Don't even get me started on sanitary (napkin) receptacles in coed restrooms.
I try really hard to live by the Leave No Trace philosophy. I don't litter. I clean up after myself at the sugar counter at the cafe, I pick up random pieces of trash. I drive my wife crazy with conversations of bread crumbs on the counter. Maybe I'm obsessive-compulsive in the making, but I just feel strongly that you should not have to clean up other people's messes in order to comfortably live your life.
Stephanie and I went to an art exhibit recently where her grandma was showing some paintings. It was very nice, hosted in a private home, very well-done. I went to use the bathroom (#1), and when I flushed the toilet, it began to overflow. The person who used it before me had clogged it up with who knows what. Luckily, there was a plunger nearby and I was able to spare the next person from a nuclear spill (and thinking it was me who clogged the damn thing). Who does that?
Don't get me wrong. I know in other parts of the world, people live in conditions much more deplorable than I can imagine. I am grateful I don't have to sleep on a dirt floor or try to cook my cup of rice with water that came from the same place the rest of the village squats to pee.
I have the issue in perspective.
But that's sort of exactly my point. If we all did our part, and did things "just because we should" the world would be a much better place, possibly even for those I just mentioned. There might not be world hunger. There might not be WAR. There might not be third-world nations. Maybe this is an oversimplification on the problems of the world, but I think if we simply did things just because we should, the world would be a better place-- for everybody.
There. That's my rant. Remember to wash your hands.
RELATED LINKS you might find fun:
Leave No Trace
Tahoe Rim Trail
Burning Man
9.01.2007
Dog Days of Summer
I don't know why I waited so long to do this, but I promised my friend Donna I would post this info on the blog in May, and I'm just getting around to it... undoubtedly because we had our hands full with the newborn bundle of love. Anyway, I am trying to clear out my inbox and found the information. Also, if you are looking for a pet and can't find one you are looking for, consider a greyound if you have a fenced yard. They make great pets and there are tons of rescue groups.
Here's the info I promised to post:
Ginger’s Pet Rescue is a grass roots movement to save wonderful loving dogs who have been surrendered to high kill shelters. If interested in adopting a dog, fostering a dog or just getting the word out please contact Ginger’s Pet Rescue. In one year’s time Ginger’s Pet Rescue has saved over 300 dogs from being euthanized. If this link does not work, please Google Ginger’s Pet Rescue
http://www.gingerspetrescue.org/
Call Sara Schwarz
E-mail Address(es):
visionsdog@yahoo.com
Personal Information:
Phone: 253 439-0973 cell
Business Information:
Phone: 253 851-9362 wk
Here's the info I promised to post:
Ginger’s Pet Rescue is a grass roots movement to save wonderful loving dogs who have been surrendered to high kill shelters. If interested in adopting a dog, fostering a dog or just getting the word out please contact Ginger’s Pet Rescue. In one year’s time Ginger’s Pet Rescue has saved over 300 dogs from being euthanized. If this link does not work, please Google Ginger’s Pet Rescue
http://www.gingerspetrescue.org/
Call Sara Schwarz
E-mail Address(es):
visionsdog@yahoo.com
Personal Information:
Phone: 253 439-0973 cell
Business Information:
Phone: 253 851-9362 wk
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