The Laughing Maus

Jana knows five different ways to start the day. On Mondays she literally jumps out of bed, it is the only way to keep herself from burrowing underneath the flowered duvet and scratching the whole week. On Tuesdays she drinks tea and she rewards her healthy intentions by plugging in the tea pot and creeping back under her covers for five minutes. Occasionally, on Tuesday she goes to the shower instead of back to bed but she always takes too long and has to heat her tea water again then she feels bad for wasting electricity. Wednesdays she seldom goes to bed before three o’clock in the morning, but she doesn’t have to work until late in the afternoon so it’s ok. Wednesdays she simply doesn’t acknowledge mornings.

Thursdays she doesn’t acknowledge evenings going to bed early and getting up at oh-dark-thirty and watch for the bus. Her handsome neighbor gets off the bus very early on Thursday mornings disappearing into his house not to be seen again until next week. Every week she considers going outside to wait – as if to get on the bus – just to see if she would have the courage to speak to him. She doesn’t actually do this though because she can’t figure out how to explain that she doesn’t care if she misses the bus (in case he speaks to her) and she has no idea where she would go if she must get on the bus. She thinks it’s a nice dream and next week she will be pluckier. On Fridays she rolls out of bed and sits on the floor. Fridays she cries her way out of bed. How can she not hate Friday mornings? They are always the same.

Thanks to Sarah Salway for today’s writing prompt.

It was a lovely August evening with a bonfire and wine. A muskrat rustled in the bush by the stream while Janice told a story about an old man who lives in her village. Two years ago he was seen for the first time escorting a young Vietnamese woman through town. A few months later they were holding hands and exchanging private smiles. She was pregnant. Now he is often seen by the fountain in the middle of town with his son hanging on to both his fingers, trying to figure out how to walk. The old man looks happy and his wife looks happy. They exchange private smiles over the baby’s head.

Janice and I smiled over the idea that an unmarried man in his later years, chose not to settle in at the local pub and drink beer, watch soccer and wait patiently for the last days before his funereal to pass, but instead to open up a catalog (and possibly a can of worms) choose as best he could and see what happened. We agreed that Love – as a way of life – could turn the world upside-down.

“Pfft, but-but-but the old man was probably just bored and wanted a maid he didn’t have to pay.” sputtered Daniel, our devils advocate. “Haaarh, you girls have heads full of jelly. You are so full of romance you can’t see a business deal when it bites your nose. She was probably very poor and happy to leave that misery and get a free ride into the Western world.”

We ladies advanced the theory that the old man offered the young woman an escape from poverty, received her graciously, and treated her upon her arrival with respect, in effect loving her before knowing her. Or, maybe it was the other way around, he “bought a bride” and she although young, came to keep him company, brought laughter and cleanliness into his home, put zinnias on the table, treated him with respect and joy as a human, not an old man. We were not talking about being “in love”, but about the deeper act of loving. What honest person has the stamina to deny Love and refrain from loving in return?

Is Love a force; a thing that exists without need of humans? Along the lines of the tree in the forest, if we were not here to feel it, would Love still exist? Whatever the unknowable answer to that question is, it clearly works as a force in the subjective lives of humans.

My first try received a Life Torpedo about 9:00 in the morning when I remembered that we were supposed to be in the city with friends the better part of the day. This is why people keep calendars I know, and I did spend a lot of time on that Saturday thinking about writing, but that is not exactly a substantial break-away from my day-to-day. I think about writing a lot.

I had intended to block out eight hours for enjoying the meditative effects of actually staring at my blank screen, tapping my fingers on the keyboard, staring out the window and wrestling with the question: Is acceptance of the wall the way through the wall?

Still clueless, but this time having cleared it with Chandler I’m giving it another try tomorrow. I know it’s short notice, but join me if you like. I’ll be focused on writing – something – anything between 10:00 am – 6:00 pm on Sunday, June 7, 2009.

Another good suggestion floating around the internet, and brought to my attention by Moonrat .

I’m in for Saturday the 16th of May, especially for a book review or two. Since starting my hundred books, I’ve been reading, reading – but not much writing, writing. My “Review Me” pile is getting out of hand.

On the night before my tenth birthday, my dad came to tuck me in to bed last. I got to choose to be last by virtue of being the first to pass tooth-inspection and, although as my littlest sister reminded me just recently, last was not always the most advantageous choice if “Daddy-time” was what you craved, last was super if you had a good book going.

The next day would be my birthday; fat chance I wouldn’t get plenty of talking-time with Dad that night, last was the only choice for me. I was reading Little Women again, trying to get it through my thick head that, as the oldest of three girls it was my lot, like Meg’s, to be pretty and to long to be fashionable, to marry a nice man and settle down, to learn to cook, make jellies, keep house, and be content.

Lordy, lordy I wanted to be Jo. I wanted to write stories in the attic, to keep a pet rat, direct and act the dramatic parts in plays, and have Laurie Lawrence fall in love with me because I was wildly courageous and unconventional.

I had to be honest though about the fact that I was probably much to shy and afraid of everything to give a convincing Jo.

Maybe that is what we talked about that night when Dad came to tuck me in. I don’t remember. I’m sure he gave me the Birthday Lecture. He gave us the Birthday Lecture every year, and every year I was surprised that he remembered – I didn’t. It started like this:

“Daughter dear, tomorrow you will be ten years old. This is a milestone in your life and those are always good for looking back and assessing. Was there something you always wanted to do when you were nine? If so, and you haven’t done it, you have missed your chance forever. Tonight is the last night of your ninth year, and you will never, ever be nine again.”

You may think this sounds depressing, but it wasn’t. Daddy delivered the birthday lecture with such a philosophical face that you couldn’t help but consider the actuality of it, and should there have been even a hint of regret, we would have all resolved to pay more attention and do right by our next year.

“But, eldest daughter of mine,” he would continue, “tomorrow you will be ten years old! Think of it: Double Digits! Nearly a teenager! And you will have an entire year, three hundred sixty-five days, to make your dreams come true. Everything you have dreamed — all your life — of doing when you are finally ten will be within your grasp when you wake up in the morning. Reach for your dreams.”

Is it any wonder that I was still calling him on the telephone the night before I turned thirty-eight? He did his best, but the time difference meant that he was delivering a late-night lecture before his breakfast, and if he couldn’t seem to muster the grandness and enthusiasm I remembered from those birthdays long ago, who could blame him – he had delivered the birthday lecture by then at least one hundred and one times. My dream of becoming Jo instead of Meg felt very far away when I hung up the phone.

I didn’t make it that year. Or the next year, or the next five years. Maybe, though forty-six to forty-seven is my lucky number. I’m still shy and afraid of pretty much everything – but these days I’m more afraid of being afraid and running out of time before I experience my Jo-hood.

They are gone now
those mythical beasts
known as stepsons.
And they have taken with them
entire landscapes of my heart.

- Nancy Carroll

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