June 23 — A Distant Death

The day before my whole family was due to board a plane to Florida for my husband’s family reunion cruise, I got a call from my uncle Phil, who was a complete stranger to me.

My father left at my birth and we didn’t meet until I was fifteen.  I was apprised of his life by phone calls from his mother, as he went through six wives and became a Navy retiree.  However, Paul and I had not spoken personally for ages.  Grandma said he had a contract job in Saudi Arabia for the previous few years, and consequently I thought nothing of the lack of communication.

Ours was always a distant relationship.  He was a ghost who drifted in and out through the stories of others or the pangs I got when watching my husband being a fabulous father to our girls.

Paul showed no interest in me, and only once appeared in person when he mistakenly thought my mother was signing my custody away.  I realized even at fifteen, that though he was the sperm donor and a source of my genealogy, he was no father to me.  He never even expressed any interest in his granddaughters as they joined our lives, and I suppose that is when I finally truly wrote him off as a loss.

They say little girls grow up to marry their fathers, but I must say that was not my experience.  Instead, I had the freedom to make up the “wish list” for the man I would one day marry, and I think it worked out much better that way.  My father was the most emotionally remote person I have ever met, and I think I would have spent my life trying to please someone who could not be pleased.  It would have made me a far different person than I am today.

So, back to the call and that unusual day; Uncle Phil was calling to say that my father had committed suicide in prison.  I was shocked and actually thought for a moment that he was pulling some kind of cruel joke, but no, it was true.  Paul had not been in Saudi Arabia for two years…he had been in prison and met his end there that day.  I don’t know if this was the result of many years of mental illness or whether he was just tired of being alone.  Based on the crime that sent him to prison, I would assume the former, but I will never know.  It is mildly ironic that my work now is in mentoring programs for children of the incarcerated, for I never dreamed I would eventually be one.

He will never know me or what I have done in my life.  He will never know his beautiful, intelligent granddaughters who are achieving so much in theirs, and of course, they will never know him.

Not even in my stories, for I have none that would cause them to care.

I am a wife, mother, performer, businesswoman, philanthropist, genealogist and lover of life and a fan of the free will which God has given me to choose what I will do and just how happy I will be doing it!  http://kalipr.wordpress.com

May 5 — In the Suq

by Khadijah

Our house in Old Sana’a was near to two major outside markets–Bab ash-Shuab and Bab as-Sabaa. To get to either one of them, we had to walk down cobblestone streets, doing our best to avoid goats and the small children that seem to be everywhere in Yemen. Even after we had been in the neighborhood for a bit, the children would still stop and stare, their eyes huge as saucers, their fingers stuck in their mouths like pacifiers. I didn’t think we looked all that different–I wore the all-enveloping black garment that I’d worn in the States and which was similar to what many of the Yemeni women wore, my face covered with a veil, and all of my children are a mix between me and my African American husband–so their coloring is similar to that of the locals. I hesitated to uncover my eyes, though, knowing that my baby blues would certainly arouse a lot of unwanted interest! My eldest son, though, is blond and blue-eyed, and there was no hiding that. After being here for a few years, I realized that culturally there is simply no problem with staring. If you’re interested in something, you stare at it. It still seems rude to me, but I understand it is a cultural difference, that’s all.

The suqs of Old Sana’a are incredible places. While some of the vendors have small spaces in actual shops, most of them conduct their trade from wheelbarrows or blue tarps spread on the ground. As you weave your way between them, they all call out, “bi miya bi miya bi miya” (only a hundred riyals) or “ahlan wa sahlan!” (Welcome!). Small boys selling anything from sponges to rat killer to watches tug at your sleeves, earnestly trying to convince you that whatever they have, is exactly what you want. Colorful dresses wave in the wind, delicate embroidery flashing in the sunlight. Bright silver jaambiyas, the daggers that almost all northern Yemenis are never without, march across the blue tarps, along with their gold and blue embroidered belts. Socks, toys and dishes all “made in china” fill the storefronts, along with cheap hair baubles and flimsy electronics. The spice stores are a special treat- baskets and canvas bags filled with spices–cloves, cardamom, cinnamon sticks–send their heady fragrances out into the street, beckoning you to come and look, come and buy.

The sellers are usually friendly and helpful, though they automatically raise their prices, assuming that you will bargain them down. Some, though, usually those with a wad of qat in their cheeks, are barely civil. I learned early on to find the helpful shopkeepers and always go to their stores, rather than have my day spoiled by a rude or offensive one.

Open-air restaurants abound, selling boiled potatoes and eggs to dip in a fiery mixture of powdered spices, bean sandwiches, falafel sandwiches, chicken and rice or even, in some areas, hamburgers and fries. The markets are full of men, women, and children, voices raised as they enjoy their daily bargaining, or gossip with their favorite shopkeepers, or sit on the curb sipping hot, spicy tea. The suqs in Old Sana’a are a feast in every sense of the word- for the eyes, the nose, the ears, and the spirit!

Khadijah grew up in the Kickapoo Valley in Wisconsin and now lives in Yemin with her husband and eight children where she teaches Arabic and Islaamic studies to women and helps them recognize their importance and the need for their stories to be heard. Khadijah was the winner of the 2010 Story Circle Network Lifewriting Competition.

All photos courtesy of Jorge Tutor (http://www.jorgetutor.com/)

May 1 — Alma

by Suzanne Sherman

When I was 10, kittens were born in the wall hamper outside
 my bedroom. I counted them as they entered the world, documented the births in my
 new diary. I wrote that Debbie’s mom took us to May Company and I bought opaque tights. It thrilled me. That same day I wrote that my mother took too many pills and went to the hospital. A few days later I wrote that she was coming home, she was feeling better. The only entries for the rest of that year 
were a few sentences, but the new friendship—writing to myself—quickly
 grew.

Through junior high I wrote in three-ring binders so I could add
 pages as needed, and I needed a lot of pages now. I chronicled scenes of 
talking to crushes, or not talking to them, catching their eye in the 
hall, I wrote poetry about my aching heart, wondered what life was all
 about, longed for love, pined for a friend who moved away. In high 
school the writings went deeper as I tried to find “home,” chronicled my
 fervent resolve to change my ways so I could stay with my father and
 step-family. I took poetry classes in high school, majored in creative
 writing at college, wrote short stories, a novel, graduated into
 publishing, and missed writing more than I could have imagined.

At 26 I led my first writing workshop, at my dining room table. When I left two
 years later to move across the country, one longtime student wrote me a
 note: “Thank you for seeding a new tongue to flower.” I keep that note
 still on my bulletin board. At 36 I was hired at the local junior
 college to teach memoir writing for older adults. I have done it since 1996.

Some days there is nothing else I would rather do. Other days I 
think I should be with people in the middle of their life story, not
 those gearing up for its final chapters. On one of those mornings a few years ago, a small woman was walked into class by her attendant. She was stooped,
 folded in on herself. Students of that class were the most lucid 
ones at the assisted living facility where I taught for the summer, the ones who could write about their lives for the half hour I gave them every week.
 I’ll bet she doesn’t even know why she’s here, I thought. I greeted her 
and gave her my name, she gave me hers–pronounced very
 carefully–”Alma,” and then her attendant seated her at the far end of
 the table opposite me. When she was settled, she announced, “I’m hard of 
hearing.” I suggested she move up next to me, which took her some time,
 but she did it. I welcomed and introduced her, and she repeated her 
name: “Alma.”

I said, “Your name is unusual. Where is it from?”

“It’s
 Latin,” she told us. “It means the soul.”

Everything around me lit up 
then. Of course. Thank you, Alma. Thank you for reminding me how 
important it is that every tongue find its flowers.

Suzanne Sherman is a writer, writing consultant, editor, and writing teacher (including SCN online classes).  http://www.suzannesherman.com

April 24 — Shine

by Georgina Mavor

Like Geoffrey Rush in a scene from the movie ‘Shine’ I found my seven year old daughter jumping on her trampoline in the rain, naked except for knickers and a bright yellow raincoat. Her face alive, eyes gleaming, blonde hair ‘stringy’ and wild, she was relishing the first drops of rain after a very long, hot, endless, dry, summer. Living close to the ocean, any summer storm rain clouds tended to pass over the rooftops, dropping their precious loads when they hit the hills further inland. There is a silence in the air here, rain hasn’t broken that space since Winter last year.

I raise my seven year old daughter in an eclectic suburb originally built upon European migrants and the vegetables they toiled. The market gardens have been taken over by later generations of Vietnamese refugees and moved further afield. What remains is the architecture and lifestyle of (formerly) Yugoslavian, Greek and Italian peoples. Terrazza porches, fig trees, broad beans, the odd white lion or pillars at the front gate, the outdoor living areas around the back of homes, families often still living next door to each other, speaking their native language or its regional dialect.

In a rough attempt at self sustainability I converted my original English style front lawn into a vegetable garden. But with increasing shortages in water and time, I have replanted with native trees and plants, a small food source for a rich local birdlife. Brightly coloured red, blue, green and yellow cockatoos, pink and grey galahs, endangered black cockatoos, singing wattle birds, greeneyes, black and white magpies, their smaller cousins the mudlarks, the cheeky willy wag tails and the endlessly procreating doves. Of an evening, with the sun setting behind the Eucalyptus trees in front of my home, I sit and enjoy the cacophony of this birdlife in my raggle taggle garden while I write and reflect.

But my soul wrestles with this place. The colours are vivid, the light intense and the air filled with the oil of the Eucalypts. They are a pivotal counterbalance to the unsettling feeling that prevails here. Perth is the most isolated city in the world, but I don’t think this accounts for it’s aloofness in spirit. Those closest to some of the Aboriginal Elders say it is rich in Dreaming energy here. Our homes are built within 50,000 years of indigenous terrain.  Trees and huge stretches of native bush interspersed throughout the built environment, transmitting their energy to confuse and unsettle us.  Like my daughter on the trampoline flying high in the air, her face calling to the heavens, her feet searching for the earth below, I often experience the same, vacillating between one or the other. Maybe my home really is part of a built environment plonked in the middle of Dreamtime, maybe that accounts for its quirkiness. And maybe it’s just all the eucalyptus oil in the air sending us all a little bit dreamlike as we meander about our day.

Georgina Mavor is a Psychologist and Book Artist combining her love of words, writing, art and story with healing. Visit her blog at: http://www.georginamavor.blogspot.com

April 23 — Arrival Part 2

by Khadijah

Our first house in Old Sana’a was comforting- it was a little different, but not too different, and it had a stove and refrigerator and couches- things we simply did not have when we had just arrived. The rent, however, was very high, and we had a very tight budget. So Khalil started asking around and, through a German student at the language institute, found what would turn out to be my favorite house here in Yemen.

Old Sana’a is a magical place…winding alleyways, sometimes only wide enough to walk single file, lead one past tall tower houses reminiscent of castles or fortresses. They sport gingerbread facades, windows seemingly sprinkled randomly across the stories, each one outlined in white. The cookie cutter tops jut into the blue sky, symbolizing the joining of heaven and earth. There are several suqs, or open markets, scattered throughout the old city, selling everything from cheap transistor radios to intricately embroidered wall hangings. I fell in love with the Old City as soon as I saw it, and our new house became my refuge for our first months in Yemen.

Five stories high, the door of the house was tiny, as if meant for creatures smaller than human size. Its key was huge, taking two hands to turn it. The house was in the old Jewish quarter of the city, and we were told the doors were like this so that the occupants would have time to flee through the roof if soldiers came in from below. Above the door was a chute which extended up the side of the building with a decorative grate in it. This made it easy for someone in one of the higher floors to look down and see who the visitor was when the bell rang. Inside, the rooms looked as though they were carved from the earth itself- all light and curves and fluidity. Over each window was a stained glass window, sending a kaleidoscope of light into the room to dance across the floor at different times of day. The kitchen had a built in tanoor oven in one corner, which was fueled by wood. Mornings brought the scent of woodsmoke and baking bread wafting through the windows, reminding me of home, while connecting me with the history and traditions of my new home at the same time.

My room was small, with built-in cupboards all around and legless couches covered in a rather garish red print surrounding a squat table. One of the couches was wider than the rest, and that was our bed. Mornings were cold in the old tower house. First thing, my son would brew tea for everyone, and then the children would gather in my room, where we would sip the hot, sweet beverage, talk quietly, and feel the sunrise as it climbed slowly up the walls of our little fortress. A little later we’d climb to the mafraj, the room at the top that offered a panoramic view of the Old City. Looking around at my new, I longed to find my space amongst the people, and to become a part of this enchanting, fairy tale world.

April 21 — Arrival

by Khadijah

I remember my first sight of Yemen. Our plane arrived at 1:30 a.m. To say I was tired would be a huge understatement. I was exhausted, suffering from motion sickness (on top of being four months pregnant), and bedraggled after one nine hour flight, a layover of several hours in the dead of night in the Jordanian airport, and a last short hop to Sana’a- with five children in tow!! I was ready to pass out…I didn’t feel the least bit excited to have finally reached our destination. I just felt intense relief.

The first thing that greeted me when I stepped off the plane was the sight of men with guns- lots of men with guns. The airport was filled with soldiers, most of them sitting in a half crouch, smoking cigarettes, their machine guns on their backs. Not a comforting sight to a small town Wisconsin girl like myself. That is almost the only thing I remember about the airport itself. The process of getting the correct paperwork done, the extensive bag search, keeping the children together and on their feet- is all a blur to me. Finally a representative from the language institute showed up. He and my husband went out to get a van to take us to tour temporary house. I dropped, exhausted, into a chair and leaned over, huddling into myself for warmth in the cool, drafty airport. Suddenly a pair of army boots stepped into my line of sight- a soldier gestured with his gun for us to go out the doors. “My husband is gone- he told me to wait here.” I said, in my broken Arabic. He simply gestured at the doors again. Obviously, we went.

The ride through the late night streets of Sana’a was equally disturbing. The only people we saw were armed guards at the checkpoints- other than that the streets were ruled by packs of wild dogs. One friend of mine who came a few months after us said, “It was like Beirut during the war.” Through the haze of my exhaustion, it certainly looked barren and foreboding. Walls were edged in barbed wire and broken glass, storefronts covered with huge metal doors, and armed soldiers. I tried to decide how I would describe it if I ever got to talk to my family back home again.

We were shown to a comfortable three story tower house in the Old City. There was a stove and refrigerator and a set of low couches around the walls of one room. Paradise after the hours of travel. I shook out the blankets that were on the couches and got the children settled into bed, then lay in the curve of my husband’s arm trying to process all that I had seen and done in the past two days. Despite the comfort of having my family near, I still felt alone, alien, and unsure. Then, just as I was dropping off to sleep, the first call to prayer began, a lonely voice from a faraway masjid. Then, another voice joined the first, a soulful duet in the darkness of morning. Then another voice, and another…and that was when I realized that I was less alone now than perhaps I had ever been. This was what we had planned and striven for- the chance to live in the lands of Islaam. As the last of the muedhins’ calls faded away, I drifted off to sleep, sure that in the light of the approaching day I would see the city in a whole new way. I looked forward to the chance of starting over, and living a dream that I had cherished for many years. And that is exactly what I did!

Khadijah grew up in the Kickapoo Valley in Wisconsin and now lives in Yemin with her husband and eight children where she teaches Arabic and Islaamic studies to women and helps them recognize their importance and the need for their stories to be heard. Khadijah was the winner of the 2010 Story Circle Network Lifewriting Competition.

April 20–Appreciating Freedom As We Witness Opression

by Marlene Samuels

Several months ago I participated in a thirty-day gratitude challenge initiated on FaceBook by a close friend – not exactly the most original of ideas. Numerous sites had posed similar gratitude challenges at the time. But it did get me thinking about gratitude on a regular daily basis–both the concept and the reality. Every single day, for an entire month, those of us who agreed to sign on took one challenge: “write about something for which you’re grateful today but that’s different from the gratitude you wrote about yesterday.”

Gratitude–so what exactly is that? Within the context of our complex, high stress, western life styles, too many Americans take for granted the most obvious – albeit intangible, gifts of our lives. Yes, it very well may be cliché to say, “I’m grateful for living in a free country,” or “I’m thankful for my health,” especially when, during our conscious hours, we’re bombarded with messages that prioritize material acquisitions.

During my gratitude challenge, writing about a different gratitude each day became progressively more challenging – a total surprise to me. Suddenly, one day mid-challenge, I really got it! I grasped how much we assume our freedom is a basic human right, an entitlement, simply just a part of being alive. Few Americans have grown up without it.

The first week, the posts were overwhelmingly trite and superficial. One participant was grateful that the car dealer had his new car on time, another for an Aruba vacation, a third for having won a bet with his wife. But as the gratitude challenge calendar clicked forward, war and unrest erupted across the Middle East. And during the remainder of our gratitude challenge, it seemed that all our posts evolved – thankfully! Gone were the materialistic pitches. Expressions of gratitude for living in a free country began to dominate the screen. Each post – while different from those posted the prior day as required by the rules – elaborated upon gratitude for freedom. Amazingly, it seemed there was no end to the ways in which we can be grateful for the freedoms we tend to take so much for granted.

I’m an independent sociologist and writer and teach research methodology to non-fiction writers. I’m completing a short story collection, have published essays, short stories and food articles. I’m co-host of www.expendableedibles.com and www.expendableedibles.com/blog. Contact me through my writer’s website, www.marlenesamuels.com.

April 8-Sobering Thoughts

by Marjorie Witt

An ordinary day, in our household, changes with the decade. There are only two things that remain consistent: the sun rises and I peruse the daily newspaper with the first cup of coffee each morning.

It’s the end of the eighties. We are in the midst of raising two teenage boys, I work more than full time, and life is challenging.

I wake up in the usual groggy fog, focusing my blurred eyes on the clock. My head throbs, my mouth is dry, and my stomach feels about to heave. I can’t remember what I did the night before.

I pour my coffee with jittery hands and begin the morning nag ritual, an impatient drill to get the boys off to school. It is Wednesday, my work at home day. My concentration is poor as I am distracted with the task ahead of us this afternoon.

We have an appointment at a rehab for our fourteen year old son. We’ve been in counseling for months now and nothing has changed. If only he would clean up his act, we could be a normal family. He’s resistant when I pick him up after school and inform him we are going to see a new counselor. He pushes his Dayglo green hair out of his eyes. “I’m not the one with the problem,” he says.

As we wait in the lobby for the assessment results, I study the sign above the receptionist’s desk, “This Too Shall Pass.” An hour later the counselor delivers the recommendation. “Your son’s drug habit is out of control. We can’t risk him leaving here today.” I am scared and desperate as she hands us papers to sign. Leaving the facility, I read the lobby sign once more. Maybe when the sun doesn’t rise, I think.

When we return home my husband offers me the usual evening martini and I turn it down. It’s not an ordinary day. I have decided I’ll never pick up another drink.

Margie Witt joined Story Circle Network over ten years ago intending to “write the book.”  Memoir may be the goal but is currently best pursued in short stories as life unfolds with complex challenges. Balancing work, play, and raising a grandson leaves little time to write so blog posts appear with less frequency these days at www.wittbits.blogspot.com

March 15–Let’s Not Get Carried Away

by Becky T. Lane

When the appraiser came out to assess the damage, after our metal roof got lifted right off the house, he stood looking out over our property and said “You have one of the best views around.” Then he turned back to look at our roofless house, and continued with “That means you get the best winds, too.” He wasn’t just awhistlin’ Dixie.

Fortunately for my hubby, the gods were watching over him last Tuesday. Here in Wimberley, we started the day off with a pretty good rain, which had all but stopped by mid-morning. I was sitting here at my computer, typing away, when all of a sudden a rogue gust of wind came slamming into the window in front of me, causing me to jump right out of my chair. A second later I heard a huge crash coming from the direction of our driveway. What did I find when I ran to look out? Well, it seems our patio umbrella, which someone forgot to lower, its heavy wrought iron base, and the entire teak picnic table, had been lifted up, carried about 20 feet, then dumped practically on top of John’s brand new car!

I ran from window to window, checking for funnel clouds, before I finally had the nerve to step outside and assess the damage. What did I find? The table was resting butt up against John’s car, with maybe one or two inches to spare, but as far as I could tell, there wasn’t a scratch on it.

So, here’s my question. If the winds up here are strong enough to pick up that table, or even an entire roof, and can come out of nowhere without any warning, what’s to prevent them from picking up, say, a slightly plump, frizzy-haired woman?

Becky T. Lane lives with her husband in the Texas Hill Country. She writes about their quest for the good life on her blog Seasonality (http://hillcountryliving.blogspot.com). Recently she began a second blog, Miss Becky Goes Abroad (http://missbeckygoesabroad.blogspot.com) which recounts their adventures in Southeast Asia and the Middle East, as newlyweds in the 70′s.

February 9 – P.E.

by Linda Hoye

From my vantage point on the stretcher in the Emergency Room I could see my name on the whiteboard at the centre hub of the ward. Scrawled in the box next to my name were two letters: P.E.

‘Your lungs are full of clots’, the E.R. doctor had said. Blood clots in my lungs. Pulmonary emboli. P.E.

I had been relaxing at home the day before, recovering from gall bladder surgery a few days earlier. I felt good and, as I had said to my husband the night before, if it wasn’t for the odd feeling in my chest I would be as good as new.

A friend arrived to pay a visit that afternoon. By the time I descended the stairs from my living room to the front door when she arrived I was out of breath. After we climbed the stairs and I sat back down on the sofa, I was so winded that I couldn’t talk for a few minutes. I caught my breath after a few minutes and we enjoyed our visit.

Later that evening she called me on the telephone. After our visit, she had an appointment with her doctor and happened to mention to him my breathless state.

‘It’s probably nothing, but it might be a blood clot, and she needs to go to the hospital.’ She relayed to me the words that her doctor had said to her.

I like to think of myself as strong; I don’t give in to sickness easily and would have paid no attention to second-hand advice from my friend’s doctor if it hadn’t been for two words. Blood clot.

My dad had died of a pulmonary embolism after surgery when I was in my early twenties and less than two years later Mom had died suddenly of a pulmonary embolism. My birth-mother, I had been told, had collapsed one day, also the victim of a pulmonary embolism.

When the E.R. doctor told me that I was experiencing the effects of a pulmonary embolism I was stunned. As I waited in the Emergency Room to be admitted to the hospital and saw those two letters scrawled next to my name I considered the events of the past twenty-four hours.

Had my friend not come to visit she would not have known of my breathlessness; had she not had a doctor’s appointment later that day she would not have had an opportunity to mention my situation to a doctor. Finally, had she not said the words ‘blood clot’ to me I would have shrugged off her concern and not sought medical help.

After six months of taking blood-thinning medication and enduring weekly blood tests to monitor the clotting tendency of my blood I was fine; I have no physical effect of my experience with pulmonary embolism. But I will never forget the experience and wonder at the reason why I was spared the same fate as my parents.

Perhaps there was something left for me to accomplish.

Linda Hoye is a full-time HR Management Systems Analyst, a part-time writer, and a full-time and fanatical grandma. Linda and her husband have four children and two brilliant grandchildren. She maintains a website at http://lindahoye.com/.