Mrs. Fitz's Story Emporium

In our holiday-happy suburb, Mom stitched Trick-or-Treat costumes with the caveat that one outfit did the work for three of us: Eric the Elder, Michele the MustFit, and Mark the Shark. Not all at once, of course; but sequentially.

As a result, none of our fantasies were realized, with the exception, perhaps, of Mom’s. She didn’t sew well. She sewed exquisitely. Museum-quality.

Take the harlequin clown suit. PLEASE take the harlequin clown suit. While other kids’ Moms shopped last minute at Ben Franklin for fright wig and striped bloomers, Mom created a classic clown suit one might wear while bowing to heads of state at a European Masquerade held in a castle on the river Rhine. Its yellow, no-size jammies had batwing sleeves and batwing legs. A black ruffled collar and black headhugger cap lent that Frenchie theatrical edge. Each of us, wearing this getup through the years, looked like a cross between an archangel and a bumble bee.

Dad wasn’t casually disappointed the day Mom reported to him I had three cavities, following my 8-year-old annual check up with our Elmhurst dentist, Dr. Erikson.

Dad was crestfallen, bereft; and, if you ask me, inordinately judgmental about WHO was at fault for this state of decay.

Until this happened, I liked going to the dentist because presents were involved. I received a new toothbrush in a new color. Even better, Dr. Erikson kept a box of trinkets in his desk drawer. We child-patients picked a present to herald the end of a successful visit.

“Trinkets” may be giving them airs. Not a single 1-inch cupie doll, plastic airplane or bead bracelet had the stamina to remain unbroken longer than a minute in the hands of any child. It mattered not. Anticipating getting something outweighed by far the actual got.

When I disappointed Dad, I wanted to give the trinkets back. I wanted to give the cavities back, too.

Reason # 3 Why Folks Don’t Write.

There are many reasons folks don’t write. Lack of talent isn’t one of them.

Logjam is.

Funny thing about imagination is the tricks it plays; which I guess, if you were an imagination, you’d find this jolly good fun. One of its tricks is the mental message “I have nothing to say, nothing to write about.”

Whoa. Flip that notion to reveal truth. You have TOO MUCH to say. LOGJAM!

A logjam is just a stall. That’s all. When it happens, embrace it or erase it.

There are times not to write. When you have too much to say, sometimes it’s best to spare audiences your mishmash and wait awhile. Embrace the lull. That’s okay.

Or, erase the stall with humble little jumpstarts. Try the following three sentences:
1. I think I know……
2. I want to know……
3. I know I know…….

These aren’t fancy or even interesting prompts…but logjams loosened with finesse work best.

Chicago parkway trees do one thing so well when it snows, it warrants recognition. Leaves gone, bony old branches snatch snow onto themselves like a startled bather snatches a towel.

The change is dramatic and democratic. Every branch receives its fair share. Draped thusly, lushly, trees just look so jolly and huggable I’m suprprised we don’t form lasting friendships with them more often.

Evergreens, conversely, don’t take to this outdoor fashion with any sense of verve. Most look like snow-soup got dumped on their heads and they would very much like to be rid of the mess.

They do seem grateful when we knock off the stuff, fetch them inside and festoon them with colored lights.

High maintenance. That’s what evergreens are.

Elmhurst’s East End Public Swimming Pool, 2.4 miles east of our house, was the farthest I got from home during preteen summers. This may account for the lust I felt for it. This brush with the citizenry of our metropolis, at least those of school age, made me feel grownup, cosmopolitan even.

In teen summers, I waitressed and secretaried and cashiered. I missed the pool the way birdies probably miss chirping, so I hatched a plan to WORK there. It took time to become certified. I was 20, home from college, when my whistle and I climbed the lifeguard chair.

From this point of vantage, joy went on holiday. I saw bobbing heads that might be going under; heard noises that either could have been laughs or screams; saw little swimmers doing stuff even big swimmers should think twice about doing.

I blew my whistle at almost everyone, all summer, partly to ensure I appeared to know what to do. I had to arbitrate, educate, caution, admonish, comfort. I had to look after my fellows.

Somehow I had overlooked the fact that lifeguards guard lives.

There are many reasons folks don’t write. Lack of talent isn’t one of them. Writing about a topic is.

Topics are like dresser drawers. Show us what is inside.

Do NOT write about a topic. Write about a moment.

Let’s say the topic is Christmas…tis the season, good will, and other subtopics will explode in your mind. Ignore this.

If it hadn’t already been done, and quite well, I’d say write about a little boy who had no gift for the King, nothing at all except that he could play a drum for the baby. Write about him at the moment he does so.

Rump-a-pump-pum.

THAT’s Christmas alrighty.

I liked a woman who sat at the table we shared with five others at a lunch lecture last week. I thought she and I were alike in nice ways: both in skirts; both sensed others at our table had more pressing needs to be heard; both of us the perky type; both therefore sort of dull.

She recounted speaking during a recent event, at which a few younger women spoke before it was her turn. She was astounded by how FAST they spoke. Her theory was younger women are afraid they won’t be acknowledged so they squish a maximum volume of thoughts into their slot of speak-time.

Maybe they have more to say.

Maybe they have less time to say it.

We should applaud the first and correct the second.

I took the Graduate Record Exam (GRE) yesterday. This second time was very different from the first time, which was 35 years ago. It isn’t that the test changed that much.

Here are the differences:

1. This time I studied a math review and a verbal review. I even practiced writing the (2) mandatory analytical essays.

2. I started saying the Our Father and Hail Mary when I was in the cab enroute to the testing office. Once I started doing this, I couldn’t stop. I said a lot of them.

3. I didn’t flinch when I guessed at an answer. I allowed the guess to happen and moved on. No looking back.

4. I didn’t take the 10 minute break that was allowed during this 4-hour think-a-thon. I think I was afraid I wouldn’t return to finish, but I’m not sure.

5. I didn’t give much planning or thought as to WHY I was taking this test. It just seemed like a good idea when I thought it so I signed up.

6. Taking this test required courage. I risked the unpleasant discovery that I might not be very smart, or at least not AS smart as I thought, hoped, imagined, needed to be.

None of these occurred the first time I took the GRE. Was I smarter then?

There are many reasons folks don’t write. Lack of talent isn’t one of them.

Stewardship is. Those with a highly developed stewardship gene find writing a challenge in the same way that ordering the best thing on the menu is a challenge. Self-service is not comfortable.

Writing is self-service. That is, to do it, you don’t do other stuff, bettering humanity or earning a living, for instance.

Reconciling this can be done via three behaviors:

1. Forbid yourself to write regularly. Everything else is more important. You only can write longhand, sometimes, in a notebook. And not for very long.

2. Read instead. The suffering endured makes this worthwhile if you really wish to write because reading other writers is tough. It’s like watching the ball game you don’t get to play.

3. Substitute a writing-ish task for actually writing: edit your friend’s Web site, copyedit something, or do research.

If you practice these denials, then you will feel a little better about writing. Then, do everyone on our planet the great service of doing so. It’s in you.

On quiet cab drivers, I project my fears. On noisy cab drivers, I project my judgments. This is mentally sloppy and also not very nice. But it is easy.

My cab driver last Saturay night wasn’t quiet. He was silent. He said nothing for the 20 minute ride I took in his vehicle. About 5 minutes into the ride, emotion overtook any sense of reason I am born with. I thought him dangerous because he gave no response. I decided he was negating my existence and that was scary. I would call this the power of nothing.

My cab driver midday last Wednesday was a battery without an off switch. I think I interrupted his discourse by getting into his car. During this 20-minute monologue, emotion took over any sense of humanity I am born with. I thought him annoying because he did not interact. I decided he was negating my existence and that was insulting. I would call this the power of something.

I would not enjoy driving a cab. It must be exhausting.