Write Early, Write Often…Write Something!

Teresa Fannin, reader, writer, gardener, chocolate fan & tea drinker

Author: teresafannin (Page 1 of 56)

First and Normal

02/20/2025 /

This month I arrived at the end of First.  I have traveled for a little more than a year–my birthday was my first ‘without,’ then to Valentine’s Day [One of Tom’s favorites..he’d make me coupon books of promises] to Easter, then summer–all of it! Our wedding anniversary. His birthday. Halloween. [Another favorite] Thanksgiving. Christmas, New Year’s.  Through January, right up to the day he left. The only time he ever left.

Elizabeth Kübler-Ross opined there are five stages of  grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. When her book came out in ’69 I understood this to be more for the dying, than the ones left behind.  Still, there I was, plodding along First. Denial was not a question, it was all very obvious, of the two, I was the pragmatist.  And I was experiencing some anger, mainly because Tom always said he would out live me, and frankly, I was …well, angry.  I had no time for depression during,  so why have it after? And, just who was I going to bargain with? I learned long ago, in first grade, from Mother Govinina, that bargaining could exact a difficult price. I had, years before the actual day, understood we were traveling the same road, but not always ‘with’,  so I could tick off acceptance.

Looking back over my shoulder I see that before First, we traveled along Last. Just like we had traveled all those other paths–newlywed, first kid, first move, new job, old jobs, retirement– for the forty plus years before that…together. We agreed to keep Last as level and as smooth as possible. We watched our diet, exercised, went to therapy and eventually relied on medication….But just when you think you’ve done your bit for improving the path, filled all the potholes, widened, leveled and stretched it out, put in curbs and sidewalks,  it starts to slope downhill. In the beginning, not even a full degree, barely even noticeable. Despite gravity, fate, destiny, but mostly by God’s will, the slope increases. You barely register the slope. Truth is, you may not be careening downhill, you still can feel the breeze on your cheek.

My mom always said funerals were for those who were left behind. The dead were already on their way into the sight of God, if they were lucky. I think Tom was more than lucky. A good man, kind, funny, caring, he rarely complained through the eight months of hospitalization that drastically impacted his overall well-being. During the next seven years, he understood what he was losing, and tried hard to hold, with amazing determination and grit, on to self and his sense of humor.

Last is in the rear view but not forgotten. The macadam on First has been bumpy, weeds grow in the cracks and there are rocky sidewalks and damaged curbs. Lord knows, there  have been plenty of  potholes. Ones big enough to swallow me whole, looking dark and dank, deep and sad. If I stop they hold me in place while time outside passes. The smaller ones twitch my ankle or bruise my cheek with a fond yet stray memory, overwhelming, bringing me up short, stopping me in my tracks, reminding me of the ‘without’.

This month, I reached the end of First. I am turning onto Normal. Not willfully, but there is no choice in this. Ahead doesn’t look as bleak as I imagined. The colors seem muted. Still, I see hills and valleys, the paths winding through good neighborhoods and probably some sketchy ones.  I hope for a bright shining sun, soft breezes and only occasional rain falls.

Normal will, I suspect, like the past, have sharp curves and potholes and inane stop signs and red lights, loud and noisy people and kind and caring ones. And there will be smooth and level stretches ahead.

I’ve always been happy to take my chances and see where the next step takes me. It got me to Tom and a wonderful life. I know I’ll get where I am supposed to be. It seems a bit late in life to worry about this Normal.

 

The Boy…

02/03/2024 /

I first saw Tom at a corporate training program in Princeton New Jersey. The newly enacted ERISA, the 1974 Employment Retirement Income Security Act,  written by lawyers and regulated by bureaucrats was a tome of egregious government speak.  Tom was delegated with parsing and translating its application to regular folks like us in the divisions.

Yes, I thought he was cute with his sideburns and mustache, his three piece suit and the way he put his thumb in his vest pocket and lightly turned on his heel. He was continually glancing back in my direction, but not at me. The woman next to me apparently had great legs.

Fast forward to February 1976. I was a newly minted MBA. My divisional president granted me a full month to go to England and Ireland and ‘meet the relatives.’  I have pictures! And on the way home, I expensed my return to my division by stopping over for meetings with the executives in the corporate suite. I was (ahem!) an EIHP, a early identified high potential–also the only female divisional Labor Relations Mgr–in a solidly blue collar manufacturing company of 28k employees.  Tom was recruited to take me to dinner, probably because he was the only single male in HR who lived in NYC.

I flew home the next day and told my parents I had met the man I was going to marry. God love ’em, they didn’t even blink.

Tom came out to California in spring for more training for the western divisions, and decided to take a trip to San Francisco over Easter. I joined him and on Sunday night, before I flew back to LA, I said, ‘I think we could make this work for a long time.’  Tom nodded and invited me to move in with him in Brooklyn Heights. ‘Whoa!’ I said.  ‘Fly back to NYC, think about it, call me. There is no moving in.’  Two days later he called. I told him there were caveats for the upcoming nuptials: 1.at least four months on either side of my birthday, and, 2. must be over a three day weekend.

In front of three Catholic priests, Tom and I married. A weekend honeymoon in La Jolla, CA, then we headed east. As we went through the mountains of Colorado, the car heater failed. Tom asked why. I explained the air conditioner worked.  In Missouri, a gas station attendant (yeah, they had them then) told Tom the tires were bald. I said, ‘God loves us, it’ll be fine.’

Around Ohio I developed an acute case of bronchitis; coughing, hacking, red eyes, lots of green slimy gunk. When we reached our apartment in  New Jersey, Tom called my parents to tell them we’d arrived. ‘If we can stay married after this week,’ he told my mom, ‘we will be married forever.’

Many years later, at a university event where Tom was speaking on ‘all things benefits’, the president of a national insurance company attended after just finishing a particulary tough negotiation session with Tom. He walked up and introduced himself. ‘I just wanted to meet Tom’s better half,’ was his opener. I laughed, knowing Tom had just scored an amazing deal. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘But you have been negotiating with the better half.’

And it was true.

Tom was a gentle, almost innocent soul; cunning and clever in business, kind and forgiving in everything else. His humor was always young and exuberant; from his puns, dad jokes, ‘house rules’, made up words to his ability to disarm even the most recalcitrant with a dry, witty, well placed phrase. He carried no hidden agenda, took everyone at face value, and was a loving, faithful, mostly willing partner in all my schemes.

I chose him. He agreed. Forty-seven years later I am forever grateful.

Rest well, my love.

 

ENGAGE

05/21/2023 /

“Grandmommy,” one of my baby grands would say when telling me a story while playing with my dollhouse.  “Grandmommy, the girl goes in the front door. And then she goes to the kitchen and makes breakfast. And then she goes to the office upstairs to work.” And the story can continue to each room in the dollhouse, even the roof.

The ‘and then’ [which was clearly emphasized]  always got to me.  The ‘and then’ wasn’t passive. She made choices which advanced the story. The character moved to other rooms and did stuff.  The ‘girl’ did not hit many obstacles, internal or external, nor did we discuss ‘needs and wants’. Who does when you are seven? The grand was fully engaged in telling a story, and in her imagination the girl was the hero.

Still, start with the  ‘and then’ add ‘but when’, add ‘and then’ and get action and reaction.

Sigh. Unfortunately, the best way to check the thens, whens and thens is to 0utline.

In Senior English at Alemany Hi,  I remember Sister Anastasia  asking how I had avoided, over thirteen years of Catholic schooling [I didn’t think one year of kindergarten with Mother Regina really counted] making outlines. But I do admit, it was quite a feat!  A good vocabulary albeit with poor spelling, excellent sentence structure through diagraming and a fertile imagnination got me pretty far in high school and college and a graduate degree. In truth, I did not need more, well, except for the spelling, for business memos–and then there was, Eureka! spell check.

I had what I needed; ambition, clear thinking, and the desire for action.

When I first started seriously writing fiction the first issue to get over was bullet points. Good business writing is wary of adverbs, adjectives, descriptors of any sort, and uses lots of phrases to make point.

Fiction, good fiction, involves exactly that, descriptors of every sort, an arc to a story, obstacles, needs wants, plotting, developing characters, and building a world.   To see the whole story unfold outlining is encouraged. Still plotting out the story is still avoided. Regardless of Sister Anastasia [whose picture is in the dictionary under the definition of formitable] I still don’t outline.

I can tell you how I want the story to begin, who the main characters are and what the setting is….okay, so that’s the beginning of a plot.  I can tell you how the characters come out in the end, what happens to their world and many of the obstacles they overcome. But outline? No. Plot? No.  Because I want to see how my character handles the obstacles, needs and wants. I like the idea we write this story together, the character and I. Yeah, it takes longer, more trial and error, but that is how I engage in my story!

At a not-so-recent critique an agent liked my story, character, the ‘hook’ but wanted more ‘agency’ in my character.  Hmmm….I like words so I thought about agency, looked it up in the OED, downloaded a post about it, and thought some more.

Agency is about the character driving the action forward, I am told. Making choices which sometimes endanger, sometime make moot the gist of the story. But always pushes the character forward for change. Ha! Made me think of Picard and ‘Engage.’ Engage in the future, engage with the problem, engage with the solution. Have agency.

I am working on a character now who needs more agency [working being the operative word].  The above cartoon was framed and on my desk for decades. To me agency requires ‘out of the box’ thinking. And just like Tumbleweeds…I am not a purist!

THE GETAWAY POSITION

04/20/2023 /

Craig Breedlove recently died. He was 86.  I was kinda surprised, hadn’t thought about him in years. Brought back memories of the Mojave Desert, and the Bonneville Salt Flats.  He studied aeronautics, was a race car driver, and was called the King of Speed…clocking 600 mph in 1964, never quite making his 800 mph target years later. His vehicle [cause it certainly wasn’t a car] was like something out of SciFi, a long lean silver bullet I always expected to take off heavenward and land on the nearest planet.

Those were the days when the Salt Flats were the ‘testing’ track for so many cars. It was a very out-of-this-world landscape, desolate, flat, hot, big, craigy misty-hued mountains in the background. That was when I started backing into parking spaces or finding a ‘pull through’ in a parking lot. The ‘getaway position’ meant fast.

I like fast cars. I like cars that go fast.  Those are not necessarily the same.

‘Course, BULLIT is the greatest car chase of all time, tho it wasn’t the speed, it was McQueen and the Maverick and McQueen. Sigh.

I loved the LeMans races, real and in movies, it was about speed and endurance. And… Drivers Jackie Stewart, Stirling Moss. And…Cars Jaguar, Aston Martin, Ferrari.  Sigh. I even had a USAC rollbar installed in my TR Spitfire, not Formula One, but Oh!

First it was the westerns. The movies and tv shows with the chases across the prairie; in real life Apple Valley, CA or Simi, CA, not far from where I lived.  When a posse went after the very bad guys, lol, the black hats, there was the inevitable cloud of dust [hence bandanas], saddle ties flapping and horses hooves pounding dirt. That the cowboys’ hats always stayed was a ‘suspension of disbelief’ for me. OF COURSE, THEY DID!!!

There was a time when I got into my car, closed the door, turned the key and the engine purred. Pushed the clutch, shoved the car into gear, stepped on the gas and off I went. Didn’t care if the doors locked–they didn’t or my seat belt was in place–it usually was. Didn’t matter the make or model, although the TR was among the most fun, off I went.

It was simple. Open door. Sit. Turn key. Go.

Everytime I sit in my lovely, well equipped and overly electronically ladened 2022 Sienna I choke and cry a little. First off the mini-van [sigh] is 203.4 inches long. It is a small boat, seats seven. Low and easy accesses for Tom, tho. Second, it is a hybrid, 4 cyl. [double sigh] Good on gas, comfortable ride–captains seats, heated and air cooled. Leather. Lovely.

In order to start the car and drive I must first sit in a seat which is away from the wheel. I must pull out and buckle my seat belt. Then my seat moves into position near the steering wheel. Then and ONLY then can I put my foot on the brake, push the button and start the engine which makes no noise. I only know it’s on when the green READY light appears on a very crowded dash display.

[In truth I have more buttons, knobs, dials and options, either identified by pictograms or by letters in color and size that are almost impossible to read–and don’t get me started on the Toyota car guide– thank goodness for YouTube, than are safe to review no place else except in my garage.]

A large monitor in the center of the dash comes on. There are a number of buttons down the side—Home, Map, Audio, something something–and there is the display. It cautions me to not use the monitor while driving. Oh, yay…..There is a red-lighted message and an orange-lighted message that comes on, I have no idea why.

I have computed that I could easily be mugged, beaten to death, stabbed, shot or otherwise died before all the electronics and safety checks I have unwillingly paid for–triple sigh–allow me to just get away.

For the life of me I can not delete anything stored in the map. Took me about 10 minutes to set up SirrusXM and my phone–so YAY, I guess.

The car side view mirrors flash an orange car icon if a car is next to me–on the highway, on a street, in a parking lot, even PARKED!

On the dash there is an icon of my car and lines appear at across the grill area or the rear beeping when I pull into a parking place and get near a shrub or a sign or try to park in my garage.

When I back up, the center monitor shows the area to the rear of my car with yellow and blue lines that probably made wonderful sense to some neurotic type in the design department who are unable to turn their heads.

And when I stop and park, turning off the car, a message comes on my dash to ‘remember to check the rear seat’.  It doesn’t specify which one, only to check. You’d think, with all this computing power, the bloody car could tell that I am alone!

I am deeply offended by all the electronics. Cool as they may be, they add little to my ‘driving’ experience. I hope I die before robots drive cars.

So I drive as I always do. I ignore the beeps and the flashing lights and the dash and monitor messages. It is most satifying that when I back up I use the lines on the pavement in the lot.

Still, it is a good thing, continually, that I am not running from a mob or a bomb or the police. The overwhelming plethora of electronics–for my safety–makes certain that the ‘getaway position’ and being fast is now unattainable…sigh, sigh, sigh, sigh!

 

THE MISSIONS

03/19/2023 /

We are well past my birthday. As a kid I was teased a lot for Phil sticking his nose out of his burrow and commenting on the weather.  So Mom and I went to mass for my day, which was a feast day, The Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary.  Forty days after Christmas, it is also called Candlemas.

I always liked feast days, although the only ones I remember are mine, of course, and my dad’s. Or, what Mom always referred to as Dad’s feast day, St. Joseph’s Feast Day, although Dad’s name was not Joseph.

Joseph was husband to Mary and father to Jesus, a protector, a supporter, a provider. I believe it was Mom’s way of reminding us to honor what our Dad did day in and day out, the constant he was in our lives, his faith and devotion not only to the Catholic Church but to us, his children.

I remember the swallows return to San Juan Capistrano mission. It was a glorious sight. We saw it once when I was about ten or so.  The swallows returning on St. Joseph’s Day empitomized the steadfast love, support and care that Joseph took of his family. I know that my Dad was like that…cheering us on, supporting us, cautioning us, counseling us to be the best we culd be.

I always liked the missions. I had favorites; Mission Basilica San Diego de Alcaláone, the oldest, the one near Solvang, Mission Santa Inéz, the Santa Barbara Mission. They were, churches, wonderful places of worship.  And, in the summer, long before churches were air conditioned, we would go to Mision San Fernando Rey, not far from our house, for Sunday Mass. I always, always brought a jacket or sweater.  Outside it could be 95 degrees, inside it would be 60. I remember the quiet of the space and the simplicity of the building.

After mass we would walk in the enclosed gardens.

‘Stand tall, walk tall,’ was the way Dad signed every note he sent to me while I was away at college.  It is a reminder I hold fast to, advice I cherish and remember this St. Joseph’s Feast Day.

 

 

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