I returned those zillion packages of double-fold bias binding to JoAnn's and didn't buy anything else. Aren't you proud of me? I am.
After lunch I hauled out my outline, iPad, and pencil (sharpener too) to spend my first hour of Camp NaNoWriMo, which is the little brother of National Novel Writing Month, where you are challenged to write a 50,000 word manuscript in 30 days. In Camp NaNoWriMo you can pick your challenge. I decided to use the month to drag myself to the page for an hour a day to finish the outline/timeline and then to write up the "key" scenes to see if I can't crank out 20,000 more words for this story. I know that I can do it, it's just a matter of DOING it.My first writing friend and her husband came to town today on their way down from picking up her fixed vehicle in Crivitz. They're spending the night and wanted to take me to supper. It took me all day to think of it but I took us all to 1919, the restaurant in the Lambeau Field atrium. They loved it. Not being a football fan I don't think of it but I checked online to find a local place near their hotel and it popped up. Afterward I dropped him back at the hotel to ice his sore back while cda and I came here for a bit of ice cream and to talk writing for an hour. It was a good evening.
1 July--Barbara Malcolm, Horizon.
I sat in the food area of
my church’s craft fair eating a bowl of cheeseburger chowder and dreading the
rest of the afternoon. It had seemed
like such a good idea when I thought of it; Samara and I would sell our art at
the fair and Clara would help. It would
give me a chance to open up space on my walls which were quickly disappearing
under my watercolors, provide an opportunity to see how strangers felt about my
paintings, help Clara feel she was still a big part of my life, and make a
little money to buy more supplies. So
simple, so easy. Who knew that my old
friend and new friend would take one look at each other and turn into the
Hatfields and the McCoys?
The
trouble had started this morning when Clara and I approached our
assigned booth. It looked like Samara
had spread her jewelry over the whole table and had her paintings hung over the
entire backdrop. I could feel Clara
tense as we got closer.
“For
Pete’s sake, Gail,” Clara hissed, “I thought you two were supposed to share
that booth. Look at her, she has all her
stuff so spread out there’s no room for you.”
“Clara,
don’t be silly. I’m sure Samara spread
everything out to decide what to display first.” To forestall any louder complaints, I nudged
my old friend with my elbow, since my hands were filled with framed
paintings. “Samara, honey, you sure got
here early,” I called. “Scootch some of
your things over so Clara and I can unload.”
The
young woman looked up when she heard her name and grinned. “Hi, Gail, this is going to be great. Let me slide some of this over so you can put
that box down.” She took the paintings
from me and piled them on the corner of the table she’d cleared. Then she smiled at the woman behind me. “You must be Clara.” She put out a hand to shake before she
realized that Clara’s arms were full too.
“Oops, sorry. Gail’s told me a
lot about your adventures together. So
where’s your booth? I hope they put us
close together.”
I
heard Clara inhale, ready to stake out our territory, and hurried to forestall
the blast. “We’re sharing this booth,
honey. You need to move some of your
things so we can put mine out too.”
Samara
put her hands to her face. “Oh, I’m so
embarrassed. I thought we’d each have
our own.” She hurried to move her
jewelry and then stopped. “Wait a
minute. You mean that fifty dollars I
gave you was for half this booth?
That’s robbery!”
Clara’s
face reddened and she stepped around the table, still carrying the box of
framed paintings. “Listen, missy, this
is a church. They help out a bunch of
people who are having a hard time making ends meet. That fifty bucks will buy a lot of
groceries.”
Tears
sprung to the young girl’s eyes. “I
didn’t mean…”
I
was horrified. “Clara, I’m surprised at
you. It was an honest mistake. I must not have been clear when I explained
it to Samara. Now, let’s help her decide
what to leave on display and get my paintings put out.” I glanced at my watch. “They’re opening the doors in about half an
hour.”
It was
difficult for me to decide on prices for my paintings. I walked around the booths just before the
sale opened to see what prices the other artists were charging. It wasn’t much help. I thought some were priced way too high;
others were ridiculously low. I ended up
putting twenty dollars on the smallest ones and went up to fifty on the two
biggest ones. The first time someone
bought a painting, I thought I’d faint.
From shock or excitement, I don’t know, but it was all I could do to
keep from breaking out in a dance right in front of everyone. It was hard when someone spent time looking
and then decided not to buy, too; kind of like they didn’t like me. But I kept repeating to myself that maybe none of them
matched their décor and it made me feel a bit better.
The
atmosphere in the cramped booth took on the air of an armed camp and I felt
like I was the demilitarized zone. Clara
on one side, Samara on the other darted poisoned looks at each other. Clara pointedly avoided helping people who
expressed interest in Samara’s jewelry and she made a disgusted noise each time
something of Samara’s was sold.
Samara
started the day apologizing over and over for her misunderstanding. By ten a.m. she’d turned sullen and by
eleven, angry. When I finally persuaded
Clara to take a break to walk around the fair and grab a bite of lunch, Samara
turned to me with a sigh. “I know she’s
your oldest friend, Gail, but I have to tell you, she’s a real pain. And she hates my work. I just know we’d have sold more without her
frowning face driving people away.”
“I don’t know
what’s gotten into her.” I shook my
head. “Clara’s been my biggest
cheerleader for thirty years. Maybe
that’s it, she’s afraid that you and I will become best friends and she’ll be
left out.”
“Oh for
heaven’s sake, that won’t happen.” She
touched my arm. “Not that I don’t like
you a lot, but I can’t really see us becoming best buds. I’m in high school, for crying out loud, and
you’re, what, fifty-something?”
I laughed. “Yeah, I’m fifty-something, but I don’t think
we change all that much as we age. We
still have the same fears and feelings we did in high school. I’ll just have to work harder to make Clara
feel special.” I sighed. This changing your life was turning into more
work than I’d bargained for. Why couldn’t
everyone just be happy for me?
I saw the hummingbird twice and an oriole once today but neither of them held still long enough to have their picture taken. My eyelids keep slamming shut. I'm not used to having a 6 AM wakeup. What I won't do for the people I love...
--Barbara
1 comment:
Poor Gail. The craft fair sounded like such a good idea. She's going to have to work hard to keep Clara happy and to keep Abel out of her life. I know he's going to show up again pretty soon. That sock project looks neat. Anxious to see how one long tube becomes two.
Post a Comment