HOME

THEME: HOME
I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself. ~ Maya Angelou

The Stories They Hold

Ellie Searl

        I’ve never liked to rise earlier than the sun, but lately I’ve savored the first hours of each day.  While I wait for a crack in the almost-morning sky, I imagine the treasures of my home.  Memory treasures.  Treasures our family has gathered through the years.  Chairs and tables, vases and pictures.  Sculptures and coats, lap throws and newspapers.  All of these in a comforting disarray of living.  We fill the rooms of our lives with love and bustle and happiness.  My home is alive with the stories written by the people who matter most to me. MORE . . . 

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Writing Your Way Home

Carolyn B Healy

By day, it was a typical conference room with moveable tables and stackable chairs. By night, or at least this night, it became a salon, a home away from home. The tables made a cozy U-shape, so everyone could see and be seen. Table cloths covered each, and antique-style lamps shed soft light. Plates of sweets and coffee took up the table near the door. Wordless music played quietly in the background.  The words would come from the dozen women who filed in, late because there was childcare trouble – too many kids with too many needs, more than had been expected. The chaos of resistance and misplaced toys and unfamiliar places took its usual toll on both mothers and kids. New childcare recruits were summoned to help, and we could begin.

These women looked tired. They had all experienced domestic violence and were finding their way out, either through shelter or education and counseling or groups for moms and kids. They had children to care for, jobs to find, homes to make. Homes that would be safe.  MORE . . . 

REMEMBRANCE

THEME: REMEMBRANCE
She glances at the photo, and the pilot light of memory flickers in her eyes. ~ Frank Deford

What Photographs Can Do

Carolyn B Healy

 My father is 14 or 15 in the photo, posing with the big band he helped organize in high school. He wears two-tone saddle shoes, neatly tied. They look new. The photo has been hanging on my family picture wall for 15 years waiting for me to really look at it. I finally did.

In any old picture, the first thing I notice is the shoes. They hint at normal life, intimate suggestions of routine and circumstance. As I study his picture, I imagine him tying them on that morning, and wonder what was going on in those minutes: was he bickering with his sisters; what breakfast smells wafted upstairs; what was on his mind?  MORE . . . 


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Spokes People

Ellie Searl

I joined the fall session because I wanted to get the district-required “Teaching with Intention” workshop over with as soon as possible. The class would begin again in November with fifteen more teachers, and then again in January, and so on every other month until each teacher had completed the course.

The six-week seminar would spotlight a new and improved instructional system— the latest fad dreamed up by some scholastic guru—to reverse shoddy teacher competence. And when this maharishi of scholarship blitzed the nation with a bigger, better paradigm, our administration didn’t want to be the only district holding chalk without a board.  MORE . . .

WHAT A CHARACTER

THEME: WHAT A CHARACTER
Who you are speaks so loudly I can’t hear what you’re saying. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Poochie’s Day

Ellie Searl

 Poochie’s mom told him it was too early.  “There’s no sense you goin’ there ahead of time, - you won’t get your candy any sooner.”  But Poochie put on his pea coat and stuck a flashlight into his pocket.  He huffed down the front steps and across the street.  “Cover your ears,” Poochie’s mom shouted after him.

          Poochie walked past the Methodist Church and down the hill onto the short, two-lane bridge that crossed the river, which was more of a creek than a river by the time it trickled out of the mountains and meandered into the lake at the town beach. MORE . . . 

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A Happy Story about Borders?

Carolyn B Healy

It seemed like a nightmare. Borders on Michigan Avenue was closing? Where would I go to have a tea and look down on the Water Tower park at throngs of shoppers? What would I do when I could no longer browse the crazy assortment of off-brand books in the basement, or look through the ironic Christmas cards on sale in January, looking for the perfect ones for next year?  Where would I find another store with such character? If this iconic location could fail, what did that portend?

Soon there was an announcement. False alarm. It wouldn’t close after all. Phew! That was close. But the fear had been planted. MORE . . . 

DREAM ON

THEME: DREAM ON
Dreams are illustrations. . .from the book your soul is writing about you. ~ Marsha Norman

My Dream, My Book

Carolyn Healy

 

Here was my dream. I would write a book that would change the world. It would be about personal narrative, the story that each of us tells about our own life. For a while there, the working title was If Your Life Was a Movie, Would You Go to See It?

“No, too trivial,” said the writing teacher. “This is an important topic.”

Second working title: What’s Your Story? How the Story You Tell about Yourself Makes All the Difference.

“No,” said the writing teacher, “Wordy and repetitive.”

Time for a new writing teacher.  MORE . . . 

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Gatekeepers

Ellie Searl

They guard the entrance to creativity, allowing the select few—those who pass muster—to enter.  Not the riff raff.  Not the wannabees who try to worm through the slats, those sad, misguided dilettantes who think their work shows merit.  They’re gatekeepers, and they prevent the unskilled culture-defacers from assailing the public with crap. 

If it weren’t for that cadre of connoisseurs assessing, ranking, and restocking the Aesthetic Empire, the eating, viewing, and reading public wouldn’t know what to eat, view, or read.  MORE . . . 

HEAR NO, SEE NO, SPEAK NO, YOU KNOW

THEME: HEAR NO, SEE NO, SPEAK NO, YOU KNOW
Nothing baffles the schemes of evil people so much as the calm composure of great souls.~ Comte de Mira

FAIREST OF THEM ALL
ELLIE SEARL

     The pressure for women to be skinny, gorgeous, tight-bottomed, de-wrinkled, balloon-lipped, and big-boobed is just plain evil.  According to magazines, billboards, TV ads, and fashion gurus, every woman who isn't a Heidi Klum clone, or close to it, should wrap herself in cheese cloth and squeeze out the hideousness until all that's left is a plasticine replicant of her former self.  Or if not that, then she should spend a month or two at a Human Reconstruction Institute until her body, hair, skin, and lips are taut, voluminous, porcelain, and pouty—respectively.MORE . . .           

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MY THREE DAYS AS A CUBAN

CAROLYN B HEALY

           The email fairly screamed: Please take it down. You could be placing people at risk. Give us time to look at it first.

            Uh oh.  All I’d done is set up an online chronicle of my trip to Cuba.* I had to do something with the barrage of images and stories that woke me up every morning, to the Afro-Cuban beat of the music that followed us everywhere and then followed me home.

            As a courtesy, or maybe nagged by a vestige of the paranoia that hovers in the Cuban air, the first thing I did was send the link to my two tour leaders. And received this alarming reply.  MORE . . . 

WELL, DUH

THEME: WELL, DUH

To spell out the obvious is often to call it in question.  ~Eric Hoffer

Positive Psychology and Me
Carolyn B Healy

I rented the office, then scoured used furniture stores and garage sales to furnish and decorate it. I even splurged on a painting of a rainy Paris street from TJ Maxx. I was ready. I was in private practice.

My very first client showed up on a Tuesday. I handed him the client questionnaire I had crafted, on a tasteful Lucite clip board. After the demographic info, I hit him with the big question: What do you hope to gain from counseling? I left three lines for the reply, but he only needed one.

He wrote: Peace of mind, and introduced me to the answer I would see far more than any other in the next 20-plus years of my practice.  It wasn’t happiness, or get my spouse off my back, or make my depression go away. It was a much bigger order, peace of mind.  MORE . . .

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A Social Call
Ellie Searl

She shouted from across the street.  “Hey!  Do you people believe in Jesus Christ?”

I stopped raking and looked up. 
She stood in her doorway, hands on hips, feet planted—square—like a drill sergeant, as if my answer could knock her over.  A full-length, flour-dusted apron covered her dress. 

 “Of course we do,” I said.  “He was a great leader . . . and teacher.  Everyone should follow his example.” 

Quick thinking.  Can’t argue with that.  I continue raking.

“But do you-all believe that the Bible is the word of God?”  MORE . . .

SAYING TOO MUCH

Theme:  Saying Too Much

If you wouldn't write it and sign it, don't say it.  ~Earl Wilson

GYM SHOES SPEAK

CAROLYN B HEALY

My friend Carol and I walked home from school down 111th Street. We made it almost to the bus stop a block from my place. It was a Friday because I carried my white Keds home for their bi-weekly cleaning, as required by the gym teacher. My name was neatly printed along the side, and I had them tied together by the laces because they looker cooler that way.

I know I was in fifth grade because I remember the cocktail of growing freedom that fall  – I could take unapproved routes home, pick up candy at the school store with my babysitting money, climb on the giant boulders where the vicious dog lived – without anyone telling me I was too little. Life was already good, and getting better. MORE . . .

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THE GOOD EDITOR

ELLIE SEARL

A good cook knows how to edit.  Take meatloaf.  Most recipes call for some kind of filler—like breadcrumbs. The right amount guarantees a moist, savory meatloaf feast.  Too much and it's dry, tasteless, stick-in-your-mouth lump.

A good writer knows how to edit. Take Mark Twain.  In his short story, "Advice to Little Girls," he wrote, "Good little girls always show marked deference for the aged.  You ought never to 'sass' old people unless they 'sass' you first." 

Now that's succinct. MORE . . . 

AUTHORITY

THEME: AUTHORITY
He who establishes his argument by noise and command shows that his reason is weak.
~Michel de Montaigne

ROOM MOTHER DAZE

ELLIE SEARL

When Brett entered first grade this past year, his mom Katie not only signed up to be Art Master for the second time, she also volunteered to be the class Room Mother.  She'd teach his class about famous artists, plan parties, organize treats, and become friends with the other mothers. 

"And," she said, "This will give me solid foothold in the workings of the school."

"Aren't you doing enough already?"  I asked.

"Mom – It's okay," Katie said.  "Being a Room Mother is the best way to stay on top of things.  It'll be fun."

Parent-Teacher Open House was the only September event that needed Room Mothering, so it wasn't until October at the Halloween party that Katie first encountered the Mighty Moms lurking behind the cubby buckets.  MORE . . .

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THE FINE ART OF EAVESDROPPING

CAROLYN B HEALY

Ask any writer where their material comes from and the honest ones will tell you it’s from a lifetime of eavesdropping. Sitting in a coffee shop you can land like a paratrooper in the middle of the life of a stranger and find out more than you know about your best friend. Whatever you hear yourself, you have on good authority, I figure.

Sometimes you get only hints and have to construct the story yourself. Like the time I sat near an apparently former priest and an older woman breakfasting together. I got an earful about “that business” that caused him so much trouble in recent years in the church. I pegged her as a former parishioner, based on the delicate balance between devotion and flirtatiousness that ran between them.  MORE . . .

CHEAP THRILLS

THEME: CHEAP THRILLS
The only thrill worthwhile is the one that comes from making something out of yourself.
~ William Feather

HITTING MY POLITICAL BOTTOM
CAROLYN B HEALY

Hello. My name is Carolyn and I am a recovering political arguer. To qualify as recovering, I had to prepare a searching and fearless inventory of my p.a. past. Let me share the highlights:

At age 8, I canvassed the neighborhood with my mother for the Republican candidate for mayor of Chicago. His name was Bob Merriam. He was an author and reformer, a war veteran with a Bronze Star. The Democratic candidate, slated for the first time, was Richard J. Daley the Original. It is said that Merriam actually had a chance. Imagine what Chicago might be like by now if he had won. That day, people were either polite or not at home, and I got ice cream on the way back. I rather enjoyed it. MORE . . . 

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HOME ON THE RAILS
ELLIE SEARL

The Promise. "We'll take you through the Heart of the West! Eight states and across the mighty Mississippi—past deserts and mountains, missions and pueblos, ranches and wheat fields. Carving through curving canyon passages only a few feet wider than the train itself. You'll see spectacular landscapes and pristine vistas. You'll be mesmerized by this land's beauty and allure."

The Adventure. Los Angeles to Chicago on the Southwest Chief, the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway. Over two thousand miles of the Old West along the Santa Fe Trail: California, Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Iowa, and Illinois. Ed and I would leave Fullerton, CA, early on a mid-July Monday evening and arrive in Chicago, IL, Wednesday afternoon. Two pleasant, relaxing days riding the rails, soaking in the wonder, beauty, and mystery of the Old West.  MORE . . .

RUMORS

THEME: RUMORS
Rumors generally grow deformed as they travel. ~ Edward Counsel

     

RUMORS OF ALICE SPRINGS
CAROLYN B HEALY

We arrived in Alice Springs on a jet plane. The airport was a modest affair with one building and a few luggage carts. We could barely breathe in the heat as we walked from the terminal to our bus. On the way to the hotel, our tour guide Mark lavished praise on us, for being the kind of travelers who would brave the Outback, not just luxuriate in the coastal cities of Australia.

All we could see outside the window was red sandy soil and scrub brush, and the occasional scruffy tree. The sky loomed large above us. It was bright blue, speckled with filmy clouds, and vast.

All we could think was the hotel must have air conditioning, right?

We reached the outskirts of town, expecting a dirt track of a frontier town, a simple crossroads in the Outback. What we saw instead was KFC, McDonalds, Target, T-shirt shops, and two indoor malls with food courts. What? It looked like a mini-U.S. MORE . . . 

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TARNISHED TIARAS
ELLIE SEARL

 Ah, what fools we were, Ed and I, when raising our daughter Katie.  We can hear them whispering.  "Ellie and Ed didn't give Katie what every little girl should have - that all-important, rise-to-stardom opportunity."  And they’re right.  We didn't.  Shame on us. 

Because of our neglect, Katie missed out.  So determined to raise our child on good old-fashioned values, we neglected to provide that one life experience that would have sent Katie straight to fame. Little girl beauty pageants.  How could we have been so remiss? MORE . . .

FIGHTS

THEME: FIGHTS
It's not the size of the dog in the fight; it's the size of the fight in the dog.
~ Mark Twain

SWITCHING CHANNELS
ELLIE SEARL

Sometimes my husband speaks from brain quarks.  The other day, as we drove past the hideous concrete landscape of strip malls, auto dealerships, and fast food restaurants, Ed said something unintelligible to me in a nasally, Mr. Peavey voice.  I thought he was referring to the ugliness.

 “Huh?” 

I expected him to say something funny about obese alley – those side-by-side hip packers:  Taco Bell, McDonald’s, and Burger King.

"I'm channeling Harrison Ford," he said.

I took a beat to reconnoiter.  "Yeah, right,” I said.  “Harrison Ford.  A dweeb."  MORE . . . 

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UNFINISHED BUSINESS
CAROLYN B HEALY

As soon as we landed in Christchurch, New Zealand our group of 44 piled into a luxury bus equipped with soft seats in a flashy fabric and a bathroom. We met our driver Malcolm, a strapping blonde gent who over the next week was to narrate our way across his country. You could quickly see that Malcolm was not a chatterbox, but one of those folks who was worth listening to when he spoke.

  It was January 22, 2011. He loaded our bags and we headed out of the airport on the exit lane. As he approached the traffic circle that would lead us to town, there was a loud clunk and we stopped dead. He shifted, and tried and this and that, but there we sat.  His jaw twitched, he traded a couple of quiet comments with Mark, our cheerful guide, and got on the phone. MORE . . . 

PAYING ATTENTION

THEME:  PAYING ATTENTION
I think the one lesson I have learned is that there is no substitute for paying attention.

~ Diane Sawyer

HEARING THE CHANT

CAROLYN B HEALY

It was Saturday, February 4, 2011. The Auckland Hop On Hop Off bus was transporting us through our last full day in New Zealand. We had already seen the grass-covered cone of an extinct volcano that sits above the city. I snapped a photo of my daughter peering into the top, while we tried to imagine what it had looked like 60,000 years ago when it was spewing lava. We couldn’t.

We’d also passed a suburban park with its own sheep, chomping grass within feet of the busy road. There are 4,000,000 people in New Zealand and 45,000,000 sheep. After a few days it seemed normal to see them anywhere.

We climbed off at the museum which sits above the city in a huge park. We looked down on a cricket match which we couldn’t understand and climbed the steps to the museum which we figured we could. We’d heard about the Maori show there, an authentic depiction of the music and practices of the indigenous people of New Zealand.

We were ushered into an elaborately carved meeting house, asked to remain silent for a welcoming ceremony, and then guided through a series of songs, games and dances. There was a cast of eight, 4 women and 4 men, dressed in traditional garments of muted patterns and ornamental beads. The men wore elaborate loincloths, the women grass skirts. The men held guitars, the women tucked poi balls at the waist. The oldest and most serious member of the troupe narrated. MORE . . .

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SPOT ON

ELLIE SEARL
Drawings and Spot's Story by Clinton Searl

My mother and father-in-law, Mary and Clint Searl, are 94 and 95 years old. They are in such good shape - body, mind, and soul - they could put most teenagers to shame. They'd probably tell you they're getting too old for this or too tired for that, but they have spunk and spirit and drive and a boatload of positive energy – the kind that adds spark to life and makes children giggle.


They tell the stories of their lives, most of which they've told many times, but which I never tire of hearing. Mom, the daughter of Austro-Hungarian parents and the eldest of ten children, growing up on a New Jersey farm. Dad, one of five children, growing up in a New Jersey mill town. They tell their stories, and I ask questions to stretch the details. MORE . . .

 Photograph by Natalie Searl