Unraveling Secrets: Mia’s Emotional Journey

From last time- “The Scene update”

Had her father been the real killer? Could she have heard the real murderer arguing with her mom? Can anything she is thinking about the real killer’s identity be true?

She doesn’t know at this time. It can still change. That is how discovery writing can go.

And what about that last plot twist I have planned for a final reveal? Will Mia discover a family secret having to do with why her mom died that morning that only I know at this point?

I’m very close to the end. But it won’t write itself.  

I am on what should be the ending chapter or two. It deals with the final “reveal” for my main character, Mia. This is a plot twist I have known about since I started writing this one. I am almost at the end of my writing. I have never been so close to finishing and felt unsure of how to end it.

So, I push on. Today I forced myself to write. At the end of a shortened writing session, I had a short paragraph to show for it. As I approached the end, my characters spoke so quickly. I could barely type fast enough to keep up. This isn’t one of those times.

“A Journey Through Grief and Discovery”

WordPress’s AI suggested the title of my last post based on the content of that post. I now have that as a subtitle. It fits, and it helped keep me focused on my plot. I may remove it before I consider “The Scene” completed. I’ve never had a subtitle in any of my earlier works in progress.

I am fine with AI suggesting a title for my earlier post here. I can use that suggestion as a subtitle for the WIP. Recently, AI came into play for me. I Googled a phrase I had written. It described how Mia reacted to a major reveal. She saw her uncle and mom together the same night her mom died.

I used the phrase, “her head hung in wracking sobbing.

” Google’s AI said, “The phrase ‘her head hung in wracking sobbing’ is a vivid description of someone experiencing intense sadness or emotional distress. It combines two powerful images:

Together, the phrase paints a picture of someone deeply distressed and possibly ashamed or overwhelmed, with their body reflecting the intensity of their emotional pain through forceful sobbing and a lowered head. This combination of physical posture and intense crying creates a powerful image of emotional agony.”

Emotional agony is exactly what I was going for. Mia’s recent memory that pushed her into emotional agony is where I am at this point. The next reveal could push her over the edge. I have to decide how far to move her to that edge.

The Scene: A Journey Through Grief and Discovery

I am nearing completion of my ninth Work in Progress. I call it “The Scene.” I used my late wife Judy’s college creative writing paper, also titled “The Scene,” as a prompt. Her Scene is here.

In my story, my character, Emily, takes Judy’s place as the writer of that Scene. The Scene, as a prompt, starts with a life memory. It is based on a young girl listening to her parents arguing in the next room. The story describes how that little girl is scared. She fears that one day she will wake up and find that her mom has been murdered by her father.

My story begins with Mia’s life, a new character, in which she lived Emily’s fictional story. Mia had listened to her parents argue many times. This time, she woke up the next morning to discover her mom had been murdered.

When I began writing this, I intended to exclude Emily from it. She had appeared in each of my earlier stories as either a primary or supporting character. In the end, I couldn’t let Emily go. That may be because, in my second novel, she took on many of Judy’s characteristics in my mind.

Bringing Emily into this one gave me the idea to have Mia and Emily meet. This meeting comprises a significant part of the plot. It necessitated the creation of several new characters. In Mia’s life, her father was accused of murdering her mother. He was convicted when Mia was only ten years old.

Emily’s growth as a character gives her a unique understanding of how her life and Mia’s are connected. This link, in part, allows Mia to explore her memories of that morning. Then, a memory surfaces. It changes everything Mia believes to be true in her life. It all starts on the day her mom was murdered.

Had her father been the real killer? Could she have heard the real murderer arguing with her mom? Can anything she is thinking about the real killer’s identity be true?

She doesn’t know at this time. It can still change. That is how discovery writing can go.

And what about that last plot twist I have planned for a final reveal? Will Mia discover a family secret related to why her mom died that morning? This is a secret only I know at this point.

I’m very close to the end. But it won’t write itself.

From Serenades to Solos: My Musical Evolution

When I was younger and living in San Rafael, my father occasionally serenaded us. He played guitar and sang.  Most often, it was songs by Jim Reeves or Hank Williams- people like that.  I say serenade us, but we were not always in the room. The sound carried to all parts of the house. Other than Reeves or Williams, one he played and sang that we all liked went like this,

“Whiskey, Rye Whiskey, Rye Whiskey I cry.

If I don’t get Rye Whiskey, I think I will die.”

Here is Pete Seeger’s version of Rye Whiskey.

Tex Ritter did it more the way my father did; see that here.

This was a favorite. There is a part where the singer howls in a drunken stupor. Then, he has a pronounced “Hiccup.”  The way he did it always made us laugh.  We gathered to clean his apartment after he had died. My brother, sister, and I sang it again. We sang it just the way he used to.

Listening to my father sing was entertaining, but sometimes you wanted to escape it. The repetition of the songs could get tiresome. This was especially true if he was attempting to learn a new one. As far as I recall, my mother was almost always in the room. He needed an audience, even if it was only one person. A couple more listened, even though they were trying to do other things.

One of his other favorites was “Tumble-weeds.” This is the Sons of the Pioneers version. My father always sang it alone.  But once, when my brother and his son visited him, they worked up a version in three-part harmony. My father later played a tape made that day for me over the phone. It sounded as good as any time I have heard of it done professionally.

My father played the trumpet as a kid, and I remember him playing when I was young. I think he gave up on it, though, after losing his two front teeth in a minor traffic accident. Having tried to even get a sound out of it, I can understand why it had to be given up. After he died, we were visiting our aunt. She told me how he had just picked up an old trumpet as a kid. He started playing it one time. She said she was out in the yard one day while my father was playing the trumpet.  She told me a neighbor stopped by to ask her who was on the radio. She said, ‘That is not the radio; it is my brother.’ As I remember, he sounded like he knew what he was doing.  How he learned to do this, I am not sure.  I don’t think they had the money for any kind of lessons.

My mother was also musical. She played flute in High School, but she was not quite the exhibitionist my father was. She would play occasionally when we were younger. However, she usually did not participate in any family gatherings. We also had an old, beat-up piano that everyone banged on from time to time. We grew up among these instruments. It was only a matter of time before we started to get interested in playing something ourselves.  

My sister was the first of us to officially pursue a musical endeavor.  Elementary schools still had music programs at this time. The big thing to start with was the violin.  She got one of the violins from her class and was off.  We would hear her in her room practicing.  She also tried to play the piano after learning the basics of music. As she grew older, she transitioned to the viola. She got up very early for school so she could go to practice. She would attend a full day of school, come home, do her schoolwork, and practice some more.  I remember attending many concerts where she played.

My brother was not interested in the violin, or maybe he was. But he took a different path from my sister. He was more interested in my father’s guitar. Initially, this was an old Harmony archtop.  When my father found a used Harmony Sovereign at a pawn shop, my brother inherited the older model.  They even sent him to an official lesson. Eventually, my brother got an electric bass guitar for his birthday.  Soon, he joined a rock band with a couple of friends. They actually played and won a local “Battle of the Bands” and also played at my seventh-grade dance.

My brother went on from there, of course.  He eventually got a tenor banjo for his birthday. He was disappointed that it wasn’t the five-string banjo he had asked for. As a result, he never took it out of the case. After the rock band split up, he joined a folk group where he served as the guitarist. They did a few regular folk songs and some novelty songs. They had fun playing, but it never went anywhere. Rock bands were still in demand, not this type of stuff. By college, he had gotten himself into a bluegrass band playing guitar. They played at pizza restaurants and one time opened for Doc Watson.

Where was I in my musical upbringing? Nowhere.  For some reason, no one was interested when it came time for me to get my musical instruction.  No one wanted to get roped into spending money on a school-sponsored violin.  When I picked up the guitar, no one wanted to show me a few chords. They were not interested in my attempts to make music. I knew nothing about music.  No one figured I was really interested enough to actually stick to learning anything.

I am not sure why no one took my interest seriously. Sitting and listening was the closest I could get to doing anything related to music.  I listened to my father, mother, and sister with her various orchestral offerings and a succession of my brother’s bands.  Occasionally, with my brother’s group, I was responsible for adjusting knobs and pushing buttons. I recorded the session on a tape recorder. But that job was only needed when they practiced at our house. No one seemed interested in my desire to learn to play anything seriously. They didn’t let me decide how serious I wanted to be. What about that neglected tenor banjo my brother had? He wouldn’t let me use it even if he had no interest in it. If I were to do anything musically, I would have to do it alone.

There was one time we got together and did something musical. My sister was not there because she had moved out to attend college.  Among the other musical interests mentioned, my father sang in barbershop quartets. (One of the groups he was in agreed to sing at my wedding, discussed elsewhere here.)  There is a song that quartets sing as a novelty piece.  It is called the “Nursery Rhyme Song.”  It comprises four nursery rhymes, one for each singer and all in different melodies. These interlace in an intricate manner when sung. One part by itself is not particularly interesting. But when taken together, the parts form a really neat-sounding, albeit very short, song in barbershop harmony.

My father was the baritone. My mother would have been the lead. My brother was the bass, and I was a falsetto tenor.  I say falsetto because my voice had deepened at an early age. I could control it well enough at a range much higher than my speaking voice would suggest.  It took us hours to get the parts right.  Then, for hours more (or it seemed), we sang it all together. We continued until the changes and interlaced lines merged correctly.  It was a lot of fun, one of the more enjoyable things I remember doing as a family.  Then, we stopped for the night, and we never did that or any other singing again.  Here is a link to a group doing this song. It’s not exactly how we did it, but you get the idea. Our version did not include the cheesy choreography. We also skipped the short rendition of the Mickey Mouse Club theme song at the end.

My father returned to his childhood home for a funeral. He brought back a small tenor banjo. He had had it as a kid.  It was dirty, scratched, broken, and generally unplayable.  That was the instrument I was given to express my musical talent.  This reminds me of another thing.  The first camera I got was old and broken as well.  I had to prove my interest in anything by receiving a broken item. If I could fix it, I was allowed to keep it. I fixed the camera, but I will never know how.  

I took that banjo apart. I cleaned it up and refinished it. Then I put it together again. This way, I could play whatever music it might still have in it. It really was not an instrument of any high quality.  It was not something that anyone who knows instruments would have taken the time or money to repair.  That is what I had at that point.  The funny thing is that I discovered a way to play it.

Initially, I tuned it as a regular tenor banjo. I attempted to play it using real tenor banjo chords. I found these chords in a tenor banjo songbook. I could do that, but it was boring.  Then, I discovered what is known as open tuning. This was a bit easier and seemed to be more versatile.  What I really needed, though, was a 5-string banjo that was more suited to this open-style tuning.  Pete Seeger had a show (Rainbow Quest) on the local educational channel, which is now PBS. I would watch him. I observed how he played. I purchased an affordable 5-string banjo. I found it in a music store in San Francisco. I was off to a good start.  Soon, I developed my version of how Pete Seeger played, closest to a style known as “Claw-Hammer.”  I created my own version of how others played. I wasn’t sure if it was a genuine style. I could play similarly anyway.  

I liked regular bluegrass 3-finger picking at the time, too, but I could never get the hang of that.  So, when I played, people thought it was interesting. But it was not what they typically heard from a banjo. It was different from the theme song of  “The Beverly Hillbillies.” They were not very interested for long.  I was okay with that, though.  I was finally playing a real instrument, even though I had to wait until I could afford one.

Eventually, I purchased a guitar from the same music store where I had bought the banjo. I learned to play it, too. I was not really proficient. However, I was passable. I had no real encouragement and no music training. This probably limited me, but it also let me experiment with different ways to finger-pick or tune it.

My brother had always been a pretty good guitarist. As a kid, I had listened for hours at a time. He played the same song repeatedly.  With my own guitar, I learned to play much later. I reached a point where I could play a version of this same song my way. I played it ( Suze (The Cough Song) – Bob Dylan) for him once.  He was surprised and asked me where I had learned it. I told him it had just come to me and that I finally remembered that he had played it. I could never tell how he used all four fingers and his thumb.  He looked at what I was doing. He could not figure out how I was getting a very similar sound to his. I managed this with only two fingers and a thumb.

This was a fun time for me, and I got to play guitar with him.  I played one other thing that he did not know I could play.  I started playing my version of it (Hard Hearted Hannah (The Vamp of Savannah), and he came in playing his. (I am not suggesting that I was as good as this linked version. If I could play like that, I would have quit my day job.) It was the same song, just done slightly differently.  We played it that first time, and it blended really well.  He asked where I learned to play it that way. I said it was from memory of listening to how he had done it long ago. Of course, living as far away as I did was not conducive to this sort of get-together very often.  In fact, it never happened again.

I occasionally played with other people. Nothing really serious. I was just jamming with an old high school friend. When I was a messenger driver in San Francisco, I would play with one of the other drivers after work. We jammed when we were not drinking. I was into it even when I was not playing. I watched other guitarists closely. I looked for anything new I could add to my own technique.

During this period, I decided I could afford a better banjo. I upgraded and sold my first one for almost what I had paid originally.  I continued playing, just for my own enjoyment.  I seemed to stagnate in what I was doing, though.  I reached a point where it seemed I was just doing the same things all the time.  When I arrived at my current home, I purchased a mandolin at a pawn shop.  I thought it might add a new wrinkle to things to try something different.  It helped for a while. I never got to the point where I could do much on the mandolin. Maybe a better one would change that, so I traded up, selling the original.  I think the original actually was a better instrument.  I should have kept it.

A few years ago, I bought another guitar.  It was an upgrade from my original, but as it turns out, I have not played much since then.  Partially, this is due to a neuropathy. It makes my fingers not go where I want them to. They don’t go when I want, or hold the chords as tightly as I need to. It is hard to pick with a thumb that does not move correctly.  My current lack of coordination between my left and right hands is irritating. I seem to have lost interest in continuing, at least as often as I used to. My parents were probably right.  I never would have kept up with an instrument.

Another example of Judy’s writing

My wife hid much of her life from me for reasons unknown. It has now been six years since she passed, and I continue to find hints and pieces of that unknown life she chose to keep secret.


She was the valedictorian of her high school class. She earned “Honors at Entry” for college and graduated with high honors in three years. She never told me any of this. It was all discovered in a long-forgotten box behind another box, on a shelf, totally in plain sight.


In another box, I found a sample of her writing. She was in her first two college quarters when she wrote this. She would not like me sharing it, but I will take it down if she complains. I would take that now.


Three Slants on Spring
by Judy- sometime in late 1970


1


“Do you believe me when I say I love you?”

“Of course, hon.”


Ah, spring and young lovers, thought Liddie, watching the young couple amble past her. “Have you ever noticed how they go together?” she said aloud to no one, since she walked alone down her favorite path.


“Oh, it feels so good just to be alive,” she whispered eagerly to a bunch of flowers, nodding agreement in the breeze. She tested the stream water with her hand. Finding it not excessively cold, she slipped off her shoes and dangled her feet in the water. Many happy hours were spent this way until she sensed rather than saw someone. She asked, “Who’s there?”


“Just me. I saw you and wondered if you knew it was getting late. You seemed so lost in your thoughts.”

“Thanks, Tom, you came along just in time to walk me home. How about a snack when we get there?”

“That sounds great to me.”


2


“Hey, you, get the hell out of here. Get away from my trash cans. “

The old bum moved slowly away from what looked like a prospective lunch. Spring, he thought, who needs it? What with all the mud? His mind stopped. Then, aloud, he spat, “Flowers. Yes, flowers, you can’t eat them. They are just a bothersome bunch of weeds.”


He trailed on, a dejected walking rag. He stopped before a rain barrel, reached for an old, dirty sock in his pocket, and unceremoniously began scrubbing it. When he was satisfied, he stuffed it back into his pocket. By now, he was hungry. He ambled back to the old shack at the edge of the track, entered, and found his friend Joe.


“Well, Joe, how was your day?”


“Rotten and listen, if you say one damn word about spring. . .”


3
“Why don’t you Russians get out of Czechoslovakia? Why can’t you leave us alone?”

The elderly woman watched as the young rebels pitted their words against the Russian soldiers’ iron tanks. It’s no use, she thought. She called out in despair, “For God’s sake, don’t agitate them!”


The rebels, unheeded, renewed their bombardment of the soldiers.


“It’s not fair,” murmured the old lady. “It’s spring; the young should be occupied with love, with, yes, with the spirit of forgiveness.” She looked again at the scene that stirred her blood. Yet they were giving their country pride—pride that they would not give up their freedoms without a struggle—freedom to feed their own and determine their destiny.


She mused aloud, “Why do they have to grow up so fast, missing the beauty of spring? America, with its boundless wealth, its love, and its flowers. The young people there walk among the flowers during spring. Why not here?”


The elderly woman turned in time to see one of the enraged soldiers cut down a young man. She crumpled to the sidewalk in unconcealed sobs. Silence descended over the group. A thin wail came from the sidewalk where the old woman sobbed, “My son will now only see the spring flowers from a grave. Why?”

Weird technology in my world—

Currently (pun intended), I own a 2024 Prius Prime plug-in Hybrid.

Soon after buying this, I found it flashing warning messages I wasn’t aware existed. My car has criticized my posture, telling me to “Sit Up!” and reminding me to pay attention by flashing “Driver Inattention Detected” on the main screen. That’s fine. It only told me to sit up once. It has slowed down on reminding me to pay attention. I guess I must be paying better attention. At least, I am getting better at looking around while keeping my head forward.

This was different.

I was driving home through town, in the center lane of three. A huge four-wheel pickup was in front of me at a red light. When the light turned green, he moved to the left lane in the space of one block. He then crossed to the right lane and returned to the left. He eventually turned left.

I said aloud, “What the heck are you doing?” or words to that effect.

My car’s feminine voice said, “I can’t understand what you are saying. Speak more clearly . . .”

That may not be the exact wording. Of course, I said, “Was I talking to you? I don’t think so.”

It didn’t respond. Of course.

In theory, the device can respond to specific commands if I start with the words, “Hey Toyota…” If the pickup truck had been a Toyota, I may have said, “Hey, Toyota driver, what are you doing?” But it wasn’t a Toyota.

There are also two buttons, one on the steering wheel and the other on the center console screen. The one on the display requires me to lean and touch a small microphone icon. This action may prompt the car to remind me to pay attention. The button on the steering wheel requires a definite push. Not to say it can’t be done by mistake. However, my left hand wasn’t near the button. Reaching that button isn’t the easiest thing to do unintentionally.

Whatever I said, the car heard something that sounded like “Hey, Toyota. ” Since related tech like Siri and Lexus can listen and respond to commands, I wonder if everything I say goes to the Toyota Mother Ship. This might be so it can respond quickly to anything preceded by the command I never said.

So, my short relationship with my car’s female alter ego is over. The feature allowing the “Hey Toyota” keyword prompt is turned off now. If I need a voice command, the two buttons still work. Hearing “her” respond to my cussing at the truck’s driver was a bit creepy.

The Scene

I found this short paper in a box of things Judy had saved that I had no idea still existed. She had told me she had taken a creative writing course in college. Here is an example of that writing. I used this short paper as a prompt for my ninth novel.

The Scene
by Judy

The girl looked out the window as she had done many times before. The scene that met her eyes was well known. Having only one window in her room allowed that one scene to be firmly imprinted on her brain. She knew every change of the scene through every season. Right now, it is winter. The cold, hard snow and the expressionless buildings matched the weary face that searched their never-changing shapes.

She jumped as a book crashed into the wall. Now she became conscious of what she had mentally tried to block out. Her parents’ angry voices came drifting into her room. The sounds grew louder and filled her tiny room until she thought she would scream.

Fear raced through her body, leaving her nervous and trembling. Would this be the time? Would this end as one of her terrible nightmares, in which she walks into the room to find her mother cut to bloody pieces? Her head started to swim. Her room danced in front of her eyes. Fear overcame her again. She sat at the edge of her bed, trying to control her raging head. On and on went the screams of hatred in the other room. Suddenly, thousands of pictures raced, stumbling through the young girl’s brain. Picture after picture, flashes of hate, of fear, of the ever-haunting scene out her window.

When I tried to rent this apartment, people tried to talk me out of it. They said you can still see the blood splattered on the walls where an insane man killed his wife. He’s locked up now, of course. A crazy man can’t be allowed to roam the streets. They also said the tiny room with one window is haunted, but I didn’t believe them. It is spring, and the scene is so striking.

Thanksgiving

I woke up at 6 am this morning, by my current standards, sleeping in. My first thought was, “I’m gonna be late.” Late to what?

It is, after all, Thanksgiving morning. Every place I might think to go and write for a few hours is closed today. I am a creature of habit. Even to this relatively new habit that drives me now.

I can write here at home, and I will try to later. But it isn’t the same as getting out.

Even now my personal work ethic won’t let me rest. Hmm. I have noticed that this same work ethic doesn’t guarantee I clean the house as often as I should. I am “good” in my aloneness. But I still want to be included in something. Even if it is just being a part-time writer and greeter for the morning regulars at a cafe downtown.

My Christmas mood- now and then

December 20, 2020

The soundtrack of my Christmas memories as a child was largely provided by one Christmas record. This record was by a group you might have heard of, 101 Strings, and was called “Christmas Moods.”  At that time, this record became part of my family Christmas memories. It was given as a promotional “gift” with a gas station fill-up. (Now I am happy to get gas a few cents a gallon cheaper once in a while.)

The other trappings of my childhood Christmas memories are long gone. They either wore out while in active use. Or they were lost when my parents parted ways, just after I graduated from college. Even this original recording was lost with the rest of the family records. But the memories are still there; how hearing it played heralded the start of each Christmas season. My sister made sure of it. The second the last of the Thanksgiving feast was put away, Christmas began. It started when she played this record for the first time of the season.

Over the years, my siblings managed to replace it. My sister found a copy of the record at a garage sale. My brother found a re-release compact disc version. The producers had added a few other songs to fill out the CD’s length. I took that CD version and made copies for us that included only the memories of the original recording. It sounds just like the original release. It does not have the skip that developed from our LP. The LP was played numerous times. The record player we used was a bit sketchy in terms of quality.

I never had kids myself. However, I am sure this recording would have been part of their memories as well. I had no children. Still, hearing this recording triggers memories of being a kid at Christmas for me. I might explore other childhood memories related to different subjects in these writings. However, my memories of Christmas are pretty good. And they can be summoned by playing this record that provided the backdrop of our holiday family gatherings.

I had the idea of writing a piece for this blog about my Christmas memories during the night. I was awake and couldn’t sleep. The piece I wrote in my head then was perfect, as things usually are in memories. When I later tried to write it down, I just could not get it right. It was all too much to keep straight. Listening to this music now, I realize that the most important part of my Christmas memories came from it. The music is still there. The memories are still there.

To the friends I know are out there, and those readers I do not know;

Have a Merry Christmas!

And may you all find the link to those memories you cherish the most, at any time of the year.

Camp Fire- Paradise Ca, The Second Anniversary

November 01, 2020

November 8 will mark two years since the Camp Fire occurred. It burned most of the town of Paradise off the map.

Judy and I were there that morning. We shouldn’t have been. We didn’t know what was happening. I relied on my phone’s warnings to alert me that we were driving into danger. Residents in Paradise had been told that the fire was far away and moving away from them. The warnings I waited for were never sent. The fire was moving way too fast. Even if we had checked before leaving home, we would likely have been told it was fine up there.

We attempted to go to Paradise that morning because Judy had an appointment. Her appointment was at the Feather River Cancer Center.

When we went out to my car, I could tell that something about the sun did not look right. Before I realized the strange light was caused by smoke, I told Judy I hoped we could even make it to her appointment. We had tried weeks earlier to get a quicker appointment based on the speed at which her lymph nodes were growing. We had been turned down. That made it more important to get up there, or at least to try.

Once we were on the freeway starting the trip, we had a better view of the smoke. Of course, I could not tell its relation to where we were going. I know, we should have pulled over and called ahead. From what we later found out, they were either already gone. Alternatively, they might not have had any information about the fire’s location. The residents had been told early on that Paradise was in no danger. Nothing looked out of the ordinary except for the smoke. As we got closer to Paradise, everyone seemed to be doing their usual activities. We always observe these activities when we head up there.  The smoke was ominous appearing; I could hear ash falling onto my car. But people were out in their yards seemingly unaware of anything out of the ordinary. 

On Pearson near Pentz Road, it even got sunny for a stretch on the way up. I remember telling Judy that maybe the fire wouldn’t be a problem after all. We turned left from Pearson to Pentz, and it was like entering a nightmare. We had not seen any first responders the entire trip up. That is because they were already up along Pentz.

We turned in at the Cancer Center; a guy was there with his Smartphone. He motioned for us to stop. “Whatever you are here for, it is canceled. They are evacuating the hospital. Follow the road down and to the left, and back up to Pentz.” I looked in the direction he pointed. The fire was just then coming up over the edge of the canyon. It seemed to me it would have been easier and quicker to turn around right where we were. And safer.  I decided he must have a good reason to keep that entry clear. So, I drove down to the edge of the canyon. I had never stopped there to take in the view before this, and I did not stop now. I knew exactly what I would see if I got out to look. The fire was that close.

Our trip back down Pentz was more harrowing than it had just been a couple of minutes earlier. There were the beginnings of burning embers blowing across the road as we made our way to Pearson. I had a choice: turn right onto Pearson or try to get back down along Pentz. Pentz followed along the edge of the canyon for a while. I didn’t know the fire’s exact location. Therefore, I decided to turn right back down Pearson. I knew that traffic would probably be gridlocked this way. However, I also knew that no matter how slow we might be going, it would take us away from the fire. A quarter-mile or so down Pearson, where it had been sunny just a few minutes earlier, it was as dark as midnight. And the traffic was stopped. A sign that had not been noticeable there a bit earlier mocked us: “Evacuation Route.” The arrow pointed downhill. That much was a plus.

This section of Pearson has a couple of ridges it crosses. The traffic had stopped at the bottom of a switchback on the downhill portion of the first ridge. The hilly terrain here may have saved us. But from what I heard later, the fire was much closer now than I realized. It was just being blocked from view by the ridge. It was a two-lane road here, and the uphill lane was periodically taken over by a first responder headed in the direction of the fire. Checking the rear view mirrors, the smoke had a reddish glow.

Then, suddenly, a caravan of emergency vehicles would head downhill. I later realized that among these vehicles, was the remaining group of workers evacuating from the hospital, having been rescued after a Cal Fire Bulldozer operator had taken matters into his own hands and pushed broken down cars off of Pearson Road.  As I said, it was happening much closer to us than I had known at the time.

Overall, I remained calm. It would not help at that point to lose control. And since Judy had pretty bad anxiety around that time, I knew I had to make things seem OK, even if on the inside everything was telling me it was otherwise.

At one point when traffic had barely budged on a flatter section of Pearson for what seemed like an eternity, suddenly I saw this young guy was skateboarding along the side of the road just like all of this was an everyday experience for him. I turned to Judy to point him out to her, saying, “Now, there is something you don’t see every day.” If we hadn’t been in this situation, I might have started laughing. Nothing we had seen so far fit the category of being an everyday sight in any way. Judy was beyond noticing him. Wherever she had escaped to, I let her stay there. I had to stay alert throughout it all. Everything seemed out of sync with reality.

There wasn’t much of anything we saw that would fit into a normal “everyday” experience. Just down from the skateboarding guy, we saw a group of four men standing out along the road drinking coffee. Just another leisurely morning drinking coffee with the guys. They didn’t seem to have a care in the world. It could be that they did not yet know why we were all out there. Or they were waiting for the traffic to clear so they could join it. Someone ahead of us must have asked them if they knew a shortcut to get back to Skyway ahead of the traffic. The men pointed out the directions and talked to the people in the car. The car turned off at the next intersection. Judy and I knew, though, that there would be no shortcuts out of Paradise now. We stuck to the designated evacuation route. Well, I knew anyway. Judy wasn’t talking at this point.


It was nerve-wracking barely inching along in traffic when I knew the fire was advancing on us and it would not care if the traffic wasn’t moving. We were lucky. We managed to stay ahead of the main fire. I kept watching the rear view mirrors, both for fire and for people passing in the uphill lane. There were just enough first responders still coming uphill that made me worry- what if that guy forces his way back into this lane and causes an accident in front of us. Or, what if the fire “spots” to a place ahead of us and cuts off our escape route?


By the time we got back to the Skyway, I could see that the fire had “spotted” into the Butte Creek Canyon side of Paradise. We knew people who lived there, just as we knew many people in Paradise. The guys directing traffic at the intersection were noticeably frantic. I could see on their faces that they were completely aware of the location of the fire and that we needed to get moving. Very glad to oblige if you can get these guys in front of us to cooperate.


Just as we were getting to the intersection, they must have received the OK to open all four lanes for downhill use. Judy requested to stay on the usual downhill side. That was fine with me. I know that if she had to face one more out of the ordinary thing on this trip, she could go over to a full-blown panic attack. As it was, I wondered how she was managing.

We had a brief period of faster traffic before the Chico congestion backed up on us, but I was pretty sure by then that the fire was not going to catch up with us. Judy later told me we had stopped 12 times on the Skyway due to heavy traffic. Thinking back, I know I was more concerned about the stops back in Paradise. I think she must have blocked the memory of that part of the trip.

I could tell by looking at the smoke in the rear view mirror that the fire was bad behind us, but I never saw the flames then. . . Overall, we did OK on the trip down. We never should have been up there, but I am happy that we got out without any long-term impacts.

The next day, when we woke at seven, it was still dark. The sun should have risen around 6:45. Judy didn’t want to go out, but I knew we had to. I needed to get her out of the house or she might go into a depression it would be difficult to overcome. As we drove downtown to our usual spot for coffee at around 10 am, it still looked like midnight. I drove with my headlights on. All of the streetlights were still on. We didn’t see the sun at all that day and most of the next. It was the first of many days to follow when nothing would be normal.

As sick as Judy was by then, she still opened up our home to take in a couple we knew who had lost everything in the fire. They moved on again as soon as they could. They could tell Judy wasn’t well enough to have house guests for any reason, even though they needed the place to stay.

Judy and I returned to our daily trip to our favorite café. The fire was still burning, but firefighters were making progress, especially on the main fire break between Paradise and us. The conversations we heard or took part in were about the fire.

On one such day, Judy and I sat at a table near the front entrance. My view allowed me to be the first to see a group of five Cal Fire personnel walking towards the entrance. I stood up and opened the door for them. As they filed past me, I started clapping. People already at tables turned and saw them. Soon, everyone in the room had stood and started clapping and cheering. I was close to tears. There are still issues I have to work through.

The ranking firefighter came towards us after getting his coffee and told me and Judy that it was their honor to serve our community and thanked us for being there.  “There is nothing that special about us,” he told us. “We are human, and it gets to us too. Last night, when I was taking a shower, I broke down.”

“We were up there the morning it started, I said. “And even though we didn’t lose property, I have lots of issues about just being caught in the evacuation. I was close to breaking down ever since I saw you come in.” 

Healing is a long-term thing for first responders and victims of trauma. 

Around that time, it had become apparent that Judy’s doctor would not be seeing patients here in town for a long time. I had suggested she should switch to a doctor in Chico. She said no. And her Paradise doctor eventually relocated to Chico. But things like this don’t happen overnight. There was quite a delay in her treatment. And maybe this delay had no overall impact on her. But it couldn’t have helped matters.

I still haven’t been back to Paradise. I have no real need to be up there at this point.

It is a funny thing about being in that evacuation. I had seen many television news videos of people trying to outrun a wildfire. And I usually yelled at the TV, “What the hell were you even doing up there!?!” Now, I knew. It was just bad luck. You don’t have to seek opportunities to be in the way of things that can kill you. Life is enough to provide them; it doesn’t need your help. 

Good writing can make you cry- now

Wednesday, August 26, 2020

It can make me cry, anyway.

Of the relatively small list of people I have as good friends, five that I know of, write. One of those has published five novels. Another one is close to publishing her first book. Another could and should write a book about her life, but she doesn’t think anyone other than friends would buy it. No doubt, she is wrong about that. Another friend wrote a blog for a while, a very good blog, too. Then there are a couple who just write in journals. It all counts. Any of those writing outlets qualify. All of these people I know who write, however they do it, and for how many or few people are aware of them, are writers.

I always had an interest in writing, but I was afraid to even try. Like my one friend who thinks no one would be interested in reading about her life outside her group of friends, I feared that even if I was successful in writing anything, what would be the point if no one read it? I have recently decided that writing is the most important part of this process. So what if no one reads it?

In 2013, I met an amazing friend, the one mentioned above, who is making the finishing touches of her first book. When she told me she was a writer, I assumed she must have already written something I could find and buy to read for myself. No, it was not ready yet. Her work was, for the most part, still in handwritten journals. She had made a few entries on a blog at that time, so we traded blog addresses.

For those of you who wonder what made me think I could be a writer, instead of just another blogger, it is her fault that you are reading this now. Ah, it is still on a blog, that is true. But, as I said, it doesn’t matter how, what, or why you write. It is all about the process. That is what counts.

This friend told me, after reading a few of my blog posts, that I was not only a writer but a good one. I still have my doubts about how good a writer I am. But I know I am a better writer now than I was when we met. What changed was that before I met her, I had doubts about my abilities. When a good writer believes in your writing, it can do wonders for your confidence.

I started this by saying that good writing can make you cry. And if you guessed that it was something this friend had written that caused this reaction in me, you would be correct. I had known she was good. I could tell after reading the first short blog entries.

I should have been ready for the blog entry that made me cry. It sneaked up on me. I guess I thought I had gotten used to her style to the point that this reaction wasn’t possible. Why was this post so good? She simply described a series of short scenes that make up a typical day for her now. I found myself seeing every detail in what she had written. She had succeeded in pulling me three thousand miles cross-country to view the scenes as she had experienced them. Of course, it could help that I haven’t seen her since 2014. Maybe just a little.

Early on in our friendship, I described myself as a writer in a new blog post I shared with her. When she read that post, this was the most important part for her. She liked that post, but she was happiest that I had referred to myself as a writer.

Before she moved across the country, I had shared an idea for a story with her. We talked about the idea a few times. She helped me focus on the early stages of the plot, telling me that my first plot ideas seemed a bit too unbelievable and that it was important to build my readers’ trust and to show where the story was taking them. We talked about the overall motivations of the main characters.

By the time she knew she would be moving out of state, I had developed a full story that I shared with her. She was surprised that I had thought it through to the end as quickly as I had. She liked the ending. She told me I should write it. Easy for her to say. When we said goodbye, she told me to keep writing. All I had to do was figure out the start and how to get to the end. That process would take me another six years, always focused on getting to the last scene.

Quite a bit happened in those six years that proved to be a major distraction to my writing. But the things that distracted me were also possible fodder for the story I eventually knew I would have to write about. And if I could work my life trauma into the plot, I would only have to write about the trauma one time. Why not use them for the book?

And now, six years later, the book is more or less finished. I say more or less because I know somewhere along the line, I will make a few changes I have already been thinking about. I have given the book to three “first readers”, friends who had said they would be interested in reading it when I had finished. That was two months ago at this point. I guess they have lives that are in the way.

And I am fine with that.

It isn’t like I am thinking about publishing it at this point. The writer I know who has published five books asked me, “What are you working on now?” I told her, “Nothing”. And, I am fine with pausing at this point. Will I write more? It depends on ideas. What about this one that is all but finished? Will I publish it? I am not sure of that. The important thing for me is that I had the idea. I started it, and even though some extreme life trauma interrupted my progress, I stuck to it, even if progress for a time was made simply by thinking about what might happen next. Is it anything anyone else would be interested in reading? Hmm. If I take into account how long it has taken for my three volunteer readers to read it, it is probably only of interest to me and maybe my friend, the writer, the one who made me cry.

The writer who made me cry so unexpectedly. By making me see and feel what she had seen and felt, by my reading a blog post from three thousand miles away.

Update- As of January 2026, I am now working on my tenth novel, and no, I still haven’t published anything, for now.