Flying Sand and Swirling Dust

These are the opening paragraphs of a story I’d like to write based upon the years I taught in a small, border town in the Chihuahuan Desert.  Perhaps I could create a series of short stories or a novella based upon my life in the desert. 

 

FLYING SAND AND SWIRLING DUST by Sara Etgen-Baker

I glanced in the side view mirror of the U-Haul truck.  One mile forward, one more, and then another.  With each mile forward everything familiar was slipping further and further away.  Lush, tree-covered  green hills slowly gave way to parched, bland land covered in sage brush and low-lying mesquite trees.  By late afternoon there was absolutely nothing in front of me except miles of Chihuahan Desert.  Flat was the land—yellow, ochre, and brown. 

By dusk, a gnawing wind blew tumbleweeds across the interstate.  Just this side of the border, the sun was setting through the yellow, howling wind. “Time for dinner,” my husband said.  So, we exited the interstate and stopped to eat in an old trailer converted to a diner.  Once inside, I heard the sand patter like rain against the trailer’s metal walls and brush across the windowpanes. A fine silt accumulated beneath the door and on the window ledge. I breathed in and choked; the desert tasted brown and bitter on my tongue. 

I looked out the window; the only thing between the diner and the interstate was a battered barrel cactus, a couple of yucca plants, a few cinder block houses, and a ramshackle motel aptly named The Desert View Motel.  Eighteen-wheelers roared past the diner leaving clouds of dust in the dry desert air.  The hot wind carried the dust across the parking lot of the diner and deeper into town where all the dirt roads seemed to lead nowhere in particular.  I’d given anything for a glimpse of a single blade of grass.

“You’re not from around here, are you, honey?”The waitress asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

“I can always recognize newcomers to the desert.  The emptiness and harshness are shocking at first.”   The waitress handed me a menu.  “But you’ll get used to life here in the desert.  It’s free of confusion.  It is brutally honest and harsh.  But it’s also kind and fragile.  Give it a chance.”

I stared out the window.  Dust and sand were everywhere.  I wondered how I’d ever flourish here. 

This is a story I wrote about my aunt, Ann Etgen-Atkinson.  I remember so clearly the day I saw her ugly ballerina feet.  I was young and had no idea that dancing en pointe in those beautiful shoes actually damages a ballerina's feet. 

TURNING POINTE by Sara Etgen-Baker

“Point your feet!  Rotate!  Don’t stick your butts out!  Stay out of your heels.”  I looked up from where I was sitting.    There was no music—only the thump-thud sound of the dancers en pointe and the ballet master shouting.  “Dance to the tips of your fingers and toes!  Plié!  Spot!” 

Ann obeyed; sweat ran down her face.  “Tours chaînés déboulés,” he barked.  She struggled as her sleek muscles quivered with exhaustion.  I’d never seen my aunt rehearsing.  So, the contrast between seeing her stage performance—where she glided effortlessly on the tips of her pointe shoes—and seeing her studio rehearsal baffled me. 

 “Rond de Jambe en l’air and Frappé.”  The master paused; the dancers gathered at the barre.  “Fifth position, preparation sur le cou de pied.  Single frappe en croix each position getting two counts.”  He strolled around the dance studio. 

 “Close Fifth position front.”  Ann panted for breath.  “Single rond de jambe en l’air en dehors twice at 45°.”  Her corded tendons stood out like insulated cable.  “…Now close to sous-sus front.”

But when the curtain rose later that winter evening, there stood my aunt—her feathery light body rose en pointe spinning like the wind across Swan Lake.  Her tutu fluttered like the wings of a bird at dawn.  Each pirouette and leap mesmerized me as her body told the story of Odette, the Swan Queen, and her love for Prince Siegfried.

Backstage afterwards, I cringed when Ann removed her pointe shoes revealing calluses, misshapen toes, black nails and reddish-purple flesh.  The contrast between her beautiful pointe shoes and her battered, ugly feet startled me.  Ann noticed my reaction and handed me her pointe shoes.  “Take these.  Remember life, like dance, is a beautiful art form.  It’s hard work.  It’s painful.  It’s ugly.  You sweat.  You fail.  You succeed.  You try again.  You push.  You fight.  But always remain graceful.”

My aunt’s gift that winter were not her pointe shoes; rather it was her words that served as a turning pointe when I learned that life, like ballet, is a battle between beauty and pain. 



 

Here's a story based upon the Christmas when my Grandmother Stainbrook made me my Sunbonnet Sue Quilt.  Although she died when I was quite young, I have some truly special memories about her.  Enjoy the story! 

 

SUNBONNET SUE

She lowered her reading glasses down to the tip of her nose peering at me with those warm, brown eyes.  “Why’s my little Miss Sunshine so down tonight?”

Indeed I was moody that Christmas clinging to my grandmother’s side and dogging her every step. 

“My new dolly is lonely and cold,” I muttered. 

“Maybe she needs a blanket and some hot cocoa.”

“Uh, huh,” I nodded.

 “Fetch your doll teacups; I’ll make cocoa for you and your doll.” 

I complied returning to her kitchen where she gingerly filled each teacup with steaming, rich hot cocoa.  She then turned to my mother and me proclaiming, “Let’s make a doll quilt; we’ll have our own quilting bee—the three of us—like in the old farm days.”

With that, we scurried to my grandmother’s sewing room where she retrieved the Sunbonnet Sue pattern and a box of scrap material; she carefully pinned different parts of the pattern to material.  Then, she wrapped her hands over mine guiding them through the thick fabric.  “This is how you cut out the fabric using the pattern.  Now, here’s the scissors; you’re on your own…get started little lady!”

 After carefully cutting out six bonnets, skirts, arms, and feet, my grandmother propped me up on a stool as I watched her and my mother sew the pieces together.  Her sewing machine hummed and evidently slowly sang me to sleep.  

So, the next morning I awoke with my doll lying next to me wrapped in a cherished memory—a Sunbonnet Sue quilt of pinks, yellows, reds, and calicos.  A few months later, my dear grandmother died unexpectedly of a massive coronary.  Although her death saddened me, both my doll and I remained covered by her quilt of joy and love that warmed us like no other.  Even now—50+ years later—I still feel my grandmother’s eyes watching me and her spirit guiding me.  Sometimes when the house is silent, I even hear her voice—golden threads of wisdom and encouragement—and am reminded that our lives are like quilts—bits and pieces, joys and sorrows—stitched together with love. 

The Day the Music Died

This is a short manuscript I wrote for the Story Circle Network's June, 2013, issue.  The theme of the contest was "hidden treasures." 

THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED

             “Eddie, this is the sheriff.”  The officer pounded on the front door.  “You’re sister’s here to check on you.”  A few more sharp raps on the door.  “You alright?” 

            We waited.  Silence.  No response.  The sheriff’s urgent voice shouted, “We’re coming in!”  Then his booted foot struck the door jamb leaving it in splinters as the door crashed to the floor.     

The sheriff pulled his arm and sleeve over his mouth and nose. “Stay outside, ma’am.”    I complied; he entered the house.   Even before the sheriff confirmed my suspicions, I knew Eddie was dead. 

After his body was removed, I remained behind—riffling through Eddie’s belongings hoping to make sense of his final days.  I found piles of unpaid hospital bills, unopened Christmas cards, and unused bottles of heart and depression medication.  Hidden deep within some papers on his night stand I discovered a note penned in his handwriting that read I sometimes wonder if the world would be a better place without me.  Why do I continue this existence? This façade? This pain?”

Numb, I wandered into Eddie’s music room.  His drums stood motionless patiently expecting his return while his now silent piano quietly waited for his fingers to glide across its keys.  Scattered throughout the room were countless original scores of sheet music desperately hoping to be heard.  I crumbled to the floor clasping his handwritten note and sheet music close to my heart. 

Oh, Eddie! Why did you hide your talent inside this room?  Did you fear rejection? vulnerability? success?  My shoulders tightened.  I gasped.   But aren’t I just like you?  Haven’t I hidden my talent and ignored the whispers of creativity I heard as a 12-year old that told me to be a writer?  Haven’t I fallen victim to the same trap?

Now, I wish I could tell you that you were wrong.  The world isn’t a better place without you!  Even though your music died with you, your death helped me realize that the world needed your hidden songs, my hidden words, and our hidden voices.”

This piece I wrote for submission in Story Circle Network's Journal themed contest on "storms."  Even though the story documents an early childhood incident, this piece is more of a personal narrative than a memoir. 

WEATHERING THE STORMS by Sara Etgen-Baker

            I stood on the front porch watching the storm brewing on the horizon.  “Can you feel that?” mother asked pacing back and forth.  “The hair’s standing up on the back of my neck.  A tornado’s coming.” 

Thunder screamed across the sky as the embattled clouds slapped into one another.    The sky darkened as threatening hues of grey, green, and black filled the sky; the wind began blowing, quickly turning from a soft breeze to churning gusts.  Suddenly a crack of lightening cut through the anvil-shaped green cloud that hovered over Garland.  Hail began to spit.  Day turned to night as a terrifying funnel dropped from the green cloud and began snaking its way back and forth through town.  Then I heard the screaming howl of a freight train. 

Time collapsed while I watched—mesmerized and frightened by the tornado’s destructive, chaotic power as it tossed things up in the air and flattened everything in its path.  I was just five when I witnessed the tornado that destroyed downtown Garland.  Although I survived the storm, I was never the same.   Those powerful images, buried deep within my subconscious, have stayed with me and occasionally surface in the surrealistic world of my night-time dreams.  

The dream is always the same.  I’m watching as a storm brews and churns on the horizon; the funnel drops from the clouds.  I hear the loud roar of a train in the distance.  Although frightened, I watch debris fly through the air all around me.  Entranced, I never attempt to hide from the chaos and destruction.  I wake up breathless feeling changed but safe, calm, and relieved that I survived the storm.

 

I often wondered what this reoccurring storm dream could teach me.  I discovered that my storm dream occurs when I’m in the midst of some type of change or personal upheaval.  The tornado represents the fear and uncertainty I must weather when faced with the chaotic but seemingly destructive power of impending change in my life.  Although I always survive the storm, I’m forever changed feeling safe, secure, calm, and comfortable with the new me. 

The Write Place at the Write Time

Here's a copy of a personal narrative that appeared at Tiny Lights on May 5, 2013.  My response was to the prompt "Where Do You Like to Write?"

The Write Place at the Write Time by Sara Etgen-Baker 

My writing area—located in a tiny nook in the loft at the top of the stairs of my two-story condo—is quiet, bright and sunny, and the light filters over my desk—a small, antique lady's writing desk that my mother-in-law graciously handed down to me.

The desk is a warm, dark-chocolate brown with fold-down writing surface that—when opened—unveils a fitted interior with a secret drawer and four cubbyholes. Inside the secret drawer I keep some of my most important writing supplies—stamps, 3x5 index cards, flash drive, and sticky notes. The cubbyholes house my crystal tape dispenser, crystal letter-opener, my reading glasses, a few mailing envelopes, my thesaurus, and a dictionary.

Once opened, the fold-down writing surface is the perfect size for my laptop; beneath this surface are three drawers with antique pull knobs that are disc-shaped with a flower petal design. Although these drawers aren't large or deep, they are sufficient enough to house my journals, folders with my notes on my current writing projects, a notebook of this year's submissions, and a notebook of published manuscripts.

Even though the top of the desk is too small to have a printer sitting on it, it is big enough for a few of my favorite knickknacks—my crystal pen holder, miniature crystal lamp, one of my mother's hand-crocheted doilies, my father's antique reading glasses, and a small-framed picture of my husband and me.

Writing at this small desk helps me, for it forces me to keep my writing life uncomplicated and uncluttered. Sitting at this unpretentious desk inspires me, for it reminds me of the beautiful simplicity of the writing life where all I need is a quiet area with sufficient lighting, a desk of some sort, a chair, a writing tool, and an idea.

So where do I like to write? At my desk at home—which is always the write place at the write time.

Sara Baker is a retired educator who now enjoys her writing life. In addition to writing essays, memoirs, and personal narratives, she has begun writing her first novel. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her soul mate, Bill, with whom she has been married for 29 years.

(Here's the link: http://www.tiny-lights.com/searchlights.php?id=1387#1385)

Echoes of His Mind

What follows is a manuscript I wrote about my father once he suffered from a life-altering stroke.  Although he lived the last two years of his life in a nursing home, he was always cheerful when I'd visit him.  His true character and brave personality during that period of his life inspire me even today. 
 

ECHOES OF HIS MIND

The windows of the day room were flung open; the air—light and fresh—gently blew the curtains to and fro, but the air within the enclosed corridors—heavy and stagnant—wafted down the hall with the sound of choking coughs, the blended noise of televisions broadcasting different channels, and the distinctive smell of urine.

            When I entered the day room, I felt a surge of shock.  Many residents slept in their chairs; a wheelchair swallowed the tangled skeleton of a woman—her head flopped over her chest and her leg bones twisted uncomfortably.  Joyless inertia permeated the room hinting at Timber Rock Manor’s unspoken function—caring for elderly people who are dying. 

            Behind me a raspy voice said, “He wanted ta go fishin’ after dinner,” said Anwar—the aide who cares for my father and his roommate, Henry.  “I tries ta oblige Edwin whenevers I can; I wheels him down to da creek ta sit fer a bit whilst I’m tendin’ ta Henry.  Mosey on down there; he’d loves ta see ya!  Careful so’s not to spook him, though.”

            I glanced out the windows and saw my father sitting outside in his wheelchair near the edge of Timber Rock Creek.  His left arm over which he has no control was propped up by pillows.  His olive skin—once tan from fishing during long summer days—was now ghost white.  A white paper bib hung from his neck in a rather undignified manner. 

            I approached the creek bank not wanting to disturb either the fish or the angler who was casting his line into the shallow creek waters.  As I drew near, a small twig snapped like a guitar string underneath my feet; small birds scattered above me—disrupting the tranquility. 

Pop shifted his head in my direction.  “Hi, sa..sa..saweetie pie!  Ca..ca..caught 59 fish t’day.”

 

His eyes danced; a familiar mischievous smile raced across his face as he demonstrated how he’d cast his line into Lake Tawakoni.  He knew its choicest spots, for—when the lake was but a river—he’d hunted the area as a young boy and gathered Indian arrowheads. 

“What did ya use to catch those fish, Pop?”

“Crickets ‘n blood bait…..da fa..fa..faish nibble sla...sla..slowly..ca..ca..caught…59 fish t’day!  We havin’ fish fry!”

I choked back the tears remembering that summer day in 1961 when Pop actually caught 59 fish and brought them home for a fish fry.  Since Pop’s stroke, though, both time and space lost their relevance—happily happily frozen in the recesses of his mind. 

“Fantastic!  I’ve been wantin’ some fried fish and hushpuppies.  You iced ‘em down, right?”

“Yep!  Wha..wha...where’s Anwar?  He..he..he said he’d clean ‘n filet fish.”

“He’s waitin’ for ya up at the Manor.  It’ll be dark soon—let’s head back inside.”

“Okay, sa..sa..saweetie pie.  Love you!”

So I pushed Pop’s wheelchair across the winding trails toward Timber Rock Manor.  When we arrived in Pop’s room, Anwar was tending to Henry—who was clearly at the brink of death. 

Anwar spooned water into Henry’s mouth and asked, "Dat frog still in your throat? Youz needs to drink.  Please now, Henry," he begged.  When Henry accepted some liquid, Anwar approvingly said, “Wunnerful!”  Anwar massaged Henry’s shoulders, arms, and hands then gently cleaned his mouth with a small medical sponge.  Henry’s eyes didn’t open, but he uttered a sound that could be either a sigh or moan. 

 “Edwin,” he said, “Your daughter brought cha a choc-lit malt.  I knows youz loves dat malt!  Why don’ts I eases ya up into be sos youz can drink it?

            Pop nodded affirmatively, but a frustrating frown crossed his face.  Although Pop’s stroke took away his independence, it hadn’t eliminated the emotional anguish Pop faced each day adjusting to his inability to do even the simplest things—walking, bathing, eating, lifting himself into bed, and going to the bathroom.  Pop glanced at me; I instinctively knew he’d rather me not see him vulnerable and physically incapable.

            Yet, I desperately wanted Pop to know that—despite his current condition—he was still my inspiration and hero.  I wanted to find the word that would express how much I admired his courage even at this stage of his life, for he’s never once complained since the day his stroke forever altered his life.  I stood next to his bed struggle with what to say and do at this particular moment.

            Then I remembered that Pop, too, sometimes struggled with what to say and do whever I was troubled or sad.  Often he walked to the local convenience store; bought two small, nickel-size bags of plain M&Ms; then we quietly sat together on the back porch sharing our M&Ms.  Eventually, he’d touch my hand; give me a hug; and say, “I love you.  You’re gonna be alright.”  I treasured those moments of comfort and understanding.

            Then I remembered that I’d seen packages of M&Ms in the vending machine in the lobby.  So, I slipped out the door; headed to the lobby; and bought two packages of M&Ms.  By the time I returned to Pop’s room, Anwar was gone, but he’d left Pop sitting up in bed.  So, I scooched a chair next to him; tore open a package; and placed some M&Ms into his right hand.  He glanced down at his hand, then back at me pouring all the candy from his hand into his mouth and chuckling.  I opened my bag pouring some M&Ms into my hand then directly into my mouth.  We continued eating our M&Ms silently sharing a moment of deep understanding.  Eventually, I touched Pop’s hand; gave him a hug; and said, “I love and admire you, Pop.  Thanks for loving me!”

            “I love you, too, sa..sa..saweetie pie!”

            Tears quickly filled both our eyes.  Before awkwardness ruined the moment, I squeezed Pop’s hand; hugged him around the neck; then walked down the corridor toward the dim evening light—grateful for the echoes of his mind where Pop could live in the midst of his memories without pain.