Liquid happy

Because I’m 10,000 words behind. Because my dining room is torn apart from water damage. Because my husband and father-in-law are tiling this weekend. Because horrifying messes always get worse before they get better. Because I’m looking forward to the day when my father-in-law can come over to my house and not either (a) tear my house apart or (b) evaluate how he’s going to tear my house apart.

Because not twenty minutes after my father-in-law called this evening to say he was coming over to tile this weekend, our friends Mike and Sherye called to say they’re coming to visit this weekend. Because our guest room? Torn apart! Because as it turns out, November is an inconvenient month to write a novel.

Because of all the photos I looked through on my search for calm, these are the only ones that spoke to me. Because the holiday season is approaching with the grace and mildness of an avalanche. And they make these mood-enhancing substances for a reason.

Dear Dad, Chief Petty Officer, US Navy, retired

I found a photo in a box, tucked away with a hundred other photos of family and old friends, places I’ve gone to which I may never return, things that must have seemed important at the time but now have lost all meaning. But this one,

it tugged at my heart. Not because I remember this moment at all; I don’t know how old I was, exactly, but clearly I was more interested in the action going on around me on that rainy day, than in that first long embrace from a sailor returning home to his young family after months — his daughter’s lifetime — at sea. Did I know who you were?

My dad is a retired United States Navy Chief Petty Officer.

I say that out loud and I feel my heart glow with a warm, golden light; it feels like a badge of honor on my soul. I’m so proud.

I’ve listened to your stories with awe and delight, and in doing so I’ve realized that it’s an incredibly brave act to enlist in the military: to voluntarily put aside the life you’ve always known, to leave your parents, to arrive by train in Great Lakes late at night with shipmates you barely know, not knowing where to go or what to do, to try to function on too little sleep, too little time to eat, too little time to think, just trying to make it through, trying to do the right thing. Trying to do the right thing.

Does that make it any easier — the discipline they teach you? Focus. Fortitude. Fraternity. Is that what makes it possible to stand courageously at the ship’s rails, watching your family and your homeland fade into the horizon? Is it the salty wind on your face, the uniform of your country on your back, the colors flying proudly above your head — are these the things that give you faith that the world will be better for your sacrifice? Non sibi sed patriae.

You’ve instilled those core Navy values in me, whether you know it or not. But never through words. Your life has taught me — shown me — no matter who is sitting in the Oval Office and whatever battles we are waging at home and abroad, that patriotism — the unconditional love of country — manifests in the selfless commitment to actively making this world an easier place to live: trying to do the right thing. And to do it requires honor to recognize what needs to be done, the courage to do it, and the commitment to see it through. Though the world is thick with storm, you keep your eyes to the sun. And that is the standard by which I try to live.

But what is the right thing to do? What’s the difference between trying to make the world better as we, individually, believe it should be, and making the world better as it, at the moment, needs to be? Your career of selfless service to others has offered me that lesson, too: Doing the right thing has little to do with what I think is right. It is, rather, what’s right for those who need my help. Not for self, but for country. Not for myself, but for those who need me.

The reach of your commitment, your service, and your patriotism extends much, much farther than you know.

So I’ll let another shopper with fewer items (or more kids to corral) get in front of me in the checkout line; I’ll be friendly with an exhausted and grumpy cashier; I’ll keep trying to be patient and understanding, trusting and kind. Though it will never live up to the service you’ve given to your community — your country — I know, deep down, that it stems from the same place. I know because it was you who planted it there. And though my acts may be infinitesimal, you should know that when I do them, I do them in honor of you.

“I hope my achievements in life are these: That I will have fought for what was right and fair, that I will have risked for that which mattered, that I will have given help to those who were in need… that I will have left the Earth a better place for what I’ve done and who I’ve been.” – C. Hoppe

With love,
The proud daughter of a retired United States Navy Chief Petty Officer

Nine-thousand words, a chihuahua, and a lot of nonsense

You may or may not know that I’m currently in the wild throes of National Novel Writing Month, which is to say that I’m throwing an entire month of my life away in an attempt to write 50,000 words of a novel in 30 days, which is to say that it’s all complete nonsense. After one full week, I’m hovering a bit under 9,000 words — a bit behind the recommended daily average, but this year seems much more promising than last, as I only ever made it to just under 13,000 words. And I still have no idea what I’m doing.

So I thought I’d share a piece of it with you, because there’s an excellent chance that this is the first and last time these crazy words will ever reach the public, and if you choose to read it, it should only be so that you can forget that you ever read it. Nevertheless, please don’t steal this crap because, well, I care about your reputation.

The full synopsis (and other inane excerpt) is on my NaNoWriMo profile (under “Novel Info”). Forgive me. And cheer me on, baby!

* * * * * * * * * *

Winchester Wilcox the Third just didn’t understand Thaxton and Nurlene’s terrible habit of waking up at the crack of one hour past dawn. If he had a word for it, his word for it would have been “obscene,” because Winchester Wilcox the Third preferred to sleep at least until the crack of two and a half hours past dawn. Yet, because he was forced to endure the nuisance of living with two people who liked to get out of bed so obscenely early, it was of no doubt to Winchester Wilcox the Third that it had been written in the stars and he was destined to suffer premature ear droop. His fur was already losing its golden luster – he just knew it. Yet it was a fate, he decided one afternoon as he was sitting in the window watching a butterfly flutter from flower to flower, that he would bear with nobility and grace.

That’s not to say that Winchester Wilcox the Third didn’t try to sleep in. His downfall, ultimately, was that he preferred to sleep with his slate blue velvet pillow next to the grassy green drapes. It reminded him of the outdoors – somehow, as he had only ever been out to see the front yard – and every night when he curled up to sleep, he imagined that he was a pioneer chihuahua, exploring vast unknown territories, sleeping in caves and fighting off unimaginable dangers, making friends and enemies with equal mastery.

But because he slept on his blue velvet cushion next to the grassy green drapes, he was doomed to endure the pouring in of light on his chestnut face every morning at the crack of one hour and five minutes past dawn, when Thaxton would pull open the drapes and stare out the window, contemplating the day ahead of him as though it was standing there in the street waiting to be let in. Winchester Wilcox the Third would stir, begrudgingly, and turn around with his back to the window and try to bury his face under his paws.

Then, every day, at the crack of one hour and ten minutes past dawn, he would feel the cool, gentle breeze created by the swooshing of Nurlene’s silken robe, and hear the light shuffle of her satin leather-soled slippers. She would be carrying a cup of fresh, hot coffee for Thaxton, who would say, “Ah! Thank you, my dear, now the day can begin,” and finish with a peck of his dry lips on her porcelain cheek. At which she would reply by combing his hair down across his forehead with her fingers, then smooth out the top of it with her palm with a smile. And before she swooshed back into the bedroom to get dressed, she’d stoop down to the blue velvet pillow bathed in light and vigorously scratch Winchester Wilcox the Third between his ears.

“Hewwowittleswoochypoochywakeymommawuvsoowittowpoochypoo!”

Which would naturally cause anyone to involuntarily lurch out of even the deepest, most peaceful repose and exert a long and vehement shudder.

This day was no different. And Winchester Wilcox the Third, having shaken himself thoroughly from head to tail, stood stock still with his ears perched, his black eyes darting from corner to corner, evaluating the situation. He saw the billowing tail end of Nurlene’s robe slither through the doorway, and then click! the door promptly closed behind her. Winchester Wilcox the Third took two steps forward, then turned around to ensure that Thaxton, too, was where he was meant to be, doing what he was meant to do.

“Morning there, Winchester ol’ chap!” his clear voice boomed from above. Thaxton’s words reverberated through the cold tile floor, and up through Winchester Wilcox the Third’s tiny feet and legs. The chihuahua shivered. Then, seeing Thaxton’s face beaming down at him, Winchester Wilcox the Third turned himself around and trotted a few steps toward the man, stopped a few inches from Thaxton’s navy felt slipper, and wagged his tail as an added friendly gesture.

Thaxton smiled, and nudged the chihuahua under the jaw with his slippered foot. The force of it knocked Winchester Wilcox the Third backwards and sideways a few chihuahua paces, but he wouldn’t complain – Chihuahua strength and chihuahua pride! his father would have said if his father had words. And Winchester Wilcox the Third lived by the implied words of Winchester Wilcox the Second, which (Winchester imagined) were the implied words of Winchester Wilcox the Original; they reverberated in his soul like Thaxton’s voice through his legs. These were the things that moved Winchester Wilcox the Third: his raison d’etre.

Then, as every morning, Winchester Wilcox the Third lightly sniffed the floor immediately in front of him. Finding nothing, he looked back up at Thaxton, who was already staring back out the window with his mind fixed elsewhere. He looked sideways across the room – nearly completely bathed in sunlight now – to the glossy white bedroom door, which was still closed. He twitched his ears in the door’s direction and heard Nurlene’s cheerful humming as she brushed her auburn hair and painted makeup on her face. Winchester Wilcox the Third felt a familiar gurgling, hollow feeling in his belly, and so he turned again – away from the window – and strolled toward the kitchen where breakfast was waiting in a silver dish, leaving Thaxton alone with his rapidly cooling cup of coffee.