  Once we figured out we could walk to the end of the road, go into the woods, cross the tracks, and follow the path that meets the road that leads to the ice cream stand, we were licked. It's the only way to go. Because walking to the end of the road, going into the woods, crossing the tracks, and walking the path that meets the road that leads to the ice cream stand turns it into an adventure. Sprinkled with anticipation and blended with fresh air, the ice cream becomes more than a single scoop in a sugar cone. It's no longer just a treat, but just reward for the effort, for the twists and turns of the trail, for the two kids who are no longer kids, chasing summer.  It's high tide and there are eight dogs on the beach at 6:45 a.m. It's easy to do the count — the beach is a lazy half moon that extends half a mile from one end to the other. Today a lone fishing boat heads out as the tide creeps in, a cruise ship arrives in port, and the sun rises behind the clouds.
As we set out, Agatha follows her nose. Head down, tail up, she stops sniffing only occasionally ... when a scent peters out or loses its appeal, an overzealous pup crashes into her, a passing dog pokes his nose at the base of her tail, or the crash of an errant wave catches her by surprise. She's more interested in sniffing, studying, and working the ground: seaweed, driftwood, rocks, and the forgotten towel rolled and woven into the wet sand. By the time we reach the cradle of the half moon, more dogs spill on to the beach. Often we greet one another by way of the dog, "Hi Chippy, how are ya today?" Other times, it's the dog that greets us, "Whoa, Baxter, good to see you, too!" They wag, we talk. We all move on. And then there are those who greet the dog and only the dog. Agatha caught his attention from a distance. With eyes fixed and head cocked, he lures her in with open arms spread wide before dropping to one knee. Equally charmed, Agatha dips her head, swings her ample ears, and wriggles her way toward him. She sits side-saddle on his foot, scooches closer and leans in raising her nose to greet him. He coos and whispers, and coos again. And she scooches closer still between kisses. But all too soon the love affair comes to an end. Zelda, his bright-eyed husky takes note of the fuss, trots over and pushes her jealous way between between. Agatha snorts at the rebuttal and saunters off. It's time to get back to business.  What is a zine? A zine is small, self-published book, often ranging in size from 4.25” x 5.5” (like the one below), to 5.5” x 8.5”. There is also the mini zine, one created using just one sheet paper. Zine is an abbreviated version of the word magazine. July is Zine Month What can you put in a zine? Your stories, poetry, lists, and thoughts on something you're passionate about. Zines are designed to be shared ... to educate, entertain, and enlighten. Below is a zine about why I think hobbies are important. What will your zine be about?            Click on the image below to download and print the zine and the instructions below:   Change the story of your day with our weekly calendar!
What is it about puppets that allows us to see beyond the puppet handlers to become engrossed in the movement and action of the animals and characters they represent? Whether it's Kermit the Frog or the life-size animals in the public art project, The Herds, we somehow see them as real. If only for a moment. The Herds, built with wooden frames, are covered in simple cardboard. They not only captured my imagination, but inspired a new project: a series of cardboard sculptures from characters in Aesop's fables. I'm enjoying the project, but there was something I still wanted to try ... a puppet with movement. When an online class was offered for a fish ... one that moves as though it's swimming, it was too hard to resist. But I hesitated, somewhat bewildered, like the hare chasing the tortoise.  Is it practical to start a new project when you haven't crossed the finish line with the one underway? Maybe, maybe not. But I didn't want to miss the opportunity, so I jumped at the chance. Needless to say, there's a lot more to a figure that moves than one that is stationary. There are inner workings that require elastic cords, wood beads, and wood dowels. Measurements, mechanisms ... and even a bit of whittling.  Nearly done, I'd say yes, it has been a bit of a distraction, but also a worthwhile detour. I've learned a lot, have a better understanding what it takes to create movement with a puppet, and once my finger heals from the slip of the knife while whittling, I'll see how well my fish can swim.
p.s. Thursday is Call of the Horizon Day ... a day to look forward, to dream big. My fish is small compared to puppets in The Herds, but like the alewives swimming upstream, it's been worth the journey.  On the block We'd already rounded the corner and passed the house when he came running out, arm held high, holding a bag of just- picked strawberries and handed them over like we were in the last leg of a relay race. Sweet!  Sign-up today for the Waystation Whistle Story Starters, where we pause to celebrate small wins and wonder every Sunday.  Today marks the Summer Solstice, the beginning of summer ... a time to eat watermelon from the rind until the juice dribbles from your lips down to your chin; to sit in the cool shade of a tree; to look for the shape of dolphins, whales, and birds in cotton-ball clouds high in the sky; to make like a tourist in your own town; to eat more fresh fruit and corn on the cob; chase down the ice cream truck; to grab a book ... a new release or a classic ... and read about Fern and Wilbur in Charlotte's Web, spend time with Scout and Atticus in To Kill a Mockingbird, Gus and Newt in Lonesome Dove, Lily and Rosaleen in The Secret Life of Bees; or Raising Hare in the English countryside; visit the farmer's market, and dip your toes in new and familiar waters ... whether you travel or stay close to home.  Sign up today and get your Story Starters Calendar and more, every Sunday. It's free!
 Swimming upstream
It's early June and we hike into the woods in search of alewives, river herring, swimming upstream to spawn. In the same body of water where they hatched, that they followed out to sea, and now return to. We follow a path that follows the brook, and like the fish we hope to see, twist, turn, and tumble over rocks, roots, and tree trunks toward our destination. But it's a lottery. A brief window of time when our schedule aligns with that of the fish, with nature. So we study the water, looking beyond the rippled reflections and shadowed surface of the clear water in the shallow brook. One false sighting after another leads us along, still eager, when we see one, then two fish swimming upstream. Side by side, two by two, eight by eight, and then, too many to count. We watch them swim and swirl in a sandy bottomed pool of water and know. That day, we were all winners.  How fanciful it is to
imagine one might not only inhale, but bottle and save the cool air that sweeps in after record-breaking heat. To somehow capture the fleeting fragrance of late spring lilacs. Or pause and hold tight to the pastel shades of the early morning sky. But it's all too fleeting to be bottled or saved. Instead we must allow ourselves to be bewitched and beguiled in the moment by the shiver of cool air on warm skin, flared nostrils engulfed in the perfumed air, and the blaze of pink on the horizon of a new day.   Spring cleaning is underway and the criteria is clear. Sort what you've got into one of three categories: keep, recycle, or trash. There's plenty that's suitable for recycling, things long overdue for the rubbish bin, and more than enough to keep. But there's one item that's tugged at my heart all week. The old, tattered Raggedy Ann that sits on a shelf in the back of the closet. She's faded, her clothes have yellowed, and there are stains on her cotton face, mitten hands, and apron. Her right boot, slight in stuffing, is hand-stitched in place with mismatched fabric. So as I do with each item I come across, I look her over and consider what to do, and know, I'm far from that little girl she came to live with. When I push aside the yellowed collar of her floral dress to find the simple red outline of her heart, it nearly beats when I read the words, "I Love You" printed inside it's border, and the answer is clear. She's a keeper.  Get the story starters calendar and more, every Sunday. It's free!
 A simple exchange. That's what letter writing is all about, a conversation on paper. Another way to say hello. And the blackout poetry above? Another way to create a poem. Because April is Nat'l Letter Writing Month and Nat'l Poetry Month, let's combine them. Print out the blackout poetry exercise below, grab a pencil and a marker, and see what emerges ... then drop it in an envelope and mail it to someone. You can use the text provided in the download, or find your own by grabbing a newspaper or repurposing pages from an old book. But before you do, here are a few more examples:      Windswept
They stood on the hillside high above the bay where the wind pressed against their backs and their kites, still in hand, fluttered against the twists and turns of forward sailing tails. As their arms lifted higher and higher, then lowered, then lifted again in false starts, the windswept anticipation of flight was heightened, and for a moment ... the wind took hold and I hitched a ride.  Whether we're tracking time,
watching the time, or finding time, if we look and listen, we're never far from knowing ... What time is it? Pass the church on the avenue at the top of the hour and the peal of bells will tell you whether it's one o'clock, two, three ... or twelve o'clock. And not just the church. Bells ring out from the clock tower high above city hall, too. The sundial in the cemetery casts a timely shadow on every minute and every hour of every day ... when the sun shines. And monumental neon letters digitize the hour high above the square downtown. Each clock face and every ring of the bell is a reminder that no matter how often we fall back or spring forward, we keep time. But maybe making time is what matter most. So yes, I stop when I hear the bells and do the count, and listen ... as if I have all the time in the world.  IT DOESN'T MATTER what you call them or whether you're a fan of hotcakes, flapjacks, pancakes, ployes, or waffles, they just wouldn't be the same without a drizzle of maple syrup.
A couple of years ago I wrote a short bit about tapping the maples trees and since then, I've struggled to find a way to share it in illustrated form. Ideas ranged from a pop-up, to a book cut in the shape of a sap bucket ... even a 3-D cardboard paper sugar shack. My mind was crammed with ideas. Too many ideas and no solutions. Held back by perfectionism? Doubting which idea would be the best? I wasn't even sure. Last week's sapsicle pushed me to complete something, anything, while sap season is underway. It may not be what I envisioned, and I may or may not be done with the project, but having what looks like a poster completed, I'm satisfied. Tomorrow is Int'l Ideas Month, and the question is ... what are you waiting for? In struggling with my maple sugar project and looking at the progress I made this week, I've been reminded: don't just start, but finish. Even if it's not perfect. Even if it's not exactly what you had in mind. It was the not finishing that became frustrating. The poster allows me to let go of the idea for a while. To move on to something else. It may not be perfect, but for now, it's done, and that's as sweet as maple sugar.  The 3 x 5 recipe card
is yellowed, dog-eared, and smudged. The original recipe, handwritten in ballpoint blue, has been tweaked and modified more than once. Cross outs and notations scribbled in black; changes that made a good recipe better. I consider rewriting it, putting it on a crisp, clean card, but don't. Because it would erase the story. The story visible in the handwriting of the young woman I was with a new job in the city. The story of a co-worker named Carol, who I knew only in the office, and only for a short time. Of an early morning discussion around the water cooler. The story of her generosity in sharing her recipe for quiche when I said ... I've never had quiche. Of learning how to cook, to trust myself to make adjustments, to add a little more of this, and a little less of that. In that recipe, and so much more.  Thursday is Nat'l Puzzle Day. About once a year, usually during the winter, I sit down across the span of a few days and peck away at a 500-piece jigsaw puzzle.
A mid-winter meditation. The last two puzzles, brand new out of the box, were each missing one piece. Come on. Of course I couldn't have known there was a missing piece unless it had been a corner or border piece because that's where I always begin. So it wasn't a distraction or a disappointment, until there were no more pieces to place. But there was a hole, a missing piece. I looked on the floor, under my chair, and checked the empty box. Nope, nowhere to be found. It was disappointing not to place that final piece. To have the satisfaction of pressing it into place. And it left me wondering ... What now? Do I label the box, "one piece missing?" Seems a rather defeated way for the next puzzler to begin. Or do I leave it as it and let them discover there's a missing piece as I did (setting them up for a similar disappointment), or toss the whole thing into the recycling bin? I'm puzzled. ------------- p.s. The stylized haiku above was an interesting writing exercise. It's challenging to figure out how and what to say in the haiku format, to make it work: 3 lines: 1st line = 5 syllables 2nd line = 7 syllables 3rd line - 5 syllables ---------- It was better not (5 syllables) to know there was a missing (7 syllables) piece. Puzzled it out. (5 syllables) ---------- Traditional haiku often invokes nature, but it can be applied to other subjects as well ... an interesting way to tell a short story. If you write one, I'd love to read it.  It was revealed in the drape
of the fabric after the final hook was threaded through the last buttonhole hanger in the shower curtain. A hole. A small hole on the lower right, about the size of a dime. A threadbare flaw in the popcorn weave of the cotton fabric. So I let it hang. A hole small enough to get lost in the hanging folds of the fabric and run through the wash again, and once more after that. Until. The small hole became a big hole, and the proof was in the pudding: a stitch in time saves nine. -------- Chances are you are familiar with and could complete the phrase in the artwork above. This is Idiom Week. Though my shower curtain reveals the true nature of the idiom, a stitch in time saves nine, it's a reminder of the wisdom buried in these familiar expressions. I spent the week working on a project I'd put aside after I realized it was time to ... start from square one ... because I'd been ... barking up the wrong tree ... with my approach. And since there's no sense ... crying over spilt milk ... it's time to get off the fence ... and mend that shower curtain.  Familiar yet foreign It would be easy to stay inside, to let the cold put us off. And why not when the weather app on the phone reads, "14°F, feels like -1°F." But yesterday's snow transformed the landscape and it's hard to resist. So we bundle up and set off like toddlers stuffed into snow pants, puffy jackets, boots, hats, mittens, and scarves, barely able to bend an arm or leg. And it's beautiful. The cold has preserved the snow and it clings to every rooftop, rail, and ridge, twig, branch, and tree trunk.  There's a hush over the landscape, and the loop trail we walk most days appears more foreign than familiar. So we follow the tracks of others, break trail to make our own, and pause to consider the comfort of the snow-cushioned bench at the edge of the field.  And while our fingertips tingle, our eyes water from the cold, and we sniffle and shiver against the frigid landscape, we wrap ourselves in its beauty, like the snow-covered Buddha.   Join Waystation Whistle and get story prompts and more, every Sunday, It's free!  You might see him balanced
on the post at the top of the porch, like a feline finial. Basking in the sun on the third step of the front stoop. Or perched on the still-warm hood of the just-parked car, mitten paws tucked tight under his furry chest. So it was not surprising when an unknown passerby knocked on the door, breathless. It's awful cold out here she said, your cat is waiting to go inside. Thank you we said, but he's not our cat. We're just one of the houses he visits. He lives across the way. Can go inside any time, we explained. Doesn't want to. His name is Tigger, we tell her. A Maine Coon cat. The coolest cat in the neighborhood. |
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Pausing to explore small wins and wonder in short stories 
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