Writers' Society of Jefferson County

 I kicked a llama because I think I need some serious help.  Here’s how it happened.

 I began my week like any other, only it ended up different.  I slept in.  I didn’t read the paper or watch the news.  I made instant coffee.   All the days come the same way.   I’m a ‘homemaker’ so I made a shopping list.  Let’s see, there was dishwasher soap, dog biscuits, Hershey bars and toilet paper.  Drugstore fare.  An easy trip to take.   How could it end up so wrong?

 Oh, I didn’t tell you.  My kids are grown, and have all moved away.  They say it’s a great time of life, when the kids all leave the nest. My kids left behind a few things.  A graduation tassel slung over a lampshade, a handmade beaded pillow with beads hanging loose on a thread, a favorite wall clock, stained t-shirts.  There are still some unmatched socks hanging around.   I haven’t thrown this stuff out.  It’s like these threads and tassels are root tendrils, left behind after the house has been weeded of children.  Each one whispers a promise of the return of its owner.

 I should tell you, my boys went into the military.  My youngest son is a Marine and will be in the Anbar Province of Iraq by January.  My eldest is in military police and my daughter, a missionary, married a Palestinian.  These kids had a protected upbringing, believe it or not.  Why did they have to choose such dangerous careers?  Did they want to rock my world?

 Before I leave the house, each bedroom is inspected.  The shades are open if it’s sunny, closed when dark.  The well-made beds are smoothed over, the stuffed animals and pillows endlessly rearranged.  If the closet doors have not been opened, I open them, peer inside, and then close them again, always with a touch of nostalgia, or a fleeting memory escaping, which I’d hoped not to face that day, yet I couldn’t resist the ritual.   I find a mateless sock and I sheath my hand in it, running it along the ridges and backs of aging furniture collecting dust.

 Before getting into the car, I telephone my husband.  Who knows, I may get into a car wreck and not make it back home.  He needs to know where I had been going if that should happen.  It is a ritual.  I check my face in the mirror.  Are the bags under my eyes too visible?  Do my lips need plumping? Coloring?  Glossing over?  I grab the keys and I am dashing, importantly, for the door.  Somewhere to go.  Needs to be met.  A list to be filled from the drug store.  Do I have everything?

 I decide to try the new pharmacy in a nearby rural area.  A nice drive in the country.  Isn’t that always a good thing?  I’m whirring along playing 80’s rock in the car, like I used to when I was young.  Only today I’m abashed at the lyrics.  Especially since I had just lent the CD to the youth next door.  His mother is living with a man who’s not her husband and Hendrix says, “I caught my mother with another man, so I shot him down.”  Note to self.  Call youth next door and fix your parenting reputation, which is now in jeopardy.  Have I lost my mind?  I’m worried…

  Just then, on the grassy edge at the intersection, a pre-school class is coagulating at the gate of a large pasture.   A farm has let itself out as a ‘petting zoo’, and the kids came with their class to pet farm animals.  Chubby arms and hands reach out to pet the creatures. I turn the wheel and pull into the parking lot of the establishment.  I turn off the ignition.  The sight of laughing children mesmerizes me.  I wait.  A tear would seem to want to form, but I don’t let it.  Better not open the floodgate.

   One shy child is crying, frightened by the llama looming large over his head.    Not a horse, but a foreign import touted as the solution to farm and ranching woes.  It is oblivious to the child’s crying.  Am I ready for change that is coming, breathlessly, heatedly, like a desert storm?  I quickly leave the car and run over.  The little boy backs away, looking frightened as I approach the group.  I stagger toward the child with uncertain steps and my foot slips.  Losing my footing, I grab hold of the llama that stumbles toward me, eyes wide and adrenaline pumping scaring us both into a fray we didn’t ask for.  The kicking begins and I can’t say who wins, but there’s a maniac mother on the loose this Monday.  I make the news right under the article on Bagdad bombings and Shiite killings.

While sipping a Coke in a local fast food restaurant, I couldn’t help but notice a pudgy, persnickety middle-aged man as he stepped out of the men’s room, his hair damp. He had obviously attempted to pull it to the left side with a comb to make a part.   His hands were red and appeared to be damp from a fastidious scrubbing.

After he picked up his order on a tray, he proceeded to a table in the corner.  There, he pulled a white handkerchief from his hip pocket, dusted and rubbed the table until it seemed to satisfy him.  Next, he pulled napkins from the napkin holder and precisely laid them on the table making a twelve by twenty-four placemat.  On that he sat his drink, fries and burger.  I refrained from laughing as he ate one fry, a small bite of burger and took a sip of his drink, methodical  and in that order.  Each time he took a bite he smiled and looked at the uneaten remains as if looking forward to the next bite.    With the burger half-eaten, a different  look crossed his face.  Staring at the meat and bun in his hand, his face registered doubt, surprise and then disgust.

Rising from his chair, he stormed to the serving counter and asked for the manager. 

Thrusting the burger under the eyes of the manager, he questioned, “Does that look like a hairball in my burger?”

The manager, young, self-righteous and obviously arrogant stared at the burger and said, “Nope, not to me it don’t.”

The burger man said, “Well, I’ll tell you what.  You eat that bite and I’ll eat the rest!”

He got a fresh hamburger and a free meal.  

In 2001, deciding to pursue my writing, I took a two-year online writing and marketing course. Four years later, I was at the computer six to seven hours daily only I wasn't writ­ing or marketing. I was doing critiques and edits for other writers. I had substituted working on the writing of others for my own and had become stale. The reason, a lack of con­tacts. I hadn't learned to market myself or my work.

The day I opened the Leader newspaper and read an an­nouncement about the Writers' Society of Jefferson County, I was renewed. I became involved with a wonderful group of talented, enthusiastic and supportive writers. From there 1 began to spread my own wings, became a member of the St. Louis Writers Guild, Saturday Writers, MSPS poetry chap­ter, "On The Edge," and established the WSJC Third Satur­day Writing Workshop. I became acquainted with regional authors and publishers. I utilized my online experience to create writing websites and yahoo-writing groups sharing information, markets, contests and writing resources for other writers in the area. In so doing, I marketed myself.

Through writing contacts, I attended retreats, conferences, university weekend courses and online classes. Presenting  writing workshops and programs demanded that I re­search the latest concepts in the writing field, thereby, I learned and grew in my own writing. Utilizing every ave­nue created a whole new world for me. Every new net­working opportunity I explore leads closer to the selling of the novel I now work on daily.  I have learned that to market, the keywork is "network".

                       I hover, sway back and forth grip bedside rails of icy cold metal. As a hundred times before I lie and vow everything will be ok.

 A collage of photos on the wall and at his feet displayed, a glistening stallion and trophy, a posing white French poodle, two young children (one boy, one girl), a stately photo of a loving mate and a thirty year old self-portrait as if waiting to return in time.

Bound by a hundred lines and tubes of life he curses his plight convincing yet knowing it is futile. A smart man recognizes the inevitable. A scared man scorns.

The hazy eyes cannot focus.  The fight is waning.The old horseman wants one more race but stumbles, mumbles and crumbles into sedated sleep.

I caress his listless arm and stroke his unshaven, gray, stubble face. The horseman opens his eyes as if looking into a great distance.

His focus fades with his final grasp for life and he whispers, "Put another nickel in… in the nickelodeon, all I really want to hear is music, music, music."

End

Intoducing Sharon Tricamo, our media spokesperson.

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  Sharon Tricamo lives in Imperial, Missouri, has written over two hundred songs, several published short works, poetry and is writing her second book. Sharon prefers to be known as a free writer and is heavily influenced by writers such as Bob Dylan. Sharon calls it her Dylanology.

 Her story, Circumstances Prevail, is an example of the influence of Dylan.  Heavily influenced by her surroundings is how her poem, In Fall Has Fallen and her poem, Horseman, came from a true story.
Sharon told us, "Challenging my mind to go where no other writer has traveled is the goal in my latest quest to write my book titled, Before Dawn and After Sunset and invited us to, "Come travel with me."