2009 Blog Goal

In a few hours I will be off down the street to this week's Writers Workshop - which got me thinking that I really had better set my writing goal for this year. Last year I started the blog as a way to bludgeon myself into hitting the computer at least once a week - the theory being that a rock-solid deadline would lock me into a healthy habit of practicing what I preach to my workshop. And I did pretty well, posting faithfully every week (more or less). That's one heck of a lot of words! The initial format was to post a poem, a few comments, and a plant care tip. But after a while the blog developed its own notions and morphed into a grab bag of all sorts of projects - including an entire Summer spent reading and commenting on Jane Austen! I learned quite a bit - especially that I have no desire to read Austen ever ever again.

This year I'll focus on short fiction - my intention is to post a piece of flash fiction each week (around 500 words). To start things off I'll cheat by offering a story I published last year in our workshop collection since the topic relates to last week's post. The story was inspired by an actual telephone conversation between my mom and her brother, Bud, who recently passed away after years struggling with Alzhiemers.

TOAST

Peggy was just waking up in her daughter’s guest bed, anticipating a wonderful two week visit in sunny California when she heard a soft knock on the bedroom door.
“Mom, are you awake?” said her daughter. “Uncle Bud is on the phone for you. He sounds upset”
Oh no, thought Peggy. Ever since Bud’s wife of fifty years had died a few months before, Peggy had worried about her younger brother. How would he manage all on his own for the first time?
She reached for the phone, nearly knocking it off the bedside table.
“Bud, what’s wrong?” she said. “Has something happened?”
“Um, Peggy, I think I have a problem.” His voice was tight and small.
Peggy went cold with fear.
“Peg, are you there?”
“Yes, go ahead. Tell me what’s happened,” she said, imagining floods, blood, tornadoes. All sorts of disasters descending upon her poor “little” brother in Oregon.
“Well, I was thinking I’d like a piece of toast this morning.”
Peggy looked at the phone as if it had suddenly grown tentacles.
“I’m sorry, Bud, there is something wrong with the phone. I thought I heard you say something about toast.”
“I was wondering if you could tell me how to do it.”
“How to do what, Bud? What are you talking about?”
“About making toast,” said her brother.
“It’s five o’clock in the morning, Bud!”
“That’s why I thought toast sounded good. So, what do I do?”
Peggy was suddenly quite angry that Bud’s wife, Sigrid, had been such a passionate homemaker she hadn’t let her husband enter her kitchen except to place the weekly grocery bags on the counter.
“Bud, do you have the toaster plugged in?”
Peggy felt it was always a good idea to start with the obvious.
“Uh yes, it’s plugged in.”
“Did you put the bread in it?”
The silence was overlong.
“Mmm. Yes. Got it. But nothing is happening.”
“Put your hand over the slots. Is it getting warm?”
“Uh no.”
“Did you push down the lever on the side?” asked his patient sister.
“Just a minute. Okay. Yep, there’s heat coming out now.”
“Wonderful! Well, enjoy your breakfast, Buddy!”
“Wait, Peg! How do I know it’s done?”
Oh my lord, thought Peggy.
“Bud, it pops up when it’s done!”
The line was eerily quiet.
“Bud, is that all you needed?”
"Um. Peg?,” said her brother.
“Yes, Buddy?”
“You don’t by any chance know where Sigrid might have kept the raspberry jam, do you?”
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