Etta Marie goes on vacation

"If you vacation long enough, you don't get the urge to sell your things and relocate," Etta said.

"You might be right. But, have you thought about how you can tie up all your business here for three months?" said Jackie.

They morning light was ambient and golden, and a thick mist covered most of the rooftops. They sipped their coffee from their sixteenth floor perch. Etta Marie nodded and pointed to her trusty laptop. Jackie threw up an eyebrow and took another long sip.

"It's that easy?"

"Well, I have to pawn off my dog walking, but yes, technology is my friend," Etta muttered. "I'm set on going underground, but not off the grid."

"A contradiction of terms!" said Jackie, pounding the arm of her chair.

"Maybe."

"Well, I'm visiting you and you can't stop me. You can't deny me the beach. I am a born sun worshiper."

"You gotta serve somebody! Of course, you can come see me. I don't feel used at all."

"Stop it," Jackie hissed in play.

"Two weeks without friends, and I'll probably crawl out of my skin. You know me. I'll plan beach parties. No worries, Jackie."

"Glad to hear it."

Etta Marie glanced at her jar of stones. There were only 11 left. Time was running out, and it felt like hourglass sands falling into the growing pit in her stomach. She still missed her father. He always smelled of sea winds. His shaggy beard filled with saltiness would brush hard kisses on her cheeks after each afternoon of fishing. he would place a few shells into her hand and his face would wrinkle into laughter and good favor. All those years, and still the pang of grief felt like the throb of a toothache in her middle when she thought of him.

"Hello?"

"What?" said Etta stirring to life.

"You glazed over."

"I think I went on vacation already!"

City Mouse Country Mouse

In the country Etta Marie longed for the excitement and bustle of the the city. Each visit to the publishing house, or to see a play felt like an adventure, but also like she was missing out on something--something that was going on without her while she was gone. Her farmhouse, once the perfect retreat for writing and escaping the world felt cold and lonesome, and far too isolated, so when a rent controlled apartment opportunity opened up, she jumped at the chance to live in the teaming habitat of the Big City.

Now she realized she didn't like people very much. Hoards of People. Also, people in the city avoided each other, although they purposefully lived near each other, or on top of each other. She wished for time away from them, and their noises, and squabbles, and nonsense. Dogs barking; people fighting and yelling at each other, and about their problems; horns, alarms, and sirens going off--it was all so much, and so often. She wondered if she was really a country mouse who like to visit the city, and not a city mouse at all. There was plenty to do, but the time to do it was not there like she thought it would be. When it was, she wanted solitude, more than she wanted to fight crowds, and stand in lines.

It was a paradox, her life. Etta Marie gathered her manuscripts on her lap and continued working, and looked outside to see rain starting to fall against the window. She wasn't quite sure if she had a gypsy heart, or if she was just terribly malcontent, or maybe just had not found her place in the world. In college, she lived in a small town, adjacent to bumpkins; in childhood, she lived far off in the wilds; and she traveled after college around the world. Maybe she was bitten by a kind of bug of wanderlust. One thing was sure, the suburbs were not the answer. Etta Marie grew up in the suburbs, as a teenager, and she never wanted to try that again. Where was the safe place to fall? Of should she keep her bags packed?

Etta Marie grabbed the newspaper and flipped to the classifieds.

Etta Marie and take out

"Every Sunday night I wonder why rich people waste so much money on their pets," said Barry as his slurped down another rice noodle.

"This pays half my rent. Poodles for noodles, Barry. Be happy I'm buying," said Etta Marie.

"If you move in with me, no more park. No more walking in the rain. No more poodles with ribbons. It's because I'm Jewish, right?"

"What?"

"It's because I live by the train?"

"What do they say about housing? Oh yes: Location, location, location."

"Etta! You could ditch this dog job and move in, you know it. I've asked you, what, eight times?"

"It's because I can't stand you, Barry. I can't stand people who are in love with me. Don't you get it?"

He folded the carton around the chop sticks and grimaced. "It's annoying?"

"It's too much."

"It works fine in the movies."

"Yes, it does," she agreed.

Barry flopped his feet on the coffee table, and scratched his stubble. "You really have to be sensible, Etta."

"Get your feet off the table, Barry."

"It would never work, would it?" he groaned.

"Probably not."

"I'll see you next week then."

"Okay. Bring a movie next time," she smiled.

George steals the sport page

Etta Marie's neighbor George steals the sports page, now and then, out of Etta Marie's newspaper before she gets it. he reads it and then uses it from his cat litter box. She can't prove it, but it seems to be true. Why won't he buy his own paper?" she thinks. "Why doesn't he just ask for that section? I'd give it to him. I don't really read the sports page unless I'm very bored, she thinks. Maybe he isn't stealing it. Maybe it's just missing sometimes, but that doesn't make sense either.

Etta Marie sets her alarm for 5:30a.m. and waits for the newspaper. She makes coffee. She blots her eyes with cold compresses. Allergies have taken their toll. She is not a morning person. She hates George with a tiny piece of her heart, but she isn't sure it's warranted, not yet, or ever. God doesn't like this. It's true. She sips coffee, and presses her nose to the door, and her eye to the peep hole. Her breath mists the lens.

Soon the newspaper flops to her doormat, and a moment later, a dark figure rummages through it, delicately, but who? She fumbles with her locks. The thief scoots away, and into the shadows. Etta Marie puts a smooth orange yellow stone in her mouth from the mason jar on her table, and folds it in her tongue. Why is life so strange? She tastes a hint of sand and salt on the stone. She thinks of the beach, of the gulls, of and waves.

She gulps and swallows and starts her day, early.

Etta Marie Swallows Stones- entry 1

Every day Etta Marie swallows one smooth stone. Some people swallow vitamins. Sometimes Etta takes vitamins, with food at breakfast, but this is different. This is neurotic. This habit goes way back, fourteen years, to a 21st birthday. Etta gathered 365 stones to swallow--one for every day--and each and every day she pops one carefully choosen smooth stone, in and holds it in her mouth and thinks for a long time.

She feels it in there, cold and round and smooth, and she wonders about all kind of things about life. She feels its heaviness, and just when the absurdity hits her, she takes a big gulp, and swallows it whole, and goes about her day as usual. Except Etta Marie's days are never usual, because Etta Marie is quite intense.

Welcome to The Adventures of Etta Marie

A bit in the way of explanation . . .

A character came to mind today, Etta Marie, so I'm going to give her some life here, and maybe we'll have some fun together. It's my summer fun, my short story, novella, romp. Or maybe more. . . .


Please comment, advise Etta, join in, and enjoy it. Above all do that!

seeing a person right

. . . when you see a person rightly, you comprehend that they are human. To be human isn't to be material, only material -that is made of clay. It is to be God - breathed into - So, we each have our God-breathed-into-ness about us. We aren't God ourselves, little gods, no, but that spark of something extraordinary is certainly there, and we cannot for a moment pretend that every person doesn't have this outrageous dignity, this divine impairment that separates them from the rest of creation. From the child to the elderly, the poorest of the poor to the rich tycoon, we have equal part God-breath within.

Some would convince us that sin cancels much of this goodness away, and we may falter greatly, or give our selves to evil. This does tarnish things quite a bit. But I contend, if we really see people as God-breathed, we'll see them as God does, with his compassion. God redeems. After he breaths in life, in the creation story, and his two humans muck up the rules, he comes through with redemption right off. He sews them clothes. He covers their shame. He quells their awkward feelings as they hide in the bushes. We may focus on what went wrong, but this is a story of mercy and redemption.

We can only be sub human if we are see a separated from our dignity, the God part of us that was bestowed by gift. We were lifeless, and he animated us, and we became aware. Then we could freely choose to love or to hate him and what he made.

Will we see others right, and rightly?