Lisa Geichman Prosek

Every morning after Romey, my fourteen-year-old toy poodle, has been pottied, fed, watered, medicated, and loved on, he and I go into the office and take our normal places on the loveseat. I set to work while Romey pretends to doze off.

He gives me ten minutes to get fully involved in reading or writing. Then he begins his campaign.

It starts with a quiet humph, which I often don’t perceive. After that, comes a bigger humph. Soon, Romey starts punctuating the humphs with little whispered barks. He slithers closer to me so he can humph while rolling around on his back and kicking me with his hind legs.

Because Romey went deaf last year I can’t use my voice to calm him down. So, I rub his pink belly. If I stop rubbing for three seconds, Romey starts his fit again. He cries in a whisper, then he cries out loud.

Next, Romey sits up so I can’t miss seeing him, lowers his head away from me, and gives me a side stare, with the whites of his eyes exposing all his disdain.

If this occurs before 10:45, he wants me to take him to get a drink of water. I don’t mind it. Romey broke his front legs as a puppy and often has to be carried. He certainly can’t jump off and onto furniture.

If the fit occurs after 10:45, Romey wants his lunch and won’t stop badgering me until he gets it.

Trying in vain for some peace once we hit the kitchen, I feed Romey first. Premium deli turkey, which he grudgingly shares with the five cats, keeping a strict accounting of who gets the most bites.

Or course, Mr. Generous whimpers as I eat my own lunch.

After a backyard potty run, we go back up to the office. In the heat of the afternoon, Romey drifts off to sleep for a few hours, and I can really get to work.

Just a few months ago, our days weren’t quite so peaceful.

After Romey’s brother, Ebie, died in December, my tiny boss lost interest in running my day…and in everything else.

He also suffered from insomnia. When he finally could fall to sleep, he ran and playfully yipped while dreaming. Soon, he jumped up awake and sat for almost a minute looking around for Ebie.

And then Romey sobbed.

Helpless to truly ease him, I cuddled my poor baby, knowing that soon the gut-wrenching process would repeat.

These days, when the little rat rolls around and kicks me, intruding on my work processes when I have deadlines and sometimes making me a nervous wreck, I think how I’d much rather cater to a boss who’s never satisfied than watch a heartbroken poodle mourn.

Money’s tight these days, but I needed some summer footwear. So, when I heard about $2.50 shoes for sale at a widely known specialty-clothing store, I had to pick up a pair.

Now, every morning I slide my feet into the plain rubbery black flip-flops. The distinct sound they make as I walk around the house takes me back…

An early June day when I’m a skinny, seven-year-old, soon-to-be second grader.

As soon as I wake, I put my dark brown hair in a messy ponytail and throw on mismatched shirt and shorts. On my way to the breakfast table, my feet grab the green flip-flops Dad bought at the dime store over the weekend. I pretend to eat Froot Loops for a few minutes and then flip-flop out the front to see if Terri’s awake next door. She’s a year younger than I am.

We swing in silence in her backyard, still waking up. After a while, front-toothless, lisping Terri says, “My dad’s taking us to a baseball game tonight. We’re gonna eat hot dogs.”

She knows I’m envious. All my dad ever does in the evenings is work out in the yard.

“That’s okay. I’ll ride bikes with Kathy.” I know this makes Terri jealous, but probably not jealous enough not to love all those hot dogs.

At noon I flip-flop back to my house for the quick lunch the babysitter’s made and zoom back outside for the best part of the day.

The entire afternoon focuses on waiting for The Ice Cream Man. Terri and I sit cross-legged on the hard cool cement of her front porch playing a game of Trouble so we can make sure we’ll be first in line. No noise except pressing the Pop O Matic to roll the die and moving our men.

“You’re cheatin’! Terri yells when she’s lost track of the game.

To keep peace, we tie a long pink plastic jump rope to the garage-door handle and twirl for each other while the sun bakes us.

Then we hear it… No lyrics, but I know the song:

Do your ears hang low?
Do they wobble to and fro?
Can you tie them in a knot?
Can you tie them in a bow?

I drop the jump rope and run as fast as I can. Flop-flop! Flip-flop! As I travel, I dig my hand into my shorts pocket to find the money. I trip on the driveway asphalt but catch myself just in the nick of time to avoid getting a skinned face.

”Grape Popsicle and two Pixy Stix,” I say breathlessly, smacking my sweaty coins down on the truck’s window counter.

It’s a double Popsicle, and I don’t even have to share it with my brother. By the time I eat to the sticks, purple juice runs down my arms and plops in puddles on my feet, staining my new green flip-flops. I flick my ankles hoping to get rid of the sticky drops.

As soon as the Popsicle’s gone, I open one of the Pixy Stix and pour a bunch of the tangy-sweet powder into my mouth. I cough when it chokes me, and out comes an aromatic cloud.

All of the other neighborhood kids gobble their daily mid-afternoon treats, too. We’re totally lost in the moment. Nothing else matters.

It hit me as I walked through the master bedroom of our cozy little suburban ranch house on a clear autumn Saturday afternoon a few years ago.

My husband, John, stood out in the backyard laughing. I peaked through the curtains to see hundreds of bubbles floating in the air. Our two little white toy-poodle boys chased the bubbles and tried to gobble them up as fast as John could blow them out of the tiny wand. John laughed each time a bubble met its fate.

Generally speaking, my programming doesn’t allow me to take the optimistic view. I can find a worry in an ice cream cone. But in a rush on that autumn Saturday, with John and the poodles outside playing, I felt an unusual sense of true peace and contentedness.

My thoughts quickly ran to the rest of my family. My parents at their home. Artistic Mom happily creating her beloved porcelain dolls and Dad outside mowing his lawn with the precision with which others might conduct a scientific experiment. Both of them healthy and hopeful. My daughter off somewhere with her friends, having rebuilt her life after a painful divorce, a great new future ahead of her.

Just an average day, but I recognized it at the time as one of the best days of my life.

I think about this now because a few days ago a friend asked if we have any “once-in-a-lifetime” plans for Memorial Day.

The plans call for us to go to my daughter’s family’s home to have a cookout while our 10-month-old grandson crawls about exploring. We’ll munch on hamburgers, green salad with bottled ranch dressing, watermelon, chocolate brownies made from a mix. We’ll use cheap white paper plates and generic red plastic cups. We’ll wear old clothes. My long hair will be haphazardly tied up out of the way. I might not even wear makeup.

The answer to the question my friend posed: yes.

It’ll be an average day, but it’ll be a day that we’ll never have again. A once-in-a-lifetime chance to treasure family and make lasting memories.

Maybe we’ll even blow bubbles.

Now that my book’s written, I need to move on to the next project.

But what should that be?

When I first started writing, I thought I’d have trouble coming up with ideas to pursue. Instead, it turns out that I suffer from TMI Syndrome–too many ideas.

Probably like many of you, I see the world as a series of stories longing to be told. They pop out at me, craning for my attention. I try them out. I make a lot of notes, beginnings that often end in frustrating nothingness. Still, I keep going back to them, trying to work them through.

One of my essays took two years to write. It came to me in a flash, combining my interest in Jane Eyre, my discouragement in a constrictive workplace, and my relationship with my mother. I started writing with zeal. But somehow, when the words got onto the page, either I lost my way or the story fizzled out. The creative problems nagged me. When I went to my computer to work on something else, I saw the unfinished essay there. “Enclosure.” The piece served as a neon sign flaunting my inability to finish it. I’d work on the essay another time, and then again have to put it away, discouraged.

But during the two years this project haunted me, I found other essays and brought them to productive conclusion, sometimes in the first sitting.

Then one day, without any real intention of working on it seriously, I opened the “Enclosure” file…and finished the essay. The concept had matured as my writing skills grew, and I was ready to pick the story and put it in my basket.

Right now, I find four main projects vying for my attention.

I’ve placed these ideas on my windowsill and frequently glance in their direction so I can be ready when each reaches its peak. The ideas tempt me. Sometimes I think I’ll work on the one that seems to be the biggest, the easiest, the most marketable, the one that might get me broad recognition. Still, it’s premature and not likely to be the one with the potential for the greater payoff–creative fortitude and growth.

However, while these projects on my sill seem like the best ideas for my pursuit, maybe while I wait for these to mature, other notions–perhaps even more fruitful ones–will come forward. These unknown stories might end up being even juicier, sweeter, more satisfying.

What do you do to find your next project? Do you suffer from TMI, and how do you handle it?

It starts first thing in the morning, even before the sun wakes.

I wish I could adequately convey how it sounds. As I write, I imagine that it’s a mix between a trumpet’s blare and a baby’s coo. It’s my cat, Bud, making his special cry for milk. He cries so hard and so long and so loud and so often that in between the cries I still hear them.

There’s certainly no way to sleep through this. So, I get up, open the bedroom door, and there’s tortoiseshell Bud’s bright little face with the brilliant green eyes. He zooms into the bedroom, happy tail up, intent on continuing his campaign.

And why not? He’s already achieved one goal.

I brush my teeth. Walk between the bedroom and the office getting my work ready for the day. Every time I head toward the stairs, Bud shoots down–hop, hop, hop–sure that it’s time for his morning indulgence.

When he thinks I might have forgotten about him, Bud comes back upstairs and cries some more.

It never occurs to him that he won’t get his milk. He just keeps working me.

Finally, feeling a cross between annoyance and admiration, I take a few moments and trudge downstairs to the kitchen.

While I pour my coffee, Bud’s crying continues, and he trips around, rubbing my legs. Every gentle touch a reminder: Milk! Milk! Milk! When he sees me getting the carton out of the fridge, he almost dances through the kitchen on his tiptoes.

Because I could never carry a saucer of milk with Bud constantly bumping into my legs, I pour a little bit of Bud’s goal into his special glass, and we venture upstairs to hide from Bud’s milk-allergic feline brother.

Once we get up there, I put the glass on the floor, and Bud dips his right front foot in and then licks off the milk. It takes him about ten minutes to suck up all the treat. He’s usually quiet, but he’s so into the process that sometimes he mews with delight. His work is consistent. Diligent. Patient.

From beginning to end–crying to reward–Bud’s in the moment. He understands the importance of strategy, the significance of small accomplishments. His faith never wavers. He never fears making a mess with unimportant little dribbles of milk. He keeps his focus on the goal. He basks in the glory of the pursuit as well as in the victory.

I’m grateful for these daily lessons from my wise and happy cat.

My mother and I disagreed about everything. Religion. Politics. Women’s roles. Parenting. Fashion. Even cornbread.

We spoke on the phone barely once a month and saw each other even more infrequently. Holidays, that was about it. Somehow, we stiffened our spines and got through them.

Still, on July 3, 2008, when Dad told me Mom had been stricken with a ruptured brain aneurysm, I knew I’d be right there by her side through her illness.

I had just started working towards a master’s degree in creative writing, and I expected to write warm-and-fuzzy stories about my dogs and cats. But when Mom presented me with the story of a lifetime, my creative track took a drastic and painful turn.

It necessitated coming to terms with my feelings about Mom…and her feelings about me. As I wrote, I tried to remember and present the whole story, good and bad, painting word pictures I could hold on to.

Mental snapshots drove my work. Mom lying on the gurney in the emergency department, her eyes darting like a frightened little animal’s. My family trying to hide their terrified expressions behind painted-on smiles. Mom four days later—having defied doctors’ expectations—desperately mouthing “I love you” around the breathing tube as I stood by her bedside. Mom struggling to breathe as her body failed. Dad clenching his jaw. Doctors scratching their heads and stroking their chins trying to find a way to keep Mom alive. My own helpless hands. The crematory.

When I shared an excerpt of my developing book with one supposedly learned person, he told me that this work wasn’t worth it. That it was “nothing new.”

That stung. And I, too, started thinking it wasn’t worth it.

Then, I remembered. Late one evening three months before Mom died, she’d called and said, “Whatever happens, Lis, keep writing. Do you promise me you will?” She wouldn’t hang up until I vowed that I would.

So, Mom, I did. I took my stinging ego and went back underground to continue. Through sorrow, family illness, self-doubt. I kept going.

Though I still have a few more I’s to dot and T’s to cross—there’s always something that can be improved—it’s done for now. I dedicate it to you.

Happy Mother’s Day. I love you. Thanks for everything.

His name was Steve. He was a high school student, handsome, muscular, and tan. Dreamboat. The brother of a friend, and I’d had a crush on him for a long time. All the other ten-year-old girls were looking at him, giggling, and flirting.

All I could see were my feet holding tight to the side of the pool. I was bent at the waist, hands over my head, in a diving pose.

“Come on. It’s okay… Come on. You can do it. I’m right here…”

Poor Steve. He was trying to be patient and supportive, but my feet wouldn’t let go of the cement. I stood like that at the city pool’s deep end for what seemed like an hour on that bright July morning.

“Come on…”

“I’m trying…”

We went through this for at least ten minutes. Long enough for Steve’s irritation to glint through his smile.

I just couldn’t make myself jump. I tried and tried. I could hear whispers from my swimming-class associates. I heard the little kids on the other side of the pool jumping into the pool one after the other. “Great job!” their instructor crowed.

I closed my eyes and imagined my dive. I could hear the clean splash. Feel the glory as the water washed over my body. The water going into my ears. The little burn of the chlorinated water in my nostrils. I could see Steve’s smiling face as he helped me back to the side of the pool. I could feel the pride emanating from deep inside myself.

But it never happened.

What was I afraid of? Drowning? No. Hitting my head on the bottom? No. That Steve wouldn’t be out there to help me back to the side of the pool if I forgot how to swim? No. None of those things even entered my mind.

I was afraid of failure.

I was afraid that I wouldn’t execute my dive properly. That I’d look silly. That the other girls would laugh. That gorgeous Steve would be disappointed.

It never occurred to me at the moment that I was disappointing myself. That the sticky glue holding my feet to the side of the pool was betraying me. That the best thing that could happen to me would have been to dive into the water ungracefully. At least I’d have tried.

It’s kind of like writing. I’ve often been afraid of having people read my literary writing. Afraid that I might make a fool of myself. Afraid that people might snicker or otherwise belittle me.

But I’ve decided to jump in. To swan dive, belly flop, inadvertently cannonball. Whatever gets me into the water. It’s time. I owe it to myself.

What I didn’t know back when I was ten years old and my toes grasped the side of the pool is that making an ugly dive–even a belly flop–and going to the bottom of the pool is okay. It’s touching the bottom of the pool that often helps us reach the top again.