Realistic Fantasy

My husband is an engineer. He likes the solid reality of computer languages and Internet access. 

I enjoy the idea that trolls live in the knothole of our live oak tree in the backyard.

When Robin knocked on the giant metal island with his fist in that one Batman movie and joked, “Holy rusted metal, Batman,” my husband snorted through his nose and declared, loudly, “Oh, that’s so unbelievable.”

Astounded, I looked at him and said, “Which part of this movie did you find believable? The bat suit with the rubber man nipples?”

Movie watchers sitting near us in the theater were happy to tell us to shut up.

Fantasy is not my husband’s thing.

I love Godzilla and Mothra and horse riding wizards.

Sherwood loves jock straps.

Sigh.

After watching the latest incarnation of the great Godzilla franchise, I waxed enthusiastic. 

“Godzilla as he was meant to be. Big. Tough. Ticked off. Loved it. Loved the train full of atomic bombs, conveniently lined up for radiation eating monsters—to eat! Loved it!”

I never told my husband to go see Godzilla. Never. Why would I? He is NOT a true fan. He is an engineer, forced to see the world as a giant Sudoku puzzle—poor linear man.

He went to see Godzilla . . . 

And found it wildly flawed.

Then he went to see X-Men with our son, the same kid that used to wear fish shaped oven mitts on his feet and stomp around my kitchen pretending to crush some guy named Tokyo. After the movie, my husband, the computer engineer, came home on a tear.

“So how was the movie?” I asked.

“Ugh! It was so ridiculous. All the creatures are so fantastic.”

“Sure. Sure. Fantasy tends to be kind of fantastic.”

“But why? Why can’t there be realistic fantasy?”

“It’s called the suspension of disbelief or pulling the stick out of one’s bottom for a bit and having fun with monsters. That’s all. You have to want to believe.”

“But I can’t.”

“I know, honey. I know. It’s okay. You don’t have to believe. Just sit here next to me. I’ll believe for both of us. See there,” I said, pointing. “In that big old oak tree over there, I think I see a troll peeking out of that knothole. Just squint your eyes up a bit.”

He never did squint.

Linda (Run, Tokyo, Run) Zern

GOOD ENOUGH FOR A TICKET

We drive our vehicles into the ground, quite literally, into the ground. Sometimes, before the end, it’s possible to see the ground through the floor of the car. It’s our culture. It’s our way. If we lived in a third world country you’d find it charming. 

We had a green Dodge caravan that, in the end, would only go in reverse, so we used it to take the garbage out to the curb. Our curb is a bit of a trip.

I can tell you that it takes some planning to get where you’re going when your vehicle only goes backwards. We also used that caravan as a battery charger for an electric horse fence.

When enough stuff falls off our vehicles, we pass the crap-cars down to our children. It’s our culture. It’s our way.

Maren, our youngest daughter, inherited my green Grand-Am. It had a bumper sticker that read, “Proud Parent of an American Soldier,” a driver’s side mirror hanging by wires, and no functioning window on the passenger side. But it still went forward and backward. That car was perfectly fine. 

The law enforcement officer that pulled Maren over for speeding agreed.

By the time the good officer got to the car, Maren was hysterical—booger crying, laughing, and possibly braying like a donkey.

He asked for her license and said, “Do you realize you were doing forty-six miles per hour in a thirty-five zone?”

Maren began to yowl.

Shocked, he asked, “Why are you crying?”

She blubbered on and said, “Because (sounds of wailing) my parents (more yowling) are going to kill me.” She handed him her license.

“Why is the car’s side mirror in your front seat?”

“Because my brother ran into a mailbox, ripped it off (wailing sniffles) and my dad tried to epoxy it back on but all he expoxied was his pants, and this car is a piece of junk . . .” She trailed off in a flurry of post nasal dropping.

The officer observed. “Well this piece of junk was good enough to do forty-six in a thirty-five. What’s that under your leg?”

“My cell phone,” she hiccupped.

“Why is it under your leg?”

Her dignity gone, her life a shipwreck on the shoals of emotional despair, she did not have the moxie to lie.

Sniffling, she said, “So I can feel it vibrate when someone calls.”

He started to laugh at her and then walked back to his partner where he related Maren’s sad tale of woe and travail. They started to laugh at her, and then—still laughing—the officer walked back to Maren and said, “Thanks for the laugh. Slow down next time.”

She sailed away, the wind from the broken passenger’s side window drying the tears on her cheek and chin.

We did not kill her. It’s not our culture. It’s not our way.

Linda (Speed Racer) Zern

HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY!

May you always have a buddy willing to take a roll in the dirt.

HERE'S TO LAUGHING--LOUD, LONG, AND OFTEN!

CLATTER

According to The American Heritage dictionary of the English Language, the word clatter means a loud disturbance, a commotion. Now that I’ve discovered it, I intend to use the word at every possible opportunity.

“Let’s keep that clatter down.”

“What’s all that clatter about?”

“Clatterers will be flogged.”

Flogged, another excellent word but I’m only up to the C’s in my self imposed dictionary writing challenge, so we’ll stick with the word—clatter. 

Conventional wisdom says that a successful life should be steady, educated, well traveled, and civilized. Clatter is frowned upon. In fact, when I was newly in college and newly engaged to be married (right out of high school) one of my professor’s expressed her complete sorrow and disappointment in me. 

“I hate to see you waste your mind like that, Linda,” she said. “You could be a CEO of a big company or . . .” 

I looked down at the miniscule diamond ring on my finger and wondered what the crud she was talking about.

I still wonder what the crud she was talking about.

Sunday, I walked into my beautiful home and stopped to listen to the clatter of my family. Out, under the maple tree, my children, their spouses, and my grandchildren waited for me to get home and begin the ritual of Sunday dinner. They were laughing: about crazy kids or nutty jobs or the mysteries of the opposite sex or . . . I don’t know. Does it matter? 

Their laughter flew across the yard, seeped under the door jam, crept through the cracks around the windows casements, and filled up my house—AND FILLED UP MY HOUSE. That, I thought, is what I wasted my life on—the clattering, lilting sound of laughter . . . 

. . . and crying and raging and demanding and griping and joking and all the rest, make no mistake because clatter is a loud disturbance, a commotion.

Later, one of the little boys pretended to pick his nose and eat the fruits of his labors. He did it to make his mother scream. Me too, I screamed too. It was such an awful joke I could hardly think straight. There was a lot of screaming and commotion, which was highly pleasing to any five-year old boy. The clatter was off the charts.

And then I walked out to the office, where the little girls like to “play” school. Zoe (10) and Sadie (5) and Emma (9) were making hand crafted books. 

Sadie looked up with doe eyes at Zoe and said, “That’s so wonderful, Zoe.”

Zoe said, “I want to be a writer just like YaYa and make books.” 

There’s a lot of clatter these days about sacrificing for the common good, giving back, paying fair shares, social justice, and what not. I get that. I really do. Because that’s what I did with my life, I sacrificed for the common good of others. 

Or as I like to declare when people get snarky about stay-at-home-moms, “I’ve been like fetching Ghandi for thirty years. Everything I ever did was for love and not for cash. I’m the biggest socialist you know.”

The payoff? A house filled with the clattering sound of the future and forever.

Linda (The Matriarch) Zern

GROWING!!

Can't get enough of things that grow: plants, animals, grandkids.

GETTING PAID

A few people I know are convinced that I am a successful author. It must be that I’m on Facebook a lot and I know how to Twitter (sort of) because by any worldly measure, I’m not. 

A successful author, that is.

I’ve never broken even—money wise. I’ve never been on any bestseller lists. I’ve never been on Oprah’s book club. It’s hard to get my English professors to read anything I write over four pages long.

Then again . . . maybe a few people I know are right. 

About the success, I mean.

I’ve written a children’s chapter book about fairies, published three, almost four E-Books on Smashwords, written and illustrated an inspirational book about hope and love, and published a chapter book for middle school kids that was a finalist for a cool prize. And as I type this, I have three new manuscripts in the editing pot, bubbling.

But let’s face it, everyone is writing a book these days, including my bug man. 

So success? How do you know?

Recently Phoenix (age 6) came to see me, a little girl some might be tempted to label “different.” Her mother, Paulette, has been trying to educate the rest of us about Phoenix’s autism. Her mother is brave and beautiful, so is Phoenix.

Phoenix came to my home, bringing her book so that I could sign it: a dog-eared, well-loved copy of The Long-Promised Song, words and pictures by Linda L. Zern—me. It’s a little story about tiny creatures and an impossible friendship. The drawings are charcoal and very simple.

At first she didn’t look at me or say anything. She played with my grandchildren. She sat in the talking tree. She visited the rabbits. She listened while the adults talked.

I signed my name in her book. Mostly, she ignored me. 

Before they left, Paulette suggested that we take a picture of Phoenix with her favorite author, Linda L. Zern—me. I sat in front of the fireplace on the cedar chest I’ve had since I was a little girl. Without prompting or prodding, Phoenix jumped up next to me, threw her arm around my shoulders, squeezed me tight, squashed her cheek up against mine, and smiled. I could feel her smiling against my face.

I heard her mother whisper something like, “I can’t believe she’s sitting there like that.”

I held my breath because I knew what she meant. I felt what she meant. 

It was as if a baby fawn had wandered into my living room, jumped up on my cedar chest, and allowed me to pet it. I could feel the joy in that moment, the joy in that little girl, and the delight of sharing an idea that began as fragile as a cobweb that grew and then changed and became, finally, someone else’s beloved story. 

A successful author? Are you kidding? Have you seen the picture? 

Linda (Count Me Blessed) Zern 

What the readers have to say . . .

Bold + Audacious = Bodacious

Having children is considered a punishment by many, a mistake of biology by some or a burden of massive sacrificial torment to still others. Many of these folks developed these viewpoints in their own misspent youth—while stoned—also hungry and . . . sexually chipper or romantically frisky . . . or . . . oh forget it . . . The word is horny. They were high and horny. 

Our village considers children a bold blessing with eternal bodacious payoffs.

It’s true there is a price to pay, and we pay it. Happily.

We like to entertain, which means we like to talk endlessly. Food is often present. It’s also true that our conversations have their our own special rhythm because of the presence of a large number of juvenile humans in our midst. 

Conversations often follow a certain . . . pattern:

A serious minded soul tried to start a serious minded discussion as we habitually congregated in lawn chairs under the maple tree. 

“So, what about this special committee to set to rights the under secretary of the over reach party of the governmental suck ups . . .” 

A lawn chair crashed to the ground. Shrieking plus screaming stopped the conversation in its tracks as a random mother jumped to her feet, “Good God! Where did those boys find machetes? Put those down. Immediately.” 

The speaker struggled to recover, “Did she say, ‘Machetes?’ Are those machetes? I can’t remember what I was saying.”

After the random mother disarmed the rebels, yet another brave conversationalist made the attempt. “So, I was reading an article about the overrated undertaking of the top notched experts in the field of bio-repulsion and electromagnetic shock futures . . .” 

“Oh no! Stop him. Stop him. He’s going to kill the baby,” I screamed.

Several rational, highly educated grownups jumped to their feet while knocking each other out of the way as they shouted, “No. No. Don’t hit the gas. Stay right there. We’re coming. Don’t hit the gas.” 

They rushed off in a pack to prevent one soggy bottomed toddler from being mutilated by the spinning wheels of a Fisher Price lime green dune buggy, driven by another toddler sucking a binky.

And then as recently as just the other day sometime, a dear friend waxed on about the importance of becoming keen on the contemplation of the careening nexus of the world on the recent educational morass found only . . . when a child’s hysterical wail rang out.

“She’s trying to drink poison!”

Parents scrambled, looking for sources of drinkable poisons and a kid determined to test them out.

I watched the mad rush and smiled at our guest who had yet to close his mouth.

“Around here it’s all kinds of exciting,” I said, shrugging.

“It’s impossible to finish a sentence around you people before someone goes apoplectic.”

“Which makes everything all kinds of exciting. Don’t you agree?”

The sounds of bloody murder and wild hooliganism drowned out his response as a binky sucking toddler roared by in a lime green dune buggy chased by a semi-nude kid swinging a curtain rod.

And that is how our bold + audacious = bodacious village spends its time in the Florida sun under the maple tree. Frankly, I find the rest of the world faintly boring. There’s hardly ever any machete wielding five year olds and the grownups NEVER STOP TALKING. 

Linda (Drop the Machete) Zern 

IMAGINATION STATION!

WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION!

Some day there'll be tours through here for people to see where the author created her . . . masterpieces. And on the way out, they'll be given on of my books for free . . . from the closet where they're stacked up.

The Case of the Missing Conversation

My husband rattled his keys and checked his back pocket for his wallet.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Surely the shock on my face could be seen from space.

“What are you talking about? Go where?”

My husband made that face he makes when he thinks I’m being obtuse or uppity. He makes that face a lot.

“Sherwood, I’m in my bathrobe. I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about or where you think that we are going,” I yipped.

I was, in fact, standing in my bathrobe—a great fluffy yellow bathrobe affair tied with an old purple poke-a-dot bathrobe belt, because I had lost the belt to my present fluffy yellow bathrobe affair and had to go back to the default belt from the purple poke-a-dot bathrobe affair. I happen to know that I looked like an out-of-work circus clown.

“We talked about it.” He was insistent.

The furrows between my eyes became deep-sea trenches.

“We talked about it? In this life? Were my eyes open?”

“Sure, you know, that time when we talked about it?”

“Honey, look at my face. Ignore the fact that I don’t have eyebrows.”

He looked at my face.

“See this?” I said, pointing at my face. “This is shock. I could not be more shocked. Do you think that if we had talked about this I would look this shocked?”

I pointed to my feet.

“See these?” I wiggled my toes in my No-Nonsense socks from Walmart. “These are socks. I’m in my bathrobe and I have no idea what you think we talked about or when. I am not dressed for going to anywhere, nor will I be anytime soon. Keep in mind it takes me twenty minutes to draw on my eyebrows with a crayon.”

For the first time he seemed unsure of our alleged conversation.

“Well . . . maybe . . . you forgot.”

Retying my purple poke-a-dot furry belt, I tipped my eyebrowless furrowed forehead at him.

“Maybe, and maybe you have conversations in your own head that you think I can hear because you’re thinking really loudly.”

His brow furrowed.

The conversation deteriorated from that point.

I appreciate that my husband and I have been cheerfully wedded for more than thirty-plus years. I appreciate that he thinks we have reached a state of sync that means we can read each other’s minds. I appreciate ESP. I just wish that it were real. Well, maybe next year.

Here’s to conversations that happen in real time and with audible words.

Linda (Read My Lips—Out Loud) Zern