Trash Day by Kidd Wadsworth
October 18, 2019 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as humor, trash day
My neighbor, Sterling, complains. It seems I don’t bring my trash cans up promptly. But hey, I’ve got a life, and they’re TRASH CANS!
I’ve got a big brain, too. One morning as I watched Sterling take his trash to the curb and leave for work, I got an idea, a how-the-Grinch-stole-Christmas-idea. I grinned and patted my little dog on the head.
As the garbage truck rounded the corner, I ran down to the curb and drug my neighbor’s still-full garbage cans back up his driveway. When the truck had passed by, I drug them down again.
That evening, eager to see Sterling’s expression, I left work early and returned to find him standing at the curb gazing bewildered at the trash still in his trash cans while mine, and everyone else’s, were clearly empty. The next week he put his heaping cans at the curb. Quickly, I once again, hauled them back up his driveway, returning them to the curb when the garbage truck had passed.
That night his shouting rocked the neighborhood. “No, they’re not picking up my trash! It’s been two weeks! 110 Paxinosa Avenue!” I felt sorry for the trash guys. Well—almost.
The next week he had two cans full of trash and three extra bags. It was a trash party! I crossed my fingers, praying he wouldn’t wait around for the truck. He paced on the sidewalk, but after several glances at his cell phone he got in his light blue Prius, and drove away. I’d barely gotten the trash up his driveway when I heard the truck pull around the corner. On a hunch, I stowed the cans inside his garage and snuck out the back gate.
Wow, talk about dedicated. Those garbage guys actually walked up his driveway and looked around for the cans. They clearly had a note in their hands. They checked his address. Knocked on his door. All this for trash. Impressive.
When they left, I put the cans and the bags at the curb. Took two trips. That night a volcano erupted next door. I felt a little guilty—not a lot guilty—but a little guilty. I mean, I felt guilty in between giggles.
On trash day eve, nightmares of my neighbor assaulting me with a garbage can lid and a turkey bone rocked my sleep. I woke bleary eyed, to see my neighbor standing at the curb, surrounded by trash. I decided it was time I fessed up. About then the garbage guys arrived. I ducked behind my window curtains. It was ugly! The shouting, the claims of innocence, “There was no trash!” Shall I speak of the birds shot in the air, the words beginning with…well you get the picture.
About a week later, my neighbor had a backyard barbeque. I brought beer. There were four of us neighbors (right, left and across the street), beers in hand, feet on Sterling’s brick retaining wall, when Sterling told the story.
“No?”
“Really?”
I thought no one knew. But everyone has windows facing the street. When Sterling went inside for more chips, Frank winked at me. Mark held out his hand. “Fifty, or I tell him now.”
I paid.
*
Occasionally, I try humor. Let me know if I got it right.
White Space by Kidd Wadsworth
September 18, 2019 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as emotions, writers
Death is the absence of life. It is the white space on a painting, an empty hospital bed, a silent room, a closet of clothes. Death is the extinction of a species of only one. I closed my eyes. I woke, and he was gone. They took his body in the night. They came for the bed and the wheelchair by noon. We reduced his life to a photo and two columns in the newspaper. We sang his favorite songs. We spoke, “he was good friend, a wonderful father and an average golfer.”
Emotion is the currency of all good writers. But what if there is no emotion? What if death brings not regret, or anger, or longing, or even peace, but rather echoes? Did he call my name? I turned my head. Was that him, walking into his office?
Where is the salty taste of my tears? I become white space.
Can someone please tell me how to feel?
6 0 Read morePivotal Moments by Kidd Wadsworth
August 18, 2019 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as Emotion, Story Genius, writing
Weird. Dumb-ass. Late bloomer. How wonderfully my family described me. Yeah, you guessed it. I hated me, too. At fifteen, I had the social skills of a toilet brush. I spent most of my day desperately trying to say the right thing, so maybe I’d have some friends. Only in World History did I feel accepted. With her fantastic stories, my teacher brought history alive. She encouraged discussion. Even seemed to like me.
Forty-plus years later, I still remember how the room smelled of chalk and the musky perfume of the cheerleader who sat four chairs away; how it had a cooped-up warmth from the hour-long exhaling of twenty people. We sat crammed into small desks, the kind you slid into from the side with a writing surface big enough only for a single sheet of paper. Up front sat the teacher, the green blackboard behind her filling the entire wall.
Eager to express myself, I was quick to add my opinion on socialism. I spoke against welfare and social security. Rather, I said we should take care of each other. I didn’t believe the government needed to provide these services. In fact, I thought the government did a rather poor job. I suppose I didn’t express myself well; I wasn’t clear. Even to this day, I don’t fully understand why my opinion that people should look to themselves, rather than the government, to help their neighbor, should ignite such anger. Surely, at most, I was hopelessly naïve.
For a full twenty minutes, the class raged against me, calling me mean, harsh, unkind and unfeeling. Bewildered, I tried to explain my position, but the voices only grew louder more hateful. At the end of the class, the teacher asked me to stay behind. I stood beside her desk shaking from the effort to hold back my tears. Tall and skinny, I clutched my books in front of me, my shoulders rounded down against the recent blows. I thought she would apologize to me for letting the class get out of control. I thought she saw my hurt. Instead, very gently, she said, “I’d like to tell you about the Christ.”
Perhaps I should thank her. In one sentence she managed to teach me why the separation of church and state is absolutely necessary. After all, I’d just been told by a person, put in a position of authority by the government, that my political opinions were so heinous that I must be a heathen and in need of religious indoctrination, which she was eager to supply. I politely informed her that I regularly attended church.
*
Pivotal moments in our lives are marked by strong emotions: rage, hatred, shame, regret, fear, joy, hilarity, ecstasy. It is essential that we writers learn to convey these strong emotions to our readers. Story is emotion based. If we are not feeling, we’re not reading.[1] So how does a writer learn to convey emotion? How do we teach ourselves this skill? My solution is to feel the emotion myself by first writing about a pivotal moment in my life. By grappling with my own past, by dredging up a betrayal, or the bitterness of regret, by reliving a moment of pure joy, I find that my subsequent writing tastes real. Of course, when the emotions I’m reliving are negative, the cost to me is huge, because I must bleed again, before my characters bleed at all.
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The Whoosh of Wings by Kidd Wadsworth
July 18, 2019 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as birds, fiction, Short Stories
I’d been writing for hours. My tired brain and I wandered into the garden. To pull a weed, I sat on the edge of a raised bed. I drifted into stillness. A breeze whispered. After five minutes, or was it ten, a bird…I didn’t dare turn…came to hover not two feet from my head. Whoosh, whoosh. Her wings beat down the air. Whoosh, whoosh.
I am a member of a small bible study group at church. At the beginning of our meetings before we study the words of the Christ, we talk about the past week, about the minutiae of our lives. I told my friends about the bird. Later, during the lesson, I lamented that I did not feel the Christ’s presence with me in my life.
Jose remarked, “Ah, but he was with you.”
“When?” I asked.
“In the whoosh of the wings.”
photo by Timothy Dykes
Since that day, I have begun to deliberately embed in my stories the hand of a loving God.
◊
“Tina, would it be alright, if I borrowed your new knife? You see, I was thinking of getting one, and I wanted to try it out.”
“Sure. Do you want me to bring it over?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll come to you.”
“Is he letting you drive?”
“No, but I’ll take the bus. It’s such a beautiful day. I want to be out.”
At three-thirty in the afternoon, the knife wrapped in a dish towel and stuffed deep into the bottom of my purse, I got off the bus to begin the long walk up the hill to my home. The sun was on the river, like a painting, glistening off the rippling water. The sight of it, like the river had been sprinkled with glitter, transfixed me. I stood staring. Someone had placed a bench on the overlook.
I could sit for a while. I could rest.
My ribs hurt with every breath.
He’d be home at five.
I turned away from the river and the sparkling light. When I reached the rim of the valley and the street on which I lived, I passed by the dead and broken body of a deer, obviously hit by a car. My neighbor, sweet Elkie, ran out to speak to me. “Oh, isn’t it terrible. I saw the whole thing.”
She was all of five feet, slender, white hair. Her yard boasted a sign, “Wildlife Refuge,” which my husband claimed was her excuse for never mowing.
Hands on her face, she lamented, “It must have been frightened. Ran right out into the street.”
The repulsive, bloated corpse stank. Elkie waved a hand in front of her face. “Phew. Come inside. No one should smell death. It’s not healthy.”
“I can’t. I have to get home. It’s almost five.”
She patted my hand. “You know you’re always welcome.”
I hustled away. After all, I had to be there when he walked in, Tina’s new, strong, unbreakable, ceramic knife hidden in the deep front pocket of my apron. When he turned to put his change in the beer mug he kept by the door…
I trotted up the driveway; my cell rang. It was Holly—my beautiful Holly. I couldn’t answer it. Not now. Not when I was so close.
Ding—a voice mail.
I put on my apron, and nestled the knife into its hiding place. I stood by the door.
Tap, tap, tap.
What?
Photo by Rachael Moore
Outside, a cardinal sat on the window ledge tapping with his beak on the glass.
My husband’s 4X4 roared up the driveway.
Tap, tap, tap.
Holly loved cardinals. “They’re Christmas birds, Mom. Every day, all dressed up for a party.”
My heart raced. I couldn’t breathe. Holly? Did she need me? Was she hurt? I jerked around. My phone sat inches away on the counter. Shaking, I pressed voice mail. “Mom, I signed the lease. I’ve got my own apartment. It’s big enough for both of us. Come and live with me, Mom. You can get out. You can get out.”
He opened the door.
◊
I find that my stories are much more realistic, they ring true, now that I consciously add the whoosh of wings.
1 0 Read moreWhat is Story? By Kidd Wadsworth
June 18, 2019 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as external conflict, internal conflict, Lisa Cron, Story Genius, The Wizard of Oz, writing
My writing career was going nowhere. I’d imagined hundreds of thousands of dollars of income, fame, and something far more elusive, critical acceptance. My average annual income was hovering at $42.11; rejection letters carpeted the floor. Why? What was I doing wrong? I would have fixed it…if I’d known what “it” was.
Enter Story Genius by Lisa Cron, a book recommended by one of my writing buds—and the pieces fell into place. Cron’s hypothesis: All great stories have both an internal conflict and an external conflict. Because people procrastinate, because not a one of us wants to face our inner demons, great stories use an overwhelming external conflict to force the protagonist to grapple with his or her internal conflict.
The external conflict in the story forces Dorothy and her friends to face their fears. When Dorothy is kidnapped by the flying monkeys and taken into the lair of the Wicked Witch, the scarecrow hatches the rescue plan. Hmmm…smart and decisive. The cowardly lion is willing to fight the palace guards to save her. At the end of the story, when she must leave, the tinman weeps. Dorothy who, at the beginning, was willing to listen to munchkins (who told her to follow a stupid yellow brick road to find a wizard) learns that her future is in her own feet. Remember, the wizard did not get her home. She missed the balloon. Instead, she got home by clicking her heels together. Her actions, not those of a charlatan wizard, determined her future.
Thus, we see Cron’s classic pattern:
External Conflict → Compels the protagonist to face → Internal Conflict
The Wicked Witch of the West → forced Dorothy to face→ her fears about her own future
Before I put a single word on the paper, I ask myself: What is my character’s greatest fear? Then I craft an external event so powerful that my protagonist is forced to face that fear. I leave her no room to dither or escape. Finally, when she wrestles with her fear, when she grows, when she becomes more than she ever dreamed she could be, then I know, I’ve got a great story.
~Kidd
Welcome
A Slice of Orange would like to welcome Kidd Wadsworth. Her column, Infused with Meaning, will post here on the 18th of each month. We are thrilled to have her writing for us. We hope you enjoy her posts as much as we do. Welcome, Kidd!
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