ask questions relentlessly. I never knew as a child that someday I would write, but that didn't stop me
from asking questions way back then, to the point that people would see me coming, and go the other
way.
My father developed a rapid-response defense that he still used when I was in my teens.
“Daddy, what is ... why is ... how come ...?”
“Get me a cup'a coffee, will ya?” He would thrust his empty cup at me and use my absence to turn on
some type of noisy power tool.
Mother was less tactful.
“If you don't get out of my hair and go find something to do, I'll put you to work!”
Even though this perpetual nosiness is a cross to bear, it has stood me in good stead; I have learned
things that I have absolutely no need to know, and collected information that is no use to me,
whatsoever. But sometimes, information comes that is useful, like on the afternoon that I was
wandering down near the pier, intensely curious about the fishing boats that bobbed in the bay behind
the Starfish Restaurant.
There was a man in a nearby boat, tinkering with some mechanical object. He looked the part of a
fisherman; his long hair was swept back at the nape of his neck and he was thin and wiry, with just the
type of build one would expect for a man who knew the difference between port and starboard. I
watched him quietly, as the sun sank toward the water behind him and felt the questions rising in my
throat.
“How are you?” I asked. I always preface my fact-finding missions with some rudimentary attempt at
the social graces. Once the amenities were out of the way, the interrogation started in earnest.
“How long have you been a fisherman?”
“Oh ... 'bout 40 years.”
“Are you from here?”
“Born and raised.”
“Do you ever go out for long periods?”
“See that boat?” he pointed. “That's a swordfish boat ... that one goes out for weeks at a time ... I've
been on it.”
I bit my tongue to hold back what I considered to be ridiculous and personal questions; have you ever
seen anything strange or odd in the briny depths? what does it feel like to be miles away from land?
what's the biggest fish you ever caught? have you ever been in a storm at sea? were you scared? have
you ever been stranded? I pushed these questions away and settled for ...
“Is fishing your only job?”
“Nah, it's hard to make a living at it, anymore.”
“Oh.”
Was I disappointed for him ... or for me?
And then it was there - the inevitable look on his face that said, “what's with all the questions?”
I squirmed ... it was too early for him to turn the tables on me.
“I just moved here a few months ago. I'm really curious about the area.”
“Yeah? Where do you live?”
“The little house across from the church.”
“Oh ... so, you're the one that rented the old schoolhouse.”
“S'cuse me?”
“That house used to be a one-room schoolhouse. I think it was built in 1895.”
I just stared. I was living in a house that was over 100 years old, and I didn't know it. This part-time
fisherman succeeded in something that my father tried to do with power tools and my mother
accomplished with threats ... he effectively shut me up. I tossed out a hasty “thank you,” and lit out for
home.
I couldn't get in the house fast enough, and when I entered, I stood stock still in the living room with the
evening sun slanting in through the windows, and looked at the house with new eyes. Was this the
main classroom? or had it been only one big room back then, that had since been divided? where
was the outhouse? the pitcher pump? where was the chalkboard? Had it been on the empty wall near
the door that I had yet to hang anything on? It had to have been - it was the only wall without windows.
I went to the window and gazed out ... frustrated. Here I was with a zillion questions and nobody to aim
them at. I sleep, wash my face, and fix my toast and eggs in a building that housed young girls that
wore mop caps and a teacher who probably wore a corset.
What was it like to live back then? where did the kids take recess? how did they heat the place in
winter? had there ever been a hurricane here? and finally, sadly, and most importantly from my
perspective ... who could I ask?
A short while later the new museum opened, and while I wasn't first in line to get in the door, I couldn't
have been far behind. The first picture on the wall when I walked in the front door was one of the house
I am living in. I had stumbled on a veritable treasure trove of answers, links to history, insights into
Cortez, and all that it is and ever was about.
For once in my life, and even though I am still overflowing with questions, I finally have a source for
answers, and it's barely two blocks away. There's no need to pester anybody, or be drowned out by a
circular saw and threatened with chores. Mother and Daddy would be so proud.
Cortez Village Historical Society
from classic country music
composed and performed by a man
who knows a thing or two about
growing up country, click on the CD.
I wouldn't steer you wrong ...
WOW! Women on Writing Spring 2007 Flash Fiction Contest
2nd Place
1st Place
2nd Place
Near miss ... thanks for all the support!
2nd Place
Commendation ... Only USA Open Short
Story entry recognized
cooking if I don't want to — and about not having anybody to cook for.
There is a difference and it's a double-edged sword. It's about learning who I
am, what I want ... and where I want to go. I suppose in time I'll know.
States. It speaks a language that rural readers understand and appreciate, and
has been proven to be a welcome addition to any publication that is
distributed all or in part, to a rural audience.
life issues and is predominantly
humorous, although sometimes
thought-provoking and touching.
It deals with observations, raising
children, and true life experiences.
this section, which is added to regularly.
~~~~~
"Nothing so keenly illustrates pure, unbridled joy, like an ecstatic greeting from a 4-month-old pup
after an extended leave."
~~~~~
"There's no law, written or otherwise, that says that just because a boys eyes are open and he's
looking at you, that he is in any way shape or form, actually awake."
~~~~~
"I didn't bother to tell her that the blasted things could grow in a sidewalk crack in the middle of a
10-year drought, and that if I had a nickel for every one of them that I'd picked out of my hair and off
my clothes, I would be living in a mansion and selling gold-plated pigs."
~~~~~
"What was that?" I asked the dog, who pricked her ears briefly and then relaxed them.
"It's that crazy cat," her eyes said, as I scratched her behind the ear.
"Odd for her to come out when there's a human around, isn't it?"
"She's sick."
"How do you know?"
"Look at her, are ya blind?"
Just what I needed ... a sick cat and a smart-ass dog.
