Spirit in the Sky

By Cheryl Oreglia

I love observing how the darkness slips over the evening sky as if a silk gown covering the stark nakedness of the day. It draws me in like fine wine, compelling me to linger over the fragrant images, it has become a ritualistic devotion regardless of the tedious tasks in need of tending. It is something I never tire of watching "the spirit in the sky" as it prepares to rest.

The beauty of the evening sky is as unique as the people it shelters. I've yet to see two exactly the same. Crystal Woods says, "a sunset is the sun's fiery kiss to the night." A sultry take on the relationship between day and night but murder might be more accurate with those glorious crimson ribbons rippling through the "marmalade skies." 

"How strange this fear of death is! We are never frightened at a sunset." George MacDonal

Tonight the sky appears unassuming, unfolding itself with such style and grace, as if a slow dance between lovers. The intensity of the colors might have something to do with the silence that has surrounded me for the last two days. I escaped up to the lake on my own, my husband had plans, and I had a todo list as long as my arm. The silence was the unexpected result, but I'm beginning to appreciate the subtle gifts of quietude, everything speaks so loudly when I finally shut-up. 

It's as if I've been estranged from my thoughts for years, ever since the kids came along, and I sort of lost track of them (my thoughts, not the kids). It seems odd that silence feels so natural after such a short amount of time. Normally I'm besieged by so many distractions I wouldn't notice a thought if it came right up and slapped me in the face. Not that my thought are abusive but you know what I mean. It's as if I created space in my head for inspiration to grow. 

The other complicit circumstance messing with my normal routines is a thirty day cleanse I got roped into. Larry and I radically cut down on bread five months ago in order to rein in his triglycerides, but with his follow-up test coming up in thirty days, I begrudgingly agreed to participate in a thirty day cleanse in hopes of boosting the results. Of course this translates to no happy hour which is ironically correct. 

I grew up in what one might call the "cocktail era," circa 1960's and I carry around this picture in my head of Mom and Dad lounging on the couch, early evening, stemmed glasses in hand, debating the topics of the day. 

It occurs to me now that I don't really know those people, so young, fearless, and full of life. I been caught unaware in the web of their sweet romance, in tribal rituals that held us together like glue, and formed us in ways that continue to give life. 

My parents had an unusual sort of love. I don't say that just because they have both passed away. They were truly madly in love with each other. Each afternoon around 4:45pm Mom would jump up, comb her hair, and apply perfume because Dad would be arriving soon. Corny as it may sound she actually lit up when he walked in the door. 

He knew the drill, leaning in to give Mom a chaste peck on the cheek, he would promptly pour two glasses of wine, and lead her into the family room for their evening rendezvous. We were always welcome to join in the conversation and by the time we were eighteen we were even allowed a small glass of wine. That is definitely when the conversations got more interesting.

"She wished it were evening now, wished for the great relief of the calendar inking itself out, of day done and night coming, of ice cubes knocking about in a glass beneath the whisky spilling in, the fine brown affirmation of need." Michelle Latiolais

As I sit down to the computer the words just seem to flow especially now that I given my thoughts free rein. The quieter I remain the louder my interior voice becomes. This might be the reset button I've been searching for as we enter 2018. Stepping out of the world once in a while, allowing the more subtle elements of life to take center stage, might be wildly beneficial for creative types, especially writers.

So quite unexpectedly I find myself consorting with my wayward thoughts, noticing the unique facets of each passing hour, and avoiding the things that can take the edge off the vibrancy of the day.


What practices help you "reset" or "revive" your creativity? 

I'm Living in the Gap, with no one to talk to, but the dog. For the love of God please come find me. 



Notes to self: A friend of mine recommended a new app called Insight Timer for practicing meditation. It's awesome, if you get a chance check it out, and it's free!

Grateful Harvest

By Cheryl Oreglia

It's hard to imagine the first Thanksgiving was a harvest celebration held by the pilgrims of Plymouth colony in the 17th century. Clearly Americans like to eat and perpetuating foodie traditions is especially popular. As you know the early pilgrims had a lot to celebrate, 53 out of 102 survived the Mayflower crossing, only to encounter raw land in need of cultivating, disease, extreme weather, and the Native Americans. It was a tenuous beginning at best. I'm sure they were flabbergasted when members of the Wampanoag tribe generously supplied them with food for the cold winter. A kind and neighborly gesture that sort of backfired a century later.

The first harvest celebration went on for several days. Can you imagine? Ninety members of the Wampanoag tribe showed up with five dead deer in need of roasting. This is diversity at its best. Edward Winslow wrote about the celebration in his diary. 

“Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together, after we had gathered the fruits of our labors; they four in one day killed as much fowl, as with a little help beside, served the company almost a week, at which time amongst other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and amongst the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed on our Governor, and upon the Captain and others. And although it be not always so plentiful, as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want, that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.” 

Eventually the United States established a date for these yearly harvest celebrations, which of course made travel a nightmare, but at least you know why the grocery stores are inundated with turkeys, cranberries, and sweet potatoes. In accordance with tradition, families and friends gather to enjoy an array of foods, express gratitude, and watch football while gorging on pumpkin pie. The traditional meal was choreographed in the 60's when an article appeared in Better Homes and Gardens describing the perfect, "Thanksgiving Turkey Dinner: Hot Tomato Starter, Roast Turkey, Herb Stuffing, Cranberry Sauce, Orange-glazed Sweet Potatoes, buttered Green Beans, Apple-Pinapple Slaw, Hot Biscuits, Butter, Pumpkin Pie, Hot Coffee." They outed the deer and corn for a more appealing meat and seasonal vegetable. Who knew?

Mail isn't delivered, schools are on holiday, and most businesses are closed, except for Walmart of course. This is my experience of Thanksgiving, but I wanted to explore some of the more unusual expressions of this holiday, and this is what I found. 

1. How about a traditional food fight at the end of the meal? Started by a crazy aunt, slightly inebriated, but becomes a cherished family tradition. I have to admit this one worries me.
2. I learned about a crafty host who provides a white tablecloth for guests to leave painted handprints, made to look like turkeys, dated, and signed. They add new hands to the cloth each year. Now there's a way to occupy the guests while the turkey cooks.
3. A few people I know host an open table Thanksgiving, this is where you might land if you are estranged from family, or far away from home. It is a generous and kind practice for those who would otherwise spend Thanksgiving alone. Open hearts, open doors. I am ever so thankful for the tables that are open to my children that are not with me this year.
4. The turkey dance is one of the more unusual traditions I came across. This requires the cook to dance with the turkey prior to being stuffed? I will assume this requires soft music, romantic lighting, and good wine. Bon Appetit!  
5. The Twitter family asks everyone to send out a gratitude tweet right before grace and then all phones all go into a turkey shaped cookie jar until the end of the evening. Tweet, tweet, gobble, gobble.
6. Instead of pie this family plays hide and seek after dinner with their cars. Teams are constructed, boundaries decided, the "it" car gives a fifteen minute grace period for teams to hide, and then drives around until all the cars are found. Makes you wonder what you would say to the police officer who discovers five people sitting in a dark car, on Thanksgiving, behind a bush in a neighbors yard?
7. Friends-giving is a popular tradition for many who gather in celebration of friendship. These events are often celebrated at an earlier date leaving the holiday open for family events. My daughter hosts a friends-giving up at the lake every year, and other than an Instagram of the table setting, I know nothing about the intricacies of this event. Beer and ping pong balls might be involved? 
8. I read about a grandma who bakes "thankful rolls" with pillsbury dough. The family writes down what they are thankful for on tiny slips of paper as they arrive and these notes are actually baked into the rolls, like a fortune cookie, only with butter. What would you write?
9. The Turkey Trotter is a stuffed turkey that travels with family members that are away for Thanksgiving. They are required to take regular updates of their travels with pictures of these turkeys positioned in funny locations. I just sent turkeys to Australia and Utah (most likely they'll arrive late, remember it's the thought that counts, but I expect pictorial updates nonetheless). 
10. One family has a Twister competition after dinner with several mats and rounds going at the same time. Right hand, blue circle, left hand, yellow circle. This could be an interesting intergenerational activity if no one gets seriously hurt. 
11. Instead of sitting around after dinner you could go on a scavenger hunt searching for specific scenes; like pumpkins on the doorstep, piles of leaves, people walking pets, live turkey's milling around, someone jogging (really), or early Christmas decorations. See what team returns with the most finds substantiated with photos of course. I admit, this one's a keeper.
12. The famous butter shapers, comes from an odd family skill, passed down through the generations of sculpting the butter into turkeys. The kids then fight over who gets to cut off the heads. A little violent but aesthetically pleasing I suppose.
13. Then of course there is the family weigh-in prior to gorging on the traditional meal, it's actually a competition to see who can gain the most. Why? 
14. And my personal favorite. After the dinner is consumed the ladies leave and go shopping at Walmart for comfy PJ's and silly socks while the men clean up the kitchen. Oh I can not express how much I love this tradition. 

Wishing you all a wonderful and gracious Thanksgiving! Sharing a table with those you love is a sacred act. This year listen to the music of the table, the voices, the laughter, the clink of the spoon against the gravy bowl, the scraping of chairs on the hardwood, the litany of silverware dinging the plates, the movement, the grace of being elbow to elbow, worshiping the flavors of life. "For this and all we are about to receive, make us truly grateful..."  

Drink and be thankful to the host! What seems insignificant when you have it, is important when you need it. Franz Grillparzer

Notes - The term cold-turkey means suddenly, without preparation. Talk turkey means to speak without preparation. A turkey shoot is a fight or contest where one side is so much stronger that the weaker side has no chance of winning. Bird for thought...

What are some of your favorite traditions? 

I'm Living in the Gap, drop in anytime.

Writing in a Hostile Environment

By Cheryl Oreglia

Writing in a hostile environment is difficult at best and on occasion impossible. I'm talking about the unnecessary eye rolling, impatient pacing in front of my work space, audible sighing, words muttered under the breath, even enticements to the local wine bar (seems unusually cruel) while I attempt to polish up a new piece. It's maddening. I blog, what an atrocity, sue me. I consider it my work but that is not how everyone views my writing practices, especially since I don't make a dime, and I spend an astronomical amount of time honing my craft. I don't care one iota. 

The words quick blog is an oxymoron, although my posts may appear spontaneous, they are created with blood, sweat, and at times tears. I usually start with a "really, really, shitty first draft," as Anne Lamont would say, and then I work it over as if pulling toffee, until it is smooth, elastic, full bodied, imbued with interesting flavors. It has to have texture, bulk, leave the reader with something to chew on. That's the objective, not always the result. It's purely subjective and I'm leery of unwarranted opinions so let's not go there.

Simply put, writing takes an enormous about of time, and there is just no getting around it. I have been known to linger over a single word for an hour. I'm not a fanatic, but the right word is like pulling a hair-ball out of a clogged drain, it creates flow. When it's right it's right, when it's not, it's a hair-ball. You do not want to leave your reader with a gag reflex. It's counter productive.

Once a general idea begins to sprout, I pull together a few body paragraphs, and as if a miracle a summary starts to surface, then I go for the fill. I'll research some aspect of the writing, add a quote from a recent article I've come across (it is uncanny how often the perfect article, quotes, current event - finds me just in the nick of time), and if I bump into an applicable Seinfeld clip, that's just topping on the cake.

By the way, I have a real job too, one that deposits a pay check into my account every two weeks, one that lacks flexibility when it comes to my time. I teach high school, I absolutely love this work, but it is work. When I write it's like I'm suspended in some kind of time warp, I'll look up from my screen, and three hours have passed. I'm not kidding. I totally lose track of time, I don't feel a single pain in my body (at my age it's more like a collection), and the room around me kind of fades away. It's like taking a mini vacation from life.

Speaking of vacations, Jonathan wrote a great piece on writing while on the road, I can not possibly add to that masterpiece except for one notation, writing in a bathing suit, sipping a pina colada, poolside, adds a whole new dimension to my skill set. I'm not sure it's a good thing. I can't seem to put down the taco that some half naked woman delivered right to my lounge chair, the screaming children are distracting (miss my grand-babies), and the ocean to my right is more mesmerizing than the words trickling down to the keyboard. I'm in Hawaii this week, can you feel my pain? I didn't think so, but I'm scheduled for today, and carrying my computer all over the resort has not resulted in a post. See, you have to open it, sit down, and actually write. 

My sister says she has a hard time constructing a text message? Which reminds me of a passage in Anne Lamott's book Bird By Bird (I read it every year). In responding to a students inquiry about how you actually write Lamott says, "You turn on the computer and bring up the right file, and then you stare at it for an hour or so. You begin rocking, just a little at first, and then like a huge autistic child. You look at the ceiling, and over at the clock, yawn, and stare at the paper again. Then, with your fingers poised on the keyboard, you squint at an image that is forming in your mind -- a scene, a locale, a character, whatever -- and you try to quiet your mind so you can hear what that landscape or character has to say above the other voices in your mind.” So poolside writing is not a total bust but the rocking part is concerning a few of the guests. Hostile decides to take a dip in the ocean. 

The other malady is the wicked "perfectionism, the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people," warns Lamott. It is the Felix to Oscar in writing (if you are too young to remember the Odd Couple, see clip below). It is why many aspiring authors quit, pull their hair out, and drink. Oh shit. Lamott says, "I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they're doing it.” 

So there you have it. Hostile is surfing the waves, I have free reign of my workspace/lounge chair, half naked serving staff, and my own tunes blaring from pandora. I ordered another pina colada, found a worthy Odd Couple clip, and I'm calling it a wrap.  I'm not going to worry about misspellings, poor word choices, or run on sentences. I'm going to die anyway. Cheers...

Where, how, and when do you enjoy writing? 



I'm Living in the Gap, drop in anytime.

Lagom with a touch of Hygge

By Cheryl Oreglia

I wanted to be a Hyggelist for about twenty-four hours but just found out that was so yesterday! This was the topic of a recent blog posted at Living in the Gap. Hygge is a Danish term, it requires consciousness, the ability to not only live in the moment, but also recognize it's gifts. For those of you who only write horror, the english words used to describe Hygge are cosiness, charm, happiness, contentment, security, familiarity, kinship, or simpleness. The very things you strive to shatter in a horror novel are currently trending in the United States. 

If I wasn't trying to disrupt the algorithm of Facebook ads on my social media accounts with fake google searches I would have never stumbled upon the term Hygge. How lucky are we?

Taking time to smell the roses, enjoy the moment, maybe even seize the day, this is what Living in the Gap is all about.  All very cliche, totally Danish, but nonetheless taking our culture by storm. As a writer I consider my life experience through a unique lens. Does it have relevance, deeper meaning, significance? Is it worth writing about? Hygge sharpens the focus. 

Larry, my husband, and I have very different interests. My passion is writing, his is riding (mountain biking), weird how they sound the same, although very different practices. He does not miss a Saturday morning ride if he's in town. EVER. So I tend to write on Saturday mornings but that's not enough to keep a blog going. I have to linger with my words, thoughts, feelings, #Hygge. He'll never admit it, but he's not a fan of watching me crouched over a computer, deep in thought, sucking down gallons of coffee. He's what you call a man of action. I'm not. Is there middle ground?

Last night we were invited to a private concert. A good friend of ours is pursuing his passion of performing in a band. He made it happen, organized a group of talented musicians, and lined up a few gigs. They are awesome, the name of the band is Knee Deep, and they are making their mark in the valley. 

Knee Deep was booked at a quaint theater in downtown San Jose, a crew was filming for promotional purposes, so a small group of close friends showed up to dance/cheer/clap in the background. At one point in the night my friend Jill said "I love that Steve (the one in the front of the picture) is pursuing his passion." She looked at me and said, "you are too with your blog." We looked up and down the row of spectators, all over fifty, and still working day jobs. We realized most of us have a passion we kindle on the side, be it writing, riding, music, yoga, fishing, hiking, wine making, running, wood working, philanthropy, etc. And we all agreed we prefer our passions over our day jobs. 

I thought this was interesting, but I put it aside, and continued my mad search for news of Hygge. This is when I found out Hygge was so 2016, Lagom is the new trend, and together they are defining American culture. You can toss that around at your next dinner party (#sointheknow). Lagom is a Swedish concept of "not too much, not too little." Did I mention I'm Swedish? 

Sounds a little like the Buddhist concept of the "middle way," which avoids extremes of deprivation and excess, finding comfort in the middle ground, an optimal place for enlightenment. Lagom translates to "enough, sufficient, adequate, just right." Where Hygge aims to capture a feeling, Lagom is an ethos of moderation. Coffee with cream is Lagom, a nonfat pumpkin spiced latte is too much, plain coffee not enough. Add a roaring fire and you've got Nirvana!

In staying with my new standard of Lagom maybe I should avoid extremes like Comnopanis or my disastrous Closet? Apparently there is a thin line between following your passion and acting in a selfish manner. Striving for balance, learning to say no, focusing on what you need to be doing are all part of the Lagom lifestyle. It's your personal gift to the world, the one you were born to pursue. As Glen Campbell sings, "I might need you more than want you." Writers write, singers sing, athletes play, everything else is superfluous. The trend is to simplify, pursue your passion, and avoid excess. A soft throw, hot coffee, computer, now that's the ultimate Lagom with a touch of Hygge.

"You will always be a little incomplete. This is the beautiful frustration of being human. And it’s where all the best art comes from, " Jeff Goins. 

Drop a few thoughts on these new trends in the comments. I might need, more than want a simplistic lifestyle, how about you?






I'm Living in the Gap, drop in anytime.

The Hope Chest

By Cheryl Oreglia

I started a "hope" chest in 1970 with two embroidered pillow cases (white, with pink flowers) and a couple of dish towels. The name of the chest is a little disconcerting because the whole idea is based on the contents "hopefully" being utilized when prince charming comes along, tosses you a ring, croaks out a few vows, and switches up your name. I believe we refer to this as wedded bliss.

I added to my "hope" through my adolescent years, quilting a baby blanket in high school, inheriting a yellow tea kettle from grandma, embroidering more dish towels, and an apron. Are you getting the picture? I also received a Betty Crocker Cookbook which made me feel very sophisticated but did nothing to improve my talent in the kitchen. I considered myself a talented cook with no experience. I still have this book, the margins are full of warnings, like the time I heavily salted some fish and added capers for good measure. It was not edible and we had to throw thirty dollars worth of Halibut down the drain. The intention was worthy.

I'm better with linens. In fact I tend to horde linens because maybe they'll be useful "someday." Sadly I've had those pillowcases in my possession for over forty years and never used them. (I did the same with a rose shaped candle that eventually melted in storage) Recently I've been binge cleaning, I'll just blame Mom, every drawer in her house was neatly organized, and somehow she made this seem normal. I think it's outrageous that my mother can make me feel guilty about my linen closet from the grave. She was my world and now I have her spirit. Glory be...

I'm beginning to understand the popularity of If you Give a Mouse a Cookie, because for me it started with the window seat in the old master, and believe me when I say one thing leads to another. My goal was to de-rat Dante's room literally (we added on to our ranch style track home close to twenty years ago and somehow Dante ended up in the old master). I told him to get everything out and we would replace his old furniture with a sturdy bed frame, side table, and chairs from Mom's guest room. A day later I was shocked to find all his belongings neatly stacked in the garage on an old comforter. My children totally pick and choose when to follow my guidance. It's a crap shoot and I usually lose.

Somehow we were able to fit a bedroom set, two recliners, and a small desk into his room. Extraordinary. I drove straight to Bed, Bath, and Beyond (coupons  in hand) because as you know the right comforter sets the tone for the entire room. I found the perfect one. I'm sure Dante is thrilled, he didn't say, but I could tell. As we were moving in the new stuff he mentioned the storage under the window seat was full. I took a peak and found it crammed with Julie's stuff (my oldest daughter), dolls, scrapbooks, and a bunch of teenage paraphernalia she left behind ten years ago when she moved away to college. Why in the hell am I storing all this stuff? She is married and has a home of her own.

I sabotaged her recent visit and started pulling things out of the window seat. Just like Michael J. Fox, she was slammed back in time, squealing with delight over a slew of long forgotten dolls. She quickly faced-timed her sister who was at work and found it difficult to fully share in the experience. We piled all those treasured possessions in the back of Julie's van and I waved good-bye to the clutter, the memories, and a piece of my heart. Nic (her husband) was not pleased. 

It reminded me of the time I went to the doctor about a rash covering my lower leg. It was all scaly and unattractive, the doctor who was examining me said it was due to stress? What? Apparently four kids, husband, dog, fish, arrogant cat, and out of control linen closet was stressing me out. I could leave or drink wine. I took the road less traveled and that has made all the difference...

But I digress, back to the pillow cases. I decided Larry's office also needed a makeover. I'm on a roll, move along, or get squashed. He has these samples stored in piles of boxes all over the room. It's not the first thing I want people to see when they enter my house. His office is positioned opposite the front door. That was a mistake of epic proportions. What's done is done. I flutter around saying things like, "he just got a shipment or he's reorganizing, this will all be gone in a week," which is a total lie. They've been there for a year and I see no indication that he was planning to store this mess any time soon.

Clearly he needs two shelves in my linen closet and I throw myself into the work. This is when I stumbled upon the embroidered pillow cases. They have yellowed over time but it makes them look vintage. I washed them up and this inspires me to revamp the guest room. It is now appropriately called the mermaid room due to the adorable bedding I spent a fortune on and Amazon happily delivered to my doorstep. I pulled out the old sleigh bed and replaced it with two twin beds. The bedding is now all color coordinated, it is adorable if I say so myself, and those two little pillow cases blend in perfectly. Who knew? I'm so happy with all of my little projects I might tackle the kitchen next?

I noticed Larry is developing a rash. Strange? I feel refreshed and unencumbered. I think I even lost a few pounds. My daughters had memory boxes instead of hope chests. I might rethink this strategy. We  take our "hope" with us when we move out but for some reason the memory boxes get left behind. I think there is a message embedded in all this? Don't you?

Barbara Kingsolver says, "the very least you can do in your life is to figure out what to hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope." It all started with two pillow cases. Forty years later I'm decorating a room for my granddaughters. Who could have ever imagined my greatest joys would be resting their heads on pillowcases I embroidered with girlish dreams and a lot of hope.



I'm Living in the Gap, drop in anytime, it gives me hope!


What are you hoping for? Leave a few notes in the comments (I almost said closet) give me something to do besides redecorating. My husband would be grateful. 

It All Started with a Google Search

By Cheryl Oreglia

That's right, it's Google search time my friends, my first at bat so to speak, and I'll admit to wanting to knock it out of the park.  It's a bit of a hack job but at least I tried. Apparently there are rules for these quick writes and I'm a avid rule follower. 

• Start a random search string in Google (or could be from one of your previous searches) 
• Choose one of Google’s suggestions
• Write up a post (or some flash fiction if you’re feeling really creative)

My google search began with a search on the meaning of the word google. I assumed it would give me something of interest. I found out, "Googol is a mathematical term for a specific number that is written out as the numeral 1 followed by 100 zeros. According to Brin and Page, the theory behind selecting a name based on this extremely large number is to reflect the mission of Google to organize a potentially infinite amount of information on the Internet." So naturally I googled stories that involved math and infinity. 

“There are infinite numbers between 0 and 1. There's .1 and .12 and .112 and an infinite collection of others. Of course, there is a bigger infinite set of numbers between 0 and 2, or between 0 and a million. Some infinities are bigger than other infinities. A writer we used to like taught us that. There are days, many of them, when I resent the size of my unbounded set. I want more numbers than I'm likely to get, and God, I want more numbers for Augustus Waters than he got. But, Gus, my love, I cannot tell you how thankful I am for our little infinity. I wouldn't trade it for the world. You gave me a forever within the numbered days, and I'm grateful." John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

Of course the whole "Fault in Our Stars" thing got me thinking about the Fourth of July. Right? New search: 4th of July - A celebration that dates back to the American Revolution. On July 2nd, 1776, the Continental Congress voted in favor of independence, two day later delegates from 13 colonies adopted the Declaration of Independence, drafted by our very own Thomas Jefferson. And the rest is history. 

A little known fact is that John Adams believed that July 2nd was the correct date on which to celebrate the birth of American independence, and would reportedly turn down invitations to appear at July 4th events in protest. Adams and Thomas Jefferson both died on July 4, 1826—the 50th anniversary of the adoption of the Declaration of Independence. Makes you wonder about the synchronicity of things. 

Which brings to the brink of some marginal flash fiction. This is not my forte, but I made an attempt, because I'm a rule follower like our founding fathers. Keep in mind I'm at the lake, packed house, and sleep deprived. Okay, that's my apologia, read on.

A Fourth of July story of death, betrayal, and mistaken identity

She pulled the cold trinket from her coat pocket, a small replica of the liberty bell, it felt heavy in her sweaty palm. It's the third of July, the bells have been on sale all week, along with an assortment of fireworks, and brightly colored banners. She has never stolen anything in her life. What made her take this from Mel's Hardware Store today? On the eve of a horrendous personal tragedy? It's late, she wasn't thinking straight, maybe she'll return it tomorrow. 

As she slips the key in the front door, it opens unexpectedly, her identical twin emerges in the doorway, "You look like you just committed a crime Helen," Tori giggles. The trinket slips to the ground where the sound of the clanking bell seems to collaborate her sister's statement. Helen snatches up the contraband before it rolls off the porch, jams it back in her pocket, and steps quickly into the house. You can hear the sound of the wheels skidding on the loose gravel as the car speeds away with Tori and her gaggle of friends.

On the verge of sleep, the sound of an incoming text makes Helen sit up in bed, and reach for the phone on the nightstand. She knocks over the stolen bell in the process, but she lets it go so she can read the text, "I saw what you did today Helen, hope it was worth it?" The text is from a blocked number. She froze. 

As the night turns into day Helen continues to pace in the small room. She is painfully aware of the consequences for stealing. She lives in the small town of Hackalim, tucked away in a remote part of the Appalachian Mountains, almost forgotten by mainstream society. The crime rate is negligible, especially when justice is swift, and irreversible. What possessed her to take something that didn't belong to her? She knew the answer long before the question formed in her mind. It is her private rebellion and the liberty bell is the perfect symbol. It's cracked and imperfect but the inscription at the top reads, "Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof." 

A second text came in mid morning, Helen fearfully glances at her phone, "Amputations at noon, are you ready?" She fainted, holding onto the phone with her left hand, unable to shield herself from the fall. Gashing her head on the metal coffee table as she went down, Helen lands with a thug on the hardwood floor, the blood slowly pools around her limp body. 

She watches her motionless body, wrapped in a crisp white sheet, from a distance. She seems to be hovering near the back of a sterile hospital room, detached, but fully alert. The only thing keeping her body alive is a machine, that forces air in, and out of her lungs. She is on the fourth floor of the St. Stephen's General, but she is not in her body, how could this be? 

Five years earlier Helen was accused of steeling a rare book from the library downtown, but the accusations were false, she was no where near the library on that faithful day in July. Her right hand was amputated before her innocence could be established. It wasn't fair. She never found out who accused her of this crime. 

It was past midnight when the door slowly opens and she watches a nondescript shadow slip into the room. It approaches her unconscious body, bends to whisper in her ear, "I'm sorry..." As soon as the confession manifested itself into the world Helen's heart stopped beating, it was the Fourth of July, Independence Day, and finally the truth had set her free.

Where have your google searches taken you? 


I'm Living in the Gap, drop in anytime! 

I'm Sitting in Her Place

By Cheryl Oreglia

This morning I am sitting in my mother's place. It's early morning at the lake, the weather is as off as my mood, foggy, cool, placid. There is movement on the water, always movement, flowing north. Early morning is the best time at the lake. It is quiet and peaceful. Sleep still has me in it's grasp but the day is gently pulling me away. My thoughts last night, this morning, tomorrow are focused on Mom. I wish she were here, sitting in her spot at the end of the long green couch, the part of the couch that forms a lounge chair, feet up, covered with a brown furry blanket, gazing at the lake, sipping warm coffee, just as I am now.

"You want to come up to the lake?" This is the one question I always got a "yes" from mom, even when we have fallen to the ground in the poring rain, and hit rock bottom. She loved being up here as much as I do and this does not surprise me because so much of who I am is wrapped up in her. When I was young I fought against our similarities, the last thing I wanted to be was my mother, now it is all I want. 

I want to know who she thinks will win the bachelor next season, I want to watch her play Safeway monopoly, exclaiming over a free donut, I want to share coupons, exchange recipes, walk to the clubhouse, sit in the sun. I want to know how she got the stains out of the carpet, the orchid to survive, I want to enjoy a glass of wine with her after five, with ice, and only one. I want to go bra shopping for my birthday, I want to know what she's reading, I want grab a bite at the Outback. I want to have her like she had me and I want her sitting in her place. 

I want her laughing at my stories. I want to see her silly comments on my blog. I want to know what to plant in the full sun and under the arbor. I want someone to remember me at five, sixteen, thirty-one, forty-nine, and fifty-seven. I want the woman who loves my imperfections and knows how to vanish my fears. I want to talk with her about my dad because she loved him the most. I want her to help me organize my hall closet and pick out bath towels. I want her to watch my grandchildren grow. I want her to ask me about my day, my students, my lesson plans. I want her memories, her love, her seasons. 

I had the gift of my mom this mother's day. I don't know if I'll have her next time this day comes around so maybe it's time to start acting as if every day is her day. She is sick and has been for almost a year. It's a gift but one that comes with many obligations. I see her often, her spirit is there, but the woman who raised me is missing. She is so soft, small, quiet. She is doing the work of the dying. This is as laborious as birth, just as important, just as painful. 

Helen Keller says, "Death is no more than passing from one room into another. But there's a difference for me, you know. Because in that other room I shall be able to see." I think this is true for all of us or at least I hope so. Sometimes death comes out of nowhere and there is no time to process, appreciate, prepare. But the gifts we leave behind are always available. The way a person makes you feel, allows you to be yourself, honors your journey by their very involvement in your life. That is a choice and that is the gift. Stay present, stay in, this is the only way to leave behind the gift of you. 

I remember when one of my children came down with a strange illness the doctors could not diagnose. I was a mother of four children and I knew he was really sick. I would lay next to him in bed for hours, offering water, because he was too weak to hold the glass. I would memorize every aspect of his face. I lived in fear that I would lose him. I counted the freckles on his perfect nose, the thick eye lashes slightly crusted with sleep, the shape of his lips. I noted the brow line, the soft blond hair that framed his face. The perfect ears so evenly spaced. The pink cheeks I kissed repeatedly. He survived and the memory of him at six is etched in my brain forever.

My girlfriend Deborah recently lost her mom and she instinctively did the same thing. She memorized aspects of her mom to keep with her forever. I remember doing this with my Dad but that backfired a bit because I couldn't move past the last embrace, the last time we made eye contact, the last kiss good-bye. My lovely therapist/best friend Christine warned me not to stay in the last moments, to move back to the memories, the gifts that we get to keep. 

I know I am nearing the end of my time with mom so I going to memorize her face, the arthritic hands marked with age spots, the farmers legs I massage with lotion, but mostly the moments when I get to see her smile. I won't stay here too long. Her real gifts are so connected to who I am and I'll carry those with me into this wild wonderful life. The love of libraries and reading, antique stores and strolling, soup and egg sandwiches, dogs and cats, planting in the spring. I'm sitting in her place literally and figuratively because that is what I have of her, the present, and the future she gave me as my mother. 

"It began in mystery and it will end in mystery, but what a rare and beautiful country lies in between." Diane Ackerman

The Final Approach

By Cheryl Oreglia

I've been learning about growing old for so long I failed to realize I'm approaching the runway myself. 

When I was young I didn't give aging a thought until my grandfather had a stroke. I spent a lot of time with him in recovery, after his brain had changed, and he no longer had access to his short term memory. This only left the present available to him but I noticed how a lifetime of experience filtered into his wisdom. I believe this is what we revere most about the elderly. I remember asking for advice one morning about my future. He was quiet, I waited, and finally he said, "Do what makes you happy. That's all that matters." It would be our last conversation. 

"Along with aging comes life experience, so in every way that is consistent with even being human, Leia has changed." Carrie Fisher

I remember the first time I watched a grown man cry. He was mourning the loss of his only brother. A death that happened nearly twenty years ago. He came home from high school to a distraught mother, and the only thing she told him was his brother had died, much later he would learn it was suicide. He never got to say good-bye. Out of shame his parents did not hold a memorial and they rarely spoke of him, "it was as if he never existed." I believe "he thought he could not go any closer to grief without dying, [then] he went closer, and did not die," Mary Oliver (adapted). I learned that grief must be given its time, as a way of honoring life, or we are left clinging to it's fleeting presence. 

"Grief doesn't have a plot. It isn't smooth. There is no beginning and middle and end." Ann Hood

The most important lessons I learned from my dad had to do with fishing. He was formed from a generation of hard workers, which gave his life purpose, but at his core he was a fisherman. Fishing requires patience, persistence, intuition, and knowing your limits. This tells you a lot about my Dad. (I think he was an extraordinary catch.) When his health began to fail my sister Nancy and I spent as much time as possible in the Northwest. I remember the day he told the doctors he was done, "I want to go home, I can't take any more treatments, I'm tired." Oh how we wanted him to press forward, to never give up, to live in the worst kind of agony because we were not ready to let him go. But he was a fisherman, he lived on his own terms, and he knew his limits. I learned about courage from my Dad, the importance of catch and release, and now his 'sole' lives on in me. 

"Aging is not lost youth but a new stage of opportunity and strength." Betty Friedan

In a recent dream I stood mesmerized by a younger version of my Mom, sitting cross-legged on the floor, laughing with a child. When I woke up there was moisture in my eyes. I was crying in my sleep. I miss her youthful vibrancy as much as I miss my own. She is in a challenging bout with cancer and has decided to stay in the fight even though the risk of permanent injury is likely. She has not become a shell of her former self, she has become a new creation, and I now realize this stage of life is as important as the rest. She is a fighter and from her I've learned "impossible is nothing." I believe her final achievement will be defending her journey's end.  

“We’re not the Faster-than-the-Speed-of-Light Generation anymore. We’re not even the Next-New-Thing Generation. We’re the Soon-to-Be-Obsolete Kids, and we’ve crowded in here to hide from the future and the past. We know what’s up – the future looms straight ahead like a black wrought-iron gate and the past is charging after us like a badass Doberman, only this one doesn’t have any letup in him.” Tim Tharp

My priorities have drastically changed at this elevation, I might be in a slow descent, but I have a ways to go before the lights of the runway guide me home. The things I thought were so important in my youth are of no interest to me today. The paint on my core is fading, but the structure is sound, and still a worthy of flight. I think less about what you think of me and more about what I think of myself. Soaring above the clouds, searching for something new each day is now my goal, and I can still manage a loop-de-loop when need be. 

"There are 30,000 days in your life. When I was 24, I realized I'm almost 9,000 days down. There are no warm-ups, no practice rounds, no reset buttons. Your biggest risk isn't failing, it's getting too comfortable. Every day, we're writing a few more words of a story. I wanted my story to be an adventure and that's made all the difference." Drew Houston

I'm Living in the Gap, drop by anytime. 

Emergency Room Epiphany

Cheryl Oreglia

Pacing outside of Good Samaritian's ER, I wait for the transport van to arrive with Mom, it's starting to rain, which is apropos for my mood. Her white blood cell count is almost undetectable, blood pressure dangerously low, and she's anemic. I blame the chemo but dehydration might also be a culprit. Her oncologist decided she needed to be admitted to the hospital for closer observation and some fluids. The transport driver pulls her out of the van, I have just enough time to say "I'm here" (you're not alone), before they wheel her through the red portal, boldly labeled - No public entry. I'm instructed to check in with the receptionist. 

If you've ever been to an emergency room, than you know it's a unique experience, and yet the same wherever you go. I walk into a dilapidated room full of grey plastic chairs, three vending machines, and one television loudly broadcasting the food channel. The first thing I notice is the moaning, than the blood stained clothing, and finally the blue barf bags that I visually try to avoid. I'm confronted with vacant or frightened expressions everywhere I turn. The intake nurse is swamped. 

I lean in to get noticed and she says, "Can I help you?" (with a strident tone I might add)

I think it is obvious but I say, "Yes, my mom was just brought in, can I wait with her?" 

"No, sit down, we'll call you went she gets assigned a room."

I'm carting around three large bags, filled with medications, tennis shoes, pajamas, extra socks, toiletries, medical cards, a computer bag, and a purse of my own. I set them in the chair next to me and browse my twitter account on my iPhone. I know I'm in for a long wait. The pale young woman across from me is nauseous, she's carrying around one of those barf bags, and she can not complete a sentence without saying "fuck." Her mother is completely unfazed. I consider moving to the other side of the facility but there are no vacant chairs. There is a man with a bloody bandage on his foot, a woman who is holding her head, and a teenager with a horrible cough. I wish I had a mask. 

An older man with chest pains, a child with what appears to be a deep laceration on his arm, and a woman with stroke symptoms are all quickly whisked into the system. The rest of us wait with our worries and our ailments. 

Forty-five minutes pass when I notice a lull at the front desk. I approach the woman tentatively, "Can I go see my mom now?"

"Name"

"Ruth Johnson"

"Room 18, through the doors, on your right." (I think I would still be sitting here if I didn't ask) 

They usher me through an alarmed door, I feel as if I've been accepted into an exclusive club, but no, it's just another waiting pen. In emergency they put people into three categories: going to die regardless of treatment, might die if not immediately treated, treatable but not urgent. I'm not sure what category mom was dumped in but I imagine it was the last group. I find her jammed in a small cubby, one plastic chair next to the gurney, she's hooked up to to an IV, and several monitors. I dump the bags on the floor and sit down.

"Great necessities call out great virtues," Abigail Adams

Thank God I grabbed my computer. While mom sleeps, I browse my social media accounts, when I literally stumbled upon Seth Godin's recent blog. It was just too serendipitous to ignore. Seth argues that we can triage our opportunities. For example, I was recently invited to write a guest post for a popular blog, attend a writer's conference in Michigan, and take an on-line scripture course for professional development. So if I triaged these opportunities I would say the guest blog is going to survive, the writer's conference is out of the question (my mom is in ER and my daughter is about to deliver twins), and the on-line course will need to be postponed until the summer. Done. I didn't go to my customary 'no' because I was able to reduce some of the anxiety by triaging the opportunities. 

Opportunity triage by Seth Godin More opportunities come knocking than we know what to do with.They often come enshrouded with hassle, perceived risk and the need to overcome inertia. It's easier to just say no. And so no becomes the default, a habit, it's easier than discernment. Do you and your organization have a method to sort the opportunities out?In emergency rooms, they put people into three groups: Gonna die no matter what, going to be okay if we help them eventually, and needs help right this moment. By prioritizing where to focus, they serve the patients who can benefit the most. What happens if instead of ignoring opportunity, you triage it?

The more important question is can we triage our writing projects? I always have several drafts in the works. Some almost write themselves with just a little nip and tuck before publishing, others need to be deleted, and one or two might survive if I give them a lot of attention. Categorizing my works helps me to prioritize my focus. I can stop trying to mend the ones that will never work, spend more time with the ones that have potential, and a light edit for the rest. I spend five minutes browsing through my drafts deleting and categorizing. I feel so accomplished, I cast an eye on mom's blood pressure, and I can see she is stabilized.

Five hours later they move us from emergency to a permanent room on the fifth floor. It's almost eight o'clock at night. I have three drafts ready to publish, the rest I deleted, and mom is on solid ground. 

I'm Living in the Gap, drop-in anytime. I also write for Across the Board, a diverse group of writers, with an array of talents. And a guest post for OTV is coming up soon. 

I'd love to engage with you in the comments! What are you waiting for?

If Only...

By Cheryl Oreglia

"The willingness to consider possibility requires a tolerance of uncertainty." Rachel Naomi Remen

If only...he hadn't noticed the young man coming out of the neighbor's house, carrying a non-describe box, and casually toss it in the trunk of a car. Nothing gets by my husband Larry. No sir. It's Fat Tuesday (which has nothing to do with this story), as Larry rounds the corner to our block, he immediately notices an unfamiliar car, parked in an odd place, male occupant sitting suspiciously behind the wheel, with the engine running. He pulls to a stop right next to the car, gives the driver his best 'this is my neighborhood' look, but he is not intimidated. Not in the least.

This is when two more young men emerge from the neighbor's house carrying various items. Larry promptly pulls out his iPhone to capture a few indiscreet images, the said car moves slowly away, as the young men jump inside one by one. The last guy out of the house has to run along the street to catch up to the departing car, he leaps through an open door, and they take off like a bullet train, Larry in hot pursuit. 

If only....Larry wasn't adamantine by nature this would be the end of the story. He has the 911 dispatcher on the phone, she repeats in a loud authoritative voice, "do not pursue the said vehicle," "I repeat, do not pursue the vehicle." This litany of advice is running through the blue tooth device connected to Larry's car as he blatantly pursues the alleged criminals out of the neighborhood, left on Midway, hurling down Bent, screeching onto Leigh Avenue, both cars approaching a hundred miles per hour as they skid onto Hamilton Avenue. 

Try to remember this is Campbell not Miami and Larry is no Don Johnson. He asks if there is a patrol car anywhere in the vicinity but the dispatcher only wants the address of the invaded house. When he gives her the address, she promptly switches him from emergency to Campbell Police Department, essentially cutting off his chances of alerting a patrol car as to their location.

Larry decides his best option is to return to the scene of the crime. Four police cars arrive and they determine the empty house had indeed been broken into. The residents are out of town and a missing UPS package left on the porch was likely the only enticement needed for these cruising bandits to target the house. After running the plates from Larry's images they found out the car in question was stolen. Which means the young men will never be found or prosecuted. In incredible detail our neighbor's surveillance camera catches the entire episode on tape. 

From a wide-angle perspective the details unfold, including Larry rolling up to the crime scene, the brazen behavior of the young men, and finally Larry taking off in hot pursuit. The young men are wearing hoodies so their identity is impossible to make out. It's so frustrating. Larry decides to hide his car in the garage for a few days in case the perpetrators return for a little revenge. By the time I return home, the story has been circulating the neighborhood for hours, with each telling the details grow exponentially, and a bottle of wine is required for a proper narration. 

"I can't believe you chased a gang of criminals down Leigh Avenue going a hundred. They could of shot at you or worse." 

"What could be worse?"

"They could of beaten you to death with a baseball bat."

"They were bold, it was the middle of the day."

"I thought the suburbs were safe?"

"Honey, we're not in Kansas anymore." (We lived in Kansas for about three years when we were first married so it's sort of an inside joke - Haha)

"Try to remember that next time you have the urge to don your Superman cape and save the day."

We keep his car tucked away for the next few days, until Larry has to go out of town, and wants my car in the garage for safety purposes? That's sweet but his car is like a beacon for angry delinquents. Right? As luck would have it the first night I am all alone in the house. I'm an adult, I can sleep alone in my own house, two down from the one that was recently robbed, of which my husband tried to single handedly apprehend the perpetrators. I'm fine and in my back pocket I have my sisters house, seven minutes away, with an empty guest room. She says I can come over anytime. I assume that includes the middle of the night...wouldn't you?

I secure the house twice, make sure my phone is fully charged, and leave on several lights in case I need water or something. It's late before I try to sleep because I binge watch Grace and Frankie for a few hours, it's a light comedy, and I think it might help me sleep. Then I play a few rounds of solitaire on my iPhone, call my sister again, work on a blog, refresh my water. I finally turn everything off and give the Rosary a try, somewhere between the third and forth decade, I dose off. At exactly 2:00 a.m. in the morning I wake up for absolutely no reason.

If only...the light in the hall didn't suddenly go dark. My breath catches in my throat, I sit straight up in bed, straining my ears for the slightest indication of an intruder, although difficult to hear over the sound of Shaggy's snoring (my fearless Portuguese Water dog). I know, it's like I'm staring in a B rated horror movie, I expect Jack Nicholson to appear, "Heeere's Johnny." I figure they are waiting me out and I have to remind myself to breath. Eventually I pull on a sweatshirt, drag Shaggy off his chair, and decide to inspect the house. I first check the light switch in the dark hall, if that thing goes on, I head straight to my sisters. The bulb is dead, a minor detail, I remain on high alert. I secure every damn door before peaking out the front window, searching for suspicious activity, grateful not to hear, "Wendy, I'm home." I head back to bed even though I am not convinced of my safety. I lay awake counting the people most likely to attend my funeral until the alarm sounds at 5:50 am (if you must know I counted eighty-six and that includes second cousins). 

If only...it wasn't spirit week at Notre Dame, I wouldn't have to dress like a zoo animal this morning, and try to maintain control of a bunch of hyped up students when I'm exhausted. I notice my throat is itchy, not a good sign, and my sense of humor is AWOL. I'm so tired I don't even dry my hair, I just slap on these tiger ears I dug out of the costume bin in the hall, attach a tail to my ass, and drive to work gulping down a third cup of coffee. Let me just say it was a loooong day. I have to pick up a few things at the grocery store on my way home. I couldn't figure out why I was getting such odd looks until I got home and realize I had not de-tigered myself. It happens.

If only...it wasn't Lent and I could have a glass of wine. 



Come visit me at Living in the Gap, drop-ins welcome!