WIP - Soren Valor - Day 6

     "Thank you, Mr. Uselman," Sören said, but not feeling right about it.  It didn't seem honorable to earn money for killing birds, not even thievin' crows.  Didn't seem right to take money from Mr. Uselman, either.  The old man would shoot the birds himself if he could only hold the rifle steady, Far had said to Mor, explaining that Otto Uselmann had the shaking palsy.
     "You've done a good job, Sören.  Someday, son, when I'm up in Heaven, if the good Lord'll take me, I'll be holding my Winchester with my eye staring down the barrel and bam! I'm gonna get me them crows," Mr. Uselman said, sighing.
     Sören smiled politely and said, "I sure hope so, Mr. Uselman."
     "Come back in two weeks when I have a fresh round of shot, why don’tcha?"
     "Sure will, Mr. Uselman, thanks again!" Sören waved as he walked down the dirt road humming Gåsvihorn, the tune Far had taught him the previous night.  A sturdy little polska, Far had said, played slowly enough for new dancers to dance the hambo.
     Sören had been allowed to hold Far's nyckelharpa and even try tuning a few of the strings, but he'd had to whistle the tune through his lips last night.
     Uncle Sven owned a durspel.  Even now, Sören felt breathless remembering the time he'd squeezed the bellows and pressed the keys. Out came a too-loud-for-the-closet sound quickly exposing his secret hide-away at Uncle Sven's place. It was hard to believe Far and Sven were brothers the way each had reacted.
     Far had hurried to the closet first. His eyes and lips formed narrow straight lines. He worked his left palm like he was polishing silver. Then big, blond Sven and found them and burst out laughing. “Sören, my son, you’ve ratted yourself out!” Then he’d thumped his brother’s shoulder and said, “Nils, looks like you’ve raised up a replica of yourself, another musician in the family!” Sören was sure music was the only way he resembled his far.

     A glint of metal caught Sören's eye. He turned his head just in time to see a black crow swoop down and pluck up a coin, a dime even, and fly away to a tree limb.  Once landed, the crow guardedly dropped the coin into a hollowed out cavity at the limb's fork.
     It wasn't that high up, Sören mused.  If he stretched, maybe he could...no...it certainly was higher up than that.  He was still shorter than Mor.  Sören looked around. There was nothing nearby that could boost him.  He stepped closer to the tree and tentatively put his arms around it.
     That wasn't too bad.  Maybe he could shimmy up the trunk.  His right hand reached up to find a knot, giving him enough purchase to pull upward and hoist a foot off the ground.  Then his foot wedged in between two deep grooves of the bark and he heaved himself higher.
     Now his right foot was pushing the air, blindly searching for a spot to dig in.  Suddenly he found his foot pushed up a whole half-yard.  He looked down.  There stood Becky Erdmann.
     "Heya, Becky!" he grinned.  "Thanks for helping me, but don't let me hurt you."
     "I'm fine, Sören.  Whatcha looking for up there?  A bird's nest?" Becky asked.
     "I saw a crow drop a coin in a hole up there and I wanted to get it, maybe get lucky and find even more than that," replied Sören.  "Whadda ya know! My fingers can touch something!"
     Sören's index finger poked around the hole, sending crazy messages to his brain. "I feel something sticky and then something thin and round, like that coin, but no, it's got a hole in...it's a ring!  Well, but there's something...ouch!"
     "Sören!  Did something bite you?  What happened?  Also, my arms are wearing out, if you don't mind," Becky said.
     Sören quickly stretched up just enough to grab a handful of mishmash from the crow's stash of treasures.  In doing so, he felt the muscle in his side smart, as if snapped by a rubber band.  "Okay, I've grabbed whatever I can.  I'm going to drop down.  Let go, Becky."
     Becky stepped back as Sören let go of his hold on the tree.  His entire body plunged downward and he found himself suddenly standing so close to Becky, they might as well have been dancing. They both exclaimed in harmony, "Oh!"
     Shyly, Becky shrank back, but then grasped Sören's hand.  "Let me look at your hand," she cried.
     "I haven't even looked at what I nabbed from the bird," Sören protested with a smile.
     "No, I'm not thinking about that, I see you're bleeding," Becky said.
     "Oh, that.  It's nothing.  See?" He held out his finger, surprised to see it was dripping red. "It doesn't even hurt now,” he claimed, but he still wrapped his handkerchief around it. “Let's look at what that bird stole."
     "You mean, what you stole from the bird," she chided.
     Sheepishly Sören nodded his head.  "I guess I stole it, too."
     The two classmates examined the contents of Sören's hand.  A foil wrapper with a wad of chewed gum, “There’s your ‘something sticky’," said Becky. A lady's brooch with its sharp pin resolved the question of what had stuck him.  There was the dime as hoped for, but something much more valuable was underneath it.
     Sören carefully picked up the ring.  He turned it over and fitted on his pinkie.  It just went over the tip.
     "This is a small ring," Sören said.
     "It's a wedding ring," Becky observed.
     "How can you tell?"
     "Look at the inside, there's something engraved.  It's a woman's ring with a cross etched onto the outside.”
     Sören peered at the engraving. "R-R-M" he read. "Do you know anyone with those initials?"
     Becky blushed, but shook her head. "What do you think we should do," she said.
     Sören liked how Becky had joined him in this adventure.  He liked the idea of the two of them solving a mystery together.  He tried not to, but he grinned and remarked, “You’re blushing.”
     "Oh, it’s just me being silly. It’s nothing. Could the ring belong to Mrs. Mork?  Her first name is Rachel," offered Becky.
     "I’m not sure I know her, but maybe it's Moen.  Do you know Mrs. Ruth Moen?"
     "Yes, but Sören, she's, you know, she's not very tiny.  This ring is small."
     "Let's see how it fits on your finger," suggested Sören.
     Becky hid her hands behind her back. "Oh, no.  I don't think so."
     "C'mon, Becky.  Just try it on so we can see how big a person might be who'd wear this ring."
     Sören coaxed Becky's arm from around her back.  He uncurled her fingers and started to slide the ring on her fourth digit.  Becky nearly shouted, "Stop! Let me put it on," her cheeks turning crimson.
     To her amazement, the ring, with pressure, slipped over her knuckle and popped into place at the base of her finger.  But when she went to remove it, it wouldn't budge.
     "Sören, I can't take it off!" she said in alarm.
     "Here.  Hold your hand over your head.  Stick your fingers straight up.  Now let me try." Sören worked at the ring.  He slowly eased it upward, but when he had pushed it to the first knuckle, it stuck.
     "I bet if we used some oil, we'd get it off."
     "I don't have any oil."
     "No, I don't either.  What have you got?"
     Becky gave a half-hearted laugh. "Sören, young ladies don't carry stuff around in their pockets.  We're not boys, you know."
     Sören's eyebrows arched and his eyes widened as he looked at the young woman standing before him, her hand in his.  "No, I can see you're not a boy," he breathed.  "I know, I've got some soap in my pocket."
     "Soap!  Well, at least you're clean.  Let's rub some of that on my finger."
     He dug out the small soap chip that he used to stick a spare fish hook into when he went fishing at Opperman Lake and rubbed the soap on Becky’s finger. With effort, the two of them worked at the ring until at last it flew off.  Sören scrambled on his knees immediately so as not to lose it.  Shoving it into his pocket, he promised to find the owner.  "I'll take it to my far.  He'll know what to do. And Becky, ‘fess up, why’d you turn red when we were looking at the initials on the ring…wait a minute. What’s you middle name?”

Becky clamped her mouth together and slowly shook her head, but a smile crept into her eyes. She squeaked out, “Rose.” 

    Sören laughed, “Ha! That’s it! Rebecca Rose Erdmann…well, that’s not right. The ring’s initials are RRM.” He looked at her bewildered.
    Becky looked up at the sky and drew in a huge breath. Finally she said, “Sören, what’s your last name?”
    “Markusson. But I still don’t get it.”
     Becky stifled an embarrassed giggle and quickly started walking, “Which way are you going?”
     After a pause, the puzzled boy said, “I’m headed home. You?”
     “To home as well, we can walk together for a block or two.”
     Their footsteps fell into a rhythm, each thinking very different thoughts.
     Suddenly, Sören burst out, "You know, the church Octoberfest is in two weeks and I've got a dime now, plus another twenty cents at home.  We could go to and I'll buy you a glass of root beer.  Do you wanna?"
     Becky became shy again, “I’ll think about it,” she proffered. “Maybe if we practiced singing a hymn, I'd be able to make up my mind," she teased. 
     To her surprise, Sören broke out, "For all the saints who from their labors rest, Who thee by faith..." Becky began to sing, too, "...before the world confess, Thy name, O Jesus, be forever blest, Alleluia! Alleluia!"

   

WIP - Soren Valor - Day 5

“A farmer feeds the people, but a poet feeds the soul.”

Sören loved that quote from his teacher, Miss Matchan.  He recited it for his mother once.  She smiled and kissed the top of his right ear.  She was still taller than Sören at that time. Now he’d grown another inch and a half and could look his mother straight in the eye.  It wouldn’t be long and he’d tower over her, he thought.

            A shrill cry from a crow shook him from his reverie.  He looked down at his hands, his index fingers turning yellow at the first knuckle from pulling carrots.  His nails rimmed with dirt. Sören began to stump over on his knees to the next row when his father hollered, “Son, there might not be any green tops sticking out, but there’s still roots in the soil.  Feel around until you’ve pulled them all!”

            He twisted back to his former spot, but lost his balance and sat down without grace on his back end.  “Sören, you’re sitting down on the job!” his sister teased with a broad grin.
  

            He looked over at Sonja.  Her teeth were orange with bits of green leaves between her two front teeth. 

            “What’cha doing eating the green tops, Sonja,” he asked.

She swiped at her mouth and rubbed her tongue along her teeth, imagining what her brother must have seen. “Becky said that Ruthie said carrot tops would make your eyes bright,” she said defensively.

            “Ah, ding-a-ling! I think it’s that carrots improve your eye sight!” Soren retorted.

            “That may be, Mr. Smartie, but I want my eyes to look bright and alluring, too, not only sharp,” she replied.  “A girl’s gotta look her best so’s to catch the right man.”

            Right man.  Right man.  Sören mulled that over in his head.  “What’s looks got to do with the right man?  The right man’s not gonna choose you because you have bright eyes, sister.  The right man’s gonna ask you ‘cause you can cook and sew and raise his children right,” he stated.

            “Ha!  A lot you know, Sören!  You’re never gonna be the right man for anyone with that kind of attitude,” said the apparently-wiser girl, dropping fat carrots into her basket.

            “What do you mean, ‘with that kind of attitude,’  It’s the truth!  A girl needs to be efficient in the home so she can be the housewife,” Sören said, his voice rising at the end of the sentence.

            “Well maybe your wife will be a good cook and seamstress, but I’m gonna get married to someone rich and we’ll buy store-bought clothes and eat at restaurants every Saturday night,” Sonja stated emphatically.

            “Nooo,” Sören lingered on this one word as he formed his next thought. “I want to marry someone just like Mor.”

    
       “Quit your chattering and get to pulling.  You should have had the whole row done by now!” Far admonished.  “Come in for lunch when you’ve finished the field.”

     
      Sören looked down the row and saw that he and Sonja each had two more rows to go. He pulled up another carrot, but this time, took his own bite out of it before tossing it into the basket.  “Yes, sir,” he replied.

    
       “I can tell you now, Sören,” whispered Sonja impudently, “I’m not ever gonna marry someone like Far.”

    
       The boy kept his thoughts to himself, but wondered about his mor. She was gentle with her children as she taught them how to clean and dress a frying hen; she sewed them sturdy clothes for school and church; she never complained about the mess Far made on butchering days even though she always had to clean it up. He loved his mor and she married his far. There must be something about love and marriage he still didn’t understand.

WIP - Soren Valor - Day 4

“I’m ready,” chimed Mr. Wexler, “turn toward me; straighten your shoulders, boy; and the missus, please flatten your collar. You’ve fussed over everyone else, but no one bothered to primp you.”
Sonja quickly scanned her mother’s dress. “You look fine to me,” she pouted, but reached to smooth her mother’s lapel, starting to curl upward.
They all looked at the camera and the flash popped.
“Print up two of them, one for us and the other for the Markusson family in Sweden,” Far stated. “Astrid, you can mail it to my mother.”
“Far, what about Mor’s mor and far? Won’t they want one, too?”
“Usually, Mr. Markusson, I take several photos and you pick the one you like best.”
“The one you took will be fine.”
“Also, each ordered print is $1.17 unless you order five, then each one is $1.05,” Mr. Wexler said.
“A dollar and seventeen cents,” Far grumped, “I could buy over ten gallons of gasoline with that kind of money.”
“Then you go right ahead and buy ten gallons of gas and see how far it gets you,” the photographer shot back at him.
“If I didn’t want to go through this sitting again with another photographer, Mr. Wexler, you can bet your sweet buck-teeth I’d march out of here without paying you a nickel.”
“Nils, let me take the children home now. I’ll address an envelope, stamp it, and drop it off with Mr. Wexler. He can mail the photo out to your parents.”
“What about Mor-mor Gustavsson and Far-far Gustavsson?” Sonja asked again.
“You can draw them a picture,” Far said through gritted teeth, “come on, Sonja. We’re leaving.”
That evening as Sonja and Sören cleared the table from supper, she asked her brother why Far didn’t want to send his in-laws a photo.
“He didn’t want Aunt Marta and Tor to be in the photo.”
“Why would that matter?” she asked.
“Far-far and Mor-mor Gustavsson would want to know what happened to their youngest daughter and their grandson.”
“We could just say that the photo was only of our own family. Why wouldn’t that work?” The dishes were now all in the kitchen and the blond-haired girl began to fill the sink with water already heated on the stove.
Sören shook out the dish towel to dry dishes. “But Sonja, Aunt Marta and Tor are a part of our family. Far just doesn’t want them to be in the photograph.”
“He doesn’t?” she replied, handing her brother a wet plate. “Doesn’t he love them?”
“Yes, he loves them, Sonja. That’s a dumb remark. But he doesn’t love Tor’s far, not at all and he doesn’t want Aunt Marta to be in a picture without her husband.”
“Well, that’s silly, too, Mr. Smarty-pants,” she said, blowing a soapy bubble at him. “Tor’s far is fighting the war over in Europe.”
“Right. But whose side is he fighting on?”
“He’s fighting on…well, I guess I don’t know. I thought he’d be fighting on Britain’s side.”
Sören snapped his dish towel in the air then lowered his voice. “No, see, that’s the problem. Aunt Marta’s husband is fighting for the Nazis.”

Beryllium

Beryllium was once known as glucinum, which means sweet, since beryllium and many of its compounds have a sugary taste. Unfortunately for the chemists that discovered this particular property, beryllium and many of its compounds are poisonous and should never be tasted or ingested.



On the beach to the Baltic Sea, a saltwater body that eventually divests into the Atlantic Ocean, hundreds of Germans along with a few foreigners disrobe as they soak up a tepid sun--even less present throughout the previous season. Close enough to the Arctic Circle to feel the effects of near-polar days and nights during the year, these Germans thirst for sunlight to reset their circadian clock.

My sister, Michelle, and I sit at the back of the sandy, stony beach. I slowly look around at the myriad, white bodies. Many are clothed, but at least a third of the crowd lounges sans textiles. A few intrepid individuals bravely confront the brisk waters.

I think about what I see--small children, school-aged kids, parents, grandparents--clad in nothing but their skin and wonder about the power of our nude bodies. To me, it completely takes away the power of pornography.

While on the one hand, the only bodies that are featured in X-otica-type magazines are truly perfect without sags, wrinkles, or rolls thanks to starvation and the air brush, what I see on the Baltic beach has little resemblance to the centerfolds of Playboy. But not only do the bodies look different on this "nude" beach, the range of people does not compare. The patrons of this beach span all ages and include both genders. It would never sell on the magazine rack.

If the human body is normalized and undressed, figuratively as well as actually, so that none of it is forbidden, then what power can others have who wish to exploit it, to profit from revealing its secret caves and knolls?

I made three attempts to submerge in the frosty sea. Upon the second try, I only made it up to my waist before shouting, "Es ist kalt! Es ist kalt!" About fifteen feet away, a man who'd already splashed rambunctiously into the sea, sloshing water on his male companion, grinned at me and asked mischievously, "Wollen Sie helfen?" while fanning the water with his hand.

I stood in the water up to my middle, looking directly into his eyes, both of us bare-naked, and laughed, "Oh, nein! Danke! It's too cold!"

I felt more comfortable naked than in my bathing suit. In my suit, I'm covering something up, worrying about how the suit accentuates the fat that hangs out at my thighs, wondering if the suit shows off the parts of my body that I hope will be attractive.

In the nude, there is no covering up, no pretense and so I am free to be honest and real.

I want to be nude.

WIP - Soren Valor - Day 3 snippet

I wrote a quick snippet this morning using prompts from Charli Mills at her Carrot Ranch writer's blog. Here it is in an unedited version. For Charli's prompts, participants stick to 99 words exactly. Mine, here, is 138 words.

Sonja sneaked downstairs, hoping to be the first one to dig into her Easter basket. She spied Tor, who had spent the night in her brother’s room, popping jelly beans into his mouth.

“You’re not eating any of my candy, are you?” she asked.

“Heck, no. Besides, the Easter bunny only left you some little brown souvenirs,” he teased.

“You mean bunny poop? He did not!” she protested.

“Uh-huh, sure did, my little cousin.”

Sonja stared into her basket, shocked to see small brown pellets.

Suddenly, Tor popped one in his mouth. “They taste good, though, try one!”

“Torsten Martin Gustavsson! Spit that out!” she yelled, mindless of the earliness of the day.

Instead, he scooped them all up and started to eat more. “Funny how they taste like raisins,” he said, laughing with his mouth full. 

WIP Soren Valor Day 2

I've built myself up with expectations so highly I found myself near paralyzed today as I tried to write. I have a dozen qualms about what I ended up doing, but I must go forward if I want to go at all. Today's clip is a revision of a piece I wrote years ago. ALL comments are welcome.

Sören Markusson fiddled with his ready-made bowtie, pulled the shirt collar snuggly around his thin neck then wrapped the ribbon around and fastened the hook and eye. His mother had carefully sewn the hook with extra thread so that he wouldn’t accidently rip it out.

He heard feet run down the hall as he inspected the shoulder of the white oxford he was wearing. The shirt belonged to his father; his own shirt lay folded on the mending pile with space for three buttons that had fallen off and a torn pocket corner.

“Sören,” Mor called from sitting room.

“I’ll be right there,” he replied, tying his shoes, one which squeaked whenever he climbed up the stairs. However, there were no stairs in this studio so he walked swiftly and silently to where the rest of the family had gathered.

His father stood near the window, fidgeting. The slightly balding farmer glanced at his son, but offered no comment or smile. Then Far palmed his hair down and squinted at the camera box.  Wexler Photography, Nils’ brother had advised. Use Wexler and he'll give you a deal. But no deal had yet emerged.

Far cleared his throat and began to massage the webbing of skin between his right thumb and index finger.  Seeing this ritual begin, Sören tensed, knowing it was less a calming technique and more the prelude to something volatile. Then the foot began to tap rapidly.

From behind the camera balancing on a tripod, the photographer said, "One more minute, Mr. Markusson, please! I'm adjusting the meter."

“Don't know why Astrid didn't use the Brownie to take our family picture,” Far growled to Sören. Out loud Nils said, "You push the button, we’ll do the rest!” Then with an edge, “Get on with it, man!"

            "Focus…I'm focusing! Look at my handsome picture of our brave President Roosevelt.  It's on the wall across from you.  Say now, his countenance resembles yours, Mr. Markusson, a look of patience and power."

            Sonja giggled while her brother bit the inside of his lip.  Mor raised her brows at the photographer’s attempt to appeal to Far’s vanity, but winked at her fourteen-year old son. Sonja spoke up, “Our far’s no president, Mr. Wexler!”

Her father leveled his gaze first on the ten-year-old girl and then on the photographer, “Take the picture, Mr. Wexler, or we are walking out of here!”

      Sören clenched his teeth.  Sonja's eyes grew wide as she slid the palm of her hand into her brother’s.

     Suddenly Mor's clear voice cut through the warring air, "Du gamla, du fria, du fjällhöga Nord, du tysta, du glädjerika sköna!"

     Sonja, with a catch in her throat, joined in with the English words they had learned, "I greet thee, thou loveliest land on the earth, Thy sun, thy skies, thy verdant meadows smiling."

    A tear welled up in Far's eye and he abruptly turned back toward the window.  "Å min kära Sverige, my dear lovely Sweden..."

WIP Soren Valor Day 1

I'm leaving in the morning to fly to California. I'll be staying at a friend's house taking care of her cats while she attends to family business elsewhere. My primary goal is to produce a finished first draft of my novel, WIP-Soren Valor.

If you'd like to follow along and offer encouragement, I'd love to have you join me. Each evening--California time, I'll post about how the day went and include a snippet of what I wrote that day.