She means well
By PAT WICK
© Another Day in the Country
Remember when I first started writing "Another Day in the Country" and I confessed that I'd been writing stories for several years but didn't know when I could ever publish them? How long would it be, before these interesting tales could be told? Would everyone have to die? How long would they have to be dead before you could tell something eccentric, funny, slightly wacky, unusual? How long before you could tell the truth without glossing things over? Would it take 10 years or 50?
In order for a story to be interesting, there has to be some pull, a juxtaposition. I often do that cross referencing between city and country life — that makes it easier on me. Our lives can provide the give and take, funny or sad, this and that, old and new.
What I love most is hearing stories from the past. Most of these are names I grew up hearing about and now they are gone. I delight in writing down the real life true stories about these people who've lived in Ramona.
Sometimes people will say to me, "Don't write about that!" And it will be the most mundane story — some gentle little chide, some little faux pas, "We don't want to hurt anyone's feelings," my mother will caution.
I'm always shocked when the mandate is to soften the edge of the story, water down the truth and you then lose the essence — that tension between the lines that makes the story interesting in the first place. Tension is tricky. It can even be dangerous. Someone could take it wrong and I always take that chance.
Last week, when I was writing my story about perfume trails, I started to write about my sister because her new perfume is what brought the subject to my attention. She just splurged a couple of weeks ago and bought an $80 bottle of perfume. Her favorite! She proceeded to wear it liberally and often. Meanwhile our allergies seem to be bothering us more, coinciding with the purchase of the new perfume and finally one day when she crawls into the car, reeking of perfume, and I started sneezing uncontrollably, I finally gasped, "Could it be your perfume?"
Experiences with perfume started coming from everywhere — we could relate. We laughed until we started sneezing again.
When I sat down, finally, at the keyboard to write (perfume free, I might add because our buddy Tooltime Tim is allergic to most perfumes) I didn't write about our bout with Opium perfume because I'm always talking about my sister. Instead I evoked names from the past, people I'd grown up hearing about, who I hope enjoy being remembered. To me, calling out their names is like keeping their legacy alive. And please know, that when I tell their stories I do so with love — they aren't meant in any demeaning way.
As I heard the story of Carrie in the beautiful blue coat with the fur collar infused with the fragrance of Topaz perfume, I smiled. I could have been there in that church because in my mind I knew just where she sat. I smiled again to myself as I told the story I'd been told.
Truth be told, I hope that someday when I'm dead and gone that someone will tell stories about me — about the time I came to church with my new dress on and the price tag hanging down the back, about the winter-time dirt clod I hit on purpose and it really was a dead skunk, about how I got my Indian nickname, Running Bare. By then there will probably be even better tales added to the list. I give you permission right now to tell it like it was, because real life is deliciously hilarious and I am so pleased if you laugh or cry and add a story of your own.
Meanwhile, when you read, "It's Another Day in the Country" say to yourself, "She means well, she tries to get the right slant on a story." And then go do something extravagantly outrageous so someone can tell a story about YOU!
