I attended my first PNWA Writer's Conference at the Seattle Airport Hilton on July 30, 2009. My friend, Cheryl Sears, and I both submitted entries to the Literary Contest; she in Adult Short Topic (Article/Essay/Short Memoir) and I entered the Mainstream Category. We both were finalists.
We got to the hotel and checked in and were thrilled we got a room with two beds. What we didn't know is that our room rested over a quarter mile from the convention center. In fact, it is probably closer to a half mile. Luckily, Lilith Saintcrow warned me to wear walking shoes so I left my strappy little rhinestone sandals with the four inch heels at home and wore my black, lace-up, old-lady shoes instead.
Cheryl and I set sail across the parking lot in the 108 degree heat into the convention center and received our registration information in a lime-green shoulder bag. Surprisingly, they even included a nice, fat pen and a pad of yellow paper. We spent fifteen minutes trying to figure out how to tie the little lanyards onto our name badges and affixed the black "finalist" ribbons.
I hove to in the “How to Choose the Sessions That Are Right for You” class. Although all the speakers were excellent, Royce Buckingham had me completely enthralled. After thirteen years of rejections, he has now sold a book and the screenplay of the book.
Next came the “How to Pitch to Agents and Editors Without Being Pushy”. This whole concept of pitching to an agent or editor was so new to me that my sails started flapping in “information overload” within ten minutes. I think I’ll need one-on-one remedial tutoring on this subject.
In the “Writer’s Café” they had tables set up where you could chat with other writers. I met Ben Barrett, also a finalist in the mainstream category. His book sounded so interesting I felt a fair wind blowing with excitement. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that an agent will shake out the sails and run with it.
At the dessert reception that night we heard Terry Brooks, who has over twenty New York Times bestselling novels. I could barely claw my way across the harbor the three-quarters of a mile back to my room that night, and slithered into bunk, asleep before the leather of my shoes had a chance to cool.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Sunday at the Ballpark
We are lucky to have a triple A baseball team in Portland. It is easy to get to PGE Park, the tickets don't require hocking your car and signing over your firstborn and there is usually a little breathing room around you. Normally the baseball is very good too. Today it was just a little too good. It was almost a shut out...on both sides.
My parents are settling in to the Northwest and decided a baseball game was in order. I met Nina and Laurent and my parents at the game. My daughter, Kelly, also met us there. We scooched into our seats with the required hot dogs, colas, popcorn and pretzels and the game began.
About the seventh inning, Nina and I quit routing for just the Beavers. We began routing for the Royals too. In fact, we began to plan that the next scoreless half of an inning, one player would have to leave and a random draw of the audience would have to go in to replace the player. We didn't want to be there for seventeen scoreless innings. I mean, when there are scores mounting on both sides--or even hits--it is fun to watch, but the most exciting event in the game (up until the only run) was when one of the teams walked two in a row. Finally the Royals got a run and the Beavers made some great plays and the game ended in only the nine innings. Whew.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Settling Down
My sister, Nina, has assured all the relatives that the parents are over the worst hump and are settling into the Northwest. Things aren't as bad as people have led them to believe. It doesn't rain every day here. We have lovely summers, just like in other states. Last year our summer was on a Wednesday.
Seriously, the mosquitoes in Massachusetts were hearty creatures, capable of carrying small children off into the woods. Here, one may find a sun break and laze about without fear of bites...from mosquitoes, at least.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
The Arrival
Things went surprisingly smooth today. I got on the road at 8:45 to drive the hour to Wilsonville. The car wasn't there yet. When I got there Laurent and Nina offered me homemade bread with homemade peach jam and a latte. What can put a person in a better mood than that?
We went out in the garage to make sure everything was out of the way. My mother pointed to a chair and told me she hadn't wanted to bring it. It was falling apart. I looked it over and she was right. We took an axe to it and broke it up into pieces, which Laurent put in a black garbage bag and I stuffed it into my car to take home for my garbage collection on Thursday.
In the early afternoon, the truck arrived. Lori, the driver, jumped out and had to move the Ferrari from the bottom to the top and then she had to back the Cuda out. Finally, she used her air compressor pump up the Buick's flat tire so she could back it out.
We did have to enlist some help from the neighbors because the Buick isn't running. They pushed the Buick out onto the lift gate and then out into the street.
That was the easy part. Then they had to push it into the garage.
Then Lori packed the Cuda back into the truck under the Ferrari.
Close the door.
Buick safe and sound.
And off Lori goes.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
The Phone Call
Today I drove to Wilsonville and met with my sister, Nina, and my parents. They've been to several different places to look for a place to live. Today, we went to an independent living senior center for a tour. The tour took a long time and I got worn out. If you didn't need a scooter before moving into one of those places, you'd need one within a week. Those halls are long and my legs are short.
At five minutes after five we got floor plans and price lists and menus and calendars of events and packed them all out to my sister's car. The parents got in and fumbled around with their seatbelts as Nina's phone rang. "Hello?" She squinted so she could hear better, and waved her hand in the air to silence us. "Oh, yes, the car. When are you arriving? Five minutes?"
Four indrawn breaths sucked the air out of the car.
"Oh, you're joking...when...tomorrow...okay...what?...cash or cashier's check...okay, great...see you tomorrow."
"Was that the car carrier about the Buick?" my mother asked.
"Yes," Nina answered. "It will be here tomorrow. She is going to find a place to stay tonight about three hours away from here, so it will be early tomorrow."
"Great," we all said together. I could barely wait to see the car again.
My sister put the car in gear and rolled forward toward the front gate. "Yes. Did you know they needed $2,500 in cash or cashier's check?"
My eyes widened. I did vaguely remember that. I glanced at my mother in the front seat. Her eyes were wide and glassy, like a deer in the headlights. She just stared at Nina.
"Yeah, I kind of remember them saying that," I said. "Did you remember that, Mom?"
She continued to stare like a figure in a wax museum. Drool formed at the corners of my mouth and threatened to slide down my chin.
"Mom?"
"Um...I forgot."
My eyes shot to my watch. At 5:10 on a Saturday afternoon it would be impossible to come up with that kind of money. Why, oh why hadn't I thought to remind my poor parents of this little detail? My mother started digging through her purse. "Seventeen dollars."
Dear Lord.
When we got to Nina's house, they all jumped out and ran into the house with glazed expressions. I unlocked the door of my car and dumped out my ashtray. Three dollars in quarters and eighty-six pennies. It was a good start.
I tipped over my purse and gathered up all the change at the bottom and the crinkled up dollar bills. Nearly twenty more dollars. I mentally calculated how many friends I could call to trade a check for cash. Nina and her husband, Laurent, flew out of the house and crammed themselves into the car, heading for the cash machine. Nina rarely uses the ATM, so when she stuck her card into the machine and punched in her number it said the code did not match the card. She tried again, but it was still wrong. "Ah," she thought, "that must be the wrong card. She searched through her wallet and purse and found another ATM card and shoved it into the machine.
"Card Expired."
The machine did not give it back.
I borrowed Laurent's car and drove the hour to my house to unload the two tables that were my grandmother's and search my house for money. I knew I had some, I just didn't know where or how much. I wondered how many packs of gum I could buy and write the check for the maximum over the sale price for cash back. We have a lot of stores in Vancouver. If I wrote checks at 200 stores, I might get enough. Nina and Laurent were in the process of attempting that very process. Laurent had better luck at the ATM, though. That cut down on the number of grocery stores we had to visit.
Between what we all had on hand and our various stops we managed to scrape up the required cash. Thank heavens they didn't want a million dollars. How do kidnappers expect a person to raise that kind of money in 24 hours. It took us most of the evening, and three different families to raise enough to ransom the Buick.
"Oh," Nina said, "did I tell you it has a flat tire?"
I love AAA. I'm bringing my card tomorrow and calling them. There are no problems that cannot be solved...with Triple A and a bottle of rum.
At five minutes after five we got floor plans and price lists and menus and calendars of events and packed them all out to my sister's car. The parents got in and fumbled around with their seatbelts as Nina's phone rang. "Hello?" She squinted so she could hear better, and waved her hand in the air to silence us. "Oh, yes, the car. When are you arriving? Five minutes?"
Four indrawn breaths sucked the air out of the car.
"Oh, you're joking...when...tomorrow...okay...what?...cash or cashier's check...okay, great...see you tomorrow."
"Was that the car carrier about the Buick?" my mother asked.
"Yes," Nina answered. "It will be here tomorrow. She is going to find a place to stay tonight about three hours away from here, so it will be early tomorrow."
"Great," we all said together. I could barely wait to see the car again.
My sister put the car in gear and rolled forward toward the front gate. "Yes. Did you know they needed $2,500 in cash or cashier's check?"
My eyes widened. I did vaguely remember that. I glanced at my mother in the front seat. Her eyes were wide and glassy, like a deer in the headlights. She just stared at Nina.
"Yeah, I kind of remember them saying that," I said. "Did you remember that, Mom?"
She continued to stare like a figure in a wax museum. Drool formed at the corners of my mouth and threatened to slide down my chin.
"Mom?"
"Um...I forgot."
My eyes shot to my watch. At 5:10 on a Saturday afternoon it would be impossible to come up with that kind of money. Why, oh why hadn't I thought to remind my poor parents of this little detail? My mother started digging through her purse. "Seventeen dollars."
Dear Lord.
When we got to Nina's house, they all jumped out and ran into the house with glazed expressions. I unlocked the door of my car and dumped out my ashtray. Three dollars in quarters and eighty-six pennies. It was a good start.
I tipped over my purse and gathered up all the change at the bottom and the crinkled up dollar bills. Nearly twenty more dollars. I mentally calculated how many friends I could call to trade a check for cash. Nina and her husband, Laurent, flew out of the house and crammed themselves into the car, heading for the cash machine. Nina rarely uses the ATM, so when she stuck her card into the machine and punched in her number it said the code did not match the card. She tried again, but it was still wrong. "Ah," she thought, "that must be the wrong card. She searched through her wallet and purse and found another ATM card and shoved it into the machine.
"Card Expired."
The machine did not give it back.
I borrowed Laurent's car and drove the hour to my house to unload the two tables that were my grandmother's and search my house for money. I knew I had some, I just didn't know where or how much. I wondered how many packs of gum I could buy and write the check for the maximum over the sale price for cash back. We have a lot of stores in Vancouver. If I wrote checks at 200 stores, I might get enough. Nina and Laurent were in the process of attempting that very process. Laurent had better luck at the ATM, though. That cut down on the number of grocery stores we had to visit.
Between what we all had on hand and our various stops we managed to scrape up the required cash. Thank heavens they didn't want a million dollars. How do kidnappers expect a person to raise that kind of money in 24 hours. It took us most of the evening, and three different families to raise enough to ransom the Buick.
"Oh," Nina said, "did I tell you it has a flat tire?"
I love AAA. I'm bringing my card tomorrow and calling them. There are no problems that cannot be solved...with Triple A and a bottle of rum.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
July 28, 2009
Back to the house for last minute items. The plumber never showed yesterday. The sewer contractor is beside himself because he cannot dig up the septic tank and finish the job until the plumber hooks up the house to the sewer line.
Dale called places to donate the van. My parent's paper lady offered to buy the van. My parents agreed and they worked out a contract. The paper lady, Terry, had no problem with parking the van until we could send the title to her in two weeks.
We had a few errands to run and then my mother dropped us off at the Logan Express in Framingham, a couple hours early. We caught the bus and 35 minutes later we gathered up all the luggage in front of the Alaska Airlines terminal. My dad took his suitcase and a carry on. I took my suitcase, my carryon, my mother's computer, his other carryon, my CPAP machine and his other check on bag. I felt like a pack mule. But I really didn't think he could handle more than the two items.
The check-on counter was not open yet. We had to wait an hour. My father gets nervous flying and so he talked continually from noon on. At 1:30 the counter opened and we checked on four bags. We headed for security and my dad took off his shoes and put his one carryon on the belt and tippy-toed through the metal detector. On the other side he slipped on his shoes, grabbed his bag and started off. I was still putting my computer in a bin, my mother's computer in another bin, my CPAP machine in another bin, my computer bag, my mother's computer bag, my CPAP bag, and my shoes in other bins. They stopped the belt when my CPAP came into view and they glanced up at me and glared. "I'm going to run some tests on this," they sneered.
"Dad, dad, wait up." I had the two bins with the two computers, but the bags were on the other side of the CPAP and I had to wait.
My toe hung out of my sock. How did THAT happen. It was fine when I put it on. Honestly it was. I curled my toes under so they wouldn't stick out and saw my father about a hundred feet away, looking around for me. I waved my arms in frantic panic and shifted from one foot to the other. I forgot and my toes stuck out again. They brought the CPAP back and handed it to me with down turned lips. The bags rushed out of the machine now and people were behind me, growling and snarling at the delay...caused by me and my CPAP. I jammed the computers into the bags, zipped the CPAP back into its case, ripped my shoes out of the bin and schlepped the whole mess over to a bench so I could cover my toes with my shoes.
Once on the plane, my father talked, non-stop, poking me in the arm if he felt my attention wavered. This went on the entire trip. My head was splitting by the time the wheels touched down in Portland.
It was 107 degrees.
I glanced around for anyone with horns and a red cape.
My sister, Nina, and her husband, Laurent, picked us up and dropped me off at my car. My daughter came running up with my cats and we loaded up my car with my luggage and the cats and I went home, crawled into the house and staggered down the hall to my bed.
My father went to Nina's house.
Dale called places to donate the van. My parent's paper lady offered to buy the van. My parents agreed and they worked out a contract. The paper lady, Terry, had no problem with parking the van until we could send the title to her in two weeks.
We had a few errands to run and then my mother dropped us off at the Logan Express in Framingham, a couple hours early. We caught the bus and 35 minutes later we gathered up all the luggage in front of the Alaska Airlines terminal. My dad took his suitcase and a carry on. I took my suitcase, my carryon, my mother's computer, his other carryon, my CPAP machine and his other check on bag. I felt like a pack mule. But I really didn't think he could handle more than the two items.
The check-on counter was not open yet. We had to wait an hour. My father gets nervous flying and so he talked continually from noon on. At 1:30 the counter opened and we checked on four bags. We headed for security and my dad took off his shoes and put his one carryon on the belt and tippy-toed through the metal detector. On the other side he slipped on his shoes, grabbed his bag and started off. I was still putting my computer in a bin, my mother's computer in another bin, my CPAP machine in another bin, my computer bag, my mother's computer bag, my CPAP bag, and my shoes in other bins. They stopped the belt when my CPAP came into view and they glanced up at me and glared. "I'm going to run some tests on this," they sneered.
"Dad, dad, wait up." I had the two bins with the two computers, but the bags were on the other side of the CPAP and I had to wait.
My toe hung out of my sock. How did THAT happen. It was fine when I put it on. Honestly it was. I curled my toes under so they wouldn't stick out and saw my father about a hundred feet away, looking around for me. I waved my arms in frantic panic and shifted from one foot to the other. I forgot and my toes stuck out again. They brought the CPAP back and handed it to me with down turned lips. The bags rushed out of the machine now and people were behind me, growling and snarling at the delay...caused by me and my CPAP. I jammed the computers into the bags, zipped the CPAP back into its case, ripped my shoes out of the bin and schlepped the whole mess over to a bench so I could cover my toes with my shoes.
Once on the plane, my father talked, non-stop, poking me in the arm if he felt my attention wavered. This went on the entire trip. My head was splitting by the time the wheels touched down in Portland.
It was 107 degrees.
I glanced around for anyone with horns and a red cape.
My sister, Nina, and her husband, Laurent, picked us up and dropped me off at my car. My daughter came running up with my cats and we loaded up my car with my luggage and the cats and I went home, crawled into the house and staggered down the hall to my bed.
My father went to Nina's house.
July 27, 2009
We trudge to the hotel lobby for the free breakfast in the morning. It is surprisingly good. Coffee, juice, eggs, sausage, cereal, pastries, waffles, fruit, yogurt. We all choose our favorites and sit by the window overlooking the pool. It is 6:30 and we have plenty of time to eat before we have to get to the house.
Dad, don't forget your doctor's appointment. We all stop and stare at each other and then down at the empty plates. My father and mother groan. He was supposed to fast for a blood test.
We roll into the driveway about 7:30. The guy is there working on the sewer hook-up. He is finished, except for the plumber, who should be there soon to hook up the new pipes to the house. I load up the van and rush to the dump first thing. When I come back, my dad takes the van to the doctor. The oriental rug is still in the living room. We did not sell it. There is also a pretty blue oriental-style rug in the office. We forgot about that one. Too late. We have to get rid of it. I roll it up and carry it down to the road with a "free" sign. I start to spread it out by the road and a car nearly slams into the city water inspector truck, who has just pulled up. The lady hops out of the car and grabs the rug and stuffs it into her car. A "thank you" drifts out behind her. Off she goes. It is dangerous stopping on 135.
Aunt Leila and Uncle Jim arrive and we roll up the oriental rug in the living room. This is about 13' by 15'. My dad comes in from the doctor and I back the van up to the front window. Jim and Leila and I heft the rug out the window and yank it into the van. It gets stuck. We get ropes and use leverage. We heave. It moves. We sweat.
They tie the back door to the van down as best they can and drive it home. They are gone a long time and all I can see are huge piles of items that still need to go to the dump. I pace.
They come back and Jim and Leila and I take two loads to the dump. Then they help clean out the van. They pull out a vacuum and we spray it down with febreeze and by the time the man shows up to look at it, you'd never know we'd run at least three loads a day to the dump for the last nine days (except Sunday). The man takes it for a test drive and brings it back. His head is shaking and his mouth is set in a frown. "This van has so much wrong with it you'll be lucky to get $500 for it." He then proceeds to point out every minor little problem, like the flashing lights on the dash, the lit "air bags" light, the grinding noise that is probably the exhaust system, the three bald tires, the dent on the side, etc. Picky, picky, picky, I say.
"So, are you going to buy it?"
He snorts and backs away, shaking his head. He jumps into his own van and locks the doors before backing out.
Good. We didn't have the title anyway.
Charter Communications agreed to come disconnect the television boxes and shut down service. They'd be there "sometime on Monday" and would give no closer time frame. We'd been there since 7:30am. It was now ten after five. We had no chairs. If we sat outside we'd be eaten by bugs. I used my cell phone and called Charter. If the boxes did not get turned in, my parents would be charged. I finally got through the maze of "if you want to talk to us push a button, now push another one, now another, now another, now another" and finally got a human. Well, it sounded like a human. It seems "sometime during the day" means from 8am to 8pm.
I asked if they could tell me when the service person would get there. She couldn't tell me. Sometime before 8pm, she supposed. I mean, please. It is 2009. It is a COMMUNICATIONS company. Are they seriously trying to tell me that at 5:15pm, they cannot call the tech and ask him how much longer before he can get to our house?
Paul Allen would be horrified. They left me on hold for ten minutes. I hung up and called back. I asked for the supervisor. He was curt and didn't seem to care. I explained again that the house was empty, that we had no chairs, that my parents were in their 80s and having to stand, that we had been waiting since 7:30 am and asked if he could please call his service man and find out when he could get there. (If there was time, I could run my parents back to the hotel and come back. If it was going to be just a few more minutes, I would offer to stay and call them to come get me when Charter was through.) He said that the longer I explained these things the longer it would take for him to try dispatch again and that he'd already tried once with no luck.
I offered to make the call on my Verizon phone because it seems to work quite well. But no, he said he'd try dispatch again and that we'd just have to wait. I gave up after 45 minutes of waiting on the phone. I cannot believe there is a company in this economy, that is so completely insensitive and brazenly anti-customer service. It made me actually admire the call centers in foreign countries. All of you who have had any problems with Charter Communications, save yourselves. You have other choices. This is America. You can switch providers (providing you aren't under some sort of contract) and do not have to put up with it. But then, that is just my opinion. I'm sure there might be people who are pleased with Charter Communications. I just haven't met them. (Note to self: check your 401k portfolio to see if you own Charter Communications and sell)
We had pizza in Hopkinton and sneaked back to the hotel in the rental car. I talked my mother into letting me take her computer with me on the plane. My dad has two check on bags and two carry-ons. I have one check on bag and my own computer bag and my mothers and my CPAP machine. We got everything ready to go and fell into our beds. Well, my mother fell into her bed and my father fell into his bed and I gingerly lay down on the hid-a-bed couch. I settled into the bar that slices into the back and closed my eyes, but this is the second night with the bars sticking into my back and I could not sleep. I longed for the rum but it was gone.
I waited for dawn.
Dad, don't forget your doctor's appointment. We all stop and stare at each other and then down at the empty plates. My father and mother groan. He was supposed to fast for a blood test.
We roll into the driveway about 7:30. The guy is there working on the sewer hook-up. He is finished, except for the plumber, who should be there soon to hook up the new pipes to the house. I load up the van and rush to the dump first thing. When I come back, my dad takes the van to the doctor. The oriental rug is still in the living room. We did not sell it. There is also a pretty blue oriental-style rug in the office. We forgot about that one. Too late. We have to get rid of it. I roll it up and carry it down to the road with a "free" sign. I start to spread it out by the road and a car nearly slams into the city water inspector truck, who has just pulled up. The lady hops out of the car and grabs the rug and stuffs it into her car. A "thank you" drifts out behind her. Off she goes. It is dangerous stopping on 135.
Aunt Leila and Uncle Jim arrive and we roll up the oriental rug in the living room. This is about 13' by 15'. My dad comes in from the doctor and I back the van up to the front window. Jim and Leila and I heft the rug out the window and yank it into the van. It gets stuck. We get ropes and use leverage. We heave. It moves. We sweat.
They tie the back door to the van down as best they can and drive it home. They are gone a long time and all I can see are huge piles of items that still need to go to the dump. I pace.
They come back and Jim and Leila and I take two loads to the dump. Then they help clean out the van. They pull out a vacuum and we spray it down with febreeze and by the time the man shows up to look at it, you'd never know we'd run at least three loads a day to the dump for the last nine days (except Sunday). The man takes it for a test drive and brings it back. His head is shaking and his mouth is set in a frown. "This van has so much wrong with it you'll be lucky to get $500 for it." He then proceeds to point out every minor little problem, like the flashing lights on the dash, the lit "air bags" light, the grinding noise that is probably the exhaust system, the three bald tires, the dent on the side, etc. Picky, picky, picky, I say.
"So, are you going to buy it?"
He snorts and backs away, shaking his head. He jumps into his own van and locks the doors before backing out.
Good. We didn't have the title anyway.
Charter Communications agreed to come disconnect the television boxes and shut down service. They'd be there "sometime on Monday" and would give no closer time frame. We'd been there since 7:30am. It was now ten after five. We had no chairs. If we sat outside we'd be eaten by bugs. I used my cell phone and called Charter. If the boxes did not get turned in, my parents would be charged. I finally got through the maze of "if you want to talk to us push a button, now push another one, now another, now another, now another" and finally got a human. Well, it sounded like a human. It seems "sometime during the day" means from 8am to 8pm.
I asked if they could tell me when the service person would get there. She couldn't tell me. Sometime before 8pm, she supposed. I mean, please. It is 2009. It is a COMMUNICATIONS company. Are they seriously trying to tell me that at 5:15pm, they cannot call the tech and ask him how much longer before he can get to our house?
Paul Allen would be horrified. They left me on hold for ten minutes. I hung up and called back. I asked for the supervisor. He was curt and didn't seem to care. I explained again that the house was empty, that we had no chairs, that my parents were in their 80s and having to stand, that we had been waiting since 7:30 am and asked if he could please call his service man and find out when he could get there. (If there was time, I could run my parents back to the hotel and come back. If it was going to be just a few more minutes, I would offer to stay and call them to come get me when Charter was through.) He said that the longer I explained these things the longer it would take for him to try dispatch again and that he'd already tried once with no luck.
I offered to make the call on my Verizon phone because it seems to work quite well. But no, he said he'd try dispatch again and that we'd just have to wait. I gave up after 45 minutes of waiting on the phone. I cannot believe there is a company in this economy, that is so completely insensitive and brazenly anti-customer service. It made me actually admire the call centers in foreign countries. All of you who have had any problems with Charter Communications, save yourselves. You have other choices. This is America. You can switch providers (providing you aren't under some sort of contract) and do not have to put up with it. But then, that is just my opinion. I'm sure there might be people who are pleased with Charter Communications. I just haven't met them. (Note to self: check your 401k portfolio to see if you own Charter Communications and sell)
We had pizza in Hopkinton and sneaked back to the hotel in the rental car. I talked my mother into letting me take her computer with me on the plane. My dad has two check on bags and two carry-ons. I have one check on bag and my own computer bag and my mothers and my CPAP machine. We got everything ready to go and fell into our beds. Well, my mother fell into her bed and my father fell into his bed and I gingerly lay down on the hid-a-bed couch. I settled into the bar that slices into the back and closed my eyes, but this is the second night with the bars sticking into my back and I could not sleep. I longed for the rum but it was gone.
I waited for dawn.
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