The Helmsley, aka Writers’ Den, hint for this week is:
In my life?
Where to start.
A mother, father, three kids, two dogs, cat, canary,
and the chicken…
defrosting in the sink
and dragged over,
and into the bed,
by the cat.
Probably in case we get hungry in the night.
Then there are the tent experiences:
A tent in the rain
in the middle of the empty great wide forest.
the rain pours down so hard the sides are soaked,
and you spend the night trying to keep anyone from turning over,
since you know if they touch the tent wall,
you will all float away to Texas on your air matresses.
and the next night,
where Yogi’s bigger,
and un-nicer, brother Bubba
and his little buddy
decide to breath on the tent poles,
nearly melting them in the process,
and here, I really don’t want to guess what he and his bud were eating just before they decided to test just how strong the tensile strength of the tent walls was
by sitting down for a small after- foraging rest.
pan and spoon banging neighbors.
Aparently creating the feeling in the bears
that that since it was New Years Eve,
and this was a very boring party,
it was time to go find the real thing.
Like down at a lumberjack bar.
Which brings us to the uncomfortable food situations-
From a blind girlfriend
who makes wonderful tasting
beautifully cooked food.
As long as you eat with your eyes closed.
(Which is fine with me- she’s a terrific person, and a lot of fun to be around.)
Then there were my college years.
Where, since I was double majoring,
I only got food if I went to the chow hall of the diplomatic school,
or the South American Spanish speaking colleges.
(And a quick “hi” here to all the spread-everywhere in the world UOP P’cans)
Since those were the only places open later than the standard hours.
Resulting in wonderful,
but also sometimes hard to get used to foods,
like three times fried six types of chili peppers,
or baked Guinea pig.
Which was probably why I became a serial vegetarian.
Then there is travel.
And my experience with an over eighty year-old German granny,
who decided to carry a huge self-slaughtered and cured ham,
wrapped in plastic,
and a baby receiving blanket,
across customs to her grandchildren in the US.
And, also, unfortunately, that we were the ones who would help her.
Resulting in one of those “here, you take it” “no, you”
in front of two very astonished,
and not much amused
Although even they were nothing compared to the customs officials who decided my alfalfa seeds were pot.
Oh, and then there was my airplane encounter
with the head of an Indian cult
who had booked the entire first class for him and his (all female) followers.
And who graciously allowed the airlines to put me in their section,
to make serving our non-standard food easier.
After the first of fourteen hours of how great the master was,
I fell asleep.
And slept right through dinner
through the movie,
which must have been something exotic,
or at least in a foreign tongue,
because, for two weeks,
I had dreams of Jeanie and Major Nelson trying to land a flying magic bottle at an aiport in New Dehli.
Or maybe it was Pune.
And here, I could go on forever,
but writing this has made me realize two things:
God has really been good to me
to provide all this color in my life,
it is also good that I experienced, and survived, all of this,
as a writer,
if I had to make all of this up,
I would have continous writers’ block.
copyright Dunnasead.co 2016