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Articles
on Writing, Grammar, and Publishing
by Val Dumond
What's
on Val's mind now?
Val writes
articles on grammar, the art and science of writing, and publishing,
for budding writers and seasoned authors alike. These articles are not
only informative and educational, they're entertaining - written as
only Val can. Enjoy this latest of her articles:
Life
Is a Bird
by
Val Dumond
©
Copyright 2010
Life
is a bird.
4
a.m. Get up early and sing. Find something to eat. Sing some more.
Call to a friend; answer the friend.
6 a.m. Preen the feathers; chirp a bit; fly and dive and swoop
and call. Find more to eat. Wash it down with a drink from a pool.
8 a.m. Fly about with friends; flit about in a bird bath. Twitter
and tweet for yourself.
10 a.m. Pick a fight; fly off and make up. Sing. Fend off a
larger bird; squawk at a squirrel.
Noon: Pull up a worm; catch a bug on the fly.
3 p.m. Sip from a mud puddle.
7 p.m. Find a late snack, sing a lullaby, sleep.
"How
like the bird's life is mine," croaked Sylvia as she addressed
that strange old woman in the mirror. "Routine! That's what it is. Just
move the clock ahead a few hours - like they do every spring - and there
I am. Change the time line of the birds and the rest is me."
The
old woman doesn't address her words to anyone in particular. They're
mostly thoughts that flit through her head. "Don't believe me,
huh?" Sylvia's days can be routine. "Take a look at what I
did yesterday."
4
a.m. Make a trip to the bathroom and go back to bed. Lie still
and try to return to that great dream; ponder the things-to-do list;
remember what life was like when... forget that... you'll just make
yourself cry again. Listen to the birds; they're awake now. Hum a
bit of that tune you and he used to dance to. Wonder if he's still
alive... somewhere.
6
a.m. At last, a good dream. Wonder what it was about. Wish I could
remember them. Might as well pull myself out of bed. Get dressed;
the orange sweat suit is clean. Comb my hair - Jonathan might come
by today. Wouldn't want him to think I'm letting myself go. I do hope
he's settling down to fatherhood; god knows it took him long enough.
He seems happy, but... wonder if I remembered to pick up fresh eggs
yesterday.
8
a.m. Not as forgetful as Amelia says I am. The eggs were exactly
right. Will that girl ever get a real job and put her painting aside?
Must remember to call her and... must remember to buy butter. I'm
sure the birds don't worry about such things; they just hone in on
a bug and there's breakfast. And they don't have to worry about which
juicy worm contains saturated fat.
10
a.m. Amelia called and shouted at me for half an hour about why
I haven't called her lately. She tells me one minute not to bother
her when she's painting, and the next she's yowling about not calling.
Jonathan called to ask about the baby's rash. Why doesn't he ask his
wife? Hauled out the piano and played for a bit. Found one I could
sing, even if the voice is gone. Where does a voice go when you get
old? And why?
Noon.
Amelia showed up with takeout lunch, tacos. I tried to sing my song
to her, but she shushed me. The kids always shush me when I'm trying
to sing. Do I sound that bad? Anyway, the lunch was nice and we hugged
and parted friends. She asked about how I got along with my mother,
and I had forgotten how bad things got before I left home. Bothered
me some. Do daughters and mothers ever get over the growing up process?
"Mom, I'm a grown woman; leave me alone." "Sweetheart,
you'll always be my little girl."
3
p.m. Took my walk. Gotta walk, Jonathan keeps nagging. I've found
the perfect trail. It leads to the coffee shop about five blocks away.
I can rest there a bit and enjoy a quiet cuppa before returning home.
Why doesn't Jonathan ever evoke memories of my father? Raising boys
obviously is different. My friend, Annabelle, called and wants to
take me to lunch tomorrow. I'll go, but reluctantly. She complains
too much about her aches and pains, and sometimes I feel she hates
me for staying healthy. It's the walking, I guess.
7
p.m. The birds have quieted down. Dozed off, I imagine. So did
I. Almost time for Jeopardy! (you have to put that exclamation mark
in there). Got so hungry after my walk, I snacked. Still hungry at
dinnertime and worms didn't appeal to me. Put together a plate of
mac and cheese with a lovely salad, followed by a new frozen dairy
dessert, caramel-vanilla. I wonder if birds ever crave ice cream.
11
p.m. Sleepy time at last, although I know I'll get to bed and
lie awake for a time. I'll sing that song again, the one he and I
used to sing all those years ago. Wonder whatever happened to him.
I know! I'll hum a lullaby; that oughta close my eyes. And I'll add
that line about waking up again. After all, I have to keep up with
the birds. Hmmmm. Goodnight, world!
Sylvia
lived on for several more months. I believe it was until about the time
we moved the clocks back in the fall. She had made peace with her children,
loved the new grandchild to bits, and learned to appreciate her daughter's
artistic talent. She stopped walking a couple months ago. Too hard on
her knees, she said. Then one night she went to bed and must have been
enjoying a dream too much to wake up. Why bother? The birds had stopped
singing.
--
5/12/96
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