Blogging a Book Project

I believe I started this idea awhile back but I am committing myself to do a draft of a blogged book summarizing my years of community development knowledge and practices.  Why am I doing this?  1. To show I can; 2. To have a product I can offer in exchange for emails--something I learned from one of the recent 10West sessions; 3.  Because I am thinking about "closing" that chapter of my life in order to move forward into more uncharted territory.

The question I am posing is what audience do I hope to reach with this kind of book?   Maybe young urban planning professionals, maybe nonprofits who do community development, maybe teachers/faculty who want to offer another resource to students besides the tome of required textbooks.

So--to my few followers out there.  What do you think?  Would you be interested in reading a short and free ebook like this?  And: do you have suggestions for a title??

Photo is by acfonte, taken 10/24/15 at Startup Tucson's first Tucson #10West Art Walk.

Do Happy Today

Do Happy Today

I wrote this in response to a prompt, picking out a photo from the recent obits...Gaye Jordan Dixon, "was freed from the burden of Alzeimer's on October 3, 2015...."

Gaye Jordan Dixon, fictional rememberance by anita c. fonte 10/15

Gaye

Gaye gazed at her face before pinning the cream-colored hat on her auburn hair.  Her nose, she considered for the millionth time, was a bit too round for her to be called pretty.  But its length fitted her face and gently balanced the curve of her definitive brows.  She liked her smile and dotted both lips with her newly purchased Helene Curtis cinnamon-red lipstick.  The silver earrings—something borrowed from her Aunt Meg—poked out beneath her curls and the new hat.  Here it is, the final touch, making me the bride of Hershaw, Virginia. Gaye gaily (yes, she thought, the word today fits me like the hat) swirled around the room.

She was no traditional bride.  The war had broken many traditions.  So her navy jacket informed strangers at City Hall that here was a woman who walked to her own bugles.

 

Bill

Bill was already in the lobby, waiting for her entrance and the click, click, of her leather pumps against the marble floor.  He didn’t often wear his full Navy uniform, but today was an exception.  They were finally formalizing their “matched pair” status.  And about time, too, he thought.  Trying to keep their shared nights a secret from family was getting tricky.  Particularly, Aunt Meg had a sixth sense about Gaye, and the Navy Pharmacy supervisor didn’t approve of any fooling around of his staff.  But, once they were married, they would let go of pretenses and he’d move into Gaye’s two room apartment.

Bill pictured the years ahead of them, once the war was over.  Maybe a couple of kids. Raise them in the mountains out west, open a lumber mill like his dad had done in Virginia.  Sure there would be challenges but they’d face them together.  After the war, no challenge could beat the two of them.

Even, he thought, in our later years, kids grown, he figured they’d find ways to be unretired and stay busy, happy. 

Bill had faith that with his strong constitution, matched by Gaye’s, they would slip into the sunset with smiles on their faces and arms entwined.

 

Yesterday I saved a grasshopper

 

 

Yesterday I saved a grasshopper in the pool. It could not push its legs against the water to fly, so I scooped it out with my hat and placed it on the rough concrete.  While I did my laps, I watched it drying out, moving its wings and flicking its antennae.  It took more than a half hour and I was toweling myself when it moved, one leg at a time across the cement and then pushed.  Like me sometimes, struggling to exercise my stiff joints, there was little grace in its movement.  But move it did and then sprang to a shady bush.  I would like to be that grasshopper, saved by grace and given another chance to live in the summer sun.

 

When I was growing up...

When I was Growing Up, a mini-memoir by anita c. fonte 8/2/15

When I was growing up, the first four words I learned to speak were: tv, bird, cookie, dada. 

TV-- because I watched Howdy Doody and Buffalo Bill.  When I came down with measles, my mom said I looked like Howdy and I cried.  He was a freckled puppet who jerked when he danced, not at all graceful like the dancer who, at five, I wanted to be.

Bird—because their chirps, trills, and colored feathers as they fluttered at the feeder outside my grandmother’s window suggested adventure, beauty, magic.

Cookie—because I loved sweets at all meals.  Breakfast was Rice Krispies and milk, sprinkled with sugar.  Lunch, white bread and butter with brown sugar smeared on both sides of the bread.  Dinner ended with dessert, often my mom or grandmother’s baked sugar cookies dotted with raisins or chocolate chips.  The only kitchen time I enjoyed (and still enjoy) is baking.

Dada—because my dad was a looming figure from toddler-hood through my sixty-five years.  His arms had hands that could lift me above his head or slap me hard.  He had the will to shovel snow off roofs, push lawn rollers over bumps and gopher holes.  His determination was hardened by his childhood poverty and his service in the Army burial corps arriving in Normandy on D-Day plus 2.

 

Remains

Remains (From a prompt in Writers’ Digest July/August 2015)

I ate it—but not all of it.  It was terrible.  That’s what happens when I am hungry and tired.  My standard for edible food collapses like a wall of sand. 

The cheese crisp was not crisp.  It was cold and tasteless.  I think the cook threw two handfuls of grated cheese on a floppy tortilla and sent it out to the server.  I sat there at the restaurant table smoldering from stuffed frustration and envy.  The kid’s plate across from me looked divine and she was devouring it with gusto: a juicy hamburger on a toasted bun with pickles, lettuce and a side of fries.

The next day, I salvaged the remains of my meal.  I sliced a fresh red pepper and patterned the slender pieces on top of the crisp, sprinkling it with parsley and drizzling garlic-seasoned olive oil on the tortilla.  I placed the tortilla on foil and baked it at 325 degrees in the oven for seven minutes. 

It came out with edges lightly browned and bubbling cheese and toppings.  The peppers were sweet with a touch of garlic and juicy.

Sometimes the remains of a disappointing entrée can be resurrected into a tasty treat.  On its second do-over, I ate it all.

Mommy, I don't like this

1.      Cookie Rescue

Mommy, I don’t like this (prompt from WritersDigest May/June 2015)

“Mommy, I don’t like this.”  Riley squirmed in her back car seat and threw the blueberry popsicle to the floor.  Diane, harried with rush hour traffic, glanced through the rear view mirror at her frowning daughter.

“Okay, honey.  We’ll be home soon and I’ll fix mac n’ cheese for you. Okay?”

No, it was not okay.  Riley let out a frustrated howl.  Diane, her tense stomach tightening, turned around. As she did, her car slammed into a cab stopped at the light. 

Minutes later, Riley was screaming and Diane was tapping 911 into her phone.  The cab driver came out of his dented cab, carrying an open bag of Oreo cookies.  Approaching Diane’s rolled down window he waved the cookies toward her crying toddler.  “Betcha, she’d like a cookie, huh?”

Diane said a quick prayer of thanks and nodded with a tired smile at her new best friend, Shelley, the cab driver.

“Here, honey.” She cooed as she moved from her seat to undo Riley’s seat belt and pick her up with a hug.  “Look at this yummy treat.”

Riley sucked in her last sob and held out her sticky hands for the cookie.

“Oh, Mommy, I like this.”