by Barb Rogers
I tried changing the background color on the computer screen. It didn't work. I wore dark glasses, to no avail. Tom bought a desk with a heavy gray glass top. The computer sat inside, on a sloped shelf. It didn't matter what we did—my head hurt when I used the PC. I knew it was time to give up, to return to the typewriter and complete my book that way. I didn't get angry this time. I decided to look at the whole thing as a challenge instead of a limitation. I could still see, and I could still type.
I finished my 435-page time travel romance novel. It was probably a bit long for a romance novel, but it was so good, I couldn't imagine cutting anything out. At the library and bookstores, I searched for the names of potential publishers, got addresses, made copies, and sent the manuscript out, excited at the prospect of becoming a published author. My mind had already begun to fantasize about what could be. I'd stuck an ad for a writer's conference in Maui on my bulletin board, knowing that someday I'd go there, but not as a wannabe author—as the real thing.
Rejected! Rejected! Rejected! One by one the manuscripts were returned, rejected without telling me why. They were addressed “Dear Author” and ended with “Good luck with your project.” I told myself my book was simply too long—they must have liked the story. It had a great plot, based on one of the murder mystery games I carried in my shop. I struggled with a rewrite and sent it out again. Again, I all I got was Rejected! Rejected! Rejected! Disheartened but determined, I rewrote and sent it out again. Rejected! Carefully touching the title page, I placed my manuscript in my desk drawer.
My writers magazine came in the mail. As I thumbed through the pages, an article jumped out at me. It talked about writing about what you know. What did I know? I knew about costuming. What if I did a book about costuming without sewing? I shared my idea with Tom. He always supported whatever I wanted to do and was enthusiastic. We sat down with pen and paper to figure out what I'd have to do. In bed that night, my mind worked so furiously that I barely slept.
My obsessive-compulsive nature kicked in, and in no time I'd set up a room in the house, dragged mannequins home, bought a camera, and packed up secondhand clothes I had stashed in the shop for later use. Pictures of the original garments on the mannequins completed, I began to construct the book. I made the costumes, took the pictures, and kept track of my changes—but there was a problem: how to do the sketches. I had never been able to draw, and to this day I can't make a decent-looking stick figure.
Stumped but not deterred, I ran through several ideas that didn't work until I hit on one that did. At the copy shop, I had the pictures of the original garments blown up to page size, traced over the outline of each garment, and drew in the changes I made to turn it into a costume. All that was left to do was to write. Through the entire process of writing the costume book, I knew that someday I'd return to my novel.
There were only a few publishers of costuming books. I sent the manuscript out. One from Colorado was interested. We spoke on the phone. He informed me that I really needed a theme, not simply a bunch of costumes, but he would be willing to take another look later. I started over, settling on theatrical costumes as my theme.
My dad's sister, Aunt Ellen, died. Dad came to Mattoon, and soon the rest of the family followed. Because of the bad blood between myself and Dad's brother, who'd been my stepdad and the bane of my existence for much of my childhood, I decided not to attend the funeral. Except for Dad, who stayed with Tom and me, everyone bunked with relatives in town. I wanted to go to the funeral for my cousins, but knew that with all of them drinking, there was no way to avoid disaster.
One of my cousins called to tell me that my stepdad wanted to see me. My first impulse was to decline vehemently. My second thought scared the hell out of me. I'd made a pact with God that when any opportunity to make amends presented itself, I would be willing. That moment might be the only opportunity I would have to take care of unfinished business. I agreed to meet with my stepdad at the truck stop in the nearest town. As soon as I hung up the phone, I went to my bedroom, got on my knees, and did some serious praying. I needed help to get through this. An unexpected calmness came over me.
Tom and I arrived first, ordered coffees, and waited. When I saw him and my cousin walk through the door, my stomach lurched for a moment, but I took a deep breath, reminded myself why I was there, and greeted them as they sat down across from us. I knew my stepdad had been drinking, having seen him in that state—eyes drooping, slightly slurred speech—many times before. He refused to make eye contact with me as he talked. Through his sarcastic remarks and snipes, blaming my mother for his unhappiness, I made amends for all the trouble I'd caused over the years. He agreed that I'd been a pain in the ass, attempted to lay a guilt trip on me about Jon and what a failure I was as a parent and a person, but for the first time, it didn't work. All my life, he'd made me feel bad about myself, told me I'd never amount to anything, that the only thing a man would want me for was my body, and that I was stupid. The last thing I said before we left was, “All I ever wanted was for you to love me … and I never thought you did.” It was the last amends I had to make. My side of the street was clean.
——
I kept myself busy running the shop, working on the costume book, being active in AA, attending meetings, sponsoring others, and spending time with Tom and the dogs. I'd never been good at pacing myself and soon began to suffer from exhaustion. Tom suggested we take a trip to Arizona to visit my brother who, with his life partner, had moved to a small mountain community called Yarnell. Even though I'd lived in Arizona for years, I'd never heard of the place before. Reluctant to return to Arizona, where I had done a lot of my drinking, my kids and mother had died, and a couple of my ex-husbands still lived, I said I'd think about it. After speaking to my brother, though, I agreed. He told me that Yarnell, two hours from Phoenix, was a quiet town of 500 residents, mostly retired people, and gay couples. It filled the bill if I wanted to rest and heal.
After I turned my business over to Jacqui and Tom left his with his friend and longtime employee, Gilbert, we packed enough clothes to stay in Yarnell for up to a month. Tom, our two dogs (Georgie, our black-and-white terrier who'd certainly come into her own as a part of our family, and Sammi, a delicate Italian greyhound Tom bought as a companion for me when I was housebound), and I were on our way to Arizona. After three days of driving and two nights in motels, we entered the quaint town set between two mountain ranges: the Weaver Mountains on one side, and the Bradshaws on the other. As per my brother's instructions, we turned right at the post office, took the next left, drove another block, and we'd reached our destination—Bill's house. He'd made arrangements with the lady next door, who would be out of state for some time, to rent us her house for a month.
The month flew by. We went for long walks exploring the area, drove around looking at the unusual houses, and stopped in at the local shops and restaurants. One day while walking uptown, which consisted of a few blocks of businesses along the highway, we stopped at an antique shop set back from the road. When we walked up to it, a large dog emerged from his house, a brightly colored bandana around his neck, and barked. A man stepped out of the trailer behind the shop. I said, “When are you open?” He laughed and said, “When the dog barks.” That seemed to be the norm in this odd little community.
I looked back through the window of the car on our way out of town. I'd fallen in love with Yarnell, with its, huge boulders, trees, and the laid-back attitude of its residents. Something about it reminded me of my childhood down on the river. I cried. Tom said, “You know, it would be a good place to spend the winter.” Yarnell, originally a gold mining town, was purported to have the most moderate climate in Arizona. “Maybe,” Tom continued, “we ought to have Bill keep his eye out for a house. Something not too expensive where we could spend a few months a year.”
Within two months of our departure, Bill called to tell us about a house. It was secluded, set in the boulders, and cheap, but it needed some work. I wasn't a st
ranger to hard work, having worked like a man for most of my life. At a meeting years ago, we were comparing the worst jobs we'd ever had. I won. One particular summer when I was broke, I took a job with a company that cleaned the recreational areas. I rode on the side of a huge trash truck along with some others. We picked up litter around the lakes, camping areas, and fish cleaning stations. The worst part of the job was dealing with the holes in the ground where all the fish guts washed down. They had to be cleaned out with big dip nets. When we opened the heavy wooden door concealing those holes, the smell would have brought a full-grown camel to his knees. All summer, I couldn't get the odor of fish out of my clothes, my skin.
Sight unseen—over the telephone and through the mail—we purchased the house. After the Halloween rush, we returned to Yarnell for the winter. I'll never forget the look on Tom's face when he saw our place for the first time. Crestfallen would be an understatement. He wasn't used to having to fix a place up to live in it—he had no vision—but I did. The house was a mess, but it had great potential. By the end of winter, I'd turned it into a home, but it still required some serious work the two of us were unable to do. We decided to stay longer, to hire workmen to fix the twenty-five leaks in the roof, pour a cement floor in the kitchen, and replace the tile in the kitchen which had been laid on dirt, put a ceiling in a room without one, and spray for critters like scorpions, black widows, and centipedes.
Even before we'd driven back into Illinois, we had decided to move to Yarnell full-time. It took several months of preparation: Tom sold his vending business and leased out his bars, and Jacqui took over my costume shop. We gave away most of our possessions, loaded up my mannequins and costume stuff and the rest of the things we absolutely needed, and were off on a new adventure to a place where hardly anyone knew us, where we had no history with others. We wanted a simpler life, and in Yarnell, we could have it.
Tom helped me finish the costume book. I sent it back to the publisher who'd shown interest in it, got a contract, and was published within the year. I was flying high. Early mornings, before the work started on the house, I got up and typed another rewrite of my romance novel. I hadn't given up on the idea. The organizers of the Maui Writers Conference were having a retreat there for a week before the conference. I sent out a portion of my novel to be considered for one of the coveted seats at the retreat. To my amazement, I was chosen. Immediately doubt set in. Would I ever get over the feeling of not being good enough?
——
The plane is landing. It's not soon enough to suit me. My seatmates have been drinking all the way to Maui. A shuttle ride past sugar plantations and residential areas and I arrive at the Outrigger Wailea Resort. A young Hawaiian man slips a flowered lei around my neck, welcomes me to the hotel, and picks up my bags. I'm speechless, in awe of the sheer beauty of the fabulous open-air reception room filled with couches, tables, and wooden rocking chairs facing the ocean on one side and the mountains on the other. I've never seen anything like it, except in the movies. I have two days to enjoy myself and rest up before the retreat, which is to be held at the Grand Wailea, the hotel next door, begins.
In my room, which certainly doesn't disappoint, I can't wait to call Tom. I wish he were here to experience this with me. He answers. “This room has everything,” I say, “a refrigerator, a safe, an ironing board and iron, a coffeepot, even a hair dryer. I could live here.” He's happy for me, tells me to have a great time and not to worry about anything at home. This is my time, and it may be the only chance I get to come to Hawaii. There's so much I want to do and my free time is short—once the retreat starts, I'll be busy.
The next morning, the island still cloaked in darkness, I board a busload full of tourists bound for the summit of Haleakala, a dormant volcano ten thousand feet above sea level, to watch the sunrise from above the clouds. We've been told to dress warm. By the time we reach the top, I understand why. The sweatshirt and jacket I brought aren't enough. Others are wearing stocking caps, gloves, and winter outerwear. Cold or not, I'm here, and I'm going to see it. Braced against the chill, I follow others to the railing where we will get the best view of the crater. As soon as the sun peeks through, we can see it and I forget how cold I am. It looks like another planet, a mysterious, misty place from a strange world far away.
There is a small shopping area between the two hotels. I spend the afternoon wandering the shops, stopping at the small grocery for food I can keep in my room because the restaurants are terribly expensive, put on my bathing suit, and I'm off to play in the ocean. It's so nice that I wish I hadn't signed up for the all-day tour of Hana tomorrow. I would just as soon stay here. I've already paid for it, so I'm going.
By the end of the next day, I understand why they sell tee shirts in the gift shops that say, “I survived the road to Hana.” Exhausted, I fix a sandwich in my room and go to bed early. I want to be at the other hotel first thing in the morning to register for the retreat, pick up my package, figure out where I'm supposed to go and whose class I'll be in. I discover that when they said the Outrigger was next door to the Grand, they meant a half-mile walk on a winding sidewalk between grass lawns and the beach.
It's hot, humid, and windy as I make my way to the Grand Wailea. As impressed as I was with the Outrigger, this place looks like a Polynesian palace. I still can't believe I'm here. After a few minutes in a plush powder room to fix my hair and cool off, I follow signs to the registration area. I'm registered, and there will be a get-acquainted party tonight. I can hardly wait.
Dressed in white knee-length shorts and a striped top, I begin the trek back to the Grand. I wonder if it was the brightest idea to stay next door. I will save a lot on the room, but will be doing a lot of walking. If I get to attend next year, I'll stay at the big hotel. The party is located on the lower-level patio, an open-air place with tiki torches, an enormous waterfall and pool, tables, and a bar. As soon as I walk in, I realize it's a cocktail party. It doesn't take me long to figure out the lay of the land. Whereas the brochure said we new writers would be rubbing elbows with agents, editors, and best-selling authors, it is obvious to me that that's not what's happening here.
Within an hour, I'm back in my room, making a call to AA. I'm put on hold. No one comes back on the line. I call again. I get a voice mail and reluctantly leave a message. I call Tom. “I want to come home,” I say, and tell him about the party, another place I didn't fit in, where I felt like a fish out of water. “I can't do this,” I continue. “I don't know why I thought I could. I can't even get hold of anyone in AA.”
When I pause to sob into the phone, Tom says, “Give it a couple more days. If you don't like the retreat, you don't have to go. You can go lay by the pool for the next week, or go exploring. I know there is AA there … those people are everywhere.” I laugh in spite of myself. Feeling better, I hang up and call Donna, my best girlfriend in Yarnell, who's been sober longer than I. After sharing my experiences so far, I tell her I haven't been able to talk to anyone in the program. She says, “Maybe you ought to pray about it.”
19
Serendipity
IT'S A NEW DAY. I HAVE A NEW ATTITUDE. Putting my drama queen meltdown of yesterday behind me, I revel in the glorious morning as I saunter along the narrow sidewalk to the Grand. My first class that will teach me to be a better writer. Stopped on an arched wooden bridge over a koi pond that surrounds a stained glass church on three sides, I bow my head and thank God for all that I've been given, for allowing me to be in this wondrous place, and promise that I will give it all I've got.
Although no one from AA returned my call, I reminded myself what Donna always said about it. “The people aren't the program. You know the program, and sometimes it will just be you, God, and the principles of Alcoholics Anonymous.” My program tells me that upon arising, I am to turn my will and life over to this God of my understanding, and if I am truly able to do that, whatever happens that day will be for my best. I am always enough. It doesn't matter that I don't look like
others, dress in fashion, or that I'm not as well-published or as smart—it's not a competition. For the first time in my life, I'm comfortable in my own skin, and nothing outside me should affect that.
I keep those things in mind as I ready myself for the day ahead. I will be who I am: a short, dark-complexioned woman with a brown mohawk, wearing a summer top and pair of loose-fitting bibbed overalls and sandals. For me, there is nothing worse than trying to be something I'm not. I tried that for many years, and it never worked.
It's quiet. Not many people are wandering around this early in the morning. As I make my way to the coffee shop, I admire the way the building is set up, the enormous statues of plump Hawaiian men and women lolling about, brass railings everywhere. I wonder how they keep it clean. With all the open-air restaurants, bars, and reception areas, it must be difficult. Then there are the birds. They are everywhere, fly right down on the tables while people are eating, begging for crumbs. If this place were in Arizona, it would be constantly covered in dust.
Coffee and a danish in hand, I make my way down a winding wooden staircase that reminds me of something from the Swiss Family Robinson's tree house to the lower level and meeting rooms. The classroom I've been assigned is at the end, next to a waterfall and stream filled with colorful fish. I pull a chair next to the water, glory in all the greenery and flowers around me, savor each bite of the pastry, drink the hot Kona coffee, close my eyes, and go into deep meditation. I picture myself walking down a long hallway with many doors on each side. As I come to each door, it opens, allowing all the wonders of life to be within my grasp.
The sound of voices brings me back to my surroundings. I love to watch people, be a fly on the wall listening in on their conversations. I read that listening will help me write dialogue better … besides, I'm a bit nosey. I am absolutely fascinated with the human condition: who people are, what brought them to that point, how they think, and why. I suppose it's because I've had to do so much self-searching over the years.
