Which Way is Up?

Thank you to Bridget at J.B. Chicoine Unsupervised and at Large, whose email comment initiated a train of thought resulting in this post.

In my years of employment at a corporate headquarters, I was never a fan of “office-speak,” those clichéd phrases that percolate through the ranks. Lines such as:” There’s not enough band width on this one” made me cringe. After too much, “thinking outside the box” I longed to throw the container away, and when asked to “pick the low-hanging fruit,” I sighed. We weren’t “employees;” we were “associates,” which, I guess, is better then what Disney refers to as: “cast members” but still, can’t we just call it what it is? Apparently not. Toward the end, I squirmed in my seat when someone on the other end of the phone line told me, “We decided to re-purpose the meeting.” Ugh.

Even before it became personal, I despised the term “downsize.” Then it happened to me; and horror of horrors, “outplacement” meetings became a tool toward my own “re-purposing” and I gritted my teeth when asked to produce an “elevator speech.” However, in the spirit of moving forward, I spent the first months refining my goals and paring them down into a statement that could be expressed during the length of a ride from the bottom floor to the top. “I am an HR professional with skills in communication, writing, staff development, budget management and talent acquisition” (the last one another expression that caused a shudder). Then I never used it.

Now as a self-employed freelance copywriter, I have another of elevator speech, though sometimes, it's a struggle to communicate those few critical phrases designed to elicit interest. This became clear Saturday. Over the potato bins at the grocery store, a former senior executive at my old employer who had retired before the large layoff that swept me away, greeted me. Once he determined I was no longer with our old firm, he asked what I am doing now, and I bobbled it.

For the record: the speech should go as follows: “I have my own freelance business writing firm. I work with individuals and small businesses and focus on resumes, marketing materials, print and web advertising, flyers and business letters.” Instead, I looked down, looked up, and stumbled through: “Well I’ve been doing my own thing, something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. I’m copywriting. Resumes, marketing materials; here let me give you my card.” He smiled, pocketed it without looking at it and then moved on after wishing me well. It was evident that during that brief exchange, my plummeting elevator had jammed between floors.

Pushing my cart to the check-out, I mulled over the many things I could have told him. In the last eighteen months, I’ve developed my own copywriting business, created and written regularly in this blog, have been published in two print magazines and one on-line anthology. I volunteered weekly for the Council on Aging, took two courses, and successfully completed multiple freelance writing projects including business letters, fliers, resumes, Web language and email communications.

I work part-time job at a cheese and gourmet food shop and am beginning the process to sell my photographs, via 5”x7” note cards on the Web. Oh, and there is one more thing. I haven’t told many people this yet, and it may go no further than the bottom of the drawer in which it currently sits, but I’ve finished the first draft of a novel. (The catch here is if the book ever gets beyond its current stage, it will need an elevator speech too.)

I know—even if I were riding to the top of a fifty-floor tower, this recitation would be way too long, but packing up my purchases and pondering it, I smiled in relief. The art of pushing elevator buttons may be beyond me, but at least I can say that I’ve climbed a few flights of stairs.

What is your least favorite office-speak phrase?

Small Town, Big Happenings

The number of times mail has appeared in the business-related post office box I’ve rented for the last few months could be counted on two hands, not including pinkies or thumbs. So let me tell you what a charge it is when I stop by and the clerk remembers that my 60-year-old-box opens only one out of the, say, fifteen times I spin the combination. He hands me my mail (mostly junk; today a delivery confirmation) before I can even ask.

I was a teenager once, so I understand why my daughter and her friends moan about our tiny town while muttering under their breaths how they can’t wait to leave. I on the other hand, love the place. Don’t get me wrong. It is small (her high school class has less than 90 kids) which presents limitations, and though the winding roads and ocean vistas are post-card beautiful, the area has issues and misery like any other.

But there is something about the clerk who knows me even though there’s rarely mail in my box—and a town common that hosts a weekly farmer’s market that welcomes not only the three farmers who attend, but also a jewelry maker, a cookie baker, a sirloin vendor and a Yoyo seller—to make you feel part of something pure, a throwback, if you will, to an less sophisticated time.



The 2:30 market kick-off is announced via a ringing cow bell, and other than the snaking string of humanity that waits for fresh-picked corn, the longest lines form in front of an ice cream truck and a hot dog stand. From the number of barefoot kids running across the grass, it’s clear that the Thursday afternoon market offers major entertainment for the toddler set and an engaging distraction for young moms who spread blankets on the grass and nurse their infants while listening to a middle-aged guitar player croon Jimmy Buffet, the Bee Gees and Neil Young. Older kids romp in the safe area between the Unitarian Church and Meeting House Pond, skipping back once in a while to beg mom for a pony ride or a painted tattoo.


In the corner, bushel baskets tumble with plump green beans and the first tart apples of the season. Piles of smooth yellow squash and shiny zucchini sit next to stacks of fresh corn, where silk hangs like floss from unmarked ears. All around, vendors and customers chat with each other. The crowd sifts and changes as people walk by gripping cloth bags heavy with tomatoes, topped with fat bouquets of bobbing sunflowers. Visitors peruse the booths until the weight of their purchases sounds the supper bell. By 6:00, it’s all over.


The last of the stragglers return home for supper, stakes holding up the white peaked tents are yanked from the ground, and this new vendor, hosting a table for a one time market test, takes a deep cleansing breath, aware that over the course of the afternoon, a kind of soft wind blew through, pushing out all that is stale and musty and leaving the air untainted and fresh.

The Last First

I admit to being a sentimental mush-bag, so even though it was the thirteenth time I waved my daughter off on her first day of school, a lump formed, the eyes filled up, and I turned away so the high school senior didn’t tease with a smiling “Maaa-uuum, you’re such a looooser” before pulling out of the driveway.


Then, I stepped inside the house mulling a thirteen-year-old memory of a pre-kindergartener with a Dutch-boy haircut stepping on a practice bus on “Move up Day”—a recollection that was followed by an unfathomable image of next fall. Instead of waving her off to high school a mile away next September, we’ll be hauling trunks into some college dorm room, God knows where.

“It goes so fast” has a new reality for me today, though when she reads this (and she will) and laughs at me for being a sap; I’ll confess that this year is not markedly different from any other. On every first day of school I cried, because the day meant another milestone reached—another landmark in her life had passed. As a mother of an only child, I’ve never experienced the “here we go again” feeling that I imagine parents with more than one child go through. Once our girl moved on, that was it. There were no “do overs” and usually, after the fact, I’d wring my hands thinking, “What do you mean we’ll never be doing that again?”

These transitions have never become less surprising, which strikes me as strange, because I think I’ve been paying attention. Not once, in the seventeen years that she's been alive, have I taken her for granted. Something about the hard-earned victory that was her arrival, and that fact that she remained the sole star of the show, has made me grateful for every moment with her. Yet, no matter how clearly I focused, I can’t count the number of times I turned around to discover she’d suddenly moved on…from a toddler to a school girl, from a tween to teen, from a partner in the passenger seat, to an independent driver with her first summer job. Now she hovers on the brink of adulthood and I’m floored to contemplate what next year will bring.

Today I’ve stepped on a speeding train. The track is on a downhill slant. I’m tempted to reach out and pull the emergency cord but won’t because slamming on the breaks is dangerous. That said, will someone explain to me why as parents, we spend so much time grooming our children for the future, only to hold our palms up at its arrival and turn yearningly toward the past?

Looking Out

I wrote this post a year ago, but that was back before Middle Passages had readers.  Seems like a good time for a rerun.

Did you ever wonder what it would be like to live in a lighthouse? I’ve pondered that thought since discovering The Word from Old Scituate Light, a blog about a family who moved into the keeper’s cottage at the lighthouse one town over. I can hear the young daughter answering a friend's question: “Where do you live?” as, “Oh, down at the point.” “Which house?” “The one at the end; you know, the one with the tower attached?” I imagine her response to an English composition assignment: "What makes you special?" as something like, “I may be an regular kid, but there aren't too many people who live in a house like mine.”

Other than a power-walk past it with a friend this summer, I hadn’t visited the lighthouse or the jetty lately. So yesterday, after lunch at our one of our favorite home cooking spots, in acknowledgement of the last day before school begins, my daughter and I drove the winding lane around the harbor to the lighthouse. Years ago my husband and I climbed the stone tower itself during an open house. Recalling that, I pictured iron steps leading up to a little girl’s circular bedroom, which of course is not the case; the house is attached to the tower, not a part of it.

Finished in weathered grey shingles, bordered by a rock-lined garden blooming with fall mums, the keeper’s cottage stands New England stark and plain. Without the white tower stuck to its side, it would resemble a modest home like any other. Only, to the left the teal blue Atlantic somersaults, and out front and to the right, granite jetties point like fingers to the channels and moorings of Scituate Harbor.

Wandering the public area, with ankles that gave as I picked my way over the sloping sea rock lawn, I mulled what it would be like to wake at dawn, surrounded by water on three sides as the fiery sun heaves itself over the horizon shelf, or, during the adventure of a fierce Nor’easter. I can hear the wind moaning and whistling around corners, the clank of the halyard on the flag pole out back barely audible over the crash of water hitting the jetty.

We’ve visited the lighthouse after storms, when rocks and seaweed litter the parking lot behind it. The jetty and tower likely protect the keeper's quarters from the open sea, but there’d be little sleep during the relentless tossing and turning of an angry winter night. Storms are only part of the story though. Someday, the little girl that lives in the house will be my age. Perhaps she’ll live in Iowa, or Kansas, surrounded by children who have never seen the ocean.

Taking a deep breath, she’ll describe the rumble of lobster boats departing at sunup and the shriek of seagulls hanging suspended as they beat their wings against a strong east wind. Closing her eyes, once again she'll listen to rocks that clatter and tumble as the green sea recedes, and have to yell to be understood over the boom of the waves. Her nose will wrinkle at the briny smell of seaweed at low tide.

She'll witness the color of the sun, setting pink below the blackened outlines of the town across the harbor; the utter darkness at night as she peers out toward the sea.

What types of buildings or places inspire you?

A Haiku for the Season

Stephanie Thornton over at Hatshepsut, the Writing of a Novel  is sponsoring a haiku blogfest this weekend. Since these 5-7-5 verses are usually nature related, it seemed timely to participate. Herewith please find my entry:


Trees sway, bend and crack
Shattered by hurricane winds
Dawn delivers calm

Head on over to Stephanie's blog to find links for more.

6:40 a.m. update.  I wrote that haiku last night in anticipation.  Dawn has indeed deposited calm.  As for Earl, well, he delivered a great big nothing—all hype and no substance, that guy.  It rained overnight and perhaps one gust of wind blew.  Period.  Earl's impact on us didn't even merit "wimp" status.  I'd go for "blip."

Thank you all for your kind thoughts and prayers. They worked!  Here's wishing you all a wonderful long-weekend.  Enjoy your last blast of summer. 

We are off to drag the tomato plants out of the garage.

Oh man, and I guess I have fake hurricane on the brain, because I forgot to mention KarenG's BBQ blogfest, which is being held over the Labor Day weekend.  Click on the link: Coming Down the Mountain... to find those in attendance.  I've had some fun reading so far!

A Waiting Game

Every once in a while, we participate in Phase I of "the drill:"

Extra batteries? Check
Flashlights? Check
Candles? Check
Gas in the car? Check
Bottled water? Check
Patio furniture stored? Check
Hanging plants pulled down? Check
Munchies for a long afternoon? Check

However, at this moment, Hurricane Earl threatens and we've moved to Phase II, which we haven't had to implement in the eighteen years we’ve lived in this house:

Canned food? Check
Propane in the grill? Check
Bottled water? Check
Sails pulled off the boat? Check
Dinghy yanked from the dock in the harbor? Check
Generator tested? Check

It's been a long time between blows.  Hurricane Bob, the last hurricane that hit us, roared to shore in 1991. Unlike folks down south, we don't see hurricanes that often.  They usually peter out to wimpy tropical storm status before they reach us.  So Bob was only the second hurricane either my husband or I remember. The afternoon it landed, the view from the front windows of our old house reminded me of the Wizard of Oz after Dorothy is sucked up by the tornado.  Sitting on her bed, she watches cows, chickens, and the Wicked Witch blow by.

In this case, there was no Margaret Hamilton. Instead, we gazed fascinated as most of the branches that dropped southeast of us soared past our front yard—until a big one slammed into the window, ripping a hole in the screen. Looking at each other with “Duh, yea, this is dangerous” expressions, we stepped back, grateful the glass hadn’t shattered.

Meanwhile, the wind continued to carry debris across our front lawn to the lip of the retaining wall beside our driveway, where it dropped the collection. As the eye of the storm passed over us,  the sun came out and we took a brief step outside to find our entire driveway piled with branches. It took a chainsaw and countless trips with a borrowed pick-up truck to clean up the debris. And power? Several days passed before we experienced that luxury again.  Let's be clear though.  Compared to what others went through, the impact on us was tiresome but inconsequential.  Still, I'd rather skip a repeat.

Our current home is perched in a hollow, surrounded by leggy pines and a huge umbrella oak right off the back of the house.  I’m trying not to contemplate our five picture-windows that enhance the woodland view. For eighteen years I’ve said, “I don’t want to go through e a hurricane here.” At this moment, it is possible that we may. As I write (I’m pre-posting this) Earl has been downgraded to a Category three hurricane which looks to make landfall on Cape Cod, about 40 miles to our south. We are within the edge of the predicted storm zone, and are under a official hurricane watch.  The weather folks give themselves a 100 mile accuracy swing, so I guess you could say I'm a tad concerned.

I'm not the only one.  It is screaming hot here, but even at the beach there is an uneasy quiet.  Pick up trucks with boat trailers move purposefully toward the harbor.  Over the last few days, the air has been dead calm, but now, a steady off shore breeze makes it hotter.  In spite of the wind, the day feels like a held breath, a water balloon about to burst, and what does a girl do with all that anticipation?  She goes to the sea to check out the waves...which are non-existent.  Just how I wish this storm would be.

10:00 a.m. update.  Earl is down to Catagory One.  Our town is about five miles south of where the hurricane warning line ends...so fingers crossed that by tonight, we creep into the "tropical storm" zone.  A FB comment from Virginia Beach described Earl as "One big sissy."  I'll take it.

Post Called on Account of...Sunset?

I cannot tell a lie.  A draft of what was to be today's post is saved on the laptop, and gosh, I almost finished it.  Honest.  But here's the thing.  Hurrican Earl is threatening; we may or may not be in for a bad blow by the end of this week and sunsets preceding a storm are often spectacular.  So rather than writing, it seemed prudent to grab the camera and drive one town over to the bay where there are clear west views.  When a thundering pack of Harley riders stopped beside us and took out their camera phones, we figured we'd made the right decision. 

It didn't hurt that there was ice cream involved too.