Let's do another rush write. Isn't it fun?

Well, yesterday was more than I could possibly have hoped for. Way to go, everyone. So lovely to have a group of new friends. Do we need a way to post our work? I'm trying to figure out how to do that. Or do you want to keep it under wraps--at least for a while?

You may already have ideas from your first rush write. If so, turn them into new rush writes. Go with your gut feelings. Trust your intuition.

If you're struggling for an idea, write about another first. A first injury, a first kiss, a first prom (I never went, shy boy), a first shock (about anything), a first crush, a first whatever.

Here's another first for me, with illustration below: 

The first time Louise dragged me off to art class, whining that I hadn't drawn anything since second grade, that I knew I couldn't draw, because that first piece stunk. Second grade. I looked over at gary allred's plane, and it was beautiful. mine couldn't fly except in  a wad of paper to the trash can. I probably threw it into the trash. so i whined all the way. nasal whining. mucousy whining. i can't fd o h this . "oh hush and give it a try. " you'lll love marian. She's great. yeah. i 'll love an 82 year old woman who has been a piainter all her life. she'll laugh.

we rrive in class. marian says, paint that rooster  on the wall. a big gorgeous rooster. a big roobust rooster. i can't paint that. just start she says. my rooster is loooking more and more like a misscarigage. can't spell. dammit. lost train of thought. oh  rooseter. marian comes around. well, that's looking pretty good. i hang on pretty. it's no renoir. and then she says, "I love that coxvcomb. don't change that coxcomb." and I'm hooked. So i'm attaching my first rooster with the wonderful coxcomb.

***

OK. Give your rush write a try. As my dad used to say, "Give 'em hell."

If you didn't try yesterday or don't know what's going on, check the previous blog on rush writing. Are you overcoming inhibitions? Getting some ideas? Write those down so you remember the details. Keep your writing. Nabokov wrote about the "divine details." Good writers, fine writers like you're becoming learn to use more detail.

And here's my first attempt at art since second grade. A year and a half ago. "Don't change that coxcomb." Have fun. Just dive in and have fun. That's what Marian, my art teacher says. Are you having fun yet?

Set your timers. Ready. Go. 5 minutes. 

My first painting, 2012

OK, Everybody. Let's RUSH WRITE

This is going to be fun. I had no idea so many people would check in. SOOOO nice to see you all. I'm thrilled.

On with the show. The first problem writers face is a blank page. What do you do with a blank page? The second thing writers face is a voice in their heads that says over and over, "You're stupid. You flunked kindergarten. You never were good at anything. Why are you trying to do this? Why don't you just give up and do the dishes?" This is the little do-gooder voice, the creepy little thing that's lodged in our brains from some past trauma or embarrassment or whatever.

So what is rush writing, and how does it fix this little mess in your head? Rush writing is fast writing. It's non-stop writing. Stopping to think, to correct punctuation or spelling is AGAINST THE RULES  of rush writing. The purpose of rush writing is to give you permission to write badly. It insists that you write badly, because no one can write well at a high rate of speed. Rush writing doesn't take long swipes out of your day. It takes, for starters, five minutes. Maybe that's all the time you ever have. Five minutes.

So here's how it works. You get your oven timer or check the clock on the wall. Set the timer for five minutes. And start writing like crazy. Are you with me? Are you still there? You write like crazy for five minutes. If you can't think of what to write, you write, "I can't think of what to write." And you write "I can't think of what to write." "I can't think of what to write." "I can't think of what to write."  over and over and over until something comes into your head to write. Rush writing has this magical way of forcing ideas, thoughts, memories out of your head, through your pen or laptop, and onto your page. Rush writing is MAGIC. One minute you can't think of what to say and the next minute you're pouring your guts out.

One other rule. Before you rush write, you can't sit around thinking about what you'll write. You JUST START WRITING. Set that timer and write like crazy. You'll be amazed what gushes out.

OK. The topic for the day, just to get us all off together is "My first memory." And the first thing you write is, "My first memory...." And then you just let your brain take you wherever it's going to take you. Don't fight it. Don't censor it. Don't think about whatever good or bad memory pops into your head. Just write like crazy. Swear, curse, cry, whatever goes through you. Remember, no stopping. No pausing. When the bell on your timer rings, finish your sentence and STOP. DO NOT KEEP WRITING. THAT'S LIKE TRYING TO DO TOO MANY PUSHUPS ON THE FIRST DAY OF EXERCISE. FEELS GOOD NOW, BUT TOMORROW YOU WON'T WANT TO DO IT AGAIN. OK? 

DO YOU HAVE YOUR TIMER?  

TOPIC: MY FIRST MEMORY. I'm going to write too. I'm setting my timer. If I make mistakes or typos, I'll leave them and publish them. Whatever comes out stays. No shame no gain. READY GO.

I'm sitting on a chair facing doctor Cornwall. He i s wrapping my arm. he has white hiar, seems to be kind. we are sitting in the living room. my mom and dad are sitting there I think. I'm not sure about that, Some adult is there. And I have my arm out at right angles to dorctror cornwall. i don't feel any pain. My mother has told me since, probably many times, that this is the day I "saascared the life out of her. "  I was walking into the kitchem she said . and you were hanging romfrom one of the kitchen cabines. holding on with one arm. you just llcimed on everything. you were such a little stink. adn i walked into the kitch and saw you dangling there and screamed. and you let go and fell. oh my. docrot ornwall said you might have a shriveled arm. what a mess that would have been. you would not have played the piano.

i think aobut this. what would have ahpppened if i had a shriveled arm? i d be like all the rsst o ft ht epopel eiwht shrifveeled arms, i guess. one arm good, one arm not so goo. i could learn ot play the piano with the other hand. i don't know which arm it was i think i'm holding my right arm out to docror cornwall. later i saw that doctor cornwall was a very kind man, an kind of BELL country doctor.

OK. That's my rush write. My word counter says I wrote 249 words. A typed, double-spaced page is between 225 and 250 words. I just wrote a page! Every day for a year, that's 365 pages.

Now I can go back and clean it up if I want. If I were writing this by hand, it wouldn't be such a mess, but I'm trying to write this damn blog and can't spell or write. And this makes me nervous. What kind of an example am I?

NOW GET YOUR TIMER OUT AND RUSH WRITE. FIVE MINUTES A DAY. YOU CAN BE A WRITER. YES YOU CAN. YOU CAN'T MAKE ANY BIGGER MESS OF IT THAN I JUST DID.

OH WAIT. DO NOT THROW YOUR WRITING AWAY. YOU SHOULD NOW KEEP A WRITING FILE. EVERYTHING GOES INTO YOUR WRITING FILE. THE GOOD, THE BAD, THE UGLY. DO NOT THROW ANYTHING AWAY.

I can't wait to hear from you.

WRITING, PHOTOGRAPHY, ART -- THE FUTURE OF THIS BLOG

I've been thinking about a purpose for this blog. My three interests lie in WRITING, PHOTOGRAPHY, AND ART. My art is on my web site, tomplummer.com. I plan to post some of my photography and art and writing as this blog goes along.

Currently I am helping several writers with their memoirs. Some are more experienced writers, some less. Whatever you think you can or cannot do with writing, photography, and art, I hope to persuade you that your only limitations are your fears. I spoke with one person who has a fabulous idea for a book, but he thinks he can't write. He can write. For years I thought I had not one stitch of artist in me. I have a teacher who reminds me every week that I have a unique style, that I am an artist.

YOU CAN DO THESE THINGS TOo. I AM HERE TO SHOW WHAT CAN BE DONE, TO HELP YOU GET STARTED, IF YOU NEED HELP, AND TO HAVE A FRIENDLY, COLLABORATIVE UNDERTAKING, IN WHICH WE ALL BECOME FRIENDS.

Here are my projects:
To continue painting, working in collage and multi-media, to enter contests, and to work with as many models--including any and all of you--if you wish. I am not looking for fashion models. I am looking for personalities. Characters. I have now sold six pieces of art since I began last year. I'm blown away.

To continue writing about my relationship with my father. I plan to use this blog to try things out. I don't see why we couldn't try out some of your writing as well.

Photography. I have a lot of experience with photography, and I'd be happy to help any of you who are struggling. Send in your questions on the "Comments."

Years ago I knew that my calling in life was to help others. It's what I do. I'll find out in a hurry if this is a good idea for a blog.

IF YOU THINK IT IS A GOOD IDEA, WOULD YOU PLEASE COMMENT?  THAT WILL GIVE ME SOME SENSE OF YOUR INTEREST. IF YOU WOULD PREFER TO FOCUS ON ONE AREA OR ANOTHER, WOULD YOU PLEASE SAY? THIS IS A CHANCE FOR US TO BUILD A LITTLE COMMUNITY. PLEASE JOIN ME. IF THIS STRIKES A CHORD WITH YOU, PLEASE SAY SO. THIS IS NOT THE TIME TO BE SHY.

Sleep Aids and Other Bad Ideas

Last night Louise and I were climbing into bed, taking our favorite sleeping potions, and thinking of  ways to extend the day just a little longer, hoping we could stave off death just a few more hours. My insanity kicked in. "Do you want to watch Band of Brothers?" I asked.

"Sure," she said. "We can fall asleep to it."

Band of Brothers is our favorite war film, and we watch it several times a year. All six discs, two big episodes per disc. We moan with almost every frame, and for a couple of film freaks, moaning is a good thing.  Still, I hesitated. This didn't sound relaxing or sleep inducing. What was I thinking?

Louise had no trouble with the idea. "We can fall asleep to it," she said.

I put in the first of six discs, knowing full well that I would not fall asleep during Band of Brothers. But hey, what better thing to do? Fall asleep? We started with "Curahee," then on to "Day of Days."

"It's 11:30," I said. Shall we stop now?" I asked.

"No," she said. "I'm still awake. Put in the next disc." 

Disc 2, "Carentan." Disc 2, part 2, "Replacements." I am now wide awake. It is 1:15 AM. I hit the play button.

"We don't have anything to do tomorrow," I heard her mutter from beneath her blankets.

We are both drawn off course at the joy of a distraction. No matter that we'll be cleaning house tomorrow before her siblings show up for card night. No matter that we need to get desserts, that there will be last minute scrambles for groceries of one unforeseen kind or another. No matter about dry cleaners, papers to read, joys to kill. 

But now I'm hooked on the film, as I knew I would be. As I start "Replacements," disk 2, part 2, I hear Louise's breathing becoming heavy. I cannot stop. Parachuting into Market Gardents. Louise breathes easily now. My eyes itch, but I'm marching with that band of brothers, dodging surprise Nazi machine gun fire, scrambling into a barn for cover. At 2 AM, the episode ends. Louise is deep in sleep. I remove the disc and put it away. Time even for an obsessive old man to knock it off. My sleep potion is losing its potency, and I need to catch it on the tail end.

In saner moments, I would have played my favorite resting piece, the "Humming Chorus," from Madame Butterfly. Now that's music to relax to. See if you don't agree:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0f1k14GQmNE

What's your favorite way to fall asleep?

My Happy Place

I am an introvert. Introverts tend to be more shy, quiet, and introspective. We are not the "go-to" people of government or business. We are not the Type-A personalities, who die of heart attacks at age 55. Introverts may die of heart attacks as well, but not because they have been hard driving. Perhaps they have been trying to carry too many books to their library or strained themselves by writing too many pages on their computers. Introverts may put in hard working days with lots of colleagues. They may be friendly and kind, efficient, even tenacious. But at the end of the day, introverts want to go home and be alone--perhaps listen to music, the "Humming Chorus" from Madam Butterfly," or read aloud with his or her significant other. They do not want to go to cocktail parties or dance the night away. They want to meditate or read or even snooze in their own living room.

Introverts may be seen as shy or snotty, even aloof. But no no no. That is not the case. It's just that we need our time alone. Think of how many times in the Gospels Jesus went off to be by himself. He needed time to refuel his energies. Introverts need time for contemplation.

That said, INTROVERTS ALSO NEED HAPPY PLACES TO WHICH THEY CAN RETREAT. Not Oz, for heaven's sake. We're sick of Oz. I'm not talking about a cabin in the woods, although it could be a real cabin. I'm talking about an imaginary or remembered place of happiness. So that when babbling gets to be too much for introverts, they can retreat.  This babbling occurs in business meetings, political conferences, academic conferences, and, yes, church meetings.

Louise has told the following story from her point of view. I will now tell it from my point of view. We were in a new ward or church. A young couple was assigned to speak, to "instruct" us. The wife stood first, introduced herself briefly, and announced, "I want to demonstrate prayer."

Now this is the moment when introverts need to leave. And I was packing my metaphorical bags as she continued. "So," she said, taking a deep breath, "Our Father in Heaven."

I feel Louise jerk up next to me. She has taken the full force of this exhibition of prayer, while I have ducked out, imagining myself strapping the canoe to the car and throwing in bags.

"I thank thee for my blessings," the speaker continued.

And then came what none of us expected: A voice came over the speaker system, loud, with a deep bass voice. We all know that God must be a bass, not a tenor, don't we? "What blessings are you specifically thankful for?"

Louise grabs my hand. "Where's God," she asks. "Where is he?" She's not looking for God. I know that. She's looking for the God mimic. "Did you hear that? she whispers. He wants to quiz her. He's throwing her gratitude right back in her face."

Meanwhile I have arrived at my Happy Place: Hogback Lake, deep in the woods of Northern Minnesota. The canoe is off the car, and I'm dragging it to the water, carrying my fly rod.

The praying woman speaks again, "Well, I'm thankful for my husband and my baby boy, Troy."

To which God replies, "What have you done to make your husband and your baby boy, Troy, happy? How have you shown that you are worthy of these blessings?"

Louise has now reached a pitch of near hysteria. "Where is God?" she whispers in a loud voice? Then her whisper almost sings as she says, "I see him. I see God. He's crouching behind the organ with a microphone." She jams her elbows into my ribs. "Are you listening to this?"

By now I'm out on the lake, the sun is setting, the reds and oranges and yellows of fall have almost burst into flame, and the loons are calling. Listen to the loons calling. 
It's a sacred sound: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ENNzjy8QjU

I turned to Louise with a feeling of complete peace and said, "I'm in my Happy Place."

I want to show you, dear friends, my happy place at the end of a perfect day of fly fishing. The day is almost done, the loons are calling their love calls. The boats are quietly docked:

It's a perfect solution for any introvert. Maybe for every extrovert, who needs a break. 

Why Old Men Are Grumpy

Louise tells me often—I want to say several times a day or week—that I’m grumpy. I don’t know that I’m being grumpy.

Then out of the blue, she says, “Why are you so grumpy?”

This comes as a complete shock to me, because I’ve worked on being nice, and sometimes, just at the moment when I think I’m the nicest, she says, "You're a grumpy old man." or, “You sound nasty,” or, “You scowl all the time,” or, “You sit in the corner and don’t talk."

I do not hold this against Louise. This is not a rant against Louise or any other woman, who is living with a grumpy old man. But I’ve been thinking about it. If I am grumpy, even if I don’t know it, why am I grumpy?

My first thought goes to a line in the movie, Moonstruck. Everyone who has seen Moonstruck, raise your hand. Almost unanimous? So the father in the family, a grumpy old man, is having a fling with a well-powdered woman, and his wife, played by Olympia Dukakis (one sexy woman), knows this affair is going on. She asks her daughter’s fiancé (or nearly ex-fiancé) why men are unfaithful. And he says, “Because they fear death.”

And Dukakis, says, “That’s it. That’s it.”

This raises a question that I must ask myself. Do I fear death? I’m not having an affair, but am I grumpy, because I fear death? I want to hear from women who live with or have lived with a man for one or sixty years. Two questions: 1) is your man grumpy? And 2) does he fear death?


First of all, the most religious of you might say, “My husband has a firm and abiding testimony of the resurrection. He does not fear death.”


To which I must ask, “Is he grumpy?”

And the answer, almost inevitably, is, “Well, yes.

So is this grumpiness rooted in our biology, our lack of faith, or some other cause? I can only speak for myself. Do I fear death? Well, yes I do. I think about death a lot. I don’t think it has to do with lack of faith. Well, maybe it does. I went to the hospital once, thinking I was having a heart attack. The nurse laid me on the gurney and put a nitroglycerin lozenge under my tongue. Long and short of the story: it stopped my heart. If Louise hadn’t been sitting there and run for help, my heart would still be stopped. The nurse, she said, pounded my arm and yelled at me in a voice loud enough to wake the dead, “Mr. Plummer.”

When I had returned to coherence, she said, “Did you see Jesus?”

What I saw was nothingness. Nothing at all. Another friend who had a similar experience could only say, “Pitch black.”

So yes, I have some concerns about death. To me, every living person is here against all odds. If we were created by a loving God, why were we created and not some other piece of dirt? If we evolved, how many odds (a trillion to one?) did we have to beat to get here? So now that I’m here, I’m not in the mood to leave.

But fearing death is not my constant obsession, and I’m still grumpy, I guess. I’m told. So why else? Here’s a little list to curtail this rambling:


I’m not as functional as I once was.

I’m mad that I’m not as functional as I once was. If you don't understand this, thank your lucky stars.

I don’t hear as well. I teach a couple of classes at Utah Valley University, and some of the students speak softly. And I yell, “I can’t hear you. The old man is deaf.” The family gets together and talks. Blah blah blah.

The world has turned over to young people. And they’re not as smart as I am.

The music of my youth is gone. Who listens to “Rock Around the Clock” now? Ke$ha Schme$ha.

The dancing of my youth is gone. Young people don’t know how to snuggle up like we used to, pressing ourselves into each other’s bodies, like squirrels in a nest. Now they dance several feet apart. Where have all the hormones gone?

The answer is, the hormones have all gone to the media. I have nothing against sex. But I would like to see something else when I go to a movie. Or at least understand what they're doing.

I don’t have enough money.

I go to the doctor every three months. He says, “So far, so good.” What the hell does that mean?

When my sons call on the phone they say, “Hi Dad. Is Mom the

So am I grumpy? Well damn straight I am.

10 comments:









heatherOctober 17, 2013 at 2:16 PM


To answer your two questions:

1. Yes, he is grumpy. Just a few days I chastised him at the office supply store for being snappish at the copy counter. He was surprised when I asked him what his problem was. He didn't know he sounded impatient and kind of like an ass. He is also terrible at drive thru's . He can't order food in a pleasant way to save his life. He truly is baffled as to why this is so hard for him to accomplish.

2. Yes. We are both in our mid 40's but feel much older than our years. We are tired and worn out from life. We talk about being dead and wonder what that will be like for whichever of us goes first. We have an idea from watching others what is like for the remaining spouse and that doesn't look like fun, either. We really hope we die of old age in our sleep, together. The only thing we enjoy about life is each other. We tolerate our grown children and hope someday they will finish college and get out of our house. We are shocked at how many of our friends grieve when their kids leave for good. We don't understand that at all. When they were teenagers we managed to arrange summer camps and family visits so that they would all be gone for a week or two at the same time. It was heavenly. Rob and I came home from work everyday, closed all the curtains and took off our clothes. We didn't know we were nudist at heart until we had twenty plus years of being hyperviligent about our bodies so as not to traumatize the children.

We sit in church and respectfully listen as the next life is plotted out on the chalkboard and we nod in affirmation when the class is asked if we want to go the highest degree of glory. But in car on the way home we agree we really don't care where end up in the next life as long as we are together. Shhhh.....don't tell the children. They think we are looking forward to having FHE every night in the eternities. Not so much.

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RachelOctober 17, 2013 at 3:48 PM


1. He is not grumpy (he's a born optimist) but he looks like he's about to kill someone. He's also tall, so the scowl on his face makes him quite intimidating. People think he's grumpy, so the effect is the same. This is an impediment at church and with family but very, very helpful at the DMV or trying to get a table at a restaurant. 2. He fears death. But he has articulated this as a fear of the cessation of life. That is different, I think.




Also, we love each other deeply. He worries a lot about whether he has taken good care of me. I think that makes him afraid to die. As long as we are both alive, he has a chance to keep taking care of me and perhaps to correct past neglect or inattention. Once we're dead his chances to fix his mistakes are over and I think that is what really worries him.

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KhorenOctober 17, 2013 at 4:27 PM


LOVE IT! #9 is priceless. If you don't let Tom post again Louise, then I'm voting he start his own blog called Grumpy Old Birds.

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Bonnie WhiteOctober 17, 2013 at 6:55 PM


This comment has been removed by the author.

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Jo Ann WOctober 17, 2013 at 7:09 PM


The painting, the photography, the writing, the teaching, etc.. I wish I was 'not' as functional as you, Tom. Love your comments.... Don't stop, please!

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Jason MerrellOctober 17, 2013 at 9:44 PM


I was just talking about my fear of death tonight. I'm grumpy, too.

I love the gurney/nitroglycerin/oblivion scene. And I'm glad your heart is not stopped.

Ke$sha Schme$ha indeedy.

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hosanderOctober 17, 2013 at 9:49 PM


Moonstruck! "BRING ME THE BIG KNIFE!"

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RobynOctober 17, 2013 at 10:14 PM


Great Tom! When you start your own blog let me know!

My dad is now in the grumpy old man phase. Before he used to joke and pretend he was bring a grumpy old man- now he is the rightful owner. I think it's frustration - he thinks he's right.

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J.MillOctober 18, 2013 at 7:24 AM


My husband can be grumpy and he fears death more than me. I don't think it has much to do with faith or fear of dying specifically, but more so lack of control. Death cannot be controlled. Faith (verb) is the act of letting go of control. I think men fear losing control and affairs, grumpiness (being on the defensive), road rage, teenage rebellion, etc. are ways they can assert control.




I too am glad your heart is still going!




I also love your description of dancing in #6 :)

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curlygirlpressOctober 18, 2013 at 3:51 PM


You two, you two are my role models for aging gracefully and I hope you can take that in the very best light. I'm new to The Chattering Crow but now I'm devoted.




My husband of 3 years tends toward grumpy and since he's only 45 I'm a bit worried. I think reason #4 best applies but I'll ask him if he's grumpy because he fears death. I don't want to die but I don't at all fear death (says the 37-year-old...).

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The Fine Art of Wooing

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

The Fine Art of Wooing

 The Wooer

About four years ago, Louise made a solo drive to Newport Beach. She wanted to prove to herself that she “could still do it.” I had no doubts, but she, being the person she is, was not so sure. Maybe she had early onset Alzheimer’s, she wondered, or some other undiagnosable, incurable ailment. So she drove off, waving a giddy wave as she rounded the corner and into the west. The first night, she called from a $6.00 a night casino on the western Nevada border. “I’m doing it,” she said. “I can still do this. And it’s only costing me $6 a night.”

Night after night, she checked in. Each time she said how happy she was to have made the trip, how she now wanted to work on the car ferry between Balboa Island and Balboa Peninsula, beginning as the fare collector and moving up to pilot of the boat. “I know I could do it,” she said. “I asked the guy collecting money if I could work there,” she said. “He said I should apply in the fall when the student collectors go back to school. I could be a money collector on a ferry.”

And then, on the last night, when I thought I knew where this was all going, that she would return home to trouble-free hugs and kisses from me, she said, “I want you to woo me when I get home.”

“You want me to woo you?” I repeated her words.

“Yes,” she said. “I want you to woo me.”

The words banged around my head like bowling pins. “I want you to WOOOOOOO me when I get home.”

The conversation ended somehow, and I sat staring into the darkness of the room. A deadness spread through my body like an oil spill. I recalled for a moment how Louise had once said that I am predictable. I never surprise her. I could never accuse her of being predictable. The woman rocks my boat. And I fell asleep on the sofa.

I woke up after nightmares of wooing. I had never really wooed anyone. Well, when we got engaged, I wooed her, I guess. But that was then. This was umpteen years later. And then, what does it mean to “woo” someone?

Google. Maybe Google had the answer. I Googled “woo.”  “Woo” a Chinese name. “Woo,” etymology from Middle English women. Then again, “Woo: 1) to sue for the affection of and usually marriage with  [a woman]; court [a woman]; 2) to solicit or entreat especially with importunity <woo new customers>
3) to seek to gain or bring about.” Bring about what? Definitions would not help me. Could not help me.

Next Google search: “How to woo a woman.” A lot of answers popped up for guys trying to seduce a woman. Guys who had not the faintest clue how to go about it. Guys like me. I suddenly felt sorry for all those nerds. Wooing advice came under titles like “Seven ways to woo a woman properly.” “Ten ways to woo a woman.” “Scientific proof: the successful way to woo a woman.” Forget that one. Scientific proof? Give me a break. And “Fifty ways to woo your lover.”

Somewhere in all of that nonsense, I picked up on an idea. Rose petals. Strew rose petals on the bed. That was the advice. Screw that. Strew rose petals through the house. Strew them all over the place. Yeah. Rose petals for starters. I called florists. “Do you sell rose petals?”

The first one, a guy, paused. “You mean, like,” he hesitated, “for wooing a woman?”

“Yeah.”

“No. Sorry, Bud. Good luck.”

Several more calls, then pay dirt. “Yes, we have rose petals. We sell them by the bag.”
I tore out of the house and across town to the rose petal seller and bought their biggest bag. I was on a wooing roll now. I’d woo that woman. Then I went to Target. Wandered around the house wares (full blown disaster), the bedding (just as bad) and into the cosmetics section. There were rows of bath salts, smelling massage oils, foot baths. I cleaned off a shelf. I bought a basket, and went home to begin wooing. I was onto it.

Louise came home to a big sign I’d made up. I no longer recall what it said.  Rose petals strewn from the front door, up the stairs, into the bedroom and onto the bed, all over the bed, where the basket of goodies awaited her, along with chocolates. No wooing Louise without chocolates. She hugged me, kissed me, thanked me. Said she felt wooed.

Later we went out to get some food. Our grandson and a friend came over to see grandma. When we didn’t answer, they peeked through the window next to the door and saw the rose petals. “Let’s get out of here,” H. said. “I think they’re having sex.”

The next evening, Sam and Sarah came over to welcome Louise home. They looked at the rose petals, still strewn around the house. Louise raved on about her wonderful wooing.

Sam got a smirk on his face. “Did you have to Google for ideas?” he asked me.

How have you been wooed? How would you like to be wooed?

8 comments:

1. 
   Bonnie WhiteOctober 15, 2013 at 9:13 PM

   I love that she was assertive to ask what she needed, that you loved and wanted her to be happy, that you put some effort and thought into it. I love that your grandson immediately thought you were having sex. I love that Sam knows you.
   
   Bloody brilliant Tom.

   Reply
2. 
   MargyOctober 15, 2013 at 9:24 PM

   This made me smile. Like a real smile, not a smirk :).

   Reply
3. 
   ilimaOctober 15, 2013 at 9:26 PM

   LOVE this. Haha. A successful wooing indeed. :)

   Reply
4. 
   heatherOctober 16, 2013 at 4:29 AM

   Perfect wooing. Just perfect.

   Reply
5. 
   Linda JOctober 16, 2013 at 10:40 AM

   I think Louise has been good and soundly wooed (even if you had to resort to google) I think that wooing changes as we age. So sweet and it's good to know your grandson knows you still got it going on.

   Reply
6. 
   eliseOctober 16, 2013 at 10:10 PM

   oh, my goodness. not just smiles but laughter. and i have been very sad lately. thank. you.

   Reply
7. 
   LJOctober 17, 2013 at 10:58 AM

   This is the most perfect dating post ever written.
   
   Also, I love surprises. That's how I want to be wooed. Surprises, and chocolate, and then letting me sleep in.

   Reply
8. 
   EmilyOctober 21, 2013 at 12:39 PM

   This is one of the best things I've ever read. EVER.

   Reply