Eighty-six and Still Adrift

            Today marks the anniversary of my birth eighty-six years ago, and today, like any other, I sit in the cozy canary yellow breakfast nook of my Boulder, Colorado, home to partake in my daily bowl of...salmon and seaweed?   What kind of breakfast is this to give someone, an old and irritable someone, on her eighty-sixth birthday?   Where's my Total Raisin Bran?  

              Alright, what kind of joke is this Eliot?   Eliot?   Oh goodness, where is that ridiculous prankster?   He always sits right...where that anchor is.   This isn't my cozy breakfast nook at all.   I'm on some dingy white pontoon boat staring at green moss that covers chunky water like hot fudge and crushed peanuts poured atop a thick milkshake.   Wait a minute. That sentence sounds vaguely familiar.   Salmon and seaweed, a dingy white pontoon, and water resembling a milkshake...I think I've died and gone to a writer's hell.   I'm on the pontoon I wrote about in my first creative writing class back in college.   That means I must be wearing...oh, wow.   Does anyone have a moo-moo to cover all this sagginess?   This royal blue swimsuit is definitely not working for me the way it did for the fourteen-year-old who wore it in the story.   You know, you'd think the creators of hell could burn some Evangelists and steal their clothes in preparation for occasions like these.

            "Swim home.   But bring that coffin with you."

            That must be the witch mother talking to me from the intercom in the hut.   This was a really bizarre story.   I wonder where her daughter is.   She should be in the water directly in front of the hut trying to get her mom's attention by pretending she's drowning.   Ah, there she is, belly-up atop the milkshake, slowly opening her right eye to check for possible attention.    Look at those thick brown strands of hair swaying in the fudgy-nut chunks, like chocolate sugar wafers getting soggy.   I loved that simile.   Oh, to be young again...hey, snap out of it Deanne.   You just need to find someone to tell you what you're doing here and how to get out.  

            "Here I am, at your service."

            "That was quick.   Weren't you just floating in the water in front of the hut?"

            "I'm a witch, silly.   Don't you remember?   And witches can do magic of course.   So here I am, before your very eyes, to tell you why you're here."

            "And how to get out."

            "That part's up to you."

            "Alright, what's that supposed to mean, Witchy."

            "It's not nice to call people names.   I was only trying to help you."  

            "I'm sorry.   I'm just a bit frustrated by the fact that I'm standing here on this pontoon boat talking to a nine-year-old witch I created in a story over sixty-five years ago.   What's your name again?"

            "You never gave me one."

            "Oh.   Well, I suppose I should.   How about Lavender to match your boots."

            "Oooh, Lavender.   I like that.   Yay!   I finally have a name, a name, a name.   I finally have a name. It's Lavender like my boots. "

            "Very nice rendition of that song, Lavender.   Now, can we get down to business?"

            "Okay.   You're in something called a writer's purgatory.   In a writer's purgatory, you have to exist as a character in one of your own stories until you can prove the worth of the writing you've done throughout your life."  

            "I don't get it.   I didn't die.   How did I end up in a purgatory?   Oh, here comes your mother, tromping toward me in her black boots, getting ready to tie that coffin to my arm with a 3-foot stretch of rope.   Ouch!   Now Mother Witch, if I may call you that, can you please tell me where I'm swimming to?"

            Okay, that look tells me that you're annoyed and somehow, I'm supposed to know.   I'll just lower this forty-pound coffin into the milkshake-textured river and hop on into these fudgy-nut chunks.   Ick, this water is extra chunky, and it sure doesn't taste like a milkshake.   Bon voyage to me, I suppose.

            "Thank you for the name!   Remember, you have to prove the worth of your writing!"

            "Thanks for the help Lavender!"   Yeah right, thanks for nothing.   What a joke.   It's my eighty-sixth birthday, and I'm stuck in a fictitious river lugging an oak coffin while I try to get...I can't even remember where I'm supposed to be going.   If in doubt always go right, or is it left?   Well, considering that the current is going right, and a writer must create obstacles for the character, I'll assume that I should go left.   Okay, kick and arm and kick and...I'm feeling all 86 years cracking in these joints...ouch.  

            "Ha. Ha. Ha."

"And what do you think you're laughing at?"   You stupid furry brown beaver.

            "That's an awfully silly question when you are the only living organism in sight,"

            Oh, I remember now.   That's the beaver that can push a log twice his size upstream.   I made him such a smart aleck too.   A beaver with brains I'd say he was.

            "Hey Mr. Beaver.   Can you help me out?"

            "Obviously, you are not using the proper tactics if you would like to make any progress in moving upstream.   You should not be pulling that coffin.   You must always push.   If the current picks up, that coffin could easily strike you and send you sailing back downstream.   You cannot allow the object to control you.   You must control the object.   Just one moment.   Aren't you...?

            "That's me."

            "I should have realized it when I observed your lack of intellect in action just now.   I have read a number of your short stories and even trudged through a few poems, Ms. Drechsler.   I find it simply astounding, the way you consistently displace reality.   A new fictional universe is present in each work, even those intended for adults.   Any accomplished writer reaches a point at which he or she grows out of such nonsense.   Was this story, involving coffin-bearing witches and a talking beaver with, might I mention, a remarkably keen intellect, not enough to satisfy your child-like hunger for fantasy worlds?"

            "I suppose not, and I can't refute what you've said about the presence of fantasy in the majority of my poems and short stories, especially those intended for adults.   However, I would argue that my utilization of fictional worlds is not a result of a lack in brainpower.   In fact, I would suggest to you, oh wise beaver with a remarkably keen intellect, that I have made this decision as a result of my intellectual capabilities."

            "Ha."

            "I would think that a beaver of such brilliance would certainly be willing to hear my explanation before scoffing.   Now, is it not accurate to assume that adults spend most of their real world time bogged down by the stresses of demanding careers, complaining co-workers, screaming children, and unappreciative spouses... that is, amongst other things?   If this is true, then stressed out adults usually sit down for ten or twenty minutes to read a poem or short story in order to escape the stresses of the real world.   Why then, would I write about this world of which they have certainly had enough, when I can write about a fictional world that they have never experienced and about which they know nothing?"  

            "Well..."

            "Before you attempt a retort, my brilliant beaver, I should ask you to consider this example as proof of my argument.   Would you rather read a story about me, an 86-year-old retired teacher and writer whose morning highlight is a bowl of Total Raisin Bran, or a story about you, a talking beaver with intelligence that surpasses that of most humans?"

            "Your point is taken."

            "Thank you.   And since you seem to think that I have written only fictitious works, I'd like to direct you to one of the scholarly pieces I completed during my teaching career.   I wrote a manual designed to make the study of Romantic nature writers, such as Wordsworth, Coleridge, Keats, Emerson, and Thoreau, more intriguing for high school English students.   It is entitled

Rereading the Romantics and can be found in the non-fiction section of most public libraries and bookstores."

            "Although I would love to stay and listen to your defenses to further qualms I have with your writing, I have no more time to be dawdling with amateurs.   I must take this log to the Beaver Society.   We are currently creating the most highly developed dam in history.   However, I will look for that manual on Romantic nature writers.   Wordsworth is undoubtedly the most engaging poet of all time."

            That figures.   I still loathe Wordsworth's poetry, even after writing the manual.   At least that beaver was good for something.   I'm actually moving since I've started pushing the coffin rather than pulling it.   I just hope I get somewhere soon.   My stomach's been chattering nonstop since I turned down the seaweed and salmon at breakfast.   Huh, what's that?   It looks like some sort of island...with a field full of ruby-red strawberries!   This is what I love about fantasy.   I say I'm hungry, and an island with fresh fruit pops up out of nowhere.   Just a few more feet and...there we go.   I'm safely on land again, and there isn't a creature in sight.   I guess it's just you and me, coffin buddy.   I'm sorry to abandon you, but those ruby-reds are shouting my name.  

            Mmm...mmm.   These strawberries are de-licious!   I think I'll take a few for the swim.   They can go in coffin storage for safe-keeping.   Oh, but wait...oh, a field of wildflowers!   A quick frolic won't hurt anything, and maybe I'll pick a small bouquet.   I'll just take one yellow, an orange, a red, a pink, and a purple, and...one more orange.  

            "Bzzzzzzz."

            What is that annoying buzzing in my ear?   Woah!   It's a queen bee the size of my fist.

            "So you thought you could take our wildflowers too.   The strawberries alone weren't enough?   You pollen stealer!   Wait.   Aren't you...?"

            "That's me."

            "Your hedonistic nature should have given it away sooner.   The infamous Deanne Drechsler.   The woman who spent two-hundred and ten pages writing all about herself.   You might as well have called the book All About Me .   Memoirs...ha.   Why do you think your life is so interesting anyway?"

            "You read my memoirs?   I thought you were going to harp on my works of fiction.   How did you even get a hold of that book?   Only ten copies exist.   And I never said that my life was so interesting.   That's one of the reasons why the book was privately published.   It was not written to entertain or inspire.   I wrote my memoirs to gain a better understanding of myself."

            "There you go again.   Me. Me. Me.   Can't you ever think about anyone other than yourself?"

            "You didn't let me finish.   That's exactly what I was doing.   By understanding the self, one can better the self, and in that way, he or she can benefit others.   Haven't you ever read Plato's Phaedrus ?   Socrates clearly states that in the first pages of the dialogue."

            "No.   I'm sorry, but, unlike you, my life does not revolve solely around myself.   I don't often find time to sit down for pleasure reading.   I spend my days working hard to keep my colony satisfied."

            "I'm sure it's really grueling work having sex all day with one drone after another, and then you even do them the great service of killing them when you're finished.   You're just a regular philanthropist."   

            "I think I've had about enough of you.   I want you off of my island now!   Ready troops?   Attack!"

            "I'd just like you to know that though I may be running from you physically, I can still beat you any day in a battle of words."   Get ready to set sail, coffin buddy.   Where's that rope?

Ah ha!   In we go...  

            Whew.   That was more moving than these brittle bones have done in ten years. Such an occasion calls for a sunlit nap.   These soothing waves will lull me to sleep quite effectively I think. I'll use you as a pillow, coffin buddy, if you don't have any objection...good.   I assumed you'd agree to a short snooze.  

            Gulp!    Yuck...a mouthful of watery seaweed.   How long have I been sleeping?   Or more importantly, are all of those logs coming this way? I guess the most highly developed beaver dam in history didn't make it.    Oh no!   I have a feeling those enormous waves are coming this way too.   Huh, what an ironic twist in the story.   This coffin could save my life.   If I can just get on top to straddle it, I can ride the waves until the river levels out. I've just got to get one leg over the top..."  

            "Deanne, get inside the coffin!   It's water-tight!"

            Is that Lavender?   Oh, I remember now.   This is how the story ends.   The main character overcomes her fear of coffins by climbing inside of one.   I just have to get into the coffin and close the lid, and the story will be over.   I'll be free!   Okay, butt down, legs in, arms in, and (slam)...what's going on?   Nothing's happening.

            "Lavender, why isn't anything happening?"

            "There is one last question before you can escape a writer's purgatory.   You must answer honestly, or you'll be stuck in the story forever.   Deanne, are you satisfied with where your writing has taken you?"

• • • • •

            "Grandma Dee, Grandma Dee, wake up!   No more falling asleep.   It's not bedtime yet.   Please read me another one of your stories!   Can I hear the one about the talking beaver this time?"

            "No!   I mean...wouldn't you rather hear the one about the blue-spotted flamingo?"

            "Yeah!   I'm ready, Grandma Dee, I'm ready right now."

            "Okay.   Swimming in a sea of electric blue, Persephone, the pink flamingo, cries out for help..."