Creative Writhing: Bits and Pieces

By Jeanne Sandberg Fuller

Jeanne Sandberg Fuller has done it once again. The author of The Day the Bathroom Ceiling Fell, Nice Girls Are the Best Kissers, and Tales of a Closet Belly Dancer presents her new book, Creative Writhing, a compilation of her work that has won awards, been published in newspapers, magazines and those not yet in print.

This anthology of stories and adventures is told as only she can in her friendly, down-home voice. Each selection is carefully and cheerfully written with exquisite language and charm. They range from sailing on the new power boat with hubby and the kids (What could possibly go wrong here?) to Snaggletooth, the cat named Pusso (yes, Pussocat). Jeanne plunks them down in front of you just as if you were sitting across from her by the fire.

This book is full of stand-alone pieces that fit together like pieces in a puzzle. If you have read Fullers other books, youll know you are in for a treat with this one (Diane Roush, international English teacher).

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532042133

Jeanne Sandberg Fuller

Jeanne Sandberg Fuller, writer, artist, wife, mother, and grandmother won the award as the American Belly Dancer on a Nile cruise boat. She served for thirty years as a docent at the Museum of Fine Arts of St Petersburg, Florida and worked on their Catalogue of the Collections, wrote slide lectures, study sheets, and labels for art works. A born story teller, a trait inherited from her father, Fuller, has been writing since childhood. She relates amusing and touching tales about her parents, relatives, friends, and children. Her essays and stories have won numerous prizes, appeared in magazines and newspapers. She enjoys sewing, decorating, reading, and world travel. After years of collecting treasures at yard sales and antique stores, she is trying to downsize She and her retired Eastern Airlines captain hail from Jamestown, New York and after countless moves they now reside in Seminole, Florida.

Book preview

CREATIVE

Writhing

BITS AND PIECES

JEANNE SANDBERG FULLER

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CREATIVE WRITHING

BITS AND PIECES

Copyright © 2018 Jeanne Sandberg Fuller.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-4212-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4213-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018902013

iUniverse rev. date: 02/26/2018

Jeanne Sandberg Fuller has done it once again. The author of The Day the Bathroom Ceiling Fell, Nice Girls Are the Best Kissers, and Tales of a Closet Belly Dancer presents her new book, Creative ‘Writhing,’ a compilation of her work that has won awards, been published in newspapers, magazines and those not yet in print.

This anthology of stories and adventures is told as only she can in her friendly, down home voice. Each selection is carefully and cheerfully written with exquisite language and charm. They range from sailing on the new power boat with hubby and the kids (What could possibly go wrong here?) to Snaggletooth, the cat named Pusso (yes, Pussocat). She plunks them down in front of you just as if you were sitting across from her by the fire.

This book is full of stand-alone pieces that fit together like pieces in a puzzle. If you have read Fuller’s other books, you’ll know you are in for a treat with this one.

Diane Roush

International English Teacher

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Jeanne Sandberg Fuller, writer, artist, wife, mother, and grandmother won the award as the American Belly Dancer on a Nile cruise boat. She served for thirty years as a docent at the Museum of Fine Arts of St Petersburg, Florida and worked on their Catalogue of the Collections, wrote slide lectures, study sheets, and labels for art works.

A born story teller, a trait inherited from her father, Fuller, has been writing since childhood. She relates amusing and touching tales about her parents, relatives, friends, and children. Her essays and stories have won numerous prizes, appeared in magazines and newspapers.

She enjoys sewing, decorating, reading, writing, and world travel. After years of collecting treasures at yard sales and antique stores, she is trying to downsize She and her retired Eastern Airlines captain hail from Jamestown, New York and after countless moves they now reside in Seminole, Florida.

Family Histories by Jeanne Sandberg Fuller

John Wilson Fuller, Esquire – The 1870 Diary of a Country Gentleman Farmer

The 1893 World of Mary Perry Fuller

Laura’s Family – Mother Always Told Me to Write a Book About our Family

And So I Did!

Edited, Designed, and Illustrated

A Chattanooga Childhood – A Memoir/Cookbook - Stories and Favorite Foods as Chosen Cooks Share Their Secrets - by Charlotte Colby Andersen

Memoirs

The Day the Bathroom Ceiling Fell and Other Entertainments

Nice Girls Are the Best Kissers - The Years between WWII and the Korean War

Tales Told by a Closet Belly Dancer – Her Travels, Trials and Travails

Slide Lectures

Dance in Art – Dance, the mother of all the arts from Stonehenge to the Degas’ ballet dancers.

Jewelry from the Land of the Pharaohs - Tut’s jewels and more.

Understanding or Reading Egyptian Art – naming all the gods and goddesses

Cover: Jeanne Sandberg Fuller seated at her writing desk

FOREWORD

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With apologies to Lewis Carroll:

Said the Mock Turtle, with a sigh, "I only took a regular course.

What was that? inquired Alice.

Reeling and Writhing, of course, the Mock Turtle replied;

and Arithmetic, Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision.

DEDICATION

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I am dedicating this volume to my mother who insisted from the time I was in third grade that I should write a book about our family. She had already passed away before The Day the Bathroom Ceiling Fell was completed. However I presented it to her at Lakeview cemetery when it was in notebook form.

In Loving Memory of Davy

David Harold Fuller

1952-1997

THANK YOU VERY, VERY MUCH

I attended writing classes at Northern Community College, summers at Chautauqua Institution, NY State, and at a class at the home of my dear friend and mentor, Charlotte Andersen. There I tried to compose a story each week with hopes to write several books. So far I have published three and fear I won’t live long enough to finish all I have begun, so I’m grouping chapters from those all together in this volume.

As a self-published writer I have to peddle my own wares. My first two books were sold mostly to friends and relatives. The Beaches Library included The Day the Bathroom Ceiling Fell on the Chatter Books Club reading list. Thankfully, Facebook widened my circle of friends, so that Tales Told by a Closet Belly Dancer enjoyed more sales than I had expected.

I’m especially grateful to Blair Hamilton Flowers for this review: For anyone who was part of, or is interested in, the Middle Eastern Dance world in the US during the 70s & 80s Tales Told by a Closet Belly Dancer is a must read. Jeanne Sandberg Fuller really captured the essence of that beautiful unique dance world when the Middle East was enchanting, the people respected as extraordinary artists and Egypt. Morocco, Iraq; Syria, Israel, Lebanon, and Turkey were great places to visit.

Blair had this to say about Nice Girls are the Best Kissers: "I really enjoyed reading Chapter 4 – Dating a College Man. It’s hard to believe that life was so beautiful and straightforward for most people back in that era. I’m so glad that you are writing these books to preserve that way of life for future generations. They should be required reading in high school American Literature."

I wish to thank all the kind folks who took the time to drop me a line telling me how much they enjoyed my books. My dear cousins, Lorraine and Donald Finch, and Lois and Paul Inserra have been my special cheerleaders throughout my writing career. Lois even ordered copies of all three for her granddaughter Lexie. I don’t want Lexie to have to wait until I pass away for her to inherit them. It seems Paul likes to read passages aloud to anyone that darkens their door!

My thanks to my pal and proof reader, Diane Roush, my sister, Judy, who made corrections to this book and allowed me to relate great chunks of her life, and my son, Terry who also permitted to tell a few tales about him. The day I was about to submit my manuscript my computer died causing me to really writhe. Terry has earned my eternal gratitude for retrieving my hard drive and magically installing the contents into my new computer.

CONTENTS

Introduction

1.    Creative Writhing Class

2.    The Maiden Voyage of the Spectrum

3.    We Never Forgot Our Cruise to Rehoboth Beach

4.    The Second Happiest Day in a Boater’s Life

5.    Davy’s Christmas Bush

6.    Davy, Future Farmer of America

7.    Memory Beads

8.    If You Have an Itch to go to Honeymoon Island

9.    Do-It-Yourself Dad Creates Family Surprise

10.  Pond View Provides Revealing Window on Nature

11.  While You’re Out, Pick Up a Canoe

12.  Plantings make Pinellas a Better Place to Live & Florida

Land of the Flowers

13.  Florida Cat Comes Home

14.  Like a Snake, I Shall Shed My Old Clothes

15.  Show Me the Way to go Home

16.  Roll Out the Red Carpet

17.  Quilting Tonight on The- Old Campground

18.  We Wish you a Merry Christmas

19.  I Should Have Known Better

20.  The Hair on my Chinnie Chin Chin

21.  A Fan Letter Tt Jean Shepherd

22.  Furry Creatures Lose Their Cuteness & Madame, You

Have Rodents

23.  Almost Curtains for the Cat

24.  The Wreck of the Love Boat

25.  My Ten Day Delusional Diet

26.  Haiku, Haiku, God Bless You

27.  Won’t You Come Home, Captain Perry?

28.  I Guess I’ll Never Learn

29.  Mother’s Christmas Wreath

30.  Only Heartache on Mother’s Day

31.  Letter to the Editor

32.  We’ll Never Forget Coosa, The Swedish Cow

33.  Learning To See, Really See

34.  Dad

35.  The Great Depression

36.  The Little Red Schoolhouse

37.  Mud in Married Students’ Housing

38.  David and Bathsheba

39.  Mrs Whitemouse and the Tassel Dancer

40.  The Tale of Snaggle Tooth

41.  The First Thing I’m Going To Do

42.  I Look Just Like Flackenstein

43.  Ten Commandments for Vacationing Floridians

44.  The Docent Prayer

45.  Lilly’s Little House in Paradise

46.  Leonardo Da Kitti to the Rescue

47.  The Cat Who Thought He was a Person

48.  Sam, The Plumber From Hell

49.  Visitations by the Goddess of Literature

50.  It’s Just the Gypsy in Our Souls

51.  Dinner Will be a Little Late Tonight

52.  Bye Bye Bug-Eye

53.  Sister And I Jump Ship

54.  In Search of the Town of Ausfahrt

55.  Sister’s Winter Holidays in Florida

56.  What I Did on My Summer Vacation

57.  Why Women Outlive Men

58.  In Search Of Necessaries

59.  At Christmas Mother Knows Best

60.  Are You Sure You Want to be a Writer?

INTRODUCTION

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I was hardly more than a child bride and now I had a colicky six weeks old baby boy.

Like most imperfect humans, I often say things I wish I hadn’t. One thoughtless remark of mine sticks out in my memory like a sore thumb that met up with the hammer. Thoughtless remarks made by others have cut me deeply, but far worse are words that have sprung from my own lips! Those live for all time papered on the inside of my skull to remind me to think before I speak!

It’s embarrassing to conjure up the scene. In 1952 my navy pilot husband and I were living in a tiny upstairs apartment in Norfolk, VA. It was the hottest summer on record and in those days only movie theaters had air-conditioning. My lovely neighbor and I strolled around the sidewalks of our development near Ward’s Corner pushing baby carriages, buggies, perambulators, whatever you called them in your day and part of the country. I was hardly more than a child bride and already I had a colicky six weeks old baby boy. I was bone-weary from sleepless nights and always a bit frazzled, but my companion, Gladys, was as calm as windless sea. She was a beautiful Grace Kelly look-alike with every hair of her blond pageboy in place, while mine was hardly even combed. My blouse looked wilted and smelled of baby spit-up while hers was crisp, fresh, and innocent of any sign of infant up-chucks. Don’t fret so much, Jeanne. You’ll do much better when you are my age. When she told me she was thirty, I was stunned. That’s eons away!

She swept on ahead while I bounced along to catch up, chattering in unbridled admiration of this gorgeous creature. Oh, how I cringe as I recall my young blundering self, Golly, Gladys, I certainly hope I look as good as you do when I’m thirty! That was the era of never-trust-anyone-over-thirty. How she managed to smile sweetly, I’ll never know. The closer I got to my thirtieth birthday, the more I wanted to eat those words.

When my big three-O came to pass, I had two more babies and was living with my parents in Jamestown, New York while my husband was in flight training for Eastern Airlines in Miami, Florida. One evening as I went upstairs to tuck my three children in for the night, my sister’s girlfriend said, Golly, Marge, I can’t believe your sister is thirty! She’s really well preserved for her age. Instantly I thought of my perfect, patient neighbor, Gladys, who was only a memory I wished I could forget. Did she remember the fresh kid who thought that being thirty was older than dirt!

My husband now wore an Eastern Airline pilot’s uniform and I dressed sedately in matronly frocks and sensible shoes in consideration of my advanced years. Stuck in a development house, with three children, in the middle of Long Island, I sewed their clothing and mine, made slipcovers, and canned peaches. In December I baked twelve kinds of cookies for the Twelve Days of Christmas as gifts for friends and relatives.

But before I sank up to my neck in cookie dough, I heard a feminist speaker on TV warn, The interior of a woman’s head governs her future existence. She must plan now while her children are underfoot for the inevitable empty-nest syndrome, so she’ll be ready to get a life of her own. (I guess the poor woman hadn’t figured that grown children might come home to live with off-spring of their own.) If a woman doesn’t develop her own interests now, it’ll be too late. She’ll be a lost lamb driving her children bonkers because she hadn’t planned properly." I joined a reading group, read books about Egypt for fun, took an oil painting class, and bought some artistic clothes. I was thirty three when I was asked to pose for the portrait the Ii had planned to use on the cover of this book. However, I was dismayed to learn that although the portrait was a gift, mere ownership does not provide the copywrite.

Another know-more-than-you-do suggested the same thing, but she also preached that a woman over a certain age deserved the face she had. Would I have earned laugh crinkles instead of wrinkles at the corners of my eyes? Would I be facing the world with the ‘Archaic Smile’ of ancient Greek statues or would I bear a frowning brow and dreary lines tugging down the corners of my mouth? I practiced turning up my ‘corners’ so I wouldn’t end up like the prune-faced folk blocking traffic in grocery store aisles? As my up-turned corners became a habit, I noticed that the people I passed on the street smiled at me.

Another lecturer with a sense of humor suggested that a woman who would tell her age simply could not be trusted. She would tell anything! The message was still never-trust-anyone-over-thirty so my age was a subject I didn’t discuss. I painted one day a week, was taking tennis and swimming lessons, and had joined a creative writing class. For my 39th birthday my husband gave me a bicycle.

By my big four-O, with art works selling to the locals, I was teaching several students in my home studio. I decided age was only a number in my head and I could still do all those things I’d dreamed of doing. My water color and creative writing classes at the junior college along with cycling, tennis, swimming, and Yoga weren’t enough, so I also took up Belly Dancing, Ballet for Adults, and Dance in Exercise taught by a former Rockette. My younger son complained, Why do you think you should be a dancer? Why can’t you just stay home and bake brownies like Fleek’s mom? Fleek’s mom couldn’t have been more than a big three-O. She was still into pressure cookers, and sugar and flour products. In creative writing, I wrote about the boating adventures we were having on Chesapeake Bay. When I appeared as a Belly Dancer on a friend’s cable TV show, I was invited to produce my own show, The Dance Emporium.

Although I would never admit to being the big five-O or beyond, I managed to avoid lying about it. Besides, telling my age would indicate I was not trustworthy. We had moved to Florida where my airline captain husband could sail his boat all year around. I had joined the Docent training class at the Museum of Fine Arts since my own painting had come to a screeching stop. However, I was teaching belly dancing and exercise classes, as well as performing at nursing homes and schools. Since I had always loved all forms of dance, I agreed when a student invited me to join her Mexican troupe. Unfortunately all that foot stamping made my ovaries hurt so bad I had to give it up. However, I took few classes in Israeli Folk Dance when my dance troupe, the Oriental Bazaar Dancers, was asked to perform at a temple for Hanukkah. I had already been studying Hula for fifteen years and I felt younger than I did at my big three-O!

My husband’s airline career allowed us travel privileges enabling us to visit all the faraway places we had both dreamed about: Stonehenge, the Parthenon, Istanbul, the Great Pyramid, Abu Simbel, Paris, and the museums!

On a day way beyond my big five-0, our troupe was presenting a Hula show at an Elderly Day Care Center for their annual Luau. When we were finished, a woman rushed up to me and hugged me. Oh, I just love you! she gushed. You’re about the age of my daughter and you look just like her. How I wish I could dance like you girls do, but I’m an old woman. I’m sixty-two years old.

How could I possibly tell this wonderful woman that I was six years her elder and already collecting Social Security? After discovering her daughter was forty, I had to lie about my age. I’m sure the forever-thirty-in–my-mind Gladys would have been proud of me. Yes, that’s just about right.

When my big seven-O rolled around I had been attending weekly writing classes and submitting stories and essays to writing contests, newspapers, and magazines. Sometimes I won prizes and also got published. I was writing and editing two newsletters as well as my annual Christmas newsletter. My first book, a humorous memoir about growing up in a small New York State town was in progress. My mother was delighted with the first chapter, The Day the Bathroom Ceiling Fell, but she had passed away by the time it was published in 2006.

I can’t help wondering how my Grace Kelly look-alike friend, Gladys, is faring as my big eight-O arrives. I’ve retired from many of my activities, but writing continues in spite of the problems aging brings. Nice Girls are the Best Kissers and Tales Told by a Closet Belly Dancer have been published and now I am working on my fourth!

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CHAPTER 1

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Creative Writhing Class

EITHER FROM COURAGE OR FOOLHARDINESS, I had enrolled in a Northern Virginia Community College course entitled Writing at Home for Money, informal classes that met weekly in the instructor’s home. Looking timidly around the room at twelve strangers and one smiling instructor, I shuddered. We had been chortling at a ludicrous excuse for writing exhibited in an article Bob Terpstra had borrowed from a small weekly newspaper to use as a lesson in copy editing. Remember, the writer is in the Bahamas, so you can’t ask questions. Just do the best you can to be accurate and concise. More laughter rippled here and there at this point. A twinge of sympathy crept over me for the poor deluded person who was responsible for this ridiculous bit of trash.

All too soon we’d all be road kill, our bones picked clean by Bob who was now beginning to appear vulture-like in my mind’s eye. He was a ‘stringer’ for the Washington Post and probably knew how tough it was to sell an article. Wear tough skins next week, he warned. We’ll be reading your work aloud. At that cheerful thought, we slunk from the room, morale sadly sagging.

The following week, after completing the editing assignment, Bob began to read the first story. We all straightened expectantly and looked at Ann, the perpetrator of the piece. As he finished, we looked at one another. I was impressed and obviously the others thought so, too. Not bad, he commented. Then he proceeded to dismember it, limb from limb. He handed the remains to the elegantly dark slip of a girl writhing in the depths of her chair, probably trying to remember that he had said, It’s not bad.

He launched into the second piece. The fragile blonde who gave the impression she constantly bordered on flight was now slowly searing on the spit. Marion wasn’t as lucky as Ann. It’s a clinical case study, you know, he pronounced. You haven’t breathed life into your characters. Her face was devoid of life as he handed back her effort. Dear God, I thought, if I were in her shoes, I’d never come back!

We have time for just one more, Bob remarked briskly, looking at his watch. I braced myself for the blow that didn’t come. The room was quiet as we fell under the spell of Anne Marie’s charming fairy tale. Pausing briefly, he asked, Can’t you hear music playing here? We agreed mutely, overwhelmed at the dazzling talent revealed by the magic of her words. Her long lashes rested modestly on her cheeks and then fluttered open as she heard, Send it off to a children’s magazine."

Having escaped the rack this time, I grabbed my story gratefully as he said to me, You’ve chosen the hardest thing, humor. Read everything Erma Bombeck and Art Buchwald ever wrote. I’ve made a few suggestions. Why don’t you do it over? In the safety of my car, I scanned the pages. Now I understood the reason for the editing assignment. We were supposed to be able to decipher the hen tracks, squiggles and arrows with which he butchered our newborn chicks.

My first attempt hadn’t been much. After several abortive tries, I had run out of time because Bob had announced our assignments must be typed. I didn’t dare say a word, but a braver soul had protested that he didn’t type. There are people who type for money, you know, Bob had said archly. It had sounded faintly indecent.

The typing factor had created an exacting schedule for me. My trusted friend, Brownie, had agreed to type my assignments if I delivered my hunt and peck manuscript at her door by noon. That evening I could pickup my copy on the way to class. When the term ended, we’d settle the financial affairs. Brownie was the absolute soul of discretion and I felt safe entrusting her with my first feverishly labored manuscripts.

Her neatly typed copy looked so professional and she hadn’t said a single word about the content, thank goodness. I’d wisely decided against asking one of my children to help with my project. They could type, but I remembered their reactions to letters I composed. Reading over my shoulder, they’d howl with laughter at my ineptness. It was best not to get them involved in my private efforts.

I plodded stoically on with my second assignment. I consulted Bob’s rules of the road, which we all hastily copied the first night. It’ll take time to get the hang of it, I reminded myself. After all, notes to the milkman or excuses to the teacher for a sick child hadn’t been much practice for creative writing.

After I had announced to family, friends, and the world at large that I intended to write light-hearted articles for boating magazines, it should have been a piece of cake for me. All I had to do was dash off one of those hilarious adventures from our ten-year boating career and I would have it made. They always got a laugh at parties and friends would say, Jeanne, you really should be a writer; you have such a way with words.

But it wasn’t so easy writing them down. Words were fighting me, eluding me, and having their way with me. Desperately, I consulted the ambitious list of ideas I’d jotted down before the first class, but they weren’t much help. Then I remembered the 3 x 5 cards he’d mentioned. That’s what successful writers do; they keep a file."

I tucked a wad of file cards in my purse. A few sheets