100 Words, Once a Week, Over Two Years

A Few Examples.

My 100 Word Group Got me back into Writing. A hundred words are not daunting. And the form, I believe, is generative. Here are a few of my examples. Maybe my 100 word friends will share some of theirs.

Photo by Behnam Norouzi on Unsplash

People We Remember

Machine-gun Dodds was not a sharp-shooter, but rather my highly esteemed professor of American History. At 10 AM precisely, he would begin his lecture, and complete his last, articulate word just as the bell rang. He talked so quickly that students like me just transcribed. One tired day I subtly pointed to my wrist, signaling to Arnie Shankman in the next desk that I wanted to know the time. “Ten-twenty-eight, Miss Saul,” Dodds announced mid-sentence. Arnie, smiled. I wrote it down.

Arnie, became an historian. I remain an occasional writer. It all seems not so long ago.

_________________________________________________________

My Mother’s Clivia

“Time to come in” I say to my mother’s Clivia, the most robust, reliably gorgeous plant to grace our deep windowsills in winter. Typically on Thanksgiving, Passover and random times in between a thick stalk appears, holding a surprising bouquet of showy blooms. My mother has left photos of this beauty, interspersed with pictures of grandchildren and vacations. I wanted a wedding dress of just this color

Each year I hack at the roots of one of the 6 or so Clivias we still keep, and give away its progeny to friends.

“Thanks, Mom. Still doing well.”

__________________________________________________

Tomatoes

The end of summer. Eight barely-red tomato stragglers grace our countertop.

Long gone, that first bite of warm sunshine, the“Early Girl” on morning toast, the mouthwatering anticipation.

Suddenly, without notice or warning, the crowd arrives. Green Zebras, Robesons, Sun Golds, Cherokee Purples wobble on an enormous platter. The Yellow Brandywines—so huge and fleshy—barely fit the Caprese rainbow. Garden basil, fresh mozzarella, olive oil, a sprinkle of salt – it’s all here, now.

Nearing the end of a favorite novel is like that, so much to remember. Each time I am satisfied and disappointed and ready to begin again.

_____________________________________________________-

Adolescent Memory

Even at age 12 I knew I needed an undergarment to make the green cotton, straight skirt I wanted to wear to ballroom dancing class less opaque. Unable to find a slip of my own, I grabbed one from my mother’s drawer, snipped off the elastic waistband and tucked the ill-conceived item into my underpants.

One waltz and two cha-cha’s later, the no-surprise disaster struck. I puffed my stomach and spread my thighs, hoping to the keep the slithering nylon from a hopeless free-fall. Grabbing the bottom of the skirt mid-step I hobbled, humiliated, off the dance floor.

___________________________________________

Enough

Artist Laurie Anderson asks 5 essential questions about each piece she produces: is it smart enough, simple enough, complicated enough, funny enough, stupid enough. My own criteria for evaluating friends or lovers is much longer: independent enough, articulate enough, affectionate, responsible, healthy enough. Also generous and moral enough (but not pedantic), at once sentimental and unsentimental enough. Are they energetic, willing to fail, able to succeed? Do they like children? And, yes, definitely smart and funny, stupid and simple enough. It’s a wonder I’ve had any friends or lovers at all. Or that I’m not more disappointed with myself.

______________________________________________

Testosterone

Around the table we 6, short-term housemates in Kosovo, shared beers and stories.

A Kosovar native with an MD from Yale, now at Mayo Clinic, told how he remotely guided local healthcare workers as they patched together the wounded.

The doctor leaned back on his chair and drew deep on his cigarette “What do you do? “ he pointedly asked my co-instructor.

“I’m a poet” Robin replied.

”So interesting” the surgeon continued. “Though I work as a physician, I too am a poet.”

“Amazing” replied Robin, brightly. “Though I am paid as a poet, at night I practice surgery.”