Green Beans and Apple Strudel

Tags

elderly, fiction, groceries, shopping, strudel, writing, writings

“Excuse me, miss.” A voice, elderly and male, spoke from behind my left shoulder.

I ignored it. I was halfway down the canned vegetable aisle, leaning forward onto the metal cart’s red plastic handle, intently peering at the shelves of beans. Kidney beans, dark red kidney beans, light red kidney beans, lima beans, navy beans, garbanzo beans, white beans and something called pinto beans. Organized by type and then brand name, store brand and generic brand container, there were so many cans that some were even stacked on the floor. What I couldn’t find though, was the green beans. The plain old, country cut style George preferred.

“Excuse me, miss,” the voice repeated.

Without glancing backwards, I automatically pulled my cart as close to the shelves as I could. I wasn’t far out in the aisle, but there should now be plenty room for him to pass.

Where were the damn green beans? I scanned the rows again. I hated grocery shopping. Hated it like I hated waiting for the bus in sub-zero Wisconsin winters. Hated it worse than looking through the classifieds to find a cheap apartment in February that wasn’t a shithole with deadhead neighbors. Grocery shopping also reminded me I hated cooking and like a slap in the face, I knew I was going to have to cook soon. The green bean casserole was one dish George loved that I could put together without screwing up too badly.

Damn green beans! My eyes traveled back up to the top shelf.

“Excuse me, miss.” The third time the voice was a bit louder and more persistent. Sighing, I finally turned to look.

Standing just behind me was an elderly man, maybe five foot five. He must have been well into his 80s. Under the unbuttoned, black, woolen pea coat, was a thin, fragile frame clothed in dark grey woolen trousers, brown galoshes covering his shoes and an off-white button down shirt. His thick, oily dark gray hair sprouted out from under the brown newsboy cap tilted jauntily toward the back of his head. His face was heavily wrinkled, and he hadn’t shaved that day. He stared at me intently, waiting for me to respond.

I sighed. Why couldn’t I just get in and out of the damn grocery store without having to conduct some Good Samaritan act for an old guy?

It occurred to me he might have mistaken me for a store employee. After all, the khaki pants and navy blue blouse I wore to work at the plant were generic enough to pass for a grocery market uniform, but I was also wearing my magenta down-filled car coat, so it would at least appear I was off shift. He didn’t need to bother me. “Can I help you?”

He smiled and I noticed several missing teeth. But it was a friendly smile that took time to build and hold. He raised his hand, as wrinkled and spotted as his face, and pointed to my cart. “I just happened to notice that you had an apple strudel in there, and I was wondering where you got it from. I didn’t see any in the bakery.” The finger shook as he held it extended.

I followed the direction of his finger. In my cart, an apple strudel lie on top of the small collection of items – bread, bologna, mustard, olives, bananas, and apples. I hadn’t yet made my way to the frozen aisles where I would stock up on Hungry Man dinners and pizzas. George liked the Salisbury steak and potatoes.

Where had I found the apple strudel? I had to think for a moment. “There was a display at the end of an aisle. On sale for $2.49.”

He retracted his hand, placing it back on the cart handle. “Oh, oh, very good!” he seemed delighted with the information. “My wife, Ella, favors the apple strudel. She particularly likes to have it with her coffee in the morning.”

I nodded once. I didn’t really care.

“We typically watch the morning news program together in the kitchen. Our son bought us one of those little television sets that we put on the counter top. Ella doesn’t like to eat in the living room, you know, which is where our other television set is.”

I again nodded, but my attention was waning. Green beans. I couldn’t forget about them. If I came home without the green beans for the casserole, George would be pissed.

“I usually like to pick up a nice treat for her. She doesn’t get out much. It’s been so long since she’s had apple strudel. A good apple strudel. Those frozen ones aren’t very good, you know. Have you ever had one? They tend to get a funny taste.” He became more animated as he spoke, as if he were gaining steam.

Panicking, I realized I might be stuck in an extended conversation. I picked up the strudel and put it in his cart, where there were only a few items. “Here, you can have this one. Doesn’t make sense for you to go all the way back there.”

“Oh, no, no. That isn’t right.” He leaned forward to return the baked goods.

I shook my finger at him, smirking a little. “Don’t argue with me. That wouldn’t be polite.”

Something about him reminded me of my grandfather, who had passed away 35 years earlier. Picking up an apple strudel for his wife because it was something she liked, is something my grandfather would have done. He treated my grandmother like a queen, always pulling out her chair and telling her how pretty she was. Why couldn’t all men be like that?

This old guy he deserved something better than a passing comment. “Just you take it and no more arguing, understand?”

His face broadened into a wide smile and he leaned back into his stance, holding tight to the cart to keep his balance. “Well thank you. Thank you very much.”

I could see that he was ready to burst into more conversation so I spoke before he could begin. “I’m sorry, but I’m in a rush to catch my bus, so I need to keep shopping. I hope Ella enjoys the strudel.” And with that, I pushed off and moved down the aisle. Five feet away, I spotted the elusive green beans and scooped up two cans without stopping.

When I reached the end of the aisle, I turned to watch him walk away but there was no one. He was gone. Confused, I stopped and sharply turned the cart on its bad front wheel, banging into the Townhouse cracker display. Two boxes tumbled down.

Gone? How the hell could he be gone so quickly? I thought as I picked up the boxes and put them back on the shelf. He wasn’t capable of accelerating to more than one-half mile an hour. I let go of the cart and walked over to the aisles on each side. There was a mother with a baby in the cart in one and a middle-aged woman in the other, but no sign of the elderly man. I shrugged, and then turned my cart away from the frozen section to backtrack to the bakery.

I needed to replace the baked goods. Maybe on Saturday morning, while George was still sleeping off his Friday night bender, I would have mug of coffee and a slice of apple strudel in front of the TV.

To You

Tags

dreams, letter, life, love, paper, poem, writing, writings

I have penned many brilliant letters to you,
In my mind.
I remember the moments spent together
While the world stopped rotating.
I told you of wonderful adventures I led
to lands unknown.
I built cities of bamboo, brick, ice and people
Who breathed and lived within.
I designed days and nights of endless happiness
To keep me and you.
I dreamt of you and your lover and her child
And I stayed silent.
I saw the distant look in your eye and the
Hesitation in your heart.
I knew your desire to live a fabled life
Cradled in the bough of a tree.
I created a silent goodbye on air paper,
And sealed the envelope with love.

Excuse me . . . your WHAT is dangling?!?

Tags

dangling modifiers, dangling participles, editing, grammar, technical, Transformers, writing

This week my class took on a great grammar offender: the dangling modifier. Two disruptive modifiers we’ve all used incorrectly, the dangling modifier and dangling participle, interrupt the connections between parts of a sentence, making it confusing for readers to follow the thought.

from paulktunis.com

At first, the concept of dangling modifiers seemed easy. The students were quick to define “dangling” – we’re familiar with dangling earrings, dangling uvulas and even dangling chads. Defining “modifier” proved trickier, and the dictionary and grammar workbooks were sourced. “Modifiers should clearly refer to the words they modify” and they must be positioned close to those words. This circular definition was met with blank stares, so we dove into examples.A sentence may look like it makes sense but some phrases don’t modify anything in the sentence or they modify something incorrectly; therein lies the confusion. For example,

 As a young boy, his grandmother told stories of her years as a migrant worker.

This can’t be right. The grandmother was once a young boy? Of course not. There’s a disconnect so the sentence needs a subject to which the modifier clearly refers so the thought process flows uninterrupted.

When he was a young boy, his grandmother told stories of her years as a migrant worker.

Ah, now it’s clear! “As a young boy” now modifies “he.” It’s logical the grandmother told stories to the boy about her own youth. We don’t have to spend time figuring out how she might have been a young male migrant worker. Unobstructed, the reader can continue with the story.

When working with dangling participles – “when using an –ing verb”— you need to be explicit about who is doing the action.

Walking down the street, the Empire State building came into view.

Oh boy. This sentence has a serious problem. There is no way the Empire State building can walk down the street and into view unless it’s a Transformer in a Michael Bay movie. To make this sentence clear, try a simple edit:

While walking down the street, I saw the Empire State building.

Ah, much better. It’s okay to rewrite the sentence.

When I introduced the dangling modifier and dangling participle, most of my students kept their eyes focused on their workbooks, fearful of making eye contact as they frantically scanned their guides to figure out the answer. After we worked through several examples, however, they began to call out the answers with confidence. They were having fun with it and could see how a sentence could be confusing with a dangling modifier. It’s rewarding to witness the  “a-ha” moments. My students’ next challenge is to review their previous assignments and correct any of these inconsistencies.

As with most everything in grammar and editing, recognizing dangling modifiers and participles takes awareness and practice. Because I majored in English, most people assume I’m a grammar genius. That’s far from the truth. Writing is my passion and, just like any other trade or skill, I constantly hone and practice it in order to produce a clear and clean sentence.

Besides, who likes to have anything dangling?

Close Sesame!

Tags

executive, Fortune 500, musings, office, office door, technology, writing

It’s the Little things.

Like a remote door closer.

One of the small things I miss about working in an office environment is the remote door closer. It is a small mechanism anchored to the wall behind an office door. With just a touch of a button, the connection between the wall mount and a magnet on the door magically release, allowing the door to close. Ah, so effective!

During a job interview with a Fortune 500 company, I was answering questions and hoping the executive wouldn’t see me sweat under what I hoped was a calm, cool and confident exterior. This man was a tough nut to crack with a hard veneer that betrayed little emotion. Was what I was saying in line with his theories or strategies? It was impossible to tell. He only asked questions and didn’t give insight or feedback to my answers, not even a head nod of acknowledgement. Later I would learn his nickname was “The Iceman” — it was apropos.

What I decided to do in that interview was to go with my gut: answer the questions by being true to my knowledge and experience. It worked as I was offered the job and then a few years later a promotion to work directly for him. During the time I worked with him, he and I established a steady and professional albeit always somewhat distant relationship. He once confided that, due to his position as CAO, he would not make friends at the company. Ultimately he was responsible for all human resource activities, and it didn’t serve him well to make friends with whom one day he might have to hand a layoff notice. It was an interesting premise under which to work, but it matched his personality.

Now back to the remote door closer. During the interview, a group passed by in the hallway with raised voices. Without comment, he reached under his desk, pressed a hidden button and his office door silently, swiftly and deftly closed leaving us in relative quiet again. There was never a beat or pause in his demeanor as he didn’t need to get up and walk the 15 steps to shut the door. At that moment, I could see how manually closing a door could be a silly annoyance for him. As a C-level executive, wasn’t it imperative to eliminate any little inconveniences encountered in the work environment? Standing up to close a door was one of them.

Of course, I had seen remote door closers before, but never had I seen them used so stealthily and so often anywhere else. I soon discovered that all those in the executive suite and only a few outside the glass doors enjoyed the convenience of a remote door closer. It was a coveted perk, eyed enviously by others who were relegated to standing up and manually closing their own doors. It wasn’t until I myself was located in the executive offices that I became the owner of a remote door closer. I tried to avoid it, with all the best intentions.

For the first several weeks in my new office, I shied away from the button. I was youthful, energetic and fully capable of walking to the door to shut it. Sometimes I even made a show of it, standing up and saying, “Just a second, let me close my door!” Slowly, however, I began to succumb to the ease of the remote. Staying late one night, I was still there when the cleaning crew entered the suite and began their task of vacuuming, dusting, and emptying waste and recycle baskets, interrupting my solitude. Furiously working to finish a report for an early morning meeting, 15 feet seemed a football field away so I reached out and pressed the button. With a quiet click and a smooth whoosh, the next thing I heard was the carefully controlled snap of the door gently shutting, blocking out the external noise. I sat back and took it all in. It really was luxurious to stay at my desk without interruption. I now understood.

From then on, I began to use the remote for incoming confidential phone calls or meetings in my office. Having the remote door closer was like having a special parking permit for the C lot – there were only so many and unless it was bequeathed to you with grandeur from the CEO, you weren’t getting one. It was the oddest of perks, but I didn’t complain.

Plenty of companies have more advanced technological toys and accoutrements in their offices. The workspace at this company was severely outdated: cold-war era steel desks in beige carpeted cubicles, coffee machines without any franchise-brand coffees, and fax machines still occupied prominent places near copiers. However, I remember those little remote door closers with fondness for that corporate workplace. Sometimes when the neighbor’s kids are involved in loud game of play or there is a lot of construction traffic rumbling by on the street, I yearn to reach below the desktop and press the button and shut out the noise.

 

Sun Rise

Tags

Atlantic, beach, fiction, me, metal detector, ocean, old man, reflection, regret, sand, sun, sunrise, trinkets, writing, writings

The single sliver of light reaching over the Atlantic blossomed into a brilliant ball of white, pink and yellow radiance. I stood on the beach, toes pressed into the hard sand, while the waves played around my feet, teasing and stroking before retreating to the quiet and mysterious depths. I felt as small as the tiniest grains of sand and yet as giant and strong as the tides while the light washed over and welcomed me into a new day. I existed for a few moments without worries, cares, joy or sorrow.

A small, elderly man slowly made his way along the beach, his khaki pants worn, faded and frayed at the cuffs, and his white short-sleeve cotton shirt untucked and flapping in the morning breeze. His feet were covered in worn hirachi sandals the color of burned wood, while his head was protected by a faded blue baseball cap, the logo long ago washed away. His posture was stooped as he held an ancient-looking metal detector, rhythmically swaying from side to side in small, even strokes. Periodically he would gently place the mechanism on the sand and slowly bend to examine something buried beneath just the surface. He would then either return the item to the sand or place it in his pocket.

As he neared me, I could see intensity in his progress of methodically sweeping the beach. I wondered at all the items he might have placed in his pocket over the years, both valuable and worthless. Coins, rings, money clips, barrettes, toys, watches, gum foil or bottle caps. He collected small pieces of anonymous lives, intentionally left behind or lost without knowledge that would be made anew in another existence. He looked up and saw me watching him. He gently smiled and tipped the brim of his cap before moving on. I raised my hand and smiled in return.

I turned back to the sunrise, now high above the horizon blessing the new day with its radiant brilliance. I took a deep breath and exhaled, contentment enveloping me. For in that solitary moment when the elderly man and I had found each other’s eyes, I tossed to him the only item I wanted to leave on the beach. As he became a distant vision along the surf, there in his pocket, alongside the trinkets and coins, was my regret sent forward with every hope of being made anew.