HWG Meeting Sunday, March 8, 2020

Diane's 10th book is coming out! A book launch is being scheduled at BookLore in October. Stay tuned.

Diane participated in Tottenham Crime Writers of Canada Author Showcase and Panel on March 7th. Her review on that is posted below.

Sonja sent a proposal to the library regarding two events - Reader Feedback and a NaNoWriMo Write-in. The group agreed the reader feedback event should be scheduled for September 26th from 2-4pm, This has since been confirmed by the Library. We need ideas for catchy names for both of these events.

Judy read a prose about a childhood memory. This subsequently became our prompt for the day: Write about a childhood memory.

Next Meeting

Sunday, March 22, 2020, 1:30-3:30pm

Leader: Patricia

Messages from Angels

As I had laryngitis at the last meeting, I did not read what I wrote from the prompts in the previous post. This is what I wrote:
~~~~~~~
Dreams or angels. Sometimes they are one in the same. Angels come to me in my dreams giving me messages. Sometimes I recognize these angels as my dad or my brother, or even my cousin, all having passed to the other side. They come to me with messages of guidance or warning.

And some dreams are just dreams, though I know they contain messages. Dreams are a way for your subconscious to work things out during sleep time, a psychiatrist told me. So when I wake up I always analyze what I have dreamed. Sometimes the message is obvious, sometimes it's confusing. I come to my own conclusions in cases like that, which is probably what we're supposed to do.

[A psychic medium told me during a reading later that day that I have a lot of questions but my guides are not going to give me the answers. I need to look within myself for those answers.]

I had a dream recently of my brother's voice - my living brother - saying that I never call. I had responded with "It goes both ways". At first I thought nothing of the dream, but as I told the dream to others it dawned on me that perhaps there was a message there, maybe even a warning.

My eldest brother passed away suddenly at the age of 56. I hadn't seen him in 8 years. I learned afterwards that a month before he had been at an event in my area, an event I was too lazy to go to. A month later he was dead. I know if I had known he would be there I would have made the effort to go.

So now I have this dream about my other brother and can't help but wonder if it is a warning that this could happen again, though I saw him last at Christmas. A warning, or just a message that I shouldn't let my relationship with my living brother slide like it did with my late brother.

This dream occurred a few weeks ago and since translating its possible message, I still haven't called him. But I will, because one never knows when our loved ones here will be taken from us and become our angels over there.

[I texted him a few minutes ago asking him to call me.]

Writing Prompt: The Person I Would Most Like to Bring Back

From the prompt "The person I would most like to bring back is...", I wrote the following:
~~~~~~~~~

The person I would most like to bring back is my dad. Though I do have many visits from him in sleep time, I long to hear his voice, his laugh, to feel his comfortable embrace.

I never got to ask him questions. I heard stories from when he was a kid, but only a chosen few he repeated over and over again.

My father's father was born in England. When his parents and 13 or so siblings emigrated to Canada, Charles remained behind. At the age of 16 he lied about his age and entered the military. He was stationed in India where he met my grandmother, also from the U.K. whose father was stationed in India. My grandparents wed there (and I actually found their marriage certificate online). They had three children, then emigrated to Canada when my dad was a year old. They had one more child here.

I asked my mother recently if my grandparents had British accents. I never met them and was curious as this was never mentioned. My mother having dementia said she didn't know. I'm sure if she thought about it, maybe thought about a conversation they had, she would be able to recall.

A small thing, that, but something I never thought to ask my father. I have pictures of my grandparents and a general idea of their characters, but not much. They never seemed to smile and I know my sister was afraid of my grandmother.

My father had a wonderful sense of humour. He always teased his sisters, always got into trouble. "Madge," my grandfather said one night at the dinner table, "we are raising a fool." (I think it was fool, it could have been clown. I heard the story many times but my mother doesn't remember).

So not only would I like to see, feel, and hear my father again for the mere comfort of being in his presence again, I am sure he has many stories to tell that I want to hear.

I visited my mother recently and tried to reminisce about Dad.

"I was 14 when we met," she said.

"Where did you meet?" I asked knowing the answer.

"I don't remember."

I reminded her of the story Dad had told. "You were in a park, on a swing. He said he even remembered what you were wearing."

"Oh, I don't know," was all she said.

The story of my Mom and Dad walking together, eating ice cream as they crossed the bridge over the Avon River in Stratford is so vivid as my father told it a million times. It's as if I was there.

They toyed with each other, each holding a hand out to the other. "Come here." "No, you come here." My Dad held my mother's hand, but then let go. My mother toppled over the railing into the water. When she came out dripping wet my father was howling with laughter.

I can hear that laugh. My father laughed a lot and brought a lot of laughter into our lives. I could use some of that laughter today and every day. But the laughter only my father could create. And I would love to be able to hear him howl with laughter at something I said. Mostly my jokes, when he was alive, would elicit a look of surprise. Today, I would hope, that I could make him howl with laughter. Laughter we could share together... and then a hug.

John Charles Bird

November 2, 1923 - February 26, 2006

Prompt Post: And So I Write

And so, I write ...

Dorothy Chiotti

A good swift kick in the proverbial pants got my attention. A boss pulled me aside.

"Get that chip off your shoulder, she demanded. "I see potential, but you're too busy being a victim."

Well, I'm paraphrasing, of course, but it did kind of happen like that. I was in the secretarial pool at the time, and she saw something that I was too blind too see, even though it had been staring me in the face my entire life.

The creative spark. The wordsmith. The writer.

What went wrong? I can tell you what went wrong.

When I was 10 years old, a teacher accused me of plagiarizing a poem. A class assignment to write something about spring. I called mine, "Lambs in Spring." It goes as follows:

Little white balls of beautiful fluff,

Bouncing and prancing and that sort of stuff.

Baaing and whimpering here and there,

Sometimes they'll do nothing but stop and stare.

Crying for mother on a lovely spring day,

Mother comes running; decides to stay.

Bounding and twisting round and round

Looking for something no other lamb's found.

I read it in front of the class.

"Are you sure you wrote this?" he asked.

To my tender 10-year-old heart it was a blow. I was not a liar. I just loved words. But it cut me, and my confidence as a writer sank. Why write if no one would believe my offerings were word-smithed by me?

So, I shrank away from words, and had little confidence in my creativity. Until my boss gave me the wake-up call. The threat to fire me if I didn't get my act together. A difficult conversation was had after an equally difficult weekend of introspection and tears. Was she right? Was there more to me than met my eye?

Evidently so. For she made good and gave me the employee newsletter to design, write and edit. And I thrived in this new aspect of my work. And from there to corporate communications; to marketing; to advertising ~ so that by the time I left the workforce I was a confident writer.

For others.

But what about ... for me? What confidence did I have in revealing my soul to the world. Where was my voice?

Another journey. The inner journey. The quest for my voice. And the only avenue ... to write ~ and write some more. To be bad at it; terrified to share it; get better at it. Scream the words when appropriate. Not the words, the essence.

Can anybody hear me? Does anybody hear me?

Therapy, and lots of it. Getting unstuck from old self-concepts. Old ideas of my worth and how I see myself.

And then the horses. Another wake-up call. The horses reflecting my truth to me and declaring there is room for me; my energy; my truth; my voice.

The active voice.

And so, I write.

~*~

Posted on behalf of Dorothy Chiotti:

Dorothy Chiotti recently completed her debut novel, Murder on the High Cs, for which she is actively seeking an agent. She is a member of the Professional Writers Association of Canada (PWAC), and lives in Mono, Ontario, with her husband and myriad four-legged friends. You can see more of her work at www.dorothychiotti.com.

Prompt Post: Why Do You Write?

Below is the response to a recent writing prompt. Please remember, all prompts written at writing group are done in a limited period of time. All writing is raw and unedited.
~~~

Why Do I Write?

Once I had a passion for writing. I always loved to read but the thought of holding a book in my hand with my name on it filled me with desire.

As a teenager I took a creative writing class in school. I made friends with my classmates and we began to write together. We would take turns writing parts of a story. The results were actually pretty hilarious.

In that class we had to journal and I have continued to do that to this day. Life is a struggle, life is frustrating. Journaling helps me get my thoughts, fears, angers and desires out of my head and down on paper.

When I became ill and unable to return to working outside the home, I took an old story I had written as a teenager and re-wrote it. Then I wrote another story. The ideas were plentiful. I had the passion, the drive, and the time to, perhaps, make my dream of becoming a published author come true.

I joined a writing group, met with award winning authors, agents, other wannabes like me, and took writing workshops. I was encouraged and motivated.

And then something happened. I'm not sure what. The passion suddenly dissipated. I don't know whether it was because of negative critiquing I received, life's interference, doubt, fear, or my illness. Something cranked the parking brake and the passion died.

I still like to write, still want to write, but can't seem to push myself to make the effort to get back to those two abandoned novels.

But I still hope....

HWG Meeting March 5, 2017

Discussion surrounded the upcoming Open Mic Night (name to be confirmed) on April 20th at the Orangeville Public Library. Harry Posner will be the M.C. while Diane Bator will be our featured speaker. An official email account has been sent up for the Headwaters Writers' Guild (hwg5.writers@gmail.com) to be used as a contact email and for registration for the upcoming event. Four members in attendance verbally registered for the event; they will be sent a confirmation email.

Diane is now working at Theatre Orangeville. She informed us that they are now selling tickets for A Literary Pairing - a fundraiser for their New Play Development Fun - organized by Nancy Frater, owner of BookLore in Orangeville. This 2-night event consisting of five authors takes place on Tuesday, March 28th and Tuesday, May 16th, beginning at 7pm at The Opera House. Tickets are $25 for one night or $40 for both. Diane will forward a poster when she has it.

As leader this week, Nancy encouraged us to consider why we write as a prompt (or to take another prompt from the bag).

Why do you write? Have you always wanted to write? When did you discover that writing was important to you? Do you call yourself a writer? Natalie Goldberg suggests that if you write you should call yourself a writer.

How did you become a writer? What steps did you take? Did you join a writing group, and did that help you? Did anybody mentor you?

When did you start writing? Did you have any challenges and what were they? Some people start pieces and then never finish them. What problem do you have? Do you have a solution?

What do you prefer to write? Do you believe that writing is your calling or purpose? Do you write for the money or do you do it for the joy of it? Do you journal to discover who you really are? What motivates you? What hinders you?

Have you read a book that helped your writing?

Do you record your dreams as prompts for your writing? Many authors glean ideas from their dreams? What methods do you use?

If you stopped writing, what would help you start again?

All are encouraged to share their writing from the above and other prompts on this blog.

Five members brought two books for the Blind Book Exchange. Ten members were in attendance so every member got to take a wrapped book home to read and, we hope, review on this blog.

The next meeting is Sunday, March 19th.

Judy will be leading.

Pillow Dreams

At writing group we are given a list of prompts and 10-20 minutes to write. The idea is to just write. The result is a raw, probably unfinished piece of work. Below is what I wrote at group recently. This is very raw. I revised nor added nothing.

The prompt: What if your pillow collected your dreams and you could plug it in to your laptop and watch them over and over again?

Pillow Dreams

By Mary Patricia Bird

I awoke at 3 a.m. in a hot sweat. I had been dreaming. I know you should write down your dreams immediately so as not to forget them, but I was more concerned with my moist clothes and dry mouth. I changed my pajamas and got a drink of water, then I climbed back into bed and immediately fell asleep.

When I awoke in the morning my mind was blank. The dream had completely disintegrated from my mind. Frustrated, I sat up and stared at my pillow. It was a new pillow, one I had just bought the day before. I was just now noticing a black cord sticking out of the pillow case. I pulled on it but it didn’t budget. Upon further examination I realized it was actually attached to the pillow, the end a USB connection.

Curious, I grabbed my laptop and plugged the USB into it. Strange images appeared on the screen – colourful squiggly lines which eventually faded into darkness.

Like a movie, a scene began to appear. A tree, and then another tree, and then another. I was staring at a dark forest. It wasn’t just any forest though. It was familiar to me. I became mesmerized as I “moved” through the forest until I reached a clearing where an old cabin stood.

“Oh God,” I moaned. This was a scene from my dream. As it came back to me I felt sweat trickling down between my breasts. If this was my dream I knew what was going to happen. I tried to focus, to stay put, not moving, but the cabin grew larger on the screen as, obviously, I approached it.

My heart began to quicken and I brought one hand to my chest, the other to cover my eyes slightly. I didn’t want to look but at the same time I did.

A hand, my hand, reached to open the door. It was as if I was playing in a virtual reality game, but I knew this was no game and it was not going to be fun. I still could not remember exactly what lay behind that door but my mind and body were telling me it wasn’t good.

Should I hit the escape button? Unplug the USB? I couldn’t do it. I had to see, had to remember.

As the door slowly opened I walked inside the dusty old one-room cabin. My heart raced harder, my breathing quickened, my eyes widened in shock and fear………

~~~~

Time’s up. How will this story end? I don’t know. How would you write the ending to this bit of flash fiction?

Writing Prompt: Feeding The Muse

These figurines were prompts for our meeting of June 26, 2016. Below is what I wrote.

~~~~~~~~~~

Feeding The Muse

Downtown, the streets were busy: cars on the road, shoppers rushing along the sidewalks, clowns entertaining the masses in hopes of earning a few dollars, and two cops walking the beat.

In the middle of it all, an old man, rotund and bald, sat in an arm chair smoking a pipe. He was most certainly out of place. Yet dogs on leashes took a liking to him, sniffing at his feet before plopping themselves down to rest. Their owners’ attempts at moving them along were fruitless.

“Ahoy, there,” said Officer Smith. “What are you up to, sir?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m not breaking any laws, am I?”

Officer Smith looked at his partner, Officer Jones, who pulled out a small book from his coat pocket and began scanning the pages of rules and laws of the city streets.

“I am simply observing,” said the old man. “I have no alcohol or food. I am not littering. I’m not causing a disturbance. I’m not bothering anyone.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“Houston. Nathaniel Houston.”

Officer Smith wrote this in his notebook. “May I ask how old you are?”

“How old am I? I don’t see that it matters any but I am seventy-two years young.”

“And where do you live?”

“Sixty-seven Hogs Hollow Road, not the loonie bin if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t thinking that at all, sir.” Smith glanced over at Jones as if to say ‘that’s exactly what I was thinking’.

Officer Jones shrugged and continued flipping the pages of the police manual.

“I’m guessing you’re retired, sir?”

“Retired?” the old man scoffed. “There is no sense in retiring unless you are unable to continue living.”

“So you’re working?”

“I make a living.”

“Sitting in a chair on a busy downtown street?” Jones asked. “Could you be panhandling? That’s against the law.”

“Goodness no. I’m not panhandling. I live a very comfortable life with all my earnings throughout the years.”

“And exactly how do you make these earnings, as you call them?” Officer Smith asked.

The old man looked up at the officer, eyes wide. “I told you my name, did I not?”

Smith looked down at his notebook. “Nathaniel Houston.”

“And you don’t recognize the name?”

“The Houstons used to own this town,” Officer Jones said.

“Used to?” the old man bellowed. “But I am an author of many books, sold millions. I am sitting here observing as a method of feeding my creativity.”

The two officers looked at one another.

“Don’t think there’s a law against that,” said Officer Jones.

“I should think not!” said Mr. Houston. “Where in the world would we be without imagination and creativity?”

Smith slapped his notebook shut. “Indeed. Have a good day, sir.”

~~~~~~~~~~

What can you write from one or more of these figurines?

Writing Prompt, April 24, 2016 - Perspective

Prompt #4 - Describe an event or scene as an adult might see it, and then re-write it as a child might see it.

I hadn't seen some members of my family for a few years. It's unfortunate that it takes a death of a parent to bring us all together. I think the last time we were all together was Mom and Dad's 50th wedding anniversary. Tommy was an infant then, and Riley didn't even exist.

After the funeral service we all gathered together in the church hall. My siblings had changed quite a bit; as had their children. Everyone was growing up.

I spotted my brother James. With both children in tow I ran over to greet him. I released both their hands as I threw my arms around him.

"James, it's been so long!"

"Hey, Sis." He hugged me tight. "It is so good to see you. It's been far too long."

Tommy, 5, and Riley, 2, squirmed in between us. Tommy pushed at James. "No!" he yelled. "Don't touch Mommy."

Both James and I laughed.

"Tommy," I crouched down beside him, "this is mommy's brother James, your uncle. Say hello to Uncle James."

Tommy put his arms around my neck and clung to me. Riley began smacking at my arm. "Mama, mama, mama..."

I laughed again. "And this is Riley," I said to my brother as I lifted both children into my arms. "Say hello to Uncle James."

James, always the sweetheart, reached out to pat each child on the back. "Hello, Tommy. Hello, Riley. It's good to meet you. It's been a long time since I've seen your mommy - and you. I've missed you all so much. You've grown into two beautiful children.

"Thank you," I smiled.

Tommy clung to me, both arms around my neck, looking the other way. Riley buried her face in my shoulder.

"Tommy is five," I said to James. "And he's mighty heavy." To Tommy, "Can Mommy put you down now?" His arms tightened around my neck. "I guess not," I laughed. "So, James," I twisted my head around despite the grip on my neck, "where is that beautiful family of your's?"
~~~~~
There were so many people in the big room with all the tables and chairs. I held tightly to Mommy's hand; Riley held her other one. It was noisy.

Suddenly Mommy started moving. Riley and me had to run to keep up. Mommy let go of our hands and hugged a strange man. I didn't like that. No one hugs my mommy except Daddy. I pushed my way between their legs; Riley did too.

"No!" I yelled. "Don't touch my mommy."

Mommy came down to our level and looked at me and Riley. I looked at Riley as Mommy said something about Uncle James. I put my arms around Mommy's neck and held her tight still looking at Riley. She got what I was trying to tell her and she began hitting at Mommy.

Mommy lifted us both up and Riley and I smiled at each other.

"Say hello to Uncle James," Mommy said.

The man put his hand on my back. I held Mommy tighter trying to get away from this strange man with no hair.

I just stared at Riley and she stared at me. Neither one of us knew what the heck was going on.

~~~

Photo Prompt - February 7, 2016 - Mary Patricia Bird

This was the photo I chose for our prompt this week. We were to write a letter to or from one of the people in the photo.

Hi Ash,

How are you? I miss you so much. I'm still totally pissed at my parents for moving across the country and enrolling me in the stupid private school. I hate it. I haven't made any friends there. When I wait at the bus stop every morning I am the only kid wearing this damn uniform. No one else in our neighbourhood goes to St. Bart's. So I haven't made friends there either.

Remember when we used to walk to school together? We'd always be following those boys from the higher grades, ogling over them. Especially that Terry Watsworth guy. Do you still see him? I know he was supposed to graduate, but did he? Did he stay in town? You know, I keep looking around hoping I'll see him here. The university here is a good one. He could be here. I know, wishful thinking on my part.

The boys here are stupid, and ugly and don't talk to me, don't even look at me.

Dang, Ash. I had so much fun with you and the old gang back home. But moving here? A new life, my mom said. A new start, new friends. Well that's bullshit. I want to be back in Redwood. I'm saving my allowance and as soon as I have enough money I'll come out to see you. Maybe I'll even stay. Would your parents mind if I moved in?

Private school is okay in that we're all wearing the same damn thing, the teachers are nice but it's kinda hard to stand out in a crowd, know what I mean? It's like I'm invisible. I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE!

We'll work something out. Give Adam a hug for me.

Write back soon.

Your BFF Sienna.

Adam - Prompt from February 9, 2014

Here is Patricia's prompt from the February 9th meeting.

Everyone grabbed a book and this seemed to be the last book on the table apart from a children's book. This seemed appropriate with my recent obsession with Ghost Adventures. I have not altered the following result of the prompt in any way, including adding to it. This is exactly what I wrote during the 15 minutes time allotted.

"There is a ghost here," said the eccentric old man.

"And how do you know that?" Zak, the professional ghost hunter asked.

"'Cause I seen 'im."

"You've seen him? And what exactly have you seen?"

"His face."

"Just his face?"

"Well, he got no eyes but the angular jaw and large nose and bony cheek bones, clear as day."

"And when do you see him?"

"All the time, by gosh. As soon as I lay down in bed he is hovering over me. I tell Adam to find someone else to bother."

"Show me," Zak said as they walked through the cabin in the woods.

Old Henry hobbled along towards the back bedroom. He put his hand on the door knob but it did not turn. "By gosh, he done it again."

Zak looked back at Nick, his partner in crime, giving him a 'I think this guy's off his rocker' kind of look.

"Adam!" Henry yelled. "Open the dang door!"

"Excuse me." Zak pushed by him and tried the door. Sure enough it was locked.

"Have you got a key?"

"A key? T'aint no lock on this door."

Zak examined it. He was right. There was no visible lock or key hole.

"Could be a deadbolt on the inside," Nick whispered.

"I said there ain't no lock!" Henry hollered. "Now Adam, open the door!"

Excuse me, Henry, but who is Adam?"

"Well, the ghost. Isn't that what I brought y'all here for?"

"Yes, but how do you know his name is Adam?"

"He told me." He tried the door again.

"He told you?" Zak was surprised and intrigued.

"Sure he did. I said, 'who the hell are you?' and he said 'Adam'."

"Really."

Henry tried the door again.

"Whoa," Nick yelled as he spun around.

"What, Nick?" Zak said. "What happened?"

"I just felt something touch my back."

If Zak had any doubts before he didn't have any now. He trusted his friend.

"Hey Adam?" Zak called out. "Can you let us know you're here? Perhaps you can open the bedroom door?"

The three stood silently waiting for some response when they heard a knock from inside the room.

"What the - ?"

"Try the door now," Henry said.

Zak turned the knob and the door opened. They walked cautiously into the darkened room.

"Let me get the lights," Henry began.

"No." Zak stopped him with a touch to his arm. He pulled his flashlight out of his back pocket and flashed it around the room. Something caught his eye and he moved the light back. He saw the image of a face in the spotlight.

"Hooo-lyyy!" He jumped back.

Yes, that's where it ends. On the Ghost Adventures show this would where they would insert a commercial break. So I guess you better stay tuned for more. 

From November 17th prompts by Mary Patricia Bird

Prompt #4 Write a letter to Santa since Christmas is coming.


Dear Santa,

I write this in hopes that you will be coming to our house this year but I have a sneaking suspicion that you may pass us by. There are not very many individuals deserving of your gifts. But, perhaps my Christmas requests will change your mind. These requests are not just for me but for all the members of my family, though I would probably benefit the most.

Do you happen to have in that big, red sack of yours some chutzpah for my husband? He is oblivious to what goes on and lacks the emotions to react to situations.

I could use a housekeeper, especially a cook. I can't seem to produce meals that my family will eat or my stomach will digest.

Do you have a de-clutter fairy? Our home is so full of junk that it is probably the cause of all the bad feng shui. Or maybe we have mould.

Suzie needs a saw to remove the chip on her shoulder. Perhaps you have some Scentsy candle wax that will permeate her room with an overwhelming feeling of love.

Don't get me wrong, she is a lovely girl most of the time. She just needs an attitude adjustment. Do they make contraptions for that? Perhaps there is a way to remove that high horse she seems to be gallivanting around on? Did you give her that for Christmas a previous year?

Beth needs nothing. Show her that. She does not need another piece of Under Armour clothing. Is there such a thing as you taking instead of giving? Honestly, her bedroom door won't stay open for all the hoodies hanging on the back. Transport that child to a third world country so she can see how a person can have too much. She has a wonderful heart. I'm sure she would be moved by the sight of half-naked children digging through garbage for food. Then maybe she would stop eating me out of house and home.

Back to me. You know, if a full-time housekeeper, or even secretary, is a tall order, then a one-way ticket to Hawaii would suit me just fine.

Thank you for reading my letter, Santa. I'll leave you some milk and cookies if you leave the coal at home.


Mary Patricia Bird, November 17, 2013

From November 17th Writing Prompt by Jayne E. Self

From Prompt #2 - Write each letter of the word "WRITING" on its own line and use each letter as the start of another word to write an acrostic poem. The poem should detail how you feel about writing (using the word "WRITINGS").


Wonder, the well-springing source of beginnings,
Reason and logic defining my path driven by
Instinct I turn and I question
Thoughts, fears and doubts. Have I courage to last? Searching for 
Insight, searching for wisdom
Needing alone time for respite and rest,
Growth and improvement. Each draft and revision brings
Satisfaction, firm ground 'neath my steps.


Jayne E. Self, November 17, 2013

From November 17th Prompt from Sonja Wolter

From Prompt #2 - Write each letter of the word "WRITING" on its own line and use each letter as the start of another word to write an acrostic poem. The poem should detail how you feel about writing.

Winged beings fly into my mind and
Rest on passive thoughts
Inviting me to write of
Timeless forgotten worlds
Imagination awakens
Never to sleep again as
Gabriel looks over my shoulder.

Sonja Wolter, November 17, 2013

This is Why I Shaved my Legs

Darn it Patricia. Every time I go on the blog your prompt (This is why I shaved my legs) always catches my attention.Who’d write on that? What could you possibly write about? Isn’t this a private rite of passage for a girl? Then I had a childhood flashback that played just like a movie. And it wouldn’t stop playing. Darn it. I can’t get it out of my head. So here it is.

I wished I could write humour like Joan Doane (Georgetown Wordsmiths).  Yeah, maybe in my next life.

This is Why I Shaved my Legs

Girls can be so cruel not so much with their fists but their mouth. In the 60’s verbal abuse among teenage girls was rampant. Bullying itself was a rite of passage and it’s still a problem today.

We’d moved again. I changed schools for at least the fourth time. Now, after Grade 9, I’d even changed courses.. I’d known my best friend Linda since Grade 7 and if she hadn’t taken the specialized course at Mimico High we wouldn’t be in the same class together. And we never would have become best friends.

She took the streetcar to and from school but as a good friend she began walking me home first. Now, I didn’t feel like such a loser. It had to be all good, right?

Nothing much ever happened during our walks until one day a group of girls walked behind us. They were loud enough to make sure we heard them. In the 60’s, we weren’t allowed to wear pants to school. And I don’t think it ever crossed our minds that one day it would be acceptable.

“Oh my God, look at the hair on that girl’s legs. You’d think she shave. She must be a moron not to do anything about it.”

I couldn’t believe it. When I turned to look at Linda she turned her head so I couldn’t see the tears in her eyes. Rage engulfed me. Who the hell did they think they were? Obviously, they didn’t know my reputation. Growing up with Irish blood and violent parents, I sometimes preferred to use my fists instead of my deadly blunt mouth. But my father taught me never to hit first. And Linda didn’t like confrontation and I didn’t want to embarrass her any more than what she’d just experienced. But if I had my way it would have been the last time that they harassed me but especially Linda.

Later, I casually mentioned to Linda that I’d thought it would be a good idea for me to shave my legs. I let on that they’d been talking about me even though you could count on your one hand how many hairs I had on both my legs.

We discussed it in length and she decided it would be better to use the hair removal lotion that took the hair off rather than shaving. She just didn’t think shaving was feminine or something. We giggled like little kids while we sat in the bathroom doing the deed. Was this a bonding experience or what? When we used the hair removal I swear we also took off a lot of our skin along with it. My legs were burning and flaming red but I’d done my best to salvage my friend’s distress.

And then the hair grew back in abundance and I’ve cursed myself ever since. This was the first and only time I would use this God -forsaken lotion. I resorted to shaving. It was faster, and it didn’t ‘cause any allergic reaction. If only, I’d never removed it that day I wouldn’t ever have had to shave in my life. All this for my friend but I never got any hero awards. Linda and I haven’t ever discussed the first time we removed our leg hair. I guess it wasn’t a bonding experience after all although we’ve remained close friends.

Who invented shaving leg hair for women anyway? Today, I consider it barbaric. Could it be merely titillation for men to view naked skin? Could it have started with the famous WWII pinup of Betty Grable displaying her shaved legs? Shorter skirts, short dress, and sheer stockings didn’t help either. Leg hair underneath the stockings didn’t exactly look appealing. But appealing to who? Haven’t women always done unthinkable things for men? Or did it open up a new market for the razor industry? .

Women still belittle other women who don’t shave. And if we’re only shaving for hygienic reasons why is it only women who shave their legs? Are hairy men attractive? And is  the real reason that women shave is to please men? Have we been brain washed?  Or are we helping the economy?

So women why do you shave?

And thanks Patricia I finally got that prompt off my mind. I hope that I haven’t opened up a can of worms. But isn’t it a writer’s job to provoke thought.