Mona Mehas

The Move

I moved from a 2-bedroom apartment to a 1-bedroom in the same complex. It's only about a block or so away. That was Friday. My mail was supposed to be transferred that day; however, on Friday and Saturday, I got mail at my old address.

Friday evening and Saturday were spent messing around with trying to set up the internet and starting to unpack. Sunday, I got a little more done, but it showed me how much more there is to do.

Monday:

I'm partially unpacked and thoroughly exhausted. The first day, I went to bed at 8 pm, which is totally unheard of for me. I'm trying to get more done every day, but my body is slowing down, and I can do nothing about it. And this heat is so oppressive! When I go out to the dumpster or even my car, it feels like a million degrees out there!

The internet is working, but it took them two tries to get it hooked up correctly. Initially, I agreed to pay for a tech to come out on Friday, but when it died and a second tech had to return on Saturday - well, now I want that refunded. Waiting for a call-back from them, and now to the boxes…

Saturday:

It's been eight days since my move. My body is exhausted. Most boxes are unpacked, but I can't find certain things, and frankly, I'm too tired to care. I'll find them eventually.

Still missing:

Some of my windchimes

The lights I bought for my patio

Hummingbird feeder

My make-up

The $100 fee for internet. (They won't refund it)

I wrote a poem today. That's the first thing I've written in over two weeks, maybe 3.

I'm still not getting mail here except for things I ordered with this address.

I've listed five folding card tables for sale on NextDoor, but no bites yet.

I could ramble on about my move all day, but that's just a way to put off the inevitable, so back to work!

The Indiana Poetry Society had an opportunity to wrote for a few pieces of art in Kokomo Indiana. My piece stirred me immediately to write this prose poem. 

 

Grandmother's Arms

 

They put my grandmother in a bottle because her hugs were too fierce. Her hugs sometimes spanned days and nights. I'd try to escape her grasp to catch the bus for school, but she held me closer, not wanting to let go. When she fell asleep, her grip loosened. Any child in her arms slithered away, but when her arms were empty, she jerked awake crying. Her cries were so loud she woke the neighbors for miles around. The town folk voted against Grandmother's hugs and sentenced her to the bottle. The constable escorted her there himself, barely escaping a hug when he squeezed her in through the long, slender neck. Though it was decorative and well-furnished, she was lonely. She wailed all hours, calling children to her bottle. I led the way to the constable's office. We'd come up with a plan. If Grandmother were allowed to visit with us, she wouldn't cry and disturb the community. We promised not to break her out. The constable had one condition. That is how my grandmother lost her loving arms. She closed her eyes and allowed the town doctor to remove them, the arms that had held me not so long before. With her arms gone, the loose sleeves wrapped around her chest, her hair grew extensions. Grandmother slipped through the bottle's neck, and I leaned against her, the straw-like hair brushing my shoulders, lulling me to sleep.

 

Mona Mehas (image copied with permission of the artist)

On display August 2023 at Kokomo Artworks, Kokomo Indiana with art by Lisa Freeland (Royal Emerald of the Royal Bitches) Bottle Art. LmFreeland Creations. www.mybaublesjar.com

It's been a while since I wrote for Meanderings. Sometimes I forget, sometimes I don't know what to write about.

First, there is the diet. I gained weight when the pandemic lockdown began and my body is hungrily holding onto it. Fighting poundage has been a lifelong challenge for my entire family and I'm no exception. This is simply one more bump in the road.

Then there is the heat. I try to get outside and take a walk every day but in temperatures of high 80s F I just can't handle it. And I hate going to the gym.

OK so I guess this is my Meandering of complaints. I should end this here, keep it short.

On the upside, I'm preparing to enter the Indiana Poetry Society Annual Fall contest with 19 poems. Last year I had more than 20 entries and didn't win squat. Hopefully this year will be different.

I'll try to Meander back sooner rather than later with more upbeat news.

Father's Day 2023

 

Since neither my daughter nor I had a father worth a damn, we sometimes spend Father's Day weekend together. Unfortunately, her sons inherited the same condition. They were with their dad (such a term when a man doesn't deserve to be called that). My son-in-law took his daughter to a bug-infested family outing at a lake in Wisconsin with no air conditioning or running water. Daughter and I went to a hotel in Ft. Wayne, Indiana.

 

On the way, we stopped at Pet Rest Cemetery in Ossian, where I have three pets interred. I'd never been there before. My cats from 2004 and 2005 are in nicely sculpted gardens. My dog, who I'd had to 'lift up' in 2020, was in a weedy patch with a dead tree. Seriously. The two so-called garden spots next to him didn't look any better.

 

Pet Rest has a slightly different name now, but you can still find it online. It was purchased by someone new last August. My cat, who passed away in April of this year, is being held in their mausoleum in a nearby town until close to the end of the year. Then they will bury the urn with all the ashes of the year's pets and plant a garden for 2023.

 

I called Monday morning and spoke to the manager. I told him how disappointed I was with the weeds and dead tree. He said he would walk back there and look at those areas and call the groundskeepers. I assured him I would return next summer because of the cat who passed away this year and to see how the gardens have improved. I pay for their services. It's not right to let the place go like that, even this close to the pandemic.

 

Some of the stones had little nameplates for the pets. I was curious, so I asked about the price—$ 115 for a nameplate. Well, I have three pets there now and the one in the mausoleum, so I can't see myself doing that anytime soon.

 

I hope that when I return next summer, the gardens for 2019-2023 will be as well kept as the rest of the place, which is beautiful.

 

In memory of my cat Roswell Buckhead 1998-2004

     cat Zammiss Psycho 1995-2005

     dog Barkley Billy 2008-2020

     cat Esse Diamond 2005-2023

I was out late last night. When I came home, I heard a strange sound like water hissing. Being deaf in one ear, I couldn't tell from what direction the sound was coming, so I looked everywhere. I noticed a wet footprint on my carpet in front of the utility closet and opened that. The floor there had at least half an inch of standing water. Something had happened, and one of the hoses was leaking. Hence, the hissing.

I called the emergency maintenance number, and Dale came right away. I apologized because he said he'd been in a deep sleep. "It's part of the job," he said. My carpet is soaked in front of the utility closet in the living room and around the corner to the kitchen tile. Two boxes I'd packed of books were sitting there. I had Dale move them. They were slightly wet on the bottom. I'm relatively sure there's no damage inside. He got his wet vac and soaked up what he could. A dehumidifier ran all night and will probably continue to run all day. Dale will be in and out all day, checking on the progress. Someone else may also have to come in to ensure it is all dried.

I don't buy bottled water. Unless there's a good reason, I think it's a waste of money. I had an empty jug left here from when I had distilled water for my humidifier over the winter. Dale brought me some of his bottled water and filled that jug for me. This morning I went to Kevin-across-the-hall and filled my bucket for toilet flushing purposes. How did people do this in the old days?

FYI - There is also a maintenance man here named Kevin; he's actually the head maintenance guy. Thus Kevin-maintenance-man and Kevin-across-the-hall.

I should probably learn Kevin-maintenance-man's last name. That might be easier to say.

 

Is it age or sinuses or pain or a combination of all these things that makes sleep so difficult? I might get 5 hours of sleep a night if I'm lucky. Last night I fell asleep sitting up before 11 pm. I sleep-texted an ad I found on Facebook to my daughter. I know this because I woke when I almost dropped my phone. After I told her why she received that weird text from me, I went to bed. Of course, I was awake by 3:30 am. Back pain and sinuses won't allow me the luxury of lounging so after dozing for about an hour, here I am. 

I'm attempting to write in this space more often. My friend says she reads other people's blogs and she used to keep one. The key is consistency, she says. I'll try to write every week but I'm sure no one wants to read about my sleep issues all the time. Between now and next Monday at 5:30 am, I'll come up with a few ideas.

Thanks for reading.

Why won't some journals, online or print, accept simultaneous submissions? That drives me nuts! I sit here reading about the journal, thinking of what I can send them. I make sure my manuscript is clean. Then I read the details and see WE DO NOT ACCEPT SIMULTANEOUS SUBMISSIONS. That's bullshit. Have they been burned too many times by writers who don't tell them in advance if their work was accepted someplace else? Then don't accept work from those writers again! I'm telling ya, just because you say you don't want them doesn't mean you won't get them. I could easily ignore the fact that my story or poem is out to 7 other places for consideration and send it to you. If you (editors) pick it up for publication, I could email the other places and withdraw it and you would never know. But see, I'm honest. I don't do that. When I read those dreaded words, I don't submit my writing to you. Instead, I'm all over other places. And when my stories, poems, and essays are accepted elsewhere, I write and inform several editors to withdraw whatever it is they need to withdraw. I keep a spreadsheet, color-coded, so I know who to contact. 

To the editors of journals who accept simultaneous submissions, thank you for being realistic in your expectations. Thank you for understanding that I don't want to wait around for 6 months wondering if you like my poem.

My goal is to have my novel, UNDER THE BUBBLE, ready to query in 2023. Okay, honestly, my goal is to get an agent in 2023, but realistically, I need to get it done and query first. I ran into a snag a week or so ago. I was sick for a few days and couldn't write a thing. When I returned to the book, I realized how lost I'd been before. Had I left anything out? Were events out of order? Had I repeated myself? The answer to these and other questions was a resounding "yes." I didn't have to read through the thing to know; I felt it in my bones. I knew it before getting sick, but I was stumbling along in the dark.

I decided to let Microsoft Word read what I had so far so I could take notes. I am so glad I'm doing that! Since I don't outline anything, at least I haven't so far, this experience has been extremely helpful. When I got sick, I was about halfway done with the rewrite, changing from first person to third and dual to single point of view. Now I'm close to finished with the read-through and note-taking. I believe I'll have a much easier time rewriting the rest of the manuscript. When finished, I'll listen to the second half, then listen and edit the entire thing.

It takes a long time to write a book. I've heard some authors on podcasts say it took them ten years to write their first published book. I've written two others, but they are "in the drawer." One is the sequel to UNDER THE BUBBLE. Since I hope to be traditionally published, the sequel will never see the light of day unless book one is successful.

I have a cover I hope might be used for this novel showing an empty field of tall grass. Wish me luck.

Fantasy Band
Updated: Sep 19, 2022

 
I grew up listening to music and singing with my mother, sister, and cousin. My mom played guitar, and sang lead, while the rest of us chimed in wherever we could with harmonies. All my life, I have followed my favorite musicians by seeing them in person whenever possible, and buying their CDs. I know it's trendy now to download music, but I still prefer to have an actual CD in my hand. I used to have albums, but I moved around too often; they were too cumbersome. Besides, after my last divorce, I didn't have a turntable and speakers that worked worth a damn.

 
I was saddened to read of the death of the novelist Larry McMurtry. I admit, I was not a fan of his novels. I am, however, a fan of his son, James McMurtry's, music. When my last husband, Bill, and I met in early 1990, he had just seen his first performance of a young James McMurtry. When Bill came to my apartment for the first time, he brought the first album that James had recorded, in 1989, Too Long in the Wasteland. I quickly became a huge fan, and still am. Over the ensuing years, Bill and I attended every concert we could, with the last one in late 2019. Bill passed away in June 2020 from a rare form of cancer. He and I had been divorced since 2010, but that didn't matter. We were still friends. I took him to that concert, knowing that it would probably be the last time for him to see James.

What I didn't know was that it would be the last time that I would see James for a long time, because of the COVID lockdown. Since we have all been hunkering, James has been performing live on his Facebook page, twice a week. I've also become a fan of his son, Larry McMurtry's grandson, Curtis McMurtry, during this time. His music is quite different from James'. More dark and prophetic, and strong on the banjo, he and his girlfriend, Diana Burgess, often perform on Curtis' Facebook page, as well.

 
When I read about Larry 's death I thought again, about my own mortality. I'm no spring chicken. I grew up listening to Johnny Cash, George Jones, and The Carter Family. But I also love Led Zeppelin, Queen, The Doors, and the Stones. I guess you could say my taste is eclectic. I also remembered all the greats that we lost in the music world this past year, like John Prine, and Charley Pride.

 
A while back, I put together a fantasy band. Some members of my fantasy band are no longer alive, but, hey, it's my fantasy band! They can all sing, so I have listed only the instruments that they play, or that I believe they play best.

 

The list is, by no means, exhaustive.

 
 
(In no particular order:)

 
Jon Bonham- drums

 
Danny Carey- drums

 
John Paul Jones- bass

 
Diana Burgess- cello

 
James McMurtry- guitar

 
Freddie Mercury- piano

 
Leon Russell- piano

 
Steve Earle- mandolin

 
Rhiannon Giddens- fiddle & banjo

 
Amythyst Kiah- guitar & banjo

 
Jimmy Hall- saxophone & harmonica

 
Slats Klug- keyboards & accordion

 
Sonny Terry- harmonica

 
Taj Mahal- harmonica, banjo, & guitar

 
My friend Joe- guitar

 
Maybelle Carter-autoharp & guitar

 
Common- Rap artist

 
If, like I, you are a music lover, try putting together your own fantasy band. Also, please check out members of mine. Except, sorry, you won't

find anything about my friend, Joe.
 
 

The Encounter

 
I am on my way to my sister's house, just rounding the curve. I must have taken a wrong turn. I've never been on this road before. I am already running late. I can hear Sheila yelling at me now, but that nagging thought of being lost won't leave me alone. The clock on my dash verifies that I am indeed an hour overdue. My sister has bullied me all my life. How is it that she's doing the same thing now, and she's not even in my car?

 
I had been in an extremely important meeting with a client when the call came through. My assistant Billy interrupted us, saying I had an urgent call. I was furious, but then I saw the look on his face. I knew it was my mother. She had been ill for several months. I hadn't been to see her often enough, and now - I'd politely apologized to the client, and left the office. I didn't even go home first to change my clothes.

 
So here I am, in my 2018 Toyota Corolla, lost on some country road, at midnight. Great. I should have gone home to change my shoes at least. My feet are killing me. There's a stop sign ahead, but there's no one around, I'll just blow through it.

 
WHAT WAS THAT!? It was huge! Those eyes! Did I hit it? I have to pull over and see.

 

I can't believe this. I am sitting on the side of an empty road, with no person, no other cars but mine in sight. All I see is a beautiful Barn Owl. Before I stopped, I was so afraid I had hurt it, but it looks fine. I'm sitting in the front passenger seat of my car, with the door open. The owl is maybe ten feet in front of me, staring at me. It appears to be about a foot tall. I don't know how long the bird will sit here with me, honoring me with its presence, but I will stay as long as it will. The peace is washing over me, and through me.

 
I am afraid to move. I'm afraid I'll spook it, and it will fly away. On second thought, I want to see it fly, to make sure it can. What if I really did hit it? What if it just appears alright? Sheila is never going to believe this; I'll take a picture.
 
Damn! Reaching for my phone scared it and it flew away! At least I know it will be fine. At least I hope it will be fine. It will be fine. I was able to snap a photo in flight. One day, I will doubt myself. I'll believe this was a dream but having this picture will be proof.

 
Back in my car, I'm still feeling that peace from the Barn Owl. Did my mother send the bird as a gift? She always loved owls. She worried that I didn't take enough time to enjoy nature, like I did when I was younger. I hadn't thought about that in years.

 
At Sheila's place now. I didn't know there would be so many people here. Of course, the driveway is overflowing. I'll park on the street. There is only one light on in the house. No doubt, everyone is asleep except for Sheila, my loving, nagging sister, waiting up to lecture me about being on time. I'm not worried. I carry the peace of the Barn Owl with me.

 
What's that I see? A bird in flight? Yes! Just barely within my range of vision, pale, broad wings against the night sky, now hidden in the trees. Then, there's a hiss-like sound, something I've never heard before.

 
"Good night, Owl."

 
I open the door and enter my sister's house.

 

(First appeared in Vocal media as an entry to a contest.)