Amy Smith Linton
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Writing Prompt: Divine Hair

3/13/2017

4 Comments

 
We called it "Art Safari." Hopping into a car, my sister and I would drive around in search of things that sparked our imaginations and try to capture the oddness on camera.

At 24 or 36 exposures at a time, each photo required some forethought. There were many –– like this ––– that didn't quite achieve my goal. 

Still. It's sufficient for prompting a few words.

Story 1
Every Tuesday, Gram drove the Gran Torino to to the hairdresser. Those days, Harold took the long way home, circling each block twice and dragging his heels.

The little house was strange without Gram's sturdy, bustling presence. Without her hoarse voice telling him about her day and asking about his he felt lost among the furniture. He didn't want to explain it her, but he hated going into the house during that gappy chunk of time on Tuesdays.  

But then Gram would return, the familiar squeak of the suspension as the car rumbled into the carport. Often she'd bring home a treat, a VCR rental or fragrant take-out packages from the Italian place, and Tuesday would become the best night of the week. 

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Story 2 
Blank faces staring skyward.
Reflections skim the glass.
Full-grown dolls and no one loves them.


Story 3
Ad Astra per Aster, that's what she thought of that particular model. Not Atticus Finch's "from the mud to the stars" and not Kansas' "through difficulty to the stars," but "to the stars, by Aster." 

The spun silver hairdo was as glamorous as a movie star's, she thought, and the way those silvery eyes were always gazing into the distant heights ––! It was her favorite of the mannequin heads and her favorite wig. She could stand by the plate glass window all morning just enjoying the vision.

But someone was always coming by and telling her to leave. "Move it along, chubs!" the policeman told her. As if she was hurting anything. As if she didn't have feelings. She wasn't just a thing, after all. She was human, even if she didn't look like those dainty creatures with their perfect hair.

​
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Sliding into Month Eleven of the Year

11/1/2016

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The "fun size" candies start coming home as early as mid-September.

​I'm a sucker for a good deal, and it's appealing to load up on the cornucopian selection of kid-sized chocolate bars in the grocery store. Probably a signifier for an under-served childhood.  

And without fail, the supply fails to meet the trick-or-treating demand. Somehow, we find ourselves in a darkened house with only three or four dejected-looking candies lurking at the bottom of orange plastic jack-o-lantern when the sun sets.  
It's like the Halloween miracle: the feast of the ever-dimininishing supply of caramel-peanut-goodness.

On the other hand, the Viking outfits turned out well.

If not for the football game, we might have entertained ourselves by roaming the neighborhood, thumping our battle axes against our sheilds.  

Solidifying our reputation as the local oddballs.​
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And with this annual candy ritual complete, we mark the halfway point of the football season. Followed rapidly by the slightly panicky realization that the Earth has nearly completed its annual circuit.
Although it's random (Is the solar system really a Capricorn? Dour and humorless? Seething with ambition?), the closing of the calendar brings NaNoWriMo. Whoohoo! 

The National Novel Writing Month is (I guess) a bit like running a marathon: it's ridiculous and miserable and neato and difficult.

​Competitors/participants have 30 days to write a 50,000-word novel.  That's a short novel, but even more –– it's a tiny chunk of time for a mountain of words.  The math says 1,667 words each day.  

With time taken out for Thanksgiving and various sailing and traveling days, my average would need to jump up to 2,273 words a day.  Gah!

Not saying I am going to finish, but...


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The sword is mightier than the battle-axe. And that battle-axe HAS a battle-axe.
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Seasonable Greetings

10/18/2016

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Not Made for Walking

6/14/2016

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I remember carefully inking in the item number and the size on the paper order form from Miller's. I'd been wanting them for ages, but it took a while to save up the money.  I toted up the column of price, tax, handling, and wrote the check.
​

​I don't remember the long wait for my mail order to come back, but eventually it did and I had, finally, FINALLY! leather riding boots.

They went heels-down and toes-in for many a horse-show. (And every so often they went ass-over-tea-kettle, but that's horseback riding for you.)

I re-heeled and re-soled them at least once when working in Manhattan, as I tended to wear them with my –– er–– eccentric clothing choices (I thought I looked good, and no photo will prove me wrong) as a young Manhattanite.

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I used them at fancy-scmancy riding lessons in New Jersey's horse country (It does so have a horse country).

They moved with me to Florida, where they once carried me fleetly away from the kicking feet of a pair of mustangs who were –– as I learned –– not even remotely green-broke, no matter what the barn owner had promised.


Alas. I recently went to put them on.
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Ye gods and small fishes! –– my wardrobe migrated from "funky," skipped "vintage," to whizz directly to "antique." 

via GIPHY

My boots!

And this despite my care. Despite the cleaning and oiling.

Despite being stored carefully in a cool dark place.

Despite the rolled magazines that kept the boots from wrinkling.

Does this seem like an ironic and pitiless metaphor for aging to anyone else? Or is it just me?

Oh well. After the initial shock, I considered my options.

​These faithful and long-suffering boots could go straight into the garbage. They deserved retirement.

But then again, given that things do change, and not all change is catastrophic and bad, perhaps there was another way.

Half-boots they are now, with snake-proof gaiters to go with. They may hold on for another season. Or not. Now, to horse...
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Everglades Challenge: Gearing Up

3/1/2016

14 Comments

 
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When Spawn takes to the water this coming weekend, we can hope the creature does so in style.

Oh, I'm not talking about crispy new sails or all those lovely electronics that had to be re-purchased after they failed their swim test in February.  

Nuh uh. I'm talking fashion.

For instance, the bedazzling of Spawn.

The nice UPS folks delivered a big fat roll of super reflective tape last week –– the kind favored by firefighters and highway road-signs –– which I have been slathering all over Spawn and her crew's gear...Ooooh, sparkly!

A strip on the transom, check. A matched pair at the bow, check. Stripes at the mast-tip, boom end, and at neatly spaced intervals on the racks. Check, check check. Dots on the dry-suits, dots on the life-jackets, ovals on the trapeze harnesses. And of course, wide bands at the end of the oars.  The phrase "lit up like a Christmas tree" drifts to mind.

The name graphics are in place on the side of the boat.

We'll see how long vinyl from FedEx lasts in direct sunlight. (P.S., the boat also proudly sports its new FL registration numbers!

​Thank you Tim K. for the connection that helped us get legal.)
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And because it's not really a sports team without uniforms, there are Spawn shirts aplenty. While racing, the sailors will be wearing safety-orange long-sleeve sports shirts.

​Photos don't do justice to the racing shirt's DayGlo spectacularity. Think prison jumpsuits. Think highway construction workers. Think Bananarama! in 1985.

Thanks to Carol at CDM Gifts who did the sublimation printing. (Sublimation printing is the process that allows for quick and permanent printing on polyester. Kind of amazing.) And why would I want polyester? In a word, sun protection.  

And thank you Leslie Fisher at Masthead Enterprises for connecting me with Carol! 

The Spawnsters each have a nifty embroidered ballcap from kindly supporter Ned J., who reads the blog from Maine when he can't be sailing in warmer climes.  They are even personalized with our WaterTribe names! Thank you, Ned and Anne!

There's also an array of functional accessories, such as waterproof bags and, notably, bailing devices.  

We scrounged empty laundry detergent containers, modified them with a handy survival knife (required by the Everglades Challenge rules –– for good reason!), and then did a bathtub test. Gain turned out to do the best job at conveying a gallon of water from one place to another.

The bathtub remains pleasantly scented and untroubled by static cling.  
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Unlike so many modern fashionistas, Team Spawn has free range of the snack aisle.

They will have granola bars, breakfast shakes, hearty meat rolls, and homemade goodies like beef jerky and these cashew-dried-cherry dark chocolate bars.

...Assuming they remember to fuel the machines. All three are what dog-training professionals would call "Not food motivated."  

PictureGear explosion!




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And in the four remaining days (Ah! Ah! Ahhhh!), Captain TwoBeers will be figuring out how to stow all this stuff.

Spawn might be ripe for a closet makeover.

​Is there an HGTV show with this as the topic? How first-worldy a problem is that?
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Fashion Police

2/2/2016

10 Comments

 
Eight million stories in the humid city and this is one. Me, I'm just a gal with a badge. And a stack of citations to hand out.
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Because nothing says "Sacred matrimony" like a pair of lace hot-pants and a transparent top with a cape of hand-detailed Carrickmacross lace and entredoux.
​
Oh, Miami. Just no.

I shudderingly wonder what the shoe choice would be.
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