MEET ME IN NUTHATCH
CHAPTER ONE
Everett Campbell wanted more time. That’s all. He walked the mile into town instead of taking his truck. The icy slush slopped over the tops of his work boots and stung his ankles. He did not mind. It made him feel tough, indomitable.
That feeling indomitable came at so little cost was nice, but made him feel somewhat guilty as well. He had been raised to believe effort was a virtue—maybe the biggest virtue.
Stepping, occasionally sliding down Campbell Road like an unsteady surfer onto Bookbinder Street, Everett ran over in his mind the list of the things he had to say.
Then his work boot traction departed, and his long legs flew out before him in a sciatic-inspired ballet. He landed hard. The back of his head bounced on the ice a couple of times. Fortunately, his rear end took the brunt of it.
Everett heard the slow crunch of snow tires before he saw the accusing headlight beams approaching. With relief, he realized it was Marv’s car, and not Roy Murphy’s. He began to flail his arms and legs rhythmically, as to appear to be making a snow angel.
Marv stuck his head out the car window, guffawed, and shook his head.
“Jeez, Ev, you scared me for a minute. I thought I was coming up to some dead guy. Last thing I need right now. Stop being such a joker, will ya? You’re impossible!” Marv chuckled, rolled up his window, and drove on to the meeting. Everett noted that Marv did not offer him a ride to the meeting to which they were both going. But, he reminded himself, he still needed time to think, even if his rear end was wet and freezing.
He did a systems check on his body, while the clear, deep black sky and the distant, crystal white stars created the classic tableau above his head. He hesitated only briefly to give them notice. They were there, same as always. Check. He got up with relief and gratitude that he was unhurt, marveling at it, and congratulating himself for it.
For Everett, there was only one concern, the ridiculous solution he had planned to solve their problem. It being ridiculous was what really appealed to him.
The plastic, pink, faux-Dickens lanterns dangled in a more or less straight line down the road, now that he had turned onto Bookbinder Street. They bobbed and waved in the wind, their symmetry broken up only by the few that were cracked or had gone missing over the decades since they first appeared to herald the Christmas season, and from economy as much as sentiment, reused annually. Some in town voiced the opinion that the plastic lanterns had never been exactly attractive, but all privately agreed it would not be Christmas without them. Status quo was, for them, a form of sentiment.
Everett volunteered to help hang the lanterns on every light post that still had a bracket for them, just as his father and uncle had done since the 1950s, when they were purchased.
Everett stopped at the lantern that bobbed in the wind before the entrance to the old school. Built in 1902, the Nuthatch School had closed in middle 1990s when the town became absorbed into the county regional school system. The building that had once held all twelve grades in eight rooms and a hall now housed the Town Offices, the Senior Center, the library, and the storage closet where they kept the Christmas lanterns when it was not Christmas.
Town meeting tonight. About twenty people showed up, generally the same twenty people as always, give or take. The three town selectmen sat behind the big library table at the head of the old kindergarten classroom: Norm Hooker, Marv Howe, and Miss Finchley. All wore their coats, because they did not heat the building over the Christmas holiday.
“Any new business?” Norm asked, “Or can we go home?”
Everett squished himself into an old student desk. A man behind him asked, “When are we going to get town water up my way, Norm?”
“That’s old business,” Norm said, his bushy eyebrows slamming together as he frowned, “and stop asking me. Yes?”
Everett had raised his hand.
“For godssake, whad’ya want, Everett? Just speak up.”
“I got a proposal,” Everett said.
He could feel the room skid to a stop.
“A proposal?” Norm rested his chin on his hand, because he was tired. It made him look cute somehow. “Well, Everett, it’s been the longest time since we had one of those.” There was some perfunctory chuckling, but that was as funny as Norm could ever make himself be, so without milking it, he continued, “What is it?”
Everett stood, like in the Norman Rockwell painting "Freedom of Speech," but not out of respect; the student desk was maiming him.
“I think we should make it a new town ordinance that we all have to live like it was 1904.”
They were hesitant to laugh at first, because it was cold, and because Everett had no reputation for being terribly funny. He certainly was no Norm. What he lacked in delivery, he usually made up for in execution. Everett Campbell was infamous for being the best practical joker in town.
“April Fools is four months away, Ev. And I liked your suggestion last April better, that we make a new town water tank out of Legos.”
“Do you still have the model you made?”
Now there was laughing, more like perfunctory huffing. Their laughter expressed their individual and communal reserve.
“That was a joke then, Norm,” Everett said, “This isn’t.”
“Then it’s stupid. Sit down. Anybody else? Oh, Miss Finchley, don’t bother putting that in the minutes.”
Miss Finchley paused, fountain pen in hand, a green, celluloid Esterbrook she had owned since 1954. She filled the bladder by a small lever on the side. Everybody admired it, took their children to see it while Miss Finchley patiently gave demonstrations neatly writing her name. She had given out more autographs in thirty years than Elvis and Elizabeth Taylor in their whole careers combined.
“You haven’t heard me out,” Everett said, “I want to explain.”
“Explain what?”
“The man has the floor, Norm,” Miss Finchley said.
“He’s not making sense.”
“Doesn’t have to make a bit of sense. That’s democracy.”
Norm sighed and rolled his eyes to the broken ceiling tiles. Miss Finchley was not to be contradicted.
“Fine. Everett, please make it quick. It’s wicked cold in here.”
“Why did we have to have a meeting when there’s no heat?” someone said from the back of the room. “This meeting couldn’t have waited until next month?”
“You’re out of order, Josh. It’s Everett’s turn,” Miss Finchley said.
“Sorry, Miss Finchley. Sorry, Ev.”
“Go ahead, Everett,” she said.
“Yes, Miss Finchley. Thank you. Well, we were watching Meet Me In St. Louis on TV, my family was, on Christmas Day. My daughter loved it. She’s eleven.”
“We watched It’s a Wonderful Life,” Louisa Conroy said, shaking a box of Tic Tacs like a maraca and popping several at once.
“Um, yeah, we saw that five or six times in the past couple of weeks, too,” Everett continued, “But, on Christmas Day, we watched Meet Me in St. Louis. Reception was pretty good, too, with the plating factory shut down in Worsted for the holiday.”
“Yeah, I noticed that, too,” Sam Jurado said, “Reception was quite good. Uncharacteristically good.”
“Hey, yeah, Norm, I got an issue to raise,” Big Fat Jerry called, “when are we going to get cable?”
“You go and call the cable company and have them laugh in your face, Jerry,” Norm said, “I’m tired of doing it.”
“Were you watching Meet Me in St. Louis?” Kenny Mislow asked Sam Jurado.
“No, I didn’t find out that was on until it was almost over. I was watching some German choir singing German Christmas carols, from somewhere over in Germany.”
“That was on PBS.”
“Yeah.”
Everett looked from one speaker to another, and finally found an opportunity to interrupt, “So, anyway . . .”
“It was nice, the Christmas carols, but it was all in German, so you didn’t know what they were saying.”
“They didn’t have the words on the bottom?”
“Yeah, only they had them in German. Assholes.”
Everett tried again.
“About the movie . . .”
“Yes, that was a good movie,” Sam said, “I missed the Trolley Song part. I turned it on after that.”
Bud Markey, owner of the small bar on upper Bookbinder Street, quaintly named in a moment of cheery inspiration “Bud’s House of Beer,” sat on the windowsill, where it was even colder, but he was too big for the student desks.
“I like that part,” Bud said. His voice carried a wistful tone.
“Me, too,” Sam said. “Judy was so young.”
Norm had had it. He began to put on the mittens his mother made him. “Folks, let’s let Everett say his piece and then we can go home and warm up.”
The room quieted with dutiful swiftness and a dubious show of respect, and Everett felt the discomfort again of everybody’s full attention.
“Yes, it was a good movie,” Everett continued, “But, my point is, I got an idea that we could try to make an ordinance to live like they did in the 1904, like in the movie.”
“You want us to run around singing ‘The Trolley Song’?” Norm was on a roll tonight. More chuckling.
“I know most of it.”
“Shut up, Bud.”
“Watch your stinkin’ mouth.”
“Norm,” Everett said, “today my last best friend drove out of town with his family to start over . . .”
“Hey!”
“Oh, no Bud, I didn’t mean you aren’t my best friend, you are.”
“I like that.”
“I’m talking about David Pellier. He and his family left town today. We went to school together. Well, he’s sure not the first to leave, is he? He probably won’t be the last.”
“I still thought I was your best friend.”
“You are, dammit! Jeez, will you let me finish!” Everett swiped his toque off, and brushed his gloved hand through his thick, black hair, now infiltrated with gray.
“My kids have practically no one to play with anymore. They’ve got to ride a bus an hour and a half every day to the regional school. We got sixty-three people living here, no industry, one variety store with a gas pump. No money for roads or water, maintenance, or much of anything. We have to do something. Why not this?”
“Because it’s nuts, Everett.”
“Not that the movie wasn’t good, though.”
“I like It’s a Wonderful Life better. Why don’t we do that one?”
“It’s not the movie,” Everett said, “It’s the idea. It’s for tourism.”
“Tourism? Why would anyone want to come here?”
“Exactly. What is there that’s here? What do we got? We don’t have much land for farming, with the whole town practically sliding off the north side of the mountain. We don’t have a lot of zoned property for industry or business. State forest takes up a good chunk of the land area. But tourism--that’s something else. You don’t need much of anything to be a tourist attraction.”
“He’s right,” Bud said, “Some people will go anyplace just to say they been there.”
“My cousin went out to Los Angeles, California, to take a picture of himself at those concrete steps where Laurel and Hardy had to carry up a piano,” Sam Jurado said. Everybody looked at him for an even longer period of time than after his Judy Garland remark. “Well, he did. He likes Laurel and Hardy. He has a picture of them in his kitchen.”
“Think of the Amish, living the way they do, for generations,” Everett said, trying to pull everybody back on track, feeling his own way as he went.
“That’s their religion. They’re used to it.”
“Yeah, but what I mean is, think of the people driving all over Amish Country just to watch these people doing nothing but being themselves.”
“That’s a little extreme, Ev.”
“Think of Hershey, Pennsylvania. Chocolate factory. Or, take a place like Disney World, that’s a completely made up place. Or think of Plimouth Plantation or Sturbridge Village, recreations of places set in certain times.”
Miss Finchley had been watching Everett, a slight smile softening the hard line of her jaw, noting, but not commenting on the incongruity of lumping Disney World with an Amish community. She asked, “Why 1904, Everett?”
“It was a long time ago--that’s all, really. A hundred years ago. People think of the old days as better. Romantic. Think of the stir we’d cause by choosing to conduct our public business . . . just public, I’m saying. People can still do whatever they want in their own homes, but if we were to wear those old-fashioned clothes on the outside and just . . .”
“Like one of them reality TV shows? I hate those. I hate people who watch ‘em--and worse, I hate people who watch ‘em and talk all about ‘em at work.”
“Are we going to have to eat bugs, do stunts, and be followed around by camera crews?”
“No! I’m just saying, time is running out. We have to try something.”
Bud wiggled on the counter by the window, trying to get comfortable.
“No TV, and horseshit all over the roads, Ev. Oh, sorry, Miss Finchley. I mean poop. Oh, uh, sorry, again. Anyway, Ev, is that what you want?”
“I want to live a good life in the same place my grandparents and great-grandparents lived. I don’t know why I can’t. They had a future here and I don’t. None of us do. How much business are you doing at the bar, Bud?”
“You mean other than Marv?”
“We’d make fools of ourselves.” Norm said. “What’ll people think of us?”
“I think sometimes nobody else knows we’re here, Norm.”
“Are you making a motion, Everett?” Miss Finchley said, prompting him.
“Yes, Miss Finchley. I propose we conduct public business within the town limits as if Nuthatch was living in 1904.”
“Who would be the judge as to what was accurate and what wasn’t?”
“Miss Finchley.”
Miss Finchley smiled slightly with only a quick jerk at the corner of her mouth that always foreshadowed her wry delivery.
“Contrary to popular belief, I am not that old.”
“He just means you’re knowledgeable, Miss Finchley. Everybody knows that. Is anybody going to second this dumbass motion?”
It was growing colder, so several people seconded at the same time, arms reaching for the sky as if they were all being held up at gunpoint, hoping to speed things up.
“A motion has been made and seconded. All those in favor?”
Jacqueline T. Lynch
© 2010
The novel Meet Me in Nuthatch is available as an ebook thru Amazon.com & as a pdf thru Smashwords
Showing posts with label Jacqueline T Lynch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jacqueline T Lynch. Show all posts
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Writers Talk - Jacqueline T. Lynch
I'm very happy to introduce today's featured Writers Talk interviewee, Jacqueline T. Lynch. Before getting into Ms Lynch's curriculum vitae, I want to say on a personal note that Jacqueline is one of the first cyber friends I made thru the Robert Frost's Banjo blog, & she has remained a steadfast supporter of the blog & my various ventures. When I drove to New England this spring I even had the pleasure of meeting Jacqueline!
Jacqueline T. Lynch has published articles and short fiction in regional & national publications, including the anthology “60 Seconds to Shine: 161 Monologues from Literature” (Smith & Kraus, 2007), North & South, Civil War Magazine, History Magazine & several plays with Eldridge Publishing, Brooklyn Publishers, & Dramatic Publishing Company, one of which has been translated into Dutch & produced in the Netherlands. Her novel “Meet Me in Nuthatch” is now available as an ebook through Amazon.com & Smashwords.
She also writes three blogs:
Another Old Movie Blog: A blog on classic films.
New England Travels: A blog on historical and cultural sites in New England.
Tragedy and Comedy in New England: A blog on theatre in New England, past and present.
website: www.JacquelineTLynch.com
Please check out Chapter 1 of Jacqueline T. Lynch's novel, Meet Me in Nuthatch on the Writers Talk blog. & so: here's Jacqueline!
When did you first realize your identity as a writer?
I was about 14 years old. It was a Thursday. No, wait, a Friday. I don’t remember. The realization came to me unexpectedly, because I can be kind of obtuse. I always wrote from a very young age: stories, poems, notes on things that interested me. But, for all that, I never intended to be a writer. When I was a child, I wanted very much to be a zoologist. I was a devotee of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom and I loved its host, Marlin Perkins. I think it was that dapper white mustache and the squared-off handkerchief in his breast pocket. Sexy. Then I saw myself as Jane Goodall, sitting on an African hillside at dawn in my khaki shorts and shirt, taking notes on chimpanzees.
It was the note-taking, the analysis that appealed (besides the whole animal thing). I did it all the time. I’m still a chronic jotter-down of things. I actually wrote compositions on things that interested me as a child, just for fun, not for school. It was how I explained things to myself, how I explored the world.
Then when I was 14 I graduated to the adult section of the city library from the children’s department, and started in on their shelf of Agatha Christie and Ellery Queen. I got hooked on mysteries, and starting writing one myself, longhand on notebook paper. I don’t think I ever finished it. It was harder than I thought it would be. But something clicked, something blew me away about the process of setting, and character, and dialogue, people doing and saying things that I could control, but could never say and do myself.
I wanted to do that for the rest of my life.
So here I sit, in my khaki shorts, typing a play script on a laptop, with one eye cast towards the male house sparrow sitting on my neighbor’s fence. I have an urge to note it in a logbook.
Describe the creative process involved in any one piece you’ve written—this could be book, a story, a poem, an essay, etc.
One slapstick comedy I wrote called “Delusions of Grandeur” sprang purely from a comment I’d heard about a parent telling her teenager that the she had to be out of the house when she reached 18. I suppose I could have found more serious and socially conscious message here, but instead, I found silliness. Deadlines can be funny when they’re not scaring the socks off you.
Writing a play is probably like surfing or riding a roller coaster. I say probably, because I neither surf nor ride roller coasters, but the excitement is immediate, the need for balance crucial, and you get right into the action. There is no slow development as you get through a novel; you have to hit the ground running knowing everything about the characters and expressing it through their own voices, which must be unique and individual. Every action on stage must be deliberate and for a specific reason. It’s all the character as expressed through dialogue, the author gets no omniscient voice. And because the play never really comes alive until the director and the actors get a hold of it, the writer becomes suddenly part of a team. That’s the most thrilling of all.
Could you describe your relationship to the publishing process (this can be publishing in any form, from traditional book publishing to blogging, etc)
I’ve been a published and produced playwright for several years. I’ve enjoyed working with my editors and publishers very much. I would like to publish a novel, and by the time this piece is posted, I will have likely self-published as an e-book a humorous novel called “Meet Me in Nuthatch.”
The traditional publishing process is formal, a many-layered, highly structured game. There are many advantages to having the support of editors (and obviously, the support of a marketing and publicity department). My preference for publishing a novel would be through traditional publishing, but self publishing as it is gaining momentum today is intriguing. I am interested, and would like to be part of, both processes.
Blogging is personal, and its immediate communication to the readership makes it appealing for the sense of freedom it gives. I enjoy the immediacy of blogging and use it for a kind of writing practice. It’s also an outlet for other interests. I write three of them:
Another Old Movie Blog: A blog on classic films.
New England Travels: A blog on historical and cultural sites in New England.
Tragedy and Comedy in New England: A blog on theatre in New England, past and present.
How has being a writer affected your relationships?
I don’t think it has. Though I’ve enjoyed working and socializing with colleagues, most of the people closest to me are not writers. Some of them are awfully good storytellers, though.
How would you describe the community of writers you belong to—if any? This may be a “real” or “virtual” (in more than one sense) community.
Since I don’t belong to a writer’s group, I suppose we go back to blogging here. It’s a delightful community of diversity in experiences and interests. I visit many blogs, though I regret there isn’t time to comment on all of them as often as I’d like.
What are your future goals in terms of writing?
I just take life one manuscript at a time.
Bonus Question: If your writing were a musical instrument, what would it be?
An oboe, I think. It has a distinct, oddball sound, but one that can be very pleasing, and easily recognizable. It seems like a minor chord, a less emphatic sound, not flashy or attention-getting, but it still manages to stand out from the rest of the orchestra just by doing its thing, a poignant mixture of somberness and silliness.
I might say a cello, too, for the low undercurrent of the minor chord aspect, but cellos have a greater timbre, and are much harder to take on a bus or subway. My writing, conversely, does not have as much timbre as a cello, but I’m pleased to say it is much easier to bring with you on public transportation.
Jacqueline T. Lynch has published articles and short fiction in regional & national publications, including the anthology “60 Seconds to Shine: 161 Monologues from Literature” (Smith & Kraus, 2007), North & South, Civil War Magazine, History Magazine & several plays with Eldridge Publishing, Brooklyn Publishers, & Dramatic Publishing Company, one of which has been translated into Dutch & produced in the Netherlands. Her novel “Meet Me in Nuthatch” is now available as an ebook through Amazon.com & Smashwords.
She also writes three blogs:
Another Old Movie Blog: A blog on classic films.
New England Travels: A blog on historical and cultural sites in New England.
Tragedy and Comedy in New England: A blog on theatre in New England, past and present.
website: www.JacquelineTLynch.com
Please check out Chapter 1 of Jacqueline T. Lynch's novel, Meet Me in Nuthatch on the Writers Talk blog. & so: here's Jacqueline!
When did you first realize your identity as a writer?
I was about 14 years old. It was a Thursday. No, wait, a Friday. I don’t remember. The realization came to me unexpectedly, because I can be kind of obtuse. I always wrote from a very young age: stories, poems, notes on things that interested me. But, for all that, I never intended to be a writer. When I was a child, I wanted very much to be a zoologist. I was a devotee of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom and I loved its host, Marlin Perkins. I think it was that dapper white mustache and the squared-off handkerchief in his breast pocket. Sexy. Then I saw myself as Jane Goodall, sitting on an African hillside at dawn in my khaki shorts and shirt, taking notes on chimpanzees.
It was the note-taking, the analysis that appealed (besides the whole animal thing). I did it all the time. I’m still a chronic jotter-down of things. I actually wrote compositions on things that interested me as a child, just for fun, not for school. It was how I explained things to myself, how I explored the world.
Then when I was 14 I graduated to the adult section of the city library from the children’s department, and started in on their shelf of Agatha Christie and Ellery Queen. I got hooked on mysteries, and starting writing one myself, longhand on notebook paper. I don’t think I ever finished it. It was harder than I thought it would be. But something clicked, something blew me away about the process of setting, and character, and dialogue, people doing and saying things that I could control, but could never say and do myself.
I wanted to do that for the rest of my life.
So here I sit, in my khaki shorts, typing a play script on a laptop, with one eye cast towards the male house sparrow sitting on my neighbor’s fence. I have an urge to note it in a logbook.
Describe the creative process involved in any one piece you’ve written—this could be book, a story, a poem, an essay, etc.
One slapstick comedy I wrote called “Delusions of Grandeur” sprang purely from a comment I’d heard about a parent telling her teenager that the she had to be out of the house when she reached 18. I suppose I could have found more serious and socially conscious message here, but instead, I found silliness. Deadlines can be funny when they’re not scaring the socks off you.
Writing a play is probably like surfing or riding a roller coaster. I say probably, because I neither surf nor ride roller coasters, but the excitement is immediate, the need for balance crucial, and you get right into the action. There is no slow development as you get through a novel; you have to hit the ground running knowing everything about the characters and expressing it through their own voices, which must be unique and individual. Every action on stage must be deliberate and for a specific reason. It’s all the character as expressed through dialogue, the author gets no omniscient voice. And because the play never really comes alive until the director and the actors get a hold of it, the writer becomes suddenly part of a team. That’s the most thrilling of all.
Could you describe your relationship to the publishing process (this can be publishing in any form, from traditional book publishing to blogging, etc)
I’ve been a published and produced playwright for several years. I’ve enjoyed working with my editors and publishers very much. I would like to publish a novel, and by the time this piece is posted, I will have likely self-published as an e-book a humorous novel called “Meet Me in Nuthatch.”
The traditional publishing process is formal, a many-layered, highly structured game. There are many advantages to having the support of editors (and obviously, the support of a marketing and publicity department). My preference for publishing a novel would be through traditional publishing, but self publishing as it is gaining momentum today is intriguing. I am interested, and would like to be part of, both processes.
Blogging is personal, and its immediate communication to the readership makes it appealing for the sense of freedom it gives. I enjoy the immediacy of blogging and use it for a kind of writing practice. It’s also an outlet for other interests. I write three of them:
Another Old Movie Blog: A blog on classic films.
New England Travels: A blog on historical and cultural sites in New England.
Tragedy and Comedy in New England: A blog on theatre in New England, past and present.
How has being a writer affected your relationships?
I don’t think it has. Though I’ve enjoyed working and socializing with colleagues, most of the people closest to me are not writers. Some of them are awfully good storytellers, though.
How would you describe the community of writers you belong to—if any? This may be a “real” or “virtual” (in more than one sense) community.
Since I don’t belong to a writer’s group, I suppose we go back to blogging here. It’s a delightful community of diversity in experiences and interests. I visit many blogs, though I regret there isn’t time to comment on all of them as often as I’d like.
What are your future goals in terms of writing?
I just take life one manuscript at a time.
Bonus Question: If your writing were a musical instrument, what would it be?
An oboe, I think. It has a distinct, oddball sound, but one that can be very pleasing, and easily recognizable. It seems like a minor chord, a less emphatic sound, not flashy or attention-getting, but it still manages to stand out from the rest of the orchestra just by doing its thing, a poignant mixture of somberness and silliness.
I might say a cello, too, for the low undercurrent of the minor chord aspect, but cellos have a greater timbre, and are much harder to take on a bus or subway. My writing, conversely, does not have as much timbre as a cello, but I’m pleased to say it is much easier to bring with you on public transportation.
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