The Day the Music Died

The following was a quickly penned write up for a 500 word short story competition at MWC with the prompt of using the name, Jessie and probably two other words I no longer recall. It didn't win anything and the story could still use some work but for now, a quick read if you're so inclined. Enjoy.

The Day the Music Died


Two sisters couldn't be closer than me and Emma, two years my junior. Dad called us peas-in-a-pod to irk me. I hated peas. Emma loved them.


We harvested a garden every summer on our Kentucky farm. The payoff? Good eating. Better yet… the afternoons Dad let us take the quad-runner to the pasture, by the river.


A transistor radio, towels, and we were set to swim and sing.  We knew the words to every song, words we changed to suit current dramas. Uncle Ty said he could hear our crooning plum up to his house, echoing off the mountains.


By 1981 we were boy crazy, teeny-boppers. An Australian singer became a heartthrob with his song, "Jessie's Girl." After that, every boy was Jessie and we were, of course, Jessie's Girl.  Armed with hairbrush microphones, we drove Mom nuts singing that song.


Full-bloom by the following summer, I had my license and a steady boyfriend, James - inherently nicknamed, Jessie James.


My high school senior year flew. I earned a full ride to Stanford University. James joined the US Air Force.


Mom died that summer and Dad lost interest in living. Emma, nevertheless, needed two years of high school, so I settled for a nearby junior college. Responsibilities fell on me.


Emma graduated high school, and then Dad died in August, leaving us the farm. Emma and I sang together to chase the blues away. We sold chunks of acreage to pay for Emma's college, or partying, as it were. I finished my bachelor's degree and landed a managerial job with the telephone company where I racked up frequent flyer miles.


James returned from service, opened his own automotive repair shop, and then asked me to marry him. Emma, my maid of honor, decided to sing, "Jessie's Girl" instead of, "Annie's Song" during the ceremony. Guests loved it. I was perturbed.


Emma was fickle, bouncing from one man to another. She insisted on being escorted to our homemade Sunday suppers, for approval, I supposed.  A tad bizarre, but, life was good.


One winter, the telephone company sent me to Minneapolis to investigate missing supplies. James was behind schedule with promised repairs so he dropped me off at the train station to hitch a ride to the airport, saving James a four hour drive.


In Louisville, I'm advised a blizzard, now headed our way, hit Minnesota, bringing air travel to a standstill. Thousands of flights cancelled, I wasn't getting out of Kentucky for three days. Determined I wouldn't spend that time at the airport, I took the first train out to beat the storm.


Four hours later, back at the station, it started snowing. Called home, no answer. Take a cab or risk being stranded?


Greeted by lipstick stained cigarette butts, two wine glasses, empty bottle, two wet bath towels, and sex paraphernalia… dark, I waited.


They entered kissing. 


Without a word, I walked past gaping jaws, grasped my suitcase, never looking back at Emma and James.


I still hate peas.

Deborah Galarza, About Me, The Artist

                    

                              

                        

                        Born in California, I grew up as an Air Force Brat. Uprooted often during grade school, I learned early on to adapt and be flexible. I traveled between grandparents and extended families in California and West Virginia. Both sets of grandparents had country acreage where I picked up my love of nature, travel, and appreciation of different environmental, artistic styles. 

I've always been an adventure  seeker and yearn for travel. When I was 11-years-old, I was on a life altering flight away from my family in West Virginia to go live with my grandparents in California, I decided I wanted to be a flight attendant and would forego traditional family life for travel.  I was reacquainted with a high school friend while he was home on leave.  He was an Army Ranger Paratrooper whose job was jumping out of airplanes. Working as a flight attendant, it was my job to keep people in them. We married five years later in ’92 and settled in the small town of Fillmore to raise our two sons.

I have a deep appreciation for nature and when everything in Southern California has turned midsummer brown, I long for green mountains where I feel centered and at peace. Forest hikes and strolls on deserted driftwood beaches are inspirational and soothing. Family camping road trips with lodging away from crowds near a National Park is my idea of a perfect vacation.

My watercolor paintings are primarily landscapes and still life. My landscapes reflect places I’ve been and those I create or combinations thereof. I try to imagine myself in my paintings and often find that without planning to, I’ve included a path or roadway beckoning exploration. I hope the viewer is drawn to explore as well. I prefer using natural elements, antiques, rustic advertisements, and art deco architecture in my still life paintings.

                           I enjoy varied forms of arts and crafts while my other love is writing. Next to being out in nature, painting and writing feed my soul. I’m in continuous pursuit of learning new techniques, exploring new genres, and perfecting my skills with favorite mediums. I love painting and writing equally and hope to effectively tell stories without words and paint pictures with them.

I’ve heard great pain and loss make great writers and artists. While I’m sure there are greats who haven’t suffered greatly, I do believe that we all create with our hearts. After all, no vision or idea a mind will produce can get to paper without first passing by the heart.

                          

 In everything I create, there is a little piece of my heart.

                                                                                                ~Deb

Tuesday's Towers

Tuesday for two

Towers with a view

Rattled awake

Alarm, denial, grief

Stare into the serpent's eye

Humans falling from the sky

Debris rains in gray, black billows

Churning guts, clutching pillows

No mistake

Lives taken by a thief

Time stands, still

Dusting of September chill

Blown apart

Airplanes, pieces of your heart

Fallen icon's wake

Staring, crying, disbelief

A sea of blue

Towers taken out of view

~Deborah Galarza 9/11/2011

New Game

In spite of my good intentions and those of thousands of other women on Facebook,
the new "Game" seems to have backfired in more ways than one via mislead friends with heartfelt congratulations, concerned e-mails, alarmed relatives, etc...

Before I joined in the 'fun', I questioned the premise of the delivery (pardon the pun) to raise awareness but who am I? I know one thing. It didn't seem quite right but I, like so many other well meaning people, jumped in anyway.

Then, I ran across this article http://www.viewshound.com/internet/2011/9/5/the-new-facebook-fad-im-four-weeks-along?utm_campaign=article&utm_medium=wall&utm_source=Facebook

The writer may seem overly dramatic to some but she does make a good point in her overall message and I had to face what I basically ignored when the game was first passed to me. It really is in bad taste.

I don't know where the idea came from and though, I see where the tactic is used to raise awareness to make people curious enough to ask, I believe we can be a little more creative than this. No offense to the game creator(s). I doubt he/she thought there would be this type of backlash but let's think about it. After all, how many women with this disease cannot have children because of damaged organs or chemotherapy? How many women can breastfeed after breast cancer?

Suddenly, the game feels thoughtless and I'm sorry to say, I played along.

I enjoy supporting our fellow sisters and brothers and I'm always up for a good game but I believe we need to rethink this one.

Just saying.

~Deborah Manning-Galarza 9/6/2011









http://www.viewshound.com/internet/2011/9/5/the-new-facebook-fad-im-four-weeks-along?utm_campaign=article&utm_medium=wall&utm_source=Facebook

Coming Soon My Screenplay

So, the job here is to write and write and write some more. I've been writing but not here. I'm writing a screenplay. Yep. You read right and you read write.

My screenplay title is going to be one of a few possibilities unless something better pops into my fuzzy fat brain.

1.) Fly the Friendly Skies
2.) The Only Way to Fly
3.) Silver Lining
4.) By the Seat of My Pants
5.) Flight Plan
6.) Broken Wings
7.) Champagne Airlines
9.) Grounded on The Wings of a Dream
10.) It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's a Blond!

Bet you can't guess what this screenplay is about. Okay, so it is obvious but there is no way you can imagine the situations that the main character finds herself in. Tune in next week for my hook. This isn't it.

Check back often and come with me on my journey of writing, re-writing, and blogging about writing which in all honesty is called, procrastination. My friend and foe.

Old Chinese Wisdom

To put the world in order, we must first put the nation in order; to put the nation in order, we must put the family in order; to put the family in order, we must cultivate our personal life; and to cultivate our personal life, we must first set our hearts right.

~Confucius

Toxins Kill

No one reads this blog. It has been hit only a hand full of times by one or two of my friends and the occasional wonderer. It is here for me to coax the muse and vent frustration. For anyone to find this page a person would have to be looking and I would have to wonder, “What were they looking for, really and why?”

In my last post (now edited) I let venom flow from my broken heart on to the screen. I kept typing until every bit of poison was out of my body. The toxic feelings of, loss, betrayal, and bewilderment were going to consume me if I did not do something to let it all out. The poison rushed down from my reactive, animal brain, bypassing my heart (because it was broken into tiny pieces). It did not feel right but still, I let that venom flow through my arms, into my fingertips, and onto the keyboard. Completely out of character for me, I spewed out caustic sarcasm, in scornful anger.

I read the words through tear filled eyes and I was sorry that I allowed myself to get caught up in it...

I am sorry if my words hurt anyone and I‘m sorry that my apologies won‘t matter...

Having served its purpose, which was to absorb my overwhelming feelings of loss, sadness, and alienation, my intentions were to write and delete the venomous words and replace them with words of kindness. For, I know your heart is broken too.