By Victoria Simon

By Victoria Simon

There are three things you need to know about driving on the island of Terceira: manual transmission, hills, and cows.

Terceira is part of Europe, Portugal specifically, and most people in Europe drive manual transmission. In fact, if you want to rent a car with an automatic plan on spending at least three times as much money as you would on renting a manual. However, if you are renting a car with a stick shift, you better know how to drive one.

That leads me to the second thing you need to know about driving on Terceira – hills. This is a volcanic archipelago which means there are steep hills, unpredictable hills, narrow hills, wet hills, and hills approached as blind as the peak on a roller coaster. This involves quick thinking, quicker shifting, and a bravado as deep as the ocean that surrounds the island.

And then there are the cows. Lots of cows. Terceira has more cows than people. Before I visited I had heard that cows were an occasional roadblock but I did not know it was because they were intentionally herded down the road by dog and man. Also, road obstacles are not just cows but cars, people, chickens and I’m sure there were more we did not see. The pace of life is slow on the island so if there is a need to park a truck in the lane to go check on a herd or visit with a neighbor, it is perfectly acceptable.

In fact, once in the middle of the day on a one-way street in downtown Angra we saw a car stop in the middle of the road blocking traffic completely. The driver hopped out and went into a store for at least 10 minutes. He came out with two bags of candy and a bag of nuts. There were 6 cars lined up behind his, culminating in a police car. We watched on the sidewalk, enjoying our virtual popcorn, as he waved an apology, hopped in his car and drove away trailed by friendly, understanding locals. We were definitely not in the U.S.!

Once you’ve mastered manual transmission, hills, and cows it seems as if you are good to go but I left out one minor detail. Parking. At some point you will stop driving and need to put the car somewhere. We asked lots of advice on parking and got very little. Most city streets were free in the evenings and on weekends but daytime required learning how to operate the parking meter. The first time we had to feed the meter we had two locals who didn’t speak English helping us and they got into a pretty heated argument about how much we had to pay and when we could pay it without waking up early in the morning and running to the meter – which I wound up doing anyway.

After a long day touring the island toward the end of our trip we returned to the city as day gave in to darkness. We were tired and hungry and just wanted to be done with the car. Our options were to find a city street close to the hotel or drive all the way through town and park in a free lot at the marina and walk back. Anxious to be out of the car, we opted for close to the hotel. We turned down a narrow one-way street on a very steep hill close to our hotel found a parallel spot between two cars. Perfect!

As we approached I saw a young man in a bright yellow shirt on the right side of the road. He was clearly a local and I wondered if he was curious when he saw visitors like us in the off-season. Mindi whipped the car, nose first, deftly into the spot but didn’t quite make it. She tried to back up and the car stalled. A car came down the hill toward us. She cursed and restarted the car. She tried to back up again and the car slid forward nearly hitting the car in front of us. She cursed and the car stalled again. The other car stopped in the road a “polite” distance behind us.  I tensed up, not daring to breathe a word, thinking fast. She tried again to back up but ol’ Betsy didn’t want to cooperate. We rolled an inch and stalled. Karen helpfully asked if she put it in reverse. Mindi confirmed that, yes, she knew that backing up required reverse – and she cursed again. I glanced at the car behind us. He honked. Mindi cursed. I knew hopping out and walking was not helpful but, I have to admit, it was the instinctual response I had to fight.

There was a knock on the driver’s window. “Can I help?” said a young man in a yellow shirt. Mindi hopped out of the car as if it were about to explode. The stranger handed her his backpack and cell phone and hopped in the driver’s seat. Karen and I were now in a car with a strange man who was an unapproved driver behind the wheel of the rental car we were liable for. None of that mattered. In the moment, the man was a savior. He put the car in reverse and two-stepped on the gas and clutch and Betsey threatened the car in front of us, once again. The car behind us honked. I held my breath. Where was the local patience for road obstacles now? He said, “This car no good.” Karen and I laughed nervously. “We know!” I rolled down my window – “Do you want him to park or just get it out of here?” knowing my inclination was to get out of dodge and find a flat surface.

“Park it,” she said. “I can’t deal with it.”

He tried. He tried and he tried. He said, “No.” I told him that was fine but if he could just get us off the hill we would find another spot. He braced himself and adjusted his feet. The car behind us backed up a modest five feet. Another car behind him was stopped in the road a dozen yards back. Again, I held my breath. Karen stayed surprisingly quiet. He eased off the brake and hit the gas and he popped the car out of our 45 degree angle into the single lane of road and drove down the hill stranding Mindi on the sidewalk with his belongings. He pulled over in a “do not park area” while the two cars blew past us and Mindi walked quickly down the hill and hopped into the back seat of the car we rented.

“I sorry,” he said. The three of us spoke over one another with our gratitude at helping us out of our tense situation. He started to drive again. “My English not good. I try. I like British English.” He drove around the block but there were no empty parking spots.

“This car, no good. Tell car place no good. It not good when going back,” he said.

We agreed with him. Oddly enough, even though he was driving I felt like we had kidnapped him. I didn’t know where he was originally going or when he needed to be there but now we were blocks away driving around town. He said, “You know when you drive a car and they give you, that, oh, the word, that thing?” Driver’s license, we asked. “Yes, that. I have mine ten days.” Turns out a 19-year old, young enough to be one of our children and licensed for just ten days, rescued us with his driving.

I suggested we park by the marina and asked if he had time and minded walking that far. He stammered in broken English that he didn’t mind but was it too far for us to walk? Merely a half hour ago my sisters thought it was too far but suddenly they thought the marina was the best parking lot on the planet. He parked the car in easy, level, and free parallel parking just before the marina and we breathed a sigh of relief.

It turned out he was on his way to our hotel to work out in the gym so he walked back with us. His name was João and he was a soccer player. He said his driving instructor told him Angra was a difficult town to park and the road we were on, he claimed, was one of the worst in Angra. Not only was João a soccer player but he was also a musician, playing both piano and guitar, and a dancer. He told us about his dreams to go to university and someday visit the United States and how his mother had battled cancer and was now immersed in depression.

At the hotel he wouldn’t accept our gratitude in the form of money but just wanted to take a picture with his new American moms.

Allow me to correct myself. There are four things you need to know about driving on the island of Terceira: manual transmission, hills, obstacles and the importance of trusting a handsome young soccer player who comes to the rescue when the other three let you down.

by Victoria Simon

Which one is better, one or two? Two or three?

I try so hard annually to pass this simple test but, somehow, it seems I score a little lower each time.

Which one is clearer, sharper, three or four?

I blink and suddenly each is a bit clearer.

Sometimes, that’s all it takes is a blink, a moment, to help see things more clearly. The difference between success and failure is having a vision, a goal. I have to believe it to see it and see it to achieve it.

There is a cliché, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. However, sometimes, it is too difficult to take even one step. In that case, blink.

Which choice is better, one or two?

Blink. I see more clearly what I need to do.

Blink  – to change my score.

Blink.

Hoarding is a topic made popular with TV shows like Hoarders, Hoarding: Buried Alive and, on the opposite end of the spectrum, cleaning and organizing shows like Clean House and Tidying Up with Marie Kondo.

There are many kinds of hoarding and a variety of explanations for the tendency. Some people are hoarders of information. They keep books, magazines, files of articles torn out of media, notes, and other forms of paper documentation of their interests. Teachers and journalists are common offenders.  There are hoarders of ribbon, sequins, buttons, paints, pressed flowers and other items that are art and craft supplies to those with a creative, discerning eye.

There are some unusual varieties of hoarders who cling to art (rich hoarders), ticket stubs and photos (memorabilia hoarders), tools (macho hoarders), new-in-box numbered collectibles (overly-optimistic-investment hoarders), twisty ties and milk caps (what-if or Depression Era hoarders) and used diapers and condoms (disgusting hoarders).

What about food hoarders? Do you have a relative whose cupboards, drawers, freezers and refrigerators are filled with outdated culinary delights? These are the Starvation Hoarders also known as It’s-Still-Good-Expiration-Dates-Are-Suggestions Hoarders. Note: these folks are close cousins of the What-if or Depression Era hoarders.

Perhaps you have experienced holidays at the home of a relative who is a food hoarder. In our family, it is Aunt Gladys. Dinner begins with tossed salad and guests reflexively checking the date of the salad dressings because They Know. Thousand Island-2012, French-2015, Italian-2007 (how is that even possible?), Ranch-2018. After eyeing the French thoughtfully, I select Ranch. I notice cousin Sara quietly toss the Italian into the trash and Martha throw a paper towel on top giving it a dignified burial and ensuring Gladys the Food Hoarder will not rescue the half bottle that smells “just fine.”

Canned fruits and veggies, purchased during the local grocery store’s annual canned goods sale and stored in the cellar, are commonly served at holiday dinners. Unless the can is dented they tend to be pretty safe bets. The breads and rolls are fresh – or at worst a bit freezer-burned but safe, nonetheless.

Then there is meat. The great debate of the meal. Do we eat the main dish? Is the meat fresh? What is it??? Where did it come from? When was it purchased or (gulp) “harvested”? How long was it frozen? The risks! At best, it will be freezer-burned. At worst, a carrier of extreme bacteria that blossomed between the purchase of the discounted near-expiration cut to awaiting the serving at this grand buffet. No, we will skip the meat this time. Green Jello fluff is safe.

After dinner come drinks and laughs and family stories. None of these are hoarded but instead shared abundantly like water flowing over Niagara. It’s all fun and delightful until Sara feels a bit hungry since she skipped the main dish. The host offers to bring out all of the leftovers from dinner but Sara claims ‘zerts and apps are way more fun. Cheese and crackers, she insists. This goes well with wine, beer, and tea – the drinks favored at this table.

Sara pulls out several varieties of cheese from the ‘fridge and set them on a cutting board. The first one has a shimmer of soft green gracing one side. She sighs, cuts off the fuzz, and slices it up. The next chunk is fully coated in a mottled gray-green blanket. Nope. Beyond saving. She waits until her host squeezes her eyes closed in laughter and pitches the whole curd. The next cheese looked fine. She hesitates. She slices a long even slice. Still looks fine. She panics and checks the date on the package. Holy s*** this is fresh. How does that happen? Well, she has to purchase fresh food at some point, right?

She opens the cupboards and pulled out the Ritz. The top flap boasts 2011. The Triscuits are a youthful 2017 and the Wheat Thins a mature 2015. She leaves the Ritz on the counter and dumps the Wheat Thins and Triscuits on the platter next to the cheese.

How does this happen? We come for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, and 4^th of July. At each holiday we carefully trim away years-old food from the surplus yet at the next holiday we discover more. How?

If a zombie apocalypse or another depression occurs, I know where I will go.  There is one home that will have plenty of food. While the world is rationing in fear, I will be dining at Aunt Gladys house at a feast even St. Gluttony would envy.

By Victoria Simon

I am a writer.
Not really.
I just said that because I read somewhere that if you want to be a writer the first step is to proclaim it.
I am a writer.
Oh, but I’m not.
I can’t write a thing.
Every time I sit down to write, nothing happens.
I stare at the blank paper and…nothing.
A title, I think.
If I just write the title then everything else will flow from that, right?
How can I write a title when I don’t know what I’m writing about?
A by-line. That’s what I’ll create.
The paper won’t be blank if I write a by-line. I’ll just leave extra space at the top for a title and I can come back to that.
By Victoria Simon
There! I did it. I wrote something.
I am a writer.
Not really.
All I wrote is my name. That doesn’t make me a writer.
I’m still just an ordinary woman.
“Hey, lady.”
That’s me.
I’m not a writer.
I’m as ordinary as they come.
Was I a writer when I woke up this morning?
Tired? Yes.
Annoyed at the cat? Yes.
A writer? No.
Time to go to work and, guess what?
I don’t get paid to write.
That’s because I’m not a writer.
Blah blah blah blah.
Blah.
See? No writer would write that, would they? Blah.
So now I sit here with my pen in hand and notebook balanced on my knee…
Ha! Fooled you, didn’t I?
I don’t have a pen. I’m typing on a MacBook Pro.
On a table.
In a pub.
Does that make me a writer?
It was the pub that got you, didn’t it?
Ooooohhhhhhhh, if she’s writing in a pub then she really is a writer, isn’t she? Wow. Impressive.
Now that you know I’m a writer, you probably wonder what I am writing about.
Bl—Nope, done that. Need to do something different.
I will write about grapes of wrath.
I will write about leaves of grass.
I will write about pennies from heaven.
I will write about the pain of childbirth.
I will write about a red balloon.
I will write about what I write about because
I AM A WRITER.
There.
Believe me now?
You should.
If you look back at the top it says, “by Victoria Simon”
See?
That means I am a writer.
Unless my name is really Anonymous.
Then I am a prolific writer.
Still believe me?
Good.
I believe in you, too.
Look at the top again.
Put the title here, it says.
I think I already did.
Now it’s your turn.

by Victoria Simon

Jew
Nigger
Fairy
Cripple
Cracker
Homo
Refugee
Beaner
Retard
Redskin

Have I insulted you? If not, I must have missed your label.

Oriental.
Dike.
Addict.
Four-eyes.
Dyslexic.
Old fart.
Dot not feather.

We label. We categorize. We pigeonhole. We compartmentalize everyone we meet.

Male or female.
Blonde, brunette, or redhead.
Tall, short, fat, or thin. A bit stocky, perhaps. Broad-shouldered. Sturdy. Solid.

Everyone labels everyone else, yet no one asks to be labeled.

I don’t get up in the morning, look in the mirror and think, “Well there is a middle-aged, white, married, working mother of four ready to drive her sedan to her urban job.”

But we continue to describe everyone with these labels. The quickest labels are outside descriptions but we label what we cannot see, as well.

You know how she is.
Stubborn.
Sweet as pie.
Annoying.
Quick.
Helpful.
Rude.
Faithful.

Even well-intentioned labels eclipse the fabric of humanity behind the label.

Delicate hands. Handle feelings with care. Gentle wash away sins. Air-dried tears. Made in the USA.

Do you know me? Or did you just read my label?

It is time to go.

Going involves packing.

Packing requires deciding

What to keep

And what will stay behind.

It is time to go.

Going from one place

Means arriving at another.

Arriving involves change

And change is scary.

It is time to go

Going is a decision

Choosing one path

And not choosing

Other paths.

It is time to go.

In going we release

The past

Look toward a future

Live in the present

It is time to go.

Letting go

Of my history

That defines

who I am.

It is time to go

Going forward

I may not have much,

But it is still hard

To let go.

Family Festivities

By Victoria Simon

The holidays are a time for peace, celebration and family. There is nothing like getting together with family, is there? Just hearing those words brings nostalgic images to mind…images of grandma pulling a steaming apple pie out of the oven, images of children playing “Go fish”, and images of Uncle Phil snoring in the recliner in the corner, right? If that is what you are picturing then you clearly aren’t in my family!

My family gatherings are loud and chaotic and include siblings arguing about politics, my mother cussing as she pulls something smoking from the oven, children staring mute and wide-eyed at technology, grandma pacing about and my father snoring in a recliner.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my family! Where can you get such entertainment! Re-hashing it in the car on the way home doubles the experience. “Did you hear Aunt Cathy?” I say to my husband. “She is the most critical person I know but she tries to makes it sound like she’s being helpful. And cousin Tim! What is up with him? Did you notice that Tamara only ate the food she brought? How could those twins look so perfect and be such a handful?”

Do your best to enjoy your family this holiday season. If your family is like mine and you are seeking “Peace on Earth,” you may want to be the one celebrating sound asleep in the recliner!

(As published in the Sentinel Standard Weekender of Ionia, Sat. Dec 20, 2014.)

Ode to Word Gatherers
By Victoria Simon

We are word gatherers because the words are already there.
We merely gather and rearrange them
Until they make sense and give meaning.

Dollars have value once the numbers are revealed at the mint.
A calendar gives order when months and dates are arranged.
A book gives meaning only after words are printed on the page.

Words drip from a poet’s lips descriptively the way
Sticky syrup drips from the lips of a five year old eating a popsicle
Words are tacked to the page declaratively by reporters the way
A sign is tacked to a telephone pole stating, “Lost kitten. If found, please call”.
Words flow to the playwrite conversationally the way
A river shapes the stones in its path, polishing the surfaces smooth.
But the novelist! The poor, poor novelist!
Words are typed in fits and starts erratically the way
Butterflies are caught in a net and some escape.

We are word gatherers discovering meaning in our own writing.
We write, we rewrite, we edit and we write some more
Until our gift is ready to share with you.
We are word gatherers.