July 26, 2011

Prompt: You needed an instruction for ...

You need an instructional manual for my friend's dietary needs. I swear, first she is not quite vegan, and still wears leather shoes, but we trek from diner to diner, searching for food she can consume. It can't be pasta, too much carb loading and brown rice is passé I think, and I used chicken stock to make the polenta, so that is out too, but not soy milk, which is moonbeam pale and just as thin as winter's starlight. She drinks it, uses it on her cereal and when she left I poured it on one of the outside plants, who, at this writing has doubled in size, and has begun to bang on the door with its extended tendril, begging for Oreo cookies to go with the milk. I say, go to the fair and get yourself a fried Oreo and be done with it.
--Mary Pauer, RBWG

* * *

Ben thought he needed an instruction manual for women, but knew no such manual existed. Women were complex creatures, needing to be strong, yet longing to have someone to lean on. They were more in tune to their emotions than men, but shared those emotions only when they felt safe, trusted. They wanted to be chased, but not overtly so. They longed for the fairy tale, but most had kissed too many frogs, yielding only warts, never princes. Women wanted to be heard, not taught, cherished but never smothered, adored but not put on pedestals. He realized then that he knew a little more than he gave himself credit for knowing.
--Steve Robison, RBWG Member

* * *

You needed an instruction manual for Arlene. She was one of those people who doesn't manage, quite, to connect with others and so she was without that flow of low level intuitions that comprise our shared lives. A common compliment about a new outfit or piece of jewelry, for example, might well elicit a feminist diatribe -- because Arlene couldn't really discern it as a compliment. I learned to deal with her over twenty years of association. I was among the few who bothered, which is probably the reason why I ended up being the emcee at her very small retirement party. No one else could be found to do the job.
--Tom Hoyer, RBWG member

* * *

You needed an instruction manual for bathing at Nanik's. Take your soap, shampoo and towel with you and a dry something to cover you well. Your clean clothes or a "housedress." I loved my "housedresses." Hang the towel and housedress carefully where it won't get wet. Strip and hang your sweaty clothes where they won't get any wetter than they are, if possible. First, I poured a small bucket of water from the bathing tank over my head, then shampooed it. Then used the suds to wash as far down as the suds would go. All this time, I'm waiting for the big moment. Then I pour buckets of water over my head to rinse it and rinse it. If it's a day when it hasn't rained, I'm careful not to waste any water. Then I rinse down some more, then I grit my teeth and throw the first bucket of cold water down my back. That's always the shocker. Nadine bathed with me once and screamed when I did that. "Don't throw the water! You threw it on my dry clothes! And it wastes water!" I hadn't realized that I was so emphatic in that gesture but after the first cold water down my back, the rest of bathing wasn't so bad. Except I never could get really dry before I slipped my "housedress" on so it tended to stick to me here and there. The cool water had felt good, though, and it was good to get the day's sweat off (or the night's sweat--we bathed in the morning, too) and after putting away my bathing things, sitting down for the evening's rice and fish.
--Sharon Hoover, RBWG member

* * *

Lydia needed an instruction manual in the mornings. Waking up was never a welcome event. Her brain did not function other than to advise her to pull the covers over her head. Which she did most mornings. The dog nudged her covered head for a second time, hard this time, no fooling around.

"Come on People, hey you of the HIGHER SPECIES, Helloooooooooooooo." No instruction manual needed for him; Buster's routine was admirable in its steadfastness, its lack of deviation for any reason. Wake up, slurp water, go wake Lydia or Jack, wait by the front door, whimper loudly, trudge back upstairs, whimper more loudly, scratch on the bedroom door, push one lump or two in the bed. If greeted by groans or pillows being thrown at his head, Buster would sneak back to the bedroom doorway, get in to launch position (head down, front paws splayed, rear end up) then take off like a bat out of hell, landing, with great precision in the middle of the bed. He would then dig madly as if discovering his favorite bone until one or the other of his upright friends actually stood upright. The dog days of summer my ass, Buster thought, WHAT did that mean anyway? He always wondered.

"Come on buddy," Jack said.
--Christine Long, RBWG member

* * *

The problem with being a teenager in my day was that some things – especially sports – were learned through daily practice, others instinctively, and one in particular through (to borrow a term from football) fumbling along. You’d think a simple human exchange like intimacy would be as natural as breathing, but in my experience, there was a lot of fumbling. I needed an instruction manual for sex to tell me basic stuff like her buttons were backwards, that clasps and zippers were constant variables of front, side, and back fasteners, that I needed to keep my wallet properly stocked, and neither of us had to go to confession after every assignation. In time I figured it out through a progression of kissing, petting, and, well, you probably remember how it was. The question, my friends, is do you still have the passion of your early years? I hope you do, for that is one way we can be forever young.
--Jim Van Loozen, RBWG Member

* * *

You needed an instruction manual for her moods. One morning she would be eating toast and the jelly would be spread too thick and she would fling it face down on the table. The next day she would hold the toast up in the air and cry, "Is there a ration on jam?" The children learned to walk quietly around the house, shoes off, jangly jewelry stowed in their dresser drawers. They never knew when a song would make her cry, or the sight of a cardinal in the oak tree would prompt her to bake a pie, or when a book left on the stairs would send her into a paroxysm of rage where she ripped up anything she could get her hands on made of paper. They only wanted to do what was right, they only wanted to obey the rules, and they would have turned off the radio forever, slept on beds without sheets, eaten nothing but cereal for weeks if only they understood the foreign language in which her instruction manual was written. They only wanted her to be happy, and they did not know how.
--Ellen Collins, RBWG member

* * *




July 26, 2011 Prompt: You needed an instruction for ... You need an instructional manual for my friend's dietary needs. I swear, first she is not quite vegan, and still wears leather shoes, but we trek from diner to diner, searching for food she can consume. It can't be pasta, too much carb loading and brown rice is passé I think, and I used chicken stock to make the polenta, so that is out too, but not soy milk, which is moonbeam pale and just as thin as winter's starlight. She drinks it, uses it on her cereal and when she left I poured it on one of the outside plants, who, at this writing has doubled in size, and has begun to bang on the door with its extended tendril, begging for Oreo cookies to go with the milk. I say, go to the fair and get yourself a fried Oreo and be done with it. --Mary Pauer, RBWG * * * Ben thought he needed an instruction manual for women, but knew no such manual existed. Women were complex creatures, needing to be strong, yet longing to have someone to lean on. They were more in tune to their emotions than men, but shared those emotions only when they felt safe, trusted. They wanted to be chased, but not overtly so. They longed for the fairy tale, but most had kissed too many frogs, yielding only warts, never princes. Women wanted to be heard, not taught, cherished but never smothered, adored but not put on pedestals. He realized then that he knew a little more than he gave himself credit for knowing. --Steve Robison, RBWG Member * * * You needed an instruction manual for Arlene. She was one of those people who doesn't manage, quite, to connect with others and so she was without that flow of low level intuitions that comprise our shared lives. A common compliment about a new outfit or piece of jewelry, for example, might well elicit a feminist diatribe -- because Arlene couldn't really discern it as a compliment. I learned to deal with her over twenty years of association. I was among the few who bothered, which is probably the reason why I ended up being the emcee at her very small retirement party. No one else could be found to do the job. --Tom Hoyer, RBWG member * * * You needed an instruction manual for bathing at Nanik's. Take your soap, shampoo and towel with you and a dry something to cover you well. Your clean clothes or a "housedress." I loved my "housedresses." Hang the towel and housedress carefully where it won't get wet. Strip and hang your sweaty clothes where they won't get any wetter than they are, if possible. First, I poured a small bucket of water from the bathing tank over my head, then shampooed it. Then used the suds to wash as far down as the suds would go. All this time, I'm waiting for the big moment. Then I pour buckets of water over my head to rinse it and rinse it. If it's a day when it hasn't rained, I'm careful not to waste any water. Then I rinse down some more, then I grit my teeth and throw the first bucket of cold water down my back. That's always the shocker. Nadine bathed with me once and screamed when I did that. "Don't throw the water! You threw it on my dry clothes! And it wastes water!" I hadn't realized that I was so emphatic in that gesture but after the first cold water down my back, the rest of bathing wasn't so bad. Except I never could get really dry before I slipped my "housedress" on so it tended to stick to me here and there. The cool water had felt good, though, and it was good to get the day's sweat off (or the night's sweat--we bathed in the morning, too) and after putting away my bathing things, sitting down for the evening's rice and fish. --Sharon Hoover, RBWG member * * * Lydia needed an instruction manual in the mornings. Waking up was never a welcome event. Her brain did not function other than to advise her to pull the covers over her head. Which she did most mornings. The dog nudged her covered head for a second time, hard this time, no fooling around. "Come on People, hey you of the HIGHER SPECIES, Helloooooooooooooo." No instruction manual needed for him; Buster's routine was admirable in its steadfastness, its lack of deviation for any reason. Wake up, slurp water, go wake Lydia or Jack, wait by the front door, whimper loudly, trudge back upstairs, whimper more loudly, scratch on the bedroom door, push one lump or two in the bed. If greeted by groans or pillows being thrown at his head, Buster would sneak back to the bedroom doorway, get in to launch position (head down, front paws splayed, rear end up) then take off like a bat out of hell, landing, with great precision in the middle of the bed. He would then dig madly as if discovering his favorite bone until one or the other of his upright friends actually stood upright. The dog days of summer my ass, Buster thought, WHAT did that mean anyway? He always wondered. "Come on buddy," Jack said. --Christine Long, RBWG member * * * The problem with being a teenager in my day was that some things – especially sports – were learned through daily practice, others instinctively, and one in particular through (to borrow a term from football) fumbling along. You’d think a simple human exchange like intimacy would be as natural as breathing, but in my experience, there was a lot of fumbling. I needed an instruction manual for sex to tell me basic stuff like her buttons were backwards, that clasps and zippers were constant variables of front, side, and back fasteners, that I needed to keep my wallet properly stocked, and neither of us had to go to confession after every assignation. In time I figured it out through a progression of kissing, petting, and, well, you probably remember how it was. The question, my friends, is do you still have the passion of your early years? I hope you do, for that is one way we can be forever young. --Jim Van Loozen, RBWG Member * * * You needed an instruction manual for her moods. One morning she would be eating toast and the jelly would be spread too thick and she would fling it face down on the table. The next day she would hold the toast up in the air and cry, "Is there a ration on jam?" The children learned to walk quietly around the house, shoes off, jangly jewelry stowed in their dresser drawers. They never knew when a song would make her cry, or the sight of a cardinal in the oak tree would prompt her to bake a pie, or when a book left on the stairs would send her into a paroxysm of rage where she ripped up anything she could get her hands on made of paper. They only wanted to do what was right, they only wanted to obey the rules, and they would have turned off the radio forever, slept on beds without sheets, eaten nothing but cereal for weeks if only they understood the foreign language in which her instruction manual was written. They only wanted her to be happy, and they did not know how. --Ellen Collins, RBWG member * * *
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