Compromise

Sarah and her friend Lauren sat in the backseat giggling while showing each other funny memes and fashion dos and don’ts on their phones. Sarah’s, brother Lucas sat next to them with his earbuds tuned to his favorite music, trying to avoid boredom on this long ride. Their moms, Chloe and Elise were perched in the front discussing the latest PTA meeting, a movie they saw and everything else to pass the time as the BMW SUV ticked down mile markers heading south on the highway.
Ironically, none of them wanted to be on this trip. Elise wanted her daughter Sarah to go to college closer to home. Sarah desperately wanted to break out of her family nest and go away to school, but she preferred an art school two states away.
Lauren didn’t even want to go to college. With dreams of becoming an actress, she wanted to move to New York and try her luck on the great white way. Chloe amplified Elise’s fear of losing her daughter to adulthood. As a young single parent, she and Lauren grew up together as a duo. Now she would be left alone. For the last 17 years living her life for her daughter and had no idea what her life would be solo.
And poor Lucas was stuck in the backseat, a reluctant hostage forced to accompany them. As a freshman, he barely tried on high school and college seemed miles away from him.
For quintet of passengers, Southern State University was a compromise none wanted to make.
In the hour and a half drive, the car traversed the suburban landscapes of shopping stop malls and chain theme restaurants with manicured intersections to the never-ending farm fields. But no one looked out the window to notice. This was not a pleasure cruise, but a destination.
The University campus was a modern oasis amid the vast plains of the area. The shining glass dormitory buildings stood tall amongst the variety of other buildings, academic buildings, and stadiums, at odd with their surroundings, just as the bland Dorothy did in the quirky and the colorful land of Oz.

The group arrive just in time to check in and begin the tour. The guides were two students and a university public relations person. The all-to-chipper trio instantly annoyed the frowned sullen faces of the compromising BMW passengers. They strode the halls of one pristine, modern building after another with arms crossed, barely acknowledging much, but each noticing one thing to fuel the conversation during their lunch break at the student union.
At their scheduled lunch, Elise broke the tension with her discovery.

“I liked the dormitories. They were larger than I thought.”

Chloe nodded in agreement.

“The campus is beautiful with all the trees,” Sarah said.

And the benign compromising conversation went on for a few minutes, until with his earbuds still in Lucas shouted,

“The stadium was off the hook.”

The moms turned to him glaring at his loud outburst, as Lauren cracked laugh at the absurdity, and the others joined. It was a relief valve that allowed them to enjoy their lunch.

“Mom, there’s an ice cream machine over there. Can I go get some?” Lucas asked and Elise gladly agreed.

Shortly after he left, the four heard a loud crash muffled in the distance. Everyone in the room was quiet, looking at each other puzzled.

A few students rush to the sound by the glass union doors and an enormous thud reverberated throughout the room, startling everyone to concern. Immediately afterward a man ran into the room and stood in the middle of the student union.

“I need everyone to remain calm. We’ve had a disturbance in the courtyard between two student groups, but the campus security is dispersing everyone. Please stay seated until we can rectify the problem. Thank you.”

A look of concern fired in Elise’s eyes. “Where is Lucas?”

“I think I see him over at those ice cream machines I’ll go get him,” Sarah said in the annoyed big sister voice she donned anytime she had to corral her little chick.

The trio sat in complete stillness, actively listening to the growing conflict well up outside, increasing the volume of the crowd, noise, police whistles and shouting. Everyone in their sphere of sight looked on in fear.

“Where did those kids go?” Elise tapped her fingernails on the table nervously. “I have to go find them.”

When Elise left, Chloe and Lauren looked at each other telepathically communicating their alarm as the outside noise rose to sound-breaking proportions.

As a student ran by their table, Chloe grabbed her arm.

“What’s going on?” Chloe asked.

“There were some students demonstrating over at the liberal arts building about the supreme court, affirmative, action case. I guess it got out of hand,” the student said and moved to the glass doors.


The duo glanced at each other in terror.

“We have to go after them,” Lauren said. “They could get hurt.”

“What can we do?” Chloe warned. “Best to hear and let the police handle it.”

“Mom,” Lauren whispered with urgency, “if this turns into a race riot. They’re in trouble. We need to help.”

Chloe looked at her daughter knowing she was right, admiring her bravery but grabbed her hand to hold her when she began to rise from the table and shook her head side to side.

Frustrated, Lauren desperately looked around, toggling her head back-and-forth, trying to find her friends.

Most of the students were standing inside the glass doors and windows, peering out the escalating unrest, trying to see what’s going on and shouting what they saw.

“The two groups are fighting.”

“They’re arresting some of the students.”

“Hey, they’re releasing teargas.”

Chloe closed her eyes touching her daughter’s hand, desperate to stay glued to their chairs when a girl thrust through the doors screaming.

“They’re beating a young kid.”

With that, Lauren struggled out of her mother’s grip and ran out the doors.

Chloe could no longer hope the incident away and ran after Lauren.

She stood outside, blinded by the billowing black smoke, waving her way in a masked premature night to see anything or anyone, terrified at the cries, screams, and shouts she heard in the blankness. She was helpless.

In the darkened path, she floundered through the crowd, frantic to find her friends in the chaotic revelry, but only saw shades of police with shields, trying to hold back students and police with nightsticks separating students clashing with each other. The sound was deafening and the screams and shouts indiscernible.

And then a loud metal clang clearly filled her ears like a Carillon and she heard a waning melody. “We shall overcome, we shall overcome.” As her legs fell under her, she crashed to the ground screaming “Why” into the abyss. Then everything went black.

(c) Copyright Suzanne Rudd Hamilton, 2023

Part II coming soon!

NEW RELEASE: Summer of Love – A Timeless American Historical Romance Book 3

DISCOUNTED PREORDER PRICING EXTENDED UNTIL JULY 31ST!

PAPERBACK/KINDLE/KINDLE UNLIMITED

FIRST REVIEWS!!

5 STARS!! I thoroughly enjoyed this book. As a baby boomer who came of age in the 60s, this journey by the main character, Peggy McIntyre, brought back many memories for me. Besides Peggy McIntyre, almost all of the characters in the story, reminded me of people I knew in my past, or read about in my in my reading. So I have to complement the author for really doing a fantastic job with character construction. Also, the pacing of the story was terrific. It was easy to follow, and also very hard to put down. Again, kudos to the author. Overall, this is a spectacular book and one I think many people will enjoy, especially the baby boomers generation. 4.5 STARS!! A very evocative period, really got into it. A great read

Author Note: This American Historical Romance Series has allowed me to explore eras I’ve always enjoyed, like the turn of the century gilded age, 1940s and 1960s. Historical Romance is often in the regency periods in England or the old west in the US. It’s been fun bringing these times to life in the sphere of the relationships of the family members. And especially for this book, I was able to interview many people who lived in the times and told me their stories. The book is fiction, but I’d like to think there’s a lot of truth in many of the events. And for anyone who wants to subscribe to the blog or newsletter with their email, I will send you the two reader magnets that delve into characters the books could not address. But for right now, this is a small taste of one of the chapters which has the main characters Peggy and Liam in the middle of Woodstock in 1969. This is a brief synopsis of what they saw…

As the yellow sun ebbed into the horizon on the vast empty fields, 400,000 sets of eyes stared at the empty stage breathlessly waiting for something to wonderful happen. Richie Havens donned the stage with a lone guitar and a stool. Without hesitation, everyone stood up. It was a magical moment and they were willing to be part of every second.

It was the summer of 1969 and the largest and most anticipated event in music history was delayed. Besieged by overcrowding, record rainfall and every other problem after another, it was finally happening. Artist after artist played music for the wanting crowd. Rain or shine, no one moved and they kept playing music, never faltering.

As the rain ceased, the blue hue of the Smokey lights shone as the heavens’ few twinkling stars blanketed the sky above while the ascending glow spotlighted the singer’s sweet tones washing over them like a lullaby, rocking them all to sleep.

In the daylight it was as if hundreds of thousands of strangers were instantly one family. Food, jugs of wine and water seamlessly passed from person to person along with quilts, dry clothes, and some drugs. Selfless sharing became the order of the day.

Some roaming around in various stages of dress, blanketed in smoke, while others walked into the farm fields together in the practice of free love, coming out arm in arm with smiles on their faces.

Standing and sitting shoulder to shoulder, parents cradled and fed their children, suckling milk as other children sucked their thumbs and ran around, gleefully playing. A unique peaceful and harmonious vibe reverberated all around.

Day passed unceremoniously into night and the sun retreated into the clouds of darkness as the alchemy of musical genres fed the grateful crowd.

In the wee hours of the morning The Who performed their entire rock opera Tommy to anyone awake, until a frustrated Pete Townshend smashed his guitar on the stage to rouse the crowd into consciousness just in time to view the rose and purple-colored hues of the rising ball of the sun as Roger Daltrey sang “See me, feel me, touch me, heal me” as though he was beckoning and ordering the sun’s ascent.

When they finished, the glimpse of first light arose in purple blue haze shadowing the waining darkness into an amber and rust sun rising in a kaleidoscope of colors as everyone listened in awe as Jimi Hendrix stopped the world on its axis by shredding the national anthem on his guitar.

It was an experiment in the evocation of all the senses to offer peace thru music.

By dusk as the light dwindled again and every field of the 300 acres was devoid of people. Only mountains of garbage remained. Standing below a sign of the Woodstock Festival featuring a dove with a guitar neck, the promoters surveyed the landscape with the farm owner, Max Yasgur.

“Max, you’ve now proven to the world that a half million kids can get together for three days and just have fun and music and nothing else,” the promoter said.

It was the summer of peace, love and music that no one would ever forget.

The Paradox Proposal

Jean thought dating Todd required a PHD in contrarian. Despite their seven years as a couple, she still found herself constantly shaking her head like a bobble-head doll about their relationship.

He complained he missed her when she worked late, but claimed he wanted space so he could go out with friends. Weekend getaways were allowed, but weekly trips met with a disapproving nod and bug-eyed gleam, like a victim in a horror movie right before the ax.

His actions were always strange and she never knew where she stood. At first, she thought he was a commitmentphob, but then he offered to have her move into his apartment.

Then she suspected he was a male chauvinist and control freak, an uncomfortable supposition, but his verbal advocacy for women’s equality and rights felt genuine to her.

But in spite of her confusion, she loved him and enjoyed his company. No matter what he did or didn’t do, he kept her in stitches. After growing up in a strict military family that always appeared to be a constant rerun of a lifeless black and white 50’s TV show, she appreciated his refreshing offbeat sense of humor.

The first time she met him was at a Starbucks counter. With a complete deadpan robot face, he ordered the most ridiculous coffee. “I’ll have a trente espresso plain black coffee with whip and a caramel shot, but please no sugar in anything, as I’m diabetic.”

The poor confused barista looked at him like he was an alien. And when she tried to get the order straight, he kept changing it, doubling down on the absurdity and raising the ante with every outlandish contradictory request.

Jean didn’t know why he did it and felt terrible for the barista, but it made her smile and giggle on a gloomy day. From then on, no matter what nonsense he uttered, it made her laugh.

Lately though, she began to feel like the bewildered barista – she couldn’t understand what he wanted from life and from their relationship. And with the loud tick of her biological clock haunting her mind like the heartbeat in The Tell Tale Heart, she needed to know where they were going. Ultimatums, however, would be counterproductive, she thought. So she cleverly devised a rouse to reveal his real intentions.

She hosted a couple’s game night with a series of games that would give him so many obvious hints, a virtual pie would be thrown in his face. Recruiting her girlfriends in the deception, they rigged the web to catch their fly.

At Pictionary, the clues would require him to either draw or guess a ring, a bouquet and a tuxedo. A true competitor, he guessed them correctly, but didn’t remark about the connection—even though everyone’s answers were wedding or marriage related. Even the Charades prompts of wedding movies, TV shows and songs escaped his attention.

Her failure required a girlfriends’ huddle in the kitchen to engage a new battle strategy and get more wine.

“Does this guy need a building needed to fall on him,” her friend Josie said, pouring more wine in her glass.

“Even my idiot husband got the hint,” Carole laughed. “My ribs are sore from all the elbow jabs he’s giving me.”

“I don’t know what more I can do,” Jean said frustrated. “ He’s a sucker for joke set ups and this has been the motherload, but nothing. Either he’s choosing to ignore them or he’s as dense as a block of wood.”

Without a new idea amongst them, they played a little more and then decided to call it an early night.

After everyone left, Jean cleaned the kitchen while Todd picked up the living room. As she rinsed the many wine glasses, he came into the room laughing.

“Here comes the bride,” he sang and marched in, holding the paper clue slips like a bridal bouquet.  “Very sneaky, but I don’t know if Ron knew what hit him.”

Jean stopped her cleaning and stared at him in disbelief. “Ron?”

“Yeah, you were trying to get him to propose to Megan, right?” he asked smiling.

Frozen in place as though her feet were bound in ice, Jean was dumbfounded. He picked up on the theme, but mistakenly directed it toward Ron. He and Megan were only together for a year. How could he misunderstand? She suddenly heard the taunting sound of a neverending carousel and snapped.

“Not Ron…you! It was meant for you!”

Like a calculator in his head, he stood there, adding it all up.

“I’m sorry, honey. I can be dense, sometimes. I guess you called my hand and I need to pitch a no hitter or throw for the touchdown. I have to give it to you – drawing into an inside straight. Good night.” He kissed her and smiled, walking out of the room and leaving Jean puzzled. She rewound and replayed his words over and over.

“Was that his idea of a proposal? I heard a lot of sports metaphors. He said touchdown, but then he said no hitter. Both win the game, right? Then there was a poker reference, I think. Maybe he was agreeing to propose? Oh, who knows.” She threw the towel in the sink and grabbed a partially full bottle of white wine.

“Maybe it will make sense in the morning,” she raised the bottle, toasting the door. “Thanks Todd Hamlet… to marry or not to marry—that is both the question, paradox and my love life all wrapped up in one dramatic tale.”

Dear Reader: In my weekly writing group, we have prompts and writing exercises. This one was an example of use of similies and metaphors as descriptors. See if you can spot them. I went a little heavy, pretty easy.

Attention to Detail

To Carolyn, being single was both a gift and a burden. She hated sharing absolutely every space 24/7, feeling suffocated and trapped, but she liked having someone to cheer good days and help cry in her wine on bad ones.

And while she enjoyed the freedom of not having to constantly compromise, she missed someone to argue at the TV over a sports call or commiserate over a crushing loss.

It was a double edged sword that she didn’t know if she wanted to repeat.

But two years after the sudden and tragic death of her husband, she found herself thrown in the deep end of the nightmare geriatric dating pool of those over 55.

Contrary to her younger single days where she routinely met people in bars, at work or when smug couple friends fixed her up, it’s all different now. When you have few single friends, no taste for bars, and no work environment, dating was much harder.

And in today’s digital age, dating was often relegated to the faceless computer and it’s magical algorithms to design love lives. The reality of living in the millennial century.

Carolyn tried online dating, but found it difficult not to fall into the booty call hook up trap. And some benevolent friends fixed her up with their few single friends, but after several disastrous and awkward dates, it was like a Goldilocks syndrome. They were either too old, too boring, too boorish or too everything, never the right fit. She decided to let it happen naturally or not at all.

She pictured the meet cutes in old black white movies or lifetime and hallmark channel programs and clung to the belief that she would serendipitously meet someone and fall in love. But she didn’t realize that unlike a movie, when Cupid comes knocking at your door, you must pay more attention.

She was in Trader Joe’s shopping with friend. She like their wine choices and selection of breads and gourmet cheeses. And especially as a single, she loved their selection of homemade frozen meals, so she didn’t have to cook a big meal and eat it for a whole week.

While in the wine aisle, she met a man standing in front of the myriad of selections from different countries looking puzzled.

“What kind of wine do you like?” He asked.

“Oh, I’ve tried this Riesling from Germany but lately I like the Australian wines. They have a subtle sweet taste.” She said.

“I agree with you, I don’t like ones that are too sweet but then if they’re too dry, it seems like you have to swirl them around in your mouth a few times before you decide if you want to swallow them,” he joked.

Carolyn unconsciously smiled and nodded, placing a few bottles in her cart and walked away.

A few minutes later, the same man popped up in the bread aisle talking about whether or not to make his own sourdough starter.

Then she ran into him again in the frozen gourmet food section.

“Oh, I really like that one, he offered when she picked out a pho shrimp and noodle dish. “Isn’t it great that you can get single portions of gourmet foods? I really like that,” he said. 

“Yes, that’s why I come here mostly, otherwise I’d have to settle for eating what passes for a meal out of the Weight Watchers plastic tub.” She said cordially and casually wheeled her cart further down the aisle, until her friend Margaret stopped her.

“Do you need something to hit you on the head? That guy was flirting with you.” Margaret said in a quiet but firm whisper.

Carolyn waved her off, dismissing her.

“I think you’re radar is rusty. Do you think it’s a coincidence that you saw him in three places in a matter of just a few minutes apart?” She questioned.

“It’s a small store, you could easily run into the same people many times,” Carolyn objected.

“Oh yeah, someone who tells you that they’re looking for a single serving and they make sourdough bread starter and talk to you about swirling wine in his mouth to taste and swallow. Duh, do you need him to leave breadcrumbs or draw a roadmap for you?” She sarcastically accused.

Carolyn went through the interactions in her head as if she was replaying a movie in her mind. Finally, she came to the same realization and rolled her eyes.

“That’s it, I forgot how to flirt. Great I’m gonna be doomed to be alone forever because I can’t pick up any signals,” Carolyn said frustrated, hitting her head with her hand.

“I’m surprised he didn’t give up after the second one. He was clearly sending them, and you were not receiving.” Margaret quipped.

“That poor guy must feel stupid or inadequate. I feel bad and to be honest. I didn’t even notice what he looked like. Oh my god, what if I no longer have any dating mojo? I can’t even tell the difference between a flirt or casual conversation.” Carolyn confessed, panicked.

Margaret chuckled in sympathy. “Look, you just have put your antenna up. They’re not gonna write you letters with sweet sonnets professing their love.”

Carolyn sighed and laughed admonishing her grave error, “From now on, I’ll pay more attention.”

Margaret put her hands on Carolyn’s shoulders and turned her to face the opposite direction.

“Well turn on radar on, I can’t believe it but he’s coming in for one more pass,” she chuckled.

Heads and Tails

Author’s Note: This is purely fictional and not about me.

Binary choices leave little room for error. So many options drill down to heads or tails, anyway. Turn left or right. Cheese or no cheese. Even a presidential vote has only two options… this one or that one.

The randomness of too many possibilities often fills me with terror. What if my chosen paths lead me in the wrong direction?

Uncertainty has plagued my existence as long as I can remember. As a tot, I battled whether or not to go in the potty or diaper until I was four. My mother was beside herself.

Riddled with indecision that one wrong step could spell ruin, I relived myself of that responsibility and adopted the coin flip initiative.

I started using the coin to determine many banal options in life. Who pays for happy hour drinks? What should I have for dinner? What t-shirt should I wear today?

It became routine. Anytime faced with a choice, I let George Washington decide. 1,864,921 times to be exact.

The twist of fate is a dubious partner, but even the start of the Super Bowl is determined by chance. And 50/50 odds are much better than you’d get from any bookmaker or lottery. It simply removes a lot of daily strife.

Then I began to rely on that divine providence to make bigger decisions. Which apartment to choose? Which job should I take? The liberation of fortune became addictive, so every outcome rode on the toss of a coin.

In my daunted defense, judgements made every day guide us through each moment of our lives. Why is this method so different?

But now a simple bet, and my life hangs in the balance. Staring at the quarter, I’m suddenly filled with overwhelming anxiety. I need to choose either Washington’s weird pony-tailed head or the majestic eagle to decide my fate. Devil or angel. Which is which?

I always pick Washington. He won a war and started the country, so he must know something, but after millions of tosses, now I’m questioning that, too. There’s too much at stake. I’m doubtful of everything.

Does the trajectory of the coin make a difference? Should I loft it up flat from my palm or flick it with my thumb to create an angle? If it travels farther with more circular motions, is that favorable or not? It’s times like this I wish I paid more attention in physics class.

Better not change things now. Oh well, stalling isn’t going to help. I flick the coin with my thumb and watch it float through the air, climbing, climbing and then slowly descending to the floor.

In a fit of panic, I close my eyes to avoid finality, but then realize prolonging destiny a few moments can only make it sting more.

I need to put on my big boy pants. It’s time.

And the coin says…. I’m getting married!

Wow, I thought I’d feel dread, but now I’m relieved. It’s decided. I’ll ask her tomorrow. Thanks, George, Washington.

© Suzanne Rudd Hamilton, 2023

Spill the Tea

On a typical girl’s night out, Carolyn, Ellen and Pamela find themselves at a usual haunt where any Friday or Saturday outing could mean either a concert or a cache of drag queens performing their nightclub cabaret. Tonight was the mix of high energy and hilarious music, dancing, and comedy performed by the queens in residence.

The show was always entertaining, but today they featured the trio’s favorite skit—The Library is Open! In this bit done between acts, the queens don fake glasses and open books to read the room and tell the tea (the truth) right to the well made-up faces of their fellow queens. It’s caddy, but always witty and amusing and all done in fun.

“Kendra Wild, I love your street smarts. But you should check the length of your skirt, because only women who work on the street would risk showing that much of their ‘smarts.’”

“Bossa Nova, gurl, this is going to hurt, but you need to hear this tea. Your beehive is too tall and your stinger is showing.”

“April Fool. I’ve always admired your wonderful taste in clothing. You should be on the best-dressed-drag list. But do all your tasty man treats have to be on the most-wanted list?”

When the show was over, the girls sat and finished their drinks, each speculating what truths they would love to tell each other but wouldn’t dare.

If I could spill the tea to Carolyn, I would tell her that her makeup is overdone and makes her look like a drag queen, Ellen thought to herself, but said.

“It’s it funny how they kid each other. I wonder if any of it is true.”

“I think it’s all made up. It’s too funny to be real,” Pamela said thinking to herself a few things she could tell her friends that wouldn’t be funny, but would be real.

“I bet it’s all true. When you spend a lot of time together, everyone has opinions about something their friends do or don’t do. But most people are afraid to tell. I think it’s refreshing,” Carolyn said, secretly wishing she could tell Pamela that her hair is too high and her shirt is too low and Ellen that she needs to stop dating losers.

“Well, I would certainly tell you girls anything I was thinking,” Ellen slyly grinned.

“Of course, that’s what friends do,” Pamela sipped her drink.

The girls smile and laugh looking at each other wondering the undisclosed truths and opinions that lie beneath the friendship façade, knowing that the unceremonious end to any friendship is only one contentious truth away.

The truth often goes untold as many people can’t handle it and sometimes it does not set you free.

(c) Suzanne Rudd Hamilton, 2023

Wolves vs. Sheep

Author’s Note: This story is an excerpt from a work in progress, Summer of Love, the 3rd book in the Timeless American Historical Romance Series of the saga of the McIntyre family as each of their members experience important historical events woven in with their story of love and discovery.

On their lunch half hour, Peggy and her friends, Cherry, short for Cheryl, Laurie and Shirley always went to the Automat across the street from their secretarial school.
At the Automat for just few nickels and dimes and in a very short time, they could get a full meal of main course and dessert, plus coffee from walls lined with human vending machines where armies of people insert freshly cooked food from behind the tiny individual glass doors. The variety of food offered the opportunity to eat different each day, depending on your mood.

Peg liked macaroni and cheese with chocolate cake. But somedays tuna salad and lemon meringue pie or pie ala mode were her fancy. Sometimes the girls would make different choices and trade, like a tasting smorgasbord.
But the other thing the automat served was a runway of men in uniform office suits on their lunch time. Tall ones, short ones, rich ones, poor ones, old ones and young ones all paraded by them each day like window shopping where they could pick their favorites, trying to guess what lies beneath their starched shirt and brill-creamed surface.
Cherry and Laurie loved man shopping and directed the daily selection by labeling each man a wolf or a sheep.
Queen Cherry definitely wanted wolves. She liked the excitement of a man who knew what he wanted and would take her long for a ride. But that ride better be in a limousine, or Rolls-Royce, dripping with diamonds and pearls. Cherry only went first class. She looked for the men who were gray in the temples and didn’t particularly care if they were married or not, as long as they kept her in the lap of luxury so she didn’t have to work.
Demure Laurie couldn’t care less if they were sheep or wolves. She’d even settle for a wolf in sheep‘s clothing, but she looked for wedding rings with exacting precision. No married men for her.
Describing her perfect man she said, “Handsome is a bonus, but I’d trade looks and personality for a decent bank account. I just want to be taken care of.” She saw her life as wife and mother, but with a housekeeper, so she could be a lady who lunches.
Shy Shirley looked for young men with pale rosy cheeks and sweet smiles. In other words.. a sheep…an easy-going man who will follow along with her or fall in with the pack. Cherry and Laurie helped her spot them by making a “baaaa” sheep noise and laughing when a likely candidate walked by. Shirley bashfully lowered her chin when any man passed but when she heard the sheep sound, she’d perk up and find a way to look. “I just want someone who I can go on picnics and long drives with and bring to church and home for Sunday dinners. Someone I can make a home with,” she explained of her Prince Charming. She didn’t have the highest expectations for a whirlwind romance…just a nice guy.
Peggy was different. Unlike her friends, to her marriage meant restraint just like straightjacketed suits the men wore. She didn’t want to be put in a pretty blue box with tissue paper and a bow like something with sweetness, fragility or beauty to behold. And she didn’t see a life cooped up in an office either. Peggy craved freedom. A life where she could persue her music for fun or for a job, letting her hair long auburn hair down to wave in the breeze, free from the stiff ponytail and bow she had to wear in the office. Somewhere she could walk in her bare feet through a field of flowers and never have to worry about tight skirts, heels and hose or being locked in the pretension of a life that would imprison her, like her parents wanted.
But, she knew the life she wanted may be beyond her reach. She was trapped in a societal situation that forced her to pick a door. She could have a respectable office job or she could have a husband.
While she enjoyed their lunchtime game, soon she realized she had to pick one door. Every day she thought again, married men were for Cherry, not her, but she liked the idea of danger and excitement. Older men however, she felt would be less dangerous. She didn’t care about money so Laurie’s ideal didn’t check her box either. The image of endless martini lunches complaining about their housekeepers and husbands was not appealing.
Then she thought maybe Shirley had the right answer. A sheep. He would be easy-going enough to let her pursue her music and maybe could be a friend. But the picture of a white picket fence and PTA meetings left her screaming in her head. No, her man would not be in a suit. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make herself choose that life.
She had to find door number three. Then as if on cue, looking out the window she saw him. A street musician with long blonde hair and fringe leather vest over a tie-dye shirt. He was playing a guitar and had a harmonica stand around his neck. Because of the noise in the Automat, she couldn’t hear what he was singing, but she was entranced by his aura. She found her door. She would choose a husband but not one in a suit or in an office, she’d marry a musician. A sheep, but hopefully in wolf’s clothing.

(c) Suzanne Rudd Hamilton 2023

Celebrate Women’s History with .99 Kindle Sale and launch

I had a dream two years ago about a mall of women owned businesses who care about each other and help in their mutual success.

I saw the Germanic architecture of the castle-like building with turrets in each corner and felt the devotion and friendship of the women shop owners…and The Little Shoppes series of women’s friendship was born. Many days later, their world came clearly into my lens and a year ago, Book 1 Cupcakes, etc. was published.

This year I’m celebrating women’s history month by offering the first book at .99 Kindle deal through March 8th preceding the March 15th launch of Book 2, Butterfly Bridal Boutique.

Women’s Fiction is a bit of a mottled catch-all genre of anything that women want to read whether it be mystery or romance, etc. I disagree. I think women’s fiction are books about women for women. And I especially like to write these books about friendships between women.

Recently actress Jane Fonda explained in an interview her vision of women’s friendships.

“Men’s friends face each other in life. Women’s friends stand side by side.”

I agree. Women embrace their friendships as the people who will walk beside you and hold your hand through everything. Women confide and share every aspect of their lives with each other.

The Little Shoppes books feature the life story of individual women through trials and tribulations and how they help lift each other up, especially when their livelihoods are threatened. That’s enough to celebrate in March and everyday.

Just a Word

Ever since language began words have come in and out a favor and have often changed meaning. While Benjamin Franklin used to say privy, we now say bathroom, toilet, can or John. Privy now means being informed of something.

Just as life and people change, so do their colloquialisms. In the 1930s, if someone called you gay that’s a completely different message 100 years later. In the 1960s far out meant something interesting and wild instead of distance and groovy is a mystery to anyone today who didn’t live through the time. And radical meant something different in the 80s than any other decade. Some young people would say PHAT, meaning or fly or cool, a generation or two ahead of them would be mystified as those words meant something else to them.

With this idea in the mind an examination of the power of a word is appropriate. Can words hurt? Yes. Can they kill? No. Do words have meanings that should be societally shunned or is free expression to be allowed regardless? for this, I propose and serve up the word F**** for consideration.

That I can’t even print the word in it’s entirety, proves it is still in question. A decade ago and certainly two or three this word would’ve been received in public with shock and sometimes even fainting. Now it’s commonly used on the streets of most urban cities and their subways, but in the last decades has even become commonplace on the Broadway stage.

It’s used in the movie Goodfellas 300 times and in Wolf of Wall Street 569 times and its mere use no longer requires an R rating.

But what if the word taken completely out of context? Looking deeper into its function, it is actually a very functional word in today’s lexicon. It appears in the dictionary as a noun and verb, but it’s usage has evolved to the point where it now serves, depending on the sentence, as a noun, a verb, an adverb, an adjective and even an article or pronoun…nearly every type of word. So why is it revered by some and revolted by others?

In its original context, I can understand why some may even exalt its ban, however, in today’s vocabulary it can be used frequently without distain. How many words do you know that are so flexible they can provide so many linguistic functions?

So perhaps, instead of assigning certain importance on individual words we should instead defer to the manner in which they are spoken, not necessarily separable from anything else. I submit that this much maligned word is often used now in a benign way, leaving its meaning to the ear of the beholder. After all, it is just a word.