I lived in Korea for four years, 1982-1984, and 1991-1993. I was once arrested for being a North Korean spy and my passport was confiscated. All I did was drive down the wrong street: it turned out I was driving along the presidential motorcade route. Unfortunately, the Korean police could not comunicate to me (in English)
that I should park my car and wait on the side of the road until the presidential car had passed. Instead I was assaulted (pushed and shoved) by two Korean Intelligence Agents. My husband and I reported the abuse to the Korean Police station and that is when I was charged and had to appear before a Korean procurator (judge) and answer for my oh-so-American behavior.
Constricting,
Language Unknown,
Customs unfathomable,
Living on the verge for two years,
Logical breakdown,
Falling forever through an,
Ancient time machine.
Old meeting new,
Slanted perspective,
Quizzical looks,
Misunderstood signals,
Result in a manmade upheaval,
Oriental jurisprudence,
The fissure deepens,
With time but is healed over,
Crusty edges weaken with age.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Chasing Dreams
I wrote this after a particularly grueling day of teaching. Maybe I was just following my heart.
Poetry has more zing than writing ordinary prose,
No punctuation, sentence structure, or grammar correctness
To deal with,
End that thought with a preposition and dangle that modifier,
But poetry ages with time,
Like a loaf of stale bread or lumpy milk,
It can be subjective-like the first time,
Or ethereal-a real spiritual experience.
What do clouds taste like?
Are eyes dark pools?
Describe a million bucks,
Or a sore knee.
Teaching is safe and understood by millions,
Writing is an unknown.
Teaching can be profitable and sometimes noble,
Writing never is.
To be a writer is to loose your grip on reality.
Maybe that is what I am afraid of.
© 2007
Sharon D. Schroeder
Poetry has more zing than writing ordinary prose,
No punctuation, sentence structure, or grammar correctness
To deal with,
End that thought with a preposition and dangle that modifier,
But poetry ages with time,
Like a loaf of stale bread or lumpy milk,
It can be subjective-like the first time,
Or ethereal-a real spiritual experience.
What do clouds taste like?
Are eyes dark pools?
Describe a million bucks,
Or a sore knee.
Teaching is safe and understood by millions,
Writing is an unknown.
Teaching can be profitable and sometimes noble,
Writing never is.
To be a writer is to loose your grip on reality.
Maybe that is what I am afraid of.
© 2007
Sharon D. Schroeder
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Destructo the Shark Dog
Mariska is a Pointer/Beagle mix-quite the designer dog. She is five months old and hell on wheels. She chews up everything-patio furniture, pool toys, newly planted flowers and bricks. Her one saving grace is that she kills snakes.
Every morning I tentatively open the door to the backyard and she invariably runs me over. She jumps on me, nipping at my ankles and anything else that happens to come close to her mouth and unabashedly rolls on her back waiting for a belly rub.
I leash her up and we go for a walk. I use the word, walk, generously-she yanks on my arm-Grendel style and jerks me around the block. She vacuums up all manner of road kill, and day old doggie poop.
She has even started swimming in our backyard pool (that is where she found the snake) and terrorizes our cats. The cats stay at a safe distance in the front yard, away from the dog and outside the fence. I never realized or appreciated it before but cats are relatively intelligent creatures.
She is also an expert at solving community mysteries. She is well on her way to digging up all manner of secrets in our backyard; I figure one day soon she’ll find that Chinaman she has been searching for. Did I also mention she can add landscaper and earth moving machine to her list of accomplishments.
Just tie a blue cape around her neck and add a red S to her chest and she will become Destructo the Shark Dog right before your very eyes. She is a thing of beauty when she pits herself against the meanest of villains-The Polaris. She is at her best when she undertakes to rearrange the workshop my husband so diligently has put in order.
The only reason I even entertain the idea of keeping her is because she dearly loves me. Her eyes light up and her tail wags the instant she sees me. She is so much like a child-I want to protect her and keep her but this time the end is completely selfish. I want to do it for me.
After surgery, I tearfully gave her to my brother who owns more acreage than me, and I thought she would be happy. It is a wonder that he still talks to me. She proceeded to tear up his yard and even ate the seat off of his tractor. He ended up giving her to a friend with a lot of land and pack of hunting dogs.
I like to think of her running free and hunting all manner of Arkansas creatures. I also hope my brother can forgive me…
Every morning I tentatively open the door to the backyard and she invariably runs me over. She jumps on me, nipping at my ankles and anything else that happens to come close to her mouth and unabashedly rolls on her back waiting for a belly rub.
I leash her up and we go for a walk. I use the word, walk, generously-she yanks on my arm-Grendel style and jerks me around the block. She vacuums up all manner of road kill, and day old doggie poop.
She has even started swimming in our backyard pool (that is where she found the snake) and terrorizes our cats. The cats stay at a safe distance in the front yard, away from the dog and outside the fence. I never realized or appreciated it before but cats are relatively intelligent creatures.
She is also an expert at solving community mysteries. She is well on her way to digging up all manner of secrets in our backyard; I figure one day soon she’ll find that Chinaman she has been searching for. Did I also mention she can add landscaper and earth moving machine to her list of accomplishments.
Just tie a blue cape around her neck and add a red S to her chest and she will become Destructo the Shark Dog right before your very eyes. She is a thing of beauty when she pits herself against the meanest of villains-The Polaris. She is at her best when she undertakes to rearrange the workshop my husband so diligently has put in order.
The only reason I even entertain the idea of keeping her is because she dearly loves me. Her eyes light up and her tail wags the instant she sees me. She is so much like a child-I want to protect her and keep her but this time the end is completely selfish. I want to do it for me.
After surgery, I tearfully gave her to my brother who owns more acreage than me, and I thought she would be happy. It is a wonder that he still talks to me. She proceeded to tear up his yard and even ate the seat off of his tractor. He ended up giving her to a friend with a lot of land and pack of hunting dogs.
I like to think of her running free and hunting all manner of Arkansas creatures. I also hope my brother can forgive me…
Monday, December 13, 2010
Hanging Around the Apple Tree
I wrote the following synopsis of a short story in conjunction with a submariner's dinner I attended along with my husband and good friends. As a door prize, I won a resin apple decoration to sit on a shelf in my kitchen-I opted to turn it into a short story.
Fiona Apple:
Fiona Apple was born in a small apple orchard in Lancaster County, PA.; just across the street from a fruit stand selling pumpkins, apple juice and mulling spices.
She hung around the tree until she was picked to attend a culinary school in upstate New York. She excelled and was lauded as the next Betty Crocker. She could just picture herself on cake mix boxes and such. She even went so far as to buy herself a little chef’s hat-the only ostentatious clothing she ever owned.
As time went by, she married Bouncer Apple. He came from a rich tasting family of apples located in the same orchard as her. They started a small orchard of their own-they chose to live nearby and send their little seedlings to the Apple School of Good Taste across the street, behind the fruit stand.
Bouncer Apple:
Bouncer Apple started life as an apple seed descendant of those who were carried by Johnny Appleseed. He belonged to the much touted organization of Sons of the Apples of the Past (SAP).
Bouncer first saw Fiona when she was a blossom on her family tree. It wasn’t until she developed into a sweet little fruit that he began to notice her seriously. He bided his time while she was off at culinary school.
Because he was so shiny and was picked as the Best Bobbing Apple in his high school class, he worked up the courage to ask Fiona to marry him. Fiona said yes. She absolutely adored him and they had five fine seedlings.
The Children of Fiona and Bouncer:
Because apples are prone to multiple births, Fiona and Bouncer had two sets of twins: Basket and Carmella were the first set and 24 months later came Gerald the Green and Corey. The last juicy fruit was Baby Apple Pielet.
The Cousin:
Saucy is an orphan. Both of his parents were smashed in a terrible roadside accident. They fell in front of an 18 wheeler…Saucy was smashed as well but was able to be rehabilitated into a jar of applesauce.
Adventures…more to follow
Their first adventure was visiting the Baltimore Aquarium. They took a side trip to Fort McHenry.
Fiona Apple:
Fiona Apple was born in a small apple orchard in Lancaster County, PA.; just across the street from a fruit stand selling pumpkins, apple juice and mulling spices.
She hung around the tree until she was picked to attend a culinary school in upstate New York. She excelled and was lauded as the next Betty Crocker. She could just picture herself on cake mix boxes and such. She even went so far as to buy herself a little chef’s hat-the only ostentatious clothing she ever owned.
As time went by, she married Bouncer Apple. He came from a rich tasting family of apples located in the same orchard as her. They started a small orchard of their own-they chose to live nearby and send their little seedlings to the Apple School of Good Taste across the street, behind the fruit stand.
Bouncer Apple:
Bouncer Apple started life as an apple seed descendant of those who were carried by Johnny Appleseed. He belonged to the much touted organization of Sons of the Apples of the Past (SAP).
Bouncer first saw Fiona when she was a blossom on her family tree. It wasn’t until she developed into a sweet little fruit that he began to notice her seriously. He bided his time while she was off at culinary school.
Because he was so shiny and was picked as the Best Bobbing Apple in his high school class, he worked up the courage to ask Fiona to marry him. Fiona said yes. She absolutely adored him and they had five fine seedlings.
The Children of Fiona and Bouncer:
Because apples are prone to multiple births, Fiona and Bouncer had two sets of twins: Basket and Carmella were the first set and 24 months later came Gerald the Green and Corey. The last juicy fruit was Baby Apple Pielet.
The Cousin:
Saucy is an orphan. Both of his parents were smashed in a terrible roadside accident. They fell in front of an 18 wheeler…Saucy was smashed as well but was able to be rehabilitated into a jar of applesauce.
Adventures…more to follow
Their first adventure was visiting the Baltimore Aquarium. They took a side trip to Fort McHenry.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
The Fine Art of Fixing a Doorknob
Oooh a blank page. What do I want to write about today?
How about the fact that the world is made to the specifications of a 200 plus pound male. Ladies, have you ever picked up a hammer and nearly broken a wrist? Ever scewed in anything without repeating the mantra, righty-tighty, lefty-loosey?
I have put together bicycles, chairs, vacuum cleaners, small pieces of furniture, fixed everything that could possibly be broken, and now after cursing my birth, the universe and repeated prayers to God-I have reached the conclusion that this world is made specifically for mind numbing, hulking, butt-crack showing, God fearing men.
Try as I might, to find a smarter way, I still resort to asking a man to do the strong-arm thing they do so well. How many jobs have I left undone (replacing a toilet seat) because the plastic bolts were on too tight. Have you ever tried to hang a mirror or a large piece of art-by yourself? I can mark accurately where the culprit should hang, even buy the hardware I need but I always need the help, usually of a male, to hold whatever while I attach it to the wall. I say usually because I have often asked my daughter but she is previously engaged in the TV remote, drying her hair or any other intellectual pursuit of a can’t–be-bothered young person.
Have you ever cried, meditated or thrown something (like a hammer or a screwdriver) while trying to hang curtains? Has the drill become too heavy and awkward to fit in that tiny space while trying to back out a screw that has been jammed in the wall by a female that had the same physical limitations as you?
I have tried to eliminate this gender barrier by purchasing a ■■lighter and smaller drill-one that I can handle. Unfortunately, the drill is not powerful enough and simply whines and dies before the job is finished. Again, I am left dealing with a job half finished and a plethora of screwdrivers that have the wrong tip or are the wrong size to complete the job.
I know this problem has all the earmarks of “I have fallen and I can’t get up.” In the scheme of things-how much does this matter? A lot. I am, otherwise healthy and wise, and I continue to be plagued with this problem. The other day I was going to spray paint a planter on my patio. It was going to take me five minutes max. I gathered all my tools, laid out newspaper in the grass, and the damn top to the spray paint can wouldn’t budge. Exasperated, I stabbed the top with a screwdriver and after many passes, the lid fell broken to the ground. I managed to misdirect the spray and blotched my hand and fingers. This camo-look would have been perfect if I was hunting in the woods, unfortunately I was going to be teaching in the classroom…■
How about the fact that the world is made to the specifications of a 200 plus pound male. Ladies, have you ever picked up a hammer and nearly broken a wrist? Ever scewed in anything without repeating the mantra, righty-tighty, lefty-loosey?
I have put together bicycles, chairs, vacuum cleaners, small pieces of furniture, fixed everything that could possibly be broken, and now after cursing my birth, the universe and repeated prayers to God-I have reached the conclusion that this world is made specifically for mind numbing, hulking, butt-crack showing, God fearing men.
Try as I might, to find a smarter way, I still resort to asking a man to do the strong-arm thing they do so well. How many jobs have I left undone (replacing a toilet seat) because the plastic bolts were on too tight. Have you ever tried to hang a mirror or a large piece of art-by yourself? I can mark accurately where the culprit should hang, even buy the hardware I need but I always need the help, usually of a male, to hold whatever while I attach it to the wall. I say usually because I have often asked my daughter but she is previously engaged in the TV remote, drying her hair or any other intellectual pursuit of a can’t–be-bothered young person.
Have you ever cried, meditated or thrown something (like a hammer or a screwdriver) while trying to hang curtains? Has the drill become too heavy and awkward to fit in that tiny space while trying to back out a screw that has been jammed in the wall by a female that had the same physical limitations as you?
I have tried to eliminate this gender barrier by purchasing a ■■lighter and smaller drill-one that I can handle. Unfortunately, the drill is not powerful enough and simply whines and dies before the job is finished. Again, I am left dealing with a job half finished and a plethora of screwdrivers that have the wrong tip or are the wrong size to complete the job.
I know this problem has all the earmarks of “I have fallen and I can’t get up.” In the scheme of things-how much does this matter? A lot. I am, otherwise healthy and wise, and I continue to be plagued with this problem. The other day I was going to spray paint a planter on my patio. It was going to take me five minutes max. I gathered all my tools, laid out newspaper in the grass, and the damn top to the spray paint can wouldn’t budge. Exasperated, I stabbed the top with a screwdriver and after many passes, the lid fell broken to the ground. I managed to misdirect the spray and blotched my hand and fingers. This camo-look would have been perfect if I was hunting in the woods, unfortunately I was going to be teaching in the classroom…■
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