Obsolescence and Wringer Washing Machines

Crossposted from Blogetary 2.0

One of the exercises from "Clear Out the Static in Your Attic" is to take something that's obsolete and explore it from the perspective of being out of time. Look at the tension that happens when it is out of its regular time and place. Alternately, try to imagine something that is used all the time now, which may become obsolete sometime in the future. Explore what that looks like.

For this exercise I decided to explore the old wringer washing machine that's used at Pickett Fences down the street.

This GE Wringer Washer is similar to the one my gramma had.

 

 Time in a Washing Machine

The shop was one of those upper class boutiques that fakes old-fashioned working class sensibilities with creaky wood floors and fixed-up crap your grandparents and great-grandparents threw out because the new stuff from Sears & Roebuck really did work better. Vintage things you could have gotten from your parents for free when they cleaned out the attic or the garage or went through your grandparents things after a funeral, sat next to artisanal objects and products handcrafted — sometimes by special snowflakes and sometimes by actual artists and artisans.

And all of the items — Vintage and artisanal alike — cost much more than your working class family would have ever dreamed of paying for such things as soaps, scarves, cards, buttons, and other cool objects.

Old things made new and cool again.

New things being cool because they had the patina of being old, because they could.

One of the shiny new old things in the store was the outer shell of a wringer washer sitting in the middle of the store.

I wasn't going to go into the store, I really wasn't. My budget didn't normally include visiting boutiques that had objects that cost enough to bite into my grocery budget, or clothes that would only fit prepubescent girls with no hips.

But this old wringer washer, sitting in the middle of the room, it drew me in.

I felt myself shrinking as I approached the old washer. Slowly, I was changing from a 50-something woman in a 21st century city, to a small-town six or seven-year-old girl. Gramma's voice was in my head warning me stay away from the wringer washer as she fed in the clothes from the basin into the hard rubber spools. My little hands and arms might get caught up and pulled through the wringer.

My six-year-old self wanted to help her grandmother, but obediently clasped her hands behind her back as she stood on tiptoe to see into the basin. Watch the clothes pulled out, fed into the wringer, back into the basin. Rinse. Repeat. Hung to dry on the clothesline in the utility room of the basement.

And then I am standing over the hollowed out basin in the boutique, once again a grown woman, and staring into a container of vintage scarves. This is nothing but a display piece. No monster agitator to mangle my hands and my clothes. No greedy wringers to take off my fingers or arms. Inert. Dead. The working-class demon is now an empty shell of itself in an upper class boutique on Larchmont Boulevard.

The first time my poetry got published

Crossposted from Blogetary 2.0

When I was in junior high — Pioneer Junior High, home of the Bears — our school newspaper had a poetry contest. I had moved across town from another junior high, Orchard, home of the Bulldogs, a couple of years before.

Annuals from Orchard Junior High and Pioneer Junior High, 76-79.

It has been a long time, and I believe both junior highs are now middle schools, and neither one has newspapers anymore.

I don't think the poetry contest was a regular yearly thing. I think it was a "one off" that our school newspaper was trying out in my 9th grade year; it was a glorious "one off" as far as I was concerned.

I remember being really excited at the prospect of a poetry contest. I figured that this was it. This would be the thing that would prove I was a writer. And I think it was also the first time I actually considered sharing my poetry with others. Before this, I don't think I ever really thought about other people reading what I wrote — I mean, not really (other than silly day dreams, and Paul McCartney songs on the radio in the early morning helped with that). The whole concept that someone other than my teachers or my mom might read what I wrote was foreign. On the other hand, I knew I needed to enter this contest. And I think my mind filed the poetry I'd be submitting in the "homework" portion of my brain to keep me from freaking out about it.

So, I approached it as I would any homework, like I was working on an essay for class, and assumed that only the teacher advisor, and maybe the newspaper students, would ever see the poems I submitted.

The little house on Pear Lane.

But maybe I should back up a little — give you a little history.

When Gramma and Grampa decided to leave Wenatchee, my mom and my sister and I moved from the little house on Pear Lane with a double corner lot, a huge back garden, a little play house and a cool basement, to the tiny two-bedroom duplex on Dakota on the other side of town with a dime-sized yard. Not very far as things went, but far enough to put me in a different school district. Far enough to leave behind friends I'd made my first year of junior high, leave behind track and volleyball coaches and orchestra teachers and cute boys I had crushes on, and then have to get to know new friends or old friends from grade school again, whilst wondering if I would be able to please my new track and volleyball coaches and orchestra teachers. Would I find new boys to have crushes on?

So, what I'm trying to say is that even after being at PJH for a year, I felt the need to prove myself. I really was holding onto this poetry thing like a lifeline to do that.

When we'd lived on Pear Lane, my sister and I had shared a room in the basement. We'd built forts out of our closets and beds. We'd played "avoid the monsters on the floor" (the creamy linoleum floor had those pink, gold, and black star things on it) and other games. When I wrote it was with visions of becoming another Laura Ingalls Wilder, Louisa May Alcott, or L.M. Montgomery. In my world, I was Jo March.

My sister's bed had been by the door at the bottom of the stairs and mine had been by the small window that was high up in the wall. I'd left that window open every night when I was really young in hopes that Peter Pan would come to visit. Later I kept it open just to annoy my sister. (It was a basement window with a screen, hidden at the side of the house, in a small town, so no one cared I left it open.)

When we lived on Dakota, once again my sister got the bed by the door, and I got the bed by the window. But this time we were on the ground the floor and the windows looked over the little hedge and the yard onto the small street. We had carpet on the floors and shared a closet with a sliding door and were older, so no more did we build forts or play "keep away from the monsters on the floor." Instead, we — what would they call it these days? We were "establishing our territories." We put duct tape down the center of the room. We charged each other 1/4 of a penny every time we touched the other person's side of the room. Trouble was, my sister's side was by the door. I had to run down the short hall and do the long jump to get to my side of the room without touching hers, which was only successful about half the time since that was not one of the things I was good at in track.

I probably still owe her money from then.

I still loved being next to the window, though. It was my own little corner of the world. The windows were larger and let in more light. They only opened out a little ways, though, and I didn't leave them open at night as much anymore. I was old enough now to have seen scary movies and know about the monsters who broke into houses. I wrote messages to my friends in runes or codes, coloring the paper with mom's leftover coffee so it would look like parchment (she was so annoyed when she found out). And my bed by the window is where I sat to work on my poems for the contest that year. I remember sitting there in the early morning, and sometimes in the evening, looking out the window while I wrote and rewrote lines, crossed it all out and started over again.

I remember working on two poems that year. One I had written mostly while we lived in the little house on Pear Lane. It was simple, following the seasons of the year, and about being a kid in a small town: riding bikes, running along canal roads, running through the sprinkler in the summer, playing in the snow in the winter. I began it on Pear Lane, but I finished it on Dakota. I remember calling it "Childhood."

Then there was the other poem I worked on, but only on Dakota. It was specific to my immediate condition and was full of young teenage angst and yearning. It hurt so much to express all that that it felt good. I called it "Alone."

I had put my entire young self into those poems. And then, somehow, I had the confidence and bravery to actually enter them into the contest. A contest where people might read them who hated them, who might point at me and laugh at my ridiculousness. But at least one of them, "Alone," made it. I think I remember getting third place, but that didn't matter. It placed, and because of that was published in the school newspaper.

I was so proud! So happy. I don't even remember the other poems that made it in. I think I remember some semi-cute guy offhandedly saying to me, "cool poem" in one of my classes. It put me over the moon.

I brought home my copy of the school newspaper and swore I'd always keep it. This would always be mine. No one would take it away from me. I'd always have this newspaper as proof I'd been published somewhere.

But, well, things don't always turn out the way you think. I learned a valuable lesson — to always keep extra copies of what you've had published, to keep tearsheets, to keep the original poem or story somewhere safe. Because I lost the copy of that school newspaper with my poem in it, and the copy of the poem as well. I've moved several times in my life since then. Every time I have to go through old boxes I think, "I wonder where those poems went." I look again, just in case. Still not there. They're long gone in some landfill, probably decomposed by now.

I used to go online every so often and see if anyone had scanned in old copies of the annuals and newspaper from back then. Maybe I'd run into my poem. I even wrote Pioneer Middle School to see if they kept copies of their old newspapers (they don't). The real world is not Sunnydale and I don't have a Willow to hack in online and find things that aren't there.

While I know from the perspective I have as a middle-aged adult that these poems were probably childish first attempts at poetry, "juvenalia" as a friend calls such things, they were my first attempts at poetry. My first attempts at poetry where I actually won something. My first attempts that got published. I will always honor them. I will always miss them.

A Place at the Table

Crossposted at my Blogetary 2.0. 

I'm taking a moment to not write about writing and to write a little bit about something else instead.

Once upon a time...

When I was young, sometime between six and 12 years old, I was heavily influenced by what felt like so much conflict around me. The Vietnam War was on TV. People (including my grandparents and parents) were still watching documentaries on World War II. I'd also read lots of history stories and biographies written for kids. Edith Cavell (a nurse from WWI who was killed by the Germans for harboring Allied soldiers), Marie Curie, Helen Keller, Marie Antoinette (that one made me too sad, I only read it a couple of times), Joan of Arc (another sad one, but I always felt victorious after reading it) and the British Blitz (WW II bombing of London) were just some of the topics of those books. The whole we're-gonna-die-any-minute-in-a-bomb-blast-or-a-catastrophe thing was also highly influential (Cold War mixed with a handful of disaster movies like Towering Inferno and Poseidon Adventure helped with that).

I also remember being acutely aware of how mean people were to each other for various reasons (Side note: I had no idea why people were being mean to Nixon, but I felt sorry for him. Later, of course, I didn't. But as a child, it felt like everyone was picking on him and I felt sorry for him). Race, gender, and denomination or religion were only some of the obvious reasons people entered into some kind of conflict. On top of that, I hated how it felt like girls were treated differently than boys, excluded because they weren't boys — it felt like I was always shrugging something off of me, or that I was constantly trying to prove myself. Plus, I was one of those kids who was bullied at school as well, so I knew it wasn't just adults, it was everyone.

In the middle of all this, I craved unity. I wanted so much for everyone to get along. I wanted good stories and beauty and creativity and lots of musicals with singing and dancing (Okay, I admit, I still want lots of musicals with singing and dancing). I used to draw pictures of huge buildings built out of large pine logs (I was a Laura Ingalls fan) in the middle of flowery meadows on a sunny day with an American flag on the top (I was a patriotic child). I called them "non-denominational churches" that everyone was invited to attend, to be in, to be accepted in. I was sure that would solve the problem. If we could just all love each other and feel loved and accepted then the world would be a better place.

That's one of the reasons I became a Christian as a kid. Love and acceptance.

By the time I reached my 20s, I realized that the church (at least the one I was attending at the time) was not about love and acceptance after all. It took me at least 10 years and the reading of Stealing Jesus, among other things, before I felt like I could accept my faith back into my life and heart. The Jesus I believed in was not exclusionary. As Bawer in Stealing Jesus pointed out, everyone deserves a place at the table.

And now?

I'm not sure where those pictures are anymore, if they're stored away in a box or now only exist in the attic of my memories, but back in the 90s when I first read that book, I figured I would have create my own all-inclusive table, similar to that all-inclusive church, if I wanted it to exist for me. Every once in a while it felt like society was getting closer to this idea, but every time there was forward movement, something happened to snuff it out.

Today when the delegates were casting their vote at the Democratic National Convention I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time. I felt that hope again. I had felt that hope, that feeling of being part of history, when President Obama was first elected, but after eight years of all his progressive goals being continuously blocked I had forgotten what it felt like. So when the delegates from Vermont and Sen. Bernie Sanders cast the votes and requested Hillary Clinton be accepted as official presidential nominee of the Democratic party, I cried. I cried from relief that at last this was happening. And this time it's herstory that's happening, and not just history.

Then I saw this video clip and bawled and bawled (in a good way).

Despite all the other stuff (insert all the things and links and stuff you're going to post if you are cynical or don't like Hillary Clinton or think there's some grand conspiracy etc., etc., etc.), I am happy Hillary Clinton is the official presidential nominee of the Democratic Party. I want to hold onto this hope. I want it to last. I want things to move once more toward that better, inclusionary place from my childhood that I day dream of — that place where we all have a seat at the table.

Workshopping through "Clear Out the Static In Your Attic" — A Review

Crossposted from Blogetary 2.0

When I went to a poetry reading recently, I entered a door prize raffle and won some poetry books and a book of writing exercises, "Clear Out the Static In Your Attic," by Rebecca Bridge and Isla McKetta, published by Write Bloody Publishing, September 2014.

Some of the door prize swag from the poetry reading.

Why this book?

I have enjoyed some of the poems from the poetry books I received, but I think the gold nugget in the door prize I received was this book. Previously, I blogged about getting into some of the exercises in this book as a way to self-workshop. I was going to leave it at that, but decided it might be good to leave an in-depth user review for anyone who might be on the fence about spending the money on it (hint: Long story short, I'm for it. And if the price is steep for you — $10 for Kindle or $13-15 for paperback can be steep when you're trying to make ends meet — try tracking down a used copy or see if it's available on BiblioBoard or somewhere).

If you don't have the time to track down or create a writers group or can't afford a workshop on your own, then something like this book might help keep you fighting the good fight in the writers world. "Clear Out the Static In Your Attic" (still think it's an awkwardly worded title, but there, not my book) won't replace a good comprehensive six-week course, of-er-course, which can cost anywhere from $300 to $600 or more. And going through a book will never take the place of interacting with other writers, getting critique and feedback, or reading your own or others' work aloud (great for catching all sorts of problems in your writing, especially the ebb and flow of dialogue), but for $15 this book will help motivate you to get back into writing shape or get you to start looking at what you are writing differently.

That's how I approached using this book. When I delved into it, I hadn't worked on my poetry or fiction for at least a year. While I do write some small filler articles at the community newspaper where I work or occasionally write resumes or bios or letters or other copy for clients, that's not the same as using my creativity muscles or stretching my storytelling bones. You need to have writing stamina to work on poetry of all types or specific characters or story line or plot over time. It's like any other exercise; you need practice. So, that's how I have been using this book, to help me get back into the practice of writing creatively on a regular basis. This is what I have learned.

Pros:

This book has 47 chapters, which means that if you only did one chapter a week, you would get a whole year's worth of use out of it. You might not do that. You might do several exercises in one night, skip a couple of weeks, and then go back to it. Perhaps you're setting yourself a goal to write every day, so you might also do one exercise a day, that would be a month and a half. (Note: I wouldn't recommend a hurried or slapdash method like that, by the way, as many of the exercises require the writer do some prior research or homework. So, a weekly appointment with a chapter seems the best way to go, in my opinion.) The point is, one could use this book to keep one writing for a sustained amount of time, and so get in the habit of writing regularly, just as one needs to get in the habit of exercising regularly. So, for me anyway, it belongs in the "useful" category for that alone.

Also, while this is a straightforward book of writing exercises, the writers understand how the creative brain works and have set it up so that the creative part of your mind can anchor to something to help it create. It won't get bored. So, the book is set up as if a brain was like a house with an attic with all sorts of boxes and closets of things in it. These things in the metaphoric attic can inspire writing. Each chapter looks at a different part or something stored in the attic. Here we find a secret, there we explore a lamp or a floorboard, old letters or a sewing kit. And the writer is to use that as a starting point in a writing exercise, to create a scene, poem or essay, or whatever.

Each chapter also has slightly different input from the two separate writers as to how to approach that part of the attic to accomplish the writing exercise, so it's not just one person's point of view. An example is usually included, as well as a brief list of books for further reading. Sometimes I read the example and look over the list of books, sometimes I don't. I don't always need it or want it (though they make for interesting reading).

For the most part I have found the exercises fairly intuitively based and easy for me to grasp. I think they are natural exercises for a writer to undertake. Some require doing homework, but it's the kind of homework that needs doing anyway, such as eavesdropping into conversations to hear the cadences and ebb and flow of speech patterns (writers are a nosy lot). Or looking up poems, sayings or old photographs for inspiration. In fact, one of my past exercises was to go out and eavesdrop. And my next exercise is to look for an inspiring photograph to write a story or poem on. As I write in the kitchen with photos of my family staring down at me, all I really need to do is look up on the wall to find something if I like. Or I could go open up one of several boxes I have stored. I have my pick. (I had to try a little harder to find a spare seat at a cafe and listen in on people talking. That was hard.) The point is, though, that when I was writing stories and poems regularly I didn't need to be told to go look for a photograph. Sometimes it was just necessary to go look for that picture of that garden of my Grandmother's because that was the one I was trying to describe. Again, this book is getting me back in that habit.

I haven't gotten further in than the first eight chapters, though I have peeked ahead to see what's coming. And the exercises do appear to get more difficult and demanding as one goes along, so if one keeps at it, it will make one push oneself and grow in one's writing. This is a good thing. I had assumed that the exercises would be all easy when I first began, but it's nice to know that there are challenges coming up that will push me into writing better, writing more close to the bone. To borrow words from the publishing company that put out the book, to write more bloody.

Also good is the fact that, for the most part, these exercises can be accomplished with little more than paper and pencil or pen. There are a couple that may require going to the computer or the internet to get say a photo or run a program, but mostly it's done with what's in one's head and at hand. Since I work looking at a computer screen most days, typing on a keyboard, I find that a good contrast for me. My hand sometimes cramps up with the writing while working on the exercises, but it's better to give my eyes a rest, or I wouldn't do any writing at all. And the contrast also seems to spur me to go off on jaunts that I might not otherwise give myself permission to take. And while I am in danger of repeating myself, I will say it again, a writer needs to build up stamina. If I need to build up the muscles in my writing hand so I can churn out better poetry and prose, so be it.

Cons:

The only real con I can see with this book is how people treat it. I think if the writers were asked they'd say that these exercises are meant to be jumping off points for the person going through them. These exercises are meant to be suggestions, not rules. However, there are people out there in the world who will read through these exercises and think of them as "rules." Some people are just like that. They see a recipe in a cookbook or read in a magazine what the next fashionable cut of something is and take it as "gospel," with no thought of improvising something to suit themselves, or just for the hell of it.

If you are one of these people I do believe you can still get a lot out of these writing exercises, however, I beg you, please, give yourself permission to improvise and explore, because that's what these exercises are all about. Throw the rules out the door and just treat these exercises as suggestions for mental play.

For example, you tell me you can't write about an attic because you never had one? Well guess what, neither did I. The most attic we ever had was the space between the ceiling and the roof that Grampa kept us out of because he's put insulation up there to keep down the heating bill, but otherwise it was dangerous for anyone to be up there.

But, I had a really cool basement growing up, and I have known old houses with all sorts of nooks and crannies and rooms hidden here and there. I grew up reading about wardrobes that were doorways into far off lands, and I watched TV shows where a police box was bigger on the inside and space ships could take me galaxies away. So I can imagine quite a bit for my writing exercises, et voilà! I have my inspiration, just the same as if I had my attic.

So, as long as you're willing to improvise, go with the flow, use your imagination and use these exercises in the spirit in which they are presented, as jumping off points to get you writing more, writing better, then you'll find this a very helpful book.

Teddy tells me it's time for bed.

When notes and critique become a balm for the soul

Cross posted from Blogetary 2.0

The proofreader at work, besides coming in to proof for us a few days a month, used to teach high school English, and now coaches kids on how to prepare for college. She's also a mom and a grandmother, and all round nice person.

When she comes in, we snatch the occasional brief conversation here and again. Since I proofread outside of work and used to write and proofread and such for a research (read term paper mill) company, we meet in a unique place. So, when I published "Gramma and the Giant Tomato Worm" last month, I thought she might enjoy reading a copy. The only copy I had I needed to go through for errors, but she said once I had a final copy, she'd love to see it. So, the next day, I brought in one of the faulty copies I had of "Who Will Sub for Miss Simmons?" (I had the whole thing starting on a left hand page instead of the right hand page and had ordered a bunch for realizing it and fixing the error.) I told her it was hers to keep and do with as she would, but I thought she might get a kick out of it. She said she'd share it with someone else who teaches younger kids and let me know what they thought, which is always a good thing to know if you're hitting some kind of mark or not.

She told me about one of her favorite books, "My Grandma Could Do Anything," which she reads to her grandkids. And then we put the paper to bed for the month and she was off again until this month.

Then, last week, her first day of proofreading this month, after she got settled, she came back to my desk with a couple of tiny Post-it Notes with notes from her nine-year-old grandson, who'd been reading through the "Miss Simmons" book. He was only halfway through and really liked it, so she asked if he could keep it another month and I said, "OF COURSE!" And told her he could keep it. And then let me look at the notes on it.

Now, on Lulu, I've set the age at nine years old and up, but that was just a guess; actually hearing from a nine-year-old boy was like striking a vein of gold.

The first comment was, of course, the best. "Really scary, great story. Can I get the book back to finish it?" YES!

He saw that the page numbers were on the inside corners of the pages numbers and explained it was hard to find them when looking up the chapters and could I please remember to keep them on the outside corners. Good eye! Future editor, here! I nodded at that, because that was one of the faults I'd had to correct after that copy.

"I like the prologue."  That's important to note, because you don't need the prologue, and he told his grandma that normally he doesn't like to read prologues, but this one he did. And he also said he wasn't going to read the epilogue. So, cool!

"I like the chapter headings and the cursive writing." They're a Schoolhouse font that I'm in love with for these little things I'm doing. I don't use them in the e-book copies, but they're fun in the print editions.

I knew my drawing wasn't good enough to be pretty, but I'm kind of glad it was scary.

"I didn't like the pictures." And he thought the pictures of Miss Simmons were too scary. I'm not really an artist, so I knew I couldn't do pretty, but I got a secret thrill hearing they were scary. Though, I understand not liking scary pictures. That's a little bit of a downer. But cool, still.

"It got me interested right away!" Always a good thing note to get back from a reader!

So, I have those notes up on my bulletin board next to other notes I've received from people who read some of my other stories. Notes that encourage me and keep me writing. My "cheerleaders."

On top of THAT, our proofreader also brought in the "Grandma Could Do Anything" book, which I read in little breaks throughout the day. If you're one of my friends who's kids might be having grandkids in the future, then you might end up with it headed your way. It's the cutest kids books ever! Perfect for grammas to read with their young grandkids.

I had also passed onto her a final copy of my own "Gramma" book, and I look forward to hearing notes back on that one as well, if she likes it and passes it onto one of her grandkids.

On the whole, this experience was like a balm for my soul in the middle of all the crap that's been going on lately.

Have a cup of tea with that balm for your soul?

Teddy News: Happy Six Month Teddy-versary!

Cross posted from Blogetary 2.0

The last two weeks have been very busy at work with pre-production and production at the Larchmont Chronicle, as well as being all sorts of busy and emotional personally (including dealing with the shooting in Orlando), but in the back of my mind I knew this was coming up — the six month Teddy – versary of Teddy coming home with me.

I posted a little bit about it on Facebook and Instagram, but I thought I would do a more comprehensive posting here with pictures of Teddy over the past six months.

Teddy and his shaved back when he first came home.

Teddy and I have become pretty good friends. He needs to remind me to play with him sometimes. He reminds me to get up and move around and do things. He is a gentleman who gives me the occasional shoulder massage, soothes me when I'm having a bad day, and is a great alarm when I'm not listening to the one by my bed.

Mom and Heather met Teddy when they came to visit in January. Teddy liked Heather, but he fell in love with Mom and didn't want her leave.

In general, he is a very social cat, more like Kiko was in that way, than Pye. In fact, when other people are around, Teddy really likes to be in the center of the action.

Teddy didn't want Mom to leave.

Teddy likes to be in the middle of the action.

Teddy can see everything from his perch.

If there's a spare chair, that's where he wants to sit. I ended up getting a cat tree so that he has a place to sit and survey everyone. The "in box" on my desk wasn't close enough to the action for him.

Teddy's favorite place is still an empty box.

And while he enjoys the cat tree, his favorite spot is still an empty cardboard box. So, I'll usually keep one around for weeks after it should have been trashed.

But if I'm at my usual spots — that is working at my desk computer proofreading or working on something, or sitting at the kitchen table composing an early draft, he's either sitting under the desk or on it. On a chair at the table, or on the table itself.

In which we celebrate our six-month Teddy-versary by splitting some liverwurst.

So it seemed entirely appropriate for us to celebrate our six-month Teddy-versary by splitting some liverwurst at the kitchen table.

And finally, his bald patch has finally grown back in.

Teddy's shaved patch has finally completely grown back in.

And now you're up to date on the Teddy News.

A Time for Praying, and a Time for Doing

To quote the verse from Ecclesiastes 3:1: "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens..."

Yesterday was a day of mourning and loss, a time for reflection and connecting with people we love. It was a time to ground ourselves in love and get a handle on our lives; it was a time to somehow create order out of chaos as a way to grasp what really happened in Orlando. That was Sunday, typically a day for reflection for many people.

Today, however, is Monday, the first day of the work week. Now is the time to get down to work. Yesterday you may have asked the world why and proclaimed "Never again!" But today is the day when we all need to begin the slow hard work of backing up that proclamation. Now is the time to dig in, establish and assert who we want to be in the long haul and fight back. Take back this world that we have been working on creating where everyone has a place at the table.

There are several ways you can fight back. One of the first and simplest is to write your representatives — at both the State and Federal levels. You can find your U.S. representatives using this website here: http://whoismyrepresentative.com. Each state usually has it's own government website where you can find your state representatives. California's is here: http://findyourrep.legislature.ca.gov.  But don't forget to write people like President Obama and Vice President Biden, which you can do here: whitehouse.gov.  Write your governor. Write your state's attorney. Write councilmembers, supervisors and aldermen. Have discussions (not fights, but discussions) at neighborhood councils, residence association meetings, condo meetings. Let them know how you feel and that this issue is important to you.

If you're not sure what to say or where to get started, Nicole Silverberg at the Huffington Post came out with this article last year after the Paris and San Bernardino shootings. In it, she not only gives you links that show you how to find your representatives, but she also has a sample letter you can use when writing these people.

Get educated. Invite the police who cover your area to come talk on gun violence. Learn about the laws that exist where you live. Learn about gun safety, and if you're up to it, how a gun works. Maybe go to a shooting range and check it out so you know what this lethal weapon is beyond what you've seen on TV or read about online.

Next, find out about organizations you can get involved in that might help combat this craziness. Women Against Gun Violence is one such organization, but there are others. Look them up.
If you're feeling generous or if you're one of the many people who believe in tithing or giving back to the community somehow, then do that. Give. When there are natural disasters and we feel this need, people often give to the Red Cross/Red Crescent. This is a little different, but there are places where you can donate money. There's a GoFundMe page for the Orlando victims, but there's also The National Center for Victims of Crime and the National Compassion Fund for victims of mass casualty crimes. Or look for other ways to somehow help and give back. If your church or temple or mosque or some other organization is doing something to help victims or help give back after a tragedy, get involved. It will not only help the victims, but it might help you, too.

Whatever you do, don't just set there feeling bad about the world. You've had your mourning time. Now, dry your tears, blow your nose, look around and see what you can do to make it better.