Sample Stories

A New Routine by Sally Kelly-Engeman

     For years, I volunteered for school and civic projects. I chauffeured our daughters and their friends to meetings, endured their noisy sleepovers, survived their driving lessons without losing my sanity, and lost sleep lying awake nights until they arrived home safely from dates.
     And I thrived on the frantic routine of raising them.
     Yet after they left home, married, and built their own nests, I didn’t suffer the oh-so-common melancholic ENS (Empty Nest Syndrome) as did many of my friends. No, not me.
     Oh, I’ll admit at first I missed the commotion of televisions and stereos blaring, phones ringing, and girls giggling as they raided pantry and refrigerator. But I didn’t miss hours spent on laundry, ironing, and housecleaning. Now I was free to travel with my husband and resume our newlywed lifestyle.
     I relished the luxury of uninterrupted time to pursue some of my favorite interests: music, sewing, and reading. One day, while researching Middle-East cultures, I discovered belly dancing was a danse du ventre that dated to Biblical times. Envisioning its rousing movements, I was startled to learn it was considered a folk dance in some countries.
     Hmmm. This could be interesting, I thought.
     Its stimulating arm and body motions could firm my sagging muscles and redistribute middle-age weight. After more research, I decided its erotic moves might even be a good way to trim unwanted cellulite. Where could I learn how?
     When I contacted our local Parks and Recreation Department, the woman on the other end of the phone actually snickered at my request before she finally took me seriously.
     “In order to justify the expense of a teacher, you’ll need to sign up at least fifteen women.” Her voice left me with the impression that she didn’t think my idea was worth pursing.
     Fortunately, my neighbors did. By days’ end, I had the required signatures. I took my petition to the rec department and within a week, not one, but three classes were filled.
     Mysterious Arabian music saturated the room at each lesson. We undulated to the passionate rhythms of zithers, tambourines, drums, flutes, and mandolins. We practiced serpentine arm and torso movements. We perfected the art of head slides, camel walk variations, and scooting shimmies.
     Our instructor emphasized belly dancing as a sensual dance filled with emotion and stressed the importance of traditional attire.
     Hmmm. Since I enjoy sewing, maybe I should make a costume, I thought.
     Referencing a costume book, I bought a blue two-piece bikini and shopped for a sheer, matching material. I also bought a cassette of stirring belly-dancing music and played it over and over, memorizing the two-two and two-four beat while I sewed pearls and rhinestones on the bodice, veil, and skirt band of my costume.
     Without telling my husband about any of it, I juggled a secret schedule: attending classes, practicing, and sewing while he was at work. By the time lessons ended, I had mastered a fairly respectable dance routine. And I had a chance to demonstrate it several months later when my husband returned from an out-of-town business trip.
     As soon as I heard the grinding sound of the garage door opening, I clicked on the stereo and positioned myself strategically at the top of the stairs. Arrayed in a costume complete with dangling earrings and clinking bracelets and necklaces, I struck a sultry pose, batted my eyelashes, and performed abdominal flutters to the exotic music.
     My husband paused on the entry level – dropped both his jaw and his luggage – and leaned on the banister to take in the full effect. Grinning ear-to-ear, he watched my sinuous hip rolls, circles, and thrusts – a provocative display of everything I’d learned and rehearsed.
     When the music and the movements ended, he dashed up the stairs, swept me into his arms … and whisked me off to our bedroom
     No, ENS was never much of a problem for me. After all, I had discovered a new “routine.”
 

Sally Kelly-Engeman is a freelance writer who has had numerous short stories and articles published. In addition to reading, researching and writing, she enjoys ballroom dancing and traveling with her husband. Contact her at
 sallyfk@juno.com

Reprinted by permission of Sally Kelly-Engeman (c) 2006. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.
 

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My Mother’s Daughter by Connie Sturm Cameron

     Mom used to be carefree, a happy-go-lucky woman. She dealt with the endless mishaps of raising five kids with take-it-in-stride abandon. No sooner was one hurdle cleared than a new one surfaced. She was the ball in a game of pinball: constantly bounced to and fro with bells ringing.
     Decades ago, one-by-one, we each left her nest to begin nests of our own. I don’t recall Mom worrying much as we packed up and moved out. Instead, we heard an audible sigh of relief, quickly followed by a frenzy of re-decorating the rooms we had just vacated.
     Now in her late 60’s, she’s still a lot of fun to be with, she’s still hard-working, and she’s still a beautiful woman inside and out; but she’s acquired a new habit that’s beginning to make me uncomfortable: she worries. And since she retired, her life has slowed down and she has even more time to worry.
     Throughout the years of raising my own kids, I sometimes called Mom when a mishap occurred. But lately I’d been fighting the urge, hesitating to burden her even more.
     “Mom, how did you do it?” I finally asked one day while we lunched.
     My husband Chuck and I had recently deposited our son Chase for his freshman year at college. The pain of “cutting the cord” from our firstborn was so raw I couldn’t even say his name without a lump clogging my throat. I thought I had been prepared, and I was: he had everything he needed for his dorm room, and then some. But what I never expected were the grief-like symptoms of not having one of my children at home anymore.
     I was just getting a handle on raising him, and then he’s gone?
     Daughter Chelsea was next in line. It wouldn’t be long before I’d have to do this once again. My mother, however, let go five times.
     “How did you ever get through this?” I asked, dabbing at my eyes.
     “Ahhh, yes,” Mom nodded her head slightly and smiled reflectively.
     She’s smiling?
     Mom continued, “There was such constant commotion for so many years, I guess I reached a point where I became anxious to get my own life back.”
     “But you made it look so easy.”
     “Oh no, it was never easy. It’s just that there was always so much to do. I worried while I worked. As a mother yourself, you know you start worrying from the moment you find out you are pregnant. And it never stops.”
     It never stops? Why did I think this job had an end to it?
     For years, I daydreamed about what I would do after the kids moved out. I assumed I would go back to being my carefree self again. And that’s when it dawned on me.
     It wasn’t my mother who had been the lighthearted one – it was me. Mom had always worried about us, I just hadn’t noticed. I had been so busy spreading my wings and then making my own nest that I never stopped to think about the adjustments Mom had to make at each leave-taking.
     That is, not until now.
     As I glance into my son’s empty room, I once again resist the urge to phone him, just to “check in.”
     “He’ll let us know if he needs something,” my husband constantly reassures me.
     Still, he could be sick, or out of money, or ….
     I flip the page in my daily calendar and realize it’s been three days since I’ve heard from Mom. I pick up the phone to call her, needing the comfort of her reassuring voice.
     “Mom, it’s me. I’m just checking in,” I hear myself say.
     And suddenly it becomes clear. As I watch my children spread their wings in anticipation of leaving our nest, I, like my mom, want them to know that my wings are bigger and will always be able to wrap around theirs.
     As in the generations of women preceding me, the worry torch has been passed. I am my mother’s daughter, after all.

Connie Sturm Cameron is a freelance writer and the author of God’s Gentle Nudges.  For more information, please visit www.conniecameron.com.

Reprinted by permission of Connie Sturm Cameron (c) 2006. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.

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