Sun, 28 Apr 2024 15:06:46 -0500WeeblySat, 27 Apr 2024 12:19:51 GMThttp://dawndowneyblog.com/blog/damn-fine-sentence-71While I’m reading, a sentence will grab me and force me to stop. I pay tribute to other authors by sharing their Damn Fine Sentences with you. Then I recount a memory the words bring up for me. It’s about how books connect with your life.
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“There is no story that is not true.”
———Chinua Achebe

--——Things Fall Apart

I moan to the nurse that my prescription has skyrocketed to $600.00. “Can you believe it,” I say. “Sixty dollars a pill.”

“Oh no, you’re in the stupid donut hole. Try the manufacturer’s website for a discount coupon.” I’d vaguely heard about the donut hole. Now it’s my life. On my way out the door, she hands me six free samples.

I navigate the website until my eyes cross, only to discover the manufacturer won’t provide its discount to Medicare clients. I’d vaguely heard about the Sophie’s choice of medicine versus food. Now it’s my life.

I dip into my retirement account to cover the cost.

The pharmacy cashier says, “Oh dear, do you realize this is 600.00? You can get a discount coupon from their website.”

I shake my head. “Not if you’re on Medicare.”

A fleeting expression crosses her face, which I interpret as total disgust with the system. When I get home, I discover six free samples stuffed into the bag with my prescription.

My story is: The system’s so unjust, I’m infuriated.
My story is: People are so kind, I’m delighted.

]]>Sat, 27 Apr 2024 12:16:40 GMThttp://dawndowneyblog.com/blog/the-trouble-with-pixies7634680I slow my pace as I round a curve into a densely shaded section of the nature trail. Even though it’s a suburban walking path only a block from my house, I always steel myself at this particular juncture, because it feels like the forest primeval is closing in. Mature maples and oaks muffle the grinding gears of UPS trucks. The canopy dims greens to shades of gray. I square my shoulders and advance into the shadows.

A stab of sunlight bounces off shiny colors at the base of an oak tree. Glass rocks from Michael’s are sprinkled on the ground, like spilled Skittles. I lean closer. Nestled in the crook of the trunk is a surprise. Someone has constructed a fairy land tableau. Two miniature houses. (Victorian, I’d say.) Gold foil-wrapped coins form a walkway. A fairy with dragonfly wings sits regally on a mushroom (a repurposed thread spool).
I cringe, but wanting to be a better person, reach for a positive attitude.

The scene is creative. It’s a surprise of happy colors here in the shade. And I have to admire the engineering required to construct a six-inch Victorian.

I feel lighter, having shed the weight of negativity.

I continue my stroll and reverse course for home. Directly across from fairyland number one, facing the direction I’m now headed, lies another miniature scene. Fairyland number two is a condo-plex on the ground at the base of the tree. A couple of clotheslines tacked waist-high on the trunk, with miniature shirts and dresses hanging there. Ladders running from the condos up to the laundry. Tiny path lights.

The fairies have gone too far.

The nerve of these pixies. They think the aesthetic of oak trees needs improvement. They decide these trees now belong to them, to use as they please. They sail in here all Christopher Columbus and stake a claim on somebody else’s land.

Indigenous civilizations already reside in the underbrush: Ants, worms, centipedes, spiders, beetles, mice, and other creepy-crawlies that I’m normally opposed to. After a night of foraging, they discover the plastic pixie on their front stoop, its dragonfly wings becalmed.

Centipede: Hey. What the hell is that? You think it’s dead?

Mouse: Nah. If it were dead, it would smell better.

Pixieland is a pile of glue, plastic, and dyes, as useful in the natural landscape as styrofoam cups. The cute Victorian houses will be reduced to rubble by marauding raccoons. The path lights will succumb to the ravages of ill-mannered cockapoos. The poisons in the adorable clotheslines will end up in the tiny bellies of spiders that were minding their own business. Will the fairies come back to clean up the mess their colony leaves behind?

I’m not used to sticking up for nature. Nature and I are not friends. But fairies should hang their laundry in their own backyard.

]]>Mon, 22 Apr 2024 20:30:37 GMThttp://dawndowneyblog.com/blog/damn-fine-sentence-70While I’m reading, a sentence will grab me and force me to stop. I pay tribute to other authors by sharing their Damn Fine Sentences with you. Then I recount a memory the words bring up for me. It’s about how books connect with your life.

*****
“Like the Swiss, it was neutral, it did not love him back.”
———Andrew Sean Greer
——--Less is Lost

I lived in a third floor walk-up on Grand Boulevard in Saint Louis. I loved Grand because it was both a broad city thouroughfare and a walker’s paradise. Weather permitting, I walked it every day. Past a tiny shop stuffed with German beer steins, past a family owned Italian restaurant, the scent of marinara sauce sneaking out the door, past a weird medical supply store with unrecognizable contraptions in the windows, past my grocery store, which always played Motown, past the School for the Deaf. My walks ended at Tower Grove Park, an expanse of lawn, flowers, and trees connected by winding pathways, with several dozen gazebos sprinkled throughout.

On a muggy day, heat shimmers put the world in slow motion. A convertible pulled alongside me, slowing to match my pace. The driver leered at me, pulling his shades down his nose, and licked his lips. He ignored cars that sped around him, beeping their impatience. “Say, baby, where you going by yourself? Lemme keep you company.”

I sped up. He sped up. I slowed. He slowed. Stoically marching toward the park, I prayed my knees wouldn’t buckle from fear, prayed he wouldn’t get out of his car. I turned in to the park and speed-walked to one of the gazebos farthest from the street. I hid on the floor. Had he circled the park to look for me? He knew I was in there, so I stayed hidden for an hour. On my circuitous route home, I avoided my favorite street. My street. My neighborhood. My safety zone. Grand Boulevard had betrayed me.
But Grand Boulevard didn’t care.


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