The Flawed System

Here is a sentence in the third paragraph of a novel that earned four and a half stars on Amazon: A man in burgundy approaches with such seriousness, the moment feels as if it has been choreographed long ago.

What? I fight my way through this string of words several times, struggling to understand what the author is trying to say. In the end all I can come up with is that it’s simply bad writing.

This book, The Wedding People, by Alison Espach, is also a Jenna Book Club pick (whatever that is) and a New York Times bestseller. The accompanying blurb on Amazon appealed to me: “A propulsive and uncommonly wise novel about one unexpected wedding guest and the surprising people who help her start anew.”  

Before The Wedding People was published it was presumably scrutinized by—well, the author, of course; the agent who represented it; and an editor or two at Henry Holt and Company, the publishing company that chose to present it to the reading world. It seems like, out of all those grammatically educated people, someone would’ve caught the error. Yet there it is, right on the first page.

For several years, I’ve been sending query letters to agents—plus, as requested, samples of my work. Every one of them responded immediately with an automatic email politely thanking me for my submission, then telling me that they’re too busy to respond and if I don’t hear from them in three months I should assume they’re not interested. Cold, right? Also, this timetable of theirs is, to say the least, limiting. At this point, I’d estimate that I’ve sought representation from at least twenty agents. The hideous paradox here is that I would never disrespect an agent by sending him or her work containing such a poorly written sentence. What’s even more disgraceful is that the error is on the most prominent page, included in the original writing sample that every professional involved in the project surely studied and approved before sending it on through to publication.

Its presence is an obstacle to further reading, so I race off to show the offending sentence to David, whose response is, “So?” He’s not one to be disturbed by poor grammar.

“I just paid fifteen dollars for this book!” I tell him indignantly. “And the author couldn’t even be bothered to proofread it!”

Poor David. He’s subjected to this rant at least once a week.

Before a novel leaves my computer, I’ve examined each sentence at least ten times; I’ve read the entire book out loud; and I’ve run grammar and spell checks after every minor rewording. This is my work and I am absurdly dedicated to it. Ready for publication, I currently have three novels, five installments of a mystery series that showcases a witty, charming, and intrepid antagonist, and a short story collection, though I can’t imagine there’s much of market for short stories.

The crux of my situation is that I’m not getting any younger. And when I’m no longer here, my computer will be chucked out and my years of work will go with it.

Realizing that I’m not the only frustrated person in this imperfect industry, and possessing a keen disdain toward whiners, I ask—what does a basically optimistic person do when she’s trapped in a flawed system? Seek an alternative, that’s what! One of my sons recently pointed me toward Substack, a platform for writers of every genre—and it’s also for readers who are looking for original voices. I downloaded the app and posted a short story, which has already been read, liked, and commented on by many readers who would otherwise be unaware that I hunch over my keyboard in my back dark room every morning from four-thirty to seven. I will soon post another story. And floating around in my mind is the notion that, in the near future, I will serialize a novel—what fun!

Substack is a magical place that draws both readers and writers into a new realm for the written word. I encourage you to look into it, and while you’re there, check out my site. https://jenwaldo.substack.com/p/roses

This is a list I pulled off of Facebook. See? The Wedding People, right at the top of the list.

Good Times with Hans Haenisch

In past writings I have mentioned that my father was a man of extreme moods. On a good day, he could be lighthearted and charming, but when he was going through one of his low times, my mother, sisters, and I felt like a dark cloud hovered over our home. However, in my memories, I’ve allowed this extremism to dominate and to define him, which isn’t fair because there was more to him than that.

He came to America in the mid-fifties, a time when Germans were probably the most hated people on the planet, and so it’s understandable that he assimilated by putting all things German behind him. When people ask me why he didn’t teach us to speak his language, all I can think is that his desire to tuck his past away must’ve been why. When I was a child, the TV show, Hogan’s Heroes, made his people look stupid on a weekly basis. We, of course, were not allowed to watch it, and once, when I managed to sneak a peek, I was appalled. It was, indeed, a ridiculous show. Lawson King, a boy who lived up the street, played “Kill the Germans!” loudly, aggressively, and all over the neighborhood, going so far as to take cover behind our tree and fire his toy rifle at our house; and though his dad and mine were great friends, his father never did a thing to make Lawson shut his rude mouth. Having learned to lay bricks during the reconstruction in Germany, my dad took up bricklaying in his new home, Amarillo, where the population is close-minded and disdainful toward new ideas and anyone of a different ilk. I can only imagine the insults that came his way every day on the job site. At all times, with those outside our household, he was cautious with his interactions. He withheld opinions and was always polite—not in an obsequious way, but in the way of a European aristocrat, which he’d once been.

At one point he came across an English translation of German short stories, which he loved reading to us. His favorite story denigrated English speakers, and here’s a summary: A foreigner comes to Germany, sees a beautiful mansion, and asks the groundskeeper, “Who owns this mansion?” And the groundskeeper says, “Ich vestehe nicht,” which simply means, “I don’t understand.” The foreigner then travels further out into the countryside and beholds a prosperous farm. When he asks a boy who’s herding cows who the lovely farm belongs to, the boy answers, “Ich vestehe nicht,” which simply means “I don’t understand.” This phrase is repeated until, at the end of the story, the traveler leaves Germany filled with awe that this man, Ichvestenicht, is so very wealthy. My dad never got tired of reading it to us and he laughed after every reading.

Another of his favorite tales—and I have no idea where this story originated, or if it was fact or fiction—had something to do with hoarding pancakes. Apparently there once was a person who liked pancakes so much that every surface in their house was stacked with them. My father gleefully elaborated: they were on the bed and under the bed; on top of the chest and in the drawers; in the closets, stacked from the floor to the highest shelf, covering the couch and every chair—on and on. This was during an era when people collected things—coins, stamps, ceramic figurines, mugs, tiny spoons from the national parks they’d visited, etc. He compared this act of valuing things that, in truth, had no value, to the absurdity of having so many pancakes that you could never eat them all, and so they decayed where they lay, taking up space and eventually creating a stink. To this day when I entered a home cluttered with collectibles, I think to myself—some people like pancakes. Anyway, if you know the source of this story, please let me know.

Other memories of my Dad on his good days:

He was an excellent cook. Being German, he made use of the organs. We were served heart, tongue, liver, kidneys, tripe, and brains. He advised my sister and I not to mention these foods to our classmates because they’d find them gross and they’d tease us about it. Curious about whether he was right, I went against his advice and mentioned that we’d had heart for dinner the night before—and this was met with emphatic yucks and ooos. At first I was embarrassed, but then I remembered the delicious sauerbraten of the night before, and decided it was their loss. On the other hand, I became known as the girl who ate heart, so there’s that.

Another fun thing to do with my father was go shopping. Back in Germany, he and his family, the whole country, really, had been starving; and this gave him a worshipful appreciation of grocery stores. With eyes twinkling and his hands clasped behind his back, he’d become almost playful as he wandered the aisles, amazed by the diverse selections of cheeses and meats, aahing over the pre-sliced packaged bread, and faking indecision over the different brands of laundry detergent. He’d joyfully and expansively say, “Only in America.” He did the grocery shopping every Saturday, and it wasn’t until after my parents’ divorce that I learned that my mother felt that she hadn’t been allowed to do the shopping because he didn’t trust her to do it. She’d thought he thought she’d overspend. Married twenty-five years, and she never knew how much pleasure he took in this weekly task; she only knew that she’d been excluded from it. And, after all those years of not doing the shopping, she became just like he’d been—thrilled because she got to go to the grocery store! Yippy!

So there you are—some memories about good times with Hans Haenisch.

Sadly, this picture of him in old age is the only photo I have of my father. He married and again and it’s my understanding that all his photographs and documentation, like his citizenship papers and immigration records, are boxed in a storage facility in Amarillo.

A Short Story

I’ve recently completed a short story collection. It was a new sort of project for me, but now I don’t know what to do with it. The collection is entitled Here’s What You Do, and the stories are centered around the conundrums of people who seek the advice of a self-help columnist. Here’s one of them:

The Outstanding Student 

Dear Sophie,

My daughter takes clarinet lessons from a very nice man, highly recommended. He gives the lessons in the front room of his small house on one of the busiest streets in town. The lessons are costly, but she likes him, she enjoys practicing, and she’s obviously improving.

He gives back-to-back lessons on Saturday, which is also a packed day for me, as I have other children to get to their various activities. In short, dropping off one child for tennis makes me ten minutes late to pick up my clarinet player. Sophie, the clarinet teacher puts her out of the house, making her sit on his front porch on his high-traffic street, rather than allowing her to wait inside. I understand that he’s got another student in there, and that student might not appreciate someone listening to his private lesson, but turning my thirteen-year-old out has its dangers.

Your solution?

Worried Mom

The response:

Dear Worried Mom,

For those ten minutes you and the teacher share responsibility for your child. Get her an air horn, tell her how and when to use it, and explain to the teacher that if that loud noise blasts from the front, he needs to get out there and check on her. Tell Mr. Allen hello from me.

Best wishes,

Sophie

Peyton enjoys playing the clarinet and she enjoys being the best in the band. Because she practices and takes private lessons, the band director, Mrs. Kerr, shows a positive interest.

The way Peyton sees it, there are two ways to get extra attention in school—be as perfect as you can be or be a troublemaker. Anywhere in between and you’re ignored. So, because she sees value in following rules and meeting goals, she chooses to be outstanding rather than disruptive. 

Mr. Allen is a good clarinet teacher, enthusiastic about music and offering suggestions that help with breath control and support.

“Like you would with a tube of toothpaste,” he tells her. “Squeeze slowly and steadily from the bottom, pushing upward, rationing the air as you go.”

It doesn’t make sense when he says it, but later, at home, when she thinks of the air inside her as toothpaste in a tube, the concept comes together. 

On the flipside, Mr. Allen’s moustache often has crumbs and gunk stuck in it, and his small stuffy house smells like steamed vegetables. She’s always happy to get out of there, and watching the traffic in front of his house is entertaining and educational in that she learns a lot about how careless drivers can be. She has, from the top step of his stoop, witnessed three rear-enders and the near-hit of a pedestrian. And though her mother frets, at no time has she ever felt the least bit imperiled. Also, she understands the idea of a private lesson being private. She wouldn’t want anybody else listening in during her half-hour.

Peyton’s also the best in her Spanish, English, Algebra, and Earth Science classes.

Teachers and the other students, even her parents and brothers, refer to her as “one of those people.”

Though academic success works well for her, there are two things in her life that are awful. Two things that make her dread getting up in the mornings.

One is that Ella, a girl who used to be one of her best friends, turned against her three months ago. The incident that caused the ill-feeling was just one of those things that happens—Ella gave a party, and Peyton was unable to attend because her grandmother was in the hospital. But apparently Ella had seen the party as a test of friendship, and when Peyton couldn’t come, she was blackballed. When Peyton realized that she’d been cut, though she thought Ella was being small-minded, she apologized, explaining once again that visiting the hospital had been a family requirement. Ella neither acknowledged the apology nor forgave.

Influential, Ella persuaded all but the nobody-girls to cancel her; and then the nobodies, following the example of the prime clique, followed suit. At this point, Peyton has gone nearly three months without another student speaking to her, and without speaking to another student. She is fully ostracized. She eats alone, walks the halls alone, and has no one to talk to before class starts. She’s taken to arriving at school with only seconds to spare so she won’t have to stand by herself amongst the milling groups.

The rest of this year, and all of next year—that’s how long it will be before she goes to high school and meets new people who won’t hate her. She girds herself. She can make it. Also, other things are going on that are more important.

Which leads to the second complication, this one even more wretched:

Her parents are getting divorced. She’s known this to happen in the lives of other kids, and in truth, she’s not surprised. In her home there’s been closed-door fighting and vindictive whispering. There’ve been a few violent confrontations, one resulting in Mom having a black eye.

When they first told her and her brothers that they’d decided to split up, she was relieved, but her brothers, who hadn’t noticed the signs, were being big babies about it.

At fourteen, Peyton is the oldest. Cal is ten and Lester is seven. In the matter concerning her parents and their relationship, and knowing there’ll be friction, Payton has decided to follow the path of stoicism. Not so with Cal and Lester, who, now that Dad is living elsewhere, are fearful and acting out— “I hate you!” they scream at Mom. “You should’ve been the one to move out!” They kick furniture and throw books and game controls. Contemptuous disobedience is involved.

Mom: frustrated, furious, and hurt. The boys: defiant and blaming Mom. It goes on and on until Peyton feels that the devil dwells in the house, lurks in corners, and stirs up hatred.

One night, when she hears Mom crying in her room, she taps on the door and goes in. Mom’s on the bed, face down, sobbing into her pillow.

“I heard you crying,” she says.

“I’m just tired is all,” Mom tells her, wiping her eyes and cheeks.

“This can’t go on. How has everything gotten so bad?”

“It’s not your problem.” Mom sits and rolls her shoulders. “I’ve vowed to keep you of it. Your job is to do well in school, not to become embroiled in our problems.”

This is what the words say, but her expression is one of yearning. She badly needs someone to talk to and to lean on.

And Peyton, already suffering all day at school, recognizes and empathizes with her mother’s anguish and decides that she can take on this burden, too.

“From the way you and Dad have been acting the last few months, I thought this was what you wanted. I thought you both thought it was for the best. So why the tears?”

“Life. Deep unhappiness. Money. Mostly money.”

Peyton sees that Mom’s wondering whether it’s wise to spill to her daughter. And her mother’s not mentioning the physical abuse is a glaring omission.

“He said he wanted out,” Mom continues, overriding her misgivings. “We both did. But now that he realizes how much he’ll pay in child support, he’s decided it’d be cheaper for you kids to live with him, so he’s claiming to want custody.”

To Peyton, this is horrifying. Dad will count every penny spent on his children. Her clarinet lessons will come to an end. And his slap, hard across the face, comes often and unexpectedly. Without Mom to act as a buffer, it’d be only a matter of time before his open palm tenses into a fist.

And what she really doesn’t understand is that the boys have been the recipients of his hot slaps many times, so why are they so torn up that he’s gone? Why aren’t they relieved? Are they learning that there’ll come a time when they, too, can sling their hands with no accountability?

“The kids always stay with the mother,” she says, certain that it’s true.

“That’s what conventional wisdom says. But there’ll be the cost of lawyers and interviews and accusations. And it’ll take such a long, long time before we can move on.”

The next evening Dad rings the doorbell. Seeing him standing out there, their mother frantically orders them to stay inside. Peyton, Cal, and Lester cluster at the front window. Dad didn’t park straight and he left his car door open. Grabbing Mom by the arm, he pulls her from the porch and, stopping in the grass several feet away, takes a confrontational stance—putting his face into hers, making his shoulders large. Right there in the front yard. Is he showing the world what a big man he is? Is he proving to everyone who has eyes that he’s the boss?

And speaking of eyes, the neighbors begin to emerge from their homes. Eva and her sister, Joanie, step from their houses, leave their porches, and meet on Joanie’s driveway. Joanie’s son, Henry, also comes outside. He stays close to his mom. Then others, too, appear. Gabe, the tiny man from next door, strides to the center of his lawn. Arms folded across their chests, they all witness the huge angry man towering over their petite pretty neighbor.

Unable to tolerate the tension for a second longer, Lester races outside and tries to insert himself between his two adults. Dad’s strong hand grabs Lester by the shoulder and slings him to the ground. Lester emits an oh! a whimper, and a sob. He curls up like a threatened worm.

Seeing this, Gabe, such a sweet old guy, begins marching toward the fracas—and from the other side of the street, Joanie hollers, “Gabe, no!” Her call is a distraction that causes Dad to look up, look around. He sees that ten pairs of eyes are fixed on him. Shaking his head like a stunned bull, he releases Mom, stomps to his car, reverses, and with a squeal of the tires, drives away.

Leaving Peyton in charge of Cal, Mom takes Lester to the emergency room.

“His humerus is broken,” Mom says when she calls. “He cracked it on the brick border when he fell.”

“When he was pushed, you mean. Is he in pain? Will he have a cast?”

“Yes and yes. But at least now it’ll all be settled quickly.”

Peyton understands what Mom means. Dad broke his son’s arm and there are witnesses. There’ll be no custody battle. Dad’ll be lucky if he ever gets to see his children again. It’s a bleak tradeoff.

The next day Mrs. Kerr announces that, out of the nine members who auditioned, only one, Peyton, made regional band. Because they sense that the teacher expects accolades, the other students offer a brief and half-hearted round of applause.

A month later Peyton gets a Friday off from school to rehearse with the group, and then on Saturday the band rehearses all day for a concert that night. She is thrilled—mainly because she’s surrounded by people her age who don’t hate her. She’s made second chair, which, considering that she’s a year younger than most of the kids who made the band, makes her a star.

“You’re from Archer Middle School,” Lele, the third chair says when they meet for the first time. “One of my best friends from church goes there—Ella Hendricks. Do you know her?”

Within Peyton, a flame of ire ignites. Ella, who has hurt her so deeply. Ella, who plays no instrument and wouldn’t recognize a beat if it thumped her on the head. Ella has no right intruding here, the one space that belongs to Peyton.

“No,” she tells Lele with a bemused smile. “I never heard of her. Are you sure she goes to Archer?”

Denying that she knows Ella is like denying Ella’s existence, a small and private revenge; a delicious moment that’ll be enough to see her through the next couple of years.

A few days later Mom presents her with an airhorn, then tells her how and when to use it. As Mom’s obviously invested in her safety, Peyton responds with appropriate and solemn gratitude—but really. An airhorn? Ridiculous.

Panama City

A swinging bridge over a rainforest.

The Costa Rica Trip

The last two times David and I had reason to travel by plane, we said no more, never again. This flight travel, too, is fraught with annoyances—canceled flight, delayed flight, tension over making the connection; and then me being seated next to a man whose body flows into my space and who hacks, sneezes, and sniffs from beginning to end. And again, we say never again.

Exhausted, we land in San Jose at midnight. Dressed for the cold weather we left behind, and attacked by the sudden humidity, I yank the black high-necked sweater over my head, forgetting that, over the sweater, I’m wearing one of my favorite necklaces, which falls to the floor in the area of carousel five, never to be seen by me again. Later, upon realization, I’m distraught. “Let it go,” David advises. But still, I must make an effort. I am put on interminable hold by the airport security and the airline we flew in on. As I forgive myself for my carelessness, I imagine the joy whoever ended up with my necklace will take in it—a thirty-inch white gold chain interspersed with gemstones and a heavy white gold pendant set with two modest pale emeralds. A fortuitous find for someone who will appreciate it as much as I did. I tell myself to be happy for the person who now wears it. And I am done mourning.

It’s the practice of Tauck to employ local guides, and Angie, our guide for the first couple of days, doesn’t disappoint. She’s cheerful and her syntax is delightful. Also, one of my favorite forms of humor is stating the obvious, and her way of doing this is charming.

In Costa Rica,” she says, “we have bars at the windows, and barbed wire and spiked fences surrounding our homes—WHY? Because there are bad people who will come into your house and take your things.”

Another one: “When Christopher Columbus first came to Costa Rica, the first thing he saw was the coast—WHY? Because he arrived in a boat.”

We walk down three hundred and ninety stairs to see a dramatic waterfall. Then we go to a coffee plantation to see how coffee is made. I’m skeptical because, well, pick the bean from the tree, grind it up, and strain it—what else could there be? In the end, producing coffee is a time-consuming and involved process. The beans aren’t huge to start with and, after several peelings, drying, then roasting, the interior portion used in making coffee is tiny. A cup of cappuccino requires forty-five hand-picked beans. The coffee guide is entertaining, though he’s overly invested in teaching us the Spanish names for every step of the coffee process, making us parrot words we don’t understand several times. If we can barely say hello in his language, why would we retain the name of the slimy sweet substance beneath the first peel of a coffee bean?  

What to take with me every time we leave the ship is a conundrum. For instance, our chosen excursion for today is the zip line followed by a tour of a cacao farm. The plethora of necessary accessories calls for a backpack, which I did not bring—a head covering, a rain jacket because there’s always a fifty percent chance of rain, an extra pair of shoes because this is a wet landing, and sunglasses, which will be put on and taken off again according to the clouds and shadows. Luckily, I have pockets and I will be strategic in their usage.

The zip line canopy tour: We wear hard hats, so no need to worry about sunburn. With the impersonal touch usually reserved for those in the medical field, young men fit us into harnesses. We are then escorted to a struggling tractor and hauled up a mountain. Though terrified of heights, I’m participating in this activity—WHY? Because sailing over a rain forest sounds enchanting. With a tranquil mindset, I will fly over colorful birds, make friends with howler monkeys, and wave at a sloth who’ll wave back. In the end, there’s a reason for the word “zip”. Nine times, I’m hooked up, told to lean back and lightly hold the cable with my strong hand; then I’m instructed to bend my knees and cross my ankles, and a man I don’t know releases my suspended weight, and gravity does its thing. So focused am I on doing as instructed that there is no looking down or around. No monkeys, no sloth. Afterward, David declares that it was fun. I’m proud that I didn’t scream, but fun? Nah, I was scared the whole time and my knees were weak and trembling when I was done. It was simply one of those nonsensical things one does so they can claim they’ve experienced it.

The next day we go on two rain forest excursions—the first is a snail-paced foot-drag, with twenty-three people following a guide. Every once in a while we’re told to look upward; and, with necks stiffening, we are joined by other tours until there are seventy people gathered around to view a patch of fur in the crux of a high palm. Do you see it? A sloth! Is it, though? Something brown in a tall tree; it’s more likely to be a coconut, but there we stand, pretending to be amazed. The next tour is a wondrous hike beside rapidly flowing water and framed by thriving foliage that’ll pin you in place if you remain still for too long. Four of us tourists, with three guides. We keep a snappy pace with our walking sticks. We sweat. There is a ludicrous heated showdown between two of the guides—what amazing beasts have you sighted? How close did you get? How many countries have you led tours in? Literally, a toe-to-toe competition. How fun.

Today we are at sea, traveling from Quepos to Playa Muerto. We will use the time to go to a yoga class, indulge in a sauna, reorganize our cabin, and do some laundry. Next? A day in an indigenous village and then on to the Panama Canal.

This made us laugh.