Hallow This Ground, and the Role of Metaphor

As many of you know, I attempt to be an avid writer. Ideas and inspirations for various stories and essays bombard my thoughts constantly, but when it actually comes to putting the pen to paper (or fingers to the keypad) I fall short.

Sometimes it's sheer laziness. Other times its because I don't feel like my stories are worth telling. In fact, it's been months since the urge to write has hit me so hard that I was compelled to do anything about it. Until last week.

I am a huge fan of my creative writing professors, and my academic adviser, Colin Rafferty, just published his first book, Hallow This Ground. It's a collection of nonfiction essays focusing on memorials and monuments (whose difference I didn't fully understand until now) ranging from Kansas City, Missouri to Berlin, Germany. The essays are a mix of historical fact and personal reflection, and I can't recommend this book enough.

The essay which caught my attention most was Surfacing. In this essay, Rafferty writes about the sinking of the SS Edmund Fitzgerald, a freighter that sank in Lake Superior in 1975. What I love about this essay is the use of metaphor. On the surface (sorry, I had to), the essay appears to be the retelling of the sinking, Rafferty's quest to discover more about the tragedy and his connection to one crew member, Robert Rafferty. Halfway through the essay, Rafferty brings in his girlfriend at the time, the person who pushed him most to investigate his connection to the ship. Their relationship ended shortly after their trip to the Lake Superior memorial.

I love Rafferty's use of metaphor to tell the story of this sinking relationship through the lens of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Anyone can tell the story of a relationship on the rocks, and plenty of people have. But the use of metaphor allows for a unique retelling aside from the simple "we met, things got hard, now it's over". 

Midway through Hallow This Ground, I was struck with the need to write. Not just an idea that I could tuck away in the back of my mind. This was an urge that I hadn't felt since my college days. And I found myself reaching for a pen and scribbling notes into one of my journals.

For years I've attempted to write about a relationship I had hoped would last but was crumbling from the first weeks and eventually shattered two years ago. Writing the timeline and my doubts about its success at the time helped me to heal, but I could never find a framework that could grasp the essence of what I was feeling those three years. Raffetry's use of metaphor sparked an idea that had been looming right there in the open, but I never paid attention to: Chandler Hall, the business and psychology building on the Mary Washington campus which was torn down about two years.

I was neither a business or psych major and had little connection to the building. But it was in Chandler that I met this guy. During my first draft of the story I came across a picture of us standing in the grove behind the building, smiling like nothing was going to separate us. An odd shiver crept through me when I realized that grove is now a parking lot. When I showed the essay to Rafferty during workshop, he mentioned the photograph as a good touch. Now as I look back on the essay, I see the photograph as a summary of the relationship: how some relationships in our lives must be torn down to make room for better things. It's painful at the time, but the end result is worth the pain.

Cheers,

Victoria

P.S. I am looking for readers who love to offer constructive criticism to read the essay once it's complete! Message me if you're interested!

Why Rescue Cats are the Best

I'm an unashamed cat lover. I maintain an Instagram page for my two kittens (@bella.and.annie) and submit to sleeping on the edge of my bed so my kitties can bask in comfort. I've had twenty cats in my lifetime (yes, I counted) and remember all their little details: names, colors, demeanor and meow type.

Yes, I'm crazy.

Up till Annie, number 20, all of the cat acquiring has been through my parents. About half our cat population came from stray kittens who were dropped off by their mom's (probably because they saw the overfed felines sleeping in our windows), the other half from actively rescuing cats from the side (or middle) of the road, injured kitties who limped to our door for a handout or neighbors who turned out their pets due to "inconvenience".  Let me tell you, there are times that caring for five plus cats has seemed pretty inconvenient, but I just suck it up because these little guys are as much here for me as I am for them.

Once adopted, my cats have always chosen a particular human to bestow extra love on. Sylvester was my first, and for all fifteen years of his life he gave more love than most humans give out. He stayed up with me after watching one horror film too many, and when I was finally able to turn out the lights would wrap his front legs around my neck, resting his face on my cheek. He came running when I called his same (high pitched, holding out the first and last syllables) and would answer in a barely perceptible whispered "mew". Sylvester fought illness after illness until July 1, 2016, and eight months later I still miss his sweet mew and lion-loud purr.

Three days later, my dad and brother came across little Bella lying in the middle of a bridge covered in cinders and gravel. Because my room was the easiest to convert into a kitten's nursery, Bella became my little baby...for a few months. She was, and still is, a curious little calico with a cuddly disposition and stumpy bobtail, and once she could escape my room it was nearly impossible to coax her back in. She quickly became my mom's shadow and follows her around from first thing in the morning until Mum goes to bed. 

Annie, though, came into the family in a different way: through my cat-napping abilities. Early this past January, Colin and I were driving to the local Sheetz for milkshakes when I got a call from my mom, who was heading to Philly with the rest of the family. "There's a cat at the Sheetz near the highway. I need you to take her home."

When we pulled into the parking lot seconds later, she was standing under an umbrella over near the antifreeze rack and a little orange cat with eyes like Puss in Boots was sniffing her feet. I started petting the cat, but Mum was impatient about this whole cat-napping ordeal. "Grab her now!"

The cat shrieked when I grabbed her and tried to wiggle away. I clutched her even tighter, scooped her up and carried her to the car. The kitty didn't kick or scratch but I'm surprised no one stared at this little orange cat screaming to high heaven as I carried her away from her home under the antifreeze. Once in the car, she hid under the seat but slowly poked out her head to stare at me with huge golden eyes.

"It's okay," I told the kitty. "You're coming home to my house."

She blinked and crouched below the seat as if contemplating if this was any better than the gas station. Colin joined us a few minutes later with a lunchable for the kitty (she didn't think much of it) and we drove home in the pouring rain with a little cat crying in the back seat. She spent the night on the back porch out of the rain that night, but the next evening Annie was moved up to the kitten nursery (aka my room). She's never left. During the day she enjoys romping around the house with Bella, but at bedtime she tucks herself in on top of my suitcase under the bed until she's ready to cuddle up with me.

Despite the craziness of having six cats in one house, I would never change my mind about taking in any of these little guys. They're not just my pets. I'm their human, and we depend on each other. Trust me, take in a rescue and they will be devoted to you for the rest of their lives. 

A Day in the Life

Grey outside my window, an absence of light more than the pre-sunrise needed to energize my sleep deprived body. My eyes snap open, reluctantly, at the sound of buzzing from my phone alarm. My fingers stumble over the touch screen, setting off a series of bleeps before finally making contact with the dismiss button. “Snooze” is a luxury, one I rarely use since graduating from university.

In the grey half-light I search for clothes I should have laid out the night before but, like every night, am unmotivated to do so. I’ve already showered before going to bed so getting dressed and a quick facial takes minutes. I make it downstairs in the half light, managing not to trip over all but one cat. Tea kettle on as I set up a travel mug with a tea bag that I won't touch on the drive in and usually leave in the car when I go into work. The house is still silent when I grab the keys hanging from the spice rack and head out to the car.

I choose a playlist titled "Morning Mix" before pulling out of the driveway and "Suddenly I See" rings out. The opening scene of "The Devil Wears Prada" plays through my memory as I check for traffic and pull out onto the main road; I should be choosing outfits meticulously and wearing designer boots, not settling for skinny jeans and an Abbey Road t-shirt. I write for a fashion magazine, dammit. That's more than Anne Hathaway's job. Forty miles later "Beautiful Day" is playing and I'm still picturing myself in Gongini and Monse while running between NYFW shows as I pull up to my usual parking place a block up from my coffee shop.

The best thing about being a barista is coffee. I love coffee, almost as much as I love my boyfriend. And I love it even more since taking this job at the By and By. An order for a Galway Girl, Irish Cream Mocha special, comes up and I set up a mug with chocolate syrup and Irish cream, set up two shots and grab a cruet of milk for the steamer. I lower the wand into the milk and turn up the temperature, watching as the liquid swirls into an ivory whirlpool.

I let my mind wander as the metal warms my fingers, distracting me from the hum of conversation, music and the grind of the coffee machine. I haven't written anything, aside from the occasional depressed journal entry, for weeks. Partially written manuscripts sit untouched in my laptop, a slightly true science fiction lies half written throughout journals scattered around my bookshelf. My blog hasn't been updated in over a month. My identity as a writer is fading and the worst part is I don't care. After all, what is writing but passion? Passion won't pay the bills or advance the career I want/need. But the longer I abstain from writing, my passion, and therefore my identity, is dying. My eyes drift to the expanding foam and my thoughts vanish much like my inclination to write has.

I don't expect anyone who isn't a barista or espresso addict to understand my obsession with microfoam. It's so essential to a good latte or cappuccino. I love when the foam becomes more solid than milky and can hold a design stenciled in cinnamon. (I rarely do that, I just don't have the patience to keep the cinnamon from going outside the lines.) The foam creeps up the wand, coating the increasingly warming cruet and tingling my fingers. When the metal becomes too hot to hold I turn off the heat, burning my finger tips slightly. Switch on the espresso, watch the shot cups fill with steaming, caramel liquid and pull them off as soon as the machine switches off.

The work day passes quickly, dissolving in some hundred or so espresso drinks and countless drip coffees. I pocket my tips and head out the door, breathing in air untinged by the scent of coffee. After I run errands and drive home I'll have a couple hours to apply to jobs and socialize with the family before calling David. As I hang up and turn out the lights, I see only a cycle repeating with no apparent end in sight.

But I can't let my passion die. Without passion we're bodies without souls, shades without a personality.