We usually do our 700-word short stories in July. But life and the summer got away from us this year, so we didn’t. Instead, we’re doing them this month.
Our topic: persistence.
Persistence is defined as “the quality that allows someone to continue doing something or trying to do something even though it is difficult or opposed by other people.”
We might also define it as sticking to a task, keeping at it, despite obstacles in the way, despite the passage of time.
So, our stories. Years ago, someone told Janet she would never publish a book. Hmmm, 20 books later and working on yet another one. D. Z. writes about a sparkling lake, a dark forest, and the persistence of a tradition.
“Sooner or later, you’ll have to face facts.”
He had that look on his face when he said it, the look she’d seen so many times before during their marriage. Dismissive. Condescending. Balanced on the edge between irritation and contempt.
He swept his hand over the table, as though he wanted to sweep away her laptop, the file folder of research materials, the lined pad where she scribbled notes.
“Be realistic,” he said, with his usual smirk. “There’s no way you can write a book and get it published. It’s a pipe dream.”
Pipe dream, she thought. He was fond of using that phrase. Especially in conjunction with anything she aspired to, anything she wanted to do.
She had looked up the definition of the term the first time he had used it.
Pipe dream: A fantastic notion or vain hope. A plan, desire or idea that will not likely work. A near impossibility.
But it wasn’t a fantastic notion. She had talent. She knew it. Why else had she been writing stories ever since she was a kid? That’s how writers did it. Writing and writing, learning and honing the craft. She’d even submitted some of those stories to magazines. Well, sure, she got rejection slips. But at least she’d taken that step. And these days, lots of writers were self-publishing books. She could do that.
She just needed to work on the novel and finish it. She could write this novel—had to write this novel—because it had been living in her head for so many years.
Pipe dream, my ass, she thought, doing a slow silent burn. I’ll show him.
Be realistic. How many times had she heard that before? Be realistic, you’re not smart enough, you won’t get into college. You’re not good enough, you won’t get that job. You’re not pretty, you’ll never find a husband.
Well, she got into college, on a scholarship, no less. She got the job, too, a good one. As for the husband, she got him, but he was no bargain.
She had been putting up with his dismissive, superior attitude for years. Before they were married, he was gallant and flattering. Oh, she should have known better, she should have seen through the façade he presented to the world. Should have had enough self-confidence to move on.
Once he had the ring on her finger and they were married, that changed. The transformation was gradual. She should have noticed it. But she was so caught up in being a new wife, giving her all to make the marriage work. And it was all so one-sided. She made all the compromises. With him, it was his way or the highway.
Abusive, that’s what he was. He’d never hit her. But the emotional abuse was as soul-searing as physical abuse. He complained about the time she spent writing. She needed to be alone to create, but he wanted her to spend all her time with him. Keeping house, cooking his meals, doing things he wanted to do, never anything she wanted to do.
She shook off her angry feelings and opened her laptop. Focus, focus. Don’t let him get in the way of what I want to accomplish.
The novel was a mystery. She had a great cast of characters and a twisty plot. She had crafted the perfect crime—in fiction. She should test it. Her eyes widened at the thought. Why not?
Two years later she was at Left Coast Crime, the convention popular with mystery fans and writers, on a panel of authors who had published their first novels.
“My husband and I are having lunch in the hotel restaurant,” the other writer said. “Would you and your husband like to join us?”
“Oh, I’m not married. I’m a widow. I’d love to join you. I’ll meet you there.” She turned and smiled at a couple of fans who held copies of her book, open to the title page, asking if she could sign them.
“I love this book,” one fan said. “In the panel, you said you’d worked on it for years. How did you ever finish it?”
“Persistence.” She signed her name with a flourish.
The wide picture window at the front of our family’s cabin frames the forested glory of a Minnesota lake. The water is crystalline. The sunsets glorious, vibrant in reds and oranges. The fishing is extreme. Yet the virgin timber surrounding our long-held property can shift from welcoming to threatening in a single heartbeat. Especially when the west wind rushes through the old growth, wafting a call like a peacock’s cry overhead. CeCe, my sister, and I never enter the timber without holding hands, especially now after Dad’s passing.
We knelt in front of the picture window, opening a cedar chest that still held some female ancestor’s hopes, lifted the lovingly embroidered linens and a bear’s paw quilt to uncover a walnut box beneath. The box, its silky surface covered with prints from oily fingers, held a set of hand-carved figures, each about four inches tall. A bear, a girl, a snake, and a shovel.
We closed our eyes and, in long-standing tradition, reached into the box and pulled out one figure each. We raised the selected figures over our heads and proclaimed it the summer of Bear-Cross 52, after a quick check in a treasured ledger. Our mother wrote this summer’s name on the next open line, the used lines flowing back to 1844, when Minnesota was still part of the Wisconsin territory. The same ceremony. For hundreds of summers.
CeCe stared at the bear in her hand. “Have you ever wondered, I mean, just asked yourself why? What does the whole naming of summer commemorate?”
“Since I turned four, I think.”
“The hardship of life out here,” Mom called from the kitchen. “And the joy of summer’s return.”
“Which means no one remembers why and hasn’t for about a hundred years.”
Mom stared out the ancient isinglass window over the sink. “There were bears here, for sure. There still are, and lots of tales to go with them. You know the one about the girl who walked with bears. The boy who ran home screaming bear, about six strides ahead of Sioux warriors with bear skins on their backs. And snakes, there are enough tragedies involving snakes.”
“A bear, a girl, a snake and a shovel. What does the shovel commemorate?” I held up the shovel. “Besides, it wasn’t carved by the same hand.”
CeCe thumbed through the book of summers. “Interesting, there are no shovel summers until after World War II.” She held up the ledger and pointed to 1946: Snake-Shovel.
Leaning on the kitchen counter, Mom sipped from a glass of water. “Your great-grandfather’s twin died in World War II. Word is the induction board would only allow one twin to go. He was picked. According to your dad, his body was never found, though reported killed. Unknown, they wrote.”
“So, he came back, out for revenge, killed his identical twin brother and took over his life? How’s that for conjecture?”
“Pure make-believe.” Mom took another sip, then held her hand out for the ledger. CeCe handed it over.
“That’s a maybe,” I said at the doubt in Mom’s voice.
She shook her head. “I had a flash of your grandfather and dad at your great-grandfather’s viewing pulling down the body’s left sock. Your Dad touched the ankle. Your grandfather backed away.” Mom put down her water glass. “Let’s go to the cemetery.”
We formed a pod of three. A breeze, strong enough to spangle the water with white waves, blew a soft help through the trees. Vines with emerald heart-shaped leaves raced over and around the gravestones and hung flowing from some trees. I rubbed my arms.
CeCe found the girl’s preserved headstone. It read: Killed by bear, March 5, 1844. Was she the girl who walked with bears? Mom found a boy’s grave. Snakebit, August 22, 1847. The year Minnesota became Minnesota. No shovel.
I stared at my great-grandfather’s gravestone: He lies with his twin, at last. June 4, 1960.
I cocked my head. “You don’t suppose he’s buried on top of the twin he murdered? The shovel between them.”
“We could have him disinterred?” CeCe said. “The unknown would become known.”
“Or we can let tradition persist.” Mom held our hands. “For Dad’s sake.”