Your ad placed here. See the Ad Rates page for both the web site and newsletter rates.

Contests, grants, markets that pay writers may list at no charge...as long as they pay. Send to Hope.

2nd PLACE - 10th ANNUAL FUNDSFORWRITERS ESSAY CONTEST - NO ENTRY FEE CATEGORY

Shut Up and Chip

 By Hope Sunderland

My husband’s eyes rolled upward, a gesture with which I suspect wives are universally familiar.  Long married to the world’s least creative person, I recognized the non-verbal equivalent of “please, God, not another hare-brained idea.”  Fortunately, I excel at ignoring spousal pantomime.       

We’d moved into a new country home that summer and our large barren yard begged for landscaping.  Alas, our budget begged for necessities, like paying the mortgage.  I often flipped through house and garden decorating magazines with landscaping lust in my heart.  I coveted an elegant, paved stone patio, where I’d entertain friends and neighbors with cool drinks and tasty barbecues.

On the road traveling into town, I’d frequently driven past the blackened remains of an old house.  Long ago, a fire destroyed most of the small structure, leaving a large lump of charred wood and shingles.  Part of the red brick chimney still held, sagging here and there, but somehow feebly standing sentry over the sad remains.  Rapidly growing green trails of kudzu vines devoured the ruins. 

One day as I drove by the burned house, I had an idea.  I hit the brakes, turned the car around, and asked neighbors about the house.  When I found the owners, I admit I pleaded, though it probably wasn’t necessary.  No one else was waiting in line, anxious to cart off their old chimney. 

So I excitedly shared my brilliant plan with my husband.  He inhaled deeply, feigned enthusiasm, and pasted a tight smile on his face. 

For the next several weeks, Hubby, our ten-year-old daughter, and I tackled the bricks.  Armed with a sledge hammer and machete, we repelled both kudzu and errant snakes.  We made trip after trip to the old house, overloading the trunk of our family car, making the suspension groan.  While unloading back at our house, I became so adept at pumping up the wheelbarrow flat tire, I nicknamed it Old Baldy.  Soon, we had a mountain of used fire bricks, mostly still mortared together in varying sized clumps.

“Now what?” Hubby asked.  Voila!  I produced the protective eye goggles, heavy work gloves, hammers, and chisels I’d purchased.  Each family member was assigned a goal to clean ten bricks daily.  The task seemed impossible, but slowly, with thirty cleaned bricks added to the tally most days, the stack grew. 

Initially, we laughed and made jokes, hoping to keep spirits high and hammers chipping. 

“Santa’s going to be surprised when he goes to slide down that chimney this year and finds it in our backyard,” I teased my daughter as we incessantly chipped.

I tried to convince the family that great sculptors had started this way.  “Okay, Michelangelo,” I prodded my husband, “Forget about David.  Bricks await your masterful touch.”

Finally, the project seemed too long and whining ensued.  My daughter swore that someone was sneaking into the yard at night, adding bricks to the mammoth pile.  My positive motivational attempts finally degenerated to a cranky “just shut up and chip.”  The family threatened to have those words chiseled on my tombstone, as long as they didn’t have to personally wield the chisel. 

Mortar chipped off some bricks cleanly.  Others were stubborn.  Some bricks broke and were tossed to the side, smaller pieces to fill in where needed.  At last, the already-cleaned heap grew higher than the shrinking still-to-be-cleaned mound. 

Laying the charred gems, brick-by-brick, into an intricate pattern was painstaking work.  But by the end of the summer, after we’d swept sand between the pavers, we had a large patio and a luxurious fire pit.  We spent many summer evenings on the patio, usually admiring our hard work, smug in our determination.  Fueled by rave reviews, my husband eventually remembered the original idea as his own.  I rolled my eyes upward.

As a bonus, I often sat there in the early morning, infusing myself with coffee, writing, inspired by the peaceful setting and our resolve.  Sometimes, an idea wouldn’t easily form, and I’d have to make it fit.  Using my pen, instead of a chisel, I moved words around or substituted a better-fitting phrase.  Occasionally, I’d rub my bare feet against the rough texture of those old bricks and remind myself that stories are created in much the same way as our piece-by-piece patio, one word at a time.  And I’d go back to my work-in-progress manuscript and whisper aloud “just shut up and chip.” 

BIO

A Carolina Slade Mystery
www.chopeclark.com

Writer's Digest 101 Best Websites for Writers - 2001-2011

Copyright 2000-2012, C. Hope Clark and FundsforWriters - FFW does not warranty the information on this site. This site and its contents are provided  on an "as is" basis without warranty. Information can change at a moment's notice, so FundsforWriters/C. Hope Clark does not represent that this information is complete or current by the time you access it. Please use at your own risk just as you would any information in your writing career - with educated caution. The names of companies, their magazines or other products mentioned on this site may be the trademarks of their respective owners. FundsforWriters/C. Hope Clark will not be held liable for damages arising out or or in connection with the use of this site. If this sounds like legalese, we apologize. We provide the freshest information we can find, but the Internet changes faster than we can be responsible for. We do not collect name or email information for distribution. Email addresses are not shared with other sources. Direct any questions to Hope@fundsforwriters.com - or by snail mail to 140-A Amicks Ferry Road #4, Chapin, SC 29036