Dawn Byrne

Creativity is the mother of keeping daily life on a shoestring budget from becoming ho-hum.

Our need to be frugal with entertainment keeps my husband local; in front of the TV. On the side table next to where I sit on our comfy loveseat beside my hubby in front of his electronic mistress Boob Tube Betty, that seductress of attention via mind numbing massage, I keep foot cream.

As Betty lures my husband visually with her explosions and fast vehicles, my work is hands-on. Starting at his feet, I'm in competition for his attention. My odd fetish of finding this humble service relaxing myself, works to help digestion after dinner and connecting us hands to feet while questioning Alex Trebec.

Prying my husband from Betty before dinner came about with the concept of sexy mashed potatoes. Since he doesn't like whipped potatoes and my mashing left lumps, I prepared the spuds as usual, saving the last step for him. I promised to watch his biceps bulge as he pounded with the manal masher. He seemed to enjoy this because he could assure the texture was to his liking. Could I get away with sexy meatballs?

Goading a loved one to the table without Betty lit up as the center piece can be challenging. Although allowing her in the bedroom, I yank her cable when it comes to replacing my lit candles for her lit monitor.

I don't trust myself to not turn certain subjects of conversation volutile during our evening meal, so I adopt other people's words. Recently, I printed out Bill Withers' lyrics to the song, "Lean On Me" after hearing it sung on the "Mike and Molly" situation comedy (alright, thanks Betty). I put the copy at our man's place setting as a foretasty reminder. During dinner our attempts at harmony were more fun than a half hour of Betty. The key was choosing a song with a tune familiar to both of us that had meaning.

Timing is everything. A spouse knows when to suggest something new, and when to let Betty have her way after a long miserable work day that's left a spouse empty for antics. That's when only Betty will do, and I'm grateful for her.

Chevette Shade

Our totaled 2006 Ford Taurus arose (reincarnated may be a better word) in a white 1995 Nissan Altima.

Come to think of it, it's really the ghost of my mother's old Chevy Chevette. That car took a beating hauling food, people and even furniture. Like Mom's brown Chevy, our new but very used Altima jiggles and clunks with its rust-worn doors and spunky little motor. As it bucks into gear, I realize I've become my mother. Neither of us like driving. Memories of nasty break downs on the side of the road would make any technically challenged old gal panic driving a vehicle with mysterious mechanical issues.

So far so good, though. The only disabilities are: broken gas gauge (I don't own a cell phone, so hubby is bracing for a call from an unknown number with my voice pleading for gas), sunroof doesn't retract (doesn't leak though, bonus!); the overhead light rattles if I remove the tattered cardboard air freshener that's wedged into it; wing of visor actually flaps when in use; if turning the key while in park doesn't turn over the car, putting the control in neutral will. And like us grandmas, the smell an old car gives off makes one glad all the windows work.

To keep this mobile ghost friendly, on its rearview mirror I hung the same wooden cross that swung in front of me during the accident. I'm still debating removing the air freshener wedge and replacing it with a cross I made from palm given out last Sunday at church. I added a trusty umbrella to the back seat, an Aldi quarter to the side compartment and shopping bags to the trunk. Since all cars look alike to me except for their size and color, I wrapped a bright orange pipe cleaner around the Nissan's antenna to save time finding it in a parking lot glowing with small white cars.

I'm trying not to be super religious or superstitious in my blessing of the auto. But, not taking any chances, my first trip was to church. The accelerating rev and loud idling were hymns of comfort, as Mom's Chevette had sung similar tunes.

Memories of sitting in the passenger's seat with Mom at the wheel are nostalgic with a feeling of safety. In spite of her stress, she typically appeared confident. Not me. My kids were the best behaved travelers. They knew any distraction could easily frazzle me and send us all to the hospital instead of Grandma's house. Today I gladly sit in their passenger's seats but still create tension.

Mom continues to laments the loss of her car. "My Chevette was a good little car," she's incline to say when the subject of autos comes up. I hope history continues to repeat itself in her car's 1995 ghost.

I lifted down the teapot my mother-in-law had given me from the top of our microwave for my granddaughter. Her three-year-old frame scuffled into a kitchen chair wide-eyed as I placed it in front of her face that was flush with the table. The fat flowery thing sat on a wide-mouthed over-sized tea cup, which served as its base. I separated the two in front of her.

She chose the only triangular tea bag amongst the boxes of teas on the table. With pinky up, she dangled the bag by its tab, submerging the bag into warm water I had run into the pot. After bobbing the bag, she poured the weak tea. Palming the cup with both hands, she could have been a guest at the Mad Hatter's tea party, slurping from the bowl-like ceramic.

She giggled, squeezing lemon juice into her teacup from a yellow plastic container. After each squirt and sip, she added a honey stick by pinching and sliding out the sweet stuff. Tea splashed onto the table when the stick slipped from between her fingers, causing her hand to hit the cup. More juice, more honey, splash. Juice, honey, splash.

A childhood memory of having tea with my grandmother inspired me to push the sloppy stuff aside with a magical flourish of hands. “Let's do an experiment,” I said with my eyes widening now. No objection from my guest as she sat expectant.

I got our shot glass from the cabinet. We typically use it for rinsing paint brushes when water-coloring. This time I reached behind my granddaughter, opened the refrigerator and added milk to the tiny glass. My elementary school science process mingled with the childhood teatime memory.

“First, take a look at the milk.” Feeling more like a poor magician, I gave the second step. “Okay, squeeze the lemon juice into the milk.”

I bent my head close to hers and we both said, “Eew.”

“It curdled,” I explained, repeating the word.

As with the tea, she added more and then more juice, stirring the mixture. It separated into larger chunks of curdled milk. “Let me empty it and you can start again,” I assured her, taking the brimming glass. I rinsed it and poured more milk. This time, she dipped her face towards the glass before she lifted the plastic container. The science process had already set in.

“What do you think will happen?” I asked.

“It's gonna curdle,” she said and shot a stream into the glass.

Knowing that my granddaughter has a natural interest in science prompted this fun event. Not especially scientific, I patted myself on the back for coming up with this idea. But it really came from adding lemon to tea with milk while tea partying with my grandmother. As a writer, I also loved introducing, “curdled” to my granddaughter and repeating the funny-sounding word.

Simple, precious incidents like this recur through generations, mixing nostalgia with learning and laughter. What better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than experimenting with shots of curdled milk and spilt tea? I basked in the childish magic that turned a modest kitchen from a recent painting studio to an English tea house, and then into a laboratory.

A quote taped to my writing space tutors me to: "Figure out how you are going to make writing a permanent part of your life." This, of course, means for writers to write consistently. But being part of a writing community (or several) adds another layer to writing life. And makes me squeal with glee.

The actuality of local writers getting published, and hob-knobbing with and befriending them, is surreal. I wished for the above collection of works by people I know. Now that it's materialized, I'm elated entering publication with them.

Goose pimples pop everytime a writer friend or acquaintance mentions their work is being published or considered for publication. I cheer, and can't wait to add their new work to my growing collection. I'm liable to do a jig and have been known to air pump after hearing a fellow writer got the attention of an agent.

Then, the goose bumps crowded so close together that I nearly went into shock. The Burlington County Times sent a photographer to my home and did a photo shoot of me and other writers (Marie Gilbert, Joanne Costantino, Amy Hollinger and Jennifer M. Eaton) for the March 1, 2014 AAUW's Medford Branch champagne brunch, where we spoke about writing to benefit their scholarship program.

Writing became a part of my life on a new level now, with my home as background in the newspaper pictures. In one shot a ceramic knick-knack my daughter made accented our old coffee table along with the heart-shaped candy dish my sister-in-law had made for my wedding shower, and a party favor from my youngest daughter's wedding shower.

Sometimes the only thing I have in common with local writers I've met, besides honoring the written word, is that our efforts often receive scant reward. John Farquhar had forty-five of us laughing at the South Jersey Writers' Group's February meeting when he explained how excited he was to take on screenwriting again and make less money than he does now as a novelist and short story writer. Why is it so much fun celebrating the underdog?

It's thrilling entertaining writers in my no frills home. Boy, do I feel highbrow. The Inklings come to mind. C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien eat your hearts out because woman writers are also welcome in literary circles now.

E-books be damned for us luddites, who submit online in the cloak of night. I can't display between my bookends the anthology, "Strange New World" that includes Glenn Walker's short story which I remember coming through my critique session.

Looking forward to reading L.D. Davis' steamy romance "Accidentally On Purpose" that I just ordered. I'm also hoping Krista Magrowski will sign her short story in my copy of "We Walk Invisible" when it arrives. Sadly, the February issue of Cricket Magazine, with Victoria Marie Lee's short story I critiqued before publication, still eludes me.

Sorry to Juliette Haynes ("Tastes Too Good to be Healthy Cookbook") and Janice Wilson (Chicken Soup for the Soul: Shaping the New You"). Each of your books are on loan to family. And Marie Gilbert, get your trilogy out soon because I can't display in front of my living room lamp all the online interviews, articles, stories, blogposts and reviews you've done.

The tingling energy of kindred spirits is intoxicatingly fun. It's something you can't buy, like the written word, but can still bring into your home!

If I've forgotten anyone, please blast me in a comment below.

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