Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

Write About the Most Fascinating Job You’ve Ever Had

~the following is part of “Prompted Prose,” a series of posts from the prompts I’m working with during my Spring 2016 online writing course

Wanting to learn how to spin wool, I found a sheep farm in Vermont, and began an apprenticeship with Lois and Babs. Lois owned the farm, offering me a modest, cozy shepherd’s room. Babs was the farm manager, caring for about a hundred ewes, and a select five rams, kept for their docile nature. No aggressive males were allowed on this farm, owned and run, by lesbians.

Lois had been married over twenty years, but she recounted an unhealthy relationship, which now had her “done with men forever.” Babs was kind, and down-to earth, with sun-browned wrinkles by her eyes, that winked when she whispered “the best kept secret is life after 50.”

My first day on the farm involved learning the protocols of moving in and out of the barn, and feeding the sheep. After the work was done, I left to go on a hike, returning before sunset to feed again.

When I opened the barn door, one lone sheep lay on her side, heaving in the aisle of the stalls. I ran for assistance, then returned to the sheep, which was gasping for breath as I held its head in my lap. I felt the weight of a 300-pound animal, heavy in my hands, then suddenly releasing to stillness in my arms.

Lois was convinced it was my negligence that had allowed the sheep to escape its pen, overgrazing itself to death. I was certain I had secured everything appropriately, but her doubt in me had me questioning myself. As a natural consequence, to what she was sure was my careless oversight, she insisted I assist with an immediate autopsy.

We loaded the sheep’s body into a wheelbarrow, and made our way outside. It was dark by now, and I was to hold the flashlight while Lois cut into the soft pink of the sheep’s belly with a carving knife. Within was a warm, red pool, housing flesh and organs. Lois’s hand gripped a mass of tissue and pulled forth the lifeless, wet weight of a lamb. In the beam of my flashlight, she reached inside again, bringing forth a second limp body. The sheep had been pregnant with two babies, both of which had died inside, never delivered.

In the sadness of the loss, I was suddenly vindicated. It felt good to be absolved, but I couldn’t forget the feeling of bitter anger Lois had shown in her quick assumptions.

We both tried to shake it off, as she quipped, “Well, welcome to the farm!”

courtesy of Sean Hurley
courtesy of Sean Hurley
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

Write About a Place

Maybe it’s foolish (it is April 1st). But I’ll be foolhardy. Maybe it’s cheating. But I’m the one making the rules here, anyway.

After completing the first week of my online writing course, I’ve found myself both inspired and challenged with my daily assignments of 300 words in response to a prompt provided by our instructor. I’m not used to reigning in my topic, and I’ve grown accustomed to writing as many, or as little, words as I like.

What’s arisen from the framework of these assignments has been curious to me. Enough so, that I feel I might as well share the work, here on the Archives. If the premise of For the Archives is to chronicle the everyday, then these pieces are reflective of what I’ve been crafting these past days.

Below is prose in response to the prompt to write about a place.

I stepped off the ferry, with a fresh scar, one ovary, and a backpack. I was twenty-three years old, and seeking healing, in my lace up boots and floor-length, velvet skirt.

I arrived in winter to an island that was just a speck in a smattering of islands in British Columbia’s Georgia Strait. It was the sleepy season. Days were cold and misty in the quiet village, slowing to the simmer of borscht soup.

The Raven’s Nest coffee shop was warm with locals in knee-high gumboots, huddling in worn chairs, and swapping stories over steaming mugs. Next door, the post office was just large enough to fit a counter and a shelf of recycled magazines, while the postmistress listened to Blues in the back.

 Morningside road led away from the village, tracing the edge of an ocean that lapped lake-like, no waves. The sea, so clear and still, reflected bright purple starfish sucking to rocks on the bottom.

Further up the lane, black crows squawked atop thick tree branches in filtered sunlight. Shingled cottages with smoking chimneys leaned in to old growth Cedar trunks. In the air, was the warm scent of burning wood. In the earth, the rich loam of humus releasing beneath my boots. Smoke and salt air. Moss and mushrooms.

If a fairyland existed, this was it. And as if to prove the point, a waterfall poured forth from under Morningside road, spilling into the ocean in storybook perfection. White swans, gathered at the gush in graceful groups, floating in the blue-gray sea.

I spent a winter walking that curative path, gazing long into the water beside me. On a lucky day, I may have seen the shining obsidian of an Orca’s tail, slicing straight up through the surface. Maybe even hear the bellow of whale breath, exhaling a puff into the cold air. Ancient and humongous. Humbling.

courtesy of David Stanley
courtesy of David Stanley
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Writing and Ripening

It’s day two of my five-week, online writing course. A “Boot Camp,” as it’s described, requiring five days a week of response to writing prompts, along with a weekly, 1,000 word assignment.

Thus far, I’ve penned nostalgic rememberings of my time on a remote island in British Columbia, and the less-than-blissful festival weekend I spent with a bunch of hipsters on Maui.

In B.C., I was looking for a place to heal after reeling from a surgery that removed my ovary. I was twenty-three, wandering in gum boots, in a fairyland of old-growth forest, trying to settle my soul.

Fifteen years later, I thought I was following more bliss when I attended a Maui music fest. Instead, I ended up questioning if I’d just gotten old. I couldn’t seem to jive with the communal, cuddle puddles, and I felt out-of-place dancing among women wearing fairy wings, shaking their hips in backless yoga pants. Subcultures do have their trends, and I was clearly out of style.

As my Boot Camp requires more writing from me, I’m hoping the Archives will benefit from the flow of words.

As for this morning, I’ll reflect upon the spirit of the season- rebirth, renewal, and new beginnings.

2016-03-29_cherries

The Bohemian’s Surinam Cherry bushes bear fruit. He grew these plants from seed, and they are now swiftly becoming an edible hedge in front of our outdoor shower. The cherries will, eventually, turn red, and be ready for picking, if we can just get to them before the birds.