Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Working Title

This year I tried what’s been coined a “staycation.” Instead of taking a holiday with family in California, I just stayed home.

When you live in a vacation destination, this seems like an obvious choice. But, frankly, I’ve never vacationed on Kauai before. Sixteen years of living on this island and I’ve always been working.

I’m on my fourth day of ‘off-time’, getting most of the day to myself while Jeb’s at school and the Bohemian tends to the trees.

So how many white sand beaches have I lounged upon? Have I taken jungle hikes leading through wild coconuts to cascading falls? Where has my island-style vacay taken me?

Home. Right where I want to be, actually.

Home is the zone that houses me, but never fully gets the attention it deserves, because I’m constantly leaving it, in order to work to pay for it. Therefore, I don’t really get to be in it.

This little pause in my work schedule has me in my domicile, happily sorting through cupboards, cleaning out the refrigerator, and organizing my desk. It doesn’t hurt that we’ve had a week of rain, removing any guilt that I should be outside enjoying a sunny day. No, instead I’m in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and making a steamy stew.

These household tasks (cooking, cleaning) I handle throughout the year (ok, refrigerator I lag on and the Bohemian picks up the slack). But typically, these chores are done while juggling a work schedule (and a multitude of other random, simultaneous details).

Oh, the pleasure of space found in a whole day to do what needs to be done. No weight of timing, a schedule, or outside obligations looming. An entire day to let the soup stew. An afternoon to move with ease between washing dishes, folding laundry, writing a poem and sorting the junk drawer.

And when Jeb comes home from school, he’s got my full attention. I’ve had all day to take care of my business. I’m ready to dive into third-grade fractions. Hear the details of his latest reading assignment, run through some flashcards. Heck, I’ve even got energy to go into the front yard with him and shoot some arrows with his new bow.

I’ve read about how in the 1950’s and 60’s American modern conveniences (and a booming economy) allowed a mother in middle class families to hold down the fort at home. It drove some to sheer boredom, others to pharmaceuticals. I’d like to think that some were quite content. In 2013, it seems a luxury for any family to have one parent not out in the work force.

Maybe I’m simply entertaining some artsy fantasy. This idea of taking care of my home, making food, raising my son, working in the garden – writing – everyday. The truth is, I already do all of these things – it’s just that they are in addition to a full-time job. I’m multi-tasked to the point of wondering if any of these activities ever get my full attention.

Maybe I’m only dreaming that a life dedicated solely to household tasks and art would fulfill me. But I realize it’s a vision I’ve had since I was a seven-year old girl ‘playing house.’ What was I doing in my make-believe world as I pretended to be an adult?

I was sweeping the floor. Dressing my doll. Spending time with the tomatoes. And punching the keys on my typewriter, making up stories about mermaids. Writing poems in my journal.

photo courtesy of Nancy Andrews - www.thisoldhouse.com
photo courtesy of Nancy Andrews – http://www.thisoldhouse.com

Did I know then what I wanted to do when I grew up?

Would I allow myself to wish for it now? Even after all of those Women’s Studies courses in college?

Can I dare to dream to be an artistic housewife? Neither starving, nor subservient.

Maybe.

Perhaps I could really live the dream – if only it had a better working title.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Phonetic Fun

I’m currently in ID limbo, the letters of my name spread out like Scrabble tiles in multiple locations. Who I am depends on who you ask.

Ask the bank and they’ll tell you I’m Jessica Dofflemyer. Ask my email account and it would say I’m now Jessica Spichalova. Ask Facebook and they’ll say I’m both (yes, FB let’s you have two names).

Being that I have a modest body of creative work produced by Jessica Dofflemyer, it seems I shouldn’t shake this moniker entirely. Yet, my heart wants to take my newly wedded husband’s name.

For nearly forty years I’ve tripped over the awkwardness of “Dofflemyer”. Teachers reading it aloud at roll call with twisted tongues. The many years of spelling each letter out to an infinite number of phone representatives. The small chatty comments the name elicits.

“Oh, that’s different. Where’s that from?”

“Hmm…never heard that one before.”

“Wow, that’s a long one!”

As a young girl I dreamt of shedding it through marriage – someone with an easy name of Smith or Jones. No need, ever again, to spell it out.

Alas, I finally have my chance at 39. Marriage and a name change. But oh, it’s not so simple.

Marrying a Czech man, I’ve chosen to honor tradition, take my husband’s name, then add the customary “ova” at the end. He’s Spichal, therefore I am “Spichalova”.

Dofflemyer to Spichalova? Clearly, I’ve traded one big, strange name for another. Though I must say, I do think Spichalova is quite beautiful. If only I could say it in the correct Czech pronunciation (due time, due time).

Spichalova

I know how these cumbersome names go. One has to be prepared to spell them out to strangers. Often over crackling phone lines. As I settle into this new title, it’s all about phonetics.

In the beginning was the word, and the word was good. Maybe it all starts with a vibration that is carried into the ether through sound. These labels we put on things, the names we give ourselves, they have a tone.

Over the years, I’ve mixed woo-woo and the practical, hybridizing official NATO telephony and making it my own.

You know what I’m talking about. A as in Alfa, B as in Bravo, C as in Charlie.

To begin spelling Dofflemyer, I know it’s D like Delta, but I much prefer Diamond. F like Foxtrot, okay. But I like Flower better.

Shouldn’t the words associated with our names ring of all things with which we resonate? Good vibrations, right?

X for X-ray? Practically speaking, a sound word choice, but frankly, if I had an X in my name I don’t think I’d want to radiate that into the cosmos with every spelling.

So now I’m sounding out Spichalova.

The Bohemian and I take a night-time car ride and play with letters.

“So S like Sun?”

“Yeah, I like that. Sierra’s the official word, I think. I like that too.”

“And P?”

“P like…purple.”

“Power is the first word that came to my mind. Too much?”

“Yeah, that is kind of strong.”

“I like Purple. Let’s just keep going. We can come back. So, S like Sun (or Sierra), P like Purple – hey, I just thought of Papaya.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“Ok, it’s a work in progress…moving on. How about I?”

“Hmmm…Ice?”

“Too cold. Probably couldn’t be heard very well, either. Could sound like nice or rice.”

“How about Island?”

“Yeah! I like that. Or Infinite! How’s that? Well, probably too many syllables. It’s bulky. Look how long the name is. Gotta get through the spelling pretty quickly. What’s the standard? India, I think.”

“Well, I like that too.”

And so we Scrabble our way through Spichalova, though to be honest, I don’t remember every match we found.

With something like this, one needs to be prepared. Have these matches memorized. You never know when you’ll be asked to spell it out. And there’s nothing like enumerating every letter and suddenly forgetting “L like…” In the pressure of the moment you may draw a blank. Sound like you don’t know how to spell your own name. Or worse, end up with the default “Lima” (no disrespect to Lima) until you remember Love. Ah, right, L like Love.

Would the world hum just a little differently if everyone was spelling their names out with the words of their grand ultimates? Would life ring a little more true if a Julie Andrews’ list of “Favorite Things” was conjured every time we shared our name?

And what is my name, anyway?  I guess I’m not choosing just one.  Still spelling them both out into the world.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

The Take-Away

I’m living the inverted check mark. The downward, sloping short end on the other side of the peak in the classic, narrative arc graph.

You know the one? It exemplifies the narrative structure of any good story.

chararc3

It starts with a set up. Introduction to characters, setting. Then there is that inciting incident. The moment that changes everything. Developments ensue. Challenges, complications. All leading to that pivotal dramatic high point of the story. The apex of the check mark. That climactic moment that the tale has been telling towards. It peaks with thrills, turmoil, excitement…and then…resolution.

The little downward stroke of the inverted check mark, this is the resolve. Revelation on how everything has fallen into place, post-drama. The “take-away”.

That’s me. Resting here in the take-away. The lull between sets on an ocean of activity, that perhaps, began with the set up on that fateful day I met the Bohemian back in 2011. The plot leading up that nice sloping narrative trail to the high point of our wedding day on 11-29-12.

It was a year ago that a loyal Archive follower said to me “everyone loves a good love story.” He was referencing my thread of posts detailing the vulnerable and exhilarating love that was blossoming between the Bohemian and I. At the time he spoke those words to me, I couldn’t even dare to hope I’d see the Bohemian again. That’s how fearfully I treaded through my heart opening. How cautiously I allowed Love into my life.

Now in the resolution phase of our storyline (at least this portion of it), I’m left with a mix of emotions of which I’ve been trying to find words for over a month. Not much has been written here of the fairytale ending to the unlikely love story. Why?

If one were caught swimming at sea in a series of enormous, crashing waves – a booming set, one right after the next, pummeling and frothing in all of their powerful might – how would it feel, to then find oneself in a pause? Waters calming. Waves just gentle. You, simply bobbing and catching your breath.

Everyone loves a good love story. And people just adore a happy ending. Somehow, quite surprisingly, I ended up with both. Maybe I’m just stunned.

What’s the take-away for happily ever after? I got everything I wished for and more.

At this resolution point of the inverted check mark, this narrator can’t tell you how everything falls into place. After living the dramatic high point, I’m still rushing from the adrenalin of experiencing something greater than myself.

Yes, I’m still breathing. No, words are not yet formulated.

And maybe. Maybe the take-away has an arc all of its own. Maybe I’m charting my own graph. Maybe, in due time, I’ll find a way to express it here to you.

 

* special thanks to author Hope Edelman for gifting me a simple breakdown of the narrative arc.  A basic guide for a lifetime of stories.