The Turkey Stories: A Short Story By Julie Showalter
I’ve made one of Julie’s1 short stories available below. Be aware that while Julie was sweet & funny, her short stories are made of sterner stuff.
To view Julie’s The Turkey Stories in manuscript form, click on the first link below:
View: The Turkey Stories
To download a PDF version of Julie’s The Turkey Stories in manuscript form, right-click on the next link, and choose “Save Target As …”
Download: The Turkey Stories
Footnotes
- Julie Showalter was the fiercely intelligent, sexy, and loving woman and prize-winning author with whom I had a outrageously wonderful 20 year marriage that ended with her death in late 1999 from cancer diagnosed the week of our wedding nearly 20 years earlier. Many posts on this blog are about her, our unlikely romance, and our life together, and still others consist of her writings. Information can be found at Julie Showalter FAQ. ~back~
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Stuff That Meets The “Aha, Of Course” Criterion
Design is a tricky notion. The concept is so malleable and ambiguous that many of us quickly retreat to the ultimate fallback position, slotting good design into that pithy but pusillanimous template, “I can’t define _______, but I know it when I see it.”
For my part, the criterion that signals good design is that Aha, Of Course Moment that occurs when I grasp how something provides a solution that is elegantly and obviously better than whatever was previously available. Occasionally, I discover no-brainers, a tool, a household item, a methodology, or whatever that not only triggers one of these Aha, Of Course Moments but also involves minimal fiscal, systemic, or physical risk (exotic autos & mountain climbing gear, for example, would not ordinarily qualify as low risk); in these cases, I sometimes, on a day like today, feel moved to spread the word.
This posting spotlights one such no-brainer and a related reading recommendation.
The Book Recommendation
The Design of Everyday Things by Donald A. Norman, originally published as The Psychology of Everyday Things in 1988, is less a how-to manual than an inspirational volume that can open the reader’s eyes to the pervasive effect of design on day-to-day activities. The standard example mentioned in almost every review is the author’s observation that there are so many doors that require a sign indicating “push” or “pull” (and sometimes “use other door”) although a basic criterion of a well-designed object is that it is self-explanatory. The down side of the book, in fact, is that it makes one aware of the ubiquity of design that ranges from poor to perverse, primarily because the creators did not understand the process by which the devices work. The result, all too often, is technology that forces users to function for the benefit of the device rather than the device functioning for the benefit of the user. Norman’s style is breezy and anecdotal, making this an easy but enlightening read.
The Aha, Of Course Recommendation
And what better place to read The Design of Everyday Things than on a chilly evening cozied up in a warm blanket – except it’s impossible to drape the blanket exactly right so that both essential conditions, keeping ones hands are free to manipulate the book and keeping the blanket wrapped around ones arms and neck to keep warm, are maintained. If that’s your problem, then this is your solution: blankets with sleeves.
Of course, the sleeves not only provide easy access to books but also to the popcorn bowl, gaming controller, TV remote, laptop computer, etc.
One of these blankets is a permanent accountrement to my favorite couch and has proven useful enough that I’m planning on buying a second for the bedroom. I’ve also purchased one as a gift, which is how I discovered that these also make dandy robes of the Harry Potter/Sorcerer’s Apprentice variety.
There are at least three manufacturers now producing these delights in a variety of colors, fabrics, sizes, and prices.
Ahem, On The Other Hand
While I think this is a great product, I would suggest that these companies spend a buck on decent marketing. Perhaps, for example, the Freedom Blanket folks could find a pose that doesn’t make their model look like an invalid.
And, the name, “Slanket,” at least for me, has a semi-lurid ring to it. I can imagine, for example, an exotic dancer named Suzie Slanket. I can also imagine that this guy is watching Suzie perform on his gizmo.
Credit Due Department: I first saw the Slanket at BoingBoing and found the Book Blanket and Freedom Blanket at Smart Stuff.
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Sumer Is Icumen In: Sunburn 101
With the approach of summer, my buddy, the Duke Of Derm (Dr. DOD), issues his annual warning to each of his patients about the dangers of sunburn. Because he carefully explains the reasons and risks as well as outlining precautions, has built a bond of rapport and trust with his clients, and takes a empathic, personal approach to healthcare, it’s not unusual for two or three patients every year to actually follow his advice.
For those who, despite the admonitions of Dr. DOD & his sort, suffer, consequent to exposure of the skin to ultraviolet radiation, an acute cutaneous inflammatory reaction (AKA sunburn), the Heck Of A Guy Blog offers, as part of our ongoing Sumer Is Icumen In series, this advisory:
Practical Management of Sunburn
1. Slather the afflicted area with massive quantities of potions. An ordinary kitchen spatula is useful in this regard (note: a spatula with a flexible plastic or rubber blade will prove less traumatic to already tender skin; trust me, do not believe your so-called friends if they advise applying sunburn remedies with, say, a cheese grater).
Begin with a base layer of a dermatologist-approved sunblock with an SPF of 30 or more
Sunblock will do nothing to heal the existent sunburn but, given that you have already ignored sunburn prevention advice, there is an excellent chance that you’ll choose to endure the pain to return to sunbathing before your skin has healed, and the sunblock may lessen further damage. Also, you could use the practice applying sunblock.
During the sunblock application, chant this healing mantra, “If only I had listened to the wise, compassionate, and not unattractive Dr. DOD and used this sunblock before I spent 18 consecutive hours on the beach … . I am such a dope. I will send him large amounts of money in small denomination, unmarked, non-sequential bills as penance; I will fall upon my knees – once they heal enough that I can tolerate kneeling – and beg him to allow me to continue to be his patient even though I am a foolish, ungrateful wretch who did not follow his altogether astute advice; and I will comply with his instructions henceforth and forevermore. Amen.”
This is a useful adjunct to the mourning process, amuses those observing you, affords the opportunity for at least eight people in the vicinity to trot out that “closing the barn door after the horse has escaped” bromide, and generally establishes your reputation as a schmuck too stupid to use sunblock.
Next, spread a layer of a cocoa-butter blend followed by a coating of aloe vera. 
One can eliminate redundant purchases by forgoing specialized lotions in favor of aloe-impregnated facial tissues which can be spread over ones body, affording not only the illusory benefits attributed to aloe but also direct protection from UV light and a stunning visual impact reminiscent of Christo’s projects.
While there is no medicinal value in these salves, the consequent odor and grotesque appearance will discourage anyone from touching you – or, indeed, staying in the same room with you.
2. As soon as possible, take a cold shower. Maintain good posture with knees unlocked and 
weight on the balls of your feet, breath abdominally, and raise your soft palate.
Proper body alignment enhances the resonate and tonal qualities of your screaming.1
3. For the first two days, make hourly forays into a ritual bath of chilled goats milk, supervised by an entourage of semi-obese men wearing togas. And maybe Birkenstocks.
Doing this will keep you out of the sun at least part of the time. Otherwise, we’re just screwing with you.
4. Palliative care is best effected by the use of ethanol-based products.
Note: these are not to be applied externally but must be taken by mouth and rarely prove effective unless taken in amounts large enough to elicit gasps from bystanders; Finlandia vodka, for example, especially if kept below 32 degrees, has proven useful in ameliorating this and many, many other situations with no side-effects more dangerous than those caused by sugar pills – if the sugar pills are given to a brittle diabetic.
5. Eschew the stoic Brave Little Soldier stance in favor of the Continuously Whining Wuss role. Do not needlessly take the risk that your friends and loved ones might not grasp or might forget the severity of your suffering. Use these universal signals of malignant sunburn:
- Moan with every movement, including those that cause no discomfort. You have a responsibility to avoid the confusion that will inevitably occur among members of your audience if you express pain sometimes but not others.
- Periodically draw back your lips in a death’s head grin, close your eyes as tightly as possible, and then inhale forcefully. A delightful reverse hiss should result. Once you have mastered the basic movement, you may wish to augment it with a hunching of the shoulders and/or shaking your head very slowly.
- Never underestimate the value of straightforward, reiterated complaints of discomfort, pain, abandonment by fair-weather friends, the perfidy of the medical community that chooses to waste resources on curing cancer, AIDS, and other name-brand illnesses rather than attend to creating treatments for sunburn, and cosmic injustice. These complaints must be frequently and repeatedly voiced, lest a new arrival to the scene miss the news.
6. If you have second- and third-degree burns covering more than 70% of your body, avoid rugby, full contact karate death matches, and nude frolics during sandstorms.
7. Be prepared with responses for colleagues and coworkers who make lighthearted jokes about or offer folk remedies for sunburn. Those of you searching for clever, diplomatic comebacks would be well served to view the “I’m gonna git Medieval on your ass” segment of Pulp Fiction for inspiration as well as to garner specific strategies and tactics.
______________________________
Footnotes
- Photo by matt_e via Flickr ~back~
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The Julie Showalter FAQ
Rather than respond individually to emails asking similar questions about the stories Julie1 wrote and my story about how Julie & I fell in love, I’ve composed a mini-FAQ at The Julie Showalter FAQ
A link to The Julie Showalter FAQ can also be found in the sidebar under Info Pages
Footnotes
- Julie Showalter was the fiercely intelligent, sexy, and loving woman and prize-winning author, with whom I had a outrageously wonderful 20 year marriage that ended with her death in late 1999 from cancer diagnosed the week of our wedding nearly 20 years earlier. Many posts on this blog are about her, our unlikely romance, and our life together, and still others consist of her writings. Information can be found, as noted above, at Julie Showalter FAQ. ~back~
Possibly Related Posts:
Julie’s Sojourn In The Wilderness, Part III
Julie Does Wichita Falls
Before leaving Puerto Rico, Julie1 somehow wrangled a part-time teaching assignment at a state university in Wichita Falls, Texas, a site she chose because it was in the same area as the postmarks on Philip’s most recent letters. The letters themselves offered little beyond the recurrent themes of Philip’s life having been ruined and Julie’s responsibility for that.
Once ensconced in her own apartment, far removed from the perpetual noise and confusion that had been her Puerto Rican experience and equipped with a reliable phone operating on cheap local rates, Julie made short work of discovering that Philip was working for a utility company in a nearby town, the latest of a series of temporary jobs our former English Literature professor had held, and arranging a meeting with him.
After less than an hour with Philip, Julie concluded that if he had a specific reason or purpose in leaving, he was unable to convey it to her. It was also clear that neither wished to continue the marriage. Both amiably agreed to a no-fault, self-filed divorce, each keeping whatever goods and cash then in his or her possession.
[Narrator's Note: My apologies. I can't stop myself from crashing through the fourth wall to ask, Is there anyone except Julie who doesn't already know that the Philip is going to use the divorce to somehow rip her off? OK, I didn't think so. Read on.]
The same day Julie was to file the final divorce papers and make the cursory but obligatory court appearance, Philip threatened to contest the proceedings unless she loaned him $600.
[Narrator's Note: Again, my apologies. We are all sardonically chortling over the needless pretense that this money would ever be repaid, aren't we? Just checking. There's still more.]
Rather than forestall the divorce, Julie paid what we later labeled her $600 Exit Fee.
While Julie was physically in court, Philip stole her car, leaving her a scrawled note that explained that he needed it more than she did because the divorce had caused him to lose his job. Neither the car or Philip were seen again.
Life Goes On
Unable to support herself on her part-time teaching salary, Julie found a job as Assistant Director Of Marketing at a local bank, a position with the chief responsibilities, according to her, of assuring that the Bank’s clock on the side of the building was set to the correct time and scheduling local school choirs to sing Christmas carols in the lobby of the bank. Not only was her increased salary gratifying but her boss was delighted to have a quick learner on board and happily assigned her more interesting tasks as she learned the business.
Best Of EST
Julie also began dating and, during a momentous weekend she spent with a psychologist, mentioned that he reminded her of a guy (this would be me) she had known long ago in a land far away. Twenty minutes later, the psychologist informed her that her discontent stemmed from not letting go of the illusion that she could somehow recreate that relationship, that she had to “let it go,” and that the way to accomplish that letting go was attend a weekend EST workshop.
He was quite persuasive. Julie agreed that she had always idealized our relationship and that perhaps it had affected her in ways she hadn’t realized.
Ever diligent, Julie indeed signed up for the two-weekend EST course, and, more than three years after we had last been in contact, began searching for me.
At the EST weekend a month later, despite the Trainer’s specific admonition that the EST experience was noncompetitive so that, he joked, there was no “Best Of EST,” Julie was, naturally, acclaimed the Best Of EST.
The highlight of the weekend, punctuated by a (literal) standing ovation, was Julie’s moving and tearful surrendering of the pathological hope that she and the man she hadn’t seen in years would make a life together.
[Previous Installment Of Julie's Story: Julie’s Sojourn In The Wilderness, Part II ]
[Next Installment Of Julie's Story: Meanwhile, Back At The Medical School]
[First Installment Of Julie's Story: This Is How A Love Story Began]
Coming Attractions:
Meanwhile, Back At The Medical School
Footnotes
- Julie Showalter was the fiercely intelligent, sexy, and loving woman and prize-winning author, with whom I had a outrageously wonderful 20 year marriage that ended with her death in late 1999 from cancer diagnosed the week of our wedding nearly 20 years earlier. Many posts on this blog are about her, our unlikely romance, and our life together, and still others consist of her writings. Information can be found at Julie Showalter FAQ. ~back~
Possibly Related Posts:
Julie’s Sojourn In The Wilderness, Part II
Puerto Rico As Hallucinogen
Julie1 arrived in Puerto Rico with a newly minted diploma that conferred upon her not only the degree of Doctor of Philosophy but also all the honors, rights, and privileges pertaining thereto; a University of Puerto Rico first semester schedule of classes she was to teach; her luggage; and enough cash to rent a hotel room for the night – if a hotel room in Puerto Rico didn’t cost much more than the Milwaukee Holiday Inn where she had stayed the previous year while attending a presentation on Dramaturgy In Victorian England.
(more…)
- Julie Showalter was the fiercely intelligent, sexy, and loving woman and prize-winning author, with whom I had a outrageously wonderful 20 year marriage that ended with her death in late 1999 from cancer diagnosed the week of our wedding nearly 20 years earlier. Many posts on this blog are about her, our unlikely romance, and our life together, and still others consist of her writings. Information can be found at Julie Showalter FAQ. ~back~
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Julie’s Sojourn In The Wilderness, Part I
From the moment Julie1 told me that she was leaving her husband to be with Philip, our lives changed in momentous, sometimes dramatic ways. Some of those changes, to be sure, were of the sort shared by everyone who was then (the 1970’s) completing an undergraduate degree, starting a career, and leaving home. And, I underwent my own share of transformations. Were the six years following Julie’s divorce announcement to be served up as coming of age pieces, however, my life would be a plodding Bildungsroman written in a quasi-Dickensian style by a third rate hack while it would require a Kubrick-Kafka collaboration to produce a movie depicting Julie’s life as it rocketed from the leaden misery of an unfulfilling marriage into chaos.
It took years of repeatedly hearing about these events from Julie and others for me to comprehend the bizarre, almost surreal essence of this period of her life and conveying that quality to readers via this condensed synopsis is an unlikely prospect. Moreover, the content itself is inconsistent. There were many versions of this saga, depending on when and to whom it was presented. I can, however, offer a selection of experiences chosen for their pertinence and set forth in as accurate a fashion as possible in hopes of communicating a flavor of Julie’s life during this time. The headings and sections that follow are, I believe, helpful in organizing this material for myself and for readers, but they are arbitrarily inflicted and are consequently misleading to the extent that they imply a linear flow to a period that was characterized by confusion and disorder.
The Divorce & Its Sequelae
Before Julie disclosed her divorce plans to me, she and her husband had already agreed to divide their property equally, manage the divorce on a do it yourself basis, and designate Julie as primary custodian of their child. On the day both were scheduled to move to their new homes, the husband fractured these arrangements, not only emptying joint accounts that were to be split between them but also abducting their daughter to another state. Julie initiated what proved to be an arduous, expensive, and frustrating battle to regain custody. In the meantime, the father soon remarried and started a new family, ceding custody of the daughter, de facto, to his own parents. The legal struggle climaxed four years later in a Texas courthouse when a local judge awarded custody of the child to the paternal grandparents, noting reprovingly that they were “the only parents this little girl has known for most of her life.”
Philip
[Note: I must acknowledge the obvious: I was hardly an unbiased observer of the relationship between Julie and Philip. I could hardly, in fact, be considered an observer at all, given that I learned of their affair belatedly, and soon thereafter Julie and Philip moved away. I have relied on Julie's version regarding events unseen by me.]
Before of knew of his relationship with Julie, I thought Philip was a pompous, histrionic simpleton. (Admittedly, I would have assigned similar assessments to a significant fraction of the faculty.) My opinion of him didn’t improve when he tried to list my official grade in his class as an A minus although the school didn’t recognize plus and minus modifiers. He did later apologize, confessing that the petty insult of the A minus was motivated by his view that I was a rival for Julie’s affections. It’s a testament to my feelings for Julie that I assumed she must have seen qualities in him I had somehow missed. It turns out we were both wrong. Philip was not the Nouveau Thoreau Julie perceived, nor was he the self-aggrandizing, not-too-bright small town pseudo-academic and all-around jerk I thought him to be.
Philip was, in fact, what discreet folks in a more genteel era would have called “unstable.”
The First Move
Julie and Philip moved to a college town in the Midwest where he claimed to have “connections” (his term) and job prospects. He accepted a position teaching secondary school while Julie enrolled in the same graduate school he had attended. Julie and I exchanged letters for a time, and I visited them once in their home, but even this tentative epistolary linkage attenuated and eventually dissipated.
At first, Julie and Philip seemed subject to no more than the routine hassles of a newly wed couple setting up housekeeping and starting new jobs. Julie, for example, was pursuing the custody fight for her daughter, Philip’s ex-wife pushed for more alimony, his son had problems that led to him living with them for a time, and Philip’s job was a demotion in status and pay.
The real difficulty began when Julie’s talents became apparent in graduate school. She quickly impressed the faculty to the point that she was found, ex post facto, to qualify for a scholarship that was not available to her when she enrolled. Her scholastic life there became a recurrent motif of prizes being awarded, accolades being bestowed, and hosannas being raised. And, of course, comparisons between Julie’s performance and Philip’s record at the same school a few years previous were made, to Philip’s disadvantage. Accusations by Philip that Julie was somehow seducing grades and recommendations from the faculty soon followed. His animated conversational style gave way to brooding silences.
After a year, Philip left or was fired from his teaching job and announced his plans to return to school for post-doctoral work. When his application was not accepted, he became increasingly morose and taciturn. His behavior also became ominous. For example, he once purchased, as a surprise for Julie, a large hunting dog that barked incessantly because, they later discovered, the dog was deaf. Within a week, neighbors complained to Julie, who relayed those concerns to Philip. On returning home from school that same day, Julie found that Philip had resolved the matter by shooting the dog in the head. He talked about leaving the trappings of civilization behind to farm remote property and write books in isolation.
While discontent grew within the relationship, Julie completed her studies and received not only her doctorate and a batch of awards, but also an offer of a well paid, tenure track position on the faculty at the University of Puerto Rico. While this was hardly an academic hotbed for someone with an advanced degree in English Literature, it was a steady paycheck, a chance to teach when faculty openings were rare, and, not insignificantly, an opportunity for Julie and Philip to get a fresh start in a semi-exotic locale that was far removed from their current home and the growing morass of their financial and emotional problems.
Consequently, the job was gratefully accepted, moving plans were made, possessions were packed, excess goods were stored, and finally the flight to Puerto Rico took off – with Julie sitting next to an empty seat. Philip had disappeared.
[Previous Installment Of Julie's Story: Oblivious, Part II]
[Next Installment Of Julie's Story: Julie’s Sojourn In The Wilderness, Part II ]
[First Installment Of Julie's Story: This Is How A Love Story Began]
Coming Attractions:
Puerto Rico As Hallucinogen
Julie Does Wichita Falls
Best at EST
& More
Footnotes
- Julie Showalter was the fiercely intelligent, sexy, and loving woman and prize-winning author, with whom I had a outrageously wonderful 20 year marriage that ended with her death in late 1999 from cancer diagnosed the week of our wedding nearly 20 years earlier. Many posts on this blog are about her, our unlikely romance, and our life together, and still others consist of her writings. Information can be found at Julie Showalter FAQ. ~back~
Possibly Related Posts:
Epiphany Of The Day
Let’s keep expectations in line — I’m more likely to be on Route 14 to Dominick’s than on the Road to Damascus. Of course, the flip side is that I do not (thank you very much) require being struck blind for inspiration; the local newspaper and satellite TV evoke revelations sufficient unto my purposes. Thus disclaimed, we press onward.
Today’s apocalyptic insight is in response to that all-important philosophical inquiry:
with its typically unspoken but omnipresent corollary:
Ready?
I Am Not As Happy As I Should Be Because Of
Unrealistic Role Models
A Vast Wasteland Wherein Dwelleth False Father Figures
The culprits are those TV widower-fathers.
Curse you, Steven Douglas; a pox on thee, Tom Corbett (AKA Eddie’s Father); and (of course) fie on you, Andy Taylor.
During my cohort’s formative years, the video population endured a pandemic of mysterious, unexplained fatalities of young mothers at the hands of TV screenwriters.
There is, it seems to me, something suspect about the premise that warm and fuzzy, let alone humorous, moments will necessarily and automatically spring from any situation in which a single man assumes the responsibility of raising children following their mother’s demise.
Nonetheless, when I think of single fathers (or surrogate fathers of the Uncle Bill variety), the first images that spring to mind are those from
- The Courtship Of Eddie’s Father
- My Three Sons
- Family Affair
- The Andy Griffith Show
- Bachelor Father
There were batches of these characters skulking about on various channels.
For example, Sky King 
was raising Penny and Clipper on his own when he wasn’t flying those Cessnas, Uncle Jed Clampett was sans spouse bringing up Ellie Mae and Jethro, after his wife died, Vernon Albright cared for [his] Little Margie