Melissa A. Bartell – Page 5 – Modern Creative Life

November 22, 2016

Stewing by Melissa A. Bartell

(Part III of the Tea Series, follows Simmering)

David had his laptop set up on the kitchen table, where he was transcribing his latest poems into a word processing program, when Sarah draped her arms over his shoulders, hugging him from behind. “Dinner’s about ready,” she said. “How much more time do you need?”

“Ten minutes?” He made it a question.

“Perfect.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Are you putting my poem in the book?”

An agent had approached him after his last open mic night, and suggested he publish a collection. “I am,” he confirmed. “But only if you let me have my ten more minutes.” He was only half-kidding.

Laughing, Sarah pulled away from him, and disappeared into the kitchen.

It was actually closer to twenty minutes before they finally sat down to eat, and after tasting her baked salmon, Sarah wrinkled her nose. “It’s too dry,” she complained. “It stayed in the oven too long.”

David disagreed, “Seems fine to me.”

“No, it’s much too dry. And the green beans are mushy.”

“You’re too critical,” David said. “It all tastes fine.”

“I didn’t want it to be ‘fine,'” Sarah snapped, though the look on her face made it clear that she hadn’t meant to speak quite so sharply. In a more neutral tone, she continued, “I wanted it to be good. It’s my last day of work until the holidays are over, and I wanted things to feel festive.” She gestured to the floral center piece and the lit candles. “Special.”

“Sweetie, it’s fine. It’s special just because you cooked and we’re eating together.” When Sarah remained quiet, her hands folded in her lap, David continued. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

“You know my company has a cabin up at the Pine Lake Resort, right?”

David nodded. Sarah had mentioned the cabin many, many times.

“Well, every year the person who’s funded the most loans gets to use it for the holidays, and this year, that person was me. I thought we could go shopping for supplies tomorrow or Sunday and then head up on Monday morning, when traffic won’t be bad. It’s all decorated – the staff takes care of that.” She unfolded her hands, and brushed her hair out of her face, revealing bright eyes and a hopeful smile. “We could spend Christmas snowed into a romantic mountain cabin….”

David pushed his plate away. “Aww, I wish you’d told me sooner, Sar.”

“I only found out today. Is there a problem?”

“I always spend the holidays with my family. I just assumed you’d come, too.”

Even in the dim light of the candles it was clear that Sarah’s face had turned pale. “You mean, with your parents, right?”

“Yeah, with my parents. But also, my brother and sister and their kids, and my aunts and uncles and…” David finally realized that his partner wasn’t enthusiastic about his plan. “You don’t want to go.” His tone was flat when he spoke the words.

“I can’t,” she said. She rose from the table and carried her plate full of unfinished food back to the kitchen.

“Look, I’m sure you can reschedule the cabin,” David suggested, following her with his own empty plate and all the cutlery. “Or we can rent one, take a long weekend in January or February.”

“You should have asked me,” Sarah told him, flicking the faucet lever upward and to the left to start the hot water flowing. “I don’t… I’m not…” But her sentences remained incomplete, and when the dishes were done, she simply repeated, “You should have asked me,” before she fled through the bedroom to the master bath where she locked the door against him.

By the time Sarah emerged from her bath with damp hair and pink skin, David had returned to his transcription. When she tried to engage him in conversation, he ignored her.

* * *

The weekend had been spent in tense silence punctuated by too-brief conversations. By Monday morning, Sarah had re-confirmed the cabin for Valentine’s Day, and David had completed typing his poems, and sent them off to his agent for approval.

By Monday afternoon, they were packed and in the car, driving north up the peninsula, and across the Golden Gate bridge.

Neither spoke much during the drive.

Half an hour from his parents’ home in Inverness, David stopped the car next to a mobile home painted with the name, Knave of Hearts. “We’re almost there,” he said. “Are you done stewing? Can you tell me why you’re so upset about this trip?” He gestured to the trailer. “These people make the best currant scones on the entire west coast… I’m not above bribing you.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

Sarah smiled in spite of herself. “Do they serve decent tea?”

“More than decent.”

“Fine.”

The coastal air was damp and brisk, but inside the trailer the oven kept things toasty. Sarah settled onto one of the three stools fixed before the tiny diner counter, while David ordered cups of English Breakfast tea, served in handmade ceramic mugs with no handles, and a basket of scones.

Plied with tea and baked goods, Sarah opened up. “I’m an only child,” she reminded him. “It was just me and Mom, for most of my life. I have no idea how to be part of a family. I’m too quiet. I’d rather read than watch sports. What if I say the wrong thing? What if they hate me?”

David’s eyes were warm and his smile was gentle as he assured her. “They could never hate you. You’re the woman I love. More than that, you’re my muse. They’re dying to meet you.”

“Great, no pressure,” she snarked.

“Sarah, I promise… they’re really great people.”

“But what if it’s too much?”

“If you get overwhelmed, just excuse yourself and go out to the deck or up to our room. I’ll come with you, if you need me to.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said. “Okay,” she repeated a moment later.

“So, you’re not mad at me anymore?”

Sarah smiled around another bite of scone. She made a show of chewing and swallowing, then sipping more of her tea before she responded. “I’m not mad.” She reached for his chin and tickled him beneath the goatee he’d begun wearing. “I might even let you sleep with me in your childhood bedroom.”

His laughter repaired the last of the hurt and confusion that had been lingering between them.

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

Melissa is a writer, voice actor, podcaster, itinerant musician, voracious reader, and collector of hats and rescue dogs. She is the author of The Bathtub Mermaid: Tales from the Holiday Tub. You can learn more about her on her blog, or connect with her on on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter.

October 9, 2016

Sunday Brunch: The Ghosts We Choose

Copyright: captblack76 / 123RF Stock Photo

Do you believe in ghosts?

On the surface it’s a simple question, answered with a definitive yes or no. But before you respond, take a moment to consider: what is a ghost, exactly?

Are we talking about the literal spirits of our dearly departed?

Well, if those are real it would explain why I smell my grandmother’s perfume when I’m longing for the sound of her unselfconscious singing to her African violets every morning, or feel her cool hand stroking my forehead when I’m feeling hot and sick and feverish.

(She had such elegant fingers. Mine are short and chubby.)

That kind of ghost – the gentle spirit that guides and soothes, in the form of sense memories and inner voices, that’s the kind I want to believe in.

But, if we believe in helpful, loving ghosts, aren’t we then obligated to believe in the other kind, the malicious entities that seep into the walls with every argument, and linger in the backs of our minds even when we say that we’ve given and accepted forgiveness?

Can we pick and choose which ghosts we invite into our lives, and which we banish forever, doomed to the land of unresolved issues, empty CD cases, and unmated socks?

Maybe it’s just that it’s October, and my neighborhood is slowly being decorated for harvest and for Halloween, or maybe my mind is on the spiritual and supernatural because I’m involved in an autumn/horror project, but I’ve been considering ghosts a lot lately.

Specifically, I’ve been considering the ghosts we choose.

For me, those ghosts come in the form of memories.

A bottle of Clinique make-up, left in the medicine cabinet in my guest bathroom, smells like clay, but it also smells like Halloween, 1976, when my mother costumed me as Pocahontas and used her normal color to darken my fairer skin. (Cultural appropriation wasn’t a hot topic, back then, but even if it had been, my costume was an homage, not a mockery.)

Forty years later, that scent is so closely associated with my mother that when I see her and she no longer carries that aroma (because she’s long since changed her make-up routine), I have to stop and remind myself that she’s the same woman who bore me, raised me, and whose opinion is still, always, vitally important.

I catch a many-times-rerun episode of an old television show, one where the children in the fictional family are playing with a slinky, and I’m thrown back to my high school chemistry class, and the teacher who used the helical spring toy to illustrate wave forms.

The remembered sound of the whispering of the metal coils sends me deeper into memory, to my grandfather’s basement, filled with cobwebs, clutter, and a vintage oscilloscope. I loved to talk into it and watch my recorded words become a wavy line on the tiny screen, decades before we could use our smartphones or tablets to produce entire audio productions.

I see an antique hand mirror in a garage sale, or catch a whiff of homemade raisin bread, and welcomed ghosts use those overtures to visit me for a while, reminding me of special moments, and beloved people, some of whom are still with me – if separated by geography – and some who have moved on, beyond this world’s constraints of linear time.

Intellectually, of course, I know the other ghosts, the less welcome ones, still exist. Those are the ghosts that creep into our thoughts, our senses, in the bleakest moments of our lives.

I suppose, we must all, at some point, learn to vanquish them forever, but until we do, calling in the friendlier spirits, the positive memories – the ghosts we choose – keeps the darkness at bay.

Do you believe in ghosts?

I do.

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

September 11, 2016

Sunday Brunch: Hope Springs Trek-ternal

Live long and prosper.

Star Trek may have first beamed onto our televisions in September, 1966, but those four words weren’t actually spoken by Mr. Spock until roughly a year later, on September 15^th 1967*.

Like “Beam me up, Scotty,” and “I’m a doctor not a whatever,” it’s a phrase that has passed into the cultural vernacular of, not just the United States, but the entire world, and you don’t have to be a sci-fi geek or even a particular Star Trek fan to have heard them.

On the surface those words were just a ritual greeting used by a fictional culture, but in reality they embody the overall message of Star Trek as a whole. They are a message of hope.

It’s a message that has been part of my being almost since I was born.

I wasn’t an OT (Original Trekkie) having being born the year after the original series ended, but my mother is the one who introduced me to it, and I was among the first generation of kids to be raised on its reruns. As the child of a single mother, I found father figures in Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock, Dr. McCoy and Scotty. (Especially Scotty, but I don’t know why. Maybe it was the accent.) At the same time, Lt. Uhura’s warmth and grace made her feel like a sort of auntie to me, and when she was the one who solved a problem or got to be in charge, it gave me a glimpse of what girl-power could grow up to be.

More than that, though, Star Trek showed me – showed all of us – a future where all people were equal, regardless of gender or nationality.

Star Trek: The Next Generation was my coming-of-age Star Trek, launching as I was starting my senior year of high school, and ending around the time I first met my husband.

If the messages of hope and unity had been strong in the original series, in the first of its live-action sequels it was even stronger, extending beyond social and cultural equality to include more representation of women in STEM fields.

True, most of them were still in ‘caring’ professions, and also true, I had no interest in focusing on a STEM-related career myself (though I’d later find work in computer tech support), but just the presence of so many women in leadership roles, combined with the fact that Captain Picard was even more committed than Captain Kirk to the peaceful resolution of disputes, resorting to violence only when necessary, had a real impact on me, and on the world.

The later incarnations of televised Star Trek came at times when I wasn’t able to watch them week by week, as their stories unfolded. I caught a lot of Star Trek: Voyager when it was being run two episodes at a time on Spike several years ago, and Star Trek: Deep Space Nine was a relatively recent binge-watch (thank you, Netflix), but the enduring theme of hope is still present in both.

In DS9, that message is often sublimated by the hard truths of war and conflict, as it is so often in our real lives, but it persists even though the series represents Star Trek at its darkest. Conversely, in Voyager which is, at its core, a seven-year quest to get back home, it’s possibly at its strongest.

But it is always, always there.

In fact, DS9 cast member Armin Shimerman (Quark), in a panel at the Mission: New York Star Trek convention a couple of weeks ago, answered a question about that show’s starbase setting by stating unequivocally: “Starships do not make Star Trek. Hope makes Star Trek.”

And now it’s 2016, and every social, every cultural step we’ve moved forward seems, at times, to be counter-balanced by a step back. Darkness encroaches upon our lives through politics, through economics, and through civil unrest. Our media – especially our fiction – is filled with heroes and villains who seem to be locked in never-ending battles or filled with zombies, vampires and demons.

Don’t get me wrong; I love fictional horror as much as anyone, but when the darkness, both real and fictional, gets too intense, Star Trek is my safe space (and I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in this). Sure, I’ve seen every episode at least twice at this point, but every time, I find some new nuance in a performance, some new detail in the script, that adds depth.

If macaroni and cheese is comfort food, Star Trek is comfort-viewing, as much because of the familiarity I have with it as because of that message of hope.

Jonathan Frakes, William Riker on Star Trek: The Next Generation, has often referred to a conversation he had with franchise creator Gene Roddenberry, early in the production of the first season of TNG. “In the 24^th century,” Frakes quotes Roddenberry, “there will be no hunger, and no greed, and all the children will know how to read.”

If we have the power to choose our future – and I believe that we do – how can we not want the future where no one has to be cold, hungry, tired, dirty, or lacking in toilet paper?

How can we not choose the future where education is revered, and art and science are given equal merit?

How can we not choose the future that represents hope for ourselves as individuals, and for our species as a whole?

“Live long and prosper,” Spock utters on our television and movie screens, and in so doing he is wishing us hope. Hope for long, fulfilled lives in which we achieve success in whatever way each of us chooses to define it.

“Live long and prosper,” the words say, and in my head I have two replies.

The first is the ritual response, the one any fan would likely respond with automatically: “Peace and long life.”

The other is a line from Star Trek III: The Search for Spock. Commander Uhura says it as she beams her crewmates – her chosen family – to their starship to undertake a mission she will only join much later in the story. I used to think of it as a throw-away goodbye, but lately, I’ve found it to be more meaningful:

All my hopes.

The episode was Amok Time,* and it aired in the second season.

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

August 31, 2016

Simmering by Melissa A. Bartell

Simmering

(A Sequel to Steeping)

David pulled off his gloves and hat, stuffing them into the pocket of his coat as he entered the café. A quick scan of the area, and he saw Sarah at the table in the window – their table. Coming up behind her, he leaned around and ducked his head to give her a brief sideways kiss. “Sorry I’m late. The traffic signal’s out on Fifth. Why is it that a five-minute snowstorm makes everyone forget how to drive?”

Her answer came with an amused, but affectionate, smile. “Because it’s California, where a five-minute snowstorm might as well be a blizzard.” She paused for a moment before adding “I ordered the special – black bean soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.”

“Sounds great.” He draped his coat on the back of the chair opposite hers before settling into it.

“It sounded warm. The heat’s out in my apartment.”

“Did you talk to your landlord?”

“Left a second message this morning.” As if on cue her cell-phone rang. She picked it up, glanced at the screen. “Speak of the devil…” Into the phone she said, “Hello? Yes, this is Sarah.” The conversation was terse, and by the time she ended the call, her expression had gone from easy to perturbed. “You know what the worst thing is about cell phones?” she asked rhetorically, “There’s no way to hang up on people.”

“I hear you,” he agreed. “There was something so satisfying about making someone eat dial tone.”

“Exactly!” And just like that, her amiable self was back. “Anyway,” she continued, shaking her head as if to clear it, “the heat is out for my whole building and Mitch says it won’t be fixed until Monday.”

It was only Friday afternoon.

“So, stay with me.”

“David, that’s sweet, but…” She was interrupted by the arrival of their lunch.

“But what?” he asked, after the server had gone away again. “We’d planned to spend most of the weekend together anyway.”

She thought it over as she spooned soup into her mouth. “Alright,” she agreed when she was mostly finished with the first triangle of her sandwich. “I’ll swing by my place after work and pick up some things.”

“So, I’ll see you around seven, then?” He was dipping his sandwich into the soup, as he spoke.

“It’s a plan.”

***

The weather stayed cold all afternoon, and by the time Sarah arrived at David’s downtown bungalow a little after seven that night, the streets were patchy with ice and she was shivering despite the coat she wore over her sweater.

He had the door open before she could knock. “I heard your car. I had a late delivery so dinner will be a while, but I’ve got orange spice tea steeping, and if you want, I can pour a dollop of rum in to warm you up faster.” He ushered her inside, then demanded her car keys. “Sit by the fire. Get warm. I’ll bring your things in.”

Gratefully, she handed over the jingling ring. “There’s a rolling case in the trunk, but my laptop and tote bag are on the passenger seat.” She met his gaze and held it with her own for a few seconds. “And thank you.”

He responded with his trademark grin, the one that was both charming and slightly cocky. “Happy to do it, milady.”

Laughing, she stood on tip-toe, and kissed the tip of his nose; then she moved past him, heeding the call of the crackling fire.

The evening proceeded in a manner not unlike many of their quieter dates.

Sarah had accepted the dollop (how much was a dollop, anyway?) of rum in the sweet and spicy tea, and when David finally called her to the table and presented her with a plate of homemade coq au vin she was warm and comfortable and pleasantly buzzed.

“This is delicious,” she told him, using a hunk of rustic-style bread to sop up the last of the liquid on her plate. “I always thought it was difficult to make, though?”

He shook his head. “Not really. I used chicken breasts instead of an actual rooster, of course, and skipped the blood – ”

“- blood??”

“The original recipe calls for a cup of blood.” He saw the face she made and smiled sympathetically. “Yeah… not my thing either. But anyway, the secret’s in the simmering.” He said the last word softly, with a hint of innuendo.

“Simmering, huh?” She matched his tone, reaching for the glass that had long since supplanted her mug of tea, and swirled the red wine that remained in it for a moment. Red wine with chicken had been a new concept for her, but the Beaujolais David had served complimented the dish nicely. “Simmering,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Interesting word. Sometimes I feel like that’s what we’ve been doing.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve been dating for – what? – eight months? And it takes an apartment-related emergency for me to spend more than a night here.”

“Well, actually,” he pointed out, more for the humor of it than because it was meant, “you haven’t spent more than the night… yet.”

Sarah laughed again, but it was a throatier sound than her usual expressions of amusement. “Fair point.” They were both quiet for a while, and then she reached across the table covering his hand with hers. “This was nice.”

“Was?” His blue eyes glinted with affectionate good humor.

“Okay, it is nice.”

They laughed together, the soft, harmonizing laughter of lovers whose relationship was deepening without conscious effort.

***

The cold snap continued through the weekend, but neither Sarah nor David was much bothered by it. On Saturday, they wrapped themselves in sweaters and coats and took in a foreign movie at the local art cinema. They were the only two people in the theater and they took turns reading the subtitles out loud in silly accents.

Later they returned to his house, where they danced in the living room to ancient Motown tunes on CD and played a game of strip Scrabble that led to a playful romp in his bed.

Sunday morning found them in their bathrobes at the breakfast table. She was working the crossword puzzle, he was drafting a poem, and both were sipping coffee.

When a noise outside caused her to glance away for a moment, he set a small box on the table.

Sarah stared at the small square, and her face turned pale.

“Don’t worry; it’s not a ring,” David said, reading the panic in her expression.

With obvious trepidation, she lifted the lid to find a key, one with a tea cup for the key-head. “You can do that with keys?” she asked. “I had no idea.”

“Orchard Supply Hardware just started selling them this way.” He took a beat then asked, “You know what else you can do with keys?”

Sarah stayed quiet, letting him answer his own question.

“Unlock doors.”

She stared at the key, eventually lifting it out of the box, and rolling it in her hand. “You’re asking me to move in?”

David’s voice was slightly husky when he confirmed. “I am. Would you like to move in here?”

“This isn’t just because my apartment has no heat is it?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“You know I like to do yoga in the living room some mornings.”

He nodded. Of course he knew; he’d seen her doing it in her apartment more than once.

“And sometimes I leave panty hose hanging on the shower bar.”

“I can live with that,” he said. “I sometimes leave the toilet seat up.”

She gave him a wry grin. “I’m aware.”

“So?”

“Well my lease is up in six weeks.”

“Sarah… is that a yes?”

She looked into his eyes, then down at the key in her hand, and then back up into his face. “We’ve been simmering, David,” she answered. “Guess it’s time to turn the heat up a little.” Her grin was radiant. “It’s a yes.”

“Fantastic!” He pushed his notebook and coffee mug aside so he could lean close to kiss her.

She held him off for a moment. “But you should know… I’m not giving up my blue reading chaise.”

He was still chuckling when their lips finally met.

Image copyright: alexraths / 123RF Stock Photo

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

August 21, 2016

Letter to My Six-Year-Old Self by Melissa A. Bartell

Dear MissMeliss

Hi, this is your future self. I’m older than Mom is right now, so you might not believe me, especially since I have pink hair, and while you’re a fairly well-traveled little girl (you’re a seasoned pro at flying without an adult), I know for a fact you’ve never seen anyone with pink hair. Still, if you look closely, you can see the echoes of yourself in my face. Like the beauty mark on our cheek, or the way we both have really long eyelashes, or… well, look, just trust me on this one, okay?

So, if I’m timing this right you’re somewhere between six and seven years old. You have your windy wheat-colored hair cut into a Dorothy Hamill ‘short-n-sassy’ wedge, and you’re missing your two front teeth.

Remember that phrase – ‘short and sassy’ – the haircut will go out of style, but you will never be tall, and you will always be sassy. Or snarky. Although at some point you’re going to learn to think first and sass later.

No, really, you will.

You’ll also learn that making stuff up isn’t just something you do when you’re bored or lonely, it’s a skill you’ll turn into a livelihood someday.

But I’m not writing this to scare you with stuff from the future, because, let’s face it, you won’t listen anyway.

And who can blame you?

Instead, I have some advice for you about the now.

Your now, not my now.

Like, when you’re riding your red bike? The one you love to ride through the mud puddle in the vacant lot across the street from Mitzi’s store? Make sure you take really good care of that bike because it’s going to take you to some amazing places.

You’ve already gone beyond the mud puddles.

You ride out to Mrs. Godoy’s house some weekends with your friend Siobhan, and sometimes you spook yourself when you stay later than you’re supposed to and the shadows have descended through the trees on that one stretch of road right before the dirt transitions back to asphalt and you see the lion heads on the old hotel, and the awning of the ice cream store.

I know the shadows are scary, and we both know the Headless Horseman isn’t really following you, but it’s fun to be a little bit scared when you know it’s not real, so enjoy it.

And you and your friends made that trip out to the reservoir, even going on the highway for that one section… You had so much fun skipping stones out there, but then you realized how far you had to ride to get home, and you raced each other, making it a game so that you wouldn’t be afraid of getting caught.

You never got caught.

You take special delight in riding up and down the street outside the Maxwell House. I know you’re in love with the wrought iron trim that looks like the curlicues on a Hostess cupcake, but I also know that you can’t stop wondering if those ghost stories are true, and there’s a part of you that really wants to find out.

Face it kiddo, except when you want to feel that thrill, you’re pretty fearless.

I wish I could tell you to stay fearless, but the reality is that as we grow up and learn more about the world, fear creeps in. Not the kind of fear that involves Frankenstein’s monster hiding in your closet (I promise, Frankenstein’s monster will never be in your closet.) The kind of fear I mean, is the grown up kind about things like getting a good job and finding a nice house, and stuff like that.

Don’t worry, you’ve still got plenty of fearless years left.

Instead, I want to tell you to hold on to your sense of wonder.

Chase the fireflies when you visit Grandmom and Grandpop. Ride every wave you can, and pretend you’re flying while you do it. Watch the way the ripples freeze into the surface of the lake in the winter. When Benjamin comes to visit, climb up to the top of the hill behind the courthouse, and lie on the grass with him, and pretend you can actually feel the earth spinning.

Search for patterns in the clouds, whether they’re the kind in the sky, or the kind in the coffee Mom drinks.

As I write this, it’s pouring down rain outside my window, and I’m thinking about how much you love rain. In about three years, you’re going to spend an afternoon blissfully tap-dancing around an empty parking lot, and when the rainbow comes out after the storm, you’ll take the credit for its existence.

Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.

And until then? Read like crazy. When that boy with the freckles asks you if you want to ‘go’ with him, say yes. He’s really sweet. And, don’t be too mad at Mom when she says you’re too young for that Shaun Cassidy album. What she’s really trying to say is that you’re her little girl, and she doesn’t want you to rush too fast into growing up. (Besides, they’ll play his stuff on the radio all the time.)

So, the good news? You will never know a time when you are not safe and loved. You will never have to worry about where you will live. You will always have enough to eat.

The bad news? There are a few things that won’t go your way, but when you get older and learn about improvisational theatre, you’ll understand that what other people call failure is often just the gift of a new direction.

Ultimately, you’re going to end up with an awesome life that is uniquely yours, and you will love living in the future.

Pink hair and all.

All my love,

Your future self.

Image Copyright: waldru / 123RF Stock Photo

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

August 7, 2016

Sunday Brunch: August Nocturne

With the flip of a calendar page (or a swipe of finger on a smartphone) July is gone for another year, and it is August, my month. The first summer month when, even though the sun is still reluctant to set, the days are discernably shorter, and the nights incrementally longer.

I’ve always been attuned to the night. While some people are morning people, happy and chirpy at first light, the only time I typically see dawn is when I haven’t yet been to bed. I have never been afraid of darkness; rather I crave it.

I come by it naturally.

The night before I was born, there was a full moon and an eclipse. If that doesn’t lock you into a special relationship with nighttime, I don’t know what does. (Recently, I asked my mother if she remembered any of that, and she reminded me that she’d been a little preoccupied with being in labor.)

In any case, just as foghorns sang my first lullabies, the night was my first muse. Every night, after we spend a couple of post-dinner hours together, my husband and I retreat to our separate spaces, he to his man-cave (it’s his office during work-hours) and me to either the Word Lounge (my office/recording studio) or the bedroom (I like to write in bed). Around midnight, I text him the same question: “Bed at three?”

Most nights, my question isn’t meant to nudge him toward bedtime, so much as it is to gauge how much writing time I have left, because the wee hours, the ones between midnight and three in the morning are when I’m most creative. (Even this piece, that you are reading, most likely, while sipping coffee or tea on a sunny summer Sunday, was written long after dark, long after the time my neighborhood – and probably yours – had gone to sleep.)

(I’m fortunate that I married a man as nocturnal as I am. We don’t have a relationship that involves one of us cajoling the other into changing their habits, and we’re lucky enough to have schedules that mesh with our mutual nocturnal proclivities.)

While I don’t love the daytime heat, I do enjoy my afternoons in my pool, swimming laps or even just idly floating under the canopy of trees. I even enjoy sitting in the morning sun with a mug of coffee, or reclining on a chaise lounge with a magazine and a tall glass of iced tea.

But the nights – those soft, sultry, August nights – those are my favorite parts of summer. After spending June and July at my creative low, I emerge into the moonlight and starlight with renewed energy, and renewed inspiration.

During my childhood, the nights of August were filled with anticipation: my birthday, returning home from my grandparents’ house where I spent most summers until I was a teenager, returning from music or drama camp as a teenager, and the eventual preparation for school. They were also filled with magic: going to the beach at twilight, catching fireflies with my cousins, having late-night coffee ice cream and scrabble tournaments, enjoying the thrill of a thunderstorm, or even the occasional hurricane.

As an adult, I have to make my own magic, but over the next few weeks there will be time spent trying to catch the Perseid meteor shower (NASA says it’s going to be extra-intense this year, and the best date for viewing is August 12^th), and yes, my birthday, because you are never too old to celebrate yourself.

More importantly, there will be time spent communing with the night, when the starlight will sprinkle my soul with glitter, the moon will illuminate new ideas and help me find new perspective on old ones, and the darkness itself will soothe my soul.

Vincent Van Gogh once said, “I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day.”

I say: I’m a mermaid child, born on the night of a full moon and an eclipse, raised sand on my toes and salt-spray in my hair, and sung to sleep by seagulls and foghorns. The sea can never harm me, for it knows me as its own, and the night can never scare me, because I speak its language in my soul.

Image copyright: solerf / 123RF Stock Photo

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

July 10, 2016

Sunday Brunch: Processing the Unimaginable

There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is suffering too terrible to name
You hold your child as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable

My adopted city, Dallas, is mourning, and hot tears leak from my eyes at random moments. My heart is still sore from the mass shooting at Pulse in Orlando last month. My friends – gay, straight, cis, trans, black, brown, white, male, female, liberal, conservative, and those who fall into their own positions on a multitude of spectra – are all facing their own bouts of heartsickness, reacting either to events that hurt our communities, or other, more personal losses.

The moments when you’re in so deep
It feels easier to just swim down

We turn to social media for information, for solace, for the sense that even if we are geographically separate from the people we most love, the digital world keeps us together.

And learn to live with the unimaginable

And we are overwhelmed.

Or at least, I am.

It’s easy enough to switch the channel away from CNN or the local news, to turn off cable entirely, and step into the reality-free bubble of endless streaming episodes of “comfort television.” (For me, that involves Gilmore Girls, Star Trek: The Next Generation, and even, though some might think it odd, The West Wing.)

Much more difficult is disconnecting from the internet. I live so much of my life online that ignoring email is like ignoring a ringing phone, and taking a step back from Twitter or Facebook is tantamount to taking up residence in a cave in the wilderness.

But there are times when taking a break is the best thing, the only thing, I can do if I want to retain any semblance of sanity (and believe me, I use that term loosely).

And it’s then that I turn to music.

If my life was a movie, it would be a musical. I was singing before I could talk, and I often tell people that I think in music. More accurately, I think in songs.

My tastes are many, even eclectic, and my inner soundtrack varies often. Sometimes I blast classic rock, and other times, I find the greatest release in classical music.

Several years ago, when my nephew was dying, I listened to Melissa Etheridge’s cover of “Hallelujah,” Bette Midler’s version of “I Think It’s Gonna Rain Today,” and the gospel choir rendition of the Beatles’ “Let it Be.” A couple of decades before that, I got through the days after my grandfather’s funeral with endless repeats of Barbara Streisand singing “Papa, Can You Hear Me?”

I don’t pretend to know
The challenges we’re facing
I know there’s no replacing what we’ve lost

I turn to folk music and showtunes more than any other kind of music. I like them because they have the strongest stories, because they have accessible melodies and (usually) discernible lyrics, and because when it hurts too much to be myself, they give me characters to play, even if it’s only for three minutes and fourteen seconds.

I fill my head with music. I stand in the living room and sing. I dance with my dogs (Teddy is tall enough to be a partner, but he’s not good at leading).

I remember random snippets of things that matter – like Noel Paul Stookey (the ‘Paul’ in Peter, Paul & Mary) suggesting to a concert audience that all candidates for public office should be required to sing for their constituents, because while all adults are adept at lying when we speak, it’s almost impossible to lie while singing.

I watch as celebrity after celebrity releases a tribute song.

There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is a grace too powerful to name
We push away what we can never understand
We push away the unimaginable

I used to mock those celebrity tribute songs.

Now, I listen to them, and if I really like them, I buy them. Why? Because celebrities are just people. They’re ordinary people with extraordinary jobs, and writing a song, or joining a chorus of other celebrity singers is really no different than what I do in my living room, except on a grander scale with the potential to also earn money for a designated charity.

Forgiveness. Can you imagine?

The tears continue to flow as I listen to the song that’s helping me most right now. “It’s Quiet Uptown,” from the soundtrack of Hamilton. While it’s technically about Alexander and Eliza reeling from the death of their son, there’s a universality in the emotions of the song, and in the concept of pushing through the worst grief, accepting that the unimaginable happens, and coming, finally to a place of forgiveness and understanding.

Forgiveness. Can you imagine?

I’m not quite ready to interact with the world yet. I haven’t sorted out all of my own feelings about the last few days, and my emotions are raw and too close to the surface.

I do know, though, that we have to – all of us – as Americans, as humans – find a way to come together and move forward and make positive change.

Maybe we’ll do that with laws and policies, but maybe, just maybe, we’ll do that with art, and writing, and music.

Peter, Paul & Mary sang that music was “… better than words. It’s the only thing that the whole world listens to.” I believe they were right.

Forgiveness. Can you imagine?

Whether it’s angry-girl rock that helps us find our inner strength, a lullaby sung to a fretful or fearful child, or a silly pop number that helps us rediscover joy, even in the midst of sorrow, music is the language that lives in our deepest hearts.

Plug in those ear-buds or turn up that stereo. Choose vintage vinyl or stick with the modern technology that lets us hold entire catalogues of albums in the palms of our hands. Find the song that works for you, and play it on auto-repeat or pick it out on a piano or guitar. Sing in the streets or sing in the shower.

That’s what I’m doing.

At least for now.

If I’m quiet, if I don’t write strings of words about what’s going on in the world, but re-post the writings of a few other voices I resonate with, please understand that I’m still processing the unimaginable events that have hurt my community, my friends, and me.

Most likely, everyone else around me is doing the same.

Have pity
They are going through the unimaginable

Italicized song lyrics are from “It’s Quiet Uptown,” from Hamilton: An American Musical, music and lyrics by Lin-Manuel Miranda.

Image Copyright: joseasreyes / 123RF Stock Photo

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

June 12, 2016

Sunday Brunch: Circumnavigating My Imagination

“Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing – absolutely nothing – half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.” — Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows

I have this recurring fantasy that usually comes to visit around this time of year, when even though the calendar insists we have a couple more weeks of spring, the heat and humidity are adamant that it’s actually summer, and woe betide anyone who thinks a mere calendar can dictate the changing of the seasons.

My annual fancy is this: sailing around the world in a wooden boat. I don’t mean one of those race-against-time circumnavigations that are all about being the youngest, the oldest, or (likely in my case) the shortest woman to do so solo. I have no interest in breaking records or beating time. Rather, I envision the nautical equivalent of meandering through a botanical garden. I dream about sailing from place to place, spending a few days exploring this country or that archipelago, and then continuing on.

I’ve loved the sea since birth, of course. I’m a bathtub mermaid because I live five hours from the nearest coastline, but the scents of salt and tar and the feelings of wind in my hair and sea-spray in my face have existed in my memory for as long as I’ve had conscious memory, just as the sound of the surf is my favorite lullaby and the mournful groans of foghorns were the first tones I learned to duplicate on my cello.

My sailboat fantasy was launched because of a book I read when I was eighteen or twenty, so it shouldn’t be a surprise that books are part of a sequence of events that have become a summer ritual, of sorts.

First, I start devouring ‘ocean’ books. I don’t mean beach books. No Frank or Siddons or Hilderbrand or Monroe. I do read all those authors during the heat of summer, but when I say ocean books, I mean books like John Steinbeck’s The Log from the Sea of Cortez, Tania Aebi’s Maiden Voyage, Susan Casey’s trio of travel-journalism-meets-popular-science books, The Devil’s Teeth (about the Farallon Islands off San Francsico, and the great white shark population there), The Wave (about maritime science, climate change and rogue waves, and Voices in the Ocean (which I’ve just started reading for the first time, having just discovered it exists – it’s about dolphins). I also read the books by whatever contemporary teenager has attempted her own circumnavigation most recently.

I embrace ocean films as well – things like In the Heart of the Sea and The Perfect Storm, yes, but also the various Pirates of the Caribbean movies. Anything where ships and sailing and the power of the ocean is visualized, up to and including shark movies. (Not Sharknado, but definitely the original Jaws.) I’m not a particular fan of Nicholas Sparks’s novels, but I can watch Nights in Rodanthe and Message in a Bottle over and over, when I’m in sailboat mode.

Next, I reclaim my mermaid tail, making sure I swim for at least an hour every day. I’m a chubby mermaid, but I usually finish the summer tanner, and fitter, than I began it, and being in the water – even if it’s only my pool, makes me happy.

My pool time is enhanced by my vivid imagination. My backyard is kind of a jungle (because we are not DIYers and we’ve had a lot of rain) and the trees and flowers obscure the fence that surrounds my yard, making me feel like I’m swimming in a lagoon on a tropical island and the susurration of the balmy breeze through the treetops easily becomes the sound of surf.

Sometimes, swim-time comes with pleasant surprises: a sudden summer rainstorm (the kind with no warning and no lightning), birds alighting on the branches that form a canopy over half the pool, dragonflies showing off their colors. Most of the time, though, it’s just me, slicing through the water or bobbing in it, and letting my thoughts float free.

Finally, I try to make my writing and reading spaces as boat-like as possible. I’ve always wanted a captain’s bed (they make them in queen sized, which is what our current mattress is), but that wouldn’t be practical in the house we have, so I must content myself with our headboard, which has built-in lights and cabinets, and in my collection of nautical stripe sheets and summer quilts. I have scented candles in my bathroom that echo the aquatic scents I love so much, and the Word Lounge is filled with mermaids and seashells and toy boats. I even have special summer coffee mugs that feature starfish and seashells on them.

As the summer heat rises and falls, and then rises again, even higher, I flow in and out of my sailboat dreams. I’ve come close to booking a week on such a boat, but I never quite do it, because while I love the fantasy, I also know myself incredibly well. I’m the girl who never liked camping, and the woman who considers ‘roughing it’ to be staying in a hotel that doesn’t have room service or free wifi.

A few years ago, while visiting my parents in La Paz, BCS, Mexico, I couldn’t sleep – it was too quiet in the desert, even with the water only a couple hundred feet away – so I used the Tune In app on my iPad to find something comforting and relaxing to listen to. I stumbled across a podcast from RTE Radio 1 in Ireland: Seascapes. It’s part fishing and tide reports, and part maritime culture, and every episode begins with the host (who in my head is much older than he probably is in real life) calling out a cheery “Hello!”

For a while after that, I listened to the show every week. Now, though, I save the episodes for when I’m in a marine mood. I seal myself into my writing studio, light the candle that sits in a pile of shells inside a fish-shaped dish, and binge-listen while I write and sip strong black tea.

Isak Dinesen wrote, “The cure for anything is saltwater – sweat, tears, or the sea.” For me, it’s enough to circumnavigate the vast oceans that exist in my imagination, because the waves and I are old friends, and my blood is equal measures of seawater and caffeine.

Image Copyright: nickolya / 123RF Stock Photo

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

June 2, 2016

Steeping by Melissa A. Bartell

Tea by Olu Eletu

Her trench coat was spattered with new and old raindrops, and the cuffs of her jeans stained with mud when she entered the café. Looking around for a table, she noticed that even seats along the bar were full, and that someone had told the students they had to limit their use of space to accommodate the crowd. This was not unusual for a rainy day, and she was about to order her drink to go when a man in a fisherman’s sweater and corduroy pants beckoned her over.

“Join me?” he offered, rearranging the plate, cup, and silverware in front of him, and closing the notebook he’d been staring at.

She wove her away between people and chairs, unfastened her coat, and sat down. “Thanks for the rescue,” she said. “I didn’t really want to take my order to go.” She paused then, looking down at the table-top, then back up at her new companion. “I have to confess though: I know that I know you; I just can’t quite name you.”

He laughed, and she noticed that he had dimples in cheeks. “Sarah! Honestly! I’m David,” he said. “Your bike messenger.”

“Of course you are!” she gushed, embarrassed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in clothes before.”

“Do I want to know what that meant?” the server teased by way of a greeting, arriving at their table. “Your usual macchiato today, Sar?”

Sarah laughed. “I meant real clothes. Street clothes,” she tried to explain, both to David and to the amused server. “No… it’s so wet. A pot of tea, please. That tarragon mint blend.”

“Sure thing,” the server said, “For one or…” He let the question trail off into innuendo.

“Make it for two,” David put in on cue. “And I’m done with this cup.” He gestured to the half-empty espresso cup before him. “It’s cold now, anyway.”

“Back in a jiff,” the server said, turning toward the kitchen.

“I can’t believe you lingered here long enough to let espresso go cold, as busy as it is in here today,” Sarah ventured once they were alone again.

“I was working on a poem,” David confessed.

“You’re a poet? Are you published? Can I read your stuff?”

“I am, when I’m not wearing bike pants and delivering documents around town,” David answered, taking each of her questions in order. “I’ve published a couple pieces here and there,” he continued. “And as to reading it… the stuff I’m working on right now needs to steep a bit.”

“Poems steep?”

“Just like tea,” David said.

His smile, Sarah observed, was a gentle one, and his blue eyes danced with merriment – no – enthusiasm – when he spoke about his art.

“So, why are you a bike messenger, then?” Sarah asked, and then immediately apologized, “Oh, wait. Was that too nosey? I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “It’s a fair question.” He took a minute to compose his answer. “I like to be outside. I like to meet different people. I hate to exercise, but this way I get paid to do something physical… and the whole time, I’m writing poetry in the back of my head.”

“But you do put it on paper, right?”

“Eventually. When it’s ready.”

“I always wanted to write,” Sarah confessed. “I got pulled into the family brokerage before I even finished college. Now, Mom’s name is on our letterhead, but I’m running most of the day-to-day.”

“You seem successful.”

“How can you tell?”

“You’ve upgraded to larger suites in the same building twice in two years,” he began, ticking off points on his fingers. “The mood in your office is usually positive – even when there’s a problem that comes up, you and your staff are always pretty happy.”

“And that tells you we’re successful?”

“That and the fact that you’ve nearly quadrupled the volume that goes through our service.”

They laughed at that together, their voices mingling like tea and lemon – not matching but complimenting each other.

The server brought their tea at that moment. “Sorry to take so long,” he said.

“It’s not a problem,” Sarah said. “For me at least. David, do you have to be anywhere?”

“Free afternoon,” he said. He reached for the pot, one of those round glass ones with the infuser basket, but the server stopped him.

“It needs to steep, still,” he said. He left, then returned with cups and saucers, napkins, spoons, honey, lemon, and a plate of crescent-shaped cookies. “Have some lemon moon cookies,” he said. “On the house.”

“Thank you,” David and Sarah said at the same time.

They waited in silence to be left alone again, for the tea to steep, to see who would speak next. Finally, Sarah decided the brew was ready, and she poured cups for each of them. “It’s hot,” she warned automatically.

“So are you – oh, God, was that my out-loud voice?” David laughed. Then he shrugged, “Well, you are.”

“I’m not sure what to say to that,” Sarah responded, stirring honey into her tea. “Thanks, I guess.” She watched his face for a long while, then nodded once, and asked, “Would you like to have tea again sometime… maybe on purpose?”

David squeezed lemon into his cup of tea, then dropped the spent rind on his saucer. “I was about to invite you to the pub down the street.”

“Now?” she asked.

“Saturday. Seven-thirty. There’s a poetry slam. I’m reading.”

“I’d like that,” she said.

She sat with him for another thirty or forty minutes while they sipped their tea and ate the cookies (“Oh, God, these are heaven!!”) By the time they left, the crowd had dispersed and the rain had stopped.

The next three days flew by, but on Saturday she met David at the pub, and he introduced her to the owner and some of the regulars. The event wasn’t truly a slam, in the pop-culture sense of the word, just a night of original poetry from local writers.

David was last. When he took the stage he looked right at Sarah and gave her a cocky wink. “This one is brand new,” he told the people in the audience. “It’s called ‘Steeping’.”

Image copyright Olu Eletu via UnSplash, used with permission.

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

Melissa A. Bartell Melissa is a writer, voice actor, podcaster, itinerant musician, voracious reader, and collector of hats and rescue dogs. She is the author of The Bathtub Mermaid: Tales from the Holiday Tub. You can learn more about her on her blog, or connect with her on on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter.

May 8, 2016

Sunday Brunch: Miss Cleo vs. The Squirrels

It’s Mother’s Day in the United States today, and it’s Mother’s Day on Tuesday in Mexico. I don’t have any human children, but my husband often refers to me as The Mother of Dogs, just as I often refer to my home as the House of Bark.

So, in honor of the day, and in celebration of all mothers, whether they are raising human children, fur-kids, or some combination of the two, I want to share a true story from my life.

It happened in 2009.

It was a cold and sleety January day in the DFW Metroplex, with many of us indulging our inner ten-year-olds and watching the weather reports with one compound question on our minds: Will we get snow, and if so, will it actually stick?

In my back yard, however, there was another question to be answered: in the matter of possession of the patio furniture, who would win: Miss Cleo or the Squirrels?

I should explain a few things before I begin my story:

Miss Cleo was a twenty-pound spayed female dog. At nearly nine years old, she still thought she was a puppy. She also had an aggressive streak that generally only manifested itself with veterinary personnel, smokers, and strange men with clipboards who dared to ring my doorbell and provide repair services or present packages.

Second, a week before this incident, when we were at jury duty, we came home to discover that some animal had carved a bowl-shape the size of a Cool Whip container (the big ones) out of the seat of one of the patio chairs. (Lest you believe we aren’t taking good care of said chairs, please understand, we’d planned to replace all the cushions in the summer, anyway.)

And now for the fun part:

Round One:

It had become necessary to walk out into the back yard (at least to the edge of the deck) with the dogs when they were sent to complete their morning “rounds,” because my older dog (Zorro, 14YO neutered male Chihuahua) had, in his old age, become cranky and neurotic. He’d never liked to get his feet wet, and if he was not supervised, would go to the end of the deck, come back inside, and leave puddles in the middle of the living room floor.

That morning, as I escorted the dogs to The Place Beyond the Door (we could not use the word ‘out’ with Zorro or Cleo because they recognized it. This is a tradition that continues with the current members of the House of Bark), Miss Cleo and I noticed a small furry animal perched on the back of one of the patio chairs. It was large enough that at first I thought it was a stray cat, but it was, in fact, a red squirrel, with a mouthful of cushion foam and a cheesy grin. It gave us a wave, flicked its tail, and was scooting along the top of the back fence before Miss Cleo could even stop pawing anxiously at the ground.

Score: Miss Cleo – 0, Squirrels – 1

Round Two:

Not fifteen minutes later, we were all sprawled on the bed (well, the dogs were sprawled, and I was sitting, writing an article about the future of Saab for work), when Miss Cleo’s hackles rose, and she began producing that really low guttural growl that small dogs generally emit only when there is a rodent to be attacked. Or, you know, a sock. Or a leaf blowing in the breeze. Or someone walking down the street three miles away. You get the idea.

I glanced out the window, and sure enough, another squirrel – or perhaps the same one – was on the patio chair harvesting foam.

Miss Cleo and I went out to the yard to investigate.

I wanted to try and snap a picture; she wanted to play ‘eat the squirrel.’ Sadly, my camera batteries were dead (note to self: charge camera), but Miss Cleo went outside into the sleet, and approached her prey.

When she was two feet away, the squirrel glanced at her.

When she was one foot away, it stared balefully over the foam it was holding.

She hopped onto the seat of the chair, tail curled so tightly I feared it might never unfurl again, and then – and I swear I am not making this up – the squirrel threw a wad of foam at Miss Cleo. It bounced off my poor dog’s nose, and while she was shaking her head trying to figure out what the whitestuff was, the squirrel gave a shake of its tail and scampered out of sight.

Score: Miss Cleo – 0, Squirrels – 2

Round Three

Several hours later, I had just finished giving Zorro his evening drugs (Lasix and vetmedin), and giving Miss Cleo treats to help disguise the fact that Zorro was getting drugs (I’m sure he knew, but he was willing to play the game in order to get extra treats).

I escorted them into the back yard, which had become decidedly icy once the sun had set, and guess who was back? Yes! The squirrel! I didn’t think they were nocturnal, but apparently they really dug (no pun intended) the innards of my patio furniture.

Miss Cleo took off across the yard and the squirrel took off into the trees.

Miss Cleo jumped up onto the brick ledge that forms the back wall of the pool (and is about two and half feet above the water’s surface).

Miss Cleo learned that icy brick and dog feet are ‘unmixy things’ (to use a Buffy-ism), and went splash! into the freezing water, while the squirrel sat on the opposite fence, laughing.

It is a well-known fact that squirrel laughter sounds uncannily like Bart Simpson.

Final Score: Miss Cleo – 0, Squirrels -3
Squirrels FTW!

Neither Zorro nor Miss Cleo are still with me. Zorro went to the Rainbow Bridge less than a month later, a week after I brought home my first big dog, Maximus. Miss Cleo joined him in 2013.

The current members of the House of Bark, Max, Perry, Teddy, Piper, and foster-dog Madison never met Zorro (well, Max did, but the others didn’t), but all of them except Piper lived with Miss Cleo. She was always a prickly sort of dog, but she was my dog, and I loved her.

The squirrels remain, but ever since that winter, they’ve left the patio furniture unmolested, and none of the other dogs have managed to land in the pool.

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

*The episode was Amok Time, and it aired in the second season.

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

Simmering

(A Sequel to Steeping)

Image copyright: alexraths / 123RF Stock Photo

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

Image Copyright: waldru / 123RF Stock Photo

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

Image copyright: solerf / 123RF Stock Photo

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

Italicized song lyrics are from “It’s Quiet Uptown,” from Hamilton: An American Musical, music and lyrics by Lin-Manuel Miranda.

Image Copyright: joseasreyes / 123RF Stock Photo

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

Image Copyright: nickolya / 123RF Stock Photo

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

Image copyright Olu Eletu via UnSplash, used with permission.

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

The episode was Amok Time,* and it aired in the second season.