Foundation

So you want to know the story behind this place, do ya? How your grandpa was able open this quaint little bakery that your daddy is now in charge of? Well, come up here and sit on my lap and I'll tell you how it all began.

One day I was at work typing away on my computer when the phone rang. It was your grandma on the line and she told me that your great-grandpa Kevin wanted to meet with us at his office after I got off work. Not one for doing much after I put in my eight hours, I moaned and groaned a little, but I went anyway, naturally. Kevin dealt in wills and estates, so I was wondering why he wanted us to go to his office.

As it turned out, Grandma's family had a house in Tell City along the Ohio River that had been abandoned for some time. Some folks bought it dirt cheap and decided to turn it into a bed and breakfast. During the renovation, one of the workers found a peculiar little metal box hidden behind one of the walls and gave it back to the family. Inside the box was the last will and testament of Abner Obrecht, founder of a chair factory in Tell City. Also in the box were some stock certificates that the will specified to be left to his next of kin.

Now, Abner was an eccentric old coot from what I've heard; I never had the chance to meet the man. Lord knows how long that safe sat in that abandoned house. As it turned out, Abner's next of kin was your great-grandmother Julie. It appeared as though she was going to be the recipient of a nice little inheritance, except for one glaring stipulation in the will. As the acceptor of the inheritance she would have to establish her own commerce or service, in other words, become an entrepreneur. Now, your great-grandparents were not in a position to pursue this, so being next in line, your grandmother and I were offered the inheritance.

Let me make one thing clear, your grandmother is not one for change, and taking a risk that involved money is most definitely out of the question, so I really had to plead my case in order for her to go along with the idea. Your father and Aunt Emilie were still young, so your grandmother had legitimate concerns about college expenses and any medical expenses that may unexpectedly come our way. Your father was quite a rambunctious child and he made his fair share of trips to the emergency room. Did I ever tell you about the time he rode his tricycle down the basement stairs? Ah well, that's a story for another time.

After a lot of debate and hand-wringing, your grandmother and I decided to accept the inheritance. I had always wanted my own business and this was an opportunity we decided we just couldn't pass up. As luck would have it, or maybe fate, Eva and Daniel were on their way home from France were Daniel had just completed an apprenticeship at a local French bakery. I pitched the idea for us to open a bakery together and they agreed to the partnership. The rest, as they say, is history.

It took a lot of work, a lot of trial and error, and a lot of patience; but we got it done. We opened this little shop nearly forty years ago. It seems like yesterday your dad and aunt were running around the back room with pretzels in their hands. A lot of different breads have come and gone over the years, and some have been staples since we opened. None of us could have imagined this bakery would have done so well and we'd still be here. We put a lot of love into this place, made a lot of new friends and cherished memories. It goes to show that with passion, hard work, and doing things the right way, anything is possible; and that little bit of luck involving the inheritance didn't hurt either.

The Bakery

I was seventeen when I lost my parents. But, thankfully, a kind uncle pitied me, said I was ugly, but that I had a "spark" that the others didn't, and left me a great amount of money that I had to invest in some kind of business venture. He was a successful tailor, but I couldn't sew on a button or darn a sock, so I had to think of something else. I decided to open two bakeries in a nearby college town. The idea of bread, something so essential, comforting and nourishing tempted me. Maybe bread also reminded me of home and mother, she'd make bread herself: herb bread with chunky garlic butter, challah bread, pumpkin bread and banana bread.
I opened one bakery next to a lawyer's office downtown and the other on campus.
Now, the only think I knew about bread making before all this happened was getting out my white bread machine, dumping in the 'bread machine' flour mix and some water, and pressing button '2' for white bread. An hour later, I had my boxy bread with a weird hole in the bottom of it.
Let's just say I had a lot to learn as a store owner. I bought huge mixers and an oven and all the most modern stainless steel kitchen equipment on the market. I got a dough slicer, walk-in cooler, and ingredients: sacks and sacks of flour and grains and seeds, yeast, salt and bricks of butter for croissants and brioches. And I decided on the name Breaking Bread Co.
I liked the idea of being in the back, playing my own music, working magic with the ingredients, getting in a creation vibe, making an edible product I was proud of and that kept the clients coming back time and again.
I hired Lynn to work the register at my downtown location and Darwin for the campus one. I gave them keys to the bakeries, figuring if I showed them from the start that I had confidence in them, they wouldn't want to let me down and they'd perform optimally. Lynn had a nose ring and a smokers laugh and ended up knocking on my door every weekend late at night, drunk, and sleeping on my floor. Let's just say she didn't last long. I hired Karey to replace her. She was tan, with satin skin, and the male clients liked her dimples. All for the better. We liked to say she could sell bread to a hobo. And then, if fact, she did! We called that flax seed and buckwheat bread "Hobo's Harvest" ever since.
Darwin was a computer science major, an average Joe whose conversation was limited to cars and playing cards and his bowling league. He handled the campus crowd pretty well and came up with a "grasshopper toddy bread" after experimenting at his house with mocha and green food coloring that was a hit.
And making bread was easy! I got used to coming in at three a.m. and liked getting off at one o'clock, although I usually came back in around five to see how the store looked and if I was well stocked on product. I gradually introduced bagels and bear claws and sold kaiser rolls to local restaurants. Things were good. My bread was consistent and my best seller was my pain de campagne, a standard white bread round. I always sold out of croissants and several customers expressed the desire for coffee and a public restroom. What I didn't want, especially on my campus location, was for students to camp out and not buy anything, but sip coffee like zombies, stinking up the joint with their bad hygiene.
But, in the end, I bought a few wooden chairs and tables and bought an espresso machine and attracted a whole new crowd and surprisingly, the students who passed long hours with us ended up bringing a lot of joy to the bakery now turned cafe.
Things were going great with Karey, but Darwin was graduating and moving to Florida. So, I interviewed countless pimply faced young adults and finally decided on Clement. Little did I know he would turn my world up-side down.
He was very punctual and quick. If there was a pause between clients and had nothing else to polish or clean, he'd poke his head into the back and observe my baking methods.
He was critical: "You don't even touch your bread?" "There's partially hydrogenated soybean oil in the muffin mix," "you're using low-quality flour," and "what's up with the artificial green dye #40 in your grasshopper toddy bread?"
What does he know? Boy was I glad when the door chimed and he went back out behind the counter.
But, he was saying things I already knew somewhere inside of myself. I knew I should be touching the bread and I knew I should be more familiar with the ingredients of my products and where they came from. So, I decided that he'd help me in developing a bakery that was in harmony with life.
"Clement, where do we start?"
He showed me a local mill that ground fresh, organically grown grains. He showed me how to make my own bread starter and taught me how to give the bread the proper time to repose between sensual kneadings by hand. We installed a wood-fire oven and we started donating the unsold bread to homeless shelters. The bread that was a result of all this extra conscientiousness was extraordinary. I won several "Croissant d'Or" awards and people with gluten and wheat allergies could easily digest my slow-method breads! I had to hire a new staff in charge of shipping our breads all over the country. I gave seminars and talks on bread making and bought farm land dedicated to my "Urban Kids with Green Thumbs" program.
And I fell in love with Clement. He was just one of those guys that draws people to him with his calm charisma and I don't know why, for I'm much older than he is, but he fell in love with me too. Even though I wake up early as he sleeps and he works late as I sleep, we still have our precious Sunday's to be together, unless, of course, we're behind on special orders...

Reader Bite! Read-Aloud!

Thanks again to LISNews for pointing me to an interesting article. This one from The New York Times explores the value of reading aloud. So, Ditalini Press members - what is the last thing you've read out loud?

Days

Monday: Carrier of haze. The general reinstatement of efforts toward mortal industry.
The ethers hold sway as a weight against renewed vigor and rest.
Dogmatic is a word I will describe this day.

Tuesday: My spirit has risen up and decided to become a contender to enter the
arena for the remaining work week. I will stifle my ambitions a couple notches
to conserve for the long haul of the next 72 hours.
Stoic is a word for Tuesday.

Wednesday: The mid-life of the mundane terrestrial existence. Woes can be fought and
negotiated here. Treaties signed and wounds wrapped.
Tumult is my word for Wednesday.

Thursday: A day to look long. Scan the horizon. Point out the clustered band of
barbarians to your generals and pursue them. Look up, stare at the
solar disk for a moment. Glance mercury if you are lucky.
Assurance is the word for Thursday.

Friday: Flatulence and rest.
Comatose.

Saturday: Saturn's glory. Vigor. Release. Expression.
Creation-Recreation is Saturdays lifeblood.

Sunday: Passive? I just have not figured this one out.
Gods day of rest? Why do I feel Amish on this day?
Repentant is the undertone of Sunday. Quiet is also dominant.
A good re-centering day.

Days of the Week

Monday: A mustard seed in winter soil.
Tuesday: Peasant carts on the daybreak horizon coming into town from the provinces.
Wednesday: Eating a meal knowing it ends with you washing all the dishes and heavy pots by hand, alone.
Thursday: Between the scholar and the sage.
Friday: Shut in a library thinking of pink neon signs reflected in rain lacquered sidewalks.
Saturday: Victorian wooden toys lying on hard wood floor, vibrating to the sound of lawnmowers.
Sunday: Feet propped up on a table, chamomile tea, sadness at twilight.

Pharonic Linage

I am Oba Omo. Frail son of King Orsuku, the Scorpion.
My great King has parted and crossed the void.
It is I, in his stead that must proceed forward.

I hold a court full of personal retainers.
All my wishes are tended.
What I inherated is a suffocating burden.
It is a weight of empty wisdom that folds over me.
Father was a powerful King. I am emulating his
stature. I have much to attain regarding my physical
strength alone. If I can stand to the toe of the Gods,
I too will fight the Apis Bull, bare to a loin cloth at the
abbey of Sakkara.

I sleep restlessly, for there is urgency in my charge.
I know I will have little time for love in my reign as King.
My mother was Akiris, courier from the night sky, and
birthed my by the river, amid the reeds. The crickets and
frogs sang a cascade of sound as I arrived in this land.
Naked, from a zodiacal transit. The priests knew.

I am sprung from Sirius. I will offer corridors of
mystic pursuit into the faculties of man. The black land
of Egypt, a way station for galactic influences and culture.
Far am I, in truth, a ruler over this center of power.
There are factions invisible who are as giants.
Take caution here, a begger who's eyes lit with flame
may entice you to fits of ecstasy with one glance.

I have come to teach the Earth children something.
Even I yet do not realize what it will be.
The uncomfortable life I have chosen will
lead me on a endless quest.

It's Only Money

"Ms Petska, Ms Byrd, I brought you here today to discuss your Uncle Jim's will and the inheritance that you will both be receiving from it."

"Honestly, Mr Brandt, I didn't know Uncle Jim had included us in his will. This is a complete surprise to my sister and I. Right Beth?"

"Hell yes, Kit. I had no clue."

" The amount you will each receive is substantial, but there are some stipulations in the will regarding the release of these funds to you."

"What kind of stipulations?"

"Well, Ms Petska."

"Call me Kit, please."

"All right. As you know, Kit, your uncle was quite the entrepreneur. He believed in free enterprise and was able to amass this huge estate because of his success. He wants to pass this opportunity on to you, his nieces. Give you a chance to build a business of your own, with a little financial help from him. It's a great opportunity for both of you."

"That's wonderful. Don't you think Beth? Our own businesses. I could open the knitting shop I've always dreamed of."

"A business? But I already have a job. Why would I want a business?"

"Everyone wants a business of their own Beth."

"No, not everyone. I don't want one. I've never liked being in charge. I hate the pressure of being responsible for everything. I just want to put in my forty hours and go home. I want to travel and garden and feed the birds and squirrels in my back yard. Maybe volunteer more often. Couldn't I just do that with the money?"

"No, Ms Byrd. I'm afraid not. Your Uncle was very specific in his will regarding the use of your inheritance. Either you invest in a business of your own, or you get nothing."

"But why? Who says owning a business is more important than just living, just breathing every day? Why must everyone have a goal? Isn't being alive good enough?"

"Beth. You're being silly. Just take the money and we'll figure something out for you. You like to cook. You could open a restaurant."

"A restaurant? Are you kidding? I cook because it relaxes me. I volunteer at the soup kitchen because its fun and it feels good. What part of putting out cookie cutter meals for nameless, thankless people seems fun to you?"

"Come on Sis, be reasonable. There must be something you've always wanted to build, to achieve, to leave as a legacy. Like Uncle Jim did."

"Yeah. A family, a relationship, friends, and an appreciation for just breathing in and out every day. I've done that. I'm doing that. I want people to know that I loved them and that I gave everything I had to make life better for myself and for them. That's my legacy. A business is just money and I earn all I need at my job. I don't want the money Mr Brandt. Give it to my sister. Hell give it to whoever you'd like."

"But Ms Byrd, This is the chance of a lifetime and you're just throwing it away."

"That's your opinion. I've had a lifetime already and I don't need any more chances. I'm happy. Life is good. It's only money, only money."

Labels

I need ya'll to help me organize our posts. With each assignment we do, we need to put our names in the 'labels' area when we post. Use the name you go by here on Dit Press. I would be Katie Grace, Jeff would be Jeff Ircink, Garrett would be Parody, Marc would be Khaskoo, etc. .. Also, we need to put the TITLE of the assignment in the 'labels' area. Does everyone know how to create a label for a post? It's easy. There is a spot to type them in below the main body of every post you make.

And, when it's your turn to come up with an assignment, please give it a nice name. For instance, Eva's assignment was summed up as "An Inheritance" when she posted it. That would need to be our label when we all submit our posts. I will be going back into our archives to label all of the assignments that never got labeled. So, to make it easier I'd love for your participation from here on out. We HAVE to be consistent though, in spelling and hyphenation, etc...for instance Eva's new assignment needs to be named "An Inheritance". Not "an inheritance" or "An inheritance". Capitalization has to be watched.

Thanks!

Also, try to give your assignments nice titles. They need to be description and short. If you're not sure of what to 'name' yours, ask everyone else on Dit Press and we'll come up with the appropriate label.

Micro Week Of A Baby Boomer

This is based on my four, ten hour day work week. Monday being my extra day off.

Saturday: Yee Haw! I feel good! Watch the sun rise with my love.

Sunday: Yawn, stretch, coffee in bed. Sundays are gentle and sweet.

Monday: I love Mondays! M is for My day. Just me, some minor chores and whatever I want to do.

Tuesday: It's off to work I go, but I'm cool. I like my job.

Wednesday: Getting up at 5 am gets a little harder but coffee and a nice sunrise sets the mood.

Thursday: I hate Thursdays! That's my hit the wall day. ARRGGHH ten hours is a lifetime.

Friday: Filled with hope and anticipation, I plow through the day. After work I hurry to be with my Sweetie and then usually fall asleep by seven. I'm too old for this shit.

Philip's Mill

The paperclip sat by Philip’s side. Silent and motionless much like his mind. He stroked the computer keys with his fingers and gazed at the computer screen in front of him. Much of his life had become regimented and he wasn’t sure how long it had been exactly since his last stroke. The mornings saw him grind his coffee first thing, which he'd subsequently brew after a few pull-ups on the front porch and a short shower. Doctor Wells recommended Philip keep a diet free of caffeine, but Philip saw no other reason to get up in the morning than to smell and taste the varied flavors of his favorite brew. His bathroom walls stood out in a bright yellow, and Phil enjoyed speaking to them as if they were an entity that imbued a sweet summer joy that the rest of his apartment lacked. Now and then Philip considered his successful writing career as a youth, and how he might write and be published again somehow. These thoughts were always singled out as the kind that were dangerous and destructive to his mental health, by his friends, doctor, and family. But something inside Philip, this particular afternoon, had changed. He no longer wanted to fear the disappointment he felt would come with trying to write. So he didn’t want to try, he just wanted to write and accept the limitations of his poor memory and slowed cognitive function.

“Dear Sandra”

He began to write.

“I miss you, and I want you to come home. I’m feeling more like myself than ever and I really miss you. If you’d consider seeing me again I can assure you that I will let you speak and I won’t cut you off.

All my love,
Bill”

He began to tense up, feeling a new kind of uneasiness in his stomach.

I hate writing.

He stood and walked into the kitchen, slowly to enjoy the giant red rug under his toes. He felt misdirected. Philip was a sorrowful man. He took a banana from the counter and began to peel it as he headed back toward the computer chair. He sat and erased the last line.

Sandra and Bill had been apart for more than two years. Bill’s letters always went unread and Sandra had been in three relationships since they parted. She never thought about Bill and even went so far as to consider that he had never existed in the first place. Bill deemed Sandra a goddess, however, and realized that his only place in life was beside her.

Philip arranged his feet under his butt, to sit more closely to the screen. He felt drawn into his story already, which went far beyond his comprehension. He was surprised at his ability to find the keys and type steadily and without error.

“The mill where we first met is still standing.”

Philip pictured Bill in his mind.

... a bald man with a long mouth, hairy arms and plenty of pounds around the waist. Bill wanted to meet Sandra again, at the mill outside of town, to revisit the early days of their short-lived romance. The circumstances in which Bill and Sandra met were highly improbable, and for that very reason they had jumped into a series of escapades together which treaded upon both of their moral codes; but religious precedence went by the wayside as soon as they felt the magnetism of love. Sandra saw Bill as a gift to her for reaching out to her family again, in hopes of healing deep personal wounds. Bill saw Sandra as a reason to live and become a better man. They lived not far from each other in Malchese, New Hampshire when life granted them the unlikely meeting. Sandra was driving toward her father’s home one evening and discovered a new route to take. When she pulled off to the side of the road to get a better look at a bird that had been injured, she noticed a small sign in the field next to her.

“Old Mill 5 Miles”

She got back in the car and drove in the direction of the faded arrow. Bill was already at the Mill, scouting out the area for mushrooms, which he was never successful in finding. Sandra however, found a cluster near a pile of hay on the west side of the mill creek, and laughed heartily when she realized the stranger on the other side of the meadow had the intentions of finding that same cluster, but was carrying an empty bag. Bill made his way toward her without notice. His body led by his downturned head, eye-grazing the landscape.

“Hello there.” Sandra said, startling him.

“Why hello.” He chuckled and then quickly gained composure. It didn’t take long for his eyes to adjust to the light and take in Sandra’s fine figure. “Nice day.”

“For mushroom hunting, oh yes, perfect.” She raised up her arms declaring her skill in finding the fungal wonders.

“No way, and I’ve been looking for how long?” Bill held the clear freezer bag he carried up to his face, and peered through it meeting Sandra’s smiling eyes. He felt instantly enamored and yet perplexed by this woman. “You’ve been here before.”

“Just discovered it! When was this place built?”

They both looked toward the high gray stones where the sun was meeting the roof of the mill.

“It is old. I used to come here when I was a child, when the wheel was working. It’s a haunting thing to be here again.”

“I’m Sandra. What’s your name.”

“Bill. Bill Phillips.”

They took eachother by the hand and shared a beautiful Morel salad that evening ...

Philip stretched his arms out to his sides. He took a deep breath and caught the end of a yawn. His coffee was tasting a little cold now after having written for a half an hour, but it tasted better than ever. Bill and Sandra. Philip and Bill and Sandra. There was a new reason for Phil to get up in the morning, and it was something that could last, if he let it. All it would take is his computer chair and a mind to let the world around him surrender to the things inside.