I heard the call: “Doctor! We need a doctor! CPR! Help! Does anyone know CPR?” and I choked.

If asked, never in bazillion million years would I have said I would turn away. Before tonight, I believed I was one of them….

I looked around the room, expecting someone else to respond.

The Literary Advance of Houston Champions of Literacy Series dinner, sponsored by the Junior League of Houston, was coming to a close. I was standing at my table, saying farewells to the copyeditors and publisher of my new picture book, Dance, Y’all, Dance, when the call rang out.

I jumped when the call rang out.

I was ready. I knew CPR. I could help….

And maybe, if the person who needed help had been within eyesight I might have flown to her side.

But she was out of sight.

In the hallway.

And there were loads of people still in the room.

“I can’t believe there isn’t a doctor here,” one of my companions remarked.

I agreed. In this vast pool of fully literate and deep pocketed attendees who could believe not one was a doctor….there had to be a doctor.

We continued with our conversation.

And moved onto other subjects.

I had pretty much forgotten the distress call when our goodbye group was interrupted by the arrival of one of the event organizers (one in the “know”).

“What happened to the person?” someone in the group asked. “Is he or she alright?”

We didn’t’ know the gender, hadn’t cared enough to find out, I Choked.

I heard the call: “Doctor! We need a doctor! CPR! Help! Does anyone know CPR?” and I choked.

If asked, never in bazillion million years would I have said I would turn away; before tonight, I believed I was one of them….

I looked around the room, expecting someone else to respond.

The Literary Advance of Houston Champions of Literacy Series dinner, sponsored by the Junior League of Houston, was coming to a close. I was standing at my table, saying farewells to the copy editors and publisher of my new picture book, Dance, Y’all, Dance, when the call rang out.

I jumped when the call rang out.

I was ready. I knew CPR. I could help….

And maybe, if the person who needed help had been within eyesight I might have flown to her side.

But she was out of sight.

In the hallway.

And there were loads of people still in the room.

“I can’t believe there isn’t a doctor here,” one of my companions remarked.

I agreed. In this vast pool of fully literate and deep pocketed attendees who could believe not one was a doctor….there had to be a doctor.

We continued with our conversation.

And moved onto other subjects.

I had pretty much forgotten the distress call when our goodbye group was interrupted by the arrival of another.

“What happened to the person?” someone in the group asked. “Is he or she alright?”

We didn’t’ know the gender—hadn’t cared enough to find out—let alone the ideentiy of this “poor-unfortunate-in-need-of-aide we had been so consurned about minutes before.

I was one of the “good Samaritans” or so I had always assumed. One of those who jumped ran, rushed to the aide of a countryman. Smug in this belief, I had conducted myself: passed judgment; heaped praise but when the call for “help” an honest call, a true call rang out, I ignored it…

What does that make me?

October 20, 2009 was the National Day on Writing!

And the day the National Gallery of Writing— “a virtual space—a website—where people who perhaps have never thought of themselves as writers—mothers, bus drivers, fathers, veterans, nurses, firefighters, sanitation workers, stockbrokers—select and post writing that is important to them,”—officially opened.

“Writing is a daily practice for millions of Americans, but few notice how integral writing has become to daily life in the 21st century,” notes the National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE) who established the National Gallery of Writing in an effort to “draw attention to the remarkable variety of writing we engage in and help make writers from all walks of life aware of their craft.”

The National Gallery of Writing includes three types of display spaces where writing can be found:

1. The Gallery of the National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE) represents a broad cross-section of writing hosted by the National Council of Teachers of English.

2. National Partner Galleries include writing that corresponds to a theme or purpose identified by National Partners participating in this initiative.

3. Local Partner Galleries include works from writers in a classroom, school, club, workplace, city, or other local entity.

Add your writing to the Gallery Collection:

Writers who “would like to share their craft and find a broad and diverse audience” are encouraged to submit their writing for inclusion in the Gallery. Guidelines are posted on the website: National Gallery of Writing website

The National Gallery of Writing is open for submissions/viewing/reading through June 30, 2010.

It’s 4:53 in the morning. I’m sitting on the toilet in my daughter’s Manhattan studio apartment clicking on my computer. I’ve come into “the other room” because I can’t sleep and I’m tired of lying in bed trying not to move while thoughts whirl like gazpacho in a blender.  I would be thrilled to have stayed in the cozy bed reading my book or writing down some of these ideas, but I didn’t want to turn on the light and disturb Lexi.  She deserves her sleep; she has to work in the morning.

I was sleeping, cozy on my side of the pillow barrier with my daughter’s familiar sleep breathing serenading me from her side. But something woke me. I believe it was the upstairs neighbor moving furniture around. Furniture moving  seems to be his hobby. His movements, like furtive hamster cage skittering overhead, usually begin at 6:00 am sharp.

I have decided he must work from home and compartmentalizes his day by moving furniture:  6 am, put up the Murphy bed or other sleeping platform and replace it with breakfast table and chair; 8 am, rearrange furniture to create office space; noon, turn space back into dining area; 2ish, reconfigure area into office; between 4 and 5, reopen the restaurant; around 7 create entertainment area; 9 pm, shove all moveable furniture to the edges of the space so there is room to pull down the Murphy bed or sleeping platform; rest, repeat, repeat, repeat. As annoying as this scratching, scraping, moving, shuffling seems, once identified, the sounds fade. Not as completely as the regular chiming of the Coo-coo Clock, but almost. Some Einstein theorized this phenomenon: Repetitive Noise+Pattern+Time=White Noise. The neighbor’s activities are Gray.

My daughter lives in one of three soldiers in a row, each divided into studio apartments. Sitting here in the bathroom trying not to make noise, I wonder: I can’t be the only one? In the studio apartments above and around me, are others hold up in bathrooms trying not to make too much noise? Or burrowed under covers with flashlights so companions can sleep? Have some of them created miniature “safe” spaces in their tiny studios with black out curtains and noise mufflers-perhaps under the sink…or in a closet? Is this apartment living?

I have an idea:  The tub takes up quite a bit of space. Why not remove it entirely. Lexi could get used to sponge baths, couldn’t she? In exchange for more room. The owner wouldn’t fuss, would she? Or, if we have to leave the tub, what about adding a waterproof desk area on one end of the space-with a prefab plastic chair and a pull-down desk? Surely in this city of millions of people living in millions of similar cubicles, someone has created one?

Please tell me: Over time Gray Noise fade to White, doesn’t it?

How much time?