Monday Coffee Klatch: Gardens and Slang

Welcome to today's Coffee Klatch! ☕

Where are we meeting today?

This is my favorite coffee spot in town. So far.

I've always loved a garden café. My favorite one in Hoi An overlooked rice paddies.

Lush. Green. Complete with a proper lotus pond (not visible here).

Mui Ne tells a different story. It's drier, so "lotus pond" gives way to "rock garden." 

But... a rock garden is still a garden, and beautiful in its own way. The one in the top photo has a magnificent mango tree in the middle. You can't really tell, though; I seem to have missed mango season.

In both pictures, I have a salted coffee on my table. What's your pleasure? Coffee? Tea? Juice? Or, if you're reading this later in the day... Wine? Milo? A sleepy cup of warm milk?

I promised Mondays would be about books and coffee, so let's get to the books.

This week I'm reading The Shepherd's Hut by Tim Winton, a well-known Australian author. I'm about three-quarters of the way through, and I genuinely have no idea where it's going. If you've read it, please don't spoil the ending! 

The story is a bit dark. Raw. Following a kid who's been through some rough stuff. But the thing that surprised me most wasn't the plot - it was the language. There's so much Aussie slang!

You know those books that seem to have their own dialect? (I'm looking at you, A Clockwork Orange... and you too, Terry Pratchett's Tiffany Aching books!) This is one of those.

I'm lucky enough to have several Australian friends, so I don't get completely lost, but I still find myself looking things up on a regular basis. Thankfully I'm reading it on my Kindle. Some of the more common slang can be explained with a quick underline. The rest? Google and my Aussie pals to the rescue!

For example: 

Flash = good, healthy, or in decent shape. 
Crook = "sick or unwell", or alternatively "angry, cross, or telling someone off"
Bricking it = being extremely scared/terrified

So... what are you reading at the moment? What makes that book unique for you?

Fiction Friday - The Test

The Grand Hall was clinically bare.

When Josie imagined this test, that's how she pictured it: a giant room, a Grand Hall, bare as bones with sterile white walls. Of course her mind's eye included one equally sterile testing cubicle in the middle of the expanse just for her. 

Now that the day had arrived, was she ready?

She thought she was ready. 

After months of extra classes and practice test after practice test? Of course she was ready!

She had to be. She couldn't let the family down.

She had passed every practice test, but some were a close call. Was it enough?

Deep breath. In ... Out.

Her father's voice rang in her ears, "You'll do us proud. I know you." His last words to her that morning. He meant to be encouraging, she thought. Or maybe not. Maybe it was the last ounce of pressure he could apply. Meanwhile, her mom was arranging a bundle of lychee at the ancestral shrine. Hearing her husband's words, she'd looked over with a smile and nod of agreement before bowing her head. They all knew she would make the family proud. But it seemed that Mom wasn't leaving anything to chance.

Her older brother had taken this same test five years ago. Naturally, he passed with flying colors, setting the bar high. He had called last night and told her it was, "a piece of cake! No problem!"

No problem for him! Mr. Perfect. Mr. Got-into-a-good-college-and-moved-on-with-his-life.

Josie shook her head. The yips were setting in fast. She felt the ¥100 note in her pocket and smiled. Grandma had said goodbye to her at the door of their apartment and pressed it into Josie's hand. In their loose farewell embrace, she leaned in and said, "However it goes, stop somewhere for an ice-cream before you come home, Xiao-Xiao," using her private pet name for Josie. 

Josie closed her eyes and moved the bill from her pocket to her bra, where she would feel it during the test, and pushed open the door to a normal-sized classroom with normal-sized desks, crowded with early arrivals.

Everything rode on this. But whatever the outcome, she'd have ice-cream afterwards. 

Friday Fiction Inspiration: I've lived in China and Vietnam for the past 10 years. I teach English to students from East and Southeast Asia. This story was inspired by the notable pressure placed on these kids before major tests. If you have any recommendations or writing prompts for future flash fiction, please note it in a comment below!

What's a Rainy Day Haiku?

Ocean waves roar in.
Clouds wring water from above.
Nowhere dry between.

 

Clouds in Mui Ne, where I now live.

Last winter, I lived through the wettest rainy season Hoi An had seen since 1964. November 2025 rewrote the record books. 

I usually love tropical storms. But after weeks without seeing blue sky, when even your plastic poncho never gets a chance to dry, the novelty wears off. 🌂

Then, somewhere in all that rain, I caught myself saying, "Rain, rain, go away, come again another day..." and realized it's basically the start of a haiku. From then on, every rainy day got its own little 3-line poem. Sometimes I'd try to capture the mood with a photo (if I could do it from indoors without sacrificing my phone). Other times, I'd create an image to match the poem.

Ironically, as soon as Hoi An's rainy season ended, I moved south... just in time for this region's rainy season to begin.💧 The rain here still means business; it just doesn't overstay its welcome. And living on a hill means no flooding.

So, welcome to my little Poetry Corner. Whenever the clouds roll in, they may leave three little lines in their wake. And if the weather inspires you, I'd love to read yours in the comments!

Re-Activating, Plus...CATS!

I'm Reopening the Blog!

🌟wild cheers and applause in my head🌟
actual, startling silence throughout the universe

Today is mostly... practice? Recalibration? Declaring my intentions to the internet? Screaming into the void? I have ideas (besides just Fiction Friday). More importantly, I have the itch to write again.

Also, the cast has expanded: There are cats. 😻🙀

In an effort to make this blog more accurately reflect the notoriously anal-retentive (Gen X represent!) organizational state of my life, there will be... structure.

aggressively smacks wire hanger against palm

If there's still anyone out there, I'd love to hear what you think.

Monday Coffee Klatch

On my free mornings, I usually end up in a coffee shop with my Kindle, so Monday seems like the natural day to ramble about reading. It could be a review, an excerpt I loved, something that annoyed me, or just whatever rabbit hole the book sent me down. (Disclaimer: Spoilers are entirely possible.)

Mostly, I need people to talk books with. My poor husband is the only available victim, and I can't get too deep into a discussion because I might spoil a book he may, conceivably, someday decide to read.

Any readers out there? You could become my sounding board.

Wednesday Poetry Corner

Last winter, during Hoi An's record-breaking rainy season, I started writing what I called "rainy day haiku," mostly as a way to preserve my sanity. (Or at least my temper.) Surprise! That 5-7-5 rhythm got into my head, and never left.
(This might also become a place to share poems I enjoy. We'll see.)

That said... this one's a solid maybe. I'm not historically much of a poetry person, so I reserve the right to discover that I've overestimated my commitment.

Fiction Friday

Business as usual. You give me writing prompts. I turn them into something unexpected. Honestly, this is the part I'm most excited about.

Notes to the Wary

Beaker (ginger) and Miefen

My commenting system was irretrievably jacked up before. I haven't tested it lately, so I can't promise I'll be able to reply to comments—or even comment back on your blogs if you leave a link. I will come visit. I just might have to lurk.

And naturally, any of these regularly scheduled programs may be pre-empted by life, travel, or feline intervention.

 Anyway...

The blog is open again!

Fiction Friday, Almost - Noir Twist on This Morning's Mystery

The scene was a massacre – white confetti littered the cold tile, spilling over the threshold into the next room. Whoever did this respected no boundaries. The roll’s remains, full of more holes than a politician’s alibi, slumped in the corner like a forgotten communion wafer stuck to the tongue of a sinner. Beaker sauntered through the carnage, tail nicked and bleeding, eyes saying he’d seen it all but wouldn’t talk. Somewhere under the bed, Sassy was lying low, and I had a hunch one of them knew exactly who pulled the first shred.

Beaker sniffed at the roll but made no eye contact as he left me to my work. I watched him leave, wishing I could interrogate him, but the timing wasn’t right. First, I needed to work the scene.

What I wouldn’t give for a good ol’ cup o’ joe right now. It was too early, and in my brain fog I worried I might miss something. My gut said it had been Sassy all along. The Sasquatch had a rap sheet of shredded toilet rolls – he’d even been caught red-pawed. But Beaker being first on scene raised red flags. Was he merely a curious cat? Or testing the evidence for his scent before I could bag it? He’d been acting strange lately, and word on the street was he’d been dipping his whiskers in something stronger than cream. Bias is poison in this line of work. Follow the evidence, or it could bury you.

The evidence:

Exhibit A: A blizzard of tiny, snow-like shreds – the wild abandon of this criminal! He had time to play and no fear of witnesses.

Exhibit B: Deep claw-holes carved through the roll – a bigger perp, heavier paw.

Exhibit C: The paper on the roll left useless, comet tails dragging from layer after layer – this cat had no conscience.

Exhibit D: Rust-colored smears on one end of the roll. Blood. Always blood.

The blood haunted me – Beaker was the only bleeding suspect. No question I needed my morning jolt of caffeine. He had been dragged into Sassy’s crimes before, but this level of carnage… It was too much to consider. Meanwhile, Sassy had made himself scarce. Not just out of sight, but without a sound. From a loudmouth? The silence spoke volumes. No surprise if he was involved, so I sealed the crime scene and went out for my hit of energy. Everyone has their vices, and this was mine. Sue me.

Cleaning up the scene later, I knew the truth: both collars were dirty. The old pro Sasquatch had the size and the history – massacres of this scale plus the deep claw marks. They called him Sasquatch for a reason. Beaker – the runt, the supposed innocent – had the blood on his tail. My heart sank. The golden boy had fallen. The whispers were true: sobriety wasn’t his strong suit anymore.

Will locking them up together set them straight… or just make them meaner? Time has the answers. But it doesn’t give them cheap.

Beaker, sniffing around the evidence

 Explanation: Yes, we have two cats now. Yes, this is a true story. However, to defend the innocent: Beaker's drugs are prescription, due to a recent rat bite. 

 

Writing Writing Everywhere

...Just not always here.

Yes, I signed up for Nanowrimo. And I'm doing well, right on track. I had my writing all "done" for the day (meaning I wrote enough words, and came to a reasonable stopping place, so I stopped writing and started doing other things) but I'm about to start up again this evening because of a sudden revelation...

I want to know what happens next!

At any given time I have at least two books that I'm reading - a book on ink and an e-book that I can read in bed in the dark. And this evening, when I have the time to pick up a book and read, I found myself wondering what was going to happen next to my character! That I'm writing! For Nanowrimo! And I was sitting here hoping that she'd do this one thing that I just realized she needs to do.

So I guess I'd better write that scene.

Anyway, that's where my time is going. But I was talking to another writer the other day and realized how much I miss writing flash fiction, so Flash Fiction Fridays will be coming back. Later.

One Year Death Free

...And that year was 2022.

I didn't want to jinx it, so I didn't say anything as 2022 ended, and then it was 2023, and out of my mind. Actually, that's not entirely true, but whatever.

As of now, I am uncle-less. 

As a kid, I had four biological uncles (brothers of my parents) plus three in-law uncles (married to sisters of my parents). Yesterday - Friday, Nov. 3, US time - my mother's younger brother died. I don't know any details at this point, but he'd suffered from Parkinson's Disease and probably other heart/cholesterol issues due to weight. 

Grief is different each time. Of course, an uncle is not as close as a sibling or parent, so I haven't been teary yet. (It almost happened just before writing this.) I just ran away to the beach for a break in the morning.

It's about a 10 minute bike ride, and I usually swim for 7-10 minutes. Today I lay in the sand for a bit after that. It was later than I usually go, so the sun was super-warm and the waves were a soothing background. While I was there, I realized that's become my post-death go-to. After I got back from my nephew's traumatic funeral in 2019, I went to the beach for a bit. After my sister's funeral, took almost a whole morning just sitting and reading. Dad, too. It really helps to clear my head.

ANYWAY! Uncle ... let's call him Devin. I was thinking that we weren't that close, and we weren't. We didn't stay in touch or anything, and that whole family is scarce on social media. But suddenly I realized that, growing up, he was probably the uncle I saw the most. Uncle Devin lived in the neighboring town to my mom's mom. So every Christmas, every summer vacation, we would spend time at Uncle Devin's house. Especially as Grandma got older, he and his wife did more of the hosting. They had a cool, split-level house, and the town's water tower was right outside. It was very tempting to climb, although we couldn't get very high up before the ladder was locked down. 

Uncle Devin has two sons, so the whole family was very into scouting. It was a boy-haven house, even with a zip-line from one upstairs window to the tree-house... DECADES before zip-lining was mainstream. They had an extra garage where he taught his sons how to fix cars. With a sunken pit so they could just walk down some steps under the car to be worked on.

He was fun, and funny. When Brett and I were road-tripping across Iowa, we stayed with them for a night, and boy, they got along well. Brett and Uncle Devin had first met at my cousin's wedding a year before, and after talking together, Uncle D gave me the thumbs up. It felt like getting approval from the cool uncle. Because that's what it was. 

Uncle Devin's approval meant something. I remember, at Grandma's funeral - she died at 101, so had everything planned out - my sisters and I sang Beautiful Savior. Afterwards, Uncle Devin, an impressive tenor himself, told me "You've got some pipes!" It meant the world. I don't sing much outside of church choirs, and only to myself these days. Not that he was stingy with praise, just that he gave it when you weren't expecting it.

This is life. Death happens. He was a good man, who left a good legacy. He will be missed.

And life will go on.

One calendar year without a death.

p.s. Blogger is doing its thing where I can't reply to comments right now, and I can't remember how I fixed it. I'm reading them! I want to comment! I'll get around to it eventually!