More work today! Yay, progress. Also, I'm still working on the story, but here is the photo!

 

The Electric Chair (Draft) -- I really need to post this today even though it will be extensively revised and a photo added

By Gina Giuliano (2026)

My mother has been gradually shedding possessions since 2022, when my father died. Recently she moved from an apartment to assisted living. One beloved item that remains in her apartment is the electric chair. This sturdy chair was an important piece of furniture when she was a child, growing up at the Axinn Farm in West Shokan. Mimmie, my grandmother was always interested in True Crime. The biggest story in the 1930s was the kidnapping and murder of Charles Lindbergh's baby. A man named Bruno Hauptmann was arrested and put on trial for the horrible crime. Mimmie never skipped listeneing to the case on the radio, and so my mother and her slightly younger brother Bud heard the details as well. In the evening they would act out the trial. Eventually, he was convicted and sentenced to die by electrocution. In the living room of their house at the Axinn Farm was a solid wooden chair, painted green in Mimmie fashion. My mother and Uncle Buddy would take turns sitting in the wooden chair, tying each other to it with a rope, dramatically pretending to be executed, while the jailer would pantomime pulling a big lever that sent juice through the body. The unfortunate imitation Hauptmann would jerk and flail while tied to the chair, eventually slumping forward, limp. Several years later my grandparents moved from that house where these antics took place and the electric chair was stored in my grandfather's sister’s barn. It stayed there over 60 years, long after my great aunt sold the little bungalow and barn, and incredibly, no-one disturbed it. One day many years later, Uncle Bud explored the old dilapidated barn and was surprised and delighted to discover the electric chair. Remarkably, it was not at all damaged by the leaking roof. On my mother's birthday, Uncle Bud visited her. He went inside and said, “I have something in my truck for you.” She followed him outside, wondering what it could be. He opened the back of his truck cap and there it was: the electric chair!

There are 3.5 weeks of classes left and then two weeks for grading and Spring semester 2026 will be done. I am looking forward to late spring and summer.

I have a cold! 😑

Many things I want to write! They will keep, I guess.

I wish I could write. Not just here, though I'm happy to be doing something, anything. I mean really write. I wish I could pour it out and wonder where it came from afterwards. I know it would help me. I blame it on limited time, but that seems like a cop-out. If I wanted to write, wouldn't I make the time? The same thing is true of drawing cartoons. I have an idea, but don't get my pencils (Tyrant Racist Uneducated Misogynist Pedophile is the idea; I dream of creating a design and silk screening tee-shirts). 

I am feeling profoundly sad. I am mourning my mother, and she's still here. I am thinking of my father as Spring, Easter and his 99th birthday approach. I think of myself, and others perceive me, as above average in brain power. It's not as if I'm naive, I mean I've always known how life is...but still, I feel profoundly sad about my parents, about this cruel march of time. 

The horrible political leadership and the various immoral policies they are pushing don't help.

March 30 was the 5th anniversary of little Rosie's death. 😪 

 I'm looking forward to doing three things during winter break: sleeping, reading, writing - in that order.

 I really want to write -- even if "just" here. But alas, no time 😞.

 Happy New Year!

I've been thinking about writing. I have some ideas and I want to start seriously writing again, but I'm not sure winter break will afford me enough time. I am not teaching this summer (for the first time in over 20 years) and that is when I plan to take a deep dive.

 I'm cruising along to the end of the semester. Feeling frustrated, because I never have any time. There is always something else to do. For instance, on Friday when it was warm, I so wanted to sit outside. But I didn't, because there was too much to do. Bob says I'd be a lot less stressed out if I retired. I know he is probably right, but I'm afraid of what would redefine me if I leave my job at the end of 2023 (I'll turn 62 during the Fall semester). I can't risk it.

Last week I had a dream that sort of included my father. My mother was in it, and he kind of wasn't -- but she said he was doing important paperwork.

Getting back to my frustration with time, I so want to have time to do some real writing. I want to say something profound about life. But instead, there are always essays to grade.

Today is the 20 year anniversary of this blog. It is also four years since Uncle Bud died. And -- yesterday, my father was gone seven weeks. Years ago bloggers would write up reflections about sharing a journal online on the annual "blogaversary," and sometimes I did too. I wasn't consistent, and many years I forgot the milestone. I don't feel much like reflecting today, except to note that blogger has been an extremely stable free platform for keeping this journal.

The first post of 2019. Will I post more than last year (30)? No idea, but since 2018 was my least active year since I started in 2002...how much lower could it go?

Something I've been thinking about: changing the novelette into first person. Would that make it better?

There has never been a time in the past thirty-five years when my literary shipyard hadn’t two or more half-finished ships on the ways, neglected and baking in the sun; generally there have been three or four; at present there are five. This has an unbusiness-like look, but it was not purposeless, it was intentional. As long as a book would write itself I was a faithful and interested amanuensis, and my industry did not flag; but the minute that the book tried to shift to my head the labor of contriving its situations, inventing its adventures and conducting its conversations, I put it away and dropped it out of my mind. Then I examined my unfinished properties to see if among them there might not be one whose interest in itself had revived, through a couple of years’ restful idleness, and was ready to take me on again as amanuensis.

As I have mentioned recently, I am currently reading volume 2 of Mark Twain's autobiography. Every sentence is a gem. What an insightful way to capture the inspiration that fuels creativity: amanuensis.

 Gina Loves Mark Twain (2007)