Dishing it out ... and taking it

   I belong to a local writers group that formed several months ago. Up to this point the purpose has been very low-key: we bond over a passion for expressing ourselves in words and encourage each other to keep doing so. Just finding the courage to share one's work is a major step for some in the group.
   Recently a group member asked if I would help her form a sub-group for those interested in giving and receiving critiques on their work. I immediately said yes. I feel sure I can give constructive feedback and helpful suggestions. And I've been on the receiving end of enough rejections to have developed a thick skin regarding my writing.
   Or have I?
   Rejections have always been vague and brief remarks from strangers, and were easily chalked up to commercial interest versus artistic quality. I did get an in-depth critique from a book editor years ago. Eventually his criticisms were a tremendous help, but initially, and for a long time, they really hurt, and that was from a stranger in a letter. Now we're talking about lengthy, specific criticism from fellow writers I like and whom I have to face at every meeting.
   I realize now that I'm not as ready as I thought. But I'm bracing myself mentally because I know the path to growth is painful, but necessary.
And now dessert. This passage marks the entrance of an important character to the Earthen Vessels story, Yovana.

Maggie was about to ask about the woman Luis had mentioned before, Yovana. Was she related also? But just then their conversation was interrupted by a woman’s shrill voice calling from outside.

“Luis!” she cried with a voice that could shatter glass. “Caleb Luis! Give us a hand here!”

The two men stopped chewing. Their eyes locked across the table. And together they hissed out a single word: “Vana.”

If she hadn’t known better, Maggie might have translated the word they’d whispered with such drama as a curse, or something to ward off evil spirits. Luis jumped up from the table and sprinted to the door. He had no sooner laid his hand on the knob than the door flew open and knocked him on the forehead.

“Ow, my head!” he moaned, pressing both hands against his wound.

“Caleb, are you suffering with those headaches again?” questioned the plump little woman who had just burst in. “Why haven’t you come to see me about it? But never mind. I have some medicine with me that will fix you up in no time.”

Salvador was stifling a chuckle and Luis gave a look of exasperation, but the little woman didn’t seem to notice. “I thought you might have at least helped me with my things,” she went on, as she dropped her bundles on the floor. “Didn’t you hear me calling to you?”

“People on the other side of the village heard you, I’m sure,” Luis grumbled, still rubbing the sore spot on his head. “But never mind, there’s someone here...”

“Ooh, this must be her,” she bubbled, turning her attention to Maggie. “Well, muchacho, aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“Probably not, Abuela , since...”

“You’re the foreign girl they’re all talking about around town, aren’t you?”

“Maggie Boyce. Nice to meet you.” She extended her hand.

“I’m Yovana,” the woman told her, and she took both Maggie’s smooth hands in her own rough and gnarled ones. “Now, the name I heard in town was Magdalena. You know we have a river named after you!” Yovana chuckled at her little joke.

Maggie did recall a thin blue line running through a map of northern Colombia labeled Magdalena. “Actually it’s Mary Margaret.”

“¡Oye!” Yovana said, even more excited. “El nombre de ella es ‘Maria.’”

“Vana, half the girls in town are named Maria,” Salvador said in an exasperated tone. “It is not a sign.”

“It could be,” the old woman defended herself.

“You’re starting to sound like Guadalupe Valdez.”

“And what’s wrong with Lupe, I’d like to know?”

Luis smirked and nudged Maggie. “A few months back Lupe found her three-year-old napping in the position of a crucifixion.” He demonstrated. “She thought that was a sign.”

“Especially since she’d named him Jesús,” Salvador put in. “Never mind that half the boys in town are named Jesús.”

Yovana tried to ignore them, but Maggie couldn’t help letting a giggle escape. Half of her amusement came from the initial image she’d conjured up of Yovana - a young, willowy lover for Luis. This woman was probably about sixty, squat, with graying hair and a broad smiling face. She wore a knee-length cotton dress with three different types of buttons up the front. It reminded Maggie of the housecoats her mother used to wear.

“Well, you probably guessed from the stir you created yesterday, we don’t get many outsiders around here. Once or twice a year a medical team comes through. I help them out when they come,” Yovana said with obvious pride.

“Are you a doctor?”

“No, she’s not,” Luis hurried to insert.

“What he means is ‘not exactly’..."

" 'Community Health Aide' is the name the medical team gave her."

Yovana nodded. "But I’m anxious to know about you." Yovana turned a bit sober. "Tell me, dear, where are you from?” she asked.

"She's from La Junta, Abuela ," Luis put in.

"It’s in Colorado. In the United States,” Maggie answered.

“And how far is La Junta from here?” Yovana asked.

“A few light years, I think,” Maggie answered.