Birch Alder was running late for her writer’s group coffee meeting. She hurriedly gathered up three spiral-bound notebooks, hoping one of them would be the right one, and grabbed her spring jacket and hat. Dumping the notebooks into the basket on the handlebars of her blue bicycle, she slipped into her jacket, pulled her hat down far enough that she hoped it would stay on, and hopped on the bike. It was just a short ride to the coffee shop where her group met, and she was glad, as always, that the first leg was downhill. She knew she’d feel differently struggling up the hill on her way home, but she was usually late leaving and hardly ever late getting home (except in the opinions of Hammer and Claw, her two cats).
She was the last to arrive at the writer’s group, as she — and everyone else — expected. The cup of green tea they’d already ordered for her was waiting in front of an empty chair. “Glad to see you made it, again!” said Roan. “We’ve just been having a debate, and you can settle it.”
“OK,” said Birch, breathlessly. She got settled, glancing briefly into the three notebooks to find that, thankfully, one of them was the one she had wanted to bring. “What’s the issue?”
“It all started when Pansy said she was feeling a touch of addubitation about whether her treatise on the role of household items made from maple in 19th century literature might be nothing but adoxography,” said Roan. “And since you’re tree woman, you’re just the person to decide one way or the other.”
Birch choked on her sip of tea, saying “I’m tree woman?”
“Birch. Alder.” said Violet. “And what was your middle name again, Birch?”
“Cedar,” Birch grudgingly admitted.
“Settled then,” said Violet.
“Just a second, there, tint girl,” said Birch. “If we’re going to start tossing nicknames around, I think we all qualify.”
“Tint girl?” asked Violet.
“Violet Redding? Violet AUBURN Redding? Tint girl.” said Birch.
“What about, um, the flower child and the bird woman of Albuquerque?” said Violet. “Pansy Rose Vine and Robin Hawke get nicknames too.”
Pansy and Robin giggled.
“Hey,” said Jane, “what about me?”
“Hmmm,” said Birch, “that’s right. “Jane Jones. That’s going to be a tough one.”
“She’s the secret identity,” giggled Robin. “Or the sidekick.”
“‘Secret identity’ will do, thank you very much,” said Jane. “Just because MY parents were a bit more sensible at baby-naming time doesn’t mean I can’t have a cool nickname too. But back to important business everybody. Is Pansy an upcoming leading light in the Albuquerque literary scene, or a mere adoxographer?”
Birch was reluctant to admit she had no idea what an adoxographer might be, so she pretended to consider the question. “Your prose is stylish and compelling,” she said to Pansy, “and when you turn your attention to poetry your imagery is so clear, too.”
“But am I wasting my time on something totally trivial?” moaned Pansy. “I thought it was so important when I started. Maple is so… so… agathokakological that I thought it would give such insight into the literature. But lately…I don’t know…”
“Agathokakological?” thought Birch to herself. “What’s gotten into this bunch today?”
“That line of thinking is just aerumnous, Pansy,” said Violet. “Don’t go there.”
“This discussion makes me feel like I’ve got alexithymia,” said Robin.
“But you’re more amadelphous than any of us,” protested Jane. “You don’t have to hold back, especially with us, Robin.”
Birch suddenly sat up straight. She looked hard at Pansy, then at Violet, Jane, and Robin. Then she burst into laughter. “Okay,” she said, “you almost got me. Where is it?”
Jane turned her laptop around to display the web page it she’d been looking at.
“Interesting words beginning with the letter ‘A’,” Birch read out loud. “Figures. I’m SO glad to be part of a writing group that’s so apolaustic!”
