Today is a milestone. Although I cannot go into detail at this time, it marks a rebirth. I'm excited for it. The change is here. It's upon me now and I have no choice but to surrender to it. January 2010 was a month of preparation. But now, after over 15 months of slow blogging, few submissions, countless rewrites, I can now say with enthusiasm ... I am BACK!
That's not to say I didn't learn a few hard lessons during these past 15 months, because indeed, I did. One would think at my age the lessons should all be learned. But I believe God had a few more up his sleeve with my name on them.
Reading my own blog submissions from this 15-month time period, I hear the frustration in my voice. It grieves me. I grieve for the time lost. Yet, the reading and writing sabbatical was needed in order for me to get to where I am now.
I have not taken steps backward. If anything, I have moved farther ahead in my writing than where I would've found myself had I continued at the rate I was going. Confusing, I know. I ask myself, who cares? Nobody, probably. It's just that I know where I'm headed, finally. The journey I took to get to today has been a rocky one. But I'm here. I'm full. My cup runneth over with good things to come.
It's a new day. And I'm glad it's here.
Blessings to you and yours.
Monday, February 01, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Around The Corner
December is gone. (Good.) The holidays are behind me. (Yay.) Simple and rustic, they were relatively quiet. We spent virtually no money on Christmas 2009. A bit of baking, a trip to Atlanta to relax with family, and a small basket of goodies for my mother-in-law. It was one of those holidays that will be forgotten in time. Nothing much to remember, other than a "gift" from our son and daughter-in-law. A new baby is about to enter the family next year, right around my birthday. I suppose that news in itself was the best part of Christmas 2009. I look forward to holding that precious one in my arms come August.
I've been fighting asthmatic bronchitis since the holiday. Coughing my head off, it's been a bitch of a time getting well. But ... in between all of the above, the plan to write "full-time" is taking shape. The steps are small and the evidence of my writing doesn't seem like much, but it makes me warm and happy. I see my future. For the first time in a very long time, I see the opening to my long tunnel. The stories that have been floating around in my head this past year and a half are now getting to the page. Pages and pages of notes and outlines. Like ripe fruit trees, bulging with juice, just waiting to be picked.
But I've decided to take a whole new approach. An approach void of wishing and hoping for success. An holistic approach. Clean of the impurities caused by too much time spent on other "writer distractions." A simple plan. To read. To write ... and to never stop. Nothing else. Nothing less.
I will leaving the marketing, the promoting, the Facebook, the Twittering, the rest of Internet mania to my ever faithful husband. I produce the product. My job, my focus, my life's goal is within reach. It's now or never, and never is not an option.
I am currently working on final edits of my novel, Televenge. My story, Plastic Man, is in outline form. Three more stories are in process, for contests or submission elsewhere, who knows at this point in time. All I know today is that I'm back doing what I love to do the most.
So say a prayer, won't you?
Moving in and out of my old farmhouse has definitely taken a toll on me. Physically, spiritually, and financially. My emotions dipped, skidded, and rolled to a complete stop at times, but I'm feeling my old self come back with a new way of looking at things. I'm not old. I'm not dead yet. There's virility left in these bones, and by God, the passion of my life is about to unfold them.
I do wish you and yours the best of the best this year. I will dwell on many topics as this year's blog continues on a more regular basis. So stay tuned. This journey, now over fifteen years old, is just getting started.
Blessings to you and yours.
I've been fighting asthmatic bronchitis since the holiday. Coughing my head off, it's been a bitch of a time getting well. But ... in between all of the above, the plan to write "full-time" is taking shape. The steps are small and the evidence of my writing doesn't seem like much, but it makes me warm and happy. I see my future. For the first time in a very long time, I see the opening to my long tunnel. The stories that have been floating around in my head this past year and a half are now getting to the page. Pages and pages of notes and outlines. Like ripe fruit trees, bulging with juice, just waiting to be picked.
But I've decided to take a whole new approach. An approach void of wishing and hoping for success. An holistic approach. Clean of the impurities caused by too much time spent on other "writer distractions." A simple plan. To read. To write ... and to never stop. Nothing else. Nothing less.
I will leaving the marketing, the promoting, the Facebook, the Twittering, the rest of Internet mania to my ever faithful husband. I produce the product. My job, my focus, my life's goal is within reach. It's now or never, and never is not an option.
I am currently working on final edits of my novel, Televenge. My story, Plastic Man, is in outline form. Three more stories are in process, for contests or submission elsewhere, who knows at this point in time. All I know today is that I'm back doing what I love to do the most.
So say a prayer, won't you?
Moving in and out of my old farmhouse has definitely taken a toll on me. Physically, spiritually, and financially. My emotions dipped, skidded, and rolled to a complete stop at times, but I'm feeling my old self come back with a new way of looking at things. I'm not old. I'm not dead yet. There's virility left in these bones, and by God, the passion of my life is about to unfold them.
I do wish you and yours the best of the best this year. I will dwell on many topics as this year's blog continues on a more regular basis. So stay tuned. This journey, now over fifteen years old, is just getting started.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
December Post
Ah yes, it’s December. If there’s anybody out there who has been diligent in reading my blog, despite my once-a-month effort, I pour out my heartfelt thanks to you.
No excuses now, but a whole lot of new stuff is happening, and if you’re patient just a little longer … my blogging will be current almost daily.
A special shout-out to the Minnesota Magnolia Southern Book Club! Because of you dear ladies, I have resurrected HOPE … Southern Fried Women is still out there, and among some circles has become a cult classic! I’m thrilled. And honored. I’d be most happy to speak to your group when you’re ready!
Although this Christmas is probably the most simple and uncomplicated Christmas I’ve ever experienced, my heart is in full bloom. Michael and I are about to step into a new chapter of our lives, and for me this includes writing/publishing/promoting on a major scale.
The new house is cozy, warm, and we’re loving it. It has become home, which is shocking to us after leaving the farmhouse. But we feel confident in our direction and know that God is watching out for us. Life is good, not perfect, but whose is? Eh? Still, I’m excited and ready to blast forward into this New Year.
I see great and awesome things ahead.
To anyone out there reading this, a Blessed Christmas to you and yours -- and a prosperous New Year.
Thanks, y'all ... for reading.
No excuses now, but a whole lot of new stuff is happening, and if you’re patient just a little longer … my blogging will be current almost daily.
A special shout-out to the Minnesota Magnolia Southern Book Club! Because of you dear ladies, I have resurrected HOPE … Southern Fried Women is still out there, and among some circles has become a cult classic! I’m thrilled. And honored. I’d be most happy to speak to your group when you’re ready!
Although this Christmas is probably the most simple and uncomplicated Christmas I’ve ever experienced, my heart is in full bloom. Michael and I are about to step into a new chapter of our lives, and for me this includes writing/publishing/promoting on a major scale.
The new house is cozy, warm, and we’re loving it. It has become home, which is shocking to us after leaving the farmhouse. But we feel confident in our direction and know that God is watching out for us. Life is good, not perfect, but whose is? Eh? Still, I’m excited and ready to blast forward into this New Year.
I see great and awesome things ahead.
To anyone out there reading this, a Blessed Christmas to you and yours -- and a prosperous New Year.
Thanks, y'all ... for reading.
Monday, November 02, 2009
A New Adventure
Gone are my hardwood floors, my large front and back porches, my arbors, and my gardens. My new front porch is a good size for a little house. I have a nice deck out back, but there’s linoleum in the kitchen and bathrooms and I’m back to wall-to-wall carpet.
Gone is my country view on all four sides. My new neighborhood is full of well-maintained little houses and lawns, but there are lots of dogs and kids and basketball hoops.
Gone are my big spare bedrooms. My new house has one spare room with a queen-size bed that has to share its space with Mike’s desk. The smallest bedroom is my new office.
Gone is the three-car Morton barn building, the three-compartment out-building, and the potting shed. My new house has a utility shed in the back yard and a single-car garage.
Gone is Michael's weekly three-hour two-acre mowing, now he’s looking at a half hour … maybe … to cut the sweet little back and front yard.
Gone is my five-minute commute to work. Thirty minutes might get me there on time … at least for now.
Gone are my spacious bathrooms. I think I can turn around in both new bathrooms. I think.
Gone is my pantry, my laundry room. Now they are one in the same.
Gone are the six fireplaces, old wood mantels, and unique wooden walls and ceilings. My new house has one wood-burning fireplace and beautiful stonework, but the walls are drywall, the ceilings – popcorn. But clean. Clean is good, right?
Gone is my country kitchen. Hello range that needs replaced, and pink Formica countertops.
But halleluiah, also GONE is the monster mortgage payment. Ginormous heating bills. Stressing over the economy. Time to make changes, sacrifices, and move forward. To a new dream. A new adventure, as my sister put it. A move back to Ohio in five years, to be near our children, grandchildren, and to build a new house. A new house that’s every bit as beautiful as the Farmhouse. Our current temporary, smaller, cheaper house is part of making that dream come true.
I’m grateful for it.
A Southern Fried Woman moving north? Yep. You heard it here first. At some point in the next few years, this southern woman will head north. The “South,” however, never leaves you. It remains in your heart no matter where you hang your hat. For me, as I grow older, what’s more important than my geographical location … is my family.
And that’s all I need to say.
Blessings to you and yours.
Gone is my country view on all four sides. My new neighborhood is full of well-maintained little houses and lawns, but there are lots of dogs and kids and basketball hoops.
Gone are my big spare bedrooms. My new house has one spare room with a queen-size bed that has to share its space with Mike’s desk. The smallest bedroom is my new office.
Gone is the three-car Morton barn building, the three-compartment out-building, and the potting shed. My new house has a utility shed in the back yard and a single-car garage.
Gone is Michael's weekly three-hour two-acre mowing, now he’s looking at a half hour … maybe … to cut the sweet little back and front yard.
Gone is my five-minute commute to work. Thirty minutes might get me there on time … at least for now.
Gone are my spacious bathrooms. I think I can turn around in both new bathrooms. I think.
Gone is my pantry, my laundry room. Now they are one in the same.
Gone are the six fireplaces, old wood mantels, and unique wooden walls and ceilings. My new house has one wood-burning fireplace and beautiful stonework, but the walls are drywall, the ceilings – popcorn. But clean. Clean is good, right?
Gone is my country kitchen. Hello range that needs replaced, and pink Formica countertops.
But halleluiah, also GONE is the monster mortgage payment. Ginormous heating bills. Stressing over the economy. Time to make changes, sacrifices, and move forward. To a new dream. A new adventure, as my sister put it. A move back to Ohio in five years, to be near our children, grandchildren, and to build a new house. A new house that’s every bit as beautiful as the Farmhouse. Our current temporary, smaller, cheaper house is part of making that dream come true.
I’m grateful for it.
A Southern Fried Woman moving north? Yep. You heard it here first. At some point in the next few years, this southern woman will head north. The “South,” however, never leaves you. It remains in your heart no matter where you hang your hat. For me, as I grow older, what’s more important than my geographical location … is my family.
And that’s all I need to say.
Blessings to you and yours.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
Hello November?
It's November 1st. I've skipped a whole month.
I'm moving. Yes, moving.
Again.
Downsizing, economy, moving closer to family ... too many reasons to name. It's a good thing. Truth is, October was filled with mixed emotions, tons of work (packing up a house is lots of work) and writing. WRITING, WRITING, WRITING.
Many good things loom on the horizon. More than ever before. Michael and I have entered into what we believe to be (despite the economy and the move into a much smaller house) the most exciting time of our lives. We welcome it.
We'll keep you posted.
Blessings to you and yours.
I'm moving. Yes, moving.
Again.
Downsizing, economy, moving closer to family ... too many reasons to name. It's a good thing. Truth is, October was filled with mixed emotions, tons of work (packing up a house is lots of work) and writing. WRITING, WRITING, WRITING.
Many good things loom on the horizon. More than ever before. Michael and I have entered into what we believe to be (despite the economy and the move into a much smaller house) the most exciting time of our lives. We welcome it.
We'll keep you posted.
Blessings to you and yours.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Goodbye September
September has blown in, spun around, and is threatening to leave the same way summer did.
Raining.
Rain. God, when will it stop? Occasionally, I think God likes to remind me what it was like to live Ohio with continuous days of rain. Falling on my gray moods, rolling fog penetrates my head as well as the air outside. The house is damp and cooler. I'd like to start making fires in the fireplace and forget the world exists outside of my cocoon. I withdraw once again to the computer, to my stories, and to a world in which I'm most comfortable.
I'm making decisions this month. Going so long between blog posts (as usual) is not because I'm not writing. In fact, I'm consumed with reading and writing these days. Blogging has taken a back seat, once again. I've been consumed by one book after another, and seldom sit without a book in my lap. My heart longs for the next chapter as my hands reach for my reading glasses. I'm engrossed in many genres I don't write in. It's refreshing.
I met with my best writing friend this week, and the one thing I realized while having lunch with her is that this whole year has taught me a valuable lesson about how I want to spend the rest of my life. Writing. The passion never wavered. In fact, it strengthened. Working a full-time job has forced me to look hard at my future. I'll blog more about that later.
But for now, I'm itching to do what I love most. What relaxes me, moves me, makes me who I am. It's been long enough, the funnel is full and I'm ready to get to it.
Blessings to you and yours.
Raining.
Rain. God, when will it stop? Occasionally, I think God likes to remind me what it was like to live Ohio with continuous days of rain. Falling on my gray moods, rolling fog penetrates my head as well as the air outside. The house is damp and cooler. I'd like to start making fires in the fireplace and forget the world exists outside of my cocoon. I withdraw once again to the computer, to my stories, and to a world in which I'm most comfortable.
I'm making decisions this month. Going so long between blog posts (as usual) is not because I'm not writing. In fact, I'm consumed with reading and writing these days. Blogging has taken a back seat, once again. I've been consumed by one book after another, and seldom sit without a book in my lap. My heart longs for the next chapter as my hands reach for my reading glasses. I'm engrossed in many genres I don't write in. It's refreshing.
I met with my best writing friend this week, and the one thing I realized while having lunch with her is that this whole year has taught me a valuable lesson about how I want to spend the rest of my life. Writing. The passion never wavered. In fact, it strengthened. Working a full-time job has forced me to look hard at my future. I'll blog more about that later.
But for now, I'm itching to do what I love most. What relaxes me, moves me, makes me who I am. It's been long enough, the funnel is full and I'm ready to get to it.
Blessings to you and yours.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Change
Change.
I see it, feel it. The air around me is enhanced by the smell of change. Hot and humid evaporated and left us with cool and cloudy. School buses, mums for sale, brown corn waiting for harvest. It's September. Not yet Autumn, no longer Summer. That in-between month not sure what season to call itself.
The air conditioner has been turned off. Crisp night air blows into my bedroom, carrying an aroma of plowed earth and the occasional scent of a far-off skunk. I'm waiting. For more change.
Change. Brilliant, earth-shattering change comes so seldom in our lifetime. An idea, a thought, a dream of success drives us to make changes. More often, change is subtle and we adapt to most of it. But unfortunate or deliberate mistakes force changes that are often perceived as horrific, when in fact, they are not. I thought perhaps this entire past year would stifle me, hurt me, turn my writing into scraps meant for the dogs.
The sabbatical, as I call it, has accomplished quite the opposite. As I read the dribs and drabs from the past months of here and there, I view my writing very much as grapes in a press. Condensed, but richer. Turned into something undeniably palatable. Smooth.
I like this change.
There are more changes to come. Some not so good, I'm afraid. But, as always, I'm a survivor. I'll get through it and it'll end up as prose somewhere in one of my stories. This year has proven to me one great fact. Unconditionally, I'm a writer. That, dear friend, will see me through the rest of my life. Every change in life can be twisted to the good. If we want it to be.
Blessings to you and yours.
I see it, feel it. The air around me is enhanced by the smell of change. Hot and humid evaporated and left us with cool and cloudy. School buses, mums for sale, brown corn waiting for harvest. It's September. Not yet Autumn, no longer Summer. That in-between month not sure what season to call itself.
The air conditioner has been turned off. Crisp night air blows into my bedroom, carrying an aroma of plowed earth and the occasional scent of a far-off skunk. I'm waiting. For more change.
Change. Brilliant, earth-shattering change comes so seldom in our lifetime. An idea, a thought, a dream of success drives us to make changes. More often, change is subtle and we adapt to most of it. But unfortunate or deliberate mistakes force changes that are often perceived as horrific, when in fact, they are not. I thought perhaps this entire past year would stifle me, hurt me, turn my writing into scraps meant for the dogs.
The sabbatical, as I call it, has accomplished quite the opposite. As I read the dribs and drabs from the past months of here and there, I view my writing very much as grapes in a press. Condensed, but richer. Turned into something undeniably palatable. Smooth.
I like this change.
There are more changes to come. Some not so good, I'm afraid. But, as always, I'm a survivor. I'll get through it and it'll end up as prose somewhere in one of my stories. This year has proven to me one great fact. Unconditionally, I'm a writer. That, dear friend, will see me through the rest of my life. Every change in life can be twisted to the good. If we want it to be.
Blessings to you and yours.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Rules? What Rules?
I'm deep into the third book of the Outlander series. If you've never read the books by Diana Gabaldon, I highly suggest them. My head is wrapped up in the ecstasy and agony of Claire and Jamie and what could possibly happen next! I've been meaning to finish all five books before the new one comes out this year. I hear OUTLANDER has been successfully optioned for film and they're currently casting characters. But who knows where that stands, really. All I know is that they're going to have to go some to make the movie as magnificent as the novels.
But, here I am, not only devouring the novels, but studying Diana's writing style. She's quite a genious, in my opinion. Her research is amazing (like Jodi Piccoult) and, once again, Gabaldon holds me in the palm of her hand as my time slips into the stratosphere. We Gabaldon readers tend consume her books in only a few day-long reading marathons.
What's even more amazing to me, is she breaks every damn rule in the book. Not only are her novels 800 pages to over 1,000 pages in length, she does stuff like change point-of-view not only within the paragraph, but within a sentence!!! In the book VOYAGER, I recently read point-of-view being changed twice in one sentence. I just sat there. Stunned. I had to read it over and over. But then I started to laugh. The way she wrote it, it made perfect sense. I understood who was thinking when, and was not confused by any "talking heads."
Now, if you've ever sat through months/years of creative writing classes, as well as hours of never-ending writing conferences, you would know that changing point-of-view within a paragraph or a sentence is a huge WHAT-NOT-TO-DO RULE. A big no-no. It warrants immediate rejections from editors and agents. Unless, I guess, if you've already sold millions of books and your name is Diana Gabaldon.
You go girl. My hero.
Blessings to you and yours, Ms. Gabaldon.
But, here I am, not only devouring the novels, but studying Diana's writing style. She's quite a genious, in my opinion. Her research is amazing (like Jodi Piccoult) and, once again, Gabaldon holds me in the palm of her hand as my time slips into the stratosphere. We Gabaldon readers tend consume her books in only a few day-long reading marathons.
What's even more amazing to me, is she breaks every damn rule in the book. Not only are her novels 800 pages to over 1,000 pages in length, she does stuff like change point-of-view not only within the paragraph, but within a sentence!!! In the book VOYAGER, I recently read point-of-view being changed twice in one sentence. I just sat there. Stunned. I had to read it over and over. But then I started to laugh. The way she wrote it, it made perfect sense. I understood who was thinking when, and was not confused by any "talking heads."
Now, if you've ever sat through months/years of creative writing classes, as well as hours of never-ending writing conferences, you would know that changing point-of-view within a paragraph or a sentence is a huge WHAT-NOT-TO-DO RULE. A big no-no. It warrants immediate rejections from editors and agents. Unless, I guess, if you've already sold millions of books and your name is Diana Gabaldon.
You go girl. My hero.
Blessings to you and yours, Ms. Gabaldon.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Where Do You Draw The Line?
As a writer, we're bombarded with emails. It's our own fault. We signed up for every newsletter available.
As the Internet became the popular breeding ground for writers seeking to advance their careers, we found ourselves overwhelmed with information.
If you're a writer, you know what I'm talking about. How much time have you spent, reading one blog after another? Do you find yourself caught in a maze of Twitter, Facebook, and Myspace? How many Writer's Digest and Publishers Lunch emails land in your Inbox each week?
Then there are the writing groups and conferences, all pulling for your attention. Shoot, I just want to go for coffee with my writing buddy, Dena. Talk writing. Gossip. Share the latest in our quest for bestseller-status. Laugh about it.
Throw in a full-time job, family time, time to clean the house, mow the yard, and do the laundry ... hells bells, it's no wonder we're frustrated. We squeeze writing and editing time into the early morning hours or late in the day. Occasionally, when things are slow at work, I can write a blog. Like now.
As I sit here now, I yearn for the days to attend another writing conference, plan my next publicity and speaking tour, support the open-mic in Winston-Salem with the Writer's Group. I'd give a kidney for non-stop writing time. I want to live in my stories. Start the next book. Finish the current one.
Setting priorities is tough when there's so many of them.
I need a new website, gather my thoughts for a few magazine articles I'm wanting to write, set my writing goals for the rest of the year. The list becomes longer as I think about it. I'm ready to draw the line.
So very ready.
Blessings to you and yours.
As the Internet became the popular breeding ground for writers seeking to advance their careers, we found ourselves overwhelmed with information.
If you're a writer, you know what I'm talking about. How much time have you spent, reading one blog after another? Do you find yourself caught in a maze of Twitter, Facebook, and Myspace? How many Writer's Digest and Publishers Lunch emails land in your Inbox each week?
Then there are the writing groups and conferences, all pulling for your attention. Shoot, I just want to go for coffee with my writing buddy, Dena. Talk writing. Gossip. Share the latest in our quest for bestseller-status. Laugh about it.
Throw in a full-time job, family time, time to clean the house, mow the yard, and do the laundry ... hells bells, it's no wonder we're frustrated. We squeeze writing and editing time into the early morning hours or late in the day. Occasionally, when things are slow at work, I can write a blog. Like now.
As I sit here now, I yearn for the days to attend another writing conference, plan my next publicity and speaking tour, support the open-mic in Winston-Salem with the Writer's Group. I'd give a kidney for non-stop writing time. I want to live in my stories. Start the next book. Finish the current one.
Setting priorities is tough when there's so many of them.
I need a new website, gather my thoughts for a few magazine articles I'm wanting to write, set my writing goals for the rest of the year. The list becomes longer as I think about it. I'm ready to draw the line.
So very ready.
Blessings to you and yours.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Practice What You Preach, Pam. Take Time To Blog.
Where has the month gone? I strolled through Garden Ridge the other day. You know, the cheapie store that sells housewares. Well, I kid you not, they've stuffed the front of the store with Halloween yard decorations. Front and center. Smack dab as you walk through the door. Christmas trees and walls filled with every ornament imaginable are just beyond the pumpkins and broomsticks. Of course, summertime clearance items are now stashed way in the back.
I hate it when stores rob us of our time.
Our time on this earth is so fleeting. My children visited recently and we poured through bags of old pictures ... sighing ... remembering. They were babies only yesterday, it seems. Laughing and crying over one memory and the next, it made me stop and ponder real hard about how little time we have to make life matter. To write a letter. To perform a kindness. To learn from our mistakes. To say we're sorry. To express our love. To call an old friend. To rest. To leave a legacy.
To blog.
Take time to make life matter.
Don't let time take you.
Blessings to you and yours.
I hate it when stores rob us of our time.
Our time on this earth is so fleeting. My children visited recently and we poured through bags of old pictures ... sighing ... remembering. They were babies only yesterday, it seems. Laughing and crying over one memory and the next, it made me stop and ponder real hard about how little time we have to make life matter. To write a letter. To perform a kindness. To learn from our mistakes. To say we're sorry. To express our love. To call an old friend. To rest. To leave a legacy.
To blog.
Take time to make life matter.
Don't let time take you.
Blessings to you and yours.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Garage Sales Can Be Hazardous To Your Health
Yeah, Yeah … another garage sale blog. But did you know, oh faithful reader, that there’s a dark side to these blissful Saturday morning outings?
A couple weeks ago my husband and I started out early. After three successful stops and a trunk full of rock-bottom, dirt-cheap, slap-me-silly fabulous finds, we ventured to the west side of town. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a gum-chewing, cell phone-gabber (and quite possibly texting) woman, bore down on our backside. She might as well have hitched a ride on our bumper and saved her gas.
My husband growled. “She’s too close!” And I said, as I ignored him, “Slow down, there’s big ole’ yard sale up ahead in that empty pasture next to the County Line Grocery.” So, he did what all obedient garage-saleing husbands do. He slowed down, put his signal on, and proceeded to turn right into the parking lot. Until …
SCREECH! WHAM! BAM!
The bumper-hugging woman rammed into us like two 1972 Ford Zephyrs battling it out in a Demolition Derby. Her air bags deployed. Her front end was smashed up to her steering wheel, and obviously she didn’t have her seat belt on. Her chin was a bloody mess.
We were shaken up a bit. But not injured.
The Fire Department, EMTs, and State Police showed up. Quite the three-ring circus, I must say. Nobody was hurt enough to go to the hospital, thank God for that.
She and my husband exchanged a few not-so-pleasant words. She said, “I was following one car length!”
“ONE car length?!?” Michael shook his head. “Go back and read your driver’s education manual! At 50 mph, you should’ve been FIVE car lengths behind us!”
Well … you can imagine the rest.
Needless to say, she totaled her car. We, on the other hand, drove away with just a few scratches.
But the worst thing was … we missed the garage sale.
Phooey.
Blessings to you and yours.
A couple weeks ago my husband and I started out early. After three successful stops and a trunk full of rock-bottom, dirt-cheap, slap-me-silly fabulous finds, we ventured to the west side of town. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a gum-chewing, cell phone-gabber (and quite possibly texting) woman, bore down on our backside. She might as well have hitched a ride on our bumper and saved her gas.
My husband growled. “She’s too close!” And I said, as I ignored him, “Slow down, there’s big ole’ yard sale up ahead in that empty pasture next to the County Line Grocery.” So, he did what all obedient garage-saleing husbands do. He slowed down, put his signal on, and proceeded to turn right into the parking lot. Until …
SCREECH! WHAM! BAM!
The bumper-hugging woman rammed into us like two 1972 Ford Zephyrs battling it out in a Demolition Derby. Her air bags deployed. Her front end was smashed up to her steering wheel, and obviously she didn’t have her seat belt on. Her chin was a bloody mess.
We were shaken up a bit. But not injured.
The Fire Department, EMTs, and State Police showed up. Quite the three-ring circus, I must say. Nobody was hurt enough to go to the hospital, thank God for that.
She and my husband exchanged a few not-so-pleasant words. She said, “I was following one car length!”
“ONE car length?!?” Michael shook his head. “Go back and read your driver’s education manual! At 50 mph, you should’ve been FIVE car lengths behind us!”
Well … you can imagine the rest.
Needless to say, she totaled her car. We, on the other hand, drove away with just a few scratches.
But the worst thing was … we missed the garage sale.
Phooey.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
The Day I Met God
It's an amazing thing. Meeting God. I remember the day, like it was yesterday. Have you met Him yet?
I'm not talking about the day you gave your heart to Jesus. That Sunday you walked the aisle and the preacher wrote your name in the Lamb's Book of Life. I'm not talking about confessing your sins to a priest or before a congregation. I'm not talking about that revival you walked away from, so full of hope and joy unspeakable. I'm not talking about shouting at the altar, or the day your lips trembled and your tongue got thick during a particular "come to Jesus" meeting.
I'm talking about a bonifide experience where God shows up and you know in the deepest region of your heart and soul, it's Him. The day He stepped out of nowhere and introduced Himself to me was a REAL life-changing experience. Have you had a meeting like that?
This weekend, I understand that 11,000 women (or more) are decending upon our local coliseum to listen to a few popular Christian women speakers. These evangelists, I'm sure, can lift a crowd of that magnitude to pinnicals of heart-felt glory. I've heard them speak on-line, they're really something.
The testimonies they sport on their web-sites are impressive.
The women I know who are attending are excited beyond belief. They've purchased their tickets months in advance.
Did you hear what I said? They purchased their tickets. 11,000 women at $75.00 a pop. Or more. You pay extra for your box lunch. That's a lot of money, folks. A lot. Makes me wonder. What about you?
Do you think these lady evangelists/teachers/prophets (whatever their titles) ... do you think they sell their books, tapes, cds, t-shirts, keychains, etc. at the back of the room? You bet they do.
Do they take up yet another offering during the services? (Not sure about that one, but my guess is ... yes.)
Do women really meet God there? I don't know. I hope for that kind of money they at least get a glimpse of Him.
If you're going, I hope you have a wonderful time. But I won't be there. Personally, though I am a proclaimed woman of faith, I don't do well in evangelical crowds. If you knew my history, you'd know why.
For me, I met God at the darkest hour in my life. Not in church, not in a crowd of evangelicals who all think alike, not in a Praise and Worship moment. No. I met God in a place where one would think God would not be.
Powerful does not describe it. Words have suddenly escaped me, trying to reveal the moment. To recognize Him, to see His hand moving swift and steady, it's an experience I will never forget. Never.
Miracles happen as He walks into your life, and you change as your circumstances change. For me, He revealed Himself during a great struggle. In the middle of the night. In the wee hours when silence rings so loud in your head it's disturbing. When darkness squeezed in around me so tight, I thought I would die ... when I believed my life was ending. That's when God showed up.
Now God certainly listens when 11,000 women gather together to sing and worship Him. He enjoys the praise of those who love Him. All I'm saying is that some of us are made differently. We don't need to be pumped up. An evangelist's message may be honest and pure and full of Rah-Rah Christian ladies!! But ... I do have a problem with the millions they rake in. I have a real problem with it. I suppose during hard economic times, revivals of any kind are money-makers.
It's just that I've come from a different spot. My message is different. It's not a made-for-TV message.
I'm not saying the way I met God is the best way. Maybe gathering together, listening to high-spirited messages is a good thing - for some. Maybe a few folks need that more than others. And then, maybe you can meet Him jumping for joy in the midst of 11,000 women ... but it's my belief that God doesn't charge admission.
You can find Him ... anywhere.
Everything I am, all that I know, feel, act, think or do ... changed that day I met God.
Blessings to you and yours.
I'm not talking about the day you gave your heart to Jesus. That Sunday you walked the aisle and the preacher wrote your name in the Lamb's Book of Life. I'm not talking about confessing your sins to a priest or before a congregation. I'm not talking about that revival you walked away from, so full of hope and joy unspeakable. I'm not talking about shouting at the altar, or the day your lips trembled and your tongue got thick during a particular "come to Jesus" meeting.
I'm talking about a bonifide experience where God shows up and you know in the deepest region of your heart and soul, it's Him. The day He stepped out of nowhere and introduced Himself to me was a REAL life-changing experience. Have you had a meeting like that?
This weekend, I understand that 11,000 women (or more) are decending upon our local coliseum to listen to a few popular Christian women speakers. These evangelists, I'm sure, can lift a crowd of that magnitude to pinnicals of heart-felt glory. I've heard them speak on-line, they're really something.
The testimonies they sport on their web-sites are impressive.
The women I know who are attending are excited beyond belief. They've purchased their tickets months in advance.
Did you hear what I said? They purchased their tickets. 11,000 women at $75.00 a pop. Or more. You pay extra for your box lunch. That's a lot of money, folks. A lot. Makes me wonder. What about you?
Do you think these lady evangelists/teachers/prophets (whatever their titles) ... do you think they sell their books, tapes, cds, t-shirts, keychains, etc. at the back of the room? You bet they do.
Do they take up yet another offering during the services? (Not sure about that one, but my guess is ... yes.)
Do women really meet God there? I don't know. I hope for that kind of money they at least get a glimpse of Him.
If you're going, I hope you have a wonderful time. But I won't be there. Personally, though I am a proclaimed woman of faith, I don't do well in evangelical crowds. If you knew my history, you'd know why.
For me, I met God at the darkest hour in my life. Not in church, not in a crowd of evangelicals who all think alike, not in a Praise and Worship moment. No. I met God in a place where one would think God would not be.
Powerful does not describe it. Words have suddenly escaped me, trying to reveal the moment. To recognize Him, to see His hand moving swift and steady, it's an experience I will never forget. Never.
Miracles happen as He walks into your life, and you change as your circumstances change. For me, He revealed Himself during a great struggle. In the middle of the night. In the wee hours when silence rings so loud in your head it's disturbing. When darkness squeezed in around me so tight, I thought I would die ... when I believed my life was ending. That's when God showed up.
Now God certainly listens when 11,000 women gather together to sing and worship Him. He enjoys the praise of those who love Him. All I'm saying is that some of us are made differently. We don't need to be pumped up. An evangelist's message may be honest and pure and full of Rah-Rah Christian ladies!! But ... I do have a problem with the millions they rake in. I have a real problem with it. I suppose during hard economic times, revivals of any kind are money-makers.
It's just that I've come from a different spot. My message is different. It's not a made-for-TV message.
I'm not saying the way I met God is the best way. Maybe gathering together, listening to high-spirited messages is a good thing - for some. Maybe a few folks need that more than others. And then, maybe you can meet Him jumping for joy in the midst of 11,000 women ... but it's my belief that God doesn't charge admission.
You can find Him ... anywhere.
Everything I am, all that I know, feel, act, think or do ... changed that day I met God.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Summer Romance
I'm deep into romance. A romantic novel, that is. The author writes scene by scene and ties them together with expert skill. In this case she has created one of the great love stories of our time. I'm convinced I'll never read a better romance novel. She has set the bar in the stratosphere.
I'm not one to read only romance. But hot summer breezes on my back porch demand a good love story. There's nothing better than a porch swing and a cool drink to transport yourself to another place and time. Romance novels are usually light, funny; a fast read. But not the one on my lap. It's 850 pages of intrigue and history. The love story is hot, constant, and keeps you involved. The skill of the author is consistent, her story never falls short. In other words, my eyes have not skimmed the pages to get to the next scene. Not once. I'm chewing on each word.
There's no better season than summer to immerse yourself in a good romance. Even if it is a hot, steamy novel.
Grab your book, a glass of ice tea, and a fan; come join me on my porch!
Blessings to you and yours.
I'm not one to read only romance. But hot summer breezes on my back porch demand a good love story. There's nothing better than a porch swing and a cool drink to transport yourself to another place and time. Romance novels are usually light, funny; a fast read. But not the one on my lap. It's 850 pages of intrigue and history. The love story is hot, constant, and keeps you involved. The skill of the author is consistent, her story never falls short. In other words, my eyes have not skimmed the pages to get to the next scene. Not once. I'm chewing on each word.
There's no better season than summer to immerse yourself in a good romance. Even if it is a hot, steamy novel.
Grab your book, a glass of ice tea, and a fan; come join me on my porch!
Blessings to you and yours.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Garage Sale Etiquette And Otherwise
I blog about this every July; it's my summertime passion.
$250.00 Frye Boots for an amazing $7. Cool-looking boots that some man wore only three times. Four beautiful sweaters for me - $1 a piece. One like-new couch (like never sat on) - $100. (Four decorator pillows thrown in for free.) One Lazy-Boy chair, in great shape and the perfect color - $20. Gorgeous antique side table - $5. Stemware; water goblets, wine glasses, juice glasses, and drinking glasses, service for eight, in perfect condition - $4. Hallmark Christmas ornaments - 50 cents each. L.L. Bean like-new jacket for Mike - $1. Tommy Hilfiger shirts in new condition - 50 cents each. Depression-glass antique plate - $1. Antique mirror - $2. Liz Claiborne purse and matching wallet, never used - $3. Hushpuppy winter boots, again, never used - $1.
Never-used power and garden tools, great books, lovely jewelry, never-used purses, nice stock pots, awesome antique clock, clean rugs, spotless tablecloths, vintage linens as seen in Southern Living Magazine, to-die-for quilts, valuable framed artwork, pretty vases, plants and patio furniture, etc. etc. etc. ... all bought for REAL rock-bottom prices over the years.
Garage Sales. Yard Sales. Barn Sales. Estate Sales. Moving Sales. Sidewalk and Parking Lot Sales. Flea Markets.
I NEVER pay retail price for anything in my house. Well, maybe my TV, my computer, my mattresses, and my underwear. But I guarantee you, they were on sale for at least 50% off or more. So listen up! I've got better news for you than Fox, CNN Headline, and Nancy Grace!
Due to the economy, sell-your-first-born sales are in abundance this year. Hurrah for me! Hurrah for you! It's back to basics. An honest-to-gosh stimulus package for our finances - finding what we need (and sometimes what we want) at neighborhood garage sales.
Therefore, now more than ever before, it's time to lay down the rules for these sell-my-crap-to-pay-my-rent sales. If you're thinking about hosting a garage sale, you need to know the rules. If you're contemplating a sneak peak at your neighbor's garage sale, you still need to know the rules. The "nicer" neighborhoods are getting into the act this summer; more than ever before. Those folks, especially, need to know the rules. To get the most bang for your buck, everybody needs to know Garage Sale Etiquette. It's a must!
It seems everybody is hurting in the wallet area today. Making a few extra bucks these days is a great mood booster, agreed? Beginners are chucking their pride (please God don't let my Country-Club friends see my garage-sale signs) cleaning out their attics, basements and closets, and hosting an I'm-in-a-money-funk-so-I'm-selling-my-junk sale.
Well now, I've been hosting and hunting garage sales for over twenty-five years. (Mainly because I've always been in a money funk.) Rising at the crack of dawn every Saturday, summer-after-summer, throwing on pants I paint in and a t-shirt with holes, pulling my hair into a greasy pony-tail, and trudging across hundreds of dew-soaked yards to get to the first table of junk, I dare say that I'm a veteran. I know whereof I speak. Inevitably over the past few decades, I've learned a thing or two about garage-sale etiquette.
Here's the deal, folks -- you really do need to know the rules.
Rule #1. You can't charge RETAIL prices for your junk. Prime Example: Yesterday, a neighbor at the end of my street (in a pricey neighborhood) tried to sell her Longaberger basket collection for $35 per basket and up. Ha! Now I know they're collector baskets and folks pay $100 or more for just one of these "designer baskets" at Longaberger HOME PARTIES. BUT, you're not having a home party. You're having a GARAGE SALE! Oh yes, deary, there's a difference.
Note to Newbies: I've found Longaberger baskets (in like-new condition) for $1, $2, and $3 per basket at garage sales.
LEARN THIS HARD-FAST RULE: If you're hosting a garage sale to make a bunch of money, you're doing it for the WRONG REASON. (Unless for charity.) If you think your "stuff" is worth more than a few bucks, then you need to take your "stuff" to a consignment store, or sell it on e-bay. I don't give a flying flip if you were stupid enough to pay $200 for your designer purse or $50 for your pretty rug. I'll give you no more than $5 for it at a garage sale. It's as simple as that.
Rule #4. Always say "good-morning." Or "how-ya'll-doin' ?" Be friendly. That way, if you ask your host to lower their price on the Phalscraft lamp you have your eyes on, you'll stand a better chance of getting it for $5 instead of their $8 asking price.
Speaking of bickering for a better price, it's perfectly acceptable to wheel and deal at any and every sale. Period. Some beginner hosts are rather taken aback when approached, but they get the picture after the first few garage-sale veterans rummage through their precious "stuff."
"Will you take $5 for the whole set of dishes?" A good garage-saler will never pay the asking price on anything marked over $1. Especially at the end of the morning. Prices go down as the day wears on, just so the host won't have to haul it inside again. But please remember, anything under $1, just pay for it and be thrilled you got a vintage linen tablecloth for a buck. (Which I have done.)
There are enough garage sales every Friday and Saturday, that if hosts aren't willing to wheel and deal, you can move on to the next.
And remember to say "thank you" and "have a great week-end." It's the gracious thing to do.
Rule #5. Television sets, irons, toys, anything that must be plugged in to work, ask to plug it in. Check it before your purchase it. Don't be shy, just ask. If it doesn't work, they shouldn't be selling it. UNLESS, they post a sign on it, "Doesn't Work." Common sense stuff.
Rule #6. Use cash only. Enough said. And all sales are final. Don't ever return a garage sale item. It's tacky.
Rule #7. If you host a sale, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE take a course in proper signage first and foremost. Use large white or neon poster board folded over and write with a big, thick magic marker in HUMUNGO letters.
Rule #10. Finally, make it fun, make it a treasure hunt. Somtimes I drive slowly past a sale, see that it's mostly all baby stuff, kids clothes, toys, (stuff I'm not interested in) and I don't stop. Sometimes even when I stop because I think it looks like a great sale, it's not. The stuff is dirty, broken, and should've been taken to the dump. Often I hit four or five bad sales before finding my treasure sale. The sale to beat all sales. Then the fun begins.
Last month I found a piece of Italian porcelain, over 75 years old at a yard sale. The host thought her inherited piece was ugly. She hated it, even though it had belonged to her great-grandmother. I bought it for $2. I can tell you it's worth much, much, much more than that. (Giggle.)
The thing is -- you never know. The old cliche' - one man's junk is another man's treasure - is true. You have to give up a few dollars of gas, a few hours of sleep, and a Saturday morning, but you may find the treasure of a lifetime. I think that even if I had all the money in the world, I'd still treasure hunt at garage sales. I'd continue to find what I need for pennies on the dollar, not because I'm cheap, but because it makes sense.
Just use proper etiquette to do it.
Here's to a successful garage-sale summer! Mike and I just might see you out there!
Blessings to you and yours.
$250.00 Frye Boots for an amazing $7. Cool-looking boots that some man wore only three times. Four beautiful sweaters for me - $1 a piece. One like-new couch (like never sat on) - $100. (Four decorator pillows thrown in for free.) One Lazy-Boy chair, in great shape and the perfect color - $20. Gorgeous antique side table - $5. Stemware; water goblets, wine glasses, juice glasses, and drinking glasses, service for eight, in perfect condition - $4. Hallmark Christmas ornaments - 50 cents each. L.L. Bean like-new jacket for Mike - $1. Tommy Hilfiger shirts in new condition - 50 cents each. Depression-glass antique plate - $1. Antique mirror - $2. Liz Claiborne purse and matching wallet, never used - $3. Hushpuppy winter boots, again, never used - $1.
Do I have your attention?
Never-used power and garden tools, great books, lovely jewelry, never-used purses, nice stock pots, awesome antique clock, clean rugs, spotless tablecloths, vintage linens as seen in Southern Living Magazine, to-die-for quilts, valuable framed artwork, pretty vases, plants and patio furniture, etc. etc. etc. ... all bought for REAL rock-bottom prices over the years.
Where?
Garage Sales. Yard Sales. Barn Sales. Estate Sales. Moving Sales. Sidewalk and Parking Lot Sales. Flea Markets.
I NEVER pay retail price for anything in my house. Well, maybe my TV, my computer, my mattresses, and my underwear. But I guarantee you, they were on sale for at least 50% off or more. So listen up! I've got better news for you than Fox, CNN Headline, and Nancy Grace!
Due to the economy, sell-your-first-born sales are in abundance this year. Hurrah for me! Hurrah for you! It's back to basics. An honest-to-gosh stimulus package for our finances - finding what we need (and sometimes what we want) at neighborhood garage sales.
Therefore, now more than ever before, it's time to lay down the rules for these sell-my-crap-to-pay-my-rent sales. If you're thinking about hosting a garage sale, you need to know the rules. If you're contemplating a sneak peak at your neighbor's garage sale, you still need to know the rules. The "nicer" neighborhoods are getting into the act this summer; more than ever before. Those folks, especially, need to know the rules. To get the most bang for your buck, everybody needs to know Garage Sale Etiquette. It's a must!
It seems everybody is hurting in the wallet area today. Making a few extra bucks these days is a great mood booster, agreed? Beginners are chucking their pride (please God don't let my Country-Club friends see my garage-sale signs) cleaning out their attics, basements and closets, and hosting an I'm-in-a-money-funk-so-I'm-selling-my-junk sale.
Well now, I've been hosting and hunting garage sales for over twenty-five years. (Mainly because I've always been in a money funk.) Rising at the crack of dawn every Saturday, summer-after-summer, throwing on pants I paint in and a t-shirt with holes, pulling my hair into a greasy pony-tail, and trudging across hundreds of dew-soaked yards to get to the first table of junk, I dare say that I'm a veteran. I know whereof I speak. Inevitably over the past few decades, I've learned a thing or two about garage-sale etiquette.
Here's the deal, folks -- you really do need to know the rules.
Rule #1. You can't charge RETAIL prices for your junk. Prime Example: Yesterday, a neighbor at the end of my street (in a pricey neighborhood) tried to sell her Longaberger basket collection for $35 per basket and up. Ha! Now I know they're collector baskets and folks pay $100 or more for just one of these "designer baskets" at Longaberger HOME PARTIES. BUT, you're not having a home party. You're having a GARAGE SALE! Oh yes, deary, there's a difference.
Note to Newbies: I've found Longaberger baskets (in like-new condition) for $1, $2, and $3 per basket at garage sales.
LEARN THIS HARD-FAST RULE: If you're hosting a garage sale to make a bunch of money, you're doing it for the WRONG REASON. (Unless for charity.) If you think your "stuff" is worth more than a few bucks, then you need to take your "stuff" to a consignment store, or sell it on e-bay. I don't give a flying flip if you were stupid enough to pay $200 for your designer purse or $50 for your pretty rug. I'll give you no more than $5 for it at a garage sale. It's as simple as that.
Remember this: Garage-sale hunters need a real bargain. Otherwise, they'll go to Walmart. Get it?
THE PURPOSE OF HOSTING A GARAGE SALE, is to clean out your closets! To rid your house of crap you don't want, and in the process you stick a few extra bucks in your pocket. That's it. There's no other reason to host a garage sale. It's BONUS money!
Therefore, Miss-My-Shit-Don't-Stink-First-Time-Garage-Sale Hostess, sell your precious Longaberger baskets to get rid of them or stick them on e-bay. (By the way, for the fun of it, I went back to her sale hours later. Every retail-priced Longaberger was still baking in the hot sun. Still beautifully displayed on her pretty table collecting dust. Along with the rest of her pricey junk. Still not sold. Shocker.)
Rule #2. Don't worry about displaying everything as if you're running a store. Put price tags on whatever you can, or have dollar tables, 50 cents tables, etc. And get up EARLY. Open your garage door by 7 am. That's the typical time a sale should begin. Don't be dragging things out of your shed, house, barn, or bedroom closet at 9 am. You'll lose a lot of sales. Be prepared.
Rule #3. Get a garage-sale permit if your town requires one. Be respectful of local ordinances.
THE PURPOSE OF HOSTING A GARAGE SALE, is to clean out your closets! To rid your house of crap you don't want, and in the process you stick a few extra bucks in your pocket. That's it. There's no other reason to host a garage sale. It's BONUS money!
Therefore, Miss-My-Shit-Don't-Stink-First-Time-Garage-Sale Hostess, sell your precious Longaberger baskets to get rid of them or stick them on e-bay. (By the way, for the fun of it, I went back to her sale hours later. Every retail-priced Longaberger was still baking in the hot sun. Still beautifully displayed on her pretty table collecting dust. Along with the rest of her pricey junk. Still not sold. Shocker.)
Rule #2. Don't worry about displaying everything as if you're running a store. Put price tags on whatever you can, or have dollar tables, 50 cents tables, etc. And get up EARLY. Open your garage door by 7 am. That's the typical time a sale should begin. Don't be dragging things out of your shed, house, barn, or bedroom closet at 9 am. You'll lose a lot of sales. Be prepared.
Rule #3. Get a garage-sale permit if your town requires one. Be respectful of local ordinances.
Rule #4. Always say "good-morning." Or "how-ya'll-doin' ?" Be friendly. That way, if you ask your host to lower their price on the Phalscraft lamp you have your eyes on, you'll stand a better chance of getting it for $5 instead of their $8 asking price.
Speaking of bickering for a better price, it's perfectly acceptable to wheel and deal at any and every sale. Period. Some beginner hosts are rather taken aback when approached, but they get the picture after the first few garage-sale veterans rummage through their precious "stuff."
"Will you take $5 for the whole set of dishes?" A good garage-saler will never pay the asking price on anything marked over $1. Especially at the end of the morning. Prices go down as the day wears on, just so the host won't have to haul it inside again. But please remember, anything under $1, just pay for it and be thrilled you got a vintage linen tablecloth for a buck. (Which I have done.)
There are enough garage sales every Friday and Saturday, that if hosts aren't willing to wheel and deal, you can move on to the next.
And remember to say "thank you" and "have a great week-end." It's the gracious thing to do.
Rule #5. Television sets, irons, toys, anything that must be plugged in to work, ask to plug it in. Check it before your purchase it. Don't be shy, just ask. If it doesn't work, they shouldn't be selling it. UNLESS, they post a sign on it, "Doesn't Work." Common sense stuff.
Rule #6. Use cash only. Enough said. And all sales are final. Don't ever return a garage sale item. It's tacky.
Rule #7. If you host a sale, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE take a course in proper signage first and foremost. Use large white or neon poster board folded over and write with a big, thick magic marker in HUMUNGO letters.
GARAGE SALE
SAT. JULY 11
555 OAK STREET
(draw an arrow pointing to the sale)
ALWAYS use arrows pointing in the right direction. Make it clear. ALWAYS USE THE DATE. NEVER list items you have for sale. It's too much to read for the garage sale hunter, and we don't care. DON'T nail your signs to a telephone pole. Use two sticks and pound the sign into the ground. Or use a metal frame from a real estate sign you may have lying around.
Make your sale easy to find. Post signs at all major and minor roads leading to your home. And for cryin' out loud! ... TAKE YOUR SIGNS DOWN AFTER YOUR SALE! I can't tell you how many sales I've searched for weeks afterward, only because some lazy garage-sale host didn't take her sign down.
Rule #8. If you don't live on a street where folks can park and get to your sale easily, then don't have one. Or find an empty parking lot somewhere and pitch a tent.
Rule #9. You don't have to list your garage sale on Craig's List or even in the newspaper. I rarely refer to them. There are enough garage sales every Saturday that if you just get out early and drive, you’ll find them.
Make your sale easy to find. Post signs at all major and minor roads leading to your home. And for cryin' out loud! ... TAKE YOUR SIGNS DOWN AFTER YOUR SALE! I can't tell you how many sales I've searched for weeks afterward, only because some lazy garage-sale host didn't take her sign down.
Rule #8. If you don't live on a street where folks can park and get to your sale easily, then don't have one. Or find an empty parking lot somewhere and pitch a tent.
Rule #9. You don't have to list your garage sale on Craig's List or even in the newspaper. I rarely refer to them. There are enough garage sales every Saturday that if you just get out early and drive, you’ll find them.
Rule #10. Finally, make it fun, make it a treasure hunt. Somtimes I drive slowly past a sale, see that it's mostly all baby stuff, kids clothes, toys, (stuff I'm not interested in) and I don't stop. Sometimes even when I stop because I think it looks like a great sale, it's not. The stuff is dirty, broken, and should've been taken to the dump. Often I hit four or five bad sales before finding my treasure sale. The sale to beat all sales. Then the fun begins.
Last month I found a piece of Italian porcelain, over 75 years old at a yard sale. The host thought her inherited piece was ugly. She hated it, even though it had belonged to her great-grandmother. I bought it for $2. I can tell you it's worth much, much, much more than that. (Giggle.)
The thing is -- you never know. The old cliche' - one man's junk is another man's treasure - is true. You have to give up a few dollars of gas, a few hours of sleep, and a Saturday morning, but you may find the treasure of a lifetime. I think that even if I had all the money in the world, I'd still treasure hunt at garage sales. I'd continue to find what I need for pennies on the dollar, not because I'm cheap, but because it makes sense.
Just use proper etiquette to do it.
Here's to a successful garage-sale summer! Mike and I just might see you out there!
Blessings to you and yours.
Sunday, July 05, 2009
The True ART Of Writing
Writing is an art. Don't let anybody tell you different. You're either gifted with this talent, or you're not. That doesn't mean you can't develop your talent; taking it from beginner to advanced. Talent given to artists, it seems to me, is awarded in varying degrees. I think God expects that once we discover our talent we must do something with it.
Yes, yes, like wine and cheese, a talent often requires that we age a little. A few decades of hard work to bring out the "Michelangelo" in some of us is a good thing. But what I'm wondering is, why are there so many published authors out there who continue to write one bad book after another? Is their fan base that strong? Are their stories so fantastic that the quality of writing is overlooked?
My husband thinks its because they wrote and published their first works way back in the 70s or 80s, and some in the 90s. When the competition wasn't like it is today. When publishers published anybody with a pulse and a half-way decent story. Over time, they developed a platform, a fan-base, that never went away. These writers didn't have to worry about a pristine-perfect query letter; marketing and promotion; 225 rejection letters. I can't tell you how many "mistakes" I find while reading published books. Mistakes that these authors get away with, while the rest of us unknowns would be rejected for. I think these authors continue to rest on their laurels. Well, some of them.
Others, mind you, deserve their good fortune. They paid their dues. I applaud them. The few of them.
At this moment, I'm heavily entrenched in reading. I'm deep into two novels at once. Actually, I'm studying the writing. Asking myself, why these writers? What is it about their work that makes them a success? These two well-known, New York Times bestselling authors have sold millions of copies.
The first writer, I'm concluding, is brilliant. Her story is mind-blowing. Though a very, very long book, I find she captures and holds you for ransom, insisting that you read well into the night. The depth of her research rivals that of any scientist, I assure you. Along with her millions of fans, I find myself lost in the made-up world she created by what else? Her talent.
The second writer, well-known, her work is seen on retail shelves in every state. Bookstores, grocery stores, and otherwise. (No, it's not Danielle Steele. They can't give "her" books away at fire sales in my neck of the woods.) No, the author I'm talking about, her work is full of air. That's my best description for it. Hot air. The reading is easy, true enough, you can fly through a 300 page novel. But the stories are surface. Flat. There's no depth to them. As if she wrote it quickly. Didn't take the time to have it edited for content. I'm skimming through chapters. On top of that, the story is not plausible. I hear myself saying, "Yeah, right. Like that would happen!"
Thing is, the first author writes about time travel. It's far easier for me to believe her story than that of the second author who simply wrote about a rich woman waking up one morning and finding herself destitute. Her adoringly-rich husband, whom she has loved with all her heart, has died and left his billions to his mean and horrible siblings.
I think it all boils down to one thing. Talent. How they tell the story, draw you in, hold you captive.
To write well is to allow the story to boil over and spill into your hands as you type or print. It's feeling, no- I mean really feeling what your character is experiencing. Can you pour yourself into another body? Are you able to transport yourself to another place and relay it, in all its beauty or horror to your reader? Can you write a great story and make me want to devour every word as if my life depended on it?
Can you?
That's the true art of writing.
Blessings to you and yours.
Yes, yes, like wine and cheese, a talent often requires that we age a little. A few decades of hard work to bring out the "Michelangelo" in some of us is a good thing. But what I'm wondering is, why are there so many published authors out there who continue to write one bad book after another? Is their fan base that strong? Are their stories so fantastic that the quality of writing is overlooked?
My husband thinks its because they wrote and published their first works way back in the 70s or 80s, and some in the 90s. When the competition wasn't like it is today. When publishers published anybody with a pulse and a half-way decent story. Over time, they developed a platform, a fan-base, that never went away. These writers didn't have to worry about a pristine-perfect query letter; marketing and promotion; 225 rejection letters. I can't tell you how many "mistakes" I find while reading published books. Mistakes that these authors get away with, while the rest of us unknowns would be rejected for. I think these authors continue to rest on their laurels. Well, some of them.
Others, mind you, deserve their good fortune. They paid their dues. I applaud them. The few of them.
At this moment, I'm heavily entrenched in reading. I'm deep into two novels at once. Actually, I'm studying the writing. Asking myself, why these writers? What is it about their work that makes them a success? These two well-known, New York Times bestselling authors have sold millions of copies.
The first writer, I'm concluding, is brilliant. Her story is mind-blowing. Though a very, very long book, I find she captures and holds you for ransom, insisting that you read well into the night. The depth of her research rivals that of any scientist, I assure you. Along with her millions of fans, I find myself lost in the made-up world she created by what else? Her talent.
The second writer, well-known, her work is seen on retail shelves in every state. Bookstores, grocery stores, and otherwise. (No, it's not Danielle Steele. They can't give "her" books away at fire sales in my neck of the woods.) No, the author I'm talking about, her work is full of air. That's my best description for it. Hot air. The reading is easy, true enough, you can fly through a 300 page novel. But the stories are surface. Flat. There's no depth to them. As if she wrote it quickly. Didn't take the time to have it edited for content. I'm skimming through chapters. On top of that, the story is not plausible. I hear myself saying, "Yeah, right. Like that would happen!"
Thing is, the first author writes about time travel. It's far easier for me to believe her story than that of the second author who simply wrote about a rich woman waking up one morning and finding herself destitute. Her adoringly-rich husband, whom she has loved with all her heart, has died and left his billions to his mean and horrible siblings.
I think it all boils down to one thing. Talent. How they tell the story, draw you in, hold you captive.
To write well is to allow the story to boil over and spill into your hands as you type or print. It's feeling, no- I mean really feeling what your character is experiencing. Can you pour yourself into another body? Are you able to transport yourself to another place and relay it, in all its beauty or horror to your reader? Can you write a great story and make me want to devour every word as if my life depended on it?
Can you?
That's the true art of writing.
Blessings to you and yours.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
37 Years Ago Today I Married The Wrong Man
True.
July 1, 1972. I was 17 years old; what did I know? I'll tell you what I knew.
Not much.
It was a beautiful day. I was a blushing new bride who took hold of my daddy's arm and walked down a fifty-foot aisle to a young man in a crushed-velvet tux with two dollars in his pocket. He carried me across the threshold of our $100 a month rented trailer.
Of course, I'm sure he would relay pretty much the same thing, that we knew nothing about how to make a marriage last. Very few high school sweethearts stay together forever. Or were meant to. We, like so many others, just simply grew in two different directions. For seventeen years we drifted further and further apart, like two continents divided by one big ocean. Unlike my parents, or his for that matter, "for better or worse" didn't mean a damn thing.
Some say you need God in your marriage to make it last. In our case, there was too much "God." Too much religion, not enough love.
A couple good things came out of it. Two fantastic kids. A few good memories, (sigh.)
But now all these years later I look back at the bliss and the horror and find it tangled in my memory like some nasty vine that needs cut and trimmed back, making way for air and light to get to the buds. Thank the good Lord, time slapped salve on the worst of it and I've allowed myself to go on. I'm so glad I did.
Thirty-seven years later and six and a half years into my marriage with Michael, I wish I could wrap up what I know now and sell it on the Internet. I look back through time and see a foolish young girl. I wish I could talk some sense into her. Make her see her mistake. But all that's left is this middle-aged woman, in the youth of her old age. No, you can't go back. That's for damn sure.
Many times Mike and I look at each other and say we wish we could've met way back then. Back in our youth. But time has made us both different. Life's worst moments made us who we are today. They strengthened our resolve and created a love with bonds made of steel.
I suppose some marriages last a lifetime, while some drift along for twenty years before crashing into the rocks. A few long marriages should've ended decades ago, giving way to healing and a better life. And yet, I'm a strong believer that marriage is forever.
My forever had an ending.
I'm more than glad. Because sometimes you have to go through the fire and the flood to find the love of your life.
Blessings to you and yours.
July 1, 1972. I was 17 years old; what did I know? I'll tell you what I knew.
Not much.
It was a beautiful day. I was a blushing new bride who took hold of my daddy's arm and walked down a fifty-foot aisle to a young man in a crushed-velvet tux with two dollars in his pocket. He carried me across the threshold of our $100 a month rented trailer.
Of course, I'm sure he would relay pretty much the same thing, that we knew nothing about how to make a marriage last. Very few high school sweethearts stay together forever. Or were meant to. We, like so many others, just simply grew in two different directions. For seventeen years we drifted further and further apart, like two continents divided by one big ocean. Unlike my parents, or his for that matter, "for better or worse" didn't mean a damn thing.
Some say you need God in your marriage to make it last. In our case, there was too much "God." Too much religion, not enough love.
A couple good things came out of it. Two fantastic kids. A few good memories, (sigh.)
But now all these years later I look back at the bliss and the horror and find it tangled in my memory like some nasty vine that needs cut and trimmed back, making way for air and light to get to the buds. Thank the good Lord, time slapped salve on the worst of it and I've allowed myself to go on. I'm so glad I did.
Thirty-seven years later and six and a half years into my marriage with Michael, I wish I could wrap up what I know now and sell it on the Internet. I look back through time and see a foolish young girl. I wish I could talk some sense into her. Make her see her mistake. But all that's left is this middle-aged woman, in the youth of her old age. No, you can't go back. That's for damn sure.
Many times Mike and I look at each other and say we wish we could've met way back then. Back in our youth. But time has made us both different. Life's worst moments made us who we are today. They strengthened our resolve and created a love with bonds made of steel.
I suppose some marriages last a lifetime, while some drift along for twenty years before crashing into the rocks. A few long marriages should've ended decades ago, giving way to healing and a better life. And yet, I'm a strong believer that marriage is forever.
My forever had an ending.
I'm more than glad. Because sometimes you have to go through the fire and the flood to find the love of your life.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Yes, It's A Sad, Sad World
You know the emails that get forwarded to you over and over, the ones you delete before you even peek at them? Well, today I peeked. This one was worth posting on my blog.
Irena Sendler- who recently died at 98 years of age, was a 2008 Nobel Peace Prize Nominee.
During WWII, Irena was given permission to work in the Warsaw Ghetto, as a plumbing/sewer specialist. She had an ulterior motive. Being German, Irena knew what the Nazi plan was for Jews. Irena smuggled out infants in the bottom of a tool box she carried in the back of her truck.
She used a burlap sack for bigger children. She also had a dog in the back that she trained to bark when Nazi soldiers let her in and out of the ghetto. The soldiers wanted nothing to do with her dog. The barking covered noises of the infants and children.Irena managed to smuggle out and save 2500 infants and children, before she was caught!
The Nazi's broke both her legs and arms, and beat her severely. Irena kept a record in a jar buried under a tree in her back yard of all the children she smuggled out.
After the war, she tried to locate all parents that may have survived to reunite families, but most had been gassed. The children she could not reunite were placed with foster families or adopted. Irena was nominated for the 2008 Nobel Peace Prize.
She was not selected.
Al Gore won for a slide show on Global Warming.
A sad world, indeed.
Blessings to you and yours.
Irena Sendler- who recently died at 98 years of age, was a 2008 Nobel Peace Prize Nominee.
During WWII, Irena was given permission to work in the Warsaw Ghetto, as a plumbing/sewer specialist. She had an ulterior motive. Being German, Irena knew what the Nazi plan was for Jews. Irena smuggled out infants in the bottom of a tool box she carried in the back of her truck.
She used a burlap sack for bigger children. She also had a dog in the back that she trained to bark when Nazi soldiers let her in and out of the ghetto. The soldiers wanted nothing to do with her dog. The barking covered noises of the infants and children.Irena managed to smuggle out and save 2500 infants and children, before she was caught!
The Nazi's broke both her legs and arms, and beat her severely. Irena kept a record in a jar buried under a tree in her back yard of all the children she smuggled out.
After the war, she tried to locate all parents that may have survived to reunite families, but most had been gassed. The children she could not reunite were placed with foster families or adopted. Irena was nominated for the 2008 Nobel Peace Prize.
She was not selected.
Al Gore won for a slide show on Global Warming.
A sad world, indeed.
Blessings to you and yours.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Dreaming of Time
So much is happening this summer. Or, should I say, same stuff--different summer. As I grow older, I find that change and challenge is not quite as appealing as it used to be. I like consistency and (cough) mundane. But after working 40 hours a week, it leaves you with little energy and time.
Garage sales, house maintenance, cleaning/cooking/laundry, weeding, and a few spare minutes at the computer fill the remaining time allotted in my week. Throw in visits from my family (my folks are here this week) and wa-la! Before you know it, the summer has withered on the vine like my dried out honeysuckle.
I want something for my birthday this year that nobody can give me. Time. Time to read, write, sit on my porch swing, try new recipes from cookbooks bought and not used, clean out my closet, rearrange my kitchen cupboards, and take long walks in the woods. A consistent and quiet life.
Sounds like I need to go find a holler somewhere and just be.
Maybe I will. At least in my dreams.
Blessings to you and yours.
Garage sales, house maintenance, cleaning/cooking/laundry, weeding, and a few spare minutes at the computer fill the remaining time allotted in my week. Throw in visits from my family (my folks are here this week) and wa-la! Before you know it, the summer has withered on the vine like my dried out honeysuckle.
I want something for my birthday this year that nobody can give me. Time. Time to read, write, sit on my porch swing, try new recipes from cookbooks bought and not used, clean out my closet, rearrange my kitchen cupboards, and take long walks in the woods. A consistent and quiet life.
Sounds like I need to go find a holler somewhere and just be.
Maybe I will. At least in my dreams.
Blessings to you and yours.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Tomb of the Unknown Soldier
ETERNAL REST GRANT THEM O LORD, AND LET PERPETUAL LIGHT SHINE UPON THEM.
It takes 21 steps for the guard to walk across the tomb of the Unknown soldier. It alludes to the twenty-one gun salute, which is the highest honor given any military or foreign dignitary.
The guard hesitates 21 seconds after his about face to begin his return walk for the same reason.
His gloves are moistened to prevent his losing his grip on the rifle.
He carries the rifle on the shoulder away from the tomb. After his march across the path, he executes an about face and moves the rifle to the outside shoulder.
Guards are changed every thirty minutes, twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.
For a person to apply for guard duty at the tomb, he must be between 5' 10' and 6' 2' tall and his waist size cannot exceed 30.'
Other requirements of the Guard: They must commit 2 years of their life to guard the tomb, live in a barracks under the tomb, and cannot drink any alcohol on or off duty for the rest of their lives.
They cannot swear in public for the rest of their lives and cannot disgrace the uniform or the tomb in any way. After two years, the guard is given a wreath pin that is worn on their lapel signifying they served as a guard of the tomb. There are only 400 presently worn.
The guard must obey these rules for the rest of their lives or give up the wreath pin.
The guard’s shoes are specially made with very thick soles to keep the heat and cold from their feet. There are metal heel plates that extend to the top of the shoe in order to make the loud click as they come to a halt.
There are no wrinkles, folds or lint on the uniform. Guards dress for duty in front of a full-length mirror.The first six months of duty a guard cannot talk to anyone, nor watch TV.
All off duty time is spent studying the 175 notable people laid to rest in Arlington National Cemetery. A guard must memorize who they are and where they are interred. Among the notables are: President Taft, Joe E. Lewis (the boxer,) and Medal of Honor winner Audie Murphy, the most decorated soldier of WWII.
Every guard spends five hours a day getting his uniforms ready for guard duty.
In 2003 as Hurricane Isabelle was approaching Washington, DC, our US Senate/House took 2 days off with anticipation of the storm. On the ABC evening news, it was reported that because of the dangers from the hurricane, the military members assigned the duty of guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier were given permission to suspend the assignment. They respectfully declined the offer. Soaked to the skin, marching in the pelting rain of a tropical storm, they said that guarding the Tomb was not just an assignment, it was the highest honor that can be afforded to a service person. The tomb has been patrolled continuously, 24/7, since 1930.
Interesting and fascinating facts to ponder.
Blessings to you and yours.
It takes 21 steps for the guard to walk across the tomb of the Unknown soldier. It alludes to the twenty-one gun salute, which is the highest honor given any military or foreign dignitary.
The guard hesitates 21 seconds after his about face to begin his return walk for the same reason.
His gloves are moistened to prevent his losing his grip on the rifle.
He carries the rifle on the shoulder away from the tomb. After his march across the path, he executes an about face and moves the rifle to the outside shoulder.
Guards are changed every thirty minutes, twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.
For a person to apply for guard duty at the tomb, he must be between 5' 10' and 6' 2' tall and his waist size cannot exceed 30.'
Other requirements of the Guard: They must commit 2 years of their life to guard the tomb, live in a barracks under the tomb, and cannot drink any alcohol on or off duty for the rest of their lives.
They cannot swear in public for the rest of their lives and cannot disgrace the uniform or the tomb in any way. After two years, the guard is given a wreath pin that is worn on their lapel signifying they served as a guard of the tomb. There are only 400 presently worn.
The guard must obey these rules for the rest of their lives or give up the wreath pin.
The guard’s shoes are specially made with very thick soles to keep the heat and cold from their feet. There are metal heel plates that extend to the top of the shoe in order to make the loud click as they come to a halt.
There are no wrinkles, folds or lint on the uniform. Guards dress for duty in front of a full-length mirror.The first six months of duty a guard cannot talk to anyone, nor watch TV.
All off duty time is spent studying the 175 notable people laid to rest in Arlington National Cemetery. A guard must memorize who they are and where they are interred. Among the notables are: President Taft, Joe E. Lewis (the boxer,) and Medal of Honor winner Audie Murphy, the most decorated soldier of WWII.
Every guard spends five hours a day getting his uniforms ready for guard duty.
In 2003 as Hurricane Isabelle was approaching Washington, DC, our US Senate/House took 2 days off with anticipation of the storm. On the ABC evening news, it was reported that because of the dangers from the hurricane, the military members assigned the duty of guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier were given permission to suspend the assignment. They respectfully declined the offer. Soaked to the skin, marching in the pelting rain of a tropical storm, they said that guarding the Tomb was not just an assignment, it was the highest honor that can be afforded to a service person. The tomb has been patrolled continuously, 24/7, since 1930.
Interesting and fascinating facts to ponder.
Blessings to you and yours.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
WalMart Meltdown
You know, I'd rather take a beating than shop. For anything. I'm not the typical stereotype for a woman. I especially hate grocery shopping. But last night, after a quick dinner at Panera, my husband and I decided to stop at Wally World for "just a few things." I was tired and my patience had worn thin by the time I searched every aisle in the grocery section for beans. Just beans.
First, we hit the health & beauty aide aisle for mouthwash and razor blades. Then we trucked to the stationary department for two reams of printer paper. After a wild search for cheap potholders (since mine are shot) Mike located them hidden behind the dishtowels in the middle of the store. Why are no two WalMarts alike? Anyhoo, we circled the sock section on the lookout for soft socks. My work socks are full of toe-holes, so I decided to blow the moths out of my wallet and buy a couple pair of dollar-socks. Fine. That was when my head started to hurt, my hip began to ache, and I had to pee.
But no, we weren't quite done. Soft Scrub. Mike (the coupon King) had a buy-one-get-one-free coupon for Soft Scrub. The search was on. Up and down the aisles of dish soap, laundry soap, toilet cleaners, and Windex-like cleaners. But no Soft Scrub. "WHAT?" I screamed. "No Soft Scrub?! WHAT kind of a place is this?"
Finally, by the time I went on my wild rampage for beans, I was ready to spit. "I'D RATHER PAY DOUBLE AT HARRIS TEETER THAN SHOP IN THIS DAMN STORE AGAIN!" I shouted to no-one in particular, just anybody in earshot. After a couple of strange looks and my husband walking the opposite direction, I calmed down just enough to stand in a long line, listen to a couple of screaming babies, and then get stopped by the WalMart greeter to check my slip to make sure I didn't steal anything.
Never again. Whip me, beat me, call me Edna, I'll not go into WalMart again. Not for at least another week.
Blessings to you and yours.
First, we hit the health & beauty aide aisle for mouthwash and razor blades. Then we trucked to the stationary department for two reams of printer paper. After a wild search for cheap potholders (since mine are shot) Mike located them hidden behind the dishtowels in the middle of the store. Why are no two WalMarts alike? Anyhoo, we circled the sock section on the lookout for soft socks. My work socks are full of toe-holes, so I decided to blow the moths out of my wallet and buy a couple pair of dollar-socks. Fine. That was when my head started to hurt, my hip began to ache, and I had to pee.
But no, we weren't quite done. Soft Scrub. Mike (the coupon King) had a buy-one-get-one-free coupon for Soft Scrub. The search was on. Up and down the aisles of dish soap, laundry soap, toilet cleaners, and Windex-like cleaners. But no Soft Scrub. "WHAT?" I screamed. "No Soft Scrub?! WHAT kind of a place is this?"
Finally, by the time I went on my wild rampage for beans, I was ready to spit. "I'D RATHER PAY DOUBLE AT HARRIS TEETER THAN SHOP IN THIS DAMN STORE AGAIN!" I shouted to no-one in particular, just anybody in earshot. After a couple of strange looks and my husband walking the opposite direction, I calmed down just enough to stand in a long line, listen to a couple of screaming babies, and then get stopped by the WalMart greeter to check my slip to make sure I didn't steal anything.
Never again. Whip me, beat me, call me Edna, I'll not go into WalMart again. Not for at least another week.
Blessings to you and yours.
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