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.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
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.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
A Blog
So I'm blogging three or four times a month now. Instead of every day -- or every other, a few times a month I manage to pluck out a few decent words from my brain, shove them down to my fingers and on to the monitor. Not that I don't think about blogging more often, I just don't have much to say. My life has become boring to me. It's work, work, work, come home, eat, read a bit, watch a smidgen of TV, and drop into bed at 9. Day after day. Week after week. I wish it weren't true, but alas ... it is.
On the weekends it's grocery-store time, laundry catch-up, pull a few weeds out of the flower beds, make a decent meal or two, and then ... get ready for Monday morning.
Boring.
I long for retirement. When I can just write away the hours. It seems when my time is my own, I'm much more productive. Much more creative. Much more fun. I enjoy my house more, my family more, and by all means my writing. More.
Although my job isn't bad, in fact, I like being in the center of town. I got a great boss. And I do get lots of great lines for stories. But a real job can be stifling to the writer. The creative side of the brain slows down. At times, it appears to come to a dead stop. Sometimes I blog because I know if I don't ... it'll be the only thing I write in a few days. Reading keeps me going, but the need to write makes my fingers itch. Then why don't I?
Time. Just when you get a story into high gear, it's time to go back to work.
It's like getting the wind knocked out of your lungs.
Who knows how much longer I can stand it.
Blessings to you and yours.
On the weekends it's grocery-store time, laundry catch-up, pull a few weeds out of the flower beds, make a decent meal or two, and then ... get ready for Monday morning.
Boring.
I long for retirement. When I can just write away the hours. It seems when my time is my own, I'm much more productive. Much more creative. Much more fun. I enjoy my house more, my family more, and by all means my writing. More.
Although my job isn't bad, in fact, I like being in the center of town. I got a great boss. And I do get lots of great lines for stories. But a real job can be stifling to the writer. The creative side of the brain slows down. At times, it appears to come to a dead stop. Sometimes I blog because I know if I don't ... it'll be the only thing I write in a few days. Reading keeps me going, but the need to write makes my fingers itch. Then why don't I?
Time. Just when you get a story into high gear, it's time to go back to work.
It's like getting the wind knocked out of your lungs.
Who knows how much longer I can stand it.
Blessings to you and yours.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Good vs. Bad
I spoke at Shakespeare & Co. this past Saturday and it felt good. This independent bookstore hosts many local and "famous" authors. I sat on a panel with Pam Duncan, author of Plant Life, Moon Women, and The Big Beautiful, as well as Lyn York, author of The Piano Teacher and other great books. Several women attended this intimate gathering and it just plain felt good.
Good to be in the company of writers and readers again. Good because I was once again in my element. Good in the sense that reading my work aloud stimulated my heart's desire to finish my next story. Good for the muse in me that cries aloud to be fed.
But along with good comes the bad. Bad that I'm so damn frustrated with time limitations. Bad because I see a pin-light at the end of a never-ending tunnel. Bad because I can't find two spare minutes to rub together.
Sometimes it's good to hurt. The "bads" in life are often forks in the road. Wake-up calls. Striving for the good is not a bad thing. Often it's simply ... life changing.
Blessings to you and yours.
Good to be in the company of writers and readers again. Good because I was once again in my element. Good in the sense that reading my work aloud stimulated my heart's desire to finish my next story. Good for the muse in me that cries aloud to be fed.
But along with good comes the bad. Bad that I'm so damn frustrated with time limitations. Bad because I see a pin-light at the end of a never-ending tunnel. Bad because I can't find two spare minutes to rub together.
Sometimes it's good to hurt. The "bads" in life are often forks in the road. Wake-up calls. Striving for the good is not a bad thing. Often it's simply ... life changing.
Blessings to you and yours.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Limping Along
I've been nursing a sick husband for two weeks. Knee surgery at any age can be a test of endurance and patience. Well into the month of May, I'm still optimistic that this month will bring tidings of great joy.
Just not in the way I thought.
I'm grateful for a successful surgery and a husband who tolerates pain. Life's perks don't always appear in the ways you think they should. Blessings don't arrive like watching a car pull slowly into your driveway. Sometimes you don't realize a blessing until months later. Even years. Often, the good times in life don't seem like it. In the midst of adversity, we cannot see the advantage. We don't feel like blessing God for His miracle hand.
Today, I'm grateful for the trials of life, as well as the blessings.
They've made me who I am.
Blessings to you and yours.
Just not in the way I thought.
I'm grateful for a successful surgery and a husband who tolerates pain. Life's perks don't always appear in the ways you think they should. Blessings don't arrive like watching a car pull slowly into your driveway. Sometimes you don't realize a blessing until months later. Even years. Often, the good times in life don't seem like it. In the midst of adversity, we cannot see the advantage. We don't feel like blessing God for His miracle hand.
Today, I'm grateful for the trials of life, as well as the blessings.
They've made me who I am.
Blessings to you and yours.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
To Say Thank You
I arrived at work this morning and to my surprise, a pot of bright-white daises greeted me. My boss and his wife are, no doubt, the best folks I've ever worked for. Their thank-you to me was out of the blue, just because they're thankful for me being there for them. Unexpected, this gesture blessed me.
It made me wonder how many times in our life we say, "thank you." How many times do we say it and mean it? To give thanks is not just reserved for a November Holiday. To be grateful and thankful and show it, is often an art.
Some folks have no idea how to show their thanks. Where others go overboard. But I find as I grow older that a simple gesture, or a homemade card, or a note, or a kind word, or a pot of fresh flowers ... that's thanks enough and so appreciated.
Whether it comes from you or from those you love, remember to celebrate Thanksgiving ... even in the Spring.
Blessings to you and yours.
It made me wonder how many times in our life we say, "thank you." How many times do we say it and mean it? To give thanks is not just reserved for a November Holiday. To be grateful and thankful and show it, is often an art.
Some folks have no idea how to show their thanks. Where others go overboard. But I find as I grow older that a simple gesture, or a homemade card, or a note, or a kind word, or a pot of fresh flowers ... that's thanks enough and so appreciated.
Whether it comes from you or from those you love, remember to celebrate Thanksgiving ... even in the Spring.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Looking Forward To May
April is nearly over. Time for warmer weather, the yard is in full bloom, and my optimism is soaring. Hope is a good thing, especially in times like these - despite the constant doom and gloom conversations enjoyed by the "I'm-more-righteous-than-you" folks.
Last evening my husband and I had dinner at Paneras. Across from me, two men and one woman were engaged in conversation that made my ears bleed. You would think the world was about to explode according to these folks. The economy, the "blunders" of our current President, and lots of speculation as to where "we" as a nation were headed - it filled their mouths like a plate full of liver and onions. The "righteous-folks" love to promote wrath-of-God stuff. They talk loud so everyone can hear their opinions - thinking if they broadcast it, they'll escape it.
Now I believe there will come a time when God will be the final authority and that He is soverign. I believe He will judge the earth. I believe only He knows when the "end of days" will begin. But I also believe His love is beyond our mortal comprehension. We may be headed toward tougher economical times, yet isn't God is a God of peace, and hope, and optimism?
He has given us a brain. We can't change the world, but we can use a little faith, wisdom, and common sense to ignore those who spread fear like a bad case of the flu. In the end, doesn't scripture tell us that God enjoys the prosperity of His people?
I doubt the doom and gloom spread by "righteous do-gooders" is a sweet sound to His ears.
Have a happy May. Enjoy your life, no matter what.
Blessings to you and yours.
Last evening my husband and I had dinner at Paneras. Across from me, two men and one woman were engaged in conversation that made my ears bleed. You would think the world was about to explode according to these folks. The economy, the "blunders" of our current President, and lots of speculation as to where "we" as a nation were headed - it filled their mouths like a plate full of liver and onions. The "righteous-folks" love to promote wrath-of-God stuff. They talk loud so everyone can hear their opinions - thinking if they broadcast it, they'll escape it.
Now I believe there will come a time when God will be the final authority and that He is soverign. I believe He will judge the earth. I believe only He knows when the "end of days" will begin. But I also believe His love is beyond our mortal comprehension. We may be headed toward tougher economical times, yet isn't God is a God of peace, and hope, and optimism?
He has given us a brain. We can't change the world, but we can use a little faith, wisdom, and common sense to ignore those who spread fear like a bad case of the flu. In the end, doesn't scripture tell us that God enjoys the prosperity of His people?
I doubt the doom and gloom spread by "righteous do-gooders" is a sweet sound to His ears.
Have a happy May. Enjoy your life, no matter what.
Blessings to you and yours.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Susan Boyle, The Definition Of Inspiration
April holds a time-honored tradition for writers. Especially poets. Though I've been told I often write "poetically," I'm not a poet. But in honor of National Poetry Month, I give you the words to one of the most beautiful songs ever written.
The lyrics to I Dreamed a Dream, is from Les Miserable. I saw the play on Broadway many years ago, and this particular song stung me with such a force of kindredship. Today, I viewed a performance on You Tube by what I consider the definition of inspiration. I'm not a You Tube fanatic, but this one will keep me coming back. Click here to view ...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY
Susan Boyle. Remember the name. She the real deal, folks. She rekindled the memory of this song for me. (Not sure who really wrote it.) But I once belonged to the words. It could've been written about me. But time has changed things for me. I have become ever grateful that this song no longer reflects my life. Now, I just enjoy listening to it. Especially to Susan Boyle sing it. I share it with you.
There was a time when men were kind
When their voices were soft
And their words inviting
There was a time when love was blind
And the world was a song
And the song was exciting
There was a time
Then it all went wrong
I dreamed a dream in time gone by
When hope was high
And life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving
Then I was young and unafraid
And dreams were made and used and wasted
There was no ransom to be paid
No song unsung, no wine untasted
But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
And they turn your dream to shame
He slept a summer by my side
He filled my days with endless wonder
He took my childhood in his stride
But he was gone when autumn came
And still I dream he'll come to me
That we will live the years together
But there are dreams that cannot be
And there are storms we cannot weather
I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I'm living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.
Blessings to you and yours.
The lyrics to I Dreamed a Dream, is from Les Miserable. I saw the play on Broadway many years ago, and this particular song stung me with such a force of kindredship. Today, I viewed a performance on You Tube by what I consider the definition of inspiration. I'm not a You Tube fanatic, but this one will keep me coming back. Click here to view ...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY
Susan Boyle. Remember the name. She the real deal, folks. She rekindled the memory of this song for me. (Not sure who really wrote it.) But I once belonged to the words. It could've been written about me. But time has changed things for me. I have become ever grateful that this song no longer reflects my life. Now, I just enjoy listening to it. Especially to Susan Boyle sing it. I share it with you.
There was a time when men were kind
When their voices were soft
And their words inviting
There was a time when love was blind
And the world was a song
And the song was exciting
There was a time
Then it all went wrong
I dreamed a dream in time gone by
When hope was high
And life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving
Then I was young and unafraid
And dreams were made and used and wasted
There was no ransom to be paid
No song unsung, no wine untasted
But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
And they turn your dream to shame
He slept a summer by my side
He filled my days with endless wonder
He took my childhood in his stride
But he was gone when autumn came
And still I dream he'll come to me
That we will live the years together
But there are dreams that cannot be
And there are storms we cannot weather
I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I'm living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Finding My Pretty
I find I'm preaching to myself a lot lately. It's working. The doors are cracking open and I like what I see. Opportunities. No time, but plenty of opportunities. I don't know how, but I get the feeling God is working out a deal with my future and the talent for which He has given me.
Lately, I felt like I lost my Pretty. You know what I mean? Not the outwardly flawless kind of pretty. But the Pretty that makes me smile inside. Giggle. Those shots of energy that colors my world happy and, well, Pretty. I need to write. Daily. I need to be in the midst of my craft on a continuing basis. I need to say, 'hey that's pretty darn good!'
It's been difficult this past year, squeezing in time when I have exhausted my mind and my body in full-time employment. But life took a detour. Now, the thought of finishing what I start excites me to no end. The very idea of losing my Pretty depressed me. I need my Pretty like I need my coffee every morning. A jolt of optimism, a hope realized, a constant source of inner encouragement that everything is going to be okay.
But there comes a time when women like me have to put the past in its place, and not let it infect our future. Move forward no matter the circumstances. I know I'm not broken. A little bruised maybe, a little worn around the edges, but certainly not broken. Every girl needs a little Pretty in her life. And every writer needs Pretty. Otherwise, we don't get very far past the first paragraph.
After I get through this, I'll find my Pretty again. A different kind of "pretty." Like an aged door. Somewhat cracked, the paint flaked off, and a bit squeaky, but a beautiful thing to look at that still works and functions and makes me smile inside just watching it swing open.
My door is open to every possibility God wants to throw my way. That makes me feel Pretty great.
Blessings to you and yours.
Lately, I felt like I lost my Pretty. You know what I mean? Not the outwardly flawless kind of pretty. But the Pretty that makes me smile inside. Giggle. Those shots of energy that colors my world happy and, well, Pretty. I need to write. Daily. I need to be in the midst of my craft on a continuing basis. I need to say, 'hey that's pretty darn good!'
It's been difficult this past year, squeezing in time when I have exhausted my mind and my body in full-time employment. But life took a detour. Now, the thought of finishing what I start excites me to no end. The very idea of losing my Pretty depressed me. I need my Pretty like I need my coffee every morning. A jolt of optimism, a hope realized, a constant source of inner encouragement that everything is going to be okay.
But there comes a time when women like me have to put the past in its place, and not let it infect our future. Move forward no matter the circumstances. I know I'm not broken. A little bruised maybe, a little worn around the edges, but certainly not broken. Every girl needs a little Pretty in her life. And every writer needs Pretty. Otherwise, we don't get very far past the first paragraph.
After I get through this, I'll find my Pretty again. A different kind of "pretty." Like an aged door. Somewhat cracked, the paint flaked off, and a bit squeaky, but a beautiful thing to look at that still works and functions and makes me smile inside just watching it swing open.
My door is open to every possibility God wants to throw my way. That makes me feel Pretty great.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Faith Or Risk?
Once or twice in your lifetime you take a plunge. Into an unknown abyss. A jumping off point suddenly appears in your path and it's all or nothing. You realize nobody is looking. Then again, not a soul cares if you win or lose, try and fail. Everyone around you is self-absorbed in their own life's battle, there is no time for yours. So, with nothing other than your own resolution, you risk it all and free-fall, hoping to land in a better spot than the last time you leaped.
Some of us are known to do this more than others. I feel a time approaching when I may have to jump off. My family members are anything but risk-takers, which makes it difficult for me. Most folks I know live their lives the same way, year after year. Passovists who are quite content to work the 9 to 5 shift, retiring with two or three weeks of vacation a year, a small savings, a simple life.
I can appreciate that. I too, long for a simple way of living. A simple, quiet life.
However, Michael and I have seemingly dedicated our lives to, "wonder what's around that corner?" Quite the uncoventionalists, we have taken risks most folks only gaze at from a distance. True, our stress levels are on constant roller-coaster rides, but often we have had little choice, or we've leaped way before we should have. And yet, knowing all this ... I don't think we'll change at this point.
Most of the time, we land on our feet, thank God.
We're so very grateful for our home, our family, our loved ones. So thankful for the many blessings we've encountered along the way. Despite the tree roots and snakes along our path, we have been blessed. SO, is it FAITH or is it RISK when you see the cliff's edge? Do you have faith that it's God's will ... to jump, or is it blind ambition or stupidity that causes you to cannonball off the cliff?
"The road less traveled," I've been told that is my path. We shall see.
Blessings to you and yours.
Some of us are known to do this more than others. I feel a time approaching when I may have to jump off. My family members are anything but risk-takers, which makes it difficult for me. Most folks I know live their lives the same way, year after year. Passovists who are quite content to work the 9 to 5 shift, retiring with two or three weeks of vacation a year, a small savings, a simple life.
I can appreciate that. I too, long for a simple way of living. A simple, quiet life.
However, Michael and I have seemingly dedicated our lives to, "wonder what's around that corner?" Quite the uncoventionalists, we have taken risks most folks only gaze at from a distance. True, our stress levels are on constant roller-coaster rides, but often we have had little choice, or we've leaped way before we should have. And yet, knowing all this ... I don't think we'll change at this point.
Most of the time, we land on our feet, thank God.
We're so very grateful for our home, our family, our loved ones. So thankful for the many blessings we've encountered along the way. Despite the tree roots and snakes along our path, we have been blessed. SO, is it FAITH or is it RISK when you see the cliff's edge? Do you have faith that it's God's will ... to jump, or is it blind ambition or stupidity that causes you to cannonball off the cliff?
"The road less traveled," I've been told that is my path. We shall see.
Blessings to you and yours.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Back Then
Back then I was hopeful, if nothing else. My dream of becoming a famous writer began at the tender age of 12. I may have touched on this subject before, but today I've got a new prospective. From the time I wrote the first draft of that sixth-grade story ... nothing thrilled me more than to put pencil to paper and scribble my fantasies into complete gut and heart-wrenching fiction. Fiction I just knew, without a doubt, would make any stone-cold heart bawl his or her eyes right out of his or her head.
Back then, I wrote a story the day before my Senior Prom. About a girl who gets trapped inside a cave with her boyfriend on the night of her what else? Senior Prom. Silly. But I was a romantic. Even back then. I wrote about life and love and meany teachers and giggly girlfriends. It was all I knew. Back then.
Back then I wanted to be a young Harper Lee or Margaret Mitchell. I just knew I had it in me. Then the Vietnam War changed my prose and the Women's Movement did strange things to my protagonists. I wrote about anger and injustice. I wrote stories about Southerners who were cruel or drunk or stupid, and about Northerners who were arrogant or pushy or boastful. Stereotypes. For the most part, they were just stories to entertain nobody but me, as it seemed nobody else cared to read them.
Back then, I began to take heart and believe I just might be good enough to publish something. So I told my (at that time) young husband about a novel I wanted to write. About a white girl who grows up in Cleveland during the 60s and travels to Mississippi to march with her black pen-pal girlfriend she has never met. He laughed at me. But I ignored his discouraging remarks and enrolled in my first formal creative writing classes. It was the pre-computer 1980s. I typed and typed and typed some more on a noisy IBM Selectric, tucking pillows around it at night so not to wake my kids who were just in grade school.
But back then, each and every story I finished got shoved into a box. Or burned. Or lost in a move to a new apartment or another rented house.
I'm not pitying myself, I'm looking for a reason to keep going. I'm searching my pantries for writing fuel to nourish my nearly-starved published self.
Anyway, back then, I began to see the fruit of my labors come together. It was the 90s and after years and years of night classes, a doctor (a Urologist, to be exact) with whom I worked read one of my stories. A published author of some hot Vampire novels, this man took time out of his busy schedule to mentor, critique, and encourage. Something I desperately needed and until that day, had never received. It caused me to dig my heels into the dirt and write like a woman not quite wrapped right. A woman gone mad.
You see, back then, I was the victim of a broken home, a broken heart, a broken life. I had collected lots and lots to write about.
Not so far back I published my first book. I thought, yeah baby ... this is it, the beginning of a spectacular writing career. My precious and supportive new husband and I traveled hundreds of miles pushing, promoting, and marketing my hot-off-the-press book. Shoot, we plum wore out two cars. Back then.
As I spoke to groups and sold my collection of short stories, we were warmly received. In churches, at book fairs, civic organizations, and country clubs, everywhere we traveled, appearing at one sort of meeting or another, I was honored with several standing ovations and consistently invited back. Folks clamored for the next book, even followed us out to the car just to talk about my stories. It was just a glimpse into the world of being that famous author. Anyway, that first book did very well, thank you, and is still selling copies. But not like back then.
But then I began to pull together the pieces of a novel I'd been writing for fifteen years. A novel I believed would rival any masterpiece ever penned. As I ended a two-year book tour for my first book, I trusted I had built the platform for this new novel. Believed it so much that I would've staked my life on it. I worked non-stop. Literally. Spent two more years stapled to my chair and glued to my computer for 12-hour days, pouring over edits and chapters, words, paragraphs, scenes ... making it as perfect as I could. I lost my health over this book. Unfortunately.
Back then I was sure I'd receive at least a few rejections from my first query letters. Eventually, I thought, some lucky agent will fall in love with my manuscript after they've asked to read it in its entirety. They'll insist on representing it and sell my greatest-story-ever-told to the highest bidder so the world will have another Gone With The Wind. But alas, that dream is just about gone. With the wind.
Never give up, they say. Never give in. It's been drilled and screwed into me like toggle bolts on a washing machine. I can't say I'm even able to give up. But I'm sick of the publishing world and who and what they represent. I'm sick of their A lists and B lists. I despise the few who frighten and inject ridiculous statements into so many writers, making them think they should never, God forbid, self publish. I'm fried with writing groups and writing classes and writing conferences and know-it-all agents who pretend they can make or break you. I'm sick to death of blogs, Face Book pages, web site after web site that bores me to bloody tears. In fact, if there is one thing I've completely given up on, it's wasting my time on know-it-all agents/editors/writers/publishers and their smell-me web sites.
We know the publishing industry is in the toilet, along with the economy. We know that. We hear it over and over on the news. We know the big publishers are not interested in taking risks with new authors. But the toilet has not been flushed. The big dogs in New York need to find a way to pull themselves out of the porcelain tank and update the whole process of finding new authors. The hoops we writers have to jump through will probably never go away. But do the publishers need to set the hoops on fire? If so, writers are going to find other ways to publish. I'm sick of worrying about it. Frankly, once again, I as well as many of my colleagues, are sick to death of it.
All I want to do is to return to ... back then. And just write.
And never give a damn if anybody ever reads it. I'm a writer. Nothing this side of Heaven or Hell can ever, ever change that.
Blessings to you and yours.
Back then, I wrote a story the day before my Senior Prom. About a girl who gets trapped inside a cave with her boyfriend on the night of her what else? Senior Prom. Silly. But I was a romantic. Even back then. I wrote about life and love and meany teachers and giggly girlfriends. It was all I knew. Back then.
Back then I wanted to be a young Harper Lee or Margaret Mitchell. I just knew I had it in me. Then the Vietnam War changed my prose and the Women's Movement did strange things to my protagonists. I wrote about anger and injustice. I wrote stories about Southerners who were cruel or drunk or stupid, and about Northerners who were arrogant or pushy or boastful. Stereotypes. For the most part, they were just stories to entertain nobody but me, as it seemed nobody else cared to read them.
Back then, I began to take heart and believe I just might be good enough to publish something. So I told my (at that time) young husband about a novel I wanted to write. About a white girl who grows up in Cleveland during the 60s and travels to Mississippi to march with her black pen-pal girlfriend she has never met. He laughed at me. But I ignored his discouraging remarks and enrolled in my first formal creative writing classes. It was the pre-computer 1980s. I typed and typed and typed some more on a noisy IBM Selectric, tucking pillows around it at night so not to wake my kids who were just in grade school.
But back then, each and every story I finished got shoved into a box. Or burned. Or lost in a move to a new apartment or another rented house.
I'm not pitying myself, I'm looking for a reason to keep going. I'm searching my pantries for writing fuel to nourish my nearly-starved published self.
Anyway, back then, I began to see the fruit of my labors come together. It was the 90s and after years and years of night classes, a doctor (a Urologist, to be exact) with whom I worked read one of my stories. A published author of some hot Vampire novels, this man took time out of his busy schedule to mentor, critique, and encourage. Something I desperately needed and until that day, had never received. It caused me to dig my heels into the dirt and write like a woman not quite wrapped right. A woman gone mad.
You see, back then, I was the victim of a broken home, a broken heart, a broken life. I had collected lots and lots to write about.
Not so far back I published my first book. I thought, yeah baby ... this is it, the beginning of a spectacular writing career. My precious and supportive new husband and I traveled hundreds of miles pushing, promoting, and marketing my hot-off-the-press book. Shoot, we plum wore out two cars. Back then.
As I spoke to groups and sold my collection of short stories, we were warmly received. In churches, at book fairs, civic organizations, and country clubs, everywhere we traveled, appearing at one sort of meeting or another, I was honored with several standing ovations and consistently invited back. Folks clamored for the next book, even followed us out to the car just to talk about my stories. It was just a glimpse into the world of being that famous author. Anyway, that first book did very well, thank you, and is still selling copies. But not like back then.
But then I began to pull together the pieces of a novel I'd been writing for fifteen years. A novel I believed would rival any masterpiece ever penned. As I ended a two-year book tour for my first book, I trusted I had built the platform for this new novel. Believed it so much that I would've staked my life on it. I worked non-stop. Literally. Spent two more years stapled to my chair and glued to my computer for 12-hour days, pouring over edits and chapters, words, paragraphs, scenes ... making it as perfect as I could. I lost my health over this book. Unfortunately.
Back then I was sure I'd receive at least a few rejections from my first query letters. Eventually, I thought, some lucky agent will fall in love with my manuscript after they've asked to read it in its entirety. They'll insist on representing it and sell my greatest-story-ever-told to the highest bidder so the world will have another Gone With The Wind. But alas, that dream is just about gone. With the wind.
Never give up, they say. Never give in. It's been drilled and screwed into me like toggle bolts on a washing machine. I can't say I'm even able to give up. But I'm sick of the publishing world and who and what they represent. I'm sick of their A lists and B lists. I despise the few who frighten and inject ridiculous statements into so many writers, making them think they should never, God forbid, self publish. I'm fried with writing groups and writing classes and writing conferences and know-it-all agents who pretend they can make or break you. I'm sick to death of blogs, Face Book pages, web site after web site that bores me to bloody tears. In fact, if there is one thing I've completely given up on, it's wasting my time on know-it-all agents/editors/writers/publishers and their smell-me web sites.
We know the publishing industry is in the toilet, along with the economy. We know that. We hear it over and over on the news. We know the big publishers are not interested in taking risks with new authors. But the toilet has not been flushed. The big dogs in New York need to find a way to pull themselves out of the porcelain tank and update the whole process of finding new authors. The hoops we writers have to jump through will probably never go away. But do the publishers need to set the hoops on fire? If so, writers are going to find other ways to publish. I'm sick of worrying about it. Frankly, once again, I as well as many of my colleagues, are sick to death of it.
All I want to do is to return to ... back then. And just write.
And never give a damn if anybody ever reads it. I'm a writer. Nothing this side of Heaven or Hell can ever, ever change that.
Blessings to you and yours.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
A New Family Member
Lauren Christine ... doesn't the name ring of all things pink and princessey? Our new baby girl, our new granddaughter was born on the 18th of March. Both mama and baby are doing well and little brother (or should I say big brother) is taking it all in stride. I don't think he's aware of the significance of his new little sister yet, as he's still just a baby himself. But Drew (who is almost 2) had a whole bunch of fun running the hospital's hallways during visits. As soon as I can, I'll post some pictures. They are two beautiful children, I really must say.
Thing is ... Chris, Nicole, Drew and now Lauren, reside in Arizona. Michael has not had the grandfatherly pleasure of holding his granddaughter yet. And God only knows when that will be. We're not able to make it down there, with working and so many things going on here. It's not easy living so far away from your kids. Everyone in this family has felt so torn at one time or another. Life takes its toll on your mental and physical health when family members are spread apart.
Once upon a time, whole families lived in one big house. Privacy was at a minimum, but it was a financial necessity. I think we're returning to that time. Raising a family is not easy. But it's much easier when grandparents live nearby. Nicole and Chris are blessed with her parents to help them at this time. I know other families who depend on grandma and grandpa for support in one way or another.
It seems the more technology we amass in this country, nothing really changes much. We're all still people, with the same wants, needs, wishes, and hopes for the future that our ancestors possessed. We still fight wars, struggle for the American Dream, get sick, give birth, raise children, die. Sure, there are more channels on our TV, our kids face different distractions, but when you boil it all down ... just how different are we from those who pioneered this country?
I'm not talking about how much easier it is now than then. Sure, we have household appliances these days and aren't forced to wash our clothes in the river. I'm talking about in general. We're still people. We've not evolved into a human much different than our great great grandparents.
My point is, we hurt the same, cry the same, and want the same dreams to come true that they did.
We've yet to find a miracle drug for yearning, longing, excessive hoping. We're all going to go the same way we came in ... with family around us.
Family ... the word is trite and overused. But oh, how precious the meaning. We're blessed to have a new little girl who just recently came into our family. Welcome.
Things to think about this morning.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thing is ... Chris, Nicole, Drew and now Lauren, reside in Arizona. Michael has not had the grandfatherly pleasure of holding his granddaughter yet. And God only knows when that will be. We're not able to make it down there, with working and so many things going on here. It's not easy living so far away from your kids. Everyone in this family has felt so torn at one time or another. Life takes its toll on your mental and physical health when family members are spread apart.
Once upon a time, whole families lived in one big house. Privacy was at a minimum, but it was a financial necessity. I think we're returning to that time. Raising a family is not easy. But it's much easier when grandparents live nearby. Nicole and Chris are blessed with her parents to help them at this time. I know other families who depend on grandma and grandpa for support in one way or another.
It seems the more technology we amass in this country, nothing really changes much. We're all still people, with the same wants, needs, wishes, and hopes for the future that our ancestors possessed. We still fight wars, struggle for the American Dream, get sick, give birth, raise children, die. Sure, there are more channels on our TV, our kids face different distractions, but when you boil it all down ... just how different are we from those who pioneered this country?
I'm not talking about how much easier it is now than then. Sure, we have household appliances these days and aren't forced to wash our clothes in the river. I'm talking about in general. We're still people. We've not evolved into a human much different than our great great grandparents.
My point is, we hurt the same, cry the same, and want the same dreams to come true that they did.
We've yet to find a miracle drug for yearning, longing, excessive hoping. We're all going to go the same way we came in ... with family around us.
Family ... the word is trite and overused. But oh, how precious the meaning. We're blessed to have a new little girl who just recently came into our family. Welcome.
Things to think about this morning.
Blessings to you and yours.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
These Dreams
Consider these song lyrics by Heart, made popular by the same group:
Spare a little candle, save some light for me. Figures up ahead moving in the trees. White skin in linen, Perfume on my wrist, and the full moon that hangs over these dreams in the mist.
Darkness on the edge, shadows where I stand, I search for the time on a watch with no hands, I want to see you clearly, come closer to this come closer to this. But all I remember are the dreams in the mist.
Is it cloak and dagger, could it be Spring or Fall? I walk without a cut through a stained-glass wall. Weaker in my eyesight, a candle in my grip, and words that have no form are falling from my lips.
There's something out there I can't resist. I need to hide away from the pain. There's something out there I can't resist.
The sweetest song is silence that I've ever heard. Funny how your feet in dreams never touch the Earth. In a wood full of princes, freedom is a kiss. But the Prince hides his face from dreams in the mist.
CHORUS
These dreams go on when I close my eyes. Every second of the night, I live another life. These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside, every moment I'm awake, the further I'm away.
Pretty song but a bit spooky. Yet to a dreamer like me, it speaks volumes. I’m a dreamer. Not the heady kind who consistently has her head in the clouds daydreaming, fantasizing, scheming, an optimist with no vision of reality. No, not that kind of dreamer.
I dream dark, murky, and often violent dreams. At night. When I’m in a deep sleep. Often, I have night terrors, waking my husband with a scream or in a sweaty fit. I’m infected; it seems, by visions of my past. For some unknown reason, there are two things I dream about consistently. Tornados and the house I grew up in. Last night was one of strangest dreams about the old house on Waterloo Rd.
During my growing up time, nothing scared me there. I felt loved by my parents, safe, cared for. But truly, strange things happened in that house. Mostly to my mother, who has always been sensitive to “things not seen.” But that’s a subject for another blog.
Anyway, in this latest dream, I was standing in my mother’s kitchen. It looked exactly as it did when we lived there. My parent’s house was full of antiques, but tastefully done. I was peering out the windows over the kitchen sink which happened to be the front of the house. Suddenly, a large bolt of lightning exploded in a straight line from a violent sky. It seared across the front yard, like a ban saw, heading straight to the middle of house. As it cut the house in half, a train track appeared and a passenger train crashed through the house. The train stopped, as if the middle of my parent’s house was a train stop. People got out. Nice folks, apologizing for this horrible intrusion. I was screaming, “How can you do this? Why did you ruin this house? Watch out, don’t touch a thing! Stay away! Get out of here! Get out!”
In a way, I suppose it sounds funny. But in the dream, it was no less than terrifying. In other dreams, I’ve watched my parent’s old house slide off the face of the earth into some red, hot abyss. Tornados tearing it apart, and on and on. But always, my nightmares are about this old house. A house I’ve not seen since the day they moved out over a decade ago. I’ve heard the new owners have all but trashed it. But I dream about this place of my growing-up years, at least once or twice month.
Why?
I’ve not a clue. I heard once that someone died in that house. Way back in the 20s or 30s. It was a pretty house. My dad worked endless hours on it, remodeling every part of it. His handiwork was evident in each room. Mom, however, worked like a dog to clean it, repair it, fix it, and decorate it. She was glad, she said, to leave it and move back to the South. It was nothing but work to her.
To me, it’s nothing but a memory. And often, a nightmare. But again, I have no idea why.
I think it’s time to pray it out of my head. I need to get a good night’s sleep.
Blessings to you and yours.
Spare a little candle, save some light for me. Figures up ahead moving in the trees. White skin in linen, Perfume on my wrist, and the full moon that hangs over these dreams in the mist.
Darkness on the edge, shadows where I stand, I search for the time on a watch with no hands, I want to see you clearly, come closer to this come closer to this. But all I remember are the dreams in the mist.
Is it cloak and dagger, could it be Spring or Fall? I walk without a cut through a stained-glass wall. Weaker in my eyesight, a candle in my grip, and words that have no form are falling from my lips.
There's something out there I can't resist. I need to hide away from the pain. There's something out there I can't resist.
The sweetest song is silence that I've ever heard. Funny how your feet in dreams never touch the Earth. In a wood full of princes, freedom is a kiss. But the Prince hides his face from dreams in the mist.
CHORUS
These dreams go on when I close my eyes. Every second of the night, I live another life. These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside, every moment I'm awake, the further I'm away.
Pretty song but a bit spooky. Yet to a dreamer like me, it speaks volumes. I’m a dreamer. Not the heady kind who consistently has her head in the clouds daydreaming, fantasizing, scheming, an optimist with no vision of reality. No, not that kind of dreamer.
I dream dark, murky, and often violent dreams. At night. When I’m in a deep sleep. Often, I have night terrors, waking my husband with a scream or in a sweaty fit. I’m infected; it seems, by visions of my past. For some unknown reason, there are two things I dream about consistently. Tornados and the house I grew up in. Last night was one of strangest dreams about the old house on Waterloo Rd.
During my growing up time, nothing scared me there. I felt loved by my parents, safe, cared for. But truly, strange things happened in that house. Mostly to my mother, who has always been sensitive to “things not seen.” But that’s a subject for another blog.
Anyway, in this latest dream, I was standing in my mother’s kitchen. It looked exactly as it did when we lived there. My parent’s house was full of antiques, but tastefully done. I was peering out the windows over the kitchen sink which happened to be the front of the house. Suddenly, a large bolt of lightning exploded in a straight line from a violent sky. It seared across the front yard, like a ban saw, heading straight to the middle of house. As it cut the house in half, a train track appeared and a passenger train crashed through the house. The train stopped, as if the middle of my parent’s house was a train stop. People got out. Nice folks, apologizing for this horrible intrusion. I was screaming, “How can you do this? Why did you ruin this house? Watch out, don’t touch a thing! Stay away! Get out of here! Get out!”
In a way, I suppose it sounds funny. But in the dream, it was no less than terrifying. In other dreams, I’ve watched my parent’s old house slide off the face of the earth into some red, hot abyss. Tornados tearing it apart, and on and on. But always, my nightmares are about this old house. A house I’ve not seen since the day they moved out over a decade ago. I’ve heard the new owners have all but trashed it. But I dream about this place of my growing-up years, at least once or twice month.
Why?
I’ve not a clue. I heard once that someone died in that house. Way back in the 20s or 30s. It was a pretty house. My dad worked endless hours on it, remodeling every part of it. His handiwork was evident in each room. Mom, however, worked like a dog to clean it, repair it, fix it, and decorate it. She was glad, she said, to leave it and move back to the South. It was nothing but work to her.
To me, it’s nothing but a memory. And often, a nightmare. But again, I have no idea why.
I think it’s time to pray it out of my head. I need to get a good night’s sleep.
Blessings to you and yours.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
River Song
River held tight to the end of her rope. He'd left her for the last time, he’d said. He'd left her every Valentine’s Day. But this time he’d packed his favorite shirt, his socks, and his dog.
Piney’s words echoed off peeling walls and cardboard ceiling tiles. "Cain’t do it anymore. I cain’t pretend this is where I'm supposed to be."
River could hear his Dodge, as eager to get out of town as her husband. The truck’s muffler rumbled and spit behind foggy windowpanes. She sat in tense silence and stared at the faded green carpet, averting her eyes from the conflict. Slumped down into the old, overstuffed couch, venturing sheepish glances as she clutched her mama’s throw pillows, this time felt different.
Wiping tears from swollen eyes, River whispered to her daughter who straddled the arm of the couch as if sitting atop her horse. "Sit by me, Kip."
But the nine-year-old, transfixed by her daddy’s fit, licked at her own tears while her parents bludgeoned each other with words.
"You know where you can find me," said Piney. His mouth was set in its distinctive smile, but his eyes were hollow.
"Go then!" River shouted. He’d worn her down with authoritative edicts that made no sense. Every time she presented a logical explanation, Piney shot back with something asinine wrapped in his typical theological and patronizing tone. His agitation bubbled under the surface of his reasons for flight, but his face bore no sign of fire. It only grew more rugged and redder by the second.
********************
This is the first part of my new short story, River Song.
Blessings to you and yours.
Piney’s words echoed off peeling walls and cardboard ceiling tiles. "Cain’t do it anymore. I cain’t pretend this is where I'm supposed to be."
River could hear his Dodge, as eager to get out of town as her husband. The truck’s muffler rumbled and spit behind foggy windowpanes. She sat in tense silence and stared at the faded green carpet, averting her eyes from the conflict. Slumped down into the old, overstuffed couch, venturing sheepish glances as she clutched her mama’s throw pillows, this time felt different.
Wiping tears from swollen eyes, River whispered to her daughter who straddled the arm of the couch as if sitting atop her horse. "Sit by me, Kip."
But the nine-year-old, transfixed by her daddy’s fit, licked at her own tears while her parents bludgeoned each other with words.
"You know where you can find me," said Piney. His mouth was set in its distinctive smile, but his eyes were hollow.
"Go then!" River shouted. He’d worn her down with authoritative edicts that made no sense. Every time she presented a logical explanation, Piney shot back with something asinine wrapped in his typical theological and patronizing tone. His agitation bubbled under the surface of his reasons for flight, but his face bore no sign of fire. It only grew more rugged and redder by the second.
********************
This is the first part of my new short story, River Song.
Blessings to you and yours.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Yikes!
Lordy.
It's been forever, it seems, since blogging.
Maybe I've given it up for lent. My lent happened back in February, I suppose. I've been taking a sabbatical from every thing I used to do.
Except writing stories.
I've written a couple stories for contests and have been working steadily on Book Three of the Televenge Trilogy. But since I'm working full-time right now, blogging takes a back seat. Like when you used to sit in the back of your dad's station wagon. Way back.
It's my life right now.
My blog on my dog has mysteriously disappeared, so in case you're wondering about Harley, he's doing just great! I love my dog! Love, love, love him. He's the best dog ever, I swear. He's learning new tricks ... like stay, come, down, speak.
It's been fun, despite the cold North Carolina weather. Our recent snow accumulation is about gone, the daffodils and spring flowers are poking through the ground. Soon the South will draw in it's famous hot weather and we're back to our norm for this time of the year.
Ah, yes ... the plight of this writer is just to get from one day to the next, one story to the next, and not worry about the blog, which, I'm sure I've lost most of my readers anyway. But I'm moving forward once again in getting something published this year and there's only so many hours in a day. So peak in from time to time.
I'll hit this blog every so often.
Yikes!
Blessings to those who continue to watch for me, despite my shortcomings.
It's been forever, it seems, since blogging.
Maybe I've given it up for lent. My lent happened back in February, I suppose. I've been taking a sabbatical from every thing I used to do.
Except writing stories.
I've written a couple stories for contests and have been working steadily on Book Three of the Televenge Trilogy. But since I'm working full-time right now, blogging takes a back seat. Like when you used to sit in the back of your dad's station wagon. Way back.
It's my life right now.
My blog on my dog has mysteriously disappeared, so in case you're wondering about Harley, he's doing just great! I love my dog! Love, love, love him. He's the best dog ever, I swear. He's learning new tricks ... like stay, come, down, speak.
It's been fun, despite the cold North Carolina weather. Our recent snow accumulation is about gone, the daffodils and spring flowers are poking through the ground. Soon the South will draw in it's famous hot weather and we're back to our norm for this time of the year.
Ah, yes ... the plight of this writer is just to get from one day to the next, one story to the next, and not worry about the blog, which, I'm sure I've lost most of my readers anyway. But I'm moving forward once again in getting something published this year and there's only so many hours in a day. So peak in from time to time.
I'll hit this blog every so often.
Yikes!
Blessings to those who continue to watch for me, despite my shortcomings.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Groaning and Griping
It's winter. A season a gripes and groans.
I'm griping because school systems in the South tend to think they need to close at the very thought of a patch of ice on the road and a dozen snowflakes. Can you imagine? They closed the schools here today. By noon the temperatures were in the high 50s with sun-filled skies. The roads had been dry all day. A patient called me before I left for the day, informing me she might not be able to make it in for her early morning appointment "due to snow."
These folks need to live a month in Cleveland. Northern folk seldom, if ever, close their schools for a whole dang day due to snow. Those of us who live in the South, yet have spent a period of our childhood in the Snowbelt, laugh at the spooked Southerners and their fear of bad weather.
I'm groaning at the cold. Despite the fact my blood has thinned from this milder climate, I still hate cold weather. Even North Carolina cold. I'm ready for robins and daffodils. Trees with buds and sultry breezes across my back porch. I want to wear my flip-flops. Open the doors in the morning and feel the sun on my face. My heart yearns for green grass, coffee on the deck, the neighbors rooster to crow again.
I guess I'll just groan and gripe all the way to Spring.
Blessings to you and yours. Stay warm!
I'm griping because school systems in the South tend to think they need to close at the very thought of a patch of ice on the road and a dozen snowflakes. Can you imagine? They closed the schools here today. By noon the temperatures were in the high 50s with sun-filled skies. The roads had been dry all day. A patient called me before I left for the day, informing me she might not be able to make it in for her early morning appointment "due to snow."
These folks need to live a month in Cleveland. Northern folk seldom, if ever, close their schools for a whole dang day due to snow. Those of us who live in the South, yet have spent a period of our childhood in the Snowbelt, laugh at the spooked Southerners and their fear of bad weather.
I'm groaning at the cold. Despite the fact my blood has thinned from this milder climate, I still hate cold weather. Even North Carolina cold. I'm ready for robins and daffodils. Trees with buds and sultry breezes across my back porch. I want to wear my flip-flops. Open the doors in the morning and feel the sun on my face. My heart yearns for green grass, coffee on the deck, the neighbors rooster to crow again.
I guess I'll just groan and gripe all the way to Spring.
Blessings to you and yours. Stay warm!
Friday, January 16, 2009
Medicare 101
My boss thought it would be a good idea for me to attend a one-day seminar on Medicare. We do see Medicare patients from time-to-time, and the more I know about the Medicare process, the better for the practice. So he paid the sixty bucks and I spent the day in a Marriott ballroom learning all about Medicare 101.
Shoot me.
Please.
Who makes this stuff up? I'm convinced that nerds from all over the country get their revenge in one simple way. Medical Insurance. And the biggest nerds write the rules for Medicare.
I know we need it. Thank God we have it. But I cannot imagine for one minute that anyone really enjoys working with this stuff. Prior to my full-time writing career, I slaved in the medical field for a good many years. I learned enough enough about the insurance process to get the job done and supervise others to do the job for me. But to study it? Get excited about it? Memorize the ICD-9 and CPT codes?
I'd rather not, thank you very much.
The room buldged with women (of course) who work in medical offices all over the state. Some of them, you could tell, have spent their life working claims, dealing with irate patients, doctors, and administrators. It showed. Their faces and personalities were lined with endless years of dealing with this stuff. Of being stapled to their desks, tied to their phones, glued to their computers. It alters ones personality and eventually, it'll kill you. I'm convinced.
I, of course, sat at the back of the room and observed it all from a different point of view. Now, that's not to say I didn't get something out of it. I did. It truly is my desire to do a great job for my boss, he's such a good guy, and I appreciate his position. He heart is in the right place, as the man really cares for his patients and their welfare. So, I gathered as much from the conference as I could, asked a few questions, made some notes, and went home. I had to at least get sixty bucks worth to take back to the office with me. Right?
But oh, my, gosh. At one point I sat in the back of the room and laughed. (To myself, of course.) Why in the world would anyone indulge in this type of self-torture for a living? I was ready to slit my wrists.
And then it occurred to me. A story line. A character came into view. She works medical claims by day and walks the street by night. Hmmm.
It's amazing what you can walk away with from a Medicare conference.
Blessings to you and yours.
Shoot me.
Please.
Who makes this stuff up? I'm convinced that nerds from all over the country get their revenge in one simple way. Medical Insurance. And the biggest nerds write the rules for Medicare.
I know we need it. Thank God we have it. But I cannot imagine for one minute that anyone really enjoys working with this stuff. Prior to my full-time writing career, I slaved in the medical field for a good many years. I learned enough enough about the insurance process to get the job done and supervise others to do the job for me. But to study it? Get excited about it? Memorize the ICD-9 and CPT codes?
I'd rather not, thank you very much.
The room buldged with women (of course) who work in medical offices all over the state. Some of them, you could tell, have spent their life working claims, dealing with irate patients, doctors, and administrators. It showed. Their faces and personalities were lined with endless years of dealing with this stuff. Of being stapled to their desks, tied to their phones, glued to their computers. It alters ones personality and eventually, it'll kill you. I'm convinced.
I, of course, sat at the back of the room and observed it all from a different point of view. Now, that's not to say I didn't get something out of it. I did. It truly is my desire to do a great job for my boss, he's such a good guy, and I appreciate his position. He heart is in the right place, as the man really cares for his patients and their welfare. So, I gathered as much from the conference as I could, asked a few questions, made some notes, and went home. I had to at least get sixty bucks worth to take back to the office with me. Right?
But oh, my, gosh. At one point I sat in the back of the room and laughed. (To myself, of course.) Why in the world would anyone indulge in this type of self-torture for a living? I was ready to slit my wrists.
And then it occurred to me. A story line. A character came into view. She works medical claims by day and walks the street by night. Hmmm.
It's amazing what you can walk away with from a Medicare conference.
Blessings to you and yours.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
A Strange Friend
It's strange how we separate our friends into categories. Friend is a loosely-used term, I think. One day they appear, seemingly out of the blue, stick around for a while, then poof ... they're gone.
But like I said, friends fall into many slots. Those we email - occasionally. Friends we write to once in a while, sending a card or thank-you note. We lunch with friends who are great for a couple hours of stimulating conversation. Then with a well-meaning kiss and a wave good-bye ... you don't see or hear from them again until the next lunch date. And that's perfectly - okay.
First friends, boy friends, childhood friends. It's true, friends can leave us as quick as they appear. Then pow - we run right into them in the produce section, or the Walmart parking lot. Or the dreaded class reunion. Old friends who instead of sending us their own snap shot, send portrait pictures of their kids in Christmas cards. A younger version of themself, hoping to trip your memory of when you were all just ... kids.
Sisters can be friends. Or not. And some friends can be more like sisters than real ones. Best friends, it is said, mate for life. They can be tossed over-board and still swim back to you. Half drowned and naked, she's still a friend. Not a drop of love has been lost between you. You cherish that kind of friend. It takes a lifetime, I believe, to make a friendship like that. It's not until a person goes through most of your weakest and worst moments with you, along side of you, that you can call them a best friend. Best friends have the unique ability to see you for who you really are, and still love you to pieces in spite of yourself.
Your spouse can be a best friend. Or at least recognizes the need for his best friend/spouse to have yet another best friend. Sounds complicated, but really, that's a priceless virtue in friends: the ability to share the friendship, and not get all jacked out of shape about it.
Every girl, however, should have a best girl friend. One who knows how to be there, and be quiet. Scream in your face, then know when to back off. A best friend who knows which buttons to push and which not to touch. One who is selfless, has been there all or most of your life. One who will hold your hand while you're dying, while making sure there are no hairs to be pulled on your chin before you're laid open in your casket. That kind of friend.
Friends, for the most part, are human. But there are other friends. A dog or a cherished animal of any species can be a friend. How many stories have been written about the animal friends in our life? Lassie, Free Willy, Marley and Me ... wow. Often, our animal friends, are our best friends.
Well, to be honest, I set out writing this blog thinking about a different kind of friend. The strangest friend anyone could have. An inanimate object with no feelings. A thing. Something that most would look at and think nothing about. The perfect noun ... uh, or rather, friend. A lifelong friend.
Linus had one. Most babies carry one until it's tattered and torn. Some children rub one against their face while sucking their thumb. Even college-age kids will sneak one into their dorm, hidden between the shirts and pants in their suitcase.
My security blanket, has been my lifelong friend. Here's why: Back in 1971, my then mother-in-law-to-be (who was in her late 40s at the time) crocheted. A lot. She made one afghan after another with a real ivory crochet hook. She was good at it, and I told her so. Young I was, only 17, when she promised to make me an afghan for a wedding present. She made more than an afghan. She made thirty-plus years of memories.
This huge, hand-crocheted afghan is plain blue with ivory, yellow, and variegated-blue stripes on each end. Ugly as sin. But this blankey of mine has gone with me everywhere. It has slip-covered many a hideous-looking chair or couch since the 70s. It's toasty warm and can be doubled, still covering every part of me. It has wrapped its warmth around my children when they were sick. Covered them as babies, first-graders, eighth-graders, and when they had their wisdom teeth pulled. It covered my son the day he came home on leave from boot camp and slept for 24 hours straight. It rocked and lulled my daughter to sleep after a broken heart. It has soothed me during my darkest hours. This old blankey has seen the three of us through some hard, hard times.
It has absorbed a ton of tears. Believe me.
It waited for me, patiently, as I lost my mind and then found it again. Folded, it has rested on my beds, sofas, and now hangs in a place of honor in my hold farmhouse. A place where we can still grab "covey" as my husband calls it, and snuggle. I've done a whole lot of "snuggling" under that old friend. It has warmed my cold legs while I sat at the computer writing story after story. It never complained, never yelled at me, never told me to quit. It just covered me.
"Old Blue," as I call it, has appeared in many family snap shots. No matter my decor at the time, this afghan looks better with time. There's not a hole to be found, after well over thirty years. It's been through hundreds of washings, laid in a heap on the floor for days, covered doll babies, puppies, kittens, and resisted the heat of an old attic once while packed away for a period of time.
Wrapping it around me is like a time machine. I can see where we've been, how far we've traveled, and how we have ever so gracefully - aged together. I realize now, I've never gone anywhere, without it. It's been my most loyal friend. It's been on most car trips, enjoying the back seat. Old Blue has covered the ground for a picnic or two, has laid on a few beaches, and rode in an airplane. It's quite the traveller. And for all it's wanderings, it has welcomed me home day after tired-day.
There's something about that old afghan that draws me to it. I either want it buried with me or cremated with me. Ha! Now, that's a friend.
My now ex-mother-in-law, who by the way I still love, is in a nursing home. Tucked away in her 80s, she no longer flips a crochet hook around her fingers. But not long ago, I asked her if she remembered that old afghan she made me. She looked at me strange with a twinkle in her eye and said, "You know, I prayed over that thing as I made it. I prayed it would cover the wrinkles in your life."
"It did," I said. "It really did."
Old Blue is my most trusted friend. A strange one, indeed.
Blessings to you and yours.
But like I said, friends fall into many slots. Those we email - occasionally. Friends we write to once in a while, sending a card or thank-you note. We lunch with friends who are great for a couple hours of stimulating conversation. Then with a well-meaning kiss and a wave good-bye ... you don't see or hear from them again until the next lunch date. And that's perfectly - okay.
First friends, boy friends, childhood friends. It's true, friends can leave us as quick as they appear. Then pow - we run right into them in the produce section, or the Walmart parking lot. Or the dreaded class reunion. Old friends who instead of sending us their own snap shot, send portrait pictures of their kids in Christmas cards. A younger version of themself, hoping to trip your memory of when you were all just ... kids.
Sisters can be friends. Or not. And some friends can be more like sisters than real ones. Best friends, it is said, mate for life. They can be tossed over-board and still swim back to you. Half drowned and naked, she's still a friend. Not a drop of love has been lost between you. You cherish that kind of friend. It takes a lifetime, I believe, to make a friendship like that. It's not until a person goes through most of your weakest and worst moments with you, along side of you, that you can call them a best friend. Best friends have the unique ability to see you for who you really are, and still love you to pieces in spite of yourself.
Your spouse can be a best friend. Or at least recognizes the need for his best friend/spouse to have yet another best friend. Sounds complicated, but really, that's a priceless virtue in friends: the ability to share the friendship, and not get all jacked out of shape about it.
Every girl, however, should have a best girl friend. One who knows how to be there, and be quiet. Scream in your face, then know when to back off. A best friend who knows which buttons to push and which not to touch. One who is selfless, has been there all or most of your life. One who will hold your hand while you're dying, while making sure there are no hairs to be pulled on your chin before you're laid open in your casket. That kind of friend.
Friends, for the most part, are human. But there are other friends. A dog or a cherished animal of any species can be a friend. How many stories have been written about the animal friends in our life? Lassie, Free Willy, Marley and Me ... wow. Often, our animal friends, are our best friends.
Well, to be honest, I set out writing this blog thinking about a different kind of friend. The strangest friend anyone could have. An inanimate object with no feelings. A thing. Something that most would look at and think nothing about. The perfect noun ... uh, or rather, friend. A lifelong friend.
Linus had one. Most babies carry one until it's tattered and torn. Some children rub one against their face while sucking their thumb. Even college-age kids will sneak one into their dorm, hidden between the shirts and pants in their suitcase.
My security blanket, has been my lifelong friend. Here's why: Back in 1971, my then mother-in-law-to-be (who was in her late 40s at the time) crocheted. A lot. She made one afghan after another with a real ivory crochet hook. She was good at it, and I told her so. Young I was, only 17, when she promised to make me an afghan for a wedding present. She made more than an afghan. She made thirty-plus years of memories.
This huge, hand-crocheted afghan is plain blue with ivory, yellow, and variegated-blue stripes on each end. Ugly as sin. But this blankey of mine has gone with me everywhere. It has slip-covered many a hideous-looking chair or couch since the 70s. It's toasty warm and can be doubled, still covering every part of me. It has wrapped its warmth around my children when they were sick. Covered them as babies, first-graders, eighth-graders, and when they had their wisdom teeth pulled. It covered my son the day he came home on leave from boot camp and slept for 24 hours straight. It rocked and lulled my daughter to sleep after a broken heart. It has soothed me during my darkest hours. This old blankey has seen the three of us through some hard, hard times.
It has absorbed a ton of tears. Believe me.
It waited for me, patiently, as I lost my mind and then found it again. Folded, it has rested on my beds, sofas, and now hangs in a place of honor in my hold farmhouse. A place where we can still grab "covey" as my husband calls it, and snuggle. I've done a whole lot of "snuggling" under that old friend. It has warmed my cold legs while I sat at the computer writing story after story. It never complained, never yelled at me, never told me to quit. It just covered me.
"Old Blue," as I call it, has appeared in many family snap shots. No matter my decor at the time, this afghan looks better with time. There's not a hole to be found, after well over thirty years. It's been through hundreds of washings, laid in a heap on the floor for days, covered doll babies, puppies, kittens, and resisted the heat of an old attic once while packed away for a period of time.
Wrapping it around me is like a time machine. I can see where we've been, how far we've traveled, and how we have ever so gracefully - aged together. I realize now, I've never gone anywhere, without it. It's been my most loyal friend. It's been on most car trips, enjoying the back seat. Old Blue has covered the ground for a picnic or two, has laid on a few beaches, and rode in an airplane. It's quite the traveller. And for all it's wanderings, it has welcomed me home day after tired-day.
There's something about that old afghan that draws me to it. I either want it buried with me or cremated with me. Ha! Now, that's a friend.
My now ex-mother-in-law, who by the way I still love, is in a nursing home. Tucked away in her 80s, she no longer flips a crochet hook around her fingers. But not long ago, I asked her if she remembered that old afghan she made me. She looked at me strange with a twinkle in her eye and said, "You know, I prayed over that thing as I made it. I prayed it would cover the wrinkles in your life."
"It did," I said. "It really did."
Old Blue is my most trusted friend. A strange one, indeed.
Blessings to you and yours.
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