I know I've been away from my blog for way too long. Lot's of things seem to have gotten in the way and I've used excuses I shouldn't have. One of the excuses was that my husband had to go through a series of physical therapy sessions, four times a week for 6 weeks. It took a chunk out of our days but the happy news is that we see some nice results so, of course, it was well worth it.
I also took a time off -- attending the annual Florida Writer's Conference in Orlando Florida. It was a four day trip and I thoroughly enjoyed every single moment of it. Five of us 'gals' from the writer's critique group, smilingly named Avon Park Wordsmiths, went together. We had a ball and the workshops, the intermingling with other authors (there were over 450 in attendance) the speakers, the programs, the food, the facilities -- I could go on but I won't. Another very nice occurrence was my dear, dear friend, Bette Crosby, from the east coast of Florida, came to the banquet. I hadn't seen her in four years. It was a wonderful reunion and she was warmly greeted by my other dear, dear friends who accompanied me. But the icing on this lovely cake of good times was the Awards Banquet. First Bette won second place in the unpublished women's fiction and we all celebrated that (loudly). Then wonder of wonders, my name was called as winning first place in the same genre for Finding Amy. Bedlam occurred as I rushed to the front to receive the award. Then on my way back to our table I took a detour to visit my publisher and while I was speaking with her I heard an outcry "Go back, Go back, They want you up front again." Stunned I rushed back to the front to find that Finding Amy had also taken the award for BOOK OF THE YEAR!! It's been two weeks and I still get shaky inside when someone wants to talk about that. And to think, I almost didn't go. Prayers are answered and no, I didn't pray to win anything, I just prayed that I could go. Another perk that went with the Book Of The Year award was that I got an interview with a New York agent. She has since requested the entire manuscript for Finding Amy and I'm just waiting to hear from her. I will share that news when it comes.
But while I was away, my wonderful friends here in our community rallied around and looked in on Lenny while I was away, seeing he got to his card game, that he took his pills, that he had dinner, and also that he didn't have to miss the wedding of two of our friends, Alice and Les. He even was the recipient of some tasty cranberry muffins!It was truly a blessing to know he was being cared for while I was away. So, because of their kindness and love, I was able to enjoy a wonderful break and he was able to keep well and happy until I returned.
Since returning I've been fortunate in receiving many messages of congratulations, hearing from friends and family far and wide. Since I consider any talent I might have as being a gift from God, I am sincerely humbled by all this.
Now I'm working on my next manuscript tentatively entitled The Journey Back (but subject to change along the way -- that's how it happens sometimes.)
Showing posts with label Family History. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family History. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Betwixt and between
Betwixt and between. That's how I feel right now. It's a mixture of emotions, game playing and the dreaded "what lies ahead." But, it isn't something I haven't lived through before because it happens every time I finish another novel. You see, while writing I become so intertwined and part of the lives I'm creating they become real people to me. Close, as if part of my family. So when I write The End,even if it's only in my mind it's as if I've cut the umbilical cord, pushed the last bird out of the nest and watched as the last ship leaves shore.
Writing Finding Amy was a true labor of love, because it was, in part, based on fact. I loved the story, the characters, the outcomes even though at the start of the book I never expected the end that came about. You see, I'm not a true structured writer. Some authors have the entire plot in their heads before the first word is typed into the computer. Not me. I have the beginning of the plot and the characters in mind but the entire story is still a mystery in some ways. And, even if I think I have the plot kind of outlined, my characters sometimes have another view and off we go. Finding Amy took more time than any of my other novels. Probably the health problems for both me and my husband and the recuperating afterwards played a big part in that process. But, there was also a lot more research to be done with this book. Not that I'm complaining. I love researching because it's kind of like going back to school. You learn so much more than you even need to for the plot.
Now I feel ready to begin the next book. The outline has been wandering around in my mind for several years and I think this might be the time to begin. Still, I feel bound in some way to Finding Amy. It hasn't actually been launched, there are things that might need attention so am I ready for the next set of characters, the next set of plotting?
That's where the betwixt and between comes in. I seem to be in a flux, caught between the present and the past and peering tentatively into the future. It's a confusing time and I find myself not able to really concentrate on anything.
Then mix in the three day weekend and what I thought was Saturday was Friday and today, Monday, May 30th, feels like Sunday and not only is it Memorial Day but it's my granddaughter's thirtieth birthday and I'm 1200 miles away and you can see my indecision. Maybe I had better just lay low for a day or two, go to the pool and exercise with the girls, finish the book I'm reading, lounge a little. The only trouble with that is I'm not really a lounger so I'm going to have to put some effort into that too.
One thing I know though, it will all work out and before long I'll be grinding away at the computer doing what I love to do best in all the world.
So betwixt and between is just a hiatus. Good, now I've got that sorted out.
Writing Finding Amy was a true labor of love, because it was, in part, based on fact. I loved the story, the characters, the outcomes even though at the start of the book I never expected the end that came about. You see, I'm not a true structured writer. Some authors have the entire plot in their heads before the first word is typed into the computer. Not me. I have the beginning of the plot and the characters in mind but the entire story is still a mystery in some ways. And, even if I think I have the plot kind of outlined, my characters sometimes have another view and off we go. Finding Amy took more time than any of my other novels. Probably the health problems for both me and my husband and the recuperating afterwards played a big part in that process. But, there was also a lot more research to be done with this book. Not that I'm complaining. I love researching because it's kind of like going back to school. You learn so much more than you even need to for the plot.
Now I feel ready to begin the next book. The outline has been wandering around in my mind for several years and I think this might be the time to begin. Still, I feel bound in some way to Finding Amy. It hasn't actually been launched, there are things that might need attention so am I ready for the next set of characters, the next set of plotting?
That's where the betwixt and between comes in. I seem to be in a flux, caught between the present and the past and peering tentatively into the future. It's a confusing time and I find myself not able to really concentrate on anything.
Then mix in the three day weekend and what I thought was Saturday was Friday and today, Monday, May 30th, feels like Sunday and not only is it Memorial Day but it's my granddaughter's thirtieth birthday and I'm 1200 miles away and you can see my indecision. Maybe I had better just lay low for a day or two, go to the pool and exercise with the girls, finish the book I'm reading, lounge a little. The only trouble with that is I'm not really a lounger so I'm going to have to put some effort into that too.
One thing I know though, it will all work out and before long I'll be grinding away at the computer doing what I love to do best in all the world.
So betwixt and between is just a hiatus. Good, now I've got that sorted out.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
My Mother's Birthday
Today is my mother's birthday. I can't bring myself to say 'would have been my mother's birthday' because every April 3rd is my mother's birthday. She left us way too soon, dying well into her 90th year. She would have been (those awful words again) 105 today.
I always thought of myself as a Daddy's girl but I certainly didn't love my mother any less. It was just that Daddy and I were so alike in many ways. I remember after his death, when my mother came to live with me, she'd often say, "Oh, you're so like your daddy)and her voice was wistful because she missed him terribly. I wondered, after his death, how she would manage because they were so close, but she stiffened her spine and carried on. They were the closest couple I've ever known, doing so much together and in their later years the bond became even closer, if that was possible.
I truly think of my parents every day even though both died many years ago but the memories of a different ilk. I remember fun times with both of them but the difference was that with Daddy it was always different or exciting and with Mother it was comforting, supporting, calming and loving. My earliest memories are of Mother reading to me. She read every day until my teen years when the after-school activities took over. Even so, we all read a lot, sharing favorite passages or reading to each other. As a child I remember Mother cuddling me to her when I scraped my knee, had a bad day or made a goal I'd set for myself. Her cheering was quiet, Daddy's was exuberant.
My parents didn't have a lot of friends they could interact with because they traveled so much, but I don't think they had a single enemy. I cannot remember an incident where my mother was angry or upset with anyone. She offered strict yet gentle discipline because while instilling in me a sense of what was acceptable and what was not, she never lost her temper. Was she a saint? I doubt it but to me she came really close to that stature.
I remember my mother with love and thanksgiving because that's what she instilled in me. I often wish I could leave the legacy she did but we had such different adult lives. She had Daddy for 53 years and he was a wonderful husband and father. Her life was steady, not that they didn't have difficult times but they faced them and solved problems together. My life was pock-marked with bad decisions and unfortunate happenings. I had a difficult time and it's only now in the last 16 years that I have the steadiness and love that I longed for. I loved my children with all my heart and I did my best.
For as long as I live, when April 3rd comes around I'll quietly celebrate my mother's birthday. I miss my mother.
P.S. When September 22nd comes around I'll celebrate my daddy's 105th birthday too. I miss him too.
I always thought of myself as a Daddy's girl but I certainly didn't love my mother any less. It was just that Daddy and I were so alike in many ways. I remember after his death, when my mother came to live with me, she'd often say, "Oh, you're so like your daddy)and her voice was wistful because she missed him terribly. I wondered, after his death, how she would manage because they were so close, but she stiffened her spine and carried on. They were the closest couple I've ever known, doing so much together and in their later years the bond became even closer, if that was possible.
I truly think of my parents every day even though both died many years ago but the memories of a different ilk. I remember fun times with both of them but the difference was that with Daddy it was always different or exciting and with Mother it was comforting, supporting, calming and loving. My earliest memories are of Mother reading to me. She read every day until my teen years when the after-school activities took over. Even so, we all read a lot, sharing favorite passages or reading to each other. As a child I remember Mother cuddling me to her when I scraped my knee, had a bad day or made a goal I'd set for myself. Her cheering was quiet, Daddy's was exuberant.
My parents didn't have a lot of friends they could interact with because they traveled so much, but I don't think they had a single enemy. I cannot remember an incident where my mother was angry or upset with anyone. She offered strict yet gentle discipline because while instilling in me a sense of what was acceptable and what was not, she never lost her temper. Was she a saint? I doubt it but to me she came really close to that stature.
I remember my mother with love and thanksgiving because that's what she instilled in me. I often wish I could leave the legacy she did but we had such different adult lives. She had Daddy for 53 years and he was a wonderful husband and father. Her life was steady, not that they didn't have difficult times but they faced them and solved problems together. My life was pock-marked with bad decisions and unfortunate happenings. I had a difficult time and it's only now in the last 16 years that I have the steadiness and love that I longed for. I loved my children with all my heart and I did my best.
For as long as I live, when April 3rd comes around I'll quietly celebrate my mother's birthday. I miss my mother.
P.S. When September 22nd comes around I'll celebrate my daddy's 105th birthday too. I miss him too.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
This Past Week
Sometimes I wonder where the time goes and then I look at my calendar and find out. I've been busy and that's not a complaint, it's a celebration.
I've done some interesting new things, some enjoyable comfortable things and experienced joys I hadn't expected.
On Sunday evening I attended the first of a series of Heartland Cultural Alliance events featuring authors. It was a 'reading' at Brewsters Coffee House,in Sebring. HCA is a great organization dedicated to bringing local cultural aspects to the forefront and attention of the residents of Highlands County. At one time I served on the Board but my expanding responsibilities forced me to retire the position, however, I have maintained my membership and am so proud of the wonderful progress they are making under its wonderful new direction. This event was a first in many ways; the first time it was held and a first for me. Originally billed as a poet's reading event, HCA asked me if I would be the initial reader. Since I'm not really a poet I questioned as to whether I would fit the formula but was assured that I could read anything I had written. I've written a few poems but in no way do I consider myself a poet. Still I decided to read a couple of poems and a short story which had been chosen for a Florida Writers Association anthology. I must say the reading went well and there was a small and interested crowd to fill the Coffee House. The event is going to be held at 6:30 on the second and fourth Sunday evenings of the month. As a writer I am looking forward to hearing others who will take part in this event.
On Thursday I was scheduled to speak at a women's group of St. John Methodist Church in Sebring. I give inspirational and motivational speeches whenever I can. It was very cold that morning and I hustled off at 8:00 to enjoy breakfast with 20 women who are part of a service group associated with the church. I was invited to also display my books. (A lovely plus to any speaking engagement). The topic of my presentation was based on Phil. 4:13, "I can do all things…" My speech was well received, they were interested in my books and I made some new friends.
Later that same day I attended the regular meeting of my community's book club. We have about twelve to fourteen women who meet monthly to discuss a book which has been previously chosen for review. This month they featured my latest book Forgiven. What an honor. I was pleased and looked forward to the critique but wondered if being a friend, rather than an author they had never had interaction with, they would be wary of hurting my feelings. As in the past, I have always maintained that there is no such thing as a thin-skinned writer. I always welcome any comments because I feel this is part of a writer's growth. I was pleasantly surprised at the open and interesting discussion that ensued. It really was fun!
I've also been able to get some work done on the newest manuscript.
This morning my husband and I attended the annual pancake breakfast at the clubhouse and had a nice time socializing with our friends here at Crystal Lake. Tonight it's pinochle and of course scattered throughout the week were the ever-present doctor's appointments and trips to the grocery store that become part of our weekly routine.
Each morning I begin my day with a daily devotional time. A dear internet friend, whom I've never met, sent me a devotional book last year and I love it. This quiet time is precious and often I read the message to my husband which sets off a pleasant and interesting discussion. A great way to begin the day.
I am blessed in so many ways.
I've done some interesting new things, some enjoyable comfortable things and experienced joys I hadn't expected.
On Sunday evening I attended the first of a series of Heartland Cultural Alliance events featuring authors. It was a 'reading' at Brewsters Coffee House,in Sebring. HCA is a great organization dedicated to bringing local cultural aspects to the forefront and attention of the residents of Highlands County. At one time I served on the Board but my expanding responsibilities forced me to retire the position, however, I have maintained my membership and am so proud of the wonderful progress they are making under its wonderful new direction. This event was a first in many ways; the first time it was held and a first for me. Originally billed as a poet's reading event, HCA asked me if I would be the initial reader. Since I'm not really a poet I questioned as to whether I would fit the formula but was assured that I could read anything I had written. I've written a few poems but in no way do I consider myself a poet. Still I decided to read a couple of poems and a short story which had been chosen for a Florida Writers Association anthology. I must say the reading went well and there was a small and interested crowd to fill the Coffee House. The event is going to be held at 6:30 on the second and fourth Sunday evenings of the month. As a writer I am looking forward to hearing others who will take part in this event.
On Thursday I was scheduled to speak at a women's group of St. John Methodist Church in Sebring. I give inspirational and motivational speeches whenever I can. It was very cold that morning and I hustled off at 8:00 to enjoy breakfast with 20 women who are part of a service group associated with the church. I was invited to also display my books. (A lovely plus to any speaking engagement). The topic of my presentation was based on Phil. 4:13, "I can do all things…" My speech was well received, they were interested in my books and I made some new friends.
Later that same day I attended the regular meeting of my community's book club. We have about twelve to fourteen women who meet monthly to discuss a book which has been previously chosen for review. This month they featured my latest book Forgiven. What an honor. I was pleased and looked forward to the critique but wondered if being a friend, rather than an author they had never had interaction with, they would be wary of hurting my feelings. As in the past, I have always maintained that there is no such thing as a thin-skinned writer. I always welcome any comments because I feel this is part of a writer's growth. I was pleasantly surprised at the open and interesting discussion that ensued. It really was fun!
I've also been able to get some work done on the newest manuscript.
This morning my husband and I attended the annual pancake breakfast at the clubhouse and had a nice time socializing with our friends here at Crystal Lake. Tonight it's pinochle and of course scattered throughout the week were the ever-present doctor's appointments and trips to the grocery store that become part of our weekly routine.
Each morning I begin my day with a daily devotional time. A dear internet friend, whom I've never met, sent me a devotional book last year and I love it. This quiet time is precious and often I read the message to my husband which sets off a pleasant and interesting discussion. A great way to begin the day.
I am blessed in so many ways.
Friday, January 7, 2011
SHE'S BAAAACK
Where had Sunny gone? No blog. No news. No nothing (I think that double negative is okay in this instance). Even I didn't know where she was.
It was a weird sensation, a great feeling actually, when yesterday, for the first time in three months, I sat down at the computer and began to write again. In the past, both distant and near, I wrote every day, or almost every day. It is a passion I can't ignore but somehow in October, November and December of 2010 I just couldn't write. I had difficulty concentrating on anything. Were health problems related to both my husband and me to blame? Perhaps, but this hiatus was a first and frankly it scared me. I just couldn't concentrate on anything and I could probably create a long list of excuses, none of which matter now.
As I said, she's baaaack. I was so excited about getting my latest novel, Forgiven, published that I could think of little more in October and November when the book was released by Double Edge Press. There were signings to set up, speeches to schedule and there seemed to be no time to write but that's not true. It was me and I didn't like the me that showed up for that period of time. Perhaps it was because Forgiven was the first book to be published by a 'real' publisher. Up to that time I'd self-published and was not ashamed of that fact, but having a true, real publisher is wonderful. The delicious words "my publisher' sure do enhance a writer's station in the mix.
Prior to yesterday (January 6th) I had attempted from time to time to get back to the most current manuscript. Somehow I had messed this one up. I had difficulty with the continuity so back in December I tried to fix it by cutting and pasting and deleting and adding and it only made it worse. So this past week I began to read what had already been written. I liked it but the sequences were out of order and the more I tried to fix it the worse it became and the more confused I became. I did not, however, ever considering giving up. I came close to trashing the whole thing and starting over, but that's not going to happen. I worked almost all day yesterday on the manuscript and by Jove I think it's coming together.
Today my calendar is filled to capacity but I'll bet you anything, I write a bit more on the book which hovers just on the horizon of completion. I love writing and am so happy to be back.
I missed me!
It was a weird sensation, a great feeling actually, when yesterday, for the first time in three months, I sat down at the computer and began to write again. In the past, both distant and near, I wrote every day, or almost every day. It is a passion I can't ignore but somehow in October, November and December of 2010 I just couldn't write. I had difficulty concentrating on anything. Were health problems related to both my husband and me to blame? Perhaps, but this hiatus was a first and frankly it scared me. I just couldn't concentrate on anything and I could probably create a long list of excuses, none of which matter now.
As I said, she's baaaack. I was so excited about getting my latest novel, Forgiven, published that I could think of little more in October and November when the book was released by Double Edge Press. There were signings to set up, speeches to schedule and there seemed to be no time to write but that's not true. It was me and I didn't like the me that showed up for that period of time. Perhaps it was because Forgiven was the first book to be published by a 'real' publisher. Up to that time I'd self-published and was not ashamed of that fact, but having a true, real publisher is wonderful. The delicious words "my publisher' sure do enhance a writer's station in the mix.
Prior to yesterday (January 6th) I had attempted from time to time to get back to the most current manuscript. Somehow I had messed this one up. I had difficulty with the continuity so back in December I tried to fix it by cutting and pasting and deleting and adding and it only made it worse. So this past week I began to read what had already been written. I liked it but the sequences were out of order and the more I tried to fix it the worse it became and the more confused I became. I did not, however, ever considering giving up. I came close to trashing the whole thing and starting over, but that's not going to happen. I worked almost all day yesterday on the manuscript and by Jove I think it's coming together.
Today my calendar is filled to capacity but I'll bet you anything, I write a bit more on the book which hovers just on the horizon of completion. I love writing and am so happy to be back.
I missed me!
Saturday, November 13, 2010
OH, HAPPY DAY!!!
As a writer I know that excessive use of !!! is simply not done but sometimes even those rules have to be overlooked. Anyhow, as W. Somerset Maugham said, "There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately no one knows what they are."
The reason for my exclamation points is that my latest manuscript will mature into a real, actual BOOK on November 22nd. This weekend I've received the mock-up of the cover and spoken to my precious publisher. I've heard some sad and terrifying stories about publishers, editors and agents but absolutely none of those descriptions can be even remotely applied to my PUBLISHER, Rebecca Melvin of Double Edge Press, who is kind, caring and absolutely thorough while keeping a friendly and compassionate relationship with the harried author. After careful editing by Rebecca, her staff and finally me, we have polished the work to a finished product. With a final tweak to the front, back covers and the spine, the book goes to the printer on Monday. OH, HAPPY DAY!
As an author I know that some people think we sit grimly in front of the computer screen, fingers flying over the keys and then eventually lean back and sigh, "Job done." Nothing could be further from the truth. Sure we spend hours typing, thinking, rewriting, researching and polishing each phrase as if they were jewels; and they are. But there's nothing more exciting than seeing your words on paper, bound together and in a BOOK. Of course, there's the joy of having your work accepted by faithful and loyal readers and other writers. Oh, I know, there is talk that books as we know them are going to be a thing of the past, being replaced by e-books and something called a Kindle (which I have yet to investigate but it is on the horizon and I'm not sure how I feel about that). But nothing, absolutely nothing will deflate my enthusiasm this weekend. The book is finished, it's on it's way to being born and like any mother, I'm so excited.
Hope you all have a wonderful weekend. Also hope you give FORGIVEN a chance. After all, it's another of my children and Mama is beaming.
The reason for my exclamation points is that my latest manuscript will mature into a real, actual BOOK on November 22nd. This weekend I've received the mock-up of the cover and spoken to my precious publisher. I've heard some sad and terrifying stories about publishers, editors and agents but absolutely none of those descriptions can be even remotely applied to my PUBLISHER, Rebecca Melvin of Double Edge Press, who is kind, caring and absolutely thorough while keeping a friendly and compassionate relationship with the harried author. After careful editing by Rebecca, her staff and finally me, we have polished the work to a finished product. With a final tweak to the front, back covers and the spine, the book goes to the printer on Monday. OH, HAPPY DAY!
As an author I know that some people think we sit grimly in front of the computer screen, fingers flying over the keys and then eventually lean back and sigh, "Job done." Nothing could be further from the truth. Sure we spend hours typing, thinking, rewriting, researching and polishing each phrase as if they were jewels; and they are. But there's nothing more exciting than seeing your words on paper, bound together and in a BOOK. Of course, there's the joy of having your work accepted by faithful and loyal readers and other writers. Oh, I know, there is talk that books as we know them are going to be a thing of the past, being replaced by e-books and something called a Kindle (which I have yet to investigate but it is on the horizon and I'm not sure how I feel about that). But nothing, absolutely nothing will deflate my enthusiasm this weekend. The book is finished, it's on it's way to being born and like any mother, I'm so excited.
Hope you all have a wonderful weekend. Also hope you give FORGIVEN a chance. After all, it's another of my children and Mama is beaming.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
About Me
I can't believe it's been so many months since I added anything to my blog. Forgive me! There are things that happen and perhaps I can use some of them as an excuse although I really don't like excuses.
I told you about the health problems earlier this year. Well, they continue and I'm not going into all the details but I will bring you up-to-date on the latest. Sixteen days ago I fractured a bone in my right ankle and two in my right foot. I think I have the nastiest feet in the world. Not so much what they look like, although I'd never be picked out of a crowd of feet to be a 'foot model'. They were functional with a bit pain here and there which you kind of get used to; they have been in a painful condition for years and at this time are riddled with arthritis. Not the most interesting subject, right? Of course it had to be my right foot and so for the time-being I can't drive. Being the only driver in the family (the kids are scattered thither and yon [I always wanted to use that phrase]) and my husband hasn't driven in 6 years due to medical conditions, it makes for some interesting getting around. Thank God I have wonderful friends who have volunteered to provide transportation when needed. Now for the good news.
As most of you know, I've been an author for several years. During that time I was never able to get through to an agent, editor or publisher so, being the optimistic soul I am, I published ten books myself always hoping to find that elusive publisher. Last year at the Florida Writers Conference in October 2009 I met Rebecca Melvin of Double Edge Publishing. A Christian publisher who accepted my latest book, Forgiven. I was so excited and the excitement hasn't lessened. She is wonderful to work with, fair, honest and oh-so-helpful. Forgiven will be released in November of this year! I feel as if I should use capital letters for that sentence.
So I've been busy with editing, arranging for promotional help for Double Edge and doing whatever I can to make this the truly exciting, magnificent event of a lifetime. I can't wait to hold the finished project in my hands.
Of course, being the prolific writer I am, I've also been working on the next book. I have about 20 chapters finished but this latest setback (the broken foot) has sapped a lot of time from my days and strength from my body. Still I know that with God's help and encouragement, I will finish this book too.
Let's see what else is new? One of my poems(I don't write many) was accepted for publication in the Fall Issue of the Pen Women, a quarterly magazine sponsored by the National League of American Pen Women. A nice recognition and if I can figure out how to add poetry to my blog, I'll so so. So far the mechanics elude me.
I was asked to teach another creative writing course at South Florida Community College which was to have begun yesterday. Of course, being disadvantaged at the moment we had to postpone that to January when, hopefully, all the parts are back where they should be. I still chair the weekly writer's critique group at Avon Park Library every Friday, I attend as many Florida Writers Association local meetings as I can. I've recently given several speeches but those for next month are iffy unless I can get transportation but all that can be handled, I'm sure. See, I told you I was the eternal optimist.
I am making a promise to myself to write on this blog much more often and hope that some of my faithful blogers will continue to visit. In spite of it all, I consider myself to be one of the luckiest, blessed women. I'm where I want to be; I'm with whom I want to be (Lenny) and I'm doing what I love to do and what I've wanted to do for most of my life (writing). What more could I ask? See you soon, promise.
I told you about the health problems earlier this year. Well, they continue and I'm not going into all the details but I will bring you up-to-date on the latest. Sixteen days ago I fractured a bone in my right ankle and two in my right foot. I think I have the nastiest feet in the world. Not so much what they look like, although I'd never be picked out of a crowd of feet to be a 'foot model'. They were functional with a bit pain here and there which you kind of get used to; they have been in a painful condition for years and at this time are riddled with arthritis. Not the most interesting subject, right? Of course it had to be my right foot and so for the time-being I can't drive. Being the only driver in the family (the kids are scattered thither and yon [I always wanted to use that phrase]) and my husband hasn't driven in 6 years due to medical conditions, it makes for some interesting getting around. Thank God I have wonderful friends who have volunteered to provide transportation when needed. Now for the good news.
As most of you know, I've been an author for several years. During that time I was never able to get through to an agent, editor or publisher so, being the optimistic soul I am, I published ten books myself always hoping to find that elusive publisher. Last year at the Florida Writers Conference in October 2009 I met Rebecca Melvin of Double Edge Publishing. A Christian publisher who accepted my latest book, Forgiven. I was so excited and the excitement hasn't lessened. She is wonderful to work with, fair, honest and oh-so-helpful. Forgiven will be released in November of this year! I feel as if I should use capital letters for that sentence.
So I've been busy with editing, arranging for promotional help for Double Edge and doing whatever I can to make this the truly exciting, magnificent event of a lifetime. I can't wait to hold the finished project in my hands.
Of course, being the prolific writer I am, I've also been working on the next book. I have about 20 chapters finished but this latest setback (the broken foot) has sapped a lot of time from my days and strength from my body. Still I know that with God's help and encouragement, I will finish this book too.
Let's see what else is new? One of my poems(I don't write many) was accepted for publication in the Fall Issue of the Pen Women, a quarterly magazine sponsored by the National League of American Pen Women. A nice recognition and if I can figure out how to add poetry to my blog, I'll so so. So far the mechanics elude me.
I was asked to teach another creative writing course at South Florida Community College which was to have begun yesterday. Of course, being disadvantaged at the moment we had to postpone that to January when, hopefully, all the parts are back where they should be. I still chair the weekly writer's critique group at Avon Park Library every Friday, I attend as many Florida Writers Association local meetings as I can. I've recently given several speeches but those for next month are iffy unless I can get transportation but all that can be handled, I'm sure. See, I told you I was the eternal optimist.
I am making a promise to myself to write on this blog much more often and hope that some of my faithful blogers will continue to visit. In spite of it all, I consider myself to be one of the luckiest, blessed women. I'm where I want to be; I'm with whom I want to be (Lenny) and I'm doing what I love to do and what I've wanted to do for most of my life (writing). What more could I ask? See you soon, promise.
Monday, March 29, 2010
HELLO! THE NEXT FAMILY MEMBER IS JUST ON THE HORIZON
Writing a book is like giving birth. The next book is the next child to an author. A living entity that begins with just a smidgen of hope, a whisper of thought and then slowly grows into something even the creator doesn't know all about until it's completed.
First it's an embryo and then a growing, living, breathing thing that develops slowly, broadening it's scope, fleshing out the character until it becomes something who is at once promising and yet incomplete until the last sentence is typed. The main character takes a special place in the writer's life as if she is actually part of my family now and not just an idea that blossomed.
That's how I think of my books, anyhow. It's really more than just the main character who becomes the new child; the accompanying prose and color help finish the project. I know this new person, probably better than I know my own children because I created her and God created my children. The other characters are like cousins or friends maybe; known but not as embedded in my heart as the gossamer thread that began with a simple thought and became another family member.
Most of my novels were born because of something I call my 'what if' syndrome. What if this or that happened to me or someone I know? What would follow: and then the manuscript is launched.
So now, novel number ten hovers just on the horizon…completed, ready to be born. I don't say finished because I'm not sure a novel is ever really entirely over and done with in the writer's mind, just as a real life child changes over the years.
My latest novel, Forgiven, is with a publisher as I write this. Any writer reading this knows the anxiety contained in that statement. Will the publisher accept it? Will this new child be introduced this way? It's a waiting game but whatever happens, it is certain that Forgiven will become my next child.
To give you just a hint as to the makeup of this next offspring, let me tell you a little about it. Not too much, mind you, but enough perhaps to capture your attention and bring you to my side to help wait out this finale with me.
FORGIVEN - Trouble is about to descend on the sleepy little town of Gadara, Florida. A.J. Handley, the last of Gadara's founding family, now realizes his days are numbered. Believing he is without heirs, he prepares to leave his estate to the town's Historical Society. On the other side of town, Karen Waterson is dealing with very different problems. Not only is she struggling with financial matters, now she's got an ex-husband who's useless and an unmarried daughter who's pregnant. Alice, Karen's daughter, would like to be sympathetic but she's got her own problems now that Morgan, the baby's father, has disappeared. With no real explanation, Morgan just up and left, saying he wasn't equipped for the task of being a father. Now that trouble is boiling up like a teakettle about to whistle, Karen prays for guidance.
Meanwhile, Samuel looks down from his Heavenly perch, listens to Karen's plea and shakes his head. He knows it's up to him to do something, but first Samuel has a job to do. He's got to tell Jack Coursky he's dead. After an accident Jack climbed out of the car, left his body behind, and began wandering around like a lost soul, which in fact is precisely what he is. Once Samuel has convinced Jack he is now an angel, Jack gets his first assignment…an assignment that takes him to Gadara where he meets Karen, Alice and A. J. Handley."
The waiting game is the labor in this creative endeavor and to ease the pangs I've begun another babe, in such early stages even I am not sure where it's going. Alas, that's the writer's lot but one I've dreamed of for most of my life. There are no complaints, just awesome anticipation.
First it's an embryo and then a growing, living, breathing thing that develops slowly, broadening it's scope, fleshing out the character until it becomes something who is at once promising and yet incomplete until the last sentence is typed. The main character takes a special place in the writer's life as if she is actually part of my family now and not just an idea that blossomed.
That's how I think of my books, anyhow. It's really more than just the main character who becomes the new child; the accompanying prose and color help finish the project. I know this new person, probably better than I know my own children because I created her and God created my children. The other characters are like cousins or friends maybe; known but not as embedded in my heart as the gossamer thread that began with a simple thought and became another family member.
Most of my novels were born because of something I call my 'what if' syndrome. What if this or that happened to me or someone I know? What would follow: and then the manuscript is launched.
So now, novel number ten hovers just on the horizon…completed, ready to be born. I don't say finished because I'm not sure a novel is ever really entirely over and done with in the writer's mind, just as a real life child changes over the years.
My latest novel, Forgiven, is with a publisher as I write this. Any writer reading this knows the anxiety contained in that statement. Will the publisher accept it? Will this new child be introduced this way? It's a waiting game but whatever happens, it is certain that Forgiven will become my next child.
To give you just a hint as to the makeup of this next offspring, let me tell you a little about it. Not too much, mind you, but enough perhaps to capture your attention and bring you to my side to help wait out this finale with me.
FORGIVEN - Trouble is about to descend on the sleepy little town of Gadara, Florida. A.J. Handley, the last of Gadara's founding family, now realizes his days are numbered. Believing he is without heirs, he prepares to leave his estate to the town's Historical Society. On the other side of town, Karen Waterson is dealing with very different problems. Not only is she struggling with financial matters, now she's got an ex-husband who's useless and an unmarried daughter who's pregnant. Alice, Karen's daughter, would like to be sympathetic but she's got her own problems now that Morgan, the baby's father, has disappeared. With no real explanation, Morgan just up and left, saying he wasn't equipped for the task of being a father. Now that trouble is boiling up like a teakettle about to whistle, Karen prays for guidance.
Meanwhile, Samuel looks down from his Heavenly perch, listens to Karen's plea and shakes his head. He knows it's up to him to do something, but first Samuel has a job to do. He's got to tell Jack Coursky he's dead. After an accident Jack climbed out of the car, left his body behind, and began wandering around like a lost soul, which in fact is precisely what he is. Once Samuel has convinced Jack he is now an angel, Jack gets his first assignment…an assignment that takes him to Gadara where he meets Karen, Alice and A. J. Handley."
The waiting game is the labor in this creative endeavor and to ease the pangs I've begun another babe, in such early stages even I am not sure where it's going. Alas, that's the writer's lot but one I've dreamed of for most of my life. There are no complaints, just awesome anticipation.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Sometimes
Sometimes we let things get in our way. Things beyond our control and yet we allow them to take us off the path we've chosen. Something like that happened late last year.
I don't remember exactly when I decided to create a blog, and using the word create here might be misconstrued. I don't have the technical know-how to do anything like this but I had a friend, a great friend, who did. Diane was the kind of friend you didn't have to see every day or even every week to know she was a friend. Once a month we met at a women's networking luncheon and she was an encourager. "You can do a lot with a blog. It will help you, I'll help you," she said and I believed her so I asked for her help. And, help she did—in fact she created it for me. Of course, that was her business but to see her click on boxes and move things around the screen until my blog evolved as a real, viable networking tool was great. Talent comes in so many forms, doesn't it? Some paint, some write, there are those who do magical things with a needle and thread and then some create blogs. I loved my blog and was excited about using it.
But, and isn't there always a but? But, as hard as I tried I couldn't seem to find the formula to achieve the success Diane suggested was waiting out there for me. I wrote updates, articles and promoted my books but I got very little traffic and fewer responses. What was I doing wrong? I'd have to ask Diane. I became discouraged but something else crept between me and blog happiness. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Diane got very ill. So ill she needed surgery. So ill she was diagnosed as 'critical'. Those of us who knew our bubbly, successful friend couldn't understand the why or the how or the prognosis. This was our Diane! But nothing worked and Diane left us—forever and I was alone with my blog and my memories of Diane.
On several occasions over the past few months I've come to the blog intending to update it. Hoping for some inspiration to motivate me to use this networking tool she was so convinced would help, but nothing came to me. I'd review some of what was here and then sign off. Not today. Maybe tomorrow and tomorrow never came.
Yesterday I was talking to another friend and the word blog was mentioned. I had to admit I had drifted away from this gift Diane had provided me with. And then the thought came to me—wouldn't Diane be disappointed in me. Disappointed that I'd abandoned the ship, tossed aside the opportunities it just may hold; I'd given up. That's not like me. I'm not a quiter—never have been and hope I never am; so I'm going to do what I promised myself (and Diane) I'd do.
That's why I am tapping away at the keyboard and not at all sure I've made any sense and not at all sure my pathetic reasoning has any value. But I remind myself, "You're a writer so why don't you just get off your pitty platform and write something"; why don't you make something of this miracle Diane created for me.
Okay so what have I done in the the past months? I've completed my tenth novel, a story about troubles and matters of the heart. A tale of courage, confusion and accomplishments from unseen and unusual places and people. As in all my other novels, I have kept my promise to myself that I won't use language or situations that might be offensive to anyone. I've sent it off to a Christian Publisher who expressed an interest and asked for the manuscript. Is this the breakthrough I've been hoping and praying for? Will she accept it for publication? Please join me in small prayers and finger crossings that this might just come about. Of course, if it doesn't I'll self-publish again. But what I really want is some help with reaching the market I just know is out there somewhere for me. Maybe this time I'll open that door. I've given speeches, held workshops and been invited to teach at South Florida Community College again. The weekly writer's critique group I initiated is doing well and growing. I've met wonderful people, interacted with other authors and kept a busy schedule that surprises even me. I've started novel number eleven and have an outline for number twelve. I'm writing a couple of short stories to enter into contests. I love contests, they are so helpful in challenging yourself to do more and to try new things.
If you're reading this perhaps you'll give me a teeny word of encouragement. We need each other you know. That's the way these things work.
God bless you.
I don't remember exactly when I decided to create a blog, and using the word create here might be misconstrued. I don't have the technical know-how to do anything like this but I had a friend, a great friend, who did. Diane was the kind of friend you didn't have to see every day or even every week to know she was a friend. Once a month we met at a women's networking luncheon and she was an encourager. "You can do a lot with a blog. It will help you, I'll help you," she said and I believed her so I asked for her help. And, help she did—in fact she created it for me. Of course, that was her business but to see her click on boxes and move things around the screen until my blog evolved as a real, viable networking tool was great. Talent comes in so many forms, doesn't it? Some paint, some write, there are those who do magical things with a needle and thread and then some create blogs. I loved my blog and was excited about using it.
But, and isn't there always a but? But, as hard as I tried I couldn't seem to find the formula to achieve the success Diane suggested was waiting out there for me. I wrote updates, articles and promoted my books but I got very little traffic and fewer responses. What was I doing wrong? I'd have to ask Diane. I became discouraged but something else crept between me and blog happiness. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Diane got very ill. So ill she needed surgery. So ill she was diagnosed as 'critical'. Those of us who knew our bubbly, successful friend couldn't understand the why or the how or the prognosis. This was our Diane! But nothing worked and Diane left us—forever and I was alone with my blog and my memories of Diane.
On several occasions over the past few months I've come to the blog intending to update it. Hoping for some inspiration to motivate me to use this networking tool she was so convinced would help, but nothing came to me. I'd review some of what was here and then sign off. Not today. Maybe tomorrow and tomorrow never came.
Yesterday I was talking to another friend and the word blog was mentioned. I had to admit I had drifted away from this gift Diane had provided me with. And then the thought came to me—wouldn't Diane be disappointed in me. Disappointed that I'd abandoned the ship, tossed aside the opportunities it just may hold; I'd given up. That's not like me. I'm not a quiter—never have been and hope I never am; so I'm going to do what I promised myself (and Diane) I'd do.
That's why I am tapping away at the keyboard and not at all sure I've made any sense and not at all sure my pathetic reasoning has any value. But I remind myself, "You're a writer so why don't you just get off your pitty platform and write something"; why don't you make something of this miracle Diane created for me.
Okay so what have I done in the the past months? I've completed my tenth novel, a story about troubles and matters of the heart. A tale of courage, confusion and accomplishments from unseen and unusual places and people. As in all my other novels, I have kept my promise to myself that I won't use language or situations that might be offensive to anyone. I've sent it off to a Christian Publisher who expressed an interest and asked for the manuscript. Is this the breakthrough I've been hoping and praying for? Will she accept it for publication? Please join me in small prayers and finger crossings that this might just come about. Of course, if it doesn't I'll self-publish again. But what I really want is some help with reaching the market I just know is out there somewhere for me. Maybe this time I'll open that door. I've given speeches, held workshops and been invited to teach at South Florida Community College again. The weekly writer's critique group I initiated is doing well and growing. I've met wonderful people, interacted with other authors and kept a busy schedule that surprises even me. I've started novel number eleven and have an outline for number twelve. I'm writing a couple of short stories to enter into contests. I love contests, they are so helpful in challenging yourself to do more and to try new things.
If you're reading this perhaps you'll give me a teeny word of encouragement. We need each other you know. That's the way these things work.
God bless you.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Tucker and Bunny - A tale of unlikely bedfellows
Pictures trap moments of time on shiny pieces of paper that forever after echo as memories in your heart. Each one holds a story.
“Please can I keep her,” my youngest daughter Jenni cried, holding a ragged stray kitten. She always longed for a pet, but I had to say, “No,” because of my allergies. Truthfully!
Jenni, however, made up for her pet loss by acquiring an overabundance of stuffed creatures. Walruses, seals, elephants, giraffes, dogs, cats, bunnies, several bears and an assortment of endangered animals adorned her bed and every available bit of shelf space in her room.
Each time we went to the Mall she gazed longingly into the local pet palace and browsed among the cages while I kept a happy distance from the furry creatures and their offensive fur, hair and dander.
But when Jenni was nine, as a super surprise for Christmas, I bought her a pretty, blue parakeet complete with cage and accessories. I had been assured that feathers wouldn’t affect my eyes, nose and breathing apparatus as hair and fur did.
Jenni was so excited. “I’ll clean the cage, Mom, and put water and seed in the dishes every day. I promise!”
Of course, we all know who kept the cage clean but Petey was a cute, smart, non-allergenic pet and our pleasant life continued, almost pet-less. He became a member of the family with his cage door open most of the time so that he could visit at will. One of his favorite foods was peas, plain, cooked, then cooled, green peas. He’d stick his beak into the center and eat the soft middle, neatly dropping the hulls on the floor of his cage.
Then Jenni grew up a bit and enter the boyfriend who, without seeking parental permission, presented his little ladylove with a black Lab puppy! Now it was my turn to say, “Jen, you know we can’t have a dog.” But she argued that she would care for Tucker and I wouldn’t be bothered with his hair or dander because he was never going to come into the house. “I’ll keep him downstairs and I’ll clean the playroom. Promise.”
Now could a loving mother turn that offer down? Of course not. So Tucker moved into the basement and Jenni took over the responsibility of not only a dog but the housekeeping of the almost-finished playroom. Kind of.
I, however, retained the bird maintenance—a small chore I had to admit I loved because Petey, at the advent of clean brown paper on the bottom of his cage and fresh water and seeds in the plastic cups, was sent into a frenzy of happiness.
I had to admit that Tucker was an ideal pet and even though I had to go through the playroom to the laundry, I did so without any adverse reactions to the presence of yon dog. Once again peace and harmony reigned in our household.
That might have been the end of the story but there is more. Not long after Tucker joined the family, lo and behold, young ardent boyfriend arrived with another pet for his ladylove. This time it was a rabbit, named Bunny. How original.
“Are you out of your mind?” I cried. “The dog will eat the rabbit.”
“Not so,” the young romancer said, “I’ve brought a cage for the rabbit and we will paper train her to go in the cage.”
Huh, I thought, an unlikely event. A dog and a rabbit that have free run of the room? And a paper-trained rabbit? But, wonder of wonders, the rabbit was cage trained and Bunny and Tucker became fast friends. On occasion I would descend to the lower level of the house and watch in amazement as the rabbit and dog shared a water bowl or playfully romped around the perimeter of the cage—carefully cleaned daily by grateful daughter. I watched Jenni feed some homegrown clover or a stalk of celery to Bunny while holding Tucker in her lap.
Tucker was a typical puppy—robust in energy, cuddly when the occasion presented itself and slipping off to sleep when there wasn’t anyone, or a certain rabbit nearby, to wheedle into action.
Bunny was a funny animal; funny in the way she behaved. While maintaining her rabbit-aloofness, she was very un-rabbit-like at times. When we returned home after an outing, not only did Tucker run to meet us, circling our feet in enthusiastic welcome—so did Bunny. Perhaps she thought she, too, was a dog. But there were limits to her sharing what she considered her domain. If Tucker intruded, she quickly retreated to her cage and smugly pronounced her independence from the foolish frolics that Tucker tried to entice her to join. She had her dignity to protect.
One day I slipped downstairs to see what was happening—it was much too quiet. Mothers of teenager daughters worry about quiet. To my surprise I found Jenni and her boyfriend sitting on the couch watching television. But even more surprising was finding Tucker and Bunny lounging in a chair—together—watching television with them. Talk about strange bedfellows. It was a picture begging to be taken.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Except from award-winning novel, Secrets
The air is crisp and more invigorating here in the mountains and Eve breathes deeply as she walks up the brick path to the wide double doors that are appropriately painted black.
The lingering scent of old flowers and dust greets her as she steps into the vestibule. Soft music comes from a hidden source and yet a hollow silence surrounds her. She hesitates, then looks to the left when a door opens quietly.
The thin, slightly stooped man who stands in the doorway is well into his eighties. His hair and face are almost the same shade of gray but alert, dark eyes peer out from beneath shaggy brows and his face crinkles to a pleasant greeting as he steps forward, “Good morning,” he says, recognizing a stranger. “I’m Edgar Krouder. Been here in Mountain Springs for seventy years. Mortician for forty-some years. My two sons help in the business. You must be Helen’s daughter.”
Again a chilling feeling of being completely out of control sweeps over Eve. How in the world…?
She mumbles agreement and watches him move silently toward her. His black suit, dulled with age is crisply neat. Nothing in the room or about him seems capable of making any noise.
He touches her hand with icy fingers. “We are so very sorry for your loss. We’ve been expecting you. Please, come into the office and we can talk. But first, do you want to see your mother? She’s in the last room,” he points down a dimly lit hallway. “It’s the biggest room we have because we expect a great many mourners. Your mother had so many friends.” His eyes crinkle with pleasure; as if the mere thought of all her mother’s friends gathered together will be a welcome occasion.
Eve is smothered with indecision. Did she want to see her mother so quickly? Maybe she needs a minute to gather herself. Maybe she’ll feel better if she knows what plans have already been made and who made them. “Thank you. I think I’d like to talk first.”
They move into the office, another quiet room with a small desk, a neat line of notebooks marshaled at one end. Eve sits in a comfortable chair facing the desk. Her eyes take in a tall bookshelf to her right that contains more notebooks and several ornate urns. Probably for ashes, she thinks trying to bring her thoughts into focus.
Mister Krouder eases himself into the leather chair behind the desk. His thin fingers straighten a few papers, then he looks at her. Forty-some years of controlled compassion cover his face and guide his words.
“Death is always a shock, even though we all know it is inevitable.” He smiles again, pulling himself effortlessly from solemn to friendly. “Your mother was a wonderful lady. Well loved in the community, active in church, involved in charity, but then you know all that.”
No, I don’t, Eve thinks. I don’t know anything about my mother. Well, not exactly ‘anything’ but not enough. She feels tears prick at the back of her eyes and she bites her lower lip to keep it from trembling.
Mister Krouder takes this sign of emotion as normal and pushes a box of tissues toward his visitor. “She was also very thoughtful and kind, as was her husband. About a year before Joe died, they came in here and made all the arrangements for their demise. Everything is taken care of. She eased the way for you.” His words drift off the ends of his sentences as if a listener can add whatever he wants.
“I’m surprised. She never suggested to me that this was what they had done. When I got news of her death…” Eve stumbles and then goes on, “I thought I’d have to make the arrangements. I don’t even know the man who called me in Washington…” This time Eve’s words ebb away, leaving room for conjecture on the part of her listener.
“Austin Campbell,” he supplies. “Yes, a nice man. Lives on some land he leased from Joe, oh, some years back. They were friends. Or, as close to being friends as you can get with Mister Campbell. Kind of a recluse, he is.”
Eve listens to the muted music and the ticking of a clock somewhere in the office. “I don’t recall Mother mentioning him.”
“Well, not surprising. He’s very quiet. Came right here about your mother though. He found her, called the doctor and waited until they examined her, then followed the ambulance in. Said he’d call you.”
How did Mister Campbell know my name and telephone number, Eve wonders silently?
She sighs. What a contradiction her mother’s life was. Irresponsibly disappearing for months or even years at a time, going off on crazy ventures, yet organized enough to plan for her own funeral.
“Maybe I should see Mother now.” Her words shock her. She hadn’t planned to say that so quickly. But then again, what is the sense of waiting? They rise and she feels his bony fingers take her elbow as they walk down the dim corridor.
“I’ll leave you alone. Take whatever time you need. I’ll wait for you in the front.” He melts away closing the door so softly Eve turns to see if he has really left.
The room is cold. Two small wreaths of flowers are attached to wire stands at each end of the open coffin. There is room for more flowers and she wonders if the racks will be full by the time of the funeral. She makes a mental note to order flowers. Her mind whirls with details. Who will conduct the funeral? What time is it on Friday?
Her mother’s head rests on a satin pillow, her hands folded across the waist of a pale blue dress Eve has never seen. The peaceful expression she wears brings a sudden stab to Eve’s heart. She remembers that peaceful look. Not much upset her mother. She always had a way of dealing with setbacks. Why did Eve remember this now as she looks at her mother’s lifeless body? Why hadn’t that thought crossed her mind last night when she was struggling to remember things about her mother?
The coffin lid is split and the bottom half of her mother’s body is out of sight. Eve wonders if she has shoes and stockings on and then shudders at the senselessness of that thought. She moves closer to the casket, her hands gripped tightly in front of her. Surely there is something she should say, something she should feel instead of the rampant confusion that courses through her. Her throat tightens and she swallows with difficulty. Soft music continues in the background as Eve lowers her eyes from her mother’s face, feeling hot tears trickle down her cheeks. A padded kneeler is next to the coffin. Should she kneel and whisper a prayer? She prays in church on the Sundays she occasionally attends. But they are prayers the minister’s sermon provokes, familiar, nonspecific prayers, nothing she has to originate. Nothing comes to her mind in this silent room where she and her mother are alone for the first time in how long? Too long. Shivering, she pulls a tissue from her purse and wipes her eyes and cheeks dry. She turns her back to the coffin and stands still for a moment, then quietly leaves, not looking back, not praying, not sure of what she has done or should have done.
In the front office again, Mister Krouder opens a file centered on his desk. “Let me review what’s scheduled and if there’s anything you wish to change, we can go over that.” He separates several sheets of paper, spreading them carefully, lining up the tops of the pages, as if that is necessary before reading them. “As I said, we’ve scheduled the funeral for Friday at two o’clock at First Baptist Church, Followers of the Apostles.” He looks up as if waiting for an acknowledgement. Receiving none, he continues, “We chose Friday because one of my associates called the people in Helen’s address book. Since many of them said they wanted to attend the funeral and were scattered around the country, requiring some travel time, we decided Friday was the earliest convenient time.”
It is a long speech and he seems out of breath. “Do you want to add to this list?”
Eve shakes her head. Who would I add?
He pauses and again looks at her, his eyes hooded with professional sympathy, “Interment will follow the services. Reverend Mueller has a wonderful service, both in the church and at graveside.”
Eve stares at him. It sounds as if she’s listening to a package deal for a trip to Barbados. She shifts in her chair, trying to focus on what he is saying.
“We’ve scheduled the viewing from six to eight on Thursday evening. We….”
“No! No viewing!” The words burst from her stiffened lips. He looks startled by her impassioned tone. “No viewing, I couldn’t…my husband, my son… No, I’m sorry but I can’t have a viewing.” She closes her eyes, still the vision of two coffins is so clear they might be just down the dim hallway. The sickly scent of too many flowers, strange lips fluttering across her cheeks, the mumbled words—no, it is too much. Tears seep from beneath her closed eyelids and she takes a deep, grief-shattered breath. “I’m sorry, it’s too painful.”
“But, Missus Marshall, people will expect…”
“No.” It was final.
He watches her for a moment, clearly confused by this sudden turn of events, then resumes his role. “Of course. I understand.” But he doesn’t and he fumbles with the papers again. “We could have a short viewing before the services… At the church. For those who feel it is necessary to spend a few respectful minutes with their beloved friend.”
“Fine.” She is resolved, but relieved. Do whatever you want, go through whatever rituals you have, but don’t include me, not again, not again. Her nails bite into the palms of her hands and she releases her grip, stretching her fingers.
Once again he shuffles through the papers, handing her a sheet with some typed names on it. “This is the list of mourners we’ve notified—taken from your mother’s records, and a list she’d provided to us previously. As you can see, a couple of them are in California.”
Eve doesn’t read it, just folds it in half and slips it in her purse. Before leaving, she gets directions to her mother’s home, noting Mister Krouder’s polite surprise that she needs them.
The lingering scent of old flowers and dust greets her as she steps into the vestibule. Soft music comes from a hidden source and yet a hollow silence surrounds her. She hesitates, then looks to the left when a door opens quietly.
The thin, slightly stooped man who stands in the doorway is well into his eighties. His hair and face are almost the same shade of gray but alert, dark eyes peer out from beneath shaggy brows and his face crinkles to a pleasant greeting as he steps forward, “Good morning,” he says, recognizing a stranger. “I’m Edgar Krouder. Been here in Mountain Springs for seventy years. Mortician for forty-some years. My two sons help in the business. You must be Helen’s daughter.”
Again a chilling feeling of being completely out of control sweeps over Eve. How in the world…?
She mumbles agreement and watches him move silently toward her. His black suit, dulled with age is crisply neat. Nothing in the room or about him seems capable of making any noise.
He touches her hand with icy fingers. “We are so very sorry for your loss. We’ve been expecting you. Please, come into the office and we can talk. But first, do you want to see your mother? She’s in the last room,” he points down a dimly lit hallway. “It’s the biggest room we have because we expect a great many mourners. Your mother had so many friends.” His eyes crinkle with pleasure; as if the mere thought of all her mother’s friends gathered together will be a welcome occasion.
Eve is smothered with indecision. Did she want to see her mother so quickly? Maybe she needs a minute to gather herself. Maybe she’ll feel better if she knows what plans have already been made and who made them. “Thank you. I think I’d like to talk first.”
They move into the office, another quiet room with a small desk, a neat line of notebooks marshaled at one end. Eve sits in a comfortable chair facing the desk. Her eyes take in a tall bookshelf to her right that contains more notebooks and several ornate urns. Probably for ashes, she thinks trying to bring her thoughts into focus.
Mister Krouder eases himself into the leather chair behind the desk. His thin fingers straighten a few papers, then he looks at her. Forty-some years of controlled compassion cover his face and guide his words.
“Death is always a shock, even though we all know it is inevitable.” He smiles again, pulling himself effortlessly from solemn to friendly. “Your mother was a wonderful lady. Well loved in the community, active in church, involved in charity, but then you know all that.”
No, I don’t, Eve thinks. I don’t know anything about my mother. Well, not exactly ‘anything’ but not enough. She feels tears prick at the back of her eyes and she bites her lower lip to keep it from trembling.
Mister Krouder takes this sign of emotion as normal and pushes a box of tissues toward his visitor. “She was also very thoughtful and kind, as was her husband. About a year before Joe died, they came in here and made all the arrangements for their demise. Everything is taken care of. She eased the way for you.” His words drift off the ends of his sentences as if a listener can add whatever he wants.
“I’m surprised. She never suggested to me that this was what they had done. When I got news of her death…” Eve stumbles and then goes on, “I thought I’d have to make the arrangements. I don’t even know the man who called me in Washington…” This time Eve’s words ebb away, leaving room for conjecture on the part of her listener.
“Austin Campbell,” he supplies. “Yes, a nice man. Lives on some land he leased from Joe, oh, some years back. They were friends. Or, as close to being friends as you can get with Mister Campbell. Kind of a recluse, he is.”
Eve listens to the muted music and the ticking of a clock somewhere in the office. “I don’t recall Mother mentioning him.”
“Well, not surprising. He’s very quiet. Came right here about your mother though. He found her, called the doctor and waited until they examined her, then followed the ambulance in. Said he’d call you.”
How did Mister Campbell know my name and telephone number, Eve wonders silently?
She sighs. What a contradiction her mother’s life was. Irresponsibly disappearing for months or even years at a time, going off on crazy ventures, yet organized enough to plan for her own funeral.
“Maybe I should see Mother now.” Her words shock her. She hadn’t planned to say that so quickly. But then again, what is the sense of waiting? They rise and she feels his bony fingers take her elbow as they walk down the dim corridor.
“I’ll leave you alone. Take whatever time you need. I’ll wait for you in the front.” He melts away closing the door so softly Eve turns to see if he has really left.
The room is cold. Two small wreaths of flowers are attached to wire stands at each end of the open coffin. There is room for more flowers and she wonders if the racks will be full by the time of the funeral. She makes a mental note to order flowers. Her mind whirls with details. Who will conduct the funeral? What time is it on Friday?
Her mother’s head rests on a satin pillow, her hands folded across the waist of a pale blue dress Eve has never seen. The peaceful expression she wears brings a sudden stab to Eve’s heart. She remembers that peaceful look. Not much upset her mother. She always had a way of dealing with setbacks. Why did Eve remember this now as she looks at her mother’s lifeless body? Why hadn’t that thought crossed her mind last night when she was struggling to remember things about her mother?
The coffin lid is split and the bottom half of her mother’s body is out of sight. Eve wonders if she has shoes and stockings on and then shudders at the senselessness of that thought. She moves closer to the casket, her hands gripped tightly in front of her. Surely there is something she should say, something she should feel instead of the rampant confusion that courses through her. Her throat tightens and she swallows with difficulty. Soft music continues in the background as Eve lowers her eyes from her mother’s face, feeling hot tears trickle down her cheeks. A padded kneeler is next to the coffin. Should she kneel and whisper a prayer? She prays in church on the Sundays she occasionally attends. But they are prayers the minister’s sermon provokes, familiar, nonspecific prayers, nothing she has to originate. Nothing comes to her mind in this silent room where she and her mother are alone for the first time in how long? Too long. Shivering, she pulls a tissue from her purse and wipes her eyes and cheeks dry. She turns her back to the coffin and stands still for a moment, then quietly leaves, not looking back, not praying, not sure of what she has done or should have done.
In the front office again, Mister Krouder opens a file centered on his desk. “Let me review what’s scheduled and if there’s anything you wish to change, we can go over that.” He separates several sheets of paper, spreading them carefully, lining up the tops of the pages, as if that is necessary before reading them. “As I said, we’ve scheduled the funeral for Friday at two o’clock at First Baptist Church, Followers of the Apostles.” He looks up as if waiting for an acknowledgement. Receiving none, he continues, “We chose Friday because one of my associates called the people in Helen’s address book. Since many of them said they wanted to attend the funeral and were scattered around the country, requiring some travel time, we decided Friday was the earliest convenient time.”
It is a long speech and he seems out of breath. “Do you want to add to this list?”
Eve shakes her head. Who would I add?
He pauses and again looks at her, his eyes hooded with professional sympathy, “Interment will follow the services. Reverend Mueller has a wonderful service, both in the church and at graveside.”
Eve stares at him. It sounds as if she’s listening to a package deal for a trip to Barbados. She shifts in her chair, trying to focus on what he is saying.
“We’ve scheduled the viewing from six to eight on Thursday evening. We….”
“No! No viewing!” The words burst from her stiffened lips. He looks startled by her impassioned tone. “No viewing, I couldn’t…my husband, my son… No, I’m sorry but I can’t have a viewing.” She closes her eyes, still the vision of two coffins is so clear they might be just down the dim hallway. The sickly scent of too many flowers, strange lips fluttering across her cheeks, the mumbled words—no, it is too much. Tears seep from beneath her closed eyelids and she takes a deep, grief-shattered breath. “I’m sorry, it’s too painful.”
“But, Missus Marshall, people will expect…”
“No.” It was final.
He watches her for a moment, clearly confused by this sudden turn of events, then resumes his role. “Of course. I understand.” But he doesn’t and he fumbles with the papers again. “We could have a short viewing before the services… At the church. For those who feel it is necessary to spend a few respectful minutes with their beloved friend.”
“Fine.” She is resolved, but relieved. Do whatever you want, go through whatever rituals you have, but don’t include me, not again, not again. Her nails bite into the palms of her hands and she releases her grip, stretching her fingers.
Once again he shuffles through the papers, handing her a sheet with some typed names on it. “This is the list of mourners we’ve notified—taken from your mother’s records, and a list she’d provided to us previously. As you can see, a couple of them are in California.”
Eve doesn’t read it, just folds it in half and slips it in her purse. Before leaving, she gets directions to her mother’s home, noting Mister Krouder’s polite surprise that she needs them.
Want to know more? Autographed copies of this award-winning novel are available by clicking on the title on this blog
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Big and Little Things
Sometimes the big things in your life are really little things. Take for instance the arrival of my great-grandson Nathan. While he's almost nine-months old and I've never seen him, I did receive a photograph of him at the age of six-months. Better late than never and isn't he cute? My daughter, his aunt Jen, reports that he is the most pleasant baby she's ever seen and she has quite a history with babies.
Nevertheless, receiving this photo was overwhelming for me. We just don't get to visit family so we keep in touch with emails, telephone calls and once in a while, real photos that I can hold and touch and show off. All our kids and grandchildren are scattered over several states and since we are unable to travel and they are so busy just taking care of their own lives, this is such a blessing. We receive photos by email but even printed out, they just aren't pictures. So, the pride just took over and I had to share this event with all of you. Here's Nathan and his proud Daddy, Andrew.
Nevertheless, receiving this photo was overwhelming for me. We just don't get to visit family so we keep in touch with emails, telephone calls and once in a while, real photos that I can hold and touch and show off. All our kids and grandchildren are scattered over several states and since we are unable to travel and they are so busy just taking care of their own lives, this is such a blessing. We receive photos by email but even printed out, they just aren't pictures. So, the pride just took over and I had to share this event with all of you. Here's Nathan and his proud Daddy, Andrew.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Happy Fourth of July!
Yesterday was the Fourth of July…our country's birthday. If anyone watched the celebration in our nation's capital you can't have missed the patriotic excitement on the face of Barry Manilow as he belted out those wonderful songs.
As the camera swept over the crowd this enthusiasm was echoed from face to face. If there were a million people on the National Mall there were two million flags. Big flags, little flags stuck behind visors, waving from the tops of hats and clutched in the hands of folks from senior to the tiniest child. It was a display that was so moving the fireworks almost seemed an anticlimax. In fact, I really felt that they were not only there for the music and the fireworks but because they truly wanted to be in Washington to celebrate this country for what it truly is. Forget the problems, they will be fixed. They were there to exhibit the patriotism that is inherent in every true citizen.
I guess my patriotic ardor comes directly from my parents. They were two of the most avid citizens this country has had. My mom and dad never missed a chance to impress upon my sister and me the value of our citizenship. You see, my parents came to this country in 1930, the height of the depression. They didn't come from poverty or bad government, they came from England. I guess it's the reason they came that makes the difference. They chose to come to America. They could have gone anywhere in the world, or stayed where they were and had a wonderful life. But the call of our freedom, our liberties, our basics were what made them travel across the pond to New York City. Daddy was well educated and perhaps that was what eased him into a job when many didn't have them. After he had established himself, he sent for Mother and they settled into what they truly believed was paradise. They couldn't get over the freedoms; everyone could come and go as they wished. The citizens were generally happy and helpful no matter what their situations. Daddy had established a bank account where his salary was deposited each week. I think the bank was Bank of America but it wasn't the huge conglomerate of today. Anyhow, one evening Daddy came home from work and told Mother their bank had failed. They turned out their pockets and purses and tossed the bills and change onto the bed. That was all they had. But that didn't daunt them, they just started over again. They couldn't wait to explore every nook and cranny of the city and surrounding country. They marveled at things like the Automat and the street vendors. I don't know how many times they visited the Statue of Liberty but I do know that my sister and I went half a dozen times, at least.
It was after my sister and I were born the real exploration of America began. We never missed a museum, a historic place, a battlefield, a post along the roadway that announced some little piece of American history. We were instilled with a deep regard and love for everything American and that feeling hasn't left me. I get goose-bumps when they play the National Anthem, or when a marching band goes by playing a patriotic march. I feel like crying when I see service men and women because it is for me that they have sacrificed so much.
My parents spent the next 53 years loving, learning about and exploring this wonderful country they chose. They passed this legacy on to me and I am forever grateful. You see the difference between them and us is that to us it's a given, to them it was a gift. I try never to forget that.
As the camera swept over the crowd this enthusiasm was echoed from face to face. If there were a million people on the National Mall there were two million flags. Big flags, little flags stuck behind visors, waving from the tops of hats and clutched in the hands of folks from senior to the tiniest child. It was a display that was so moving the fireworks almost seemed an anticlimax. In fact, I really felt that they were not only there for the music and the fireworks but because they truly wanted to be in Washington to celebrate this country for what it truly is. Forget the problems, they will be fixed. They were there to exhibit the patriotism that is inherent in every true citizen.
I guess my patriotic ardor comes directly from my parents. They were two of the most avid citizens this country has had. My mom and dad never missed a chance to impress upon my sister and me the value of our citizenship. You see, my parents came to this country in 1930, the height of the depression. They didn't come from poverty or bad government, they came from England. I guess it's the reason they came that makes the difference. They chose to come to America. They could have gone anywhere in the world, or stayed where they were and had a wonderful life. But the call of our freedom, our liberties, our basics were what made them travel across the pond to New York City. Daddy was well educated and perhaps that was what eased him into a job when many didn't have them. After he had established himself, he sent for Mother and they settled into what they truly believed was paradise. They couldn't get over the freedoms; everyone could come and go as they wished. The citizens were generally happy and helpful no matter what their situations. Daddy had established a bank account where his salary was deposited each week. I think the bank was Bank of America but it wasn't the huge conglomerate of today. Anyhow, one evening Daddy came home from work and told Mother their bank had failed. They turned out their pockets and purses and tossed the bills and change onto the bed. That was all they had. But that didn't daunt them, they just started over again. They couldn't wait to explore every nook and cranny of the city and surrounding country. They marveled at things like the Automat and the street vendors. I don't know how many times they visited the Statue of Liberty but I do know that my sister and I went half a dozen times, at least.
It was after my sister and I were born the real exploration of America began. We never missed a museum, a historic place, a battlefield, a post along the roadway that announced some little piece of American history. We were instilled with a deep regard and love for everything American and that feeling hasn't left me. I get goose-bumps when they play the National Anthem, or when a marching band goes by playing a patriotic march. I feel like crying when I see service men and women because it is for me that they have sacrificed so much.
My parents spent the next 53 years loving, learning about and exploring this wonderful country they chose. They passed this legacy on to me and I am forever grateful. You see the difference between them and us is that to us it's a given, to them it was a gift. I try never to forget that.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Newspaper Article - June 10, 2009
Serafino driven to tell stories - by Christopher Tuffley -News Sun
Sunny Serafino always wanted to write. But a sick husband, widowhood, raising three children as a single parent and a 46-year career as a legal secretary never gave her the time. Then she remarried and retired. In the last 12 years she has published 10 books -- nine novels and a memoir of her parents.
Her most recent work, "Second Chances," has just been released. It is a sequel to "Echoes," an earlier book. In "Echoes" Serafino tells the story of a dying woman's last wish t0 bringing her far-flung family together again. So many readers wanted to know what happened to the family next, Serafino said, that she was forced to continue their story.
"Second Chances" deals with change and how people react. Main characters include the dying woman's husband, her best friend, and her youngest daughter. All three have to adjust to her loss, but Patty, the daughter, has perhaps the most problems. "This is a story about old friends, new loves, and a deep-seated trust that holds a family together," she said.
Serafino said she thinks her story through, before she sits at the keyboard, so she has an immediate idea of where she's going. That doesn't mean, she added that the characters don't take on a life of their own--she has frequently been surprised by unexpected twists in the tale.
She said she is not a disciplined kind of writer. She doesn't sit down the same time every day, or write a specific number of words each session. Instead, she writes in her spare time, after waiting until she has something to say. Then she types until she is done. That might mean working all day, several hours, or only 25 minutes. "I don't sit there with a blank face," she said, "If I have a blank face, I don't sit."
It typically takes her from six to nine months to get a book finished. Her drive is her passion to tell stories. While her plots are all different, they always involve courageous women.
Her books are all self-published, primarily because waiting to be discovered by an agent and traditional publisher can take a lifetime and requires as much luck as talent. She has discovered however, that self-publishing has a tremendous advantage--she has complete control of her work. She is very proud of the fact that three of her novels have won literary awards.
Serafino also teaches creative writing at South Florida Community College, and holds writing workshops throughout the state. She runs a writer's critique group that meets at the Avon Park Public Library on Friday for individuals with works in progress.
Her books are available on Amazon.com, or at her web site www.authorsden.com/sunnyserafino or http://www.sunnyserafino.com/.
Sunny Serafino always wanted to write. But a sick husband, widowhood, raising three children as a single parent and a 46-year career as a legal secretary never gave her the time. Then she remarried and retired. In the last 12 years she has published 10 books -- nine novels and a memoir of her parents.
Her most recent work, "Second Chances," has just been released. It is a sequel to "Echoes," an earlier book. In "Echoes" Serafino tells the story of a dying woman's last wish t0 bringing her far-flung family together again. So many readers wanted to know what happened to the family next, Serafino said, that she was forced to continue their story.
"Second Chances" deals with change and how people react. Main characters include the dying woman's husband, her best friend, and her youngest daughter. All three have to adjust to her loss, but Patty, the daughter, has perhaps the most problems. "This is a story about old friends, new loves, and a deep-seated trust that holds a family together," she said.
Serafino said she thinks her story through, before she sits at the keyboard, so she has an immediate idea of where she's going. That doesn't mean, she added that the characters don't take on a life of their own--she has frequently been surprised by unexpected twists in the tale.
She said she is not a disciplined kind of writer. She doesn't sit down the same time every day, or write a specific number of words each session. Instead, she writes in her spare time, after waiting until she has something to say. Then she types until she is done. That might mean working all day, several hours, or only 25 minutes. "I don't sit there with a blank face," she said, "If I have a blank face, I don't sit."
It typically takes her from six to nine months to get a book finished. Her drive is her passion to tell stories. While her plots are all different, they always involve courageous women.
Her books are all self-published, primarily because waiting to be discovered by an agent and traditional publisher can take a lifetime and requires as much luck as talent. She has discovered however, that self-publishing has a tremendous advantage--she has complete control of her work. She is very proud of the fact that three of her novels have won literary awards.
Serafino also teaches creative writing at South Florida Community College, and holds writing workshops throughout the state. She runs a writer's critique group that meets at the Avon Park Public Library on Friday for individuals with works in progress.
Her books are available on Amazon.com, or at her web site www.authorsden.com/sunnyserafino or http://www.sunnyserafino.com/.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Lessons Learned
Every once in a while you just have to reflect on what's happened before and why you are where you are and who you are. Most of us take a quick look back once in a while but I've decided it's a good thing to take a long, hard look at the past, not in expectation of finding blame or excuses. Just a look back, over a shoulder that is so grateful for the contributions to my very being made by my parents. I was blessed with a great father and mother and I think I owe them a thought once in a while. Not that I don't think of them every day. What is that saying, "You don't miss something until you no longer have it?" My parents died many years ago and I am not ashamed to say that even today I miss them very much. So, here's what I've been thinking about.
Death is strange. When you're young it is inconceivable and shrouded in mystery. As you grow older death becomes a reality—it happens and has to be dealt with. When my mother died (Daddy died fourteen years earlier) I felt like a very old orphan. From our circle of four we were now two, just me and my sister. I thought the broken circle couldn't be mended but then I realized that life isn't a circle but a chain of links, a series of little circles. Daddy and Mother were the first circle in this country, forging ahead on with a new adventure on a new continent; making a new beginning in their very new life together. My sister and I formed links for the future with our children, and their children are the next set of links, and so on.
Life doesn't end with death unless we let it happen. My parents aren't here anymore but so much of them remains. The only difference is I can't see them. I can hear them though. I smile when I recognize I've said something that sounds like Daddy because I can hear Mother saying, "You are so much like your father." She didn't say it with censure but with love.
Memories are priceless whether they are good ones or not-so-good-ones because they are the texture of your life. I'm the same little girl who sat on the cellar floor with sawdust in her hair, sorting nails and screws for Daddy. I was part of the fishing team that cast a line into the surf in Cape May, New Jersey and dragged smelly fish heads through the water luring crabs into the boat.
The anger I felt because of the many sudden changes of location and schools (because we moved constantly) is softened now because from here I can see advantages I didn't see then. The many moves and unusual lifestyle of my childhood prepared me to be versatile, to accept things as they are, or to do something about them.
When I lost my parents I found I had to overcome a tremendous sense of loss—a loss of something that belonged in my life and wasn't here any longer. It wasn't fair they were gone—it was too soon. I hadn't finished talking to them. Did I tell them enough times, in enough ways how much I loved them? How much I appreciated the world they exposed me to? How precious were the values they taught?
I dealing with my grief I found myself remembering and the more I remembered the better I felt. The feel of sawdust and sand sliding through my fingers, the sound of clippers chopping at a stubborn hedge, my father's laugh, the smell of kippers frying in a big black pan on a sandy beach in Miami are indelibly etched in my soul.
They weren't perfect parents—they could be stubborn and opinionated at times. I thought they were selfish because they were so involved in each other until I saw marriages that didn't have nearly the love or commitment their fifty-three year long marriage had.
Later in life I missed them and resented their absence when they took off on their nomadic wanderings and weren't around to help me with my children. Little did I realize then that before they left they had prepared me for whatever came along by their example. They were always there when I really needed them. Because they had a good life, I did too.
So my musing has brought back those principles, those special events and happenings that made our family unique in some ways and just like so many families in other ways. It doesn't hurt to look back now and then and see what went into the making of 'you' because no matter what, we are a product of our past. Once I didn't realize just how great my past was and now that I do I feel somehow uplifted by these backward glances. Try it. Even the painful parts (and there are painful parts in every life) are softened with time and the knowledge that they were just part of the tapestry of your life.
Death is strange. When you're young it is inconceivable and shrouded in mystery. As you grow older death becomes a reality—it happens and has to be dealt with. When my mother died (Daddy died fourteen years earlier) I felt like a very old orphan. From our circle of four we were now two, just me and my sister. I thought the broken circle couldn't be mended but then I realized that life isn't a circle but a chain of links, a series of little circles. Daddy and Mother were the first circle in this country, forging ahead on with a new adventure on a new continent; making a new beginning in their very new life together. My sister and I formed links for the future with our children, and their children are the next set of links, and so on.
Life doesn't end with death unless we let it happen. My parents aren't here anymore but so much of them remains. The only difference is I can't see them. I can hear them though. I smile when I recognize I've said something that sounds like Daddy because I can hear Mother saying, "You are so much like your father." She didn't say it with censure but with love.
Memories are priceless whether they are good ones or not-so-good-ones because they are the texture of your life. I'm the same little girl who sat on the cellar floor with sawdust in her hair, sorting nails and screws for Daddy. I was part of the fishing team that cast a line into the surf in Cape May, New Jersey and dragged smelly fish heads through the water luring crabs into the boat.
The anger I felt because of the many sudden changes of location and schools (because we moved constantly) is softened now because from here I can see advantages I didn't see then. The many moves and unusual lifestyle of my childhood prepared me to be versatile, to accept things as they are, or to do something about them.
When I lost my parents I found I had to overcome a tremendous sense of loss—a loss of something that belonged in my life and wasn't here any longer. It wasn't fair they were gone—it was too soon. I hadn't finished talking to them. Did I tell them enough times, in enough ways how much I loved them? How much I appreciated the world they exposed me to? How precious were the values they taught?
I dealing with my grief I found myself remembering and the more I remembered the better I felt. The feel of sawdust and sand sliding through my fingers, the sound of clippers chopping at a stubborn hedge, my father's laugh, the smell of kippers frying in a big black pan on a sandy beach in Miami are indelibly etched in my soul.
They weren't perfect parents—they could be stubborn and opinionated at times. I thought they were selfish because they were so involved in each other until I saw marriages that didn't have nearly the love or commitment their fifty-three year long marriage had.
Later in life I missed them and resented their absence when they took off on their nomadic wanderings and weren't around to help me with my children. Little did I realize then that before they left they had prepared me for whatever came along by their example. They were always there when I really needed them. Because they had a good life, I did too.
So my musing has brought back those principles, those special events and happenings that made our family unique in some ways and just like so many families in other ways. It doesn't hurt to look back now and then and see what went into the making of 'you' because no matter what, we are a product of our past. Once I didn't realize just how great my past was and now that I do I feel somehow uplifted by these backward glances. Try it. Even the painful parts (and there are painful parts in every life) are softened with time and the knowledge that they were just part of the tapestry of your life.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Voices From the Past -- Voices You Never Want to Hush
Do you have memories of sitting around a picnic table on the Fourth of July? The little kids are throwing Frisbees and the bigger kids (write men in here) are tossing a football and challenging their brothers and cousins to impossible feats. It's hot and the women of the family are sitting in the shade. How often have you heard the phrase, "Remember when…" and the memories begin to flow as if the gates to the dam have been opened? These are voices from the past.
Do you remember holidays where a crowded, hot kitchen was filled with delicious scents? Women in aprons bantered across a flour covered table and laughter filled the air. The counters were covered with pies and Aunt Alice's special veggie casserole was just coming out of the oven.
How about running barefoot across the damp lawn as the sun slid below the horizon, chasing fireflies, carrying mason jars with holes punched in the lids. There are cousins everywhere and the older folks are relaxing in rocking chairs on porches that don't have screens.
Have you ever stood around a dining room table while thirty relatives sang Happy Birthday to you and there are not many dry eyes because another family milestone has been reached? Do you remember your first date with the man/woman you married? Is there one Christmas that is so special you can rerun it minute by minute?
This is the stuff of Memoirs. These are the stories that are the fabric of Family History. And, every day Family History is being lost because those memories are just that…they are hidden in the hearts and minds of a family and unless they are preserved they will disappear generation by generation.
I don't usually get up on a soapbox but there is one subject near and dear to my heart and it's Family History. I know many of you are doing the genealogy thing these days and that's great. But in the end it's just a list of names and dates. The true value of a family is not there. The true value are memories future generations won't know about; the stories that set the pace for the future, and they will disappear and that's a terrible shame.
Maybe what influenced me to become so engrossed in getting everyone to write a Memoir is my own family. I had great parents and a loving sister but that was all the family in America. No grandparents, aunts, uncles or cousins. My parents came to this country in 1930 and never looked back. They were the most gung-ho citizens I've ever run into. But, sitting down to dinner was the only family reunion we knew and after my parents died there was no one to ask about what happened 'way back then'. So, being an author, I thought it would be a good idea to write down whatever I could remember. Not just a list of things but a running story about our lives and it was fun. Once the first chapter (on my father teaching my mother to drive) was written the memories rushed back. I didn't really think of it as a 'book', just a record for the children. When I sent it to them their first comment was, "I never knew Grandma and Grandpa did any of that stuff," I did get it published (see Following Daddy in my list of published books).
But, what I preach and teach is not that everyone should write a book. It should be a written personal account of every good, bad, emotional, silly, interesting and memorable thing that you and your family did together. If you are fortunate enough to have relatives that remember 'back when' you have an asset I didn't have but the stories are there and they must be preserved.
Today my goal is to help anyone interested in writing a Memoir do so. It doesn't have to be a piece of literary excellence, just a collection of stories remembered.
Every day precious Family History is being lost. Your family now and in the future will thank you. It isn't difficult, after all you have the entire cast of characters and the plot lines right there in your heart and head.
Do you remember holidays where a crowded, hot kitchen was filled with delicious scents? Women in aprons bantered across a flour covered table and laughter filled the air. The counters were covered with pies and Aunt Alice's special veggie casserole was just coming out of the oven.
How about running barefoot across the damp lawn as the sun slid below the horizon, chasing fireflies, carrying mason jars with holes punched in the lids. There are cousins everywhere and the older folks are relaxing in rocking chairs on porches that don't have screens.
Have you ever stood around a dining room table while thirty relatives sang Happy Birthday to you and there are not many dry eyes because another family milestone has been reached? Do you remember your first date with the man/woman you married? Is there one Christmas that is so special you can rerun it minute by minute?
This is the stuff of Memoirs. These are the stories that are the fabric of Family History. And, every day Family History is being lost because those memories are just that…they are hidden in the hearts and minds of a family and unless they are preserved they will disappear generation by generation.
I don't usually get up on a soapbox but there is one subject near and dear to my heart and it's Family History. I know many of you are doing the genealogy thing these days and that's great. But in the end it's just a list of names and dates. The true value of a family is not there. The true value are memories future generations won't know about; the stories that set the pace for the future, and they will disappear and that's a terrible shame.
Maybe what influenced me to become so engrossed in getting everyone to write a Memoir is my own family. I had great parents and a loving sister but that was all the family in America. No grandparents, aunts, uncles or cousins. My parents came to this country in 1930 and never looked back. They were the most gung-ho citizens I've ever run into. But, sitting down to dinner was the only family reunion we knew and after my parents died there was no one to ask about what happened 'way back then'. So, being an author, I thought it would be a good idea to write down whatever I could remember. Not just a list of things but a running story about our lives and it was fun. Once the first chapter (on my father teaching my mother to drive) was written the memories rushed back. I didn't really think of it as a 'book', just a record for the children. When I sent it to them their first comment was, "I never knew Grandma and Grandpa did any of that stuff," I did get it published (see Following Daddy in my list of published books).
But, what I preach and teach is not that everyone should write a book. It should be a written personal account of every good, bad, emotional, silly, interesting and memorable thing that you and your family did together. If you are fortunate enough to have relatives that remember 'back when' you have an asset I didn't have but the stories are there and they must be preserved.
Today my goal is to help anyone interested in writing a Memoir do so. It doesn't have to be a piece of literary excellence, just a collection of stories remembered.
Every day precious Family History is being lost. Your family now and in the future will thank you. It isn't difficult, after all you have the entire cast of characters and the plot lines right there in your heart and head.
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