Stories From the Lake

Money For Nothing, Kicks For Free

2011-11-18T13:32:00.001-05:00

Well, its been a while since I've blogged.

Been working on a new book based on my experiences here in the land of Potatoes, otherwise known as Idaho Falls.

I have to be honest, I have mixed feelings about this place.

Sometimes I hate it.

Other times I really hate it.

But unlike everything else, I do listen to those feelings.

Finally.

I have been banging my head trying to find a way to fit in here, in this land of cult like religion, cookie cutter possessions, obsessions with outward appearance and neglect of true self awareness and appreciation.

No, this is not LA.

It's Idaho.

I had a good job in the city, working for he man every night and day, until I was fired for not being "warm" or "compassionate."

Those words dance around in my head and swirl around behind my eyes every time I close them to go to sleep.

Not warm or compassionate?

Me?

They must have not read my books.

And then it hit me.

Of course they haven't.

They don't know me here.

Not really. I had one book signing at Barnes & Noble and another dismal showing at a woman's event.

And the only way for them TO get to know me, is to share myself with them like I did on the east coast.

It was truly a V-8 moment.

Of course that's not the real reason. The real reason is the place is going broke and couldn't afford to pay me.

So why not just be honest?

Anyway.

It has finally gotten through my thick head that this is what I was made to do.

Tell stories and make people laugh, cry and think.

To do it with warmth, and compassion.

Just like always.

Those idiots can kiss my ass.

So stay tuned and thanks, as always, for your support.

I won't stray again.

If you want to see a sneak preview of this book, go to www.mylifeinthewitnessprotectionprogram.wordpress.com

Here's the latest

2011-09-20T11:13:00.002-04:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4yfUNGUJ8uA&feature=channel_video_title

Minuscule Memories

2011-07-11T00:37:00.002-04:00

I woke up this morning thinking about my old job at the bank. Perhaps it was the drugs I’ve been taking to combat the onslaught of new allergens attacking my system. Or maybe it’s just what it is, a dream; random thoughts that somehow stay glued to the side of your mind, and are knocked loose to make room for something else just as miniscule.

I’ve been consumed with budgets and all things financial of late, as we settle into our home here in Idaho Falls. Having only one regular paycheck to count on makes you stretch your mind as well as your dollars. It has not been without merit, though. You look at your priorities a little differently, and become much more aware of how lucky you are to have one.

I met a lot of good people at the bank job of my memory, some which went on to become members of “The Ducks” (life-long friends and who I’ve known almost 20 years now) and those who I’d rather forget. Amidst bank mergers and closures in the early 90’s, I was one of the first to be let go when the departments were ‘focused out.’ That’s what theycalled layoffs back then; focusing. In any event, I had hoped their lens wouldn’t locate me and my little job as an assistant to a private banker, but alas, no such luck. I was not only focused, they used the magnifying glass on my department, deeming me the most expendable.

There was a female loan officer there who wrote the wordiest and most succinct loan proposals for her clients. Her penmanship was flawless, but she was known for more than that. Because her proposals were so long, she wrote in the tiniest of letters, sometimes so small you needed a magnifying glass to read the sentences. But the letters were perfect. I often kidded her and said she missed her calling, and should have been a neuro-surgeon, performing scar-less operations with the tiniest of stitching. But she loved banking.

There was another female assistant there who was diagnosed with Hodgkins Lymphoma, the very disease my youngest daughter would face 10 years later. Watching my coworker battle the chemo and radiation treatments with grace and dignity, she served as the example of how to deal with a disease and still go to work every morning. Watching her, I knew what to expect to happen to my daughter, and to always keep a positive face on everything.

Nearly twenty years later, the bank still stands, although yet under another name. The miniscule writer was eventually focused out as well, as were many of my friends. The lens knew no boundaries, and highly paid VP’s were either demoted, let go, or reassigned to other states. My friend with cancer survived her ordeal but not her job. It was not a good time to be a banker.

Perhaps the fall of the financial institutions, the mortgage crisis and the debacles on Wall Street these past years were the result of many of these mergers, magnified layoffs and mismanagement. The ones who were not spared the glare of the lens were probably the ones who were the most aware of management’s arrogance, and called them on it. Never before had I worked in such an industry where you had to keep your head down and your mouth shut. The world was changing in more ways than one.

Banking has a vastly difference face nowadays then it did back then. People are in more control of their finances, and have the luxury of choosing what institution they want to park their funds with. It’s a competitive market again, one that is constantly evolving and changing. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or a necessary evil. Probably, it is both.

I often wonder what became of the miniscule writer and her heart for banking, if she found another job as fulfilling or if her love for creating was crushed. There should have been more like her. I know that my desire to write was enhanced by simply reading the scenarios she created in describing her client’s loan requests.

It’s funny where you find inspiration.

I hope she found what she was looking for.

In a way, she helped me find what I was.

The Ugly Beginnings

2011-07-03T17:05:00.002-04:00

Well, it’s been an interesting few days leading up to this Fourth of July holiday here in Idaho Falls, Idaho.

Awakening with the feeling of swollen eyes, a stuffed nose and a head full of cement, I was quickly reminded of allergies I suffered as a child long ago. Years of allergy shots had alleviated the symptoms of hay fever and other allergens, and I have been able to live an antihistamine free life for about 15 years.

Apparently, there’s a whole lotta new stuff that I’m allergic to out west.

Narrowing the culprit down to Cottonwood trees and a few wild flowers, it took a few days to get back into determining the right dosage of Benadryl. Now that I have, things are fairly back to normal. I’ll probably have to schedule a visit to the allergist here in town, but that won’t be until next year. I write this with certainty and I know we will probably be living here for a while.

Accepting the fact that I will not be able to find a ‘regular’ 9-5 job any time soon, I have concentrated on freelancing and independent contracting, which has been ok. It gets me out there and I can contribute to the household, but still not in a way that I could develop relationship with co-workers.

Instead, I have made some good friendships with women whom I work out at the club. One of my friends back east left me a Facebook message with the equivalent tone of “My God, do you live there?”

In a word? Yes.

Yes, I do. That place has literally saved my sanity.

After living here for nearly six months and not having a connection to anyone or anything really weighed heavily on me. Without the distraction of somewhere to go (besides Walmart) and something to do (besides go food shopping or to church) it became a constant struggle to even get out of bed. That black cloud has passed, simply because someone suggested, “Hey, let’s go get a drink.” How organically simple it all really is. How easily we are distracted by what is important, and what is trifling.

The holiday weekend continued with our first attendance at the local baseball league. Basically farm teams for the franchise, the players were young men barely out of high school or attending junior college. They played with passion and developing skills showedpromise as we glimpsed the slow journey towards being professional. Paid peanuts for now, we know they play simply for the love of the game.

The stadium was a smaller venue than what we are used to, but not lacking in ambiance and stature. The scoreboard lit up like the pros do, and videos played as the players were introduced during their time at bat. Commercials were abundant and reflected what the play was. Any ball hit into the foul zone and disappearing into the street where the cars were parked was followed by the same commercial. After the initial sound of breaking glass, we heard “If that was your car, call Idaho Falls Auto Glass at 888-443-8875 for a quick repair of your windshield.” We laughed as my husband (ever the comedian) joked we both realized in New York the commercial would have sounded more like “If that was your car, don’t get glass in your ass as you drive away.”

Hot dogs and beer, popcorn and cotton candy, we sampled it all, just as we did when we were kids. Clapping and stamping your feet at the arrival of certain players, and standing to sing “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” at the seventh inning stretch reminded me of home on Long Island and going to the city to see a Mets game with my dad.

As I looked around me, everyone was singing loud and proud, swaying back and forth linked arm in arm. For a short time hands were on hearts, just as they had done with the Pledge of Allegiance at the beginning of the game.

Several times over the course of the game I thought of my children and how much I missed them, even wishing they were youngsters again and sitting here beside me. They would have loved this place. They would love it for their children.

It was a defining moment for me to realize they were adults and had lives of their own, that I had perhaps judged this place too quickly. Yes, there are cults here there will defy all intelligent discussion; it’s either their way or no way. I have learned, as others have, how to distinguish them from the norm and not even engage them at all.

“You’re just in the ugly beginnings” a friend wrote to me, reassuring me I would find my way. She was right, there are so many other things here I realize there is yet to discover. It’s a good place to raise a family and to start a new life. I miss the lake, I miss the feeling of completeness and I miss the familiarity of knowing where everything is and what to do when I go there.

It took me four months to find a church, six months to find a good hairdresser, and the same six months to find someone to call friend. I will probably never find a good place to get a manicure or a pedicure and have accepted that. Some things are just New York and can’t be duplicated.

Overall, except for employment, I realize these issues are mundane. I am grateful that my husband has a good job, that we have a place to live, and have food on the table. We are healthier in mind, body and spirit compared to where we were this time a year ago.

Our holiday will be spent grilling out in the back yard, watching the dogs run around andbark at the birds, just like back home. I will miss my children and my grands, realizing that every day I don’t see them is another stroke on the clock of time that I have lost. Visits back east will become even more memorable and cherished, and times listening to the lake whenever I am able will forever fill my soul.

I hope that they treasure the time they have together, as I did with them, and drink it all in this holiday season.

But most importantly, to remember what this day is really about and what we are celebrating. I have the freedom to complain, and the right to moan about the mundane, because daring men declared we were born with the right to do so, and were willing to die for it. I will return to New York one day, I know this for a fact. But I am grateful for the freedom and ability to travel around to discover what life holds in store for all of us.

God Bless America and God Bless Idaho Falls. The Ugly Beginnings are over.

MY OWN PRIVATE PLANET, OTHERWISE KNOWN AS IDAHO

2011-06-24T21:10:00.001-04:00

Here's another little story you can file under the heading "Why the hell am I living here?"

Already disappointed the local butcher and grocery store don't carry things like porter house or t-bone steaks, I silently stewed as I ran my other four purchases through the sell check out aisle. Some how, hearing the robotic "blip, blip, blip" sound as the scanner reads the UPC codes is mildly comforting.

The weight of several corn on the cob has a tendency to rip the plastic bags, so I always double bag them after I place them in the first bag. It was the last of my items and I leaned over to grab my purse to pull out my debit card. Keep in mind I hadn't moved. This was all done in a twisty-turning movement, courtesy of years of yoga classes. With my back to the screen and the scanner, I was surprised to hear the robotic "blip, blip, blip" song start up again.

This time I did move, and was surprised to see the back of another woman. I could tell she was young enough to be in a hurry, but old enough to know better. Miss Iminahurry ran her items over the scanner just as I had done, tossing them in the bag after each 'blip' and then stood up to look at the total when she had finished.

She stared at the screen for a minute, smacking a giant wad of pink bubble gum, moving closer to make sure she hadn't misunderstood the number.

"Why is it so much?" I heard her whisper.

She still hadn't realized I was standing there. Life had fallen off its axis and she was trying to right it. Perhaps the amount of hair spray in her jet black curly hair had not only frozen the curls in place, but also decimated some brain cells in the process. I was in that kind of a mood.

She looked closely at the screen and then stood back on her heels, as if to call for assistance. I could picture her mind saying "This machine must be broken, all I bought was milk, bread, butter and some Captain Crunch."

As she turned to call for someone, she saw me.

She looked at me and I smiled. She looked at the total on the screen and then back at me.

Okay, I thought, I think she might figure this one out.

Then she looked at the screen and back at me again

Here it comes, the thought is coming to the surface, yes, its almost there......

"Oh. Weren't you finished checking out?"

Houston, we have contact.

"No, darlin'." I decided to answer in my best southern drawl.

They don't cotton too kindly to New Yorker's here, I have learned, so I periodically break out in another dialect. Sometimes I'm even British. Today, I was from Atlanta.

"I wasn't." I crooned, ever so sweetly. "But I thought it was right neighborly for you to buy my groceries for me on this right fine day. Thank you, ever so much!" I smiled my biggest Miss Julia smile I could find.

She looked at me, still confused as to the chain of events, trying to piece together parts of this big puzzle she realized she had missed.

It was at that moment that I realized I was looking into the face of real innocence. There was no attitude, no agenda, no angry response. She was just a girl from her own private planet, otherwise known as Idaho.

"It's okay, darlin'" I said then, relieving her of the burden of this difficult scenario. "Let's call the manager and work this out."

She's lucky today wasn't the day I was from New Jersey.

MY MASHED POTATO DADDY

2011-06-17T20:15:00.000-04:00

I first wrote this in February of 2003. Since then, I have run it various times as a tribute to my father. Sometimes I need to see it on Father's Day, other times I like to see it again on his birthday (July 9). It's hard to believe he has been gone 8 years, but comforting to realize he and my mother are now cooking together again.

This appeared in my first book "Rhythm & Rhymes of the Heart 2002-2004" and also my last book "The Book of Stories From the Lake" released last September. I've read it aloud at different book signings, appearances and workshops. It never fails to get a response from the audience, and I am very proud of the fact they allow me to touch their hearts and awaken memories of those they have lost. I am humbled when they share their experiences, when they cry and give me a quick hug, for I know this is not an experience unique to me. Grief is universal; it knows no language or recognizes any social standing.

I can't help but smile as I imagine my father, rolling his eyes as I read/post/send this little column again, in all it's mushiness and love. I am the oldest child, so God willing, I will be the first to see him when it's time. We all miss you, Dad. See you when we get there, and save me a seat at the stove.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Since my father passed away two days ago, I have had time to think about my relationship with him over the past few years. It seems my dad and I never saw eye to eye on anything. We didn't have the same politics, we didn't agree on religion, and we certainly never talked about sex, except for him to tell me that I shouldn't have any. In fact the only thing we agreed on was that we loved to laugh and tell jokes.

One thing I am sure of, however, is that he loved me, and that I loved him. He was my daddy.

I am the oldest of six. When I was little, one of the ways my dad showed my mom how much he loved her was to let her sleep late on Saturday morning. He would make breakfast. Eggs over easy, bacon and toast, with a side of hash browns with onions, I have never been able to duplicate the recipe. He could whip up french toast, sausages and pancakes with the ease and finesse of any chef, and not spill a drop, not drop a dish.

My father had a lot of different interests, many diverse talents and hobbies. But to me, the thing he did best of all was make mashed potatoes. Creamy and light, whipped high with Land 'o Lakes salted butter and whole milk, it was something we had every night with dinner, seven days a week. We never tired of it.

I realized in the plane over Chicago on the way to his funeral that was how my dad said goodbye to me, the last time I spent time alone with him. My folks live in Texas.

Living in western New York and away from everyone, I didn't start travelling until very recently, as I didn't leave my own family much, and airline tickets were too expensive. Now that I'm older and my kids are grown it has become a priority in my life to visit my siblings, who live all over this great country.

It was the last trip to Texas in September, where we all gathered to visit with each other. I was being chauffeured around to visit my brother's new house, when I thought about how my father's condition had deteriorated from when I had seen him two years earlier. He sat at the kitchen counter most of the day, watching tv, reading, or looking out the window. He sat there, alternating between his "breathing machine" (nebulizer) and smoking a cigarette. He rarely went out anymore, and was resigned to spend his days in this peaceful prison he had created for himself. Dying from emphysema, he had accepted his fate, a slave to his addiction, and was content to live out his last days in this way. He would sit there, patiently waiting, until my mother came home from work. Then she would cook dinner and they would share the rest of the evening together.

One morning, it was decided we were all going to my brother's house for dinner. As the day wore on, I started to feel a little queasy.

"Oops" they told me after a while. "Your stomach might be upset from the tap water, just drink the water out of this store bought jug. Sorry! We forgot to tell you that might happen."

In all the excitment they forgot to mention it, something about too much chlorine in the water, but by that time it was too late. I spent most of the afternoon in the lavatory and was not feeling up to par for a dinner party. My stomach was raw and all I wanted to do was lay on the couch and sip some hot tea.

I begged off. "I'll stay here with Dad" I volunteered.

"We'll watch t.v." as if this was a new activity for him. He just smiled.

After the 6:00 p.m. news was over, he looked down from his perch at the counter and said to me "Hungry, kid?"

He called everyone "kid" even his own mother when she was alive.

"How 'bout some mashed potatoes?"

"Sure" I told him. "I'll make them, you stay put."

Having made them since I was a kid and watching his technique, I could prepare them with my eyes closed.

So I took out the potato peeler and began to peel what must have been my nine millionth potato, having carried on the tradition with my own family. Potatoes every night, except when we had pasta. I was an Irish girl who had married an Italian boy, after all.

I cut them in quarters the way I always had, but he pointed out to me know they were too big.

"A little smaller" he directed from his command post.

"Measure the milk" as I began to ready the hand mixer.

"Let me cut the butter" he added, "because you never put in enough."

Before I knew it, he was up off his stool and standing right next to me at the stove, his frustration getting the best of him.

"You can beat them with the mixer as I add the milk" he instructed. So I stood there, standing at the stove like I had a hundred times before, and I waited as he poured the milk.

Standing next to me, I suddenly realized that my dad was now as short as me, having shrunk several inches over the years. He seemed to realize it too, as our eyes met in an instant, with the recognition of the loss of his stature.

"Hey shorty" he smirked, the twinkle in his eyes still sharp, "go sit down." So I did.

As he folded in the last chunks of butter into the pot, he absent mindedly hummed a tune that I couldn't place the name of, but remembered from my childhood.

As is the tradition, he removed the beaters from the handmixer. In our family, the cook gets the first lick of mashed potatoes off the beaters, presumably to taste and see if it needs any more salt. But we all knew it was because they tasted so good and he couldn't resist.

He handed me the other beater, and we clicked them together like wine glasses at the conclusion of a toast announced at a fancy dinner. He looked at me and said "you first."

So I did, and they were as I remembered. Delicious and potatoey with just the right mix of butter and salt. Sitting at the kitchen counter, we ate the whole pot, just me and my dad. He hummed that song every now and then. After a while, I was humming along.

I've thought about that moment alot since September, and the significance of it. The turn of events that led me to stay home with him that night. The song that I couldn't remember the name of, but recognized so quickly.

It wasn't until much later I realized the song he was humming was "Goodnight, Irene," but he always changed the name to "Eileen."

He made the mashed potatoes because he knew that I loved them, and he knew that was all he had left to give me. I am so grateful to God for giving me that brief, silly moment with him. It was a wonderful gift I will remember always.

I know that he has shared himself with my sisters and brother in ways that are special just to them. I know that he said goodbye to my mother, the love of his life for 50 years, four months and 16 days, in a way that will warm her heart and keep her going.

But I will be forever thankful that I had that night in the kitchen with my dad, eating mashed potatoes out of a pot and humming "Goodnight, Eileen"

Goodnight, Daddy. Rest in peace.

LOVE HANKIES

2011-06-04T12:00:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid, I was afflicted with annoying hayfever. I would suffer beginning from the first thaw of spring to the first frost of autumn. My eyes would be itchy and red, and under my eyes would swell to almost double the size. My throat would get hoarse and I wouldn't be able to talk sometimes, and I was a heartbeat away from developing the asthma that kicks in when I am run down.

The only over the counter medication of the day was Allerest, and my mother bought it in 100 tab jars. I can still see in my mind's eye the tall jar of blue pills sitting in the medicine cabinet, next to the Alka Seltzer and Head & Shoulders shampoo. Although they dried out my saliva glands (causing other problems such as dental and bowel) it did the trick. It usually lasted about 4 hours, evidence of its effectiveness wearing off shortly before the fourth hour. An alarm clock was set so that I would wake up at 5:30 a.m. to take the first pill, and I was given a baggie with 2 more to take to school with me.

Although the clock was set for 5:30 a.m., it really wasn't needed. My father was already up, having awakened at 5:00 a.m. to get ready for work. He would get up and cook the two softboiled eggs and toast, the same breakfast he ate every day, til the day he died at 72 years old. He put on his suit and always made sure he had a white hankerchief in his back pocket - and an extra one for me. White and folded in fours, it was part of his outfit every day.

"Here kid, take this" he'd say and I grab it as I rushed to the bathroom to blow my nose. Boxes of tissues were worthless and toilet paper was a waste of money; I went through them both way too fast. A cloth hanky was what I needed.

I had always wished that I had dainty, girly type hankies, and certainly not a man's hankerchief.

One of my chores when I was a preteen was to iron those damn hankerchiefs. Bingo Mary would supervise.

"You missed a spot" she'd point out, if I didn't iron straight to the corner of the cloth. That was me - always taking the shortest route.

"Whats the difference?" I'd argue, "I'm only going to sneeze into it! Then I'm going to stuff it like this", and I'd pick one up and stuff it into my size A bra. I didn't develop womanly curves until I was much, much older. I stood there with one mutant breast pushing out under my sweat shirt.

She'd just look at my mother, who would be choking on her Pepsi by this point. Bingo Mary would just shake her head and go over to the sink to fill up the teakettle with water.

"Heaven help her, Patsy", she's announce with a touch of a grin, Irish broque intact. "She's a loony one, she is."

I never did get those dainty girly type hankies. I carried those thick white cotton hankerchiefs everywhere with me. It never occurred to me to just go out and buy my own. By that time, they had become part of my outfit too, just like they had become my Dad's. When he died, I snuck one from his bureau draw. If I put my nose into it, I can still smell his aftershave. I've never washed it.

Nowadays, I get immunolgy shots. Having been tested for various allegens and food allergies, the infamous hayfever was on the top of the list. I make sure I dust and try to be proactive as far as food choices and other things that can set me off.

Every now and then, however, the sky will be clear and blue, and the summer breezes will blow just right, spreading the particles my way.

"Here, babe, take this" he'd say, and my beloved will hand me his hanky. Not a white cotton one like my dads, though, but a bandana. He has a drawer full of them for he, too, is prone to sneezing and wheezing.

I smile as I honk into the soft cloth and wipe my slowly reddening nose and watery eyes. The tears aren't from the allergies, but from the act itself. The gesture reminds me of the gentle smile of my father and the devotion to the routine, as was his nature. Every day, he puts on his work clothes for work, and sticks a bandana in his back pocket.

Folded in fours and part of his outfit.

Unironed.

riter

The Eyes of Lazarus

2011-05-30T20:58:00.000-04:00

The shortest sentence in the bible comes from verse John 11:35: “Jesus wept.”

It was in response to standing at the tomb of his dear friend upon arriving at Bethany, the home of Martha & Mary.

Lazarus had already been laid to rest for four days when Jesus proclaimed "Lazarus, come out!" The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face.

Jesus said to them, "Take off the grave clothes and let him go."

Nothing else is ever written about Lazarus. There are no accounts of any good deeds he may have done; we don’t even know if he went on to live a Christian life. No notes about any farewell party or blessing for a safe journey. One would hope he was eternally grateful and was mindful of the gift bestowed upon him – to be given a second chance in a world already wrought with violence and oppression. Perhaps it was his task to encourage belief among so much sorrow, to be living proof of the walking miracle he had become.

I’ve always wondered about how Lazarus felt about all that and if he felt the tremendous pressure, of the expectation to be perfect, as he is the only man ever brought back from the dead. Is it any wonder he disappeared and was never heard from again? There is also no record of when he died, and how old he was. Why didn’t he share any of his experiences with any of us? Did he marry? Have children? Did he become the model of the priest hood – to be chaste and unobtrusive, merely touching the lives of others and to teach them of the one who loves all?

Perhaps it is because we all have our own experiences unique to us alone. No one can really walk in our shoes.

The shortest sentence in the bible is indeed, “Jesus wept” but perhaps the most powerful. He wept for his friend, Lazarus, but he also cried for his friends Martha and Mary. To be able to do fix their pain, to bring back the one they loved so deeply as a testament to the power of God, is perhaps the greatest do over in the history of the world.

Although Jesus would bring back to life the 12-year old daughter of a leading citizen of Capharnaum (Matthew 9:24) and a widow’s son (Luke 7:12-16), Lazarus had been entombed and thought dead forever. The children were thought merely to be sleeping. Is this a metaphor to say changes can be made in our lives while we are young, or the fact that it is never too late, no matter how old we are?

Perhaps he wept because he knew he would never see his dear friend again. He was the true parent of a child so dearly loved, knowing he would have to release him upon the world, watch him fall and try to stand again, not being able to help him.

May we cherish all that we are and what we can be. Perhaps that is God’s greatest gift to us, besides Jesus himself, shown through the new eyes of Lazarus. Every day is a new day. Rise up and go out into the world, knowing you are not the first to do so, and God willing, will get to do it again tomorrow.

Seeing and Believing

2011-05-22T11:31:00.004-04:00

Well, the Rapture came and went and I’m still here.

I knew I would be. My faith tells me that no man can determine when the end will come. [Matthew 24:36 36 “But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son,but only the Father.”]

It has been an interesting few weeks. My husband recently went under the knife and was required to stay hospitalized for two days, which meant I got to stay in a hotel every evening. We went to the Veteran’s Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah about a three hour drive from Idaho Falls. I’ve never been to Utah and wanted to check out the scenery. Plus, I wanted to view the holy land for the Mormons, somewhat akin to being in Rome and visiting the Pope.

The day before his scheduled surgery we took a walk downtown and had a great meal of steaks and fish. Our hunger satisfied, we headed towards Temple Square. We saw the Mormon Tabernacle Choir (although didn’t stay to hear them sing) and looked at the pretty flowers surrounding the entire area. Beautiful stone statutes and monuments create a very interesting tour experience, and the buildings house a variety of educational and spiritual infomericals. I thought it might alleviate some of the angst he has towards this group, but not sure it did anything. He still freaks when he sees the white shirts and black pants coming his way, so imagine his anxiety at seeing an entire city full of walking advertisements.

Don’t get me wrong: I have dear friends who are Mormons and we have always respected each other’s religious differences. But I have to admit it is a bit overwhelming to live in a place where 80% of the population is one religious denomination. We have found a church, and even though it is not Roman Catholic, it is Christian and feeds our intellect as well as our soul. I am content to watch my Mormon brothers and sisters walk to church every Sunday, bibles in hand and eager to proclaim.

While staying at the hotel, I ran into (literally) a few hundred participants in the National Association of the Blind Conference. To say these people are amazing is an understatement, and I am sure they would be offended if they heard me carry on about them out loud as much as I did inside my head.

White canes and guide dogs filled the hallways, crammed on elevators and standing outside doorways. Seeing guides called to them as to what seminar was being held that day as they helped each other find their way. It was clear who was an old pro, confidently tapping their long white tipped canes to the left and then to the right ahead of them, and those who were one step away from grabbing onto the walls as they proceeded down the corridor. I have the utmost admiration for them and not sure how brave I would be if I were in their shoes. They are courageous, but what is the alternative? To stay locked in a room, afraid to find out what the world has to offer? I would no doubt be a wall grabber for a long time, but know my curiosity would eventually win out.

“What floor do you want, Miss” asked a smiling young man, no more than 25. He waited patiently as I maneuvered to the back of the elevator, not wanting to be in anyone’s way. I gave him my floor number and watched as his fingers deftly looked for the correct button to push.

“Don’t worry” he continued, grinning wide. “Have faith. You’ll get there.”

So, with the passing of the Rapture and my ever increasing thirst for learning about different faiths and cultures, I was treated this month to that and more.

For what is faith but believing without seeing, and I was privy to view a world this week where every movement is done with faith and danger lurking around every corner. [ John 9:25 25 He replied, “Whether he is a sinner or not, I don’t know. One thing I do know. I was blind but now I see!”]

For I, too, was blind, but now I see. Faith gets us through many things, like finding the right button on an elevator.

I appreciate the lesson.

George & Bob Stories - Mommy and Rainy Day Times

2011-05-08T00:12:00.004-04:00

This is the story of George and Bob who were brothers.

One was older than the other.

But I forget which one.

George and Bob were bored.

It was a Saturday afternoon and it was raining very hard outside.

The television was off because there weren’t any good programs on, not ones they were allowed to see, anyway.

The giant grandfather clock stood against the wall of the living room, ticking and tocking and bonging every hour. It had just finished bonging two times. It was too early for dinner, even too early for snack time.

"What do you wanna do, George?" asked Bob. He was laying on the living room floor, with his arms criss crossed behind his head, elbows sticking out. His right leg was crossed over his left, forming a right angle. There were leggo forms all over the floor, having just finished building a village, which he promptly destroyed as the alien Booger Breath Beast.

George was sitting on the high back green chair in the corner of the room farthest away from his brother. He was trying to read the latest book from his favorite series, Rocketman and the Rocketeers. But he couldn’t pay attention.

"I dunno. What do you wanna do, Bob?"

Bob was about to answer when they heard footsteps coming down the stairs, breaking the silence.

Mommy, whose real name was Madeline, had a basket full of laundry in her hands and was on the way to taking them to the basement, to do yet another basket of clothes. It seemed like most of the clothes belonged to their little sister, Francine. She was always trying different outfits on and never put them away, just left them on the floor. Mommy never knew what was clean and what was dirty, so she just scooped them up like a giant crane and washed them all.

She had tried several outfits on this morning before going to a birthday party down the street. Her older brother Frank walked her down to the house, and then he went to go to Boy Scouts.

"Whew!" Said Mommy as she plopped herself down in the comfy chair near the fireplace.

"Time for a break. I wish I had time to take a nap."

George and Bob looked each other. When they were younger, Mommy was always trying to get them to take a nap. They never would. Why was Mommy talking about naps now?

"No time, though, no time." She said as she looked absently off into space.

Several minutes went by as they listened to the rain rapping against the picture window, and tinging on the tin roof over towards the kitchen.

Suddenly, Mommy looked over at the clock. It was close to three o’clock now and the minute hand wasn’t moving very fast.

In fact, it wasn’t moving at all.

Mommy stood up and announced to nobody, "Well it’s time to wind the clock again."

George looked at Bob. He had a brilliant idea.

"Mommy" George said, "why do you wind the clock?"

Mommy was looking in the desk drawer for the special key she used to wind the clock. It was usually in the top draw, but she seemed to be having trouble finding it.

"What honey?" Mommy answered. She wasn’t paying attention.

"Why do you wind the clock?" He asked her once again.

"Yeah, why do you wind the clock, Mommy?" Bob asked as well.

Mommy looked at them as if they had lost their mind. "Why? Well, if I didn't no one would know what time it is."

George looked at his brother with a big smile on his face.

"Well, wouldn't that be a way to stop time?"

Mommy stopped and stared at her two little boys with intensity. The saying out of the mouth of babes ran through her head.

"Yeah, Mommy" said Bob. "That way you would have more time to do nothing. Maybe even take a nap" he ventured.

Mommy slowly walked back over to the comfy chair and sat back down.

"You might be right, boys" she smiled.

"I can’t stop time forever. Time goes on whether we want it to or not. It’s how babies get big and flowers grow tall. How food gets grown and seasons come and go."

"But maybe I can take a nap. Just for now. You both stay in the room here with me, okay?"

And she laid her head back on the fluffy part of the chair and closed her eyes.

Pretty soon she was snoring lightly, her breathing slow and her mouth open ever so slightly.

George and Bob went and got an afghan from the bedroom and put it on Mommy’s lap and pulled it up around her chin.

They smiled at each other and then gave Mommy a kiss on a cheek.

Mommy smiled in her sleep.

Then they went and got their green army men out of the toy box and pretended she was a mountain, planting the plastic platoons on her shoulders and on her lap. They stuck soldiers in between her fingers and hid them in her hair.

It was a good day.

And that’s the story of George and Bob who were brothers.

One was older than the other.

But I forget which one.

*From "George & Bob Stories: Life Lessons From Little Brothers"

AGREED DESTINATION

2011-05-07T13:02:00.000-04:00

The young woman sat across from the not-so-young woman.

"Do you have any regrets?" she said suddenly.

They were finishing up eating their lunch and it was quiet since both had been very hungry. Not ready for conversation, it was a surprise and she nearly choked on her apple pie.

The not-so-young one put down her fork and looked off into space for a moment. The young one watched intently, trying to see if she could tell by her gestures, whether she was going to tell her the truth, what she really thought.

"No" she said finally with finality, and then shoveled another piece of crust into her mouth.

"None."

"Really?" The young one was not convinced.

"Even after all that's happened? How could you be so certain?"

The not-so-young one looked out the kitchen window and pondered the body of water before them. The waves were silent and the air was light, the water smooth and still, glassy and calm.

How to explain such realizations, such acceptance? she wondered to herself.

When will she realize sometimes the decisions are made for you and not by you?

The young one grew impatient, eating quicker and gulping her coffee. She shifted in her seat, but did not press for more information.

After a few more moments they both spied a row of ducks, slowly gliding across the water. One behind the other, they moved silently forward, all in unison and heading towards an agreed destination.

For a few moments they sat frozen as they watched the ducks take turns in leading, one moving ahead of the other, another one falling behind to let the new leader in.

Before long another duck decided to forge ahead, and they were quick to fill in the gaps left by their decision.

"My life has been like the rhythm of those ducks," the not-so-young said to the young one.

"Sometimes I have been the leader of my life, sometimes I have fallen to the back and let life lead me.

Sometimes I would glide beside another's life, and sometimes I would just let life carry me, not caring where it led. Every thing that has happened, was supposed to happen."

The young one looked out towards the ducks, almost out of their view now, able to see the final flit of their tails before they blended in with the horizon.

"You're goofy" the young one said with a smile.

Winking, the not-so-young one lifted up the last forkful of pie.

"Yeah, but it works for me" and she stood up to signal lunch was over. She wondered when she would get it.

"Come again soon and don't forget the bread."

"For what?" The young one said as she walked towards the door.

"You have to feed your ducks" the not-so-young one answered, finally smiling for real.

"You have to feed your ducks."

Feed your ducks. Feed your life. Live.

*From Rhythm & Rhymes Of the Heart

May Day and Conquering Idaho

2011-05-01T11:32:00.000-04:00

I’m feeling so many different emotions this May Day of 2011.

After spending a dreary and lonely winter in Idaho, I have returned to my home state of New York to visit my children, open the lake house, say hello to those I love and miss, and bury a friend who died way too soon. Seeing old friends and family who loved her as much as I did brought home the fact that we have all grown old together. The lines on our faces, and the grey in our hair does not lie. It is hard to believe that nearly 20 years has passed in the blink of an eye. It has been perhaps the most enigmatic 12 months I have ever experienced.

This will also be my first Mother’s Day without my Mom, and I know my siblings will feel the loss as much as I do. Although we are all in different states of location, we are one state of hearts. She will be missed. With both our parents gone, we are the generation to lead.

My children now have children of their own, and their friends are all the age I was when I first moved to the neighborhood where some still reside. It is a testament of the staying power of friendship and devotion, for they have all vowed to stay in touch and grow old together as well. It was thrilling to see some of them on this visit, to hear their voices and to see their faces as they looked upon mine. I was everyone’s mother for a time, and now they are their own.

Soon it will be time to return to Idaho, to my life among the high desert and the open space. I know I need to give her another chance. I moved there in the bleakest of winter on record, with the darkest of days surrounding me. I know now that I have to see past the clouds and look for the sunlight, because it lies in Idaho as well as anywhere else I have called home. I will let myself embrace the kindness of hearts, look for the smiling faces and the welcoming arms of friendship, for I know that is evident everywhere. You only have to look outside your own heart to see it.

So back I will go, to the land of potatoes, pioneers and the eyelash phenomenon. I will come back to New York from time to time, but it is no longer home. I belong now to the snow covered mountains, the head strong winds and the brightness of the stars. I will make my mark there, and leave a piece of me when I leave.

I will conquer Idaho. It will not conquer me.

BAND OF BABIES

2011-04-27T17:29:00.000-04:00

When my kids were little, there wasn’t a lot of money for things other than necessities. Every now and then there would be a dollar or two left over which I could use to buy something really cheap, like a jump rope or jax with a small rubber ball.

We were broke, but happy. They never knew anything was different.

After the first baby, they seemed to come in succession, one being born right after the other. It seems as if I had just laid one down on the floor to roll around with the others, when another one took its place in my arms.

Being born so close together, it gave them a camaraderie which is still evident today. They have so many memories of their childhood, as do I, and holiday times are a special time to rejoice and remember when things were different and some times simpler.

I spent most of my time in the kitchen, whether it be doing dishes (no dishwasher), doing laundry (no dryer) or tending to little ones. Since there were more babies than I had arms, they inevitably ended up on the floor.

One of their favorite toys to play with were the pots and pans under the sink. A long wooden spoon and a few plastic measuring cups created a symphony that only a mother could love or appreciate. Misshapen and mismatched pot covers and plastic Tupperware strewn all over the kitchen, I wish I had taken a picture. My memory will have to do.

I can still see them in my minds eye, toothless grins and open mouthed like birdies waiting for dinner. The delight when they all ended up playing in rhythm, a brigade band of babies marching no where, their joy was palpable.

At this point in my life I am able to afford pretty much whatever I want, and I am looking forward to purchasing a new set of pots, complete with matching utensils and lids.

I am thinking of laying them all out on the floor, just one more time. The grandkids are coming over.

The Good Friday Bet

2011-04-22T09:12:00.001-04:00

Every Easter season my children and I have this little ritual. It's called the Good Friday Bet, and it is simply this.

I bet them $10 that on every Good Friday, at 3:00 pm, it will rain.

The first time I bet them, the youngest three were third, fourth and fifth graders in Catholic School. It was something unique and different, a minor change in the routine, a new game to play. Their teachers got a kick out of it, and all eyes were on the sky when the time arrived.

Usually, I would lose.

I probably owe them about $10,000 each by now. It was something they always forgot about until I would bring it up again, as soon as Lent started.

After a while they'd roll their eyes and say Okay mom, I'm in knowing they never had to pay, because the few times I did win, they offhandedly would remark "I'll owe ya", as in the many time I "owed" them.
The entrance of high school brought a new dimension to the picture, for they were rebelling against more than just me and my beliefs. Growing pains and questions galore, we didn't bet on Good Friday for several years.
Until one of my children when off to war.

"I thought of you and the Good Friday Bet" he wrote me shortly after that Easter.

"I guess I owe you some money. Because it did rain here."

And thats what I wanted to impress on them all those years. All the times when I would grin and say Yup, you won again, I owe ya.

I'd hope that they would one day get it.

It always rains on Good Friday at 3:00 pm somewhere.

Just as every Easter Sunday he rose again.

Keep the money, son. I'll owe ya.

May you all have a happy and Blessed Easter. Keep your eyes on the sky today. It's blue and clear, the promise of a wonderful day ahead.

Definite Maybes

2011-04-20T08:30:00.000-04:00

I am in the rejection business.

I always have been.

But I was prepared. Never allowed by my father to utter the words “I can’t” any disappointment was met with skepticism and distain with the “reminder to get out there and try again.” It would become part of my character and molded my outlook on life.

NEVER take “no” for an answer.

When I was young and wanted to be an actress, I would attend casting calls, hoping to get the coveted ‘call back’ to read again. Never a leading lady, I was typically asked to read the part as the quirky friend, the girl next door, or some other non-descript character.

But most of the time, I was rejected.

It helped me to develop a tough outer layer, as well as a protective secondary skin. There wasn’t anything you could say to me that would make me burst into tears, and I began to think that maybe my tear ducts had dried up all together.

So traveling into other career venues was not that worrisome at all. I’ve written tongue in cheek as to the variety of positions I’ve held in the past, some eliminated due to down sizing, some because I moved on. There were a few non-consequential in between jobs that had us parting ways, the total rejection of my very existence upon their property.

I’ve been semi successful at comedy, telling jokes unique to me and expressing my sense of humor. More of an experiment than a career move, I don’t know what is worse – total rejection or a ho-hum response. It’s one more thing to cross off my bucket list.

No matter. As the years flew by, I kept plugging along, trying on this job and that, like a pair of shoes in a gallery. Never really finding the right fit or style, I walked a few miles before they were removed, as they felt too tight, pinched my toes or made me too tall for my own internal balance.

Luckily for me, I tripped into writing. Admittedly, I am still sharpening my heels as well as the pencils.

In the beginning I wrote all the time, in journals, in diaries, on napkins and scraps of paper found in the bottom of my purse. My life was an open book to anyone who cared to read the words I so readily shared. I told story after story, I jotted poems and threw them against the wall to see what would stick. My books sell, but not yet to the extent of ending up on a bestseller list. I try not to think of them as rejections because I’m not finished, not yet having kicked off the heels.

My life has been a succession of the definite maybe, a cornucopia of we’ll see and try again later. I often wonder if this is how my demise will play out. The Angel of Death will hover beside me and I will be ready with a snarky response to the ultimate rejection of this life into the next.

I will continue to search for the perfect shoe, to try on the ones that won’t chafe and remind me never to waste the time I have left. I guess I wouldn’t recognize success any other way.

THE EASTER TABLECLOTH

2011-04-17T07:46:00.000-04:00

I have a faded pink and white tablecloth used only on Easter Sunday, and has seen its share of holidays over the years. I bought it new when I was newly wed and thought to myself “this should last a few years….”

Ground in Easter bread crumbs, tomato sauce and red wine with dinner have graced it, as well as coffee rings and chocolate bunnies. It has survived food fights (not the good kind) and little fingers smashing hidden peas under plates.

Yet it amazes me every time I take it from the linen closet, there are no tell tale remnants of such stains, and even the largest of marks have faded away over time. There are few pieces of torn fabric only I can see, which would have no consequence to anyone else if they did notice it.

It was the Easter Tablecloth, and every thing was right with the world. To my eyes, it was as clean as the cloth on the altar at church we attended those mornings when things were still black and white, Priests were sinless and families were intact. It was reborn every year.

We never seem to celebrate a holiday on its actual date in my family, and Easter some years was no different. The fact it sometimes came early made it especially tenuous for making travel plans, with snow still on the ground and icy window panes framing vibrant Easter flowers on the table. Easter in March is like eating ice cream in a blizzard; it just seems to blend in.

Our dinner was on Saturday one year as traveling and work schedules made it so. We all met at my house on the lake, my children, their children and me. Our thoughts were with my beloved, who was working out of town. He was missed.
Luckily, he will be with us this year, driving in from Ohio in the morning.

Sometimes friends will come out, as well as girlfriends or boyfriends to “meet the mother.” Its a time of excitement and curiosity and catching up. Snuggling up with the grand kids, and documenting the first new steps of the newest baby, its a cozy if somewhat snug afternoon of cooking and drinking and laughing in the kitchen.

Everyone's life has changed, and over the years I tried to make the holidays as familiar as I could, with the same traditions and routines which tied them to their old life, while accommodating someone else who stood beside me. Things began to seem like they were in ‘the old days’, but not quite.

Calling everyone to dinner, it was time to gather in the big room, with different furniture and different seating arrangements than that of their childhood. The only thing familiar was the pink and white table cloth on the dining room table.

“This is our Easter Tablecloth” my daughter said to the one who makes her eyes shine and her smile as wide as her face will allow. “We’ve had it forever and it still looks like new. Its as if it is reborn every year.”

Yes, I thought to my self. There are no tell tale remnants of such stains, and even the largest of marks have faded away over time.

Every Easter Sunday, we are forgiven; we are reborn.

It was the Easter Tablecloth, and every thing was right with the world.

Even on a Saturday in March.

Just Landed

2011-03-22T10:34:00.000-04:00

Just landed is a phrase I usually text to those who need to know I have arrived at my destination safely, whether it was by airplane, train or driving myself.

Little did I know that it would become a metaphor for my life and the title of my next book.

Consider this.

The first night I arrived home I slept like a rock. When I woke up the next day, the sun was shining brightly and the birds were singing. Loudly.

I looked out the bedroom window and was astonished to see that the white picket fence normally surrounding the front of our house was gone! Vanished! I could see the holes where the posts had been stuck in the ground, but the yard was wide open, expansive and inviting.

How could someone steal an entire picket fence? I thought to myself, and how could I not have heard them do it?

I went back to sleep, incredulous at these turn of events.

When I awoke again, I rushed to the window once more to see if the fence was still missing.

Of course, it was there.

It was never gone.

I sat on the edge of the bed and thought about it for a very long time.

I realized that I had experienced a dream, a very VIVID dream. It was so real to me, I was shaken for most of the day every time I thought about it.

Then realized what a gift it was.

You don't have to be Freud to figure this one out.

May It Be Your Best Year Yet

2010-12-31T23:45:00.000-05:00

I am standing at my kitchen counter as I write this, since there is no furniture in this new house we have bought in anticipation of a new life and new adventure. It is New Years Eve and we already know we won't make it to the midnight hour to wish each other a Happy New Year.

We don't have to; we know it will be. We survived the trip, and we have survived each other.

There is no bed; we sleep on a mattress on the floor.

There is no kitchen table; we sit on lawn chairs in an equally empty living room, paper plates balanced on our laps as we toast to each other to making new memories.

Those things will come soon enough, the table, the tv sets, the couches and the lamps. But for now, we have each other; and thats all we really need.

A new era has begun. The Stories From the Lake are now fond memories until we return to begin new ones.

Our little trek across America has given seed to many thoughts and stories, many of which are already beginning to blossom.

I wish you all the best in the coming year, and to welcome every dissapointment and failure with an open heart, not with sadness or bitterness. It fills in the spaces of who you are and molds you into what you can be. Never turn down a chance to do or be something else.

Happy New Year. May it be your best one yet.

Christmas In Cottonwood

2010-12-24T22:18:00.000-05:00

Christmas will forever be a magical time of year, even for the most cynical of those among us. No matter what your religious affiliation may be, the idea of gift giving and receiving will fill our every waking moment with finding the perfect gift and hoping to receive everything you've asked for.

We all experience Christmas in different ways, depending on our age and our circumstances in life. We choose to remember the better parts of the holiday, rather than the years we might have struggled. A child who has grown up wanting for nothing will remember a much different holiday than those who are pinching pennies and watching every dime. Those who do struggle seem to make the holiday as meaningful as they can, anyway. A child remembers the happiness surrounding the day and the love they feel when the moment of seeing what is under the greets them on that long awaited morning.

I have been on both sides of the experience, as both a child and as an adult. I was the oldest of six who wanted for nothing, even though our parents couldn't afford to pay the electric bill. There were evenings where we sat by candlelight, my siblings and I, as my mother dished out dinner on our best dishes, explaining "the light will be on in the morning" as she our rationed off our share of roast beef and mashed potatoes. Years later I would do the same for my children, explaining the heat was turned down low because "the gas man had not come yet" as I tried to make the newest payment on the credit card so I could charge their Christmas gifts. My childhood Christmases were wonderful, and so were my children's. "That was the best Christmas, ever!" they would exclaim year after year, as I did when I would remember my own.

Christmas became a time of renewal and reconnection as I grew older and my children moved away. My life changed as well, divorcing and creating new experiences for myself, rearranging the traditions and trying to make them fit into our new lives. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't. Sometimes it failed miserably. But they were all memorable and worth saving, the good and the bad. Religion sprinkled in with traditions and rituals created the Christmas's we cherished and held close to our hearts.

This is the first Christmas where I am not with any of my children; they are all adults with their own traditions and expectations. My husband has gotten a job across the country, away from them and everything we have ever known. Although is it the beginning of a new and exciting life for us, it is a different Christmas than we have ever known.

Packing up the small RV we had purchased to make the trek out west, our trip was cut short when we were stranded in the midwest due to snow storms. We decided to wait it out in a small park, surrounded by trees and Christmas lights provided by the park owners. Together with the three dogs and the cat who made the trip with us, we walked quietly among the snow and the canopy of evergreens that surrounded us, muffling any sounds of neighbors who cars on the highway to the north. We were alone is our own winter wonderland, and we spent Christmas eve amongst the quiet of the bible, with God and songs played on our laptops.

It was the best Christmas ever, and I hope that my children will someday get to experience the peace and joy of the Christmas season, the way it was truly meant to be experienced.

WAITING BY THE WINDOW - A CHRISTMAS STORY FROM THE LAKE

2010-12-01T17:53:00.000-05:00

The two brothers sat side by side, watching the snowflakes as they fell in big clumps, piling up on the ground right in front of them. The big bay window seemed like a wide screen t.v. as they sat for hours on end watching the day unfold. They loved to watch the cars go by every morning as Mommy and Daddy went about their day.

But today was Saturday and everyone was home, scurrying every which way to get things done. It was Christmas Eve and the boys knew that soon the ‘good smells’ would be filling the kitchen of the little house where they lived.

Daddy lugged the tree up from the basement earlier in the week, struggling and laughing as he stood the cardboard box in the corner of the living room. Surveying the remnants of box, they recognized the greenery and stray tinsel leftover from Christmas Eve’s past. Standing proudly in the same corner where it always stood, the brothers loved to watch the twinkling lights and shiny ornaments sparkle during the evening hours. They would lay on their backs on either end of the comfy couch, silent and content as Mommy hung the last of the candy canes, listening to the Christmas music playing softly on the radio.

Do you think we can sneak one? The older brother winked to the younger.

Do we dare? The young one whispered excitedly and they brushed against the tree gently to make one of them fall silently to the ground. Munching it quickly, they shared the sweet even though they knew it would never be missed, as there were many, many more throughout the tree.

Coming up from the basement with the last of the decoration boxes coupled in his arms, their father smiled to himself as he watched them lick their lips to get the last of the peppermint chips.

His face fell slightly as he spied the little box within a box, hidden knowingly so as not to remind them. The box that had once held an ornament he and his wife had purchased together, one of the few gifts they had gotten for each other for their first Christmas together. It was plain, a sparkly snowman that had hung from their tree for many years.

Suddenly it was gone, and they never knew what had happened to it. They looked everywhere, under the couch, underneath the chair cushions, and even outside near the car. They surmised it must have fallen from the Christmas tree during the hustle and bustle of opening presents, mistakenly thrown out among the wrapping paper. It was a sad reminder for several years that sometimes, bad things just happen.

“Better not let your mother see you do that” he whispered, and they nodded in agreement. Besides, it was time to get back to the window. They had an important job to do and didn’t want to mess it up.

I wonder what he’ll bring us? The younger one said to the older.

Who? He answered with mock innocence, knowing full well “who” his brother was talking about. He loved to tease him because it was so easy.

Who? His brother screamed, and then calmed himself. He didn’t want Mommy to know they were getting excited. They didn’t want to have to leave the window and not witness his arrival.

Who? He whispered now, almost to himself. You know who!

Yes, I know, I know! older brother answered, the enthusiasm of the younger contagious.

I can’t wait for Mommy and Daddy to see what we got them! he said suddenly, and his brother nodded excitedly in agreement.

They sat there all day, in front of the big bay window, and watched with hearts pounding, their eyes darting from corner to corner as the snow continued to come down, coating the cars and the tops of hats worn by those who passed by.

They were becoming sleepy, the afternoon sun fading and the room becoming dim, until the lights of the tree shone brighter and brighter. Their eyelids were getting heavy and long, dry yawns began to escape from their mouths. Try as they might, they were no longer able to keep their heads up, and laid on the carpeted floor in front of the window.

It will be ok, the older said to the younger as they snuggled up together, the warmth of each other’s bodies calming their quickly beating hearts.

Let’s just stay here until we hear him…the younger said as he drifted off to sleep.

Yeah, until we hear him…and soon they both were snoring lightly, a slow and rhythmic breathing that comes from the sleep of knowing you are loved.

Mommy and Daddy stood together, their arms wrapped around each other, smiling at the two brothers who lay contently on the floor.

“I wonder what dogs dream of?” Mommy said sweetly, kissing the side of Daddy’s cheek.

“I hope they dream of Santa Claus, just like everyone else” he said simply and kissed her back.

“Merry Christmas, boys” they whispered, and walked towards the staircase and upstairs to their bed.

They left the two sleeping dogs in front of the big bay window, who dreamt the dream of children, of wrapping paper, presents and St. Nicholas.

They slept close together, both of their furry paws protecting their gift for Mommy and Daddy, a gift of love and adoration for those they cherished.

A plain, white snowman ornament they had found in the dirt and hidden behind a lilac bush, just the day before.

Merry Christmas!

Thanksgiving, Shop Girls and Eyeliner

2010-11-23T11:10:00.003-05:00

One of the biggest surprises to me this year was that I ended up working in retail.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

But typically, I don't enjoy waiting on people; I would rather they wait on me. Its part of the reason I didn't become a nurse. Selfish, I know. But I recognize it for what it is.

Even more surprising to me was that I would come to love the job in retail.

First off, the store is owned by one of my dearest friends, who is not your typical store owner. Jim and Carla Froehler own People's Pottery in Pittsford, NY (Google it) and they are one of the reasons I have not lost my mind since I couldn't find a full time job since the wunderkind said he created 10,000 jobs.

Carla has made "customer service" a cross between an art form and a religious experience. She truly cares about who walks into her establishment, and wants us to care as well. Leading by example, its ok if we spend two minutes or twenty minutes with a customer - all depending on what they want and need.

The store is a fine gifts gallery and jewelry store - but there is something for any budget if you are looking for quality merchandise. The door is left open (sometimes to our chagrin) if there is a customer still shopping inside and we are not allowed to tell people we are closed. Its a brilliant marketing strategy and we have wrung up major sales due to last minute shoppers.

The girls I work with are a mix of experienced retailers themselves. Some of them are older and retired from full time jobs, while others use it as a second income. Very few work full time. It's a chance to dress up and wear nice clothes, jewelry and have our hair done. We are more social than anything, and the happy relaxed atmosphere is contagious. It's hard work, but we flourish.

There's also a few younger ones, of which I suspect she hires to keep US young. Being on your feet for 6-7 hours a day can wear you out, and if you're not wearing the proper footwear, its torture. Having someone standing next to you barely breaking a sweat is invigorating.

These "Shop Girls," as I affectionately refer to them, have become close friends that I know I will continue to correspond with once I leave here and move on. The Saturday after Black Friday is my last day, and we are already getting melancholic in our approach to each other.

I can't believe how quickly we bonded. Its yet another reason to be thankful this Thanksgiving. For good friends old and new, and the opportunity to make even more.

I also went to St. Louis to meet a new friend of my sister in law, who quickly and adeptly made me up in the makeup she was selling. She is a big proponent of not wearing eyeliner, the staple and mainstay of my cosmetic existence.

Really? No eyeliner?

"We are too old" she advised - "it makes our eyes look smaller and squinty, and we need them to look young and open."

I looked in the mirror after she had done her magic, and I did indeed look younger without the eyeliner. I always imagined myself to look like Cissy Spacek with those freckles and eyes that had no definition. She can pull it off, but I never thought I could.

"Pace yourself" she offered again. "Its like withdrawal from drugs. You can't do it cold turkey, you'll end up hating the results."

I looked in the mirror again and thought about all those years I practiced putting on black eyeliner every morning from the first instance when I was allowed to wear it at 16 years old. Can you believe how quaint that sounds now?

Teased hair up to the sky, blue eye shadow and black eyeliner were the uniform of my teenage years, and I swooped out the corners with a flourish. My mother always commented, even though I knew she liked it.

"You look like Elvira" she smirked.

I didn't care. I felt pretty.

Years past and I did begin to tone it down a bit. Black went to gray and then brown, or sometimes not at all when babies were calling. Sleep took the place of a full face of makeup, and eyeliner was usually the only thing I had time for. My daughter always laughed and said I put on lipstick to go get the mail, and its true.

Soon I will have to go get ready for work, as this is the last week at the store. It's Tuesday and I have one more day to work until the Thanksgiving holiday. I will be working the Black Friday shift and then it will be goodbye shortly after. I can feel my heart hitch as I write this.

I don't if I can't give up the eyeliner just yet, even though its the right thing to do.

But I'm thankful for the gift of good friends, makeup and a house full on Thanksgiving Day.

May you always appreciate what you have, and never miss what you really don't need.

Traveling With the Liminals

2010-11-18T07:41:00.000-05:00

I woke up early this morning, 5am to be exact. I haven’t done that in quite a while. My stomach is growling, but not yet a desperate roar to fill it with cereal or soft-boiled eggs.

Wrapping my bathrobe around me to guard against the chill of the morning, I let the dogs out the front door to take care of their business. When back in the house, they returned to the big bed, warm and comfy from the night’s sleep. Even they weren’t ready to get up yet. Feeding time for them wasn’t until 7:30 and they were content to wait until the sun was shining through the bedroom windows, the signal to get me up and out of bed, and start nosing around for breakfast. Within two minutes of laying their heads back down on my still warm bed pillows they were snoring like old men who had left their teeth on the dresser.

As I listen to the coffee maker spitting out the last of my morning elixir into the pot, I’m amazed at how wide awake and alert I am. Could this be yet another example of what menopause had wrought? Or was something else happening? I decided I probably should eat something, as it was going to be a busy couple of hours before I head off to work. Next week is my last week there, and I laugh to myself as I have developed yet another skill to add to my repertoire of jobs I never thought I’d have. It has been fun there, a nice diversion after the loss of my mother and a jolt to my marriage. I feel guilty that I am leaving right before the Christmas rush, but at least I will be there for Black Friday.

The house is quiet, but the lake is softly rolling, waves hitting the shore louder than usual. There are no whitecaps, but it is definitely awake. It sets the tone for how the day will be, I think. There’s a lot to do in a short period of time and most of it can’t be done until the last minute. I’m still trying to decide what I need to take with me to the new house and what I can leave here. I know that I will be returning; the question is when?

I’ve decided to ship the majority of my clothes to our new residence, as the RV will not hold much more besides the three dogs and us. The vehicle is our own covered wagon heading west; it and the house and our last big purchases for a while. I can only fit in it what I really need.

I guess that’s what has me up so early this calm morning. The age old question that has probably tweaked the hardiest of travelers.

What is it that I really need to take with me?

Most of the intangibles are easy; what I carry around with me in my heart will most certainly be easy to make the journey. Memories of my children, my grandchildren, and my friends, both old and new, are ready to set up shop in yet another kitchen. That’s the easy part. They will always be with me, no matter where I end up, sitting beside me as I drink another cup of coffee.

The physical and the obvious are more difficult to put my arms around. I will have just the memory of the lake to soothe me as I sit to write, to continue the stories that were born here and nurtured, but not really ready to show the world. I will have to make due with the sunrises and sunsets I have captured in photographs, encompassing all seasons in a single moment. Yes, I know there are sunrises where I am going and the most amazing sunsets, or so he claims.

“Wait until you see how big the sky is here” he chides me, reminding me of how overwhelmed I felt at the first viewing of the northern lights over the lake one summer, what now seems like a life time ago. It felt like the sky was pressing down on me, and for just a moment I was afraid. Sensing my discomfort, he started to name the astrological formations of the stars and tried to distract me, chit chatting about Orion and the Big Dipper.

Suddenly taking my hand he whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.” From anyone else it would have sounded condescending; but I knew he meant it.

The sun is starting to peek over the horizon, the start of “the liminal,” reminding me of what an old friend once coined the time between night and sunrise. I suspect there will be many more liminals for me to witness, even though I will not remember them like I will this one.

The day will be here soon, the dogs will be underfoot looking for their morning meal for the ritual of the day to begin. But for just a few more moments, I will sit and watch the sunrise as it moves from one phase to another, reminding me that another day has passed and a new one is beginning. I will travel with the Liminals, and they will be with me.

Another opening, another show

2010-11-17T10:12:00.000-05:00

Me & Nikki Rudd

Yesterday I had the pleasure of appearing on News10NBC to tape an interview for the Sunday morning show "Focus On Rochester."

In keeping with trying to promote my brand, I have finally learned how to speak in 'sound bites' so that pieces of what I want said can be taken as ads.

This interview was different, however. Much longer than the 2-4 minutes I am given to fill, (less than doing a comedy bit!) we spoke for about 12 minutes about me, the book and what I wanted the readers to get out of it. They even showed a photograph I took, a sunrise setting to further enhance the title of the book "Stories From the Lake."

From the opening tease promoting it as a great Christmas gift, to the understanding this is a book for anyone at any age, and at any stage in their life, I thoroughly enjoyed myself this time.

I just wish my hair looked better.

I Wrote This

2010-11-13T21:41:00.005-05:00

Nothing beats the thrill of holding in your hands for the very first time a copy of your first published book. To see your name on the cover, to smell the ink on paper, and feel the binding across the spine, are feelings akin to giving birth. You labored and fretted over what you put to paper; nurturing it and feeding it regularly making sure that it looked and felt just the way you wanted it so when it was time for you to show it to the world, you hoped you had done a good job.

“Look at that” you can preen proudly. “I wrote this book.” And then you hope they think you are wonderful and that they will buy it.

Of course, that’s only the beginning of the story.

You may have written the thing; now you have to sell it.

Authors like me are small time and know it. I don’t have the financial backing of a Simon & Shuster or receive an advance on the sale of my manuscript to Penguin. I don’t have the drawing power of Stephen King, or even Larry King, for that matter. But I know who my audience is, and it is them for whom I write. I find them at the local bookstores, the markets and the little shops along the roadways, in little towns and hamlets tucked away from the rest of the world. They are you and your friends, your siblings, your grandkids and your parents. Your worst enemy and your co worker – they read my books and I recognize them all the time.

They are part of my America.

I am a brand, and every day brings new challenges to learn new ways to promote myself, as well as my books. Television, print and radio interviews certainly help, but it is the face-to-face contact with people who read my books that will eventually help me build what I want my brand to look like. Whether it be the face of a grandmother or a toddler, the eyes into which I look when I say “thanks for buying my book” are part of why I write what I write. They are people just like me and who relate to what I have written.

The bigger chains like Barnes & Noble, Borders and online giants like Amazon, are all good ways to promote my books, of course. But that is a whole other animal, and I recognized long ago for it for what it is. They are a business, and need to make a profit if they “book” me, no pun intended. The larger chains that have held books signings for me in the past are wary and will only purchase 20 copies at a time, with the hope that I will sell 10. Fortunately, I have always sold all the copies.

But there’s something about the small bookstores of my America that draws me back to them, again and again. The mom and pop operations, long thought to be dead and gone, are still there. They thrive along the roads of many small towns, where people like to read and share what they feel about issues. They look for similarities in their own lives and perhaps, what they can learn from another’s.

They all have their own personalities, but the variables are all the same. Small, with storefronts boasting the newest author of the week, and what is on sale. When you enter the store, the rooms are somewhat choppy and misshapen, with a new hallway added as if an afterthought to take you down to still another hallway, another direction. Many of them smell like bookstores, and most of them have books stacked from ceiling to floor. The bathrooms are always hidden behind a screen or stacks of books. One room with a toilet, a door, a sink and toilet tissues stacked above a cabinet over the sink. They are old, but they are always clean. Always.

Further into the store, there are always comfortable overstuffed, high back chairs, the smell of coffee permeating the room. Nearby end tables and coffee tables hold real ceramic coffee cups and remnant coffee rings may have stained them. The reader has been there awhile and has enjoyed what he or she is reading, even letting their coffee grow cold.

I had a book signing today in family owned bookstore, and I realized that I would miss this place as well as the owner. She reminded me of what its like to own a bookstore and why they do. They are not in it for the money – it is for the love of books, story telling, reading, and the people who enter there.

I will be traveling out west with my husband soon, loading up an RV and making our way across America. I hope to write about our journey and the people we meet along the way. I hope we have time to stop in some local bookstores, shake the hand of the owner and offer my books for sale. Maybe someday I can return to see them again.

But even I never see them, I will have done what I have set out to do. I hope that I have touched them with my words, and shared what was dear to me.

Although my move west is tinged with sadness, I am excited to be traveling across this great country to see who’s out there. I hope to sell them a book, just by smiling and saying “See this book? I wrote this.”

Hope to see you soon!

Mona Finds True Love

2010-11-03T09:47:00.004-04:00

I recently returned from Chicago where I spent time with my sister-in-law and her significant other, which in itself is significant.

They were high school sweethearts who broke up in college, but never lost their love for each other, even though they went on to marry other people. All these years later, after children, divorce and rethinking, they have found each other again and are slowly filling in the blanks. Their lives would have been so different had they remained together during those years, and it is only now that they are realizing what a true act of God their pairing has become.

Several years ago I wrote about a woman I named “Mona” and how distraught she became after seeing a lone, caged sheep secured atop a truck going off to the slaughter house one winter afternoon. It became a metaphor for her life, and although it took a while for her to understand that Mona herself was the lonely sheep, she took the steps to finally break free of her own cage.

With the help of her own beloved and those who loved her, she is on her way to becoming the person she was always supposed to have been. As you might have guessed, my dear sister-in-law is Mona.

Believe me, there’s a book here. But it would be premature to write about their adventures, since it’s not really finished yet.

But it will be one helluva story.

http://eileenloveman.blogspot.com/2008/09/its-not-about-sheep.html

http://eileenloveman.blogspot.com/2009/02/mona-saves-sheep-herself.html

GEORGE & BOB STORIES - HALLOWEEN TOWELS

2010-10-25T14:22:00.001-04:00

This is the story of George and Bob, who were brothers.

One was older than the other.

But I forget which one.

George was feeling pretty good, despite the fact he was suffering from a head cold.

"Achoo!" he sneezed as he was putting on his school sweater.

"God Bless You!" yelled his little sister Francine as she ran by his bedroom door. She stopped and ran back to peak her head inside the open archway.

"You okay George?" she knew how he must be feeling, because she had just gotten better herself.

"Great" his voice watery and playfully threw his pillow at her.

"Ah!" she screamed and then ran back down the hallway to the stairs.

She stood at the top of the stairs, the only girl of three older brothers, and pulled into her lungs the aroma of breakfast downstairs. It smelled of french toast and bacon, her favorite. It was going to be a good day, she decided.

Mommy, whose real name was Madeline, was over at the sink doing some last minute dishes. She hummed while she placed the last dish into the drain, and dried her hands with a towel. She looked at the towel briefly and smiled. A faded cotton cloth, no more than a rag really, containing so many memories. It was obviously well worn, but the pictures of pumpkins and witches flying on broomsticks brought a smile to her face.

Her halloween towels were the signal of the beginning of the season. When decorating it was one of the first things to come out of the boxes, packed away in the attic. Mommy liked to fix the house up according to the holiday. Amongst the straw figures and scarecrows, ghostly cardboard drawings and cottony spider webs, there were the kitchen towels and pot holders. Nobody knew where they came from or how old they were. They were just always there.
And candy corn. There was always a giant glass pumpkin full of candy corn. It was the only time Mommy let them have candy (well besides Easter and Christmas) and it was something her brood looked forward to every year.

"Achoo!" she heard from behind. She turned around to face her son, nose red from sneezing and blowing, but a smile on his face just the same. He too had seen the halloween towels and was getting excited for the big night.

"Can't wait to go trick or treating!" He announced happily. "But what should I be this year? What costume should I get?"

"Why don't you go as a clown, your nose looks like it" offered Bob who had just come from outside. It was his turn to take out the trash for trash day and he had thrown his heavy coat over his p.j.'s.

"Very funny!" George stuck his tongue out at his brother. He knew he was kidding, but he didn't like his brother making fun of how he looked. It was beginning to bother him that his nose DID look like a clown's. When was this cold going away?

"That's enough." Mommy told them to sit down and for Bob to get dressed.

Bob ran up the stairs but not before grabbing his own nose and yelling honk! honk!, then laughing maniacally.

Francine just shook her head and Mommy laughed. George didn't.

The three of them sat down and silently ate their french toast and bacon, lost in their own thoughts. Bob finally came down stairs and entered the room. Mommy began to laugh and Francine stifled a giggle. George had his back to the doorway and couldn't see his brother right away. He was getting ready to turn around when Mommy blurted out Bob! My lipstick! and then they all laughed.

Bob had covered his entire nose in red lipstick. George looked at him for a moment, then turned his head away, trying to hide his grin. His brother DID look funny, but wasn't going to let him know it.

"Wipe your nose Bob" Mommy said, and handed him one of the raggedy halloween towels.

Everyone was still laughing and finally George could hold in his guffaws no longer and let one
out himself.

Bob was just about to wipe his nose when he felt a giant sneeze coming on. ACHOO! he said and buried his face into the cloth, wiping the red lipstick all over his face.

"You can go as Lulu the Clown!" laughed George, feeling somewhat better that he had given his brother his cold. He was done with it anyway.

"Oh yeah? Well then we can be sisters!" and Bob jumped up to run over to George, rubbing his face on his chin, spreading the lipstick further all over his face and George's. They finally tumbled to the ground, laughing and coughing and rolling around.

Mommy looked at Francine, who had been fascinated with the idea that you could actually put lipstick somewhere other than your lips.

"It's gonna be a good day, isn't it Mommy?" she asked, not expecting a response.

"A good day indeed", Mommy answered and she reached into her pocket to pull out the thin tube of makeup to line her lips with lipstick. Puckering dramatically, she reached over and planted a giant kiss on her little girls cheek, leaving a red lip outline on the side of her face. Her daughter laughed and calmly stuck a buttery slice of french toast in her mouth.

The clump of wrestling boys looked up from the floor for a moment and stopped, amazed that Mommy would do that.

But Mommy was cool. If anything, she knew how to laugh. They knew that it was always cool to laugh at yourself and not take yourself too seriously.

Because even if you had a cold, it would go away eventually. Especially if you were lucky enough to have a goofy brother to share it with.

That's the story of George and Bob, who were brothers.

One was older than the other.

But I forget which one.

Good To See You

2010-10-24T08:30:00.004-04:00

What a great turn out yesterday at People's Pottery! I sold my entire stash of books yesterday in just under two hours - a new record! Thanks again to my good friends, Carla & Jim Froehler, who went above and beyond to make sure I was comfortable and for creating an inviting atmosphere in their beautiful gallery of fine gifts and jewelery. Carla was my friend before she was my employer, and I am grateful for her kindness. I do believe she is one of the most generous people I have ever met, and that generosity is evident in the hundreds of benefits she holds at her store every year. I am blessed to call her friend.

Book signings are a strange animal. You never really know how they are going to behave. You can either sell 2 books, twenty books, or none at all! Truth be known, half the time writers show up at book fairs and festivals just to be able to visit with other writers/friends. There really isn't a big expectation that your entire inventory will be depleted.

There are so many variables that factor into the success or failure of such a venture. The weather always plays a big part in whether anyone even show up; if its too cold or rainy, people stay home. If its a bright sunny day, people will stay outdoors and try to soak up some of that sunshine for as long as they can. I can't say that I blame them on that one. But if its a hot, sweltering day, they might come solely for the air conditioning and your book is just a by product.

There are so many things pulling at the reader, and sometimes sitting down to read a book doesn't even enter their mind. If they have kids, there's the inevitable running around to take them here or there. Then when they're home, there's housework to be done, laundry to fold and cooking to feed the hungry masses, because if you have children, they have friends, and everyone is always hungry.

If, by some chance, they are able to carve out a few minutes for themselves, I doubt it will be to read a book - its most likely to have their hair done or just quiet time. So it is always a wonderful surprise for me to learn they have sought my books out and look forward to reading them, even if its in the tub.

Whatever their reason for buying one of my books, I am always thankful.

While having dinner with my daughter after a long day, I was reminded again that not all my readers are women. We were sitting in a local restaurant known for its good food and homey atmosphere, while a man came to the table as I lifted up another forkful of pasta.

He was nice enough to stop by our table and tell me how much they enjoyed my book and that they were sorry I no longer worked for the paper. We laughed when he said his wife "made him" read me, even though he "didn't read that kind of stuff!" I laughed and told him how much I appreciated him telling me this and to thank his wife for buying my books for him.

As I drank my last drops of coffee, I thought of how much I was going to miss this place, this town that I had begun to think of home. I know that I really will never leave here, and will be back someday. I said a silent prayer for the man who delivered his message to me, and to give me the incentive to continue on when there were plenty of times I just wanted to give up.

I am grateful for every opportunity the good Lord has given me, and on this Sunday morning I am doubly aware of his Grace and the fact I got to wake up yet another day to do it all again.

When ever it happens to be, it will be good to see you.

The Airplane Always Points East

2010-10-22T12:26:00.002-04:00

Well, I guess the word is starting to get out about my move to Idaho Falls, Idaho. It shouldn't come as that much of a surprise since I posted it on my Facebook status. I’ve had mixed reactions to my news, and although I am the one who made the decision to travel back with my husband at Christmas break, it is still going to be bittersweet.

I’ve never lived anywhere else but the east coast, except for a crazy few months when I got a wild hair, packed up my 3 year old son and drove to Phoenix. We were back in time for Mother’s Day and I never thought about moving again.

My oldest son moved west nearly 20 years ago, and his father before him. Both of them said they loved it there and would never move back to NewYork. The air was dryer, the mountains majestic and awe inspiring. I wonder if I will have the same reaction.

All my other children are on the east coast, and my siblings are scattered throughout the U.S. My brother and his wife call Houston their home and my baby sister lives in California, but other than that, the airplane always points East.

Of course, the friends I make remain in my heart forever, no matter where I live. Hopefully, the time and distance won’t dampen our friendship and only enhance the time we do have together.

Moving west will create a new environment in which to write, and maybe I will finally be able to get the novels finished, five in all, still waiting to be adjusted, polished and renewed. The relocation will probably do them good, too. Too, there will be opportunities for book signings in other venues, as well as sneaking in a comedy appearance or two.

But my heart will forever be here in New York. The original Uptown Girl, I will always think of the World Trade Center of my youth; 19 years old, standing on the roof of the building and looking out over the horizon, realizing the world was mine to be had. The landscape is vastly different now, and my view has peppered with age and the slight scent of cynicism, but the wanderlust has never left me. The world is still mine to be had.

With my husband by my side, he is sure to continue to provide the comic relief while sharing his own unique take on life, as we travel though the next 10 years together. Grand kids and stories to share, we will make new memories from which to remember when all we can do is sit and look at our Lake.

It is, after all, where THIS all began.

Stories From the Snake (River), here I come.

SANDALS IN OCTOBER

2010-10-09T13:17:00.001-04:00

The sun is shining brightly this beautiful day, another gift from the Sun God. It is mid October and the past week has seen temperatures heading towards 80 degrees, the true example of an Indian Summer up here in Western New York.

I know the temperatures will be dropping today; the weather forecasters have delivered the somewhat solemn news. The digits will fall from 70 to 60 to 50 this evening, and I believe them. The skies are getting cloudy over the lake and the wind is picking up, the sure signs of oncoming cooler days and even colder weekends. It is time to plant the bulbs that have been calling to me from their bags under the kitchen chair, left there as a reminder so that I don’t forget to start digging before the frost hits. A neighbor mows his lawn for the last time of the season, moving slowly and enjoying the sun on his face as he sits contented, moving back and forth, and up and down across his acre of land.

We’ve been spoiled and we know it, sleeping with the windows open in mid October. What a delight and a treat in itself, to hear the crickets and the peepers, to listen to the waves as they gently tap on the rocks behind our house –not insistent, but certainly persistent.

Fall is here and the pumpkins have been picked, laid across in row after row like an army battalion, ready for the choosing. Little arms will try to envelope the biggest one they can, while moms and dads stand close by to catch both should they fall. After all, they all have their sandals on sock less feet, still.

I took the boys for their daily walk down to the water, all of us anxious and sad at the same time. It is the last swim for the summer and we know that too, even though they could probably stand to take a dip in November.

Throwing their toys for them to retrieve they are barking loudly; I know in reality it is really their laughter and joy that I hear. Jumping on each other, dunking them in the shallow blue, they are besides themselves with happiness and glee. They are content and so am I. The only thing missing is their father, off exploring a different kind of autumn. He is missed and we know he misses us and this.

The leaves blow over us as we walk back to the house, yellow, brown and green ornaments sticking to their wet backs as they walk slowly up the lane towards home.

Sandals and swimming in October. We can’t ask for more than that.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

2010-10-04T22:34:00.004-04:00

Wondered if I'd ever have another 40 hour week job

My mother had another stroke

Talked to my sisters who were not having a good year, either

Celebrated my daughter's engagement

Thought about an old boyfriend

Got fat

Hung out with the grandkids

Missed the ones that don't leave close by

Wrote more than I had in a long time

Got depressed

Listened to music I didn't like

Spoke at the library

Cleaned the house from top to bottom. Twice

Spoke at a benefit

Fought with my husband. Really ugly fights.

Took care of my very sick dog, who I love almost as much as my children

Deleted a friend off Facebook and from my life. Even though we had known each other for over 25 years, I realized one day I never had really known her at all

Found out my fourth book was ready for release, after being delayed a year

Co-host for a radio show. Had such a good time, I was invited back the next day

Cried

Took the dogs to the vet

Helped my husband drive to the other side of the world for a new job

Ghost wrote a book on taxes

Listened as a family member slowly went insane for a while

Sat on Town Board meetings

Appeared on TV to promote the book

Listened to the wind

Decided to accept everybody the way they are

Got a part time job that required I dress up every day

Wrote more articles for some online publications that paid peanuts

Lost my job at the paper due to cutbacks

Started decorating the house again

Helped a son move to New Jersey

Listened to the waves

Helped a daughter move back home -just for a while

Planned a trip

Worried about money

Got more freelance work

Did stand up and killed

Joined the Rotary

My mother died

Met my 7th grandchild the same week

Was happy and depressed at the same time and wondered if it was possible

Watched the evenings start to get darker earlier

Let my hair grow

Had a heart to heart with myself to see if I had made a mistake

Lost a ton of weight

Missed writing everyday

So I wrote this

Realized it was a hell of a summer

Survived

BUTTER LEAVES OF LETCHWORTH

2010-10-02T08:30:00.001-04:00

October. The leaves on the great Maple trees were so yellow, they looked like sticks of butter. Yellow and bright, they were everywhere I looked, behind me and before me, for miles and miles and miles, interspersed between the Birch and Pine trees.

I was standing at the bottom of the gorge with Riley's Dad, a much-traveled trail of many before us, and most likely many to follow. Boundless untamed waterfalls behind us and the sun shining brightly above us, it was an October Indian Summer the likes of which we had never seen before, and would be very blessed indeed should we ever seen them again. My face would be sunburned before the day was over.

In the spring the Maple leaves were green like all the others, blending in with the landscape and not very special looking at first glance, wallflowers at the dance of the more popular Ash and Black Walnut. Come the end of summer, however, they began their transformation from plain green to brilliant red. You could tell this was the beginning of something special, as if the other trees themselves stood back to watch the emergence of pure beauty, somewhat envious and intimidated at the same time.

Perhaps the greatest surprise to them all, though, was the ultimate blast of pigmentation, the final burst of yellow. The ugly duckling was truly the belle of the ball.

The trails we walked were winding and turning, up and down, over many miles of buried tree roots and smooth rock formations. The moss was overgrown on the north side of the boulders, and the rock slates beckoned for us to sit and visit for a while, to chat some more and learn the innermost secrets of our souls.

I had many prayers of thanks that day. Thankful to live in a country where the park was a gift of love donation from a wealthy man, a present to the community after his death. Thankful to be able to walk the many slate steps down to the gorge under my own power unassisted. To be able to breathe deep the smells of the wildflowers, see the colorful foliage surrounding me everywhere. Most of all, to be holding the hand of the one who brought me here, to share in his joy as if he too, saw all of this for the very first time. My heart was full, and my eyes glistened at the sheer joy of being where I was at that very moment. He felt it too, and he held me close as someone took our picture.

A perfect day and in was only 10am in the morning. How I wished my children could have shared in the moment with me, but mindful that this sight was meant for just he and I.

I will hold in my soul always the surprise vision greeting me that morning as I turned to face my smiling companion to ask him why his face with so bright and peaceful.

They will forever be the Butter Leaves of Letchworth, the announcement of Autumn, a wonderful reminder of the fullness of life, the reward for surviving a Winter bleak and dark, and holding fast to the promise of beauty yet to come. My faith was rewarded and I was alive to receive a blessing. I will never again take anything for granted, for each day is a gift, each person a present from above.

Stories From the Lake: Stories From the Lake

2010-09-23T12:02:00.000-04:00

Stories From the Lake: Stories From the Lake

Check out my interview with Channel 8 Noon Show

Stories From the Lake

2010-09-23T11:44:00.000-04:00

Stories From the Lake

Hurricanes, TV and PR

2010-09-20T15:43:00.002-04:00

I had another shot at promoting my books this morning on WROC/Fox TV.

Like always, I am nervous two minutes before I go on, but as soon as I start talking, I am fine. News anchor for the midday show, KaTRIna Irwin was awesome, making me feel right at home. I was so afraid I was going to call her KRISTINA that I keep repeating "Hurricane Katrina! Hurricane Katrina!" over and over in my head.

Unfortunately, I credited her as KRISTINA on my facebook page. Please accept my apologies and know it was corrected immediately! Hurricane indeed.

This is probably the fifth on-air live interview I've done over the course of my newly shined up writing career, and I think I am finally getting the hang of it. My daughter accompanied me to the studio, filming the exchange and documenting it for posterity.

When I first started out learning how to promote on tv, I talked randomly and was not really focused. At times I would pause, thinking the interviewer would ask a question or two. I looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights and my mind would go blank. I quickly realized all they want is for me to talk. For someone who was always sent to detention in high school for talking too much, the irony is hysterical.

I have begun to think in sound bites and am able to put my thoughts into quick, succinct sentences. After all, you only have three minutes at the most to push your product. My product and brand happens to be ME, so I can go all over the place in twenty seconds. I was able to reign it in this time, but still forgot to mention some items I wanted to highlight. It's a constant process to improve and refine. I fear by the time I get it right, I will have written another book and will have to start all over again.

Back at home on the lake, I was forced back to reality. It was time to take the boys for a walk and to clean up today's poopies. Plastic bag in one hand and shovel in the other, I laughed to myself as I started to think in sound bites.

"Holy cow, that's a big one. Story to follow."

"What did you eat today? Medical report to follow."

I could hear my daughter laughing as she stood watching me from the front porch.

"There's probably a story about that PR process" she laughed as I tied the bag up to throw into the trash.

"PR?" I questioned.

"Poopie Retrieval"

Thank God she has a sense of humor and sees the absurdities of life, just as I do.

She's right. There's always a story to be told.

Halloween and Hallowed Ground - A George & Bob Story from George & Bob, Book Two

2010-09-19T18:08:00.000-04:00

It was their favorite time of year, except for Christmas, of course.

Halloween. A time of haunted hay rides, trick or treating and pumpkin carving, the brothers George & Bob, Francine and Frank began thinking about costumes as soon as school began. Every year their mother would pull out the sewing machine and put to cloth the imaginings of her children. They never had a store bought costume, as she had convinced them this was much more fun. She had almost convinced herself as well.

Mommy, whose real name was Madeline, liked Halloween too. She always decorated the house as soon as October 1st rolled around. As they held their breath, the imaginary calendar in their minds quickly pulled each square numbered day off the sheet, ending with the most special numbered. The anticipation very nearly drove them crazy with excitement, the countdown to the day a reward in patience.

As each evening progressed closer and closer to October thirty-first, a new plastic goblin or Styrofoam witches would appear on the mantle in the living room. Day by day a ceramic dish filled with candy corn would appear on the kitchen table, or a bowl filled with gourds and small pumpkins would find itself on the coffee table in the den. Cotton stuffed black cats sat on chairs and rested atop bed pillows, all fun reminders of the days to follow.

Picking the pumpkins to be used as jack-o-lanterns for the front step was a yearly treat as well, and all the kids at Samuel Jackson Elementary School looked forward to the Friday before Halloween. Ever year a nearby farmer donated a truck load of pumpkins in which all the children could pick one to carve in the classroom.

Desks covered with newspaper, one by the kids could carve their concoctions into the soft flesh of the orange globes. Misshapen smiles with missing teeth or crooked eyes were the norm. Some ambitious students would even make wigs of yarn, long black curly locks or thick braided clumps pasted to either side of the scary faces looking back at them from atop their desks.

Bob, of course, always made his pumpkin a masterpiece. He first drew a picture with magic marker, making sure the face was centered and not at all sloppy looking. Bob took great pride in his pumpkin skills.

George liked to name his pumpkins. No one could remember when he first started doing it, but it seemed like the right thing to do. After all, it was like having a member of the family for a while, as all the pumpkins carved at school were carefully transported home to the steps in front of their house on Maple Street.

George & Bob carried their precious cargo in paper bags with handles, courtesy of the local grocery store. They were much too intent on the mission at hand to notice how bright the sun was that day, how crisp and cool the air was. It was something they pretty much took for granted, as most children do, and wouldn't realize the significance of the afternoon until they were much older.

As they turned the corner to head towards home, they began to trot as they got closer and breaking into a full run once they had gotten close enough to spy the ghosts tied to the posts of the house front porch. Mommy had tied old white bed sheets together and made a family to greet them.

“Holy cow! Do you see that, Stanley?” George said out loud to his pumpkin.

After munching on donuts and cider, they went back out to the front of the house to begin the task at hand. George lifted the newest member of the family out of the brown bag with all the pride of a new father. He positioned Stanley on the third step from the top, midway between the 5th and the bottom wooden slats of the wooden stairs.

Bob smiled sheepishly as he lifted his masterpiece and put it beside Stanley. Although he did not name his creations, it didn't stop him from talking to them.

“You'll be very happy here” he said softly to the gourd, as he placed it gently on the step next to his brothers.

Mommy looked out the kitchen window and watched as the two brothers stood back to examine their proud creative endeavors. She was putting the finishing touches on the last jack-o-lantern to sit on the steps outside the door of their house on Maple Street. The inside had been gutted and flattened enough to stick a tea candle inside, illuminating the smiling face of the pumpkin. It would look quite at home amongst the other works of art her children had created in preparation for one of their most favorite times of the year.

All the children had been asleep for several hours, dreaming of bags of chocolate and candy corn filling their sacks as they screamed "Trick or Treat!" to their neighbors and the siblings of their friends. Slumbering in the knowledge that all was right with the world, they snuggled up against their blankets and pillows, safe and secure in anticipation of the festivities to come later in the month.

Mommy blew out the tea light, a small poof of smoke billowing above the wick, a scent of sulfur and wax filling her nostrils. She sat down on the steps besides the small gourd village and pulled her sweater closer around her, breathing in the cool night air. Summer had finally let go of its stronghold, the last gasp of heat vanquished as the autumn breezes shuffled them out the door.

She sat that way for a while; knees pulled up to her chin and huddled under her sweater. Suddenly there was a creak behind her and the screen door opened, revealing the figure of her oldest son, Frank. He was getting more grown up every day, a fact becoming more and more difficult to ignore. She was a short woman, barely 5 feet tall, and her tweener son was just about eye level.

“You okay, Mommy?” he asked with a sleepy voice.

She smiled at the recognition that he still called her Mommy, even though most of his friends called their mothers Ma or Mom or Momma. She was grateful he wanted to hang on to the moniker for just a little while longer.

“Fine” she smiled, as she craned her neck backwards to face him. “Fine.”

She smiled reassuringly towards him before turning back around to face the street. The road they lived on was quiet, a few lights peppering the houses surrounding theirs. Off in the distance a dog barked, and they could smell the remnants of a fire lit earlier to burn the remains of brush and branches from spent apple trees of the orchard several miles away. It was the comfort of the sounds and smells that prevented her from telling the young man the true feelings churning inside her at that moment.

“What do you want to be for Halloween?” she asked gaily, wanting to lighten the mood within herself.

“I don't know ...” he said rubbing his eyes.

“I'll have to sleep on it” and he closed the screen door behind him. He stopped before walking from the entryway.

“Maybe Spiderman or something like that” yawning and stretching his arms upward, as if reaching for heaven.

Mommy stood up to join him on the other side of the door. Opening the screen she looked up at the moon shining brightly on the street she loved so much, the only neighborhood her children had ever known.

It was surely hallowed ground upon which they lived. Memories floated by her with the breeze, thinking of how much he would have loved all this. She was sad, but there was so much more to be thankful for.

She decided it was a good night.

God's Favorite Season

2010-09-08T08:59:00.000-04:00

September. Another new season is about to begin. Soon it will be time to put away that which is light and airy, to be replaced with the somewhat deeper hues of beiges, browns and orange. Bright yellow makes way for softer mustard, voluminous red parts for calmer tawny greens and navy blues.

The colors of Autumn. It is a time when the brilliance that lies within all of us is called forth. Bursting in the shower of hues we possess, the aromas and flavors like rainfall are as welcome as a comfy quilt on a cool fall evening. A parade of new growth before the first frost, it is a final reach for the heavenly presence felt when looking at the clouds and enjoying the essence of nothing.

The lake is translucent, the shimmering of diamonds on top the water. Rocks glisten in the path of the rays of the sun, calling us to listen one more time to the waves as they crash against the shore. As the tide goes out and in and out again, it reminds me that time does not stand still, and does not wait for any being's command or plea to stop or slow it's pace.

The trees are bulging with fruit, begging to be harvested and relieved of the burden one more season. Time does not stop for heartbreak or disappointment, nor does it look the other way when one falls or is injured. Perhaps the balm to deal with such feelings is the changing of the seasons; for it reaffirms the continuity of life, the discipline of sameness, and the gift of renewal.

Our lives are constantly changing, yet the undertow is constant. September begins the new year for me, bringing back memories of the new school year, buying shiny new shoes and crisp white paper. January is more the halfway mark, as I look forward to the coming spring.

Autumn has got to be God's favorite season. It reminds us that we are mortal, and our legacy is what we allow it to be. Give a long good bye kiss to Summer, and anxiously await her return next year.

Libraries, Dreams and Sea Hags

2010-09-02T22:12:00.000-04:00

I have always loved to read. When I was a young girl I would read the phone book, the t.v. guide and the dictionary, even hunting magazines my father left around if there was nothing else available. I was a walking encyclopedia of useless facts and miscellaneous information. It used to annoy the hell out of my sister.

When I was around 14 years old, I loved to go to the public library. The public library in my suburban neighborhood was built only two or three years earlier before I had discovered it. A magnificent brick building, it was modern in design and structure, holding more rooms of books than I had ever seen before. It was more like a cathedral rather than a place of learning to me.

The only libraries I had been acquainted with before were from elementary school. There were no video tapes or games to rent, or computers to surf the net. Just books and librarians.

The librarians were usually older and crotchety, the typical librarian/spinster cliché reminiscent of the movies and our imaginations. Their faces were pinched and their pointy noses held the glasses that slid halfway down, adorned like badges of honor rather than a fashion statement. On a good day, they looked like sea hags. I tried not to look at them, because they always seemed to be yelling at me. I was talking too loud or walking too fast, giggling with my friends, chewing pink bazooka gum or doing something else that always caused me to be thrown out.

All that changed the day my family moved to another part of town, enrolling me in another school. I was in fifth grade and the first place I headed for was the library. The school was still old, and had their own assortment of sea hags. I wondered why a person so unhappy would take on such a position. They must not like to read, I reasoned. What else could it be?

But the head librarian at my new school was not ominous at all, in fact, it was a man. This was something so foreign to my sense of balance, and curiosity got the better of me. It wasn’t that I had a crush on him or anything like that, he was as old as my dad, for goodness sakes! But he was just so…….learned. I had to pay more attention. He had an air about him of authority and it was clear the various sea hags milling about respected him greatly. He was very quiet and soft spoken, but had a wonderful, kind smile.

His name was Mr. Muolo, and it was he who first fed my hunger for books, my obsession with reading. He would never shoo me away if I had a question, and was always helpful in locating a certain book for me. He taught me how to read the index of library cards, listed under the dewey decimal system, and the difference between fiction and non-fiction books and how they were filed. His smile would bring me such joy if I answered a question correctly, and I felt a hundred feet tall to know he was proud of me. He always saved a stack of books for me to file at the end of the day. It was like I entered another world. I thought that perhaps I would even become a librarian myself, venturing into Library Science as a career when I entered high school.

So discovering the bright and shiny library down the road from my house during my high school years was a treat beyond belief. I could walk on the side of the road, a lane not much traveled and lacking in sidewalks for the moment. I would venture down on a Saturday morning around 10:00 am and return home in the early afternoon. With 14 or 15 books stacked high in front of me, I maneuvered my way home from memory, as I could barely see the path in front of me. Many a summer evening found me sitting on the back stoop, reading to my hearts content.

I can’t tell you very much about what I read back then, but I do remember my favorite author was Beverly Cleary. She wrote about young girls and going to Oberlin College, buying cashmere sweaters and having careers as writers. It was a world I knew I would never enter, but was content to visit it now and then. I knew I wanted to be a writer, but didn’t know what form that would take, or when.

Three years ago I dropped off several copies of two of my books at the Williamson Public Library; bought from the Friends of the Williamson Public Library, without a sea hag in the bunch.

“We love your book” she said simply. “We want others to love it, too.”

I have written books that sit in the Williamson Public Library.
Life offers up such wonderful surprises, I have given up trying to anticipate what they might be. I can’t help but think Mr. Muolo is looking down from heaven and smiling.

I have written a book that sits on a shelf of the Public Library where I live.

I hope I do him proud; then, now and forever.

An Ailing Season of Hope

2010-09-02T09:28:00.002-04:00

The events of the last few months have been quite a change from the normal. In May, my husband and I contemplated separating, and in June my mother died. One event was expected; the other was not.

Marriages go through trials and tests, maneuvering the proverbial up and down of rocky roads and landmines. Every marriage has its good times and bad times, and anyone who says they don’t disagree with their spouse is not being truthful. What one might consider merely a bump in the road, another might deem hopeless. I guess it all depends on your frame of mind at the time and what is acceptable in your world.

As with many families these past few years, our financial situation has changed, due to the recession and the effects of the economy. Jobs are scarce in this area, if at all. It definitely creates stress and can strain even the strongest of relationships. Five of my six children live out of state because of job opportunities, and now my husband has had to move to the other side of the country. It may as well be the other side of the world, and if it weren’t for the internet and Facebook, I would have called it quits. The distance will help us to appreciate what we have accomplished thus far, and how much further we have to go.

Every Spring season we’ve bought flowers and shrubs to add to the landscape of our life. A new hydrangea bush here, or a rose bush there, year by year we have created a beautiful garden of Eden for ourselves to enjoy and drink in, as we sit and listen to the waves of the lake. We took them, like a lot of other things, for granted.

This year was different, as I was saying goodbye to my mother in ways only we would understand. Far away from home, I wasn't able to participate in the planting and the choosing of pretty flowers and bushes. There was no money to be spent on such extravagances, anyway. Ever the resourceful one, my husband merely threw wildflower seeds everywhere. He planted them in pots on the ground and on the railings, along the side of the fence, and in front of the entrance to our driveway.

Last year we were surprised with the discovery of pumpkins, popping up from errant seeds that blew our way. He left the pumpkins we had put out as a decoration simply disintegrate and return to the soil. Consequently, we have our own little pumpkin patch growing out front, another nice surprise that didn’t cost us a thing.

Seeing those pumpkin flowers reminded me of how easy it is to get caught up in the material and the chaos that can envelope us if we let it. Something so simple as pumpkin seeds can produce a feeling of peace and calmness; the reminder of a home long ago filled with trick or treaters and screams of delight. It happened without our tending to it, to make it work or produce what we wanted. It just was.

I will take a picture of it all and send it to him, commemorating his handiwork and perseverance. The mass spread of wildflowers, the sunflowers that now tower over the top of the house are all the result of his stick-to-it-ness and to never give up. He has always thrived during a crisis. The pumpkins, proud and orange, will soon greet everyone as they turn into our driveway, amongst the falling brown leaves and burnished bushes. Perhaps there will be enough that I can let the neighborhood kids pick their own, instead of having to go down to the corner market to buy them.

With every turn of the season, take the time to renew your life and create new traditions. We’ve weathered a storm that I didn’t think we’d survive, but have learned quickly how very hardy we really are. Taking joy in the simple things like pumpkin seeds are perhaps the best tonic for an ailing season.

A Morning On TV, An Afternoon at the Vet's, An Evening of Prayer

2010-08-19T22:20:00.001-04:00

I had a great time interviewing with WHEC TV 10 mid day anchor Pat McGonigle today! I was promoting my new book which will be released Sept 21. I hope you read it and let me know how you feel about it. There will be more information to share in the coming weeks.

Then it was back to reality as we took all three dogs and the cat to the veternarian's office to get their updated shots, heartworm and flea medications. Of course, it started to rain heavily before we got into the car, so it now smells like wet dog, wet humans and soggy medications.

In the middle of simple dinner this warm summer evening, we received a phone we knew would eventually come. My husband's aunt, finally succumbing to yet another stroke, was ready to say goodbye.

Still tender from the loss of my own mother barely three months ago, we raised our gin & tonics to the woman who was mothered him when he needed it, laughed at his jokes and sat happily at our wedding.

Life is full of wonderful surprises, compromises and sadness. Its not unusual to experience it all in one day.

Don't be afraid to embrace them all.

Forgiveness

2010-08-07T11:24:00.001-04:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about forgiveness lately, and what it really means.

It appears to be the ultimate test of character and faith to endure and survive such occurrences that make us question the very foundation of our character. We are who we are because of the circumstances we are thrown into, and how we survive those situations. In fact, it is not the situations themselves that form us, but how we react to them. Others observing these situations may even benefit from the struggle to overcome and understand them.

There have been two separate instances of two different people in my life of late that have filled me with such sorrow and resentment it seemed impossible to ever really let go of what fueled it. But it has been proven, once again, that sometimes we really don’t have as much control over the outcome as we think we might.

I know in my heart that I have already forgiven those who have asked for it. To deny such forgiveness gives me power over them, a power I really don’t want. I don’t want revenge or leverage; I don’t want to be holding all the cards or to have the last word. I want it to be left in the past and not kept in the corner like a wayward pet. I don’t want to take it out and shine it up every now and then, to refuel or recharge the anger, or renew the hurt associated with it. Bitterness is a seductive suitor who is no longer welcome at my house. Facing the interloper at eye level and staring them down makes us stronger than we ever thought we could be.

Some acts are truly despicable and can only be forgiven by our creator. Repeated actions are the symptoms of a larger problem and without remorse are not an act of repentance.

It may be one of the hardest gestures you will have to endure; but it is far better than the ultimate decision to harden our hearts to tolerance and understanding. To hold on to hatred and regret poisons the soul and depletes our good karma. It is a straight jacket from which we can never escape.

We have the power to relieve the burden of those seeking the forgiveness to do so with the simplest of gestures. A genuine smile, a reassuring embrace, are all gifts we can give to those seeking it, as well as giving it to ourselves.

Jesus forgave; how can we not. It does not demean us or make us look weak. It strengthens our resolve to be better people, to forge ahead and make a future we can be proud of.

The past is the past because it has.

“He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love.”

Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Sore Thumb Radio appearance at the House of Guitars 7/30/10 10am-1pm

2010-07-29T13:21:00.000-04:00

We had such a good time today, that I was invited back for tomorrow's show at the Great House of Guitars!

So if you're going to be near a computer tomorrow (Friday, July 30th) from 10am-1pm, sign on to http://www.sorethumbradio.com/ and listen to me guest co-host with comedian Julie Donofrio on the "Out of My Pie Hole" show with Steve Burr.

Here's what you do:

Sign on http://www.sorethumbradio.com/

Click on the area you are from - Rochester, or nationwide

Click on Channel 6 - and we are LIVE, baby

It would interesting to see who is listening, so send a message via the chat line to show me the love, or if you have any questions. It would be great to through some topics out there too!

I'll also be pushing my book "The Book of Stories From The Lake" and a host of other things.

Looking forward to hearing from you!!!

Sore Thumb Radio appearance 7/29/10 8am-1pm

2010-07-28T14:27:00.000-04:00

If you're going to be near a computer tomorrow (Thursday, July 29) from 8am-1pm, sign on to http://www.sorethumbradio.com/ and listen to me guest co-host with comedian Julie Donofrio on the "Out of My Pie Hole" show with Steve Burr.

Here's what you do:

Sign on http://www.sorethumbradio.com/
Click on the area you are from - Rochester, or nationwide
Click on Channel 6 - and we are LIVE, baby

It would interesting to see who is listening, so send a message via the chat line to show me the love, or if you have any questions. It would be great to through some topics out there too!

Thanks and hope to hear from you. If you want to view some of my comedy, then click here
I'll also be pushing my book "The Book of Stories From The Lake" and a host of other things.

Looking forward to hearing from you!!!

A Tale of Two Houses

2010-07-24T14:20:00.003-04:00

I woke up thinking of Mitsy Hobson* today. She’s been on my mind a lot lately, and I have a thought or two as to why.

She must be about 75 years old by now, possibly even a little older. She was the age I am now when we first met. I had just moved into my ‘dream house’ around the corner from her house, but had known of her for many years prior.

I say ‘known of her’ due to the fact that Mitsy had somewhat of a reputation of being a persnickety curmudgeon. We went to the same church and when I became an official staff member, it suddenly seemed to put us (in her mind, anyway) on the same level playing field as spiritual and liturgical equals. Although she was not a nun, her siblings were Brothers, Sisters of Mercy and Priests, serving many years in the very church we now attended. She boasted of how her father “built this church” due to his many generous monetary contributions, and I had no reason to believe otherwise.

Mitsy spent the majority of her time sticking her nose into everyone else’s business, although she never really looked at it that way. She felt she was helping, being the neighborhood grandmother and organizer. Truth be known, most of us looked forward to the time when she would travel to her “other house” in New Mexico, and where her husband lived. It was a blessed respite from the constant queries as to “what kind of flower is that?” followed by her real intention of wanting to know “when are you going to cut your grass?”

They had an interesting marriage, if one could call it that. I certainly didn’t think it was very healthy, but she assured us that it was the best thing for the both of them.

“We do better when we live apart” she explained one afternoon.

“We make it work.” I had no reason to believe otherwise. They had just celebrated their 35th anniversary, whereas I was struggling to meet the 12th.

It was a day not unlike this one that we were all sitting in her parlor, tea sandwiches and glasses of wine poised at the ready. Our group consisted of all the female neighbors who were too afraid to turn down her yearly invitation for lunch. She had a captive audience and proceeded to regale us with tales of visits to Africa and the like, places we knew we would never see except for on the Discovery channel. There was a grand piano in the corner of the room and a stately old grandfather clock standing proudly in the other, chiming every hour.

This must be what its like to be rich I thought to myself. To have two houses at either end of the country and a grand piano. It was so foreign to all I had ever known, of saving and pinching pennies to feed an ever growing family.

After every Thanksgiving holiday, Mitsy would travel to New Mexico to live at her other house and be with her husband. Staying there with him until the first blossoms of spring in May, she would not leave the New York house until the last leaf of autumn had fallen. The colors of the East coast were too enchanting to miss, and she reminded us every year to drink it all in.

He would return back to this house with her, seldom staying much longer than mid June, claiming he had golf tournaments and other commitments to attend to. He was as gregarious as she was persnickety, and I think we all looked forward to his visits as much as she did.

“My life is here” she said, surprising me one early summer evening in response to my how are you? wave. I was taking a walk and found her sitting in her usual spot, a white rocker on the front wrap around porch that surrounded her entire colonial style house. Motioning for me to join her, I hadn’t planned to visit (no one ever did) but took the opportunity to extend my evening walk just a while longer.

Listening to her talk about her various flowers she had planted as I watched her little dog scurry after chipmunks on the front lawn, I suddenly wondered if she was lonely, being here on the porch all alone, with no children or husband to speak of. Watching her eyes light up as she continued to talk about her beautiful flowers, I decided she was not. The marriage worked for them and it made them both happy. Who was I to judge how they chose to live their union?

Now that I am closer to the age she was on that summer evening, I am faced with my own question of how to live my marriage. Just short of celebrating seven years together, my traveling husband has an opportunity to work permanently at a great job, but it will mean moving to Idaho. As with many marriages, ours has been tested, almost to the breaking point.

I’m not sure I want to go with him to Idaho. Most of my children are here on this side of the country, along with my dearest friends who have become my family. My writing career had begun here, stories based upon the very backyard and the lake on which we live. In fact, I have a new book being released in the fall, and will spend the rest of the year promoting it. “The Book of The Stories From the Lake” is about my life here. Moving to Idaho was not in the plan.

“You don’t have to live here all the time,” he explained, recognizing my dilemma, while never knowing of Mitsy Hobson.

“We'll keep the lake house and when you are ready, come stay with me for a while in a house out in Idaho. I’ll be working most of the time anyway, and you can come back east as often as you please. We can live on the Snake River and you can write there, too. We can make it work, if we really want to.”

I realized why the memories of Mitsy Hobson had suddenly taken hold in my mind, flooding my consciousness and why this all seemed vaguely familiar. “Stories From the Snake” certainly could mean another chapter added to my already full and surprisingly peaceful life. I laughed to myself at the double meaning to that title, but gave it some serious considerable thought, nonetheless.

God puts people in our lives for a reason, choosing to cross our paths with the most unlikeliest of teachers. The lesson of Mitsy Hobson would certainly be part of the equation, should it ever come to pass.

I have no doubt she is still sitting on that rocking chair on the front porch, and counting the days when she can go visit her husband again in her other house that enhances their marriage.

I have no reason to believe otherwise.

*Name changed

RELEASE DATE ANNOUNCEMENT!

2010-07-08T15:24:00.001-04:00

The official release date for "The Book of the Stories From the Lake: The Byline of a Lifetime" is September 21, 2010.

You can preorder your book directly from the publisher, or wait until the release date and come to my party!

Precious Flag

2010-07-03T09:47:00.001-04:00

It is the Fourth of July weekend, and my heart just isn't into decorating for the festivities.

My mother is now with my dad, who had his last fourth of July in 2002.    My father was very patriotic, and that feeling of pride and allegiance no doubt rubbed off on all of us.   We always made sure there was some kind of commemorative symbol of the day.   When I was a kid, he was not above playing Spike Lee records all day long.

Now probably at the age he was at that time in my youth, I remembered with a smile the stories he would tell about his old army buddy, Jackson. We met him once, and when he got the cancer and died, my father cried like a baby. I think it was the only time I ever did see him cry.

Although I didn't put out the traditional red, white and blue tablecloths, I did want to at least fly the American flag.

The one flown at our house for years had been finally laid to rest, tattered and torn from one too many winters. I never followed the protocol of lowering it every evening (unless a spotlight is shown on it) - I just left it up all year round. Time and torrential winds did its job.

Now I was faced with the dilemma of replacing it, and at zero hour to boot.

When my mother passed recently, I only took one thing from the garage as a memento. The big "clean out" had not yet begun, and I needed to get back home to New York. I snatched an old picture of my mother, standing in front of rows and rows of paint and resin, a long shiny counter in front of her. She is smiling because she was where she was happiest - in her shop. I know my dad is standing near by, but out of view of the camera lens.

When he passed years earlier, I had again only taken one thing to remember him by, and it has stayed folded neatly in a china cabinet, pressed up against the glass and standing at attention, as if waiting for its next assignment.

An American flag.

It flies proudly now this Fourth of July season, to remind me of the sacrifices made by him, and others like him.   I will make sure to take it down after the holiday, and only fly it during this time.   It will become more precious to me as the years go by, I suppose.

I think he would have liked that.

Blessed Fog

2010-06-29T20:37:00.006-04:00

"It is not the clear-sighted who rule the world. Great achievements are
accomplished in a blessed, warm fog." Joseph Conrad

I couldn't seem to put my finger on how I've been feeling lately, but the quote above seem to fit it perfectly. That is what has been my constant companion the last few months: A blessed, warm fog.

Personal disenchantment coupled with the untimely passing of my mother (although sadly and reluctantly welcomed by all of us when the news of it arrived) was a reminder of the power of love, and how her five children responded to it.

My mother never really liked being one; we all knew that deep down and accepted her for who she was. She was an artist at heart, and was happiest when she was painting or creating something from greenware.

She did the best she could with what she had.   People often asked if we felt cheated, if we resented her not being a "proper" grandmother to our children.   Each of our responses may be different, but for me, I learned how selfless she had really been all her life. She taught us how to love even those who didn't deserve it, and that's all we needed to know.

Each of us has different memories of her in our history, and if we were to recite our experiences one by one, those listening would swear we were talking about a completely different person. She had the forethought to be what we needed her to be at the time for each of us.

We all had our battles with her as well. What one event might be shrugged off as being silly, another thought it as insurmountable.  But there was always respect, and we knew who the Mother really was.

Ironically, the news came on Mother's Day that she had taken a downward turn. We all took our turn caring for her at the end, my brother and sister-in-law bearing the brunt of the time since they lived an hour away. The rest of us, my three sisters and I, lived in different states all over the country. Travel arrangements coincided without two much time between arrivals and departures.

The youngest went to her first, and told us of battles with needles and ripping out of tubes, while the next one dealt with paranoia and pain, while the next dealt with resignation.   I finally learned how to text message.

By the time I arrived, her mind was almost gone. Moments of lucidity were gifts I cherished, grabbing them by the armful and holding them close to my heart.   The last few days with me she spent in a blessed, peaceful fog, remembering only to go to the bathroom, comb her hair and brush her teeth, but not much else.

My mother was sleeping the last time I saw her, and I didn't wake her to say goodbye. I kissed her lightly on the head, her white and wiry thin hair brushing up against my cheek.   I sat in the chair beside the bed for just a moment more and let the fog envelope me, for I knew it was the last I would see of her, and I was right. I cried a little, and knew she wouldn't remember that I was even there to begin with.

The fog has slowly begun to lift around me, as life returns to the routine. Although not fully dissipated, I can see around the edges.

I am different now, and wonder if I will ever be the same.   Or if I even want to be.

You Want To Borrow My What?

2010-06-22T16:01:00.001-04:00

I have been exercising at the same athletic club for the last five years.

Sometimes I take yoga or pilates, other times I tear myself apart and enjoy Zumba. I've also done the machines, the bikes and other cardio exercises, learning about my body and understanding how to continually mold and shape muscles. Its a constant change in venue, in intensity and in styles.

The one thing that hasn't changed, however, is my gym bag. Its really a Vera Bradley pouch, and is the exact size I need to stow my street clothes, shoes, underwear, shower paraphenalia and bath towel.

I pack my pouch the night before, and always look to make sure everything I need is there before I zip it up. There's nothing worse than getting dressed after a shower and realizing your shoes are missing and you have to stick your feet back into your sweaty, smelly gym shoes.

Locking my purse and other valuables up in a locker, I situated my bag under a bench, knowing it was safe and out of the way of anyone walking through to the showers.

After completing another rip roaring round of Zumba this morning, I was surprised but not alarmed to find my bag zipped open. Sometimes we would share shampoo with another who had run out or didn't expect to need it. Borrowing is acceptable among friends at a gym, but only to a certain point.

But my shampoo was there, weighted to the bottom like usual. What WAS missing absolutely confounded me.

My bath towel and my bra.

Somebody took my bra? What, did you run out of the house and didn't understand what that flapping sound was? Did they blow up like balloons during Pilates and break the one you were wearing?

Who would steal someone's bra?

Creepy.

Has this ever happened to you?

The Oldest

2010-06-20T16:27:00.002-04:00

It still feels so weird to be sending my three sons their own Father’s Day cards.

My first impulse is to get one for my father, who has been gone since 2003.

As my mother just recently passed and joined him last week, a stark realization hit me this morning.

I am now the oldest Loveman.

He used to refer to us by number – all five of us had a digit and since I was the oldest, I was Number 1.

I used to kid them all, taunting in a sing song voice “I’m number wonn uhn, I’m number wonn uhn….”

I think I’ll stop doing that now.

PEACEFUL SLEEP

2010-06-14T03:14:00.005-04:00

The last time I saw my mother, she was asleep.

It was a well deserved nap, having fought with oxygen tubes and breathing treatments most of the day. She was exhausted and I knew she was ready. She looked peaceful, almost childlike, laying on her side with her hands tucked under her chin.

It was time for me to catch my flight to visit my son, but I didn’t want to wake her. I thought about whether she would be upset to find I had gone when she awakened, but then realized she probably wouldn’t remember that I had been there to begin with.

I walked over to her and kissed her lightly on the top of her head.

I sat down on the chair next to the bed, the chair I had sat so many days before, and where my sibings no doubt had sat before me. I was the last out of town daughter to visit, and it was almost as if she was waiting for me to say goodbye.

I cried a little, knowing this was the last time I would see her.

“Good bye, Mommy” I whispered. “I’ll miss you.”

Rest in peace.

Finally.

Where the Rivers Run

2010-05-29T17:59:00.005-04:00

“I’ve got a mind for business, and a body for sin.” So went the immortal lines uttered by Tess McGill (Melanie Griffith) in “Working Girl.” It was 1988 and women everywhere were beginning to put down the coffee pot and lace up their power shoes, i.e. sneakers with socks over their nylon pantyhose, shoulder padded suit jackets flapping in the breeze.

We charged down the street from the parking lot to the municipal buildings, offices and law firms, briefcases in hand and determination rocking in our guts. For those of us who had not gone to college and were trying to work our way up through the ranks, it became the clarion call for those were looking for any kind of break, anything to spur us on to the next pay scale or bump in responsibility. I am woman, dammit, get the hell out of my way.

The movie ends with a fade out of Ms. McGill sitting at the desk of her new office, as a newly created Junior Account Executive, about to embark on a great journey of enlightenment and fulfillment. Carly Simon is belting out “Where the Rivers Run” and we are standing up, screaming with girl power and ready to take on the world. Unfortunately, we never get to see a sequel, and the movie itself seemed to be the pinnacle movie of her career. She didn’t do much of anything after that; perhaps her mercurial rise to the top was too quick, didn’t give the rest of us time to catch up. Life is never like the movies, and most of the time we go home disappointed.

I was somewhere in the middle of all that. I had the power shoes and the suits, but also had 5 kids at home. My mercurial rise never went higher than anyone else I worked with, and it wasn’t until I switched careers and opened a manufacturing company with my spouse at the time did I end up making any substantial money.

I think the best thing that came out of all that was that we (1) paved the way for our daughters and (2) realized it was all baloney anyway, and that even though you have to work hard, success + networking + really dumb luck = more money. Or another example is Worth divided by Tenacity and Spunk equals a Pay Raise. Like poor Tess McGill, I fear she may have been set up to fail, “The Working Girl” in the Man’s World probably didn’t get very far.

Nowadays, although there are no more Tess McGills out there who feel they need to sacrifice everything to get to the top. The focus is more on inner development rather than personal gain, family rather than familiarity. I think it’s a good trade off.

My life is vastly different that what I thought it would be when I was a working girl in 1988, and I am grateful for that. But I often wondered what life would be like if I had never put on the power shoes.

FAMILIARITY

2010-05-17T22:46:00.002-04:00

The long oblong table was set and the silverware shone brightly against the crisp white tablecloth. Those of my children who could travel and their significant others were there, and as the waiter poured the water in our goblets, we each placed our napkins in our laps, precisely the way I had taught them when they were little. Their father sat to my right, as we had situated ourselves right in the middle between all of them, with everyone fanning out around us.

It was a vastly different seating arrangement than when they were younger. He always sat at one end of the table and I at the other. The fact that we had to divorce before we could sit next to each other was now merely amusing. We had long forgiven each other and had moved on with life, but had to keep reminding them we were okay and they could relax, we were not going to yell at each other. When he caught my eye, he smiled.

We were sitting once again in the restaurant where we had always celebrated a family event. A birthday, a milestone, a promotion; somehow, we always gravitated here. Now, after a space of time and being apart for years, there was an excitement surrounding our arrival together. As we were being led to the back of the eatery, the smells and aromas filled our nostrils as fast at the memories filled out hearts.

For the celebration this spring evening was the culmination of many years of prayers and yearnings. Not for us, but for our children. Our son had graduated from college hours before, and we knew we could no go anywhere else but here.

The journey from high school to college for him took many detours. Six years in service to his country, and another three years working full time while going to school full time had taken its toll. He was always weary, but still made room for a daughter who was supposed to belong to someone else; we can’t imagine her not being in his life now, or in ours.

His own love sat with us too, smiling and whispering things to him gently whenever someone wanted his attention. For there were many stories and memories to be told, reminiscing of old games and secrets, dreams that were long forgotten, resurrected.

His father tapped his water glass lightly as to make a toast, but would first share of a memory of his own he wanted to share with us all. It brought tears to our eyes and already swelled hearts were bursting with love and affection for each other when he was done. Various nose-blowings ensued as he finished and we reminded again of what it meant to be a family.

It looks different now, but we are still a family. There will be other celebrations and other occasions where we sit back and let them bask in the love of their siblings and of us. Although we are battered and bruised with more than our share of heartaches and disappointments, one sure thing shines brilliantly through.

Family is Forever.

New Book Out in November

2010-05-14T19:27:00.001-04:00

What do you think of the cover?

COME SEE ME

2010-05-06T17:14:00.003-04:00

I will be at the Apple Blossom Festival "Books In Bloom" event at
The Apple Crate on Main Street in Williamson, NY
at 12:30-2:00pm on Saturday, May 15, 2010.
My books will also be on display for purchase all week starting May 12-May 16 at the Williamson Public Library.

You can also pre-order my newest book "The Book of Stories From the Lake: A Byline of a Lifetime" at both places.

Hope to see you then!**

**My mother has had a series of strokes and is under doctor's care; if I am not around, its because I went to Houston.

PASSING THE TIME

2010-04-26T13:33:00.000-04:00

I spent this past month doing some of my favorite things, one of which is spending time with my family. Although my beloved is out of town for work, we are in contact everyday. I learned early on to occupy myself while he was gone, so as not to dwell on his absence and missing the sounds of his voice as he dotes on the “boys” our three Labs, Riley, JJ and Simon. A bachelor for so many years, it’s a bittersweet retelling of the weekends of family events he missed when he asks how every one is doing.

“The babies are growing too quickly” I told him, as every grandparent can attest. “It seems like only yesterday that I was walking my own babies to the park, and now here I am chasing grandbabies to the lake to pick up rocks along the stony beach of the Great Ontario. It’s all moving so quickly.” He basks in the attention from one of the younger grandsons, as he tells him he will miss Grandpa Steve when he is gone. Never having children himself, I can almost hear his heart swell from here.

One of my sons will be graduating from University of Rochester next month, a feat he accomplished by putting himself through college after spending 6 years in the U.S. Navy. I could not be more proud.

I also was able to promote myself a little, attending the Book Fair in Palmyra, and sat along fellow prolific writer and Sun & Record columnist, Brooks Tenney. What a wealth of information and history we have in this gentleman: Williamson is lucky to have him.

I performed in a benefit at the Comedy Club in Webster for the Cancer Society, doing a little standup and having a great time. I dedicated my set to my youngest daughter, who is a cancer survivor, and informed me the night before that she had gotten engaged.

I write these things not to boast of how busy I am, but as an opportunity to share with you how I feel about this community, and to remind myself that it could be over in a minute. I love Williamson and Pultneyville, and am so happy I ended up here. Take time out of your busy lives to remember what is the most important to you, whether it be working at a project, dancing with our kids, or relaxing in the evening with your special someone.

Appreciate the little moments, and never take them for granted. Reach out to those who are alone, or to those who say they prefer to be so. My guess is they are searching for what is out there, just a little.

ANOTHER ALL NIGHTER

2010-04-24T02:50:00.001-04:00

I'm having one of those menopausal all nighters, the kind of nights where even the dogs lift their heads up from their pillows and ask "What? You're still awake?"

I get them every now and then, where it feels likes its 2 o'clock in the afternoon, instead of 2 am.

Plus, I have a lot on my mind.

Maybe I'll just revamp my websites.

Enjoy the beautiful weather slated for today.

I'll be napping.

GOODBYE, WILLOW

2010-04-20T19:54:00.001-04:00

Whose arms I seek both night and day

Whose leaves I spy when ‘er they sway

Amongst the bush asleep does lay

Awaken lovely tree

I’ve waited long and weary past

Mid storms and rains and snowy blast

The time for you to bloom at last

Is beckoning lovely tree

The name is wrong for brings to mind

Another place, another time

No weeping here oh willow mine

Oh beauteous wondrous tree

Our minds did mend and hearts did swell
While all around was swirling hell
No mind was paid to ringing bell
Thou ever thankful tree

So seasons change and we shall sing
The song of love and hearts of Spring
With gladness that true love will bring
My lovely, willow tree

Rest in peace, my lovely willow tree.

COMING HOME

2010-04-12T16:51:00.001-04:00

According to the liturgical calendar for Christians, we have just ended the Easter season, and have entered into what is known in Church teachings as “Ordinary Time.” Between Advent and Easter the days are grouped within cycles which determine feast days, celebrations of saints and which portions of scripture are to be read. Our days are filled with decorating the churches to signify the emphasis of the season and what themes are used for preaching, traditions and holidays, all of which can be found in a book called a lectionary.

I was mad at the institutional Catholic Church for quite a while, the reasons for which are not important now. My anger never lessened my belief in God, but it did cause me to look at organized religion with a more cynical eye. I began to look around at other religions, and wondered if they ever felt the same thing I was feeling.

Having been on the other side of the altar, that of both servant and leader, gave me an insider’s look of what the cleric and religious deal with. I learned quickly that they are just like us lay folk; they get frustrated and angry with God, they question his motives and cry at his injustices. But for the most part, faith is never shaken or weakened, and each day is celebrated for its uniqueness.

In my old position as a pastoral business manager, I managed four Catholic Churches. All but one has been physically closed, the congregation moving to assemble in one church located within the heart of the city. With each closure, our tears flowed as our hearts broke deeper and deeper. For years I attended another denomination, determined to find another way to remove myself from the pain of dissolution and disillusion.

I immediately felt accepted by my new church family, but still struggled with the idea of belonging. A reverent and gracious group, their invitations were sincere and their acknowledgment of inclusion was heartfelt. I felt their love and hope they felt mine. But it didn’t matter - my head understood, but my heart still had to catch up.

It never really did. With each passing year of celebrations of Christmas, Easter and everything in between, I still felt the sadness of the loss of my home church, until finally realizing what had been gnawing at my gut every time I closed my eyes to pray.

An invitation to attend the reopening of my home church was received with both delight and sadness. The old brick building, lined with stained glass windows and marble altars, had been renovated to allow for handicap accessibility, newer brighter lighting and wider pews. The new church encompassed the other churches, enveloping it and its congregations in a warm embrace. It was a reminder of the change, for of the church and of myself. I was reminded again that I was older, both emotionally and physically.

As I entered the home church earlier than the rest, I sat in the pew where I used to sit with my family. I felt a calmness long forgotten, as the memories of old hymns and celebrations washed over me. My history played in my mind, like an old movie from other time. I was at peace.

Parishioners began milling in, one by one and taking their own designated favorite seats. Choir members gathered in the area preparing to sing as the piano began to softly play the introduction to their first song of praise.

I glanced around and was surprised to see how some of them had grown! How others had aged and some had no doubt quietly passed away. My eyes began to tear up as my head, the reason why it was so hard for me to let go and let God, finally recognized the truth in my heart.

It was the people. I missed the people. Those whom I had served and those who had ministered to me were there. It was as if they were waiting for me to return, as if I had never left.

So the fact we have just entered Ordinary Time is not lost on me.

Buildings and traditions, calendars and holidays do not make a church.

The Ordinary People do.

OUR LAKE

2010-04-07T08:00:00.000-04:00

Storm clouds today, after a glorious few days of sun and warm unseasonably warm weather for April. They gather over the Lake like a dark swarm of honey bees, buzzing lightly, emitting a low humming sound. The rain will start falling lightly, the inevitable "calm before the storm". They will swirl in little circles on top of the water, little pools of activity beginning to form.

I've witnessed storms over the big lake, his lake. His body of water is large enough to make waves, not the gentle swells of my body of water. His lake mimics the loud, crashing rhythm of the ocean, the literal ebb and flow of water against sand and rock. It can be frightening and soothing at the same time, if one is not used to the sounds. My Lake has tender, gentle swells, lightly feathering the sides of the shoreline with slim fingers. My lake is mostly still and quiet, a warm hug at the end of a busy day.

I sit at the window, transfixed as the raindrops pelt down upon the mirror below. There is no wind, no claps of thunder, no lightening I can see. There is only the gentle release of some frustration for being held in the same position, same holding pattern, for so many days. After a few minutes, it is quieter, so much so that I have to repeatedly look closer, straining my eyes to determine if it is still raining. The only indication is the swirls on top of the water, along with the dark skies and the constant, soothing buzzing. The sounds of nature and the birds soon will return to the landscape. His Lake has seagulls; mine has Orioles.

It is somehow a welcome reprieve. Even though I basked in the sun the previous week, there is something to be said about the mundane, the familiarity of routine and disciplined living. I try to do certain things the same way every morning; this was a glorious opportunity to look out the window and do nothing.

The storm has passed. It's a new day. Look up at the sun, past the clouds now beginning to break up.

Have a great day. It's your choice.

.

CAREER DAY

2010-03-26T14:24:00.002-04:00

Anyone who knows me or has read any of my books and/or columns understands that when it comes to writing, I came late to the party. I was never really trained to be a writer and took only a few creative writing courses when I was in my late thirties. Truth be known, I did that because I thought it would give me some street cred amongst the other, more educated writers I've come across.

I write about what I know and most of the times stay safely within the confines of the niche I created for myself. I’m most comfortable in essay form, but do write a little fiction now and then. I write for myself and if other readers enjoy it, I consider it a bonus.

But upon submitting the most recent manuscript to my publisher, I was surprised to receive back a cache full of red slash marks and the words "dangling modifier" scribbled over half the paragraphs. I don't even know what a dangling modifier is, I had to look it up. But apparently, I was fraught with them.

What surprised me most, however, is that I didn't really care what this editor had written to me. Yes, editors are more knowledgeable than me and more astute at getting the point across. Yes, they probably make a lot more money than me, too. But I've come to the point in both my writing and in my life that I don't really let what other people think bother me. It wasn’t always that way. One of my first reviews was from an anonymous poster who had felt compelled to tell me exactly what they thought of what they had just read.

“You suck!” the anonymous critic had written. “Why don’t you go write for Ladies Home Journal?”

At first I didn’t feel bad, because, hey, I liked Ladies Home Journal. But then I realized it was meant to be a slam against my skill level and what that really meant: I could only write for bored housewives who would read anything.

So imagine my surprise when I was invited to speak as a writer during “Career Day” at the local middle school. I was to talk about my unconventional career path to becoming a newspaper columnist and what I learned along the way. I laughed when I first read the email, since it has taken me years to even introduce myself as a writer, even longer to believe it, although I had been writing professionally for years.

I’ve spoken in public to others before, whether it was at luncheons, seminars, or conventions. I’ve talked about topics ranging from politics to religion and to what I like to talk about most – family life with all its drama and poignancy.

But this was a new crowd for me – 12-14 year olds. My oldest grandson is just entering his 12th year, and my oldest granddaughter just turned 11 – so this was still a long time gone from when my tweeners were running around.

I wondered what I would talk to them about and how I would frame what I wanted to tell them. To not worry about what you share and how much, to develop a thick skin, and don’t go into it for the money, because the famous “Stephen King” discovery stories are few and far between.

I wanted to tell them how good it feels to see your name in print, and when a stranger says in passing “I loved your column this week; it made me cry!” For all the ripped up pages, torn from reams and reams of notebooks that never see the light of day, there are gems that emerge from the rubble, the true diamonds in the rough we all hope to find. It can happen, and there is a lifelong education to finding what works. The world changes; so should the content.

The mini seminars (there were three with rotating attendees) lasted about 25 minutes each, and with the ringing of the class bell announced the change of room assignment. I quickly critiqued myself and vowed to do a little better each time. All were mannerly and interested, for this was something about which they wanted to learn.

As the last of the students straggled in, my eye caught the face of a lone boy, sitting lazily in a chair. He looked at me as if I was the most boring person in the world.

“Don’t you want to be here?” I asked him point blank.

”I don’t know why I’m here” he answered, with one sullen eye daring me and the other eye full of curiosity.

“I’m not a writer, I don’t know why they assigned me to come here!”

Apparently, he had been absent when the students were asked to choose what speaker they wanted to hear. But just as obvious to everyone but him, he was a writer and someone wanted me to talk to him. Most likely frustrated and the victim of one too many criticism falling on yet tender ears, somebody felt he was worth reminding.

He’s a very good writer! mouthed the teacher silently from the back of the room and her smile explained everything.

He needed someone to tell him it was ok to not be like the rest and to write from a different viewpoint. To write from his heart and not to listen to those who say you can’t.

I told them about inspiration and how it’s important to listen to that little voice that tells you to “write something about that.” I shared with them the wisdom to recognize whatever tidbits the writing gods throw your way should not be ignored.

I thought to myself about inspiration and what it really meant as I watched him watch me.

“I suck!” he said again, as he sat back as listened to my spiel about finding my true passion by writing what I knew about and sharing pieces of myself in my characters.

“Kid” I thought, ”We all suck in the beginning, and I’m writin’ about you.”

Thanks for the reminder on Career Day.

A DAY IN THE LIFE

2010-03-24T10:30:00.004-04:00

One of the reasons authors have book signings is to basically push the next book they are writing. Everyone knows, just like any entertainer, you're only as good as your last movie, album, or series.

It's no different with books.

Coincidentally, I have a book being released this November, although I had hoped it would be sooner. Like last November.

I was in a small town on a Sunday afternoon, at an even smaller, but quaint bookstore. The sun was shining brightly, like the great big hug that was needed after a nasty and damp winter. The proprieter's name was Thomas, and he was a retired teacher.  It was obviously he held great affection for the clientele, and they for him. He was short and wore wire rimmed glasses, precisely the way you would want a bookstore owner to look.   They came in one by one, old men and women, high schoolers and moms out for the afternoon. They went by names like Vern and Mona, Rupert and Sally.  The teens stood quiet and sullen, anxious to head to the mall while waiting for their moms to pick up the book that had been reserved just for them.

The entrance way boasted a counter with a cash register, with candy and gum and small pamplets stacked on the opposite side. The walls were stacked from floor to ceiling with books; old ones, new ones. The air was filled with the smell of paper and typset, old cigar smoke and the promise of a bestseller, hidden somewhere amongst all the secrets from someone's heart. Unopened boxes from anxious new writers like me lay silently at the far end of the room. Bright sunlight streamed in through the big windows at the front of the store.

Walking towards the back of the store, you had to watch your head as you walked passed yet more books jutting out of walls, creating an almost cavelike atmosphere. The room opened up to a great room of sorts, with assorted overstuffed couches and chairs, small coffee tables and end tables holding dimly lit lamps. It was a reading room, the real intent of the establishment, a dream come true for its owner. There were no windows and no room for anything on the walls. Books filled every conceivable corner of the room.

A corner table held coffee and tea pots, with packets of raw sugar and creamer.   It appeared everyone had their own coffee mugs, which had been rinsed out and were upside down in the drainer next to the small sink. Old musty chairs were staggered throughout the room, creating privacy if one wanted to escape in reading "Moby Dick" or "A Tale of Two Cities" as well as a sitting area to discuss the latest Oprah Book Pick.   A tan cat sat cleaning herself on one chair in the far right of the room, while a sleeping black and white puss strewn out on a couch opposite her paid no mind to her routine.

For as many times as I have done these signings, each venue is different in how they like to showcase the visiting author. I have stood at a podium while I read an excerpt from one of my books. Other times, the freedom to roam the room was granted, as I jutted between white folding chairs and talked to the audience with the aid of a microphone and ad libbing my little heart out. There's even been the opportunity to sit at a table and have people come to me, forming a line and chatting a little here and there. In the beginning, it was all people I knew; friends, relatives and co workers. As the years went by, I was able to travel and go to bookstores filled with strangers who were curious as to who was this middle aged woman and what did she have to say.

Today was a combination of all of these descriptions.   Apparently, there was a couch set up for me, with my books stacked neatly upon one corner.   I plopped down in front of the table, while the black and white cat opened one bleary eye.

"I see you've met Mr Stories." Thomas smiled as he bent down to pick the cat up and cradle it in his arms.

Vern walked in and stood at the doorway, his 350lb frame blocking out whatever sunlight tried to stream in from the other side.

"You the writer?" he asked in a deep baritone, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. His shock of white hair was less so, having been buzz cut the day before as part of his Saturday ritual.

I smiled.  "I am."  There didn't seem to be the need to add anything else.

"Cool" he said, and then sat on the couch opposite to where I was stationed.  "I'll be right back."

Closing his eyes, he was asleep in minutes, snoring the sleep of the really tired or dead.

"Don't worry" whispered Thomas.  "He does that."

He was the only person who stayed to listen to me that day. I wasn't upset. In fact, I was surprisingly comforted, as I sat back on the comfy couch while I read one of my books to Thomas, Mr. Stories and Vern.

It was a good day.

A COUNTRY CHURCH BY ANOTHER LAKE- PART III

2010-03-12T08:08:00.000-05:00

11:15 a.m. and the cars were beginning to arrive all at once, as if on cue and a gateway had been opened. They pulled into the gravel parking lot, filling in their predestined spaces, no white lines needed here. They glanced briefly my way, for this was a car that usually wasn't there. I was probably parked in someone's "space." There was an air of mystery beginning to develop and I decided I like the anonymity, enjoying the feeling of being a stranger in a new land, my own Jerusalem.

I began to hear faint singing in the background, traditional old hymns sung on this day, Palm Sunday, the time of the Passion readings. The parishioners had gathered outside to begin the procession into the church, after having received a palm which had just been blessed. It had begun.

Mothers and fathers with young children, young newlyweds, and grandparents stood in line, awaiting to process in. I was frozen in my seat, for suddenly I felt so out of place, so disconnected from the people in the church, I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. I couldn't get out of the car.

I watched as the Priest and a woman dressed in red led the congregation into the little church. I surmised she was the preacher who had invited me, but now was not the time to chat or small talk, or thanking her for inviting me.

I sat a few minutes more in the car, timing the space between the opening prayer and the readings. The reading of the Passion was long on this Sunday, as it is every year, and I knew I would have a little time to sit before the Preacher would begin her homily.

I walked up to the front door and realized I would not be able go in and sit down. The people were standing, every pew full, and the closest I could get was to the vestibule. The doors were closed and I could see her face through the little window in either swinging door that led inside. But I could hear her strong, clear voice, as if I was standing next to her.

In the beginning, she didn't see me. She read her homily, pausing at the places she wanted to make a point. She had begun by smiling and asking the question "Where do we go with this story?" and added her own interpretations.

When it came time to quote my words, she glimpsed my face in the window, our eyes locking for a brief moment. If she realized who I was, her face didn't show it, never stopping to proclaim my belief to the congregation and confirm everything I had written.

She understood what I was saying. She understood my passion about the Passion.

What a wonderful gift she had given me. As she read my name, tears gathered in my eyes. I began to feel the peace and the warmth I had felt when I first pulled into the gravel parking lot, remembering the church of my youth. I have come home, I thought. I am home.

As soon as she finished, I turned to leave. Still not realizing she had spied me, she walked through the swinging doors to find me turning the corner to head towards my car.

"Eileen?" She asked in a faint voice, as Mass was continuing, the communion rites being read.

I turned to face her and my smile was from east to west. "Thank you" I said, as I hugged her. "Thank you for sharing my heart."

"Thank you for writing it, and allowing me to proclaim it" she said. "You don't have to leave, you know, you can come back inside."

I know, I smiled. But not today. I will be back.

I will go back. I know now that I am welcome.

To the little Church in the country by the lake.

EPILOGUE

The town has grown and the Little Country Church was bursting at the seams - so it and another parish nearby combined their finances and spirits and built a much larger, more magnificent church in the center of the town.

I have been to the bigger church and it is indeed beautiful, and one can see the love and thought that went into the planning of the new worship space. I will most likely go there for Easter some time again. But I will always hold dear the feeling I had as I spied the preacher through the doorway, and hearing her read my words, interwoven through hers.

I am still passionate about the Passion.

A COUNTRY CHURCH BY ANOTHER LAKE - PART II

2010-03-07T08:08:00.002-05:00

I had arrived at the little church earlier than I expected.

Traffic was light and I had not gotten as lost as I thought I might, only making two wrong turns in the process.

Some street signs were missing, but I realized quickly the residents didn't need the markers to take them on their frequent travels down familiar streets. They were on autopilot, unlike me, who have been lost most of the time.

I had taken a wrong turn somewhere and was in the middle of a field, with only some cows, ducks and two sheep to ask for directions. Not only was I no longer in Kansas, Dorothy, I was somewhere East of the Rockies.

Like my prayer so many times before, I asked God to please, set me on the right path.

Literally.

This time I really need the right road to get to where I need to go.

My soul was calling to that little church, and to see the woman preacher who had felt the connection with my words to proclaim to her parishioners. It wasn't enough for her to tell me she was doing it. I had to hear it for myself.

I backtracked a few miles and came to a fork in the road.

All roadways unmarked, I took the chance and turned left.

Success! I had found the connecting roadway and continued on. Going a few more miles and feeling I was getting closer to my destination, my eyes began to scan the horizon before me, looking for the tell tale cross.

My eyes found the crucifix to the east, a turn off from the highway. I stayed on the road, adjusting the radio, as the music was fading away. Within minutes, I was lost again, ending up on a dirt road.

What is it, Lord? What are you trying to tell me?

Why I didn't just give up and go home, I'll never know. But I turned around, and found the right road again by looking for the cross.

Down steep hills and brown fields, for the rains had not yet fed the greenery, I ventured further down to a small clearing, where I would clearly see the white of the steeple.

I had found the church. Or had it found me?

********************************
It was nearly 10:30 a.m., an hour before the start of Mass. I pulled into the gravel parking lot, empty at this early hour. I drove to the furthest part of the lot and backed in. Turning the engine off, I sat back in my seat, unfastening my seat belt as I looked around me.

What a peaceful and sweet place, I thought. This was truly a respite for someone accustomed to the daily grind of doing the things that needed to be done. A woodpecker worked away on the tree behind me, his schizophrenic taptaptaptaptap a relaxing rhythm. I thought about the residents here and what led them to live here. How had they found it? It reminded me of the church I attended when I was a child.

The bells in the steeple began to toll the hour. Eleven o'clock, already?

A few cars began to pull into the parking lot, those obviously connected with the service.

A woman driving a Range Rover parked a few spaces over from me and smiled, her eyes questioning what are you doing here?

As she got out, she unloaded her equipment, a guitar and a canvas bag, marked with a G clef on one side, and sheet music on the other. Clearly, she was the church musician. Focused, but in no particular hurry, her determination to begin her task was not slowed by noticing the blonde woman in the car. She probably thought I was a city slicker, a refugee who had ended up on the wrong path and ended up in an unknown town.

For I immediately surmised I was overdressed, and would look ostentatious with my blue suit, matching pumps and handbag. I would stick out like a sore thumb, taking the attention off the task at hand and putting it on myself, had I gotten out of the car. The church was small, and would groan to hold 60 people. This was a place that did not boast of material possessions. It didn't look like a struggling, poor city church. But they did not flaunt anything here. Just filled the building to the brim. Like when I was a kid.

"The service doesn't start until 11:30" she said, not looking directly at me.

"Thank you. " I answered, smiling as humbly as I could behind the visor.

"I wasn't quite sure where this church was, so I came a little early. I'd like to sit out here for a while, if that's ok."

"Sure" she answered sweetly, finally meeting my gaze. "I just wanted you to know that." With that, she went inside.

xxxxxxxx to be continued....

THE DUCK FEEDER

2010-03-06T09:24:00.003-05:00

I have a terry cloth bag in the shape of a yellow duck. It was a Christmas gift from one of my “Duck” girlfriends, the group of women whom I’ve known for eighteen years and from where our moniker was formed. We met midway through our banking careers and continue to meet twice a year for lunch or dinner even though we no longer work together. We pick a nice summer day in July to have a long, leisurely lunch and catch up, and then again at Christmas time, where we give each other a duck themed gift. Choosing numbers from a bag we don’t know for whom we bought, or what we are about to receive. As the years went by, the gifts got more outrageous. I am notorious for giving the most uncreative gifts.

Last year I got the duck bag. It has two long drawstrings, and when it’s empty, it sorta hangs there like a towel. It lives behind the bathroom door, swinging back and forth when I close the door to take a shower. I was trying to figure out what to put in it to make it look duck friendly when I noticed the basket on my bathroom windowsill. It was overflowing with travel size soaps, shampoos, conditioners and hand creams, gifts my road comic traveling husband would bring back to me upon his return. Even I had added to the supply last year when I embarked on a combination five state book tour and visit to family.

I poured as many of the small plastic bottles into the mouth of my duck, until its belly was bulging and could not longer hold one more bite. I loaded the handful of remaining ones into my gym bag, where I used them until the supply ran dry and could ‘borrow’ some from the duck bag. Pregnant and proud, she hung there day after day for all to laugh at.

After a while we got into the habit of making sure she kept her robust figure.

“Time to feed the Duck!” he’d say as he unpacked after a weekend away.

“The Duck looks hungry!” I’d laugh as I enlisted one of my grandkids to feed her, stubby little fingers grabbing hold of a shampoo and shoving it in her mouth. I hope it’s a memory they keep in the back of their minds and bring out once in a while when I’m gone.

I noticed the Duck bag gotten quite slim over the winter since our traveling slows way down and we stay closer to home. Comedy gigs are within driving distance and motel stays are limited.

It’s also a sign that he’s ready to go back on the road. Armed with a notebook full of fresh jokes and stories, he packs his suitcase with a mix of excitement and apprehension. He loves the road and touring, but he loves our life together just as much. He hates having to choose, so I choose for him and give him my blessing. We'll meet up somewhere midway between jokes and book signings, laughs and kisses overflowing like my yellow friend.

Besides, someone has to feed the Duck.

A Country Church By Another Lake

2010-03-01T09:06:00.000-05:00

I love to get in the car and drive.

I could go for miles, sitting for days behind the wheel. Taking in the sights and sounds and smells of little towns and hamlets, big city worries disappearing in my rear view mirror. It's a form of therapy that only cost me as much as the fuel to gas up my car.

I had received an invitation by a preacher in a church 30 miles away from my city home. She wanted me to listen to her preach the Gospel for Palm Sunday. She had discovered several of my essays and felt a particular connection with a few of my pieces. She asked would I give her permission to use various passages in the context of her homily? Her Lenten message and prelude to the most holiest of weeks in the Catholic faith, the Triuudium, the week before Easter. She felt my words would connect with her congregation.

I was thrilled beyond words that she wanted to quote me. I was honored and jumped at the chance to drive out to her little country church, thirty miles from my safe haven and from the people I knew. It combined two of my favorite things to do, the aforementioned driving and another hobby of sorts. Checking out other churches and faiths other than my own.

I look at other faiths from time to time just out of curiosity. It's not a time for comparison or one up man ship or to see which faith is "better." I view it, rather, as a new way to visit with God.

The other part of the fun is checking out other churches purely for architectural and aesthetic reasons. I like to see how other communities "do it", as opposed to my own. I like to look at the various icons that particular community has chosen for worship and how they have adorned the altar, positioned the statues.

Someone used to tell me I could smell a Catholic Church ten miles away. They were amazed I could find these little sanctuaries set far back or in out of the way places, apart from main streets or highways. If they knew what my "secret" was, they would feel foolish indeed.

It's simple. Churches usually have a giant cross that is erected atop the highest steeple of the building. They were put there for a reason; for the faithful to be able to find it. All one needs to do is look to the horizon and you will see it. It will call to you and lead you towards it.

After filling the car up with gas, checking the road map and filling my thermos with coffee, I drove off to the highway to begin my trek. It was a beautiful, sunny, Spring morning, the first after a long, dark winter. It was 9:00 a.m. and the mass I wanted to attend didn't start until 11:30 a.m. Plenty of time to get lost in the journey and take in the aura of another place, where I envisioned time would be slower, roadways kinder, and space expansive.

I didn't know what to expect, unaware of what I would find.

Little did I know my journey would lead me to a place of peace and great joy.

Little did I know, I was heading home.

To be continued…

Good Night, Sleep Tight

2010-02-24T08:34:00.000-05:00

The day started sunny and bright, but we knew the storm was coming our way. The lake was calm, the waves on sabbatical for the moment. Arrangements for the day were made, he going his way, I going mine.

As I drove the distance to complete my first errand, it was obvious a lot of other people had the same idea. The roads were busy with last minute shoppers to pick up supplies, to replenish and restock the cupboards of soups and gravies and sauces. Macaroni and meat, chicken and salads, we were well stocked and prepared for whatever storm would come. Birdseed and suet, bread crumbs and bread crusts, all ready and waiting for our friends both feathered and on four legs. It is the end of February and one more month of winter at hand. In western New York, the month of March comes in like the proverbial lion and goes out like a lamb.

The day passed easily with no veering off course, my destinations planned and completed, I headed back towards the lake and to home. The air was getting cooler and the briskness of the temperature made itself known. The waves were beginning to pick up steam, a soft roll that would eventually turn into a roar.

This is my favorite part of winter. The roaring of the lake, the waves a loud and boisterous symphony in the background. It lulls us to sleep and reminds me of one of my favorite John Lennon songs; I would sing it to my children when they were babies, and I have sung it to sick puppies on the mend.

It goes perfectly with the setting sun over my winter horizon, and I am full of love and gratitude every time I hear both the waves in my mind and the memory of the song in my soul.

It is a song of love and promise for yet another day to do it all over again. I pray that I never get tired of it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Now’s the time to say good night
Good night, sleep tight
Soon the sun turns out it lights
Good night, sleep tight

Dream sweet dreams for me
Dream sweet dreams for you
Close your eyes and I’ll close mine
Good night, sleep tight

Soon the moon will shine its light
Good night, sleep tight
Dream sweet dreams for me
Dream sweet dreams for you

Close your eyes and I’ll close mine
Good night, sleep tight
Soon the stars will shine so bright
Good night, sleep tight

Dream sweet dreams for me
Dream sweet dreams for you
Good night, February.
Good night.

ARE YOU IN THERE?

2010-02-22T09:42:00.002-05:00

I start every morning by reading the obituaries.

Now, you may think this is a depressing way to start the day, but it isn’t. It became part of my routine when I was the Church Lady, to make sure the newspaper had gotten the information correct; spelling the decedent’s name right, the time of the funeral Mass, etc.

One of the ways to guard against becoming maudlin was to inject a little humor into the event, as it is with many of the tasks clergy face.

"Are you in there?” Father would ask me, referring to the list of the dearly departed.

I scoured the paper while sitting at the kitchen table in the rectory, oblivious to the activity around me. There were several priests living there back then; I felt like I was a special member of the boys club. The housekeeper had left a hot pot of coffee on the counter top. The brick building was old and drafty, built in 1899, just like the church it was attached to. My office was down the hall, a few doors down from the rear entrance of the church. Many a late evening I would hear the choir practicing for Sunday's service. I never kept the radio on.

“Not today” I shot back, draining the last few drops of my coffee.

The cup was an old piece from a long forgotten china set, most likely donated by a relative of the congregation who had lost a member. Many of the gatherings after the Mass were held in the parlor, and sometimes they just left everything there, too sad to bring back home with them the reminder the one they loved was no longer there.

"Then it’s a good day” he’d smile, putting on his clerical color, the white tab surrounded by all that black.

Smiling, he'd give me a tap on the shoulder and head out to whatever destination God had planned for him that day.

Old habits die hard. Nowadays I look at the obituaries to see if there are any of my former parishioners listed. The three churches I used to manage have closed, consolidated with the oldest and largest of them all. I’ve been gone close to 7 years now, but it seems an eternity. The Bishop is still going strong, as are most of the priests that I served with. I see them from time to time, and we give each other a wink and a nod. Reassigned to churches still close enough to drive to, I see them now mostly at funerals.

There have been several deaths among the throngs of parishioners that used to gather at holiday times, the one time those who had fallen away would attempt to reconnect most likely at Easter. It would force a moment of clarity for them that would behoove attendance for a few more Sunday’s, inevitably dropping out of sight until Christmas. Most of the time, however, they would come back when they were frightened or in need of help. A family member had become ill, or guidance needed in a decision. Whatever their need, they were always welcomed back into the fold until whatever prayer was fulfilled.

These days, I am struck by the number of younger deaths; I had not noticed them before. Perhaps it is because I am older that I can relate to their passing. It is not unusual to read of a 47 year old man, steamrolled by a heart attack, or a 51 year old woman’s brave battle with breast cancer, a young man's wrong turn on the ice.

We really never know when our time will come or by what method our Father will choose to call us home. The longer I live, the more grateful I become every day, mindful of what my reason for being is intended for.

I read the obituaries these days via my computer screen, a task which before took time and effort, now ever more efficient. I click up and down, easily navigating through the names to see if there are any I recognize or remember.

“Are you in there?” my beloved asks me as he puts his coat on to head out to whatever destination God has for him today.

Kissing me on the top of the head, he waits for a reply.

“Nope. Not today” I answer. “It’s a good day.”

It is.

Borrowed from another

2010-02-20T22:58:00.000-05:00

http://jetreidliterary.blogspot.com/2010/02/dont-forget-not-even-once-ok.html

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS

2010-02-15T08:38:00.005-05:00

I was at a dinner party the other night where I overheard part of a conversation. It was not intentional to eavesdrop, but my ears couldn’t help but perk up when I heard the snippet “…so we took her in and raised her as our own.”

It’s nice to know in this day and age of the ‘what’s-in-it-for-me’ mentality there are still people who will do just that. Seeing a child (or even siblings) in need, there are those among us who will step up and offer their homes, their heart and their wallets. Most of the time this is done on the fly, off the cuff, and under the radar of child protective services. The children are never formally adopted, but become part of a family.

I’m sure this is nothing new. I first became aware of such a phenomenon through a friend whose mother had been taken in by a family during the Great Depression. She and her sister lived with a neighbor for many years, never knowing what happened to her mother and father. Perhaps they were in prison, or thought it was the best thing for her and her sister to have a new family. They never knew and died calling their neighbors Uma and Dada.

I know of three other circumstances where lives were changed in countless ways. Two concerned blood relatives, and another was a husband and wife with no children who decided to help a co- worker out. Just like that. They raised their ‘daughter’ from age 7 to young womanhood, without notarized documents or legal papers. The contracts were between heart to heart, and have never been broken. They experienced the sleepless nights of chicken pox and mumps, suffered through the teenage angst of dating and late curfews. All this was done while Mom visited on the weekends. No contract, no money exchanged. Just love.

Sometimes it’s a blood relative who offers the help, and other times its complete strangers or a friend of a friend who heard about some kid who needs help. The most recent example is the movie “The Blind Side” where a Christian family down south takes in a homeless teenager and who later becomes a NFL star. A heartwarming and true story, the circumstances provided just enough drama to make a great movie. Hollywood knows how to play our heartstrings, and overlooks the dark side of what can happen.

Not all stories are as easily packaged. There are times when the ‘help’ is not needed or even wanted. The attempt to help is really meant as control, to make the parent(s) feel they are incapable of raising the child, or are “doing it all wrong.” It’s a slippery slope to be sure, and just as heartbreaking as if they had lost their child at birth. They are never the same and it doesn’t help the child. Worse still are those who do it as a misplaced sense of altruism, or a calculated act to be repaid later at their request and in the manner of their choosing.

So my thought this Monday morning is to be thankful for those people who take on such responsibility in the spirit of love and compassion. They stand with an open heart and no strings attached. Touching the life of a child who has their arms open waiting for a faceless hug, it surely reserves their place in heaven for as long as we need them here on earth.

THE LITTLE GIRL WHO NEVER GAVE UP

2010-02-12T08:06:00.000-05:00

She first came into my life in the early nineties and quickly stole my heart. I love her as if she was my own. Happy Birthday, Karen you truly are THE LITTLE GIRL WHO DIDN'T GIVE UP......

I have a daughter that I did not give birth to. In the pecking order of my family, she would be the eldest. She is the daughter of my second husband, from his first marriage. Born in Scotland, she was a sweet, skinny, little red haired, freckle face cherub, with one crossed eye that turned inward. She was his darling girl until she was 6 years old. Then she vanished.

I didn’t meet her until she was a married woman with a child herself. Survivor of a bitter divorce and more hate in a family than I could ever fathom, she had managed to grow up sane and happy. I had heard all about her through the memories of my ex-husband, reliving holidays and getting through the sadness of missing yet another birthday without her.

He had one picture of her that he carried around with him in his wallet. A pixie face framed by dark glasses to adjust the crossed eye, she was a lover of horses and dolls. How cute she was and precious was her memory to him. How my heart would ache to see him suffer.

He would often dream of her, waking up with a face wet with tears. She was discussed only at brief intervals, telling our other children about her and that one day we would all get to meet her. I knew she was constantly on his mind and in his heart. I prayed that one day they would be reunited and end this torture for him.

I suppose in my heart I had always known one day we would meet, but I wasn’t prepared for the power of the emotions that arose within me.

On a lazy, mid-afternoon day in Winter, the phone rang and I thought it was one of my sisters. Separated only by miles and as was our routine, someone would call to have a “visit.” We always talked for over an hour, while the kids were outside, playing in the snow.

Expecting to hear one of the girls, I was unprepared for what was on the other end of the line. It wasn’t my sister. At first the voice was low, hesitant and soft spoken.

“Is my father there?” she asked in a voice I had never heard, but dreamed like it would sound. I thought perhaps it was a wrong number, but something about this little voice with a touch of scottish lilt spoke to my heart in a way I had only heard during the birth of my children.

“I’m sorry, what did you say, dear?” I asked. My mind started to race. Could it be?

“I’m so sorry to bother you” she started again, and stumbled out a few words, “I just thought…I looked this name up in the phone book…..thought maybe, I’ve been looking for so long…..is my Dad there?”

I slid to the floor because the air had left my lungs. There was no sound. Some how I knew. This was the little red head.

“Hello?” she asked again. “Are you there?”

I was there. Did I dare ask the question for fear of loosing the connection? I didn’t want to scare her.

“Is this Karen?” I asked, barely a whisper. I couldn’t breathe.

Silence. “Karen, honey, is that you?” I asked again, more firmer than I wanted to sound.

“You KNOW me?” her voice starting to tremble, “You KNOW me, you know who I AM?” she asked, incredulous, getting louder. “YOU KNOW ME?” She said now, practically screaming.

“Oh God, Oh Honey, I know ALL about you” I answered, also crying and screaming now as well. “I know you, I know you, I know you! Where are you calling from?”

It turns out that she and her mother had moved back to Scotland for a short time, but returned to the States shortly thereafter. She had grown up down south. Her mother had been able to work odd jobs to support herself and her red headed angel, even getting the optic surgery needed to repair the left crossed eye.

She had been looking for her father for 10 years.

Never giving up, even after contacting “family” members who had told her they didn’t know where he was. Always searching, even though she had been told time and time again that he had remarried and was not interested in her.

Evil in the face of once beloved Aunts.

But she never gave up. Something in her drove her to keep going until she found him. Their bond was stronger than the dysfunctional extended family it was her misfortune to have been born into.

She gave me her phone number and I told her I would call her Dad at work to let him know. I would leave the next move up to him, but I knew what he would do.

Years have gone by since that wonderful reunion, but she and I have a special bond that will never be broken. She has been welcomed into my heart and is loved as much as my birth children, who readily accepted her as their sister. A beautiful tall redhead, she is a proud woman of integrity, a loving wife and mother.

She is someone I am proud to call my daughter and also my friend. We have spent many happy visits together, getting to know her husband, their family, as well as her mother. She is a kind spirit who just got married too young in life. I could relate. She did a beautiful job in raising a fine young woman.

We know that what happened was a divine intervention from God. It was not coincidental she found us when she did. She was about to give birth to her second child and was so anxious for them to know us, to know their other grandfather. I am so thankful I was home to answer the telephone that day, and to hear that tiny but hopeful voice on the other end who never gave up against so many intentional road blocks set up to dissuade her.

Its been a few years since I've been able to physically visit with her, to get to know her children and her family. Mostly we just exchange holiday and birhday cards. But sentimentis still there, the love bond we have between each other. The best gift is receiving a Mother's Day card from her every year.

“I’m so happy I found him ” she said that day before we hung up “Thank God I found him. God is good.”

“Yes” I said, “You found him. Welcome to your new family. Welcome home, my darling girl.”

Love always finds a way. Yes, God is good.