The Almost-Christmas Child

Christmas 2003. It was a busy, busy year. In June we moved from New York to Maryland because the house hunk was transferred. Moving is always stressful, but this time it was particularly so because we lived in our last home for nineteen years. So much stuff. So much stuff to sort and get rid of or throw out! Then in mid-September Hurricane Isabel roared into Maryland. Fortunately, we were not near the flooding, though one of the trees behind our building ended up on our balcony.

Our youngest daughter was pregnant, due in late December. We made arrangements to stay with our oldest son. Our daughter and her boyfriend were staying in a small room so Christmas was celebrated at our son's apartment. No baby. It appeared that the baby was in no hurry to arrive. We made arrangements to wait the baby out, but by December 29th, we were running out of our medications and reluctantly made the decision to go home the next day. That afternoon our daughter called, "Don't go yet! I've started labor!"

In a little while, her boyfriend called. "She wants you to be here when the baby's born." So we hopped in the car and made the forty-five minute drive across the Hudson River to the hospital. When we arrived, he was waiting for us and ushered us up to the maternity floor.

She didn’t quite make it for Christmas, but on December 29th close to midnight, the househunk and I were with my daughter and her boyfriend, present when Daisha Monet made her entrance. Witnessing the miracle of a new baby never gets old. The precious gift of a new life—especially at Christmas—is a reminder of the real reason we celebrate Christmas.

Anny

Happy 16th Birthday, Daisha!

Christmas Eve Tacos

We have tacos every Christmas Eve. Why? As a remembrance of friendship above and beyond the usual. In this vignette, I tell the story.

Christmas 1981. We lived in Houston, Texas, far from our families. My dad called to tell my husband that he needed to come home. My husband's father was very ill. We could not afford for everyone to go and our daughters were both in bed with the flu. We decided that he would take our sons with him (mostly because I knew that he would have to make frequent stops if they were along). When they arrived in Chicago, my parents planned to take the boys to Indiana to stay with them.

I was fine until Christmas Eve. Then the loneliness engulfed my. My friends were all busy with their extended family gatherings. My extended family lived far away. My daughters were sleeping the holidays away, too sick to care if they had gifts or not. I was feeling underprivileged and deprived as I stood at my kitchen counter eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

The telephone rang. My friend, Linda, inquired about my plans for the evening. I admitted that I did not have much planned except a shower and bed. She told me to get my purse and coat ready. Lester, her husband, was already on the way over to pick up my girls and me. We were invited to her home for the evening. I protested that the girls were sick. She pointed out that they could sleep at her house as well as mine.

When Lester arrived, we wrapped the girls in blankets and carried them out to the car. The trip to their home was short so the girls slept through the journey and were soon cozily asleep in bed. We spent the evening quietly, playing board games, eating tacos, and singing along with Handel’s Messiah. It was a lovely peaceful evening. Just after midnight, Lester drove us home.

On Christmas Eve our family has tacos as a remembrance of that Christmas Eve spent with loving, compassionate friends. Of all of my friends, they were the ones who saw my need and acted. It was an action made more remarkable because they don't celebrate Christmas.

A miracle.

 

anny

Gift Certificates

Our last Christmas in Texas was grim. The oil crisis was in full sail. We wavered month to month, robbing the power bill to pay the mortgage. And there just wasn't any money. None. Christmas miracles depend on someone else having the wherewithal to share what they have. In Houston that Christmas, no one had anything to share.

I was close to tears when my neighbor called on Christmas Eve to tell me our local pharmacy had stuffed animals on sale...$1.50 each. We drove down there without much hope and were delighted to find four different 'safari' animals. There was a giraffe and an elephant. A lion and a tiger. They were really plain, though, but Joyce mentioned she was sure she had some red ribbon to make bows around their necks to fancy them up a bit.

Back at home, we located enough red ribbon to make fancy bows and I was thrilled that my kids would have something. Joyce went back home and I arranged the safari under the tree.

I sat on the couch, watching the tree lights blink while I pondered what else I could do to make the next morning special for my kids. They were all old enough to know the realities about money and they weren't expecting anything at all. But like most parents, I wanted more for my children. I grumbled under my breath that it was too bad we wouldn't have our income tax refund for at least a couple more months.

Then I had a bright idea. We wouldn't have the money for a while, but what if I gave them each a promissory note for the future? We had a cheap dot matrix printer, but I composed a note for each of them, printed them out, sneaked into their rooms and borrowed their crayons to color them. Finally, I folded each one and slipped them through the ribbon collars on their stuffed animals.

The next morning, I was truly stunned at how excited they were with their gifts. The girls immediately started making extravagant lists for when they received their money. The boys had a clearer notion about how far the money would go so they were more circumspect. When February rolled around with the check, everyone of them excitedly presented their gift certificate in trade for real money before we hit the mall.

The next Christmas when I asked them what they wanted for gifts, they all voted for gift certificates again. And that became the Christmas tradition. Heh. I suppose I was way ahead of the idea of gift cards.

Sometimes, we just have to think out of the gift-wrapped box.

Merry Christmas!

anny

All I Want For Christmas

A few years ago, I was a college student. No, not that many years! My youngest child was fifteen and I had a son in the Navy. One day early in December while walking to my car after class, I stumbled and fell face down on the sidewalk. I remember the incredible pain.

After staggering back to my feet, another student urged me to go to the emergency clinic on campus as I was bleeding and my face was pretty badly scraped up. So off I went. The nurse cleaned me up and started chatting about making an appointment to see the dentist. That was the first hint that I had damaged more than some superficial scrapes on my face. I struggled up and went to the mirror.

What a mess.

Aside from hideous bruises and scrapes I had three chipped and ragged teeth (the front ones of course!) I called the dentist and went in immediately for an appointment. And discovered via the x-rays that I'd also cracked the bone just under my nose. My lips looked like something on Botox on speed.

My daughter was away at a boarding school. I called her that weekend and told her all about my adventures with the broken teeth. She sort of giggled after a bit and sang, "All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth..."

Somehow, it wasn't so bad after that.




Update: Still dealing with those chipped teeth twenty five years later. Going back to dentist in the New Year for new veneers. Moral of the story? Don't stumble and fall on your face.

anny

Christmas Journey

Christmas 1989. “Please come if you can. Uncle Charles has terminal cancer and probably won’t be with us next Christmas.” For many years in my family, holidays (Christmas and Thanksgiving) have been alternated with the in-laws. This year was not a family Christmas, but the family was trying to get together anyway. It wasn’t a great year for us. The house hunk was on disability because of an accident at work. I was on unemployment because my company, Waldenbooks, had moved their warehouse operation from New York to Tennessee. The boys, recently graduated from high school, were out of work, since they had also been employed there. Jobs were scarce in our rural county with 700 unemployed warehouse workers suddenly in the job market. I was attending school as a dislocated worker, hoping to obtain the skills for a new job.

 

“Please come.” Our car was shot. There was barely enough for a gift for each of the kids. Friends had provided Christmas dinner components for us. The trip from New York to Indiana was out of the question. Reluctantly, I called my parents with the news.

 

The kids asked us if we could talk for a few minutes. “Suppose we give up our present money…would we have enough gas money to get there?” one of them asked.

 

My younger son offered to change the oil and do a quick check up on the car. Our oldest pointed out that we could take turns driving. The car had very little heat…but our older daughter suggested that we could take extra blankets. Slowly, one objection at a time, they showed us that we could make the trip. I called my parents in LaPorte, Indiana and suggested that they make up some extra beds.

 

We traveled to LaPorte, stopping only for restrooms and coffee. Our car was a tight squeeze for five small people. We had six large people. The kids said that was a good thing as we all stayed warmer that way. Meals were sandwiches eaten in the car. In Ohio, we ran into snow. The car heater didn’t work well enough to defrost the windows so they began to freeze over. There were frequent stops to clear them, but we made it. After eighteen hours on the road we arrived in LaPorte. There was close to a foot of snow on the ground.

 

It was a great Christmas, rendered more poignant because of Uncle Charles’ illness. There were more family members there than at anytime before or since. Close to 70 people sat down for Christmas dinner. Afterwards, there were games, carols, and visiting.

 

The trip home was longer as there was more snow to contend with. In Pennsylvania, the snow was so heavy that it melted on the headlights, creating a sheet of ice that coated them. We stopped frequently to clear them just so we had light. Cars were sliding off the road. It was night. Plows couldn’t keep up with the storm. The rest areas were closed. We had no money to stay anywhere so we kept moving. Twenty-six hours later, we arrived safely home.

 

Anyone who has traveled with teenagers knows that it’s impossible to travel far without petty squabbles and picking. However, our entire trip, bad weather, extremely uncomfortable conditions, with limited money, there wasn’t a cross word from anyone.

 

A miracle. Several, in fact.

anny

Christmas Gifts

Over the last few days I've read several social media posts and statuses where adults are mourning their lack of Christmas (gifts, lights, tree, decorations, etc.) They're not mentioning the lack for their children's sake. No...they're speaking up for their own lack.

Since this is something I can speak about from vast experience, I had to have my say. For the last innumerable Christmases (not to mention birthdays, Mother's Day, etc., etc.) I could count all my gifts on one hand. Some years I didn't need even a finger to count. And yet, I feel blessed.

I have four reasonably healthy children with their attachments, one healthy husband, two still independent parents, and three healthy siblings with all the attachments--spouses, children, grandchildren. Speaking of grandchildren, I also have five brilliant, healthy ones of my own.

None of them live anywhere near us. But I love them and I am blessed by their very existence.

I have shelter. I have food. I have everything I need to be comfortable, plus some to spare. It was not always so. There were years when I wondered how we would feed our children, but that is not the case this year. And so I am blessed.

I have a closet full of decorations for the holidays. This year except for our tiny fiber optic tree, I chose not to haul them out. But even if that closet was empty, it wouldn't leave me less blessed. Christmas isn't about decorations or carols or gifts. It's about love.

For those of you feeling loneliness or depression, my heart goes out to you because you are devoid of the greatest of gifts--love. Love for yourself. Love for another. Love for your neighbor. If you have any of those, you are blessed.

Light a candle and give thanks.

anny

Let There Be Peace on Earth

"Let there be Peace on Earth..."

The first time I heard this song was at my oldest daughter's Christmas pageant the year she was in fourth grade. The elementary school had no place big enough to hold the pageant so it was held in the high school auditorium. The program was creative and joyous and enjoyed by all the parents and families.

Near the end of the evening, teachers dressed as reindeer took the stage with a rollicking skit and song. As I was enjoying it, awareness of a shuffle and hiss crept in and I realized that the children were silently lining the walls around the auditorium.

The lights went out. A deep silence filled the huge room.

And then one young voice soared in the darkness. "Let there be peace on earth..." A tiny light flicked on lighting her face.

A few more voices joined in...just a few from points all around us. "And let it begin with me." More lights. More voices.

Until we were ringed in light and earnest small voices singing about peace on earth.I think about that song often. I think about how we still don't understand the underlying truth of the words..."let it begin with me" for peace does not begin with warriors. Peace is protected by warriors when all else has failed. Peace begins with each of us.

Most people believe that peace is an absence of war. That isn't true. Peace is an absence of conflict. And true peace will not arrive until we as humans refuse to countenance abuse, intolerance, genocide, greed, and famine. As long as we turn away from the less fortunate ignoring the needs of the many in favor of the wants of the few, there will be no peace on earth.

"Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me..."

Anny

Grinch Gets a Heart

Christmas 1997. Well, there we were. Life, as usual, had twisted us in knots. We were short on money, long on bills, and the holiday was around the corner, nipping at our wallets. That year we had a new miracle in our family. Her name was Talitha and she wasn't old enough to know that she was a miracle.

I watched her being born back in September. My younger daughter and her husband were having tough times so they were living with us… which meant that I got to see her every day. She was nearly three months old and changing almost by the hour.

Back in my more arrogant days, among the many silly things I said, was one particular gem—that none of my children would be allowed to move back in with me once they were on their own. I’ve been forced to eat my words several times. That Christmas both of my daughters were living with us! In any case, I have found that God generally gets what he wills, one way or the other. That June, in a matter of twenty minutes, he simply removed all other options. God was determined to give me a blessing I didn’t want.

Tough times can shrivel the soul. On the outside, I carried on, but on the inside, like the Grinch, my heart was several sizes too small. And then, God sent a gift into my life. Life was still tough. There was little income and large out-go. But when I came home from work and held my granddaughter, things were okay. I forgot how precious the little children are. I harbored resentments and bitterness because of my own failures with my children. With this tiny baby, I was able at last to forgive myself for my failures and simply allow myself to love her without expectations or conditions. When I watched her young parent's faces when they held her and cared for her, then I knew that I did something right. 

 

Talitha is twenty-two now. Life has whizzed by, but when I look back, she was still a miracle. Merry Christmas.

 

Anny

The Christmas Surprise

The Christmas Surprise

The end of that year was an incredibly turbulent time. In November on my fourteenth birthday, President Kennedy was assassinated. It was in the beginning years of the Vietnam War. The Cuban Missile crisis was not long before that. Uncertainty was everywhere. So herewith, the story of Christmas 1963.

Christmas 1963. That was the year that Christmas wasn’t going to bring even one gift…we thought. It was a poor financial year. I didn’t exactly know that we were poor. We had plenty to eat. We had clean, warm clothes. We had a warm, sheltering apartment in Chicago that my stepmother, Maxine, worked hard to make a haven for us.

Now that I am a parent and grandparent I realize how difficult it must have been for her to sit us down a few weeks before Christmas and explain that there wasn’t any money for gifts. If all the money she had managed to save was pooled, we could have a special Christmas dinner. Back then there were no such things as food banks or church assistance.

Soberly, we considered the dilemma, and then one by one, we agreed that a special dinner was the best use for the money we had. Once that was settled, we put it behind us and life went on.

Then, a couple weeks before Christmas, Mum told all of us to hurry home immediately after school, as there would be a surprise. Friends of the family planned to bring each of us a gift and wished to be present when we opened them. So on this day, I slung my books into my locker at school and rushed home. Pounding up the stairs to our second floor apartment, I eagerly flung open the door—and froze in my tracks.

Every level surface in both the dining and living rooms was covered with gifts. Piles of beautifully, lovingly decorated boxes with bows and trinkets. A tree twinkled merrily in the corner. The melodies of familiar Christmas carols filled the air. Unexpectedly, Christmas had come to our home.

As I stood in the open doorway, I could not imagine what had happened. Certainly, we didn't get rich overnight. I shut the door before walking around the rooms gently touching the lovely boxes. Mum, more excited than I had ever seen her, urged me to look in the kitchen where two boxes of groceries, a ten-pound ham, fifty pounds of potatoes, and a five pound box of chocolates sat on the table. A special Christmas dinner indeed!

In a little while, when my brothers came home from school and my dad arrived from work, we opened the gifts. Of all the Christmases in my life, this is the one I can remember every single thing I received--not because I was a greedy kid, but because they were all gifts of sacrifice from strangers.

Our family friends were a minister and his wife with a church in Indiana. One of their church families approached them, seeking a family that wasn’t going to have any gifts for Christmas. The parents and children of this church family voted to give up their Christmas gifts so that a family, unknown to them, would have a special Christmas.

The minister and his wife undertook the responsibility of obtaining clothing sizes and special needs, plus transportation and delivery of the gifts. And they delivered our heartfelt thank you letter to the anonymous family.

As Christmas grows closer, whether we are rich or poor, I look back on that Christmas and know that we are blessed because we are together. Every year I remember the blessing of being loved unconditionally by strangers.

A miracle.

Reflections

Traditionally, the new year is the time when folks pause to reflect on the past year and set goals for the future. I'm a little odd I suppose as I take that pause on my birthday. Today I turned seventy. For some reason, that just doesn't compute for me. In my heart I don't feel like I'm seventy. Seventy is for old people.

Anyway, one of the things I ponder is how the world around me is changing. The last few years have been tough out there. If one only based our neighbors' attitudes on the things on the news or social media, one would believe our civilization is doomed.

This morning I had to be up and about very early for some bloodwork. Then, after a celebratory bagel and coffee, the hunk wanted to make a quick pass at the grocery store. I sat in the car people watching while he did his thing. And this is what I observed. I watched people smiling at total strangers and offering help. I saw people greeting each other. It didn't matter what color or ethnicity they were. It didn't matter what age or gender they were.

The truth is out there. In the microcosm of one-on-one interaction, we are all human. Maybe in the larger arenas, people show hatred and anger. There always has been--and will always be--those who believe they are better than everyone else, based on the skin color or gender or sexual orientation. But in the people-to-people spaces, the good, the friendly, the compassionate prevail.

I think it's important to observe this. It's important to celebrate our commonalities. We are one. Those others out there only prevail if we forget this. Smile at someone today. Greet someone today. We are more alike than we are different.

Reader Wish List

Every reader has something they would like if they had their 'druthers'. We enjoy the stories. We faithfully follow the authors. And yet...well there are a couple extra things we could wish for. Since Christmas is just around the corner, here's my list.

1. Title your series on the cover. This isn't a difficult thing to do. What's the overriding theme? Or maybe it's about a specific group of characters. Some authors have fifty or sixty books with multiple series and there's no clue to say which books go together. I'm too short on time to try to sort it out. There are so many others out there to read.

2. Number your books on the cover. Instead of scrolling through pages and pages of book covers on Amazon or Kobo or...well, I'm sure you get the idea...and then having to read every synopsis to figure out where it belongs in which series, just do this simple thing. If you normally write series, even if you're not sure every book will end up being part of a series, slap a number on the cover. If the book never makes it to a series, it will always be book #1, so that's no lie.

3. If possible--and if you're an Indie writer, you make the ultimate choice--try to settle on a specific 'look' (font, color, cover art) for your series. A few notable series authors do this and it makes it so much easier to group the books together at a glance.

The point is sales, folks. I have a busy life and if it's too hard to find your books, or figure out which ones go together, then I'll lose interest and move on. And that would be a shame.

Behold!

I was searching for inspiration for my blog and I found this pic. It speaks to me. Behold! Isn't that a great word? It demands our attention. It expresses wonder and dares us to join in. It begins one of the significant greetings in the New Testament, "Behold! I bring you tidings of great joy!"

Language is a living, changing thing. Every day we add new words and discard others. Behold is one of those losses and that saddens me. What if we woke every morning with the word? This elegant word promises excitement and new beginnings and grabs our consciousness, urging us to seek out the future.

Behold! Seize the opportunities and possibilities!

Queen-ager in Progress

Went to the doc today for my 'six month' checkup...just like a toddler. He checked all the usual things, asked me about any new stuff, gently reminded me I could/should do my exercises while lying in bed, and broached that scary discussion about anemia and iron deficiency.

In a couple weeks I'll roll out of bed on my 70th birthday to visit the morning vamps at 8 AM. Mostly, it's normal stuff, but one test to determine if high cortisol is why I'm sprouting a handsome beard has to be done early, early in the morning.

Sometimes I feel like Lucy in the candy factory episode--never quite getting all the pieces sorted. The creator seems to have speeded up the line so whenever I get one thing under control, something else pops out.

Never the less, I persist! That's what life is about. Keep on going.

I have to go for x-rays on the spine. The hunk 'mentioned' I don't do stuff because my back hurts. So, of course we had to have a discussion about that. The doc explained--very patiently--that the back, my back, was not going to get better or improve or magically be alright. It is what it is, but I'll be seeing the specialist about better pain management. Won't that be fun. However, he also told the hunk to lay off...since I'd no doubt spent the better part of our marriage doing the stuff.

Apparently, I have more new experiences in front of me. When I look back and remember how terrified I was at the prospect of insulin injections, I have to laugh. I do them everyday without a thought. If I can do that, then I can do the next thing, whatever it is.

My friend, Amarinda, assures me age is just a number. I believe I'll call it a level. Level 70 sounds more positive.

Do-Over

In every author's life there is one book they have regrets about. For many of them, the book was never published. For others...well, let's just say I'm going for a do-over.

I've spent a couple years mully-grubbing about what to do with it. A couple days ago I finally started working on it. The book was supposed to tell Traveller and Wrenna's story. Instead it was an awful mish-mash of everyone else with very little left over for the primary couple.

I wrote an entirely new beginning, took the time to type it in the book file and then edited that short piece. This morning I sat at my desk with scissors, sticky notes, and a stapler. After a couple deep breaths, a short interlude where I checked my e-mail, and quick cup of coffee, I dove in.

On the first pass, I literally cut everything out of the story that didn't apply to Trav or Wrenna. With scissors. That was about a quarter of the book. Then I arranged what was left in chronological order. Next I did a quick pass with my pad of stickies, making notes of things to change, check, or add to the story.

Hah. I never felt so great! Finally, I think this book will have a chance. It won't be today or next week, or even possibly next month, but when it's finished, it will finally be the book I should have written in the first place. And it will give Trav and Wrenna their story at last.

Sometimes, do-overs are the best thing!

Overwhelmed by Genius

Yep. I believe this might be my problem.

I used to think it was because I had fuzzy brain syndrome. Sure, you know what that is...when your brain refuses to work due to meds or some other weird condition.

Then I thought maybe it's because I don't have any faith in my story-telling skills anymore. One too many savage reviews or something. Or an edit that just makes me tired. Or maybe it's the total lack of sales.

Perhaps it's the absence of ambition. Ill health. Fatigue. Depression.

But this! This is it! I'm simply overwhelmed by my genius. Excellent!

Who's with me?

The Worst Future

Since the turn of the century, it seems we (humans) have embraced a worst case scenario outlook. There's a hurricane out there coming our way? It'll be the most devastating on record. Four people were shot at a supermarket? Well, that's not bad...it could have been more like that bunch shot two days ago at a concert. Somehow, we've lost the ability to be positive.

I'm not talking about a Pollyanna attitude, but the willingness to be prepared for the worst while living every single day to the utmost. Folks in the past didn't expect winters with so much snow they were trapped for days or weeks, but they were prepared just in case with adequate water, food, and blankets/wood for warmth.

I've been pondering the increase in mental health issues we face as a species. And part of it, I believe, might come from our eagerness to embrace the worst possibility instead of the best. Think about it. I'll wait.

When the doctor sends you for a test do you immediately assume the most catastrophic news? Or do you adopt a wait-and-see attitude. Do you expect disaster? Or do you calmly prepare while moving on with your life? Do you celebrate all the benchmarks of life, enjoy every bit of happiness, even as you respect the difficulties life brings to all of us?

A popular phrase from my early adulthood was "Life is to be lived." I didn't quite understand it until the last couple years when my life has been fraught with illness and pain...when "I can't" seems so much easier than "I will". For every day I get out of bed, get dressed, and go out to do battle with whatever is on my schedule, I am grateful. And while I'm out there, I try to be as observant and alert as possible because some day I might not have that privilege and I earnestly horde every memory.

I often contemplate the joy my memories will bring. And when I do, I smile.

The Day I Killed a Frog

The summer I was fourteen, my family went to stay with my Uncle Bill on his place in west Texas. It was a dry, dusty place with no running water, one outhouse, and a well. Mostly there were scattered mesquite trees, cactus, and dirt. Lots of dirt.

Uncle Bill raised a few sheep for their wool. And he had a horse. There was a tumbledown shed he called a barn. And off about a quarter mile away was a pond with scummy water where the animals--wild and tame--would come to drink.

It was hot. Too hot to wander around outside. I was used to going to the park near our apartment in Chicago and sprawling out on a blanket to read beneath a shade tree. With little to see or do, I soon became bored.

One afternoon, my father grabbed Uncle Bill's shotgun and asked me if I would like to learn to shoot it. That perked me up right away so I eagerly followed him out to the pond, anxious to shoot something...anything, as long as I could actually hold the gun.

After a far too extensive overview of all the parts of the shotgun, he finally allowed me to shoot. The first time I ended up on my butt. That didn't stop me. Determined to learn how to use it, I crawled to my feet and went at it again. My initial excitement soon wore off as I wanted something to actually shoot. Just shooting into the pond was boring.

So my father pointed out a prickly-pear and suggested that as a target. I think he was surprised when I hit it...and the branch of the mesquite he pointed to next. He found a couple old bottles I popped on my first try. Oddly enough, I was proving to be an excellent shot.

Then I spied some tiny frogs at the edge of the pond and without much thought, popped one of them. Naturally, it disintegrated in an explosion of frog bits and blood and sand. The little group of frogs had disappeared.

I handed the shotgun to my father and went to look at the carnage. My father propped the gun over his shoulder and said, "Never point at something you don't want to kill."

I walked away, appalled and sick.

On this terrible day of mourning, I look back at that sunny afternoon and think about how I felt and how I learned a never forgotten lesson. It was personal and required an acknowledgement of the deed, the guilt never went away because it was wanton, without reason or need.

I understand hunting for food. I understand target shooting at a range. I understand sanctioned shooting in the military or law enforcement. All of those have their place. But once you take a life, wherever it might be in the scheme of things, you are never the same.

Losing Your Passion

Most writers are familiar with the idea of 'writer's block'. That's not what this post is about. This is about something more devastating--losing your passion to write. Now I know there are folks who write because they possess the technical ability. There are others who do so for personal enjoyment. And then there are those who write because that's who they are.

They are storytellers. Whether they're ever actually published isn't the most important aspect of their writing, though sharing the story is an additional element. But the very action of sitting down and composing a story is the essence of who they are. They write because they have a passion for writing. Technicalities, grammar, punctuation, even spelling aren't allowed to get in the way of the story. They are the writers who sit day after day at their computer or with pen and paper, enthralled by their characters and worlds. They're the ones who can't wait for formal writing time or space and spend their time scribbling scenes and notes on bits of scrap paper or napkins.

Writing is life.

Then disaster hits. It might be family chaos or medical issues, discouragement or depression. That glorious passion and exhilaration disappears, leaving a writer husk behind. When you've been a writer most of your life, the loss is like going mentally blind. You don't just lose your stories. You lose the interest in them. And there isn't anything to take their place.

I think I'm on the edge of this lonely, lonely place...this desert where there are no characters and no worlds to explore. I used to wonder how a writer could just close up shop and walk away, but I think I know now. I'm stubborn and hate giving up on a project once I begin. I suspect that stubbornness is all that's between me and taking that walk away.

I wonder if there are no more stories for me to write. Maybe. Only time will tell.

Group Opinions

Very early in my writing career, another author wrote something in her own blog, and other writers piled on, vilifying her for what she wrote. I am deeply ashamed that I was one of those writers. As I look back, it had nothing to do with me--or anyone else. It was her personal opinion on her personal blog, but in my self-righteous take on the correct way for authors to behave, I added my voice to the chorus. I've apologized to her several times, but the damage never goes away...the damage to our friendship, the damage to our professional relationship, and ultimately, the damage to her writing career.

At that time, such an event was relatively rare, but any individual who spends time on the Internet now knows it isn't rare anymore. It's a daily event for total strangers to drown someone they don't even know in the vicious, burning acid of their unwanted, unsolicited opinions. After my experience so long ago, I have refused to allow myself to be drawn into such muck.

But I know just how easy it is.

Every one has something that's a trigger. Every one. It's usually a personal experience that resonates, that sets us up, so we jump in with both feet to batter the target. On a daily basis I read posts and comments that could easily draw me in. But after that one incident left me feeling so desolate and ashamed, I made a conscious decision to walk away, to scroll on by.

You might ask why I feel so strongly about this. It's simple. I don't want to ever again have to face the possibility I might have had any part in the destruction of another person's life, career, productivity, talent. It's incredibly easy to destroy with just a few words. Every author out there knows the truth of this statement. Every one of them knows the damage from a bad review or careless opinion can not ever be made better by a hundred fabulous reviews. For all our days we carry that bad review, that meanness in our heart.

The next time you are tempted to jump in and add your voice to the mean chorus of dissenters, think about this...there's a reason our elders taught us, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

Scroll on by.

Power of Music

Scientists say truly powerful music can give us goosebumps, raise our blood pressure, or give us peaceful solace. I vividly remember the first time I experienced the goosebumps phenomenon. My parents took me to a performance of Handel's Messiah. I found the performance uplifting but frankly, I didn't understand what all the hoop-la was about.

And then...the choir moved into the Hallelujah Chorus. Without knowing how--or why--I was on my feet, chills running up my spine, my arms roughened with goosebumps. Why? I don't know. I have discussed my experience with other musicians who were not affected in the same way.

There are other pieces of music who touch me in the same way...The long (20 mins.) piece from Chariots of Fire. Amazing Grace played on the bagpipes.

The young people upstairs play their music non-stop. It's loud, heavy on the drums, and gives me a headache. I would call it rap music. I analyzed why it affects me so negatively, and realized it sounds angry to me. I find confrontation and anger very stressful so this particular music evokes all sorts of negative feelings. I wonder what it makes my neighbors feel? Power? Sex? Anger? Why do they find it so attractive?

In an effort to cancel out the negative effect, I decided to play one of my own CDs and was surprised at the result. First of all, I couldn't 'hear' the music from upstairs, though my music was pretty soft. In some weird way, it blotted it out. And second, an immediate feeling of calm flowed over me.

Certain songs always give me that soul deep sense of peace. Amazing Grace. Abide With Me. Hmm. Many of them are hymns--not surprising when I was brought up in a religious home. Some songs are universal, I think. It wasn't by accident that Amazing Grace was chosen for the funeral scene for Spock. Who can forget the sound of the pipes as his pod was shot out into space?

Music. Melodies for the soul.

Inspection

Every year our apartment complex does inspections of every apartment. Some years, most years it's a simple walk through to check for damage, illegal pets, illegal tenants, etc. Then there are the years they do a full court inspection--like this year.

So...late Monday evening a note was posted on our door notifying us that they would be here Wednesday with exterminators to inspect all the apartments in our building. In order to be ready, we needed to empty every cabinet in the kitchen and bathroom, all the closets so they exterminators will have access to the floors. They will also inspect smoke detectors, replace filters, take pictures of the appliances, floors, etc.

We have no storage except the closets. Yesterday was akin to moving with a twenty-four hour notice. And I'm not sure how they'll take photos of the floors as they are covered with boxes and totes and all the rest of our stuff.

On the upside, I found some stuff I've been looking for. On the downside, we found stuff we need to throw out. A lot of stuff. But not today. Today, we need a shovel to just hold back the tide. And tomorrow we'll have to put it all back. More or less. The hunk has resolved to toss out at least one box per day. At that rate, it will all be done around Thanksgiving...or New Years.

As we age, we discover there are fewer and fewer 'things' we need or want. For the last three years our rule has been 'one item in, one item out'. I suppose we should go to a 'one item in, three items out' rule. Anyone have a shovel?

High Ground

I've been reading the ridiculous coverage about the rich parents paying colleges/universities obscene amounts of money so their undeserving children will have a place in school. You may ask how I have the nerve to make that judgement call. It's simple. If it takes that much money to guarantee an admission, then the kid obviously didn't or cannot make the cut. Based on the few comments the kids made, I found no reason to change my mind.

Here's the thing...arrest the parents or whatever, fine the schools or whatever, but the kids are supposedly adults, so what are their consequences? They get a free ride in more ways than one? The way I see it is simple--the parents never treat their children as adults, the kids never grow up and learn to be adults. Never.

If the kid went along with the scam, then I believe there should be some sort of consequence. Maybe no admission to college for five years. Maybe not ever. Or maybe all the money paid should go into a special account that covers the college costs for students who would never have a chance otherwise to attend college. Or maybe require the ninnies to work a real job...like digging ditches or picking up trash along the beaches and highways or sorting recyclables, for the same time period they would have taken in school.

While mom and dad are having their careers trashed and their pics flashed all over the media, the kids are living the good life. Is this where we've arrived? It's fine to want better lives for your children, but teaching them the 'anyway to get ahead, legal or not' life plan isn't the way to go. It teaches the kid nothing except entitlement.

All of us learn by making mistakes. Some have the resources to escape the consequences. I'm pretty sure that isn't a good thing for them or our educational system or our country. We no longer know where the high ground is because we're so busy dancing on the low ground. 

Plot Holes

Without disparaging him, I believe I can reveal that the hunk is not even remotely a writing critic. So you know how bad any given television show is by the number of plot holes he mentions. Of course, he didn't understand the concept of plot holes when I first began writing, but after twelve years of my yammering, he's getting the idea.

A couple nights ago we were watching a show on Netflix and he started muttering. I wasn't paying much attention as I was splitting my time between watching and reading. Suddenly, he says, "Plot hole! They never tell you how they know this!"

I had to laugh. If my non-reading husband can point out the plot issues...well, you know it's a truck size hole.

Readers might wonder how that can happen. And I have the answer. The writer carts the story around in their head for the duration. From beginning to end, they have an idea of the general layout. They sit at their computer pounding away on the keyboard, making sure the basic parameters of the story are present, but often they miss the holes simply because they know in their brain what the story is about. And what they know never makes it into the written story.

It's easy to notice the holes if you've never read/watched the story. They're obvious. But when you've worked and reworked and revised and edited a story over a period of months, the questions fade into the overall noise and background. Then you leave the reader or watcher wondering what in the world you were thinking about.

I set my books aside for a couple months so I can approach them with a fresh perspective. I'm not always successful, but I do try because I know exactly how frustrating it is to wonder...how do they know that?

Recommendations vs Reviews

A while back I noticed a spate of authors begging readers to review their books. I've thought a lot about the recommendation vs review thing. I would rather a reader recommend my book. Some will ask what's the difference?

The way I see it is a recommendation is general. Maybe you're in a library or bookstore and meet someone looking for something to read. You get into a brief discussion about books and mention several authors/titles you've enjoyed. Recommendations are general and focused on genre. For instance I might recommend N.J. Walters if someone was interested in paranormal romance or Anne McCaffrey is they were looking for sci-fi fantasy. John Sandford or Jonathan Kellerman might be good recommendations for mysteries. I might even get into a discussion about the books an author writes under different pen-names (Nora Roberts/J.D.Robb or Jayne Ann Krentz/Amanda Quick). Regardless, the entire conversation would still remain general.

A review on the other hand is personal. A review is about how the book affected a particular reader. One of the problems an author--especially a new author faces is the difficulty in understanding the difference between the two. I have a book that received both a one star review and a five star review. Same book. The one star review was quite long which is unusual. The reader trashed the book from beginning to end, citing examples. The five star review mostly consisted of "Wow!!! Great book!!!"

Both reviews were the personal opinions of one person. They might as easily have been written for Shakespear's Romeo and Juliet. And their effect on the author should be the same. What the individual reader takes away from a book depends on so much of their personal background and baggage. This is true regardless of genre. It's pretty much why I ignore reviews while paying more attention to a friendly recommendation.

A recommendation asks nothing from me. If I read one of the recommended books, I have no pre-conceived expectations except the possible enjoyment of the story. But a reviewer expects me to agree with their assessment. For my own enjoyment, I decline.

Joy

Life is tough. Most days, I'm do pretty good. But there are occasionally days that are dark. I could choose to believe everything is hopeless. On those days I choose joy. Everywhere, there is at least one thing that can bring a smile to our face. I choose to seek it out.

Laughter doesn't negate compassion. It doesn't wipe out grief. It doesn't take away pain or fear. What it does do is give us the healing gift of joy for however many minutes we allow it to. Isn't that the loveliest thing you've heard today?

Losing My Mind

Getting older is...difficult. Of all the annoying things I've encountered, memory loss is the worst. I used to have a memory like the proverbial elephant. Now, I can't remember stuff I thought about this morning. Case in point--I worked out a fairly complete blog post (in my head). Had breakfast. Sat down at my computer and that blog post is totally wiped as though someone cleaned my brain with a blackboard eraser. Boom.

Before readers tell me to consult my doc STAT, been there, done that. Brain scans show nothing untoward. Best guess is some combination of medications causing brain fog. Lalalalal...

I write down stuff. As the memory has fuzzed up, my notes have grown more detailed. I used to be able to write a name/phone number down and when I glanced at them, instantly knew what the significance was. Hah. Now I write down the number, name, circumstances surrounding them, dates, etc., etc., etc. Still might have to puzzle over them for a while.

Dementia does run in my family but not until folks reach their late eighties generally. Sooooo looking forward to that--NOT. On the other hand, by then I'll have plenty of practice.

In the meantime, I'm discovering a whole new advantage to memory loss. When I re-read a book, it's like it's a brand new story. In fact, I may never have to buy a new book again. Time was I could recall the character's names, story plot and sub plots, and possibly even most of the actions. Heh. I might even remember the character's descriptions and the place the story took place in.

Yesterday, I read a Jonathan Kellerman book I've read previously, numerous times. Didn't recall anything about it until the last two chapters and then mostly had the details wrong. Interesting. It was a new experience for me. In the past, when I re-read a book it was because I looked forward to revisiting an old friend. Now it seems I'll have a host of new friends. Apparently, there are some upsides to aging.

Blessings.

Anny's Guidelines

We all have rules or tenets we live by. As we grow older, our rules might change...

1) It always rains or snows when you have an appointment. The farther you have to travel, the worse the weather.

2) If you desperately need to sleep in preparation for a medical test, you'll definitely be wide awake at three a.m.

3) Your severity of need for a bathroom is directly related to how far away the restroom is. If you're wandering around in a gigantic store like Costco or Sam's Club, it will always be in the opposite corner.

4) If you take your tablet or reader with you to wile away the time while you wait on your spouse at an appointment, it will run out of power five minutes after you turn it on. If you're in the car, you can change that to three minutes.

5) On the day you have fasting bloodwork, everyone in the city you live in will show up at the lab at the same time. Your number will be 87 and you'll finally get to eat around three p.m.

6) If you are nervously waiting for the result from a medical test, you'll hear from the doctor about three weeks later. If you're not really worried about the results, he/she will call you within twenty-four hours.

7) On the day you've planned to go out to eat with your spouse for a special occasion, you'll both wake up with upset stomachs. Immediately after you cancel your plans, you'll feel fine.

8) The weather/temperature outside or inside has nothing to do with whether you're hot and sweaty or cold and shivering. That always depends on your internal thermostat. It might be eighty and you're wrapped in an afghan, or it might be twenty while you're comfortably wearing shorts and a sports bra.

9) Preparing for an appointment, a walk in the park, or a shopping trip takes approximately four hours. It might take longer if you have to shave your mustache, color your hair, or find your shoes.

10) The number of medications you have to take each day directly determines how big your spread sheet is to help you manage them.

What are your rules?

Failure and Success

Writers (and other creative folks) struggle with the possibility of failure and success from the moment they conceive a new project. What is their definition of failure? How will they measure success?

My personal notion of success and failure is three-fold for either direction. The book is a success if I think of a story idea, bring it to completion, and publish it. The book is a failure if no one reads it, no one buys it, and it languishes in limbo.

The Makepeace Sword (my last book) was both a failure and a success. It sold less than ten copies total and received one review so it pretty much ticked all the boxes as they say on the Great British Bake-off.

I admit it's hard to see the positives when the negatives are so glaring, but I have to laugh when some writer is bemoaning their lack of sales because they only sold two thousand copies of their book. The truth is, in the current climate, those kinds of sales are on the high end. I can count on ten fingers all the authors I know who are extremely successful.

Some say people don't read anymore. I don't think that's true. I think two things happen. Some readers don't buy books anymore, re-reading their favorite books instead. Maybe they can't afford more books. Maybe they aim for a higher standard of writing when they spend their money. The other reason books don't sell is because folks don't value the work and time it takes to write.

I can't tell you how many times I've heard from readers who think I should (A) send them a free book because they're such a fan of mine, or (B) should lower the prices on my books (approximately $3) because they're too expensive. Then I think about all the stuff people spend money on--coffee, eating out, etc. and I shake my head. There's that lack of respect for what I do.

We talk about how our money is worth less, but it's pretty much our own fault. Something for nothing? I don't think so. I long ago decided I'll write for myself. I happen to like my stories, my blogs, my memories. And maybe, just maybe, I'll choose to allow the occasional reader to buy what I write.

Blessings.

Baggage

baggage~~ what someone with kids, debt or other problems brings to a relationship. 

Families. Sometimes you wonder about the general overall plan, don't you? My mom was memorialized on Friday. A surprising number of the family were able to attend, even though everyone lives sprawled across the country. 

Since I wasn't able to attend, naturally I received several reports about the family gathering. Not one report agreed with the next. With a lot of experience behind me from attending years of family get-togethers, I had zero expections that they would. One of my siblings expressed concern about that and this is what I said.

Point of view. How we experience an event depends so much on our past and the mounds of baggage we insist on dragging around with us. 

For some reason, likely because we base our ideas on the undependable media, we choose to believe a family unit is perfect. Sacred. Inviolate. The reality is far removed from that ideal. Some families are fortunate enough to strike close to that ideal, but the vast majority are all at the other end of the span. 

Past traumas, personality clashes, different lives and even wide age differences can affect how we view our family members. I know several siblings that absolutely can't stand each other. Such is life. If another family member is toxic, then I'm all for moving on. I can only control or deal with my own baggage--not everyone else's.

Here's the deal. In those rare times when we all join together to celebrate or mourn, are we mature enough to be civil? 

If not, then at least be mature enough to stay away. And take a moment to remember your baggage is your own. And it always affects your point of view.

Any Other Name

When I submitted my first book, I carefully, with due deliberation chose my pen name. Among the many reasons, I now see the new name allowed me the opportunity to change my name without going to court. Nearly all my life I've really not liked my birth name and that dislike was compounded because my parents called me by both my first and middle name...sort of like Bobby Sue.

In my generation, my first name was the most popular girl's name--ever. Most of my classes in school average six or seven of us with some variety of my name. When I became an adult, out of my parent's home, living on my own, I firmly introduced myself using only my first name.

There are family members, however, who still call me by both my first and middle name. Heh. If I call them on the phone or send them a letter without both names they don't even know who I am. Mostly, I shrugged off the irritation--surely a minor thing in the overall scheme of things in the real world--and moved on.

Then came that day when I was offered a contract for my book, that day when I could choose any name I wanted to represent myself. And the name I chose was Anny Cook. It has elements of my past and elements of my future. After eleven years, there are far more people who call me Anny than my birth name. Transition complete.

Except for my parents and family members. It was firmly impressed on me the last two weeks while spending many hours talking to family that I am still that young woman gifted with a name by my parents so long ago. And maybe because I have other options now, I found it wasn't nearly as irritating. So, at sixty-nine there's this epiphany. Whatever name you use, you're still yourself.

Comfort

My mother died early this morning. She was 89--nearly 90. A few of my friends knew she was not doing well so I posted a brief message on Facebook early this morning.

Almost immediately messages of support and comfort started pouring in. I cannot possibly tell you how touched I was by the words of virtual strangers who took the time to reach out with words of love and hope.

Words are so powerful. Yes, I cried. Yes, my heart was touched beyond measure. And somewhere in that nebulous space we call the Internet and social media, for a brief moment politics and disharmony disappeared while civility and compassion reigned.

Thank you to all who wrote those few words. Blessings on your day.

Basics

A water main broke last night due to the cold weather and we had no water for several hours. When the water came on, the hunk ran around filling pitchers and jugs, but it stayed on all night. Then another water main broke this morning so we were without water most of the day.

No showers, no scrubbing the potatoes so we can bake them, no dishes, no laundry, no flushing toilets...you know, just the basics. How we take the basics for granted. We don't even think about power or water or heat until they don't work for whatever reason.

But suppose...tomorrow nothing worked. What if when we woke up there were no utilities? So no electronics. No communications. No phones. How would we find out what was going on? And what would we do if none of it came back on?

All over the world, there are numberless people who do without. They drink contaminated water from rivers and lakes. The heat their homes with dung and toxic trash. They light them at night with a fire. And communications? They don't exist.

In my warm apartment with lights and power, I reflect on how inconvenient it is because I can't take a shower. We used to call this a first world problem. But that's not really the truth because in our country we have thousands of people who don't have access to the basics. So perhaps, it isn't a first world problem, but a problem of the privileged. And we're so removed from it, we feel free to moan and bellyache because we have to do without for a few hours.

What do you suppose that says about us?

Fountain of Youth

Perhaps it's because I'm having to have a bunch of medical tests...or maybe because my mom had to be admitted to a nursing home...or even because I'm feeling age creeping up, but I took a notion to color my hair blue. Actually, it's supposed to be teal, but that didn't happen, did it?

Last week, sitting in my doc's office, I commented that getting older wasn't for sissies. The nurse said she wasn't going to--she planned to find the fountain of youth. And of course, that had me wondering. Wondering if your current age would remain the same, even if you DID find the fountain of youth. I mean, who wants to remain sixty-nine years old forever? Why do we assume we'll go back to being young? It's like in the vampire romances...whatever age you are when you're turned is your forever age. Have you ever noticed that vampires don't turn old people into vampires?

In every instance I've ever read about someone who was immortal, they always appear as youthful. So I suppose that's our ideal. It's okay to be old, but we don't want to look old. That's a flaw in our culture. We don't honor or value those who have lived a while. We ignore the possibilities they may hold wisdom and memories we need. Instead, we brush off their importance to society.

And so, I wonder. If only the elderly could find the fountain of youth, would we still be anxious to search for it?

Fear and Dread

I believe the scariest sentence in the English language is..."We need to do some tests." Medical tests carry the implication of bad news. Some seem innocuous until you understand the real significance. Others? Well, they're more clear cut. For instance, a nuclear stress test to rule out heart issues is pretty plain in scope. On the other hand, a belly ultrasound doesn't sound all that scary--until the doc starts mentioning words like cancer and tumors.

Some folks run, refusing to face the possibilities. Me, well, I'm a born again coward, but life is full of risks so I'll go for the tests and figure any result short of death is a win.

But...that doesn't take away the fear and dread. And the longer you wait for answers, the greater the fear and dread. I also stress out more when I don't know what the process is. I really value technicians and medical personnel who explain every test in detail. I'm one of those people who like to maintain control, even if all that consists of is the illusion of knowing what to expect.

As you get older, you find your body fails in unexpected ways. Today I was supposed to give a urine sample at the lab. Except for whatever reason I couldn't pee! What the heck happened to the six glasses of water I drank prior to my appointment??? Fortunately, the technician handed me a plastic specimen cup with lid and suggested I take it home where I could work on my problem in private. I'm pleased to report I was peeing like a champ within an hour. Ah, life.

For all the folks out there like me who are facing the scary unknown, I offer hugs, understanding, and love. We'll make it through, one step at a time. No running needed.

Life Passages

My mother is 89--soon to be 90. She is mostly disabled due to back issues. This weekend, suffering unendurable pain, she asked Dad to call an ambulance to take her to the hospital, knowing when she did that she would never come back home. Together, they are working to place her in a nursing home because Mom is well aware Dad can no longer care for her.

They live in a tiny town in east Texas in the middle of nowhere with few resources. Last night I sat in my office talking to my Dad, hearing the terrible devastation and heartbreak in his voice when he said, "She's not here. And she's never coming back."

No, she's not dead. But it's impossible for her to go home. And the unpalatable truth is--that's a lesser form of death to the folks involved. She's there alone. He's at home alone. They are not together and will not be except for the hours he will spend driving back and forth to visit.

They have asked for a form of hospice as Mom simply wants to finish her life as pain free as possible. There really isn't anything they can do to help her. She and my dad have spent considerable time deciding what they want to do. And as much as I grieve for both of them, I support them in whatever they wish. They've certainly lived long enough to make their own decisions.

When you are young, you think your parents are indestructible. Nothing can hurt them. As you get older, you start to understand that isn't true. But when you start approaching your own senior years, you finally know real fear. With all the love and best will in the world, I cannot be there for them except at the other end of the telephone. I can barely navigate a grocery store or Walmart, let alone travel 1500 miles to be with them. And that is a devastating realization.

All over the country, this same scenario is playing out for innumerable families. So I'm asking for prayers and blessings for all of us. Heartbreak hurts.