tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34683226356770762722024-03-18T05:47:50.254-04:00Anny's Points of View...which may vary from day to week to month.Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.comBlogger2036125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-30412523664962630832020-02-03T14:14:00.000-05:002020-02-03T14:14:50.772-05:00Turn It Off<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ack. The noise! So much noise. What's it all about? The half-time show. The commercials. The clothes. The behavior.<br />
<br />
It doesn't really matter what it's about. It's all noise. It amazes me that folks spend so much time being annoyed over something so unimportant. If you don't like it, TURN IT OFF. Have we forgotten how to do that? It's a simple action.<br />
<br />
If your phone is driving you crazy, turn it off! We used to do that all the time. In my day, it was as simple as taking the phone off the hook. And you know what? We never stressed about missing a call, either. The philosophy then was straightforward. If someone really wanted to reach you, they would call back. That's still my take on it.<br />
<br />
If a television show or radio channel is bugging you, change it. I've never understood people who watch something they hate and then spend days--even weeks--bitching about it. TURN IT OFF! When did we lose the ability to do that?<br />
<br />
I have a theory...just my own idea. I believe all media is designed for misdirection. You know like a magic show. We're all so busy watching the magician wave his wand, we're missing the real action. So while folks are obsessing about stuff like some singer dressed up as a robot, the bad guys are robbing us with impunity. Why should they worry? No one's watching, anyway.<br />
<br />
Maybe, just maybe, if we dared to turn off all the noise, all the distractions, all the misdirection, we would actually see reality. The hunk and I once had a discussion about the single most influential invention in the 21st century. I say it's the cell phone. Almost everyone has one. And because almost everyone is 'connected', there's not time to think, no time to dream, no time to ponder mysteries, no time to appreciate wonders. Instead, we're nose down to a small flat screen that robs us of nourishment and true communication.<br />
<br />
It used to be kids learned important things from their grandparents and extended families. Time spent was time shared, resulting in passed on knowledge. Now, family gatherings consist of a circle of people all looking at their cell phones. And when the elderlies pass on, their wisdom and knowledge is lost for all time.<br />
<br />
There's an old expression, "Don't reinvent the wheel." I think we keep having to reinvent because we aren't willing to shut down the distractions so we can hear the wisdom. We have an entire generation of folks who are more that eager to share what they've learned. But we don't have time because we'd rather bellyache about something we didn't enjoy. Interesting, isn't it? We don't have the moral strength to just turn it off and walk away from the trivial and short term. Sad. Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-60235254563794908082020-02-01T16:33:00.001-05:002020-02-01T16:33:17.578-05:00The Second Eye<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Writing is generally a solitary endeavor. You sit, you write, you ponder, you write, you research, you write. Then you do several editing passes, mostly catching overused words, missing words, misspelled words, and maybe some timeline issues. When you think you've done the best you can, you hire a specialist, a second eye to catch all that stuff you missed.<br />
<br />
Some writers, usually new writers, don't think they need a second eye. They pass up that step because they're sure they know everything they need to know about writing. The longer I spend writing, the more I know I need that second eye to keep me in line.<br />
<br />
One of the things that happen while writing is the multiple changes to the story (at least my stories). I start out with a clump of ideas and as I write, I refine, I change, I delete and add...and sometimes I don't see that step where I've eliminated crucial information by mistake. That's one of the things my Second Eye catches. She sends me a note asking me "what about?", and I have to confess that was an error. Oops.<br />
<br />
One well known author of a long-running series, misnamed an important character in a book mid-series. She didn't catch it. Editor didn't catch it. It went to print with the wrong name. Something similar happened in the book I'm currently whipping into shape. In book two, the character's name was Gray Horse. For some weird reason, I called him Gray Fox all through book three. Still don't know why I did that, but I did catch it. Now, if the Second Eye and I can catch all the rest of the continuity issues, that would be good.<br />
<br />
Another thing the Second Eye can point out is when the author is too distant from the story. My Second Eye felt my main character was...not a very sympathetic character. We spent time discussing how I could convey how he really feels. Writers don't always get it right when we try to express emotion, especially when the character is a stoic male type. It's a fine line.<br />
<br />
One time, when I was writing one of my early books, my beta reader sent me a clump of text with this note--"You're trying to convince me he loves this female. I don't believe it. Fix it." Heh. Well, I did. And the story was stronger. But until she pointed it out, I didn't see it.<br />
<br />
Over the years, I've had a variety of Second Eyes. I've learned different aspects of my craft from each one. Some focus more on the grammar issues. Others focus more on the story and character aspects. But each one had a lot of wisdom to offer. I would urge writers to never pass up the opportunity to learn and expand their writing skills. Always, I say always, have a Second Eye in your quiver.<br />
<br />
Finally--maintain a sense of humor. In the first iteration of Shadows on Stone, I hired an Second Eye and sent the book to her. She sent it back with some creative comments. But the best was about my use of boxes. Yep. Boxes. First she just highlighted the text. After a bit she highlighted in RED. Then she started adding comments in the margins. More boxes. Big boxes. Small boxes. Boxes again...until she finally wrote ENOUGH BOXES!!!<br />
<br />
Um. Well in the final version, there were only a FEW boxes. Just a few... <br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-47938994049992935522020-01-30T16:37:00.000-05:002020-01-30T16:37:36.586-05:00Underlying Messages<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For the last two or three months, two ads have appeared in my Facebook timeline every single day. One is for a book detailing how to build/maintain/grow a hydroponic garden. The other is a complete herbal compendium detailing all the plants (particularly wild plants) that can be used in alternative medicine.<br />
<br />
The two ads have appeared so consistently I'm wondering if there's an underlying message...something along the lines of "you will need this information soon because all hell is gonna break loose". There is a third ad that shows up almost as often. It's for something called a patriot charger--a type of solar power charger for cell phones and tablets. The thing is, if there's no power elsewhere, cell phones and tablets won't be of much use anyway (except to play Solitaire). Maybe the charger can be used to power up lights.<br />
<br />
I suppose I would be more impressed if I was receiving ads on how to filter water or how to make my own wind power turbine or how to build a latrine. Those are all things I believe would be quite useful in the apocalypse. I've noticed very few post apocalyptic books have addressed the immediate need for a latrine. Maybe the writers just figure folks can 'hold it' indefinitely, though that hasn't been my personal experience.<br />
<br />
Another thing that's never addressed is trash disposal. I wonder how long it would take folks to figure out no one was going to show up to haul away the trash? Then what do they do?<br />
<br />
Ads are a fact of life, but they make me ponder what the real messages behind them are. <br />
<br />Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-37920305802323715092020-01-22T13:02:00.000-05:002020-01-22T13:02:01.943-05:00Reality of AgingAging. It has a bum rap. It's a matter of perspective. When you're twelve, you can't wait to be thirteen. When you're eighty-nine, ninety isn't so exciting except as a triumph of reaching the milestone still above ground.<br />
<br />
The reality is aging is not a milestone or number. Aging is loss. Loss of mobility. Loss of freedom. Loss of friends and family. Loss of spontaneity. All of those can happen at any age. None of them are a process of choice.<br />
<br />
My dad is eighty-nine. He's far more mobile than I am. He eats pretty much whatever he wants. If he decides to walk down to the end of the little road he lives on, then he does. If he takes a notion to go to Walmart and browse, he and my stepmother, Mary Lou do that.<br />
<br />
I, on the other hand, have a greatly restricted choice of things to eat--most of them not necessarily what I want to eat--and walking out to the car is a big deal for me. Walmart? Pretty much like hiking the Sahara. A doctor's visit can take two or three hours to get ready for, and that's before I even leave the house. Then there's the trip, the search for parking spot, and the inevitable wait in a waiting room of folks who are coughing, sneezing, and in general breathing on me. I have immunity issues so that entire scene is scary.<br />
<br />
Ahhh. At last my name is called. I hobble to the room so the doc and I can confer about my general health. He tells me I'm in pretty good shape for the shape I'm in. I agree. We part ways until next time and I go home...where I rest up from my marathon while I contemplate the idea of a nap.<br />
<br />
That's the difference, you see. For me and a bunch of other folks out there, just the idea of leaving our home is a major deal. Medication schedules have to be worked out. Meal schedules have to be shifted. Travel time, shower and dressing time, parking, waiting, all have to be figured out. It's stressful. That's the reality.<br />
<br />
I remember a time when I climbed a mountain every weekend. Alone and independent. I cherish those memories because that's in the past. Aging is about facing those memories and choosing to be happy you have them instead of bitter because they are no longer possible.<br />
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Depression is a big problem in the aging population because many can't face the loss, the pain, the sheer aggravation of having to plan every nit-picky little moment. I confess there are days I would like to just pull the covers over my head and shut the world out. But I don't, not because I'm so great, but because of all those nit-picky things I have to deal with. Medications, glucose testing, meals, blah, blah, blah.<br />
<br />
Now I live with an electronic window on the world. Every day I am thankful for that blessing. In the past 'shut-ins' didn't have the privilege of sharing in the outside world unless someone showed up to physically visit them. Oh, I know technology can be stressful if we allow it to take over, but you know...it has an off switch. When I find it annoying, I turn it off. Boom!<br />
<br />
I 'talk' to people who stress out over robo-calls and such. I don't answer. That's what caller ID is for. Really? Why do we think anyone has the right to annoy us just because we own a phone? It's a tool, like any other, to keep us connected when we want to be connected.<br />
<br />
I have a lot of friends. Some I've never met in person and never will. That's okay. I enjoy visiting with them, sharing experiences and memories. Where else can you have a world-wide discussion about your favorite book? Or reach out for advice about almost any subject you can think of? And sometimes, just sometimes, reaching out to talk to someone is the most important thing you can do, especially on those days when aging becomes an overwhelming fact of life.<br />
<br />
Know someone who is struggling? Treat them gently. Life is hard. Don't brush them off or offer them advice. Just let them know you're there. You're thinking of them. Share a good memory. Tell them they're important in your life. And please, please, please don't wait until they're dead to tell them what their friendship has meant to you. Then it's too late.Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-81286638099917881542020-01-04T17:55:00.002-05:002020-01-04T17:55:40.172-05:00World On Fire<a href="https://www.news.com.au/national/victoria/bushfire-relief-how-you-can-help-those-in-need/news-story/">https://www.news.com.au/national/victoria/bushfire-relief-how-you-can-help-those-in-need/news-story/</a><br />
<br />
The New Year is traditionally the time we reassess and set goals. This year is also a year when it seems the world around us is on a collision course with time. Folks are depressed and anxious. People want to do something--anything--but aren't sure what to do. A lot of them are under the impression they can't do anything to effect change because they're poor or have too many commitments.<br />
<br />
It's not 'how much' you do. Your intentions are what matter. Some of the most important things are monetarily free.<br />
<br />
1. Time. Time is the single most important thing we can contribute to the world around us. Buy or make a box of greeting cards. You know the ones...they say things like "Hope you're having a great day!" or "Across the miles...". Write a short note inside and mail to someone who is alone or confined to their home. Send one every couple weeks.<br />
<br />
2. Reach out and touch. Know someone who is having a terrible time? You may not have the money to help out, but many times, a compassionate listening ear is far more important. Call and be prepared to just listen.<br />
<br />
3. Donate. Find a cause and donate. Five dollars a month adds up to sixty dollars by year's end. Almost all of us can afford five dollars a month. Don't have five dollars? Donate two...because that saying "every dollar counts" is completely true. Send money because the folks in charge are the ones who really know what's needed. Don't know where to donate? Food banks, homeless centers, rape support centers, hospice centers. Or mentor a couple children by paying for their school lunches. Volunteer time to watch the children of a caregiver. Most never get any downtime.<br />
<br />
4. Get in touch with your local animal rescue and ask what they need. I know our local place has requested clean used towels, blankets, and pet food.<br />
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I bet the opportunities to contribute to the world around us are endless. We may not be able to be on the ground to fight fires or help with the aftermath of a tornado or hurricane, but there are many lesser catastrophes happening around us every day. Choose one. Help put out the emotional fires around us.<br />
<br />
anny<br />
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<br />Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-5924546340441081462020-01-02T16:20:00.001-05:002020-01-02T16:20:12.205-05:00New Year Options<div data-contents="true">
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<span data-offset-key="31sir-0-0"><span data-text="true"> </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="31sir-0-0"><span data-text="true"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span data-offset-key="31sir-0-0"><span data-text="true"> </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="31sir-0-0"><span data-text="true">New Year's Resolutions for any year:</span></span></div>
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<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7eitc-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="7eitc-0-0"><span data-text="true">1. Don't kill anyone.</span></span></div>
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<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9638p-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9638p-0-0"><span data-text="true">2. Stay out of jail.</span></span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="917mp" data-offset-key="8ihue-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8ihue-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="8ihue-0-0"><span data-text="true">3. Don't eat worms or crickets.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="amg24-0-0"><span data-text="true">4. Get dressed at least once a week.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="46gl0-0-0"><span data-text="true">5. Read as many books as possible.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="4g0or-0-0"><span data-text="true">6. Survive.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="4g0or-0-0"><span data-text="true"> </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="4g0or-0-0"><span data-text="true">I was wildly successful last year. Onward! </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="4g0or-0-0"><span data-text="true"> </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="4g0or-0-0"><span data-text="true">anny </span></span></div>
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Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-53734614406081352762019-12-29T12:52:00.000-05:002019-12-29T12:52:09.759-05:00The Almost-Christmas Child<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZgd8eTsouQHgnFnWwjp3vlEO_vU5em85jJVNIRbVNqSvYjCEggSpUPRbvWUriD7t7bScyEmsdzhfi_PpIg1N_Yak689xzE5Vj5HiH-XiMmJtIJIBVDymW5Jpwk0x8XkuXDJTdyDwRvqc/s1600-h/toyline.gif" style="color: #99ff99;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145166934579208930" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZgd8eTsouQHgnFnWwjp3vlEO_vU5em85jJVNIRbVNqSvYjCEggSpUPRbvWUriD7t7bScyEmsdzhfi_PpIg1N_Yak689xzE5Vj5HiH-XiMmJtIJIBVDymW5Jpwk0x8XkuXDJTdyDwRvqc/s320/toyline.gif" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
<div>
<strong>Christmas 2003.</strong>
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. </div>
<br /><br /><div>
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!"</div>
<br /><br /><div>
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.</div>
<br /><br /><div>
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. </div>
<br /><br />Anny<br />
<br />
Happy 16th Birthday, Daisha! Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-60188677306488316902019-12-24T01:04:00.001-05:002019-12-24T01:04:23.789-05:00Christmas Eve TacosWe have tacos every Christmas Eve. Why? As a remembrance of friendship
above and beyond the usual. In this vignette, I tell the story.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Fw4n6s37IRWZSM1gOkZIBl46WecLjjXmxK7NWcu6lO3qcT83bLdT2icXJEKNgcuomLV4CQgB1GI7W7Cs_otKw177BVxgsB5MUn3dET-OVbMZpVb31Ft5mbh0QD12Ok65QGtZo_Dpo68/s1600-r/santa82.gif"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139904256331467730" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicv_qhBLVx7VlIIok9HQjaLWODFxSqrfIId7GJdBOLXiAQbpLfpKpWWBskg1XN1Jw-EicdKnO7HKYm4EdfIkGk3YTr9hm4RWm0cu1nUsd_hgqQZozt3tGQLIoox9xAUWgtwIfVlA7VBsg/s320/santa82.gif" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" /></a><br /><br /><br />
<div align="left">
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.</div>
<div align="left">
<br />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.</div>
<div align="left">
<br />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.</div>
<div align="left">
<br />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.</div>
<div align="left">
<br />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.</div>
<div align="left">
<br />A miracle.</div>
<div align="left">
</div>
<div align="left">
anny </div>
Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-82552212876049556362019-12-22T13:57:00.001-05:002019-12-22T13:57:52.991-05:00Gift Certificates<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhePYuwcUO6ewwk9fLRwnP6gX15pCPmUy2NbhETYUWWs3_hCNN29e-qWPMjvZnT9_ZjAJM3ZJSthxR8INSjKJSkj0fVsetWrJ5mfibhYSqSCYpmm14VkGhA6UeIC8GXKf0CidQKYwi9rXlR/s1600/christmas-gifts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="384" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhePYuwcUO6ewwk9fLRwnP6gX15pCPmUy2NbhETYUWWs3_hCNN29e-qWPMjvZnT9_ZjAJM3ZJSthxR8INSjKJSkj0fVsetWrJ5mfibhYSqSCYpmm14VkGhA6UeIC8GXKf0CidQKYwi9rXlR/s320/christmas-gifts.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Back at home, we located enough red ribbon to make fancy bows and I was thrilled that my kids would have <i>something</i>. Joyce went back home and I arranged the safari under the tree.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, we just have to think out of the gift-wrapped box.<br />
<br />
Merry Christmas!<br />
<br />
anny Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-53772235266784795912019-12-21T14:46:00.001-05:002019-12-21T14:46:27.087-05:00All I Want For Christmas<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXef40D1Ox-lr5o8HfVXqekas0UJ-NJkcYMDeTnTMwzygdz3_yeLSl4vtXKUsHGVowJ_WT09wqRjbr-1QgjLsAg39pCzN1hg_ReSD5Ge2rPfU0hvfE4un9cocHwGcmHvouWh3qwXlA2nA/s1600-h/all-cat-wants-for-christmas-is-his-other-fang.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276481253153829586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXef40D1Ox-lr5o8HfVXqekas0UJ-NJkcYMDeTnTMwzygdz3_yeLSl4vtXKUsHGVowJ_WT09wqRjbr-1QgjLsAg39pCzN1hg_ReSD5Ge2rPfU0hvfE4un9cocHwGcmHvouWh3qwXlA2nA/s320/all-cat-wants-for-christmas-is-his-other-fang.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 241px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>A few years ago, I was a college student. No, not <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span>
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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />What a mess.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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..."<br /><br />Somehow, it wasn't so bad after that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br /><br />anny
Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-18358060900861712352019-12-19T19:52:00.003-05:002019-12-19T19:52:34.238-05:00Christmas Journey<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHyvHfv9gywGzgyoRxpNJ68Z1WAzfw3lu2E4MqNpOK3nEX7rdlnxpFS-3aqbBhu6QQoUDsqn7xf-xSsZaFllovENO6p1kyBE74luhTgTcgkxdgcgZnBhyw8ycMycCsEDJD13t_DLAQSF7I/s1600/bell01.gif"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553134313457011506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHyvHfv9gywGzgyoRxpNJ68Z1WAzfw3lu2E4MqNpOK3nEX7rdlnxpFS-3aqbBhu6QQoUDsqn7xf-xSsZaFllovENO6p1kyBE74luhTgTcgkxdgcgZnBhyw8ycMycCsEDJD13t_DLAQSF7I/s400/bell01.gif" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 144px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 143px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;">Christmas 1989.</span></u></b><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;"><span> </span>“Please come if you can.<span> </span>Uncle Charles has terminal cancer and probably won’t be with us next Christmas.”<span> </span>For many years in my family, holidays (Christmas and Thanksgiving) have been alternated with the in-laws.<span> </span>This year was not a family Christmas, but the family was trying to get together anyway.<span> </span>It wasn’t a great year for us.<span> </span>The house hunk was on disability because of an accident at work.<span> </span>I was on unemployment because my company, Waldenbooks, had moved their warehouse operation from New York to Tennessee.<span> </span>The boys, recently graduated from high school, were out of work, since they had also been employed there.<span> </span>Jobs were scarce in our rural county with 700 unemployed warehouse workers suddenly in the job market.<span> </span>I was attending school as a dislocated worker, hoping to obtain the skills for a new job.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;"><span> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;">“Please come.”<span> </span>Our car was shot.<span> </span>There was barely enough for a gift for each of the kids.<span> </span>Friends had provided Christmas dinner components for us.<span> </span>The trip from New York to Indiana was out of the question.<span> </span>Reluctantly, I called my parents with the news.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;"><span> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;">The kids asked us if we could talk for a few minutes.<span> </span>“Suppose we give up our present money…would we have enough gas money to get there?” one of them asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;"><span> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;">My younger son offered to change the oil and do a quick check up on the car.<span> </span>Our oldest pointed out that we could take turns driving.<span> </span>The car had very little heat…but our older daughter suggested that we could take extra blankets.<span> </span>Slowly, one objection at a time, they showed us that we could make the trip.<span> </span>I called my parents in LaPorte, Indiana and suggested that they make up some extra beds.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;"><span> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;">We traveled to LaPorte, stopping only for restrooms and coffee.<span> </span>Our car was a tight squeeze for five small people.<span> </span>We had six large people.<span> </span>The kids said that was a good thing as we all stayed warmer that way.<span> </span>Meals were sandwiches eaten in the car.<span> </span>In Ohio, we ran into snow.<span> </span>The car heater didn’t work well enough to defrost the windows so they began to freeze over.<span> </span>There were frequent stops to clear them, but we made it.<span> </span>After eighteen hours on the road we arrived in LaPorte. <span> </span>There was close to a foot of snow on the ground.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;"><span> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;">It was a great Christmas, rendered more poignant because of Uncle Charles’ illness.<span> </span>There were more family members there than at anytime before or since.<span> </span>Close to 70 people sat down for Christmas dinner.<span> </span>Afterwards, there were games, carols, and visiting.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;"><span> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;">The trip home was longer as there was more snow to contend with.<span> </span>In Pennsylvania, the snow was so heavy that it melted on the headlights, creating a sheet of ice that coated them.<span> </span>We stopped frequently to clear them just so we had light.<span> </span>Cars were sliding off the road.<span> </span>It was night.<span> </span>Plows couldn’t keep up with the storm.<span> </span>The rest areas were closed.<span> </span>We had no money to stay anywhere so we kept moving.<span> </span>Twenty-six hours later, we arrived safely home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;"><span> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;">Anyone who has traveled with teenagers knows that it’s impossible to travel far without petty squabbles and picking.<span> </span>However,
our entire trip, bad weather, extremely uncomfortable conditions, with
limited money, there wasn’t a cross word from anyone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;"><span> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10pt;">A miracle.<span> </span>Several, in fact.</span></div>
<br />
anny
Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-89692868403275622112019-12-18T13:19:00.001-05:002019-12-18T13:19:40.401-05:00Christmas Gifts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFODOd2JcsMvt0u2QQ_KfDxv9VR7L_RHHl27fQzH61wPoSCrZrPxG5HNeAhC4ubSnByRZHDrh7O5fnrQJnsBDtPRyWk1ZLs9p9rr80yOc7N0l7z0rmnCi4hH_4fkqxyExlOGT2UpR_Kh0S/s1600/reindeer+nanna.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFODOd2JcsMvt0u2QQ_KfDxv9VR7L_RHHl27fQzH61wPoSCrZrPxG5HNeAhC4ubSnByRZHDrh7O5fnrQJnsBDtPRyWk1ZLs9p9rr80yOc7N0l7z0rmnCi4hH_4fkqxyExlOGT2UpR_Kh0S/s320/reindeer+nanna.jpg" width="255" /></a></div>
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
None of them live anywhere near us. But I love them and I am blessed by their very existence.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Light a candle and give thanks.<br />
<br />
anny <br />
Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-46300923244524292832019-12-16T14:05:00.001-05:002019-12-16T14:05:35.345-05:00Let There Be Peace on Earth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65GIydw4-pBkMQ3G61s20xsreErFl53MV4gyZ3oXq_Q2p6i8C-pJbzJptBN7gKuSZGqsEUJqqWzZrUsI4YkU8oQ2UjxaanWKdGeVOUfZwSQIBpPK2vS1PCKg6BNDYgOLVw03-M4S8lqrC/s1600/little-kitten-has-christmas-spirit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65GIydw4-pBkMQ3G61s20xsreErFl53MV4gyZ3oXq_Q2p6i8C-pJbzJptBN7gKuSZGqsEUJqqWzZrUsI4YkU8oQ2UjxaanWKdGeVOUfZwSQIBpPK2vS1PCKg6BNDYgOLVw03-M4S8lqrC/s320/little-kitten-has-christmas-spirit.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
<span style="font-weight: normal;">"Let there be Peace on Earth..."
</span></h3>
<div class="post-header">
</div>
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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />The lights went out. A deep silence filled the huge room.<br /><br />And then one young voice soared in the darkness. "Let there be peace on earth..." A tiny light flicked on lighting her face.<br /><br />A few more voices joined in...just a few from points all around us. "And let it begin with me." More lights. More voices.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me..."<br />
<br />
AnnyAnny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-60879167364194047132019-12-15T13:50:00.002-05:002019-12-15T13:50:33.120-05:00Grinch Gets a Heart <h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
<br /></h3>
<div class="post-header">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7f8XYCZ0uSggh-i0qO9CaoTTtI-z3XYeiqAVv2nPEf81YGoXZt3INrRHNWLj_PoApF5E4eWPws8f_Q26zBal9GnQpVT_THJecNwXbNllurtcqvw9AoavRValnIaX41ktPlWdO5OLHRTlz/s1600-h/grinch-cat-is-a-mean-one.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417895035303425074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7f8XYCZ0uSggh-i0qO9CaoTTtI-z3XYeiqAVv2nPEf81YGoXZt3INrRHNWLj_PoApF5E4eWPws8f_Q26zBal9GnQpVT_THJecNwXbNllurtcqvw9AoavRValnIaX41ktPlWdO5OLHRTlz/s400/grinch-cat-is-a-mean-one.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br /><div>
<strong>Christmas 1997</strong>.
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.</div>
<br /><div>
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.</div>
<br /><div>
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.</div>
<br /><div>
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. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Talitha is twenty-two now. Life has whizzed by, but when I look back, she was still a miracle. Merry Christmas.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Anny </div>
Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-34718249945297496412019-12-14T10:46:00.002-05:002019-12-14T10:46:29.932-05:00The Christmas Surprise<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
The Christmas Surprise
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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.<br />
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<i><b>Christmas 1963</b></i>.
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.</div>
<div>
<br />
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.</div>
<div>
<br />
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.</div>
<div>
<br />
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.</div>
<div>
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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.</div>
<div>
<br />
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!</div>
<div>
<br />
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 <i>strangers</i>.<br />
<br />
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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.</div>
<div>
<br />
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.</div>
<div>
<br />
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.</div>
<br />
A miracle.
Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-82208870683666980462019-11-22T12:18:00.002-05:002019-11-22T12:18:59.528-05:00Reflections<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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 <i>old</i> people.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-26465936244977644852019-11-16T15:57:00.000-05:002019-11-16T15:57:27.888-05:00Reader Wish List<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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.<br />
<br />
1. Title your series <i>on the cover</i>. 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.<br />
<br />
2. Number your books <i>on the cover</i>. 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-67860633773834104132019-11-10T12:34:00.002-05:002019-11-10T12:34:19.677-05:00Behold!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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!"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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Behold! Seize the opportunities and possibilities!Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-27515421404227845592019-11-05T17:54:00.003-05:002019-11-05T17:54:52.375-05:00Queen-ager in Progress<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Never the less, I <i>persist</i>! That's what life is about. Keep on going.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
My friend, Amarinda, assures me age is just a number. I believe I'll call it a level. Level 70 sounds more positive.Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-17993509427727324992019-10-26T19:46:00.001-04:002019-10-26T19:46:32.518-04:00Do-Over<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, do-overs are the best thing! <br />
<br />Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-87775726663505063042019-09-16T12:10:00.001-04:002019-09-16T12:10:38.484-04:00Overwhelmed by Genius<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yep. I believe this might be my problem.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it's the absence of ambition. Ill health. Fatigue. Depression.<br />
<br />
But this! This is it! I'm simply overwhelmed by my genius. Excellent!<br />
<br />
Who's with me?<br />
<br />Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-43474954805023820072019-08-30T20:11:00.000-04:002019-08-30T20:11:46.896-04:00The Worst Future<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I often contemplate the joy my memories will bring. And when I do, I smile. Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-17067547181322086002019-08-04T13:14:00.000-04:002019-08-04T13:14:39.272-04:00The Day I Killed a Frog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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."<br />
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I walked away, appalled and sick.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-8666247873322153082019-05-29T17:09:00.002-04:002019-05-29T17:09:36.465-04:00Losing Your Passion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghu28Y0arTGZJlAOPL9Bx93kSeb72GFW96qg4dxqjIYqkFv7jF0y_kP7aZWPgF_6lssMMdEb78qWyag6g77bFtUS8G9qazX0l4ymygKWfHbCb_WAWvx-JPIAR0nYyiUtplHBuomobIajz5/s1600/funny-pictures-cat-is-pondering.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="499" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghu28Y0arTGZJlAOPL9Bx93kSeb72GFW96qg4dxqjIYqkFv7jF0y_kP7aZWPgF_6lssMMdEb78qWyag6g77bFtUS8G9qazX0l4ymygKWfHbCb_WAWvx-JPIAR0nYyiUtplHBuomobIajz5/s320/funny-pictures-cat-is-pondering.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Writing is life.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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I wonder if there are no more stories for me to write. Maybe. Only time will tell.Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3468322635677076272.post-7673169873913459302019-04-20T13:48:00.001-04:002019-04-20T13:48:34.832-04:00Group Opinions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWXIsmL0K7O4KbZETzFd6Io07f-HqBMNpQLMhIrWBaUYhdYBpbo6-nSYJH8-r65RrbDstGyVzeibGfJRxY-Kocz_JEWoJdc7scsB3X98d5_FHWEKZVGSpujOXLsvXeriwRf8XhS1AbtwWe/s1600/cat-has-noted-your-ridiculous-opinion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWXIsmL0K7O4KbZETzFd6Io07f-HqBMNpQLMhIrWBaUYhdYBpbo6-nSYJH8-r65RrbDstGyVzeibGfJRxY-Kocz_JEWoJdc7scsB3X98d5_FHWEKZVGSpujOXLsvXeriwRf8XhS1AbtwWe/s320/cat-has-noted-your-ridiculous-opinion.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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But I know just how easy it is.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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."<br />
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Scroll on by.Anny Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05305873753916213970noreply@blogger.com0