Ring it Out, Ring it In

It's that time of year again.  The end of the year.  For most, it's a time of reflection on the past year to make room for improvements in the new year.

Of course we want the new year to be better than the one before.  Life is a cycle of ups and down,  good things and not so good.  We all know this, but when we're hunkering at the bottom of not so good, it's hard to remember that things change.

Millions of people will make New Year's Resolutions tonight.  I don't do that.  Each time I have, they've vanished into the stratosphere in only a matter of days.  I've learned to be more goal oriented, but even that could use some tuning, and not something as easy as fine-tuning.  I'm working on that.

I've decided to blame all the bad things this year on the number of the year, itself.  I mean, look at it.  See that 13?  No, I don't really believe the number 13 is bad luck.  Expecting bad luck simply draws it into the real world.  But it's a nice excuse on which to blame those bad things.

If I could have one wish, it would to be like J.K. Rowling.  Not so much because of the fame and wealth, but what I could do with those two things.  I have a friend who recently started working in a homeless shelter here in our "fair" city.  She started just in time for Christmas, and she told me about a little girl.  I don't know how old the girl is, but she'd wanted a doll for Christmas.  Disappointed when it didn't appear, the girl's comment was, "I wanted a doll, but Santa ran out of them before he got to me, and I got gloves."  I have no doubt those gloves were needed, but imagine the joy on that little girl's face, if Santa hadn't run out of dolls.

The shelter is in need of coats.  New, only, because laws don't permit "used clothing" in this situation.  If I had J.K. Rowling's bank account, I'd buy they each person there, young, old, or in-between, a coat.  And a doll for that little girl.  Maybe next year?

I've been blessed this year with lessons learned.  Several of them within the past two months.  Those are the things I want to focus on as 2014 plays itself out.  I guess that is a sort of resolution.  If it is, so be it.  Or, as Captain Picard always said, "Make it so."

I hope you can "Make it so" this year in whatever way you choose.  Because, you know, life is a succession of choices.  When it comes to good ones, make it so.

Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson 

A Writer Must...Write!

Millions of people think and talk about writing a book.  Only a small percentage of them actually do it.  Many might start, but few finish.  Of that small percentage who actually do write a book, an even smaller percentage of them are published.  Manuscripts get shoved into a drawer, left to gather dust, while life continues to happen.

There are all kinds of reasons why a person doesn't get around to actually write.  There's a mantra for that.  It goes something like:  "I'll do it when life settles down."  "As soon as the kids are grown, I'm going to write that book."  And more.

The cold, hard fact is that if we want to write a book and finish it--maybe submit to a publisher and even receive a contract offer or self-publish our work--we have to put our butts in our chairs, forget about the dishes, tune out the screams of the children racing through the house, stop watching the thirty television shows we've become addicted to, and start writing.  But there's more.  We have to keep writing throughout the chaos of life, the ups and downs and no-time-to-write periods.

Let's face it.  A book won't write itself.  Only a writer can write it.

I played at writing, too.  There were those plays I wrote before the age of twelve, then later, I really did write a book on a third-hand portable typewriter.  And finished it.  Thankfully, it vanished. into the ether of long, long ago.  I knew nothing about writing.  Years went by before I felt the urge to write again.  I took two writing correspondence courses--yes, by mail, but didn't finish the second one.  With family in a needy period, I stuffed down the want-to-write feeling.  But I picked it up again a few years later, when life had calmed down.  Yeah, I see myself in one of those pigeonholes above.  The kids were older, more involved in their own lives and school, and I started at the writing game again.  Only this time, I didn't let anything or anyone stop me.  I wrote.  Book after book.  No training to speak of, at first, except those writing courses and thousands of books read.  Then the internet came into my life, and I met other writers.  After that, I wrote even more, and wrote better, thanks to the new friends I met, who had connections and had learned some of the ins and outs.  They shared with me.  I shared with them.  We grew together.

It was nice to have people to share with who battled the same things I did, when it came to writing.  Life, in general, too.  It still is.  My world has opened up, and each new year, it opens even more.  I treasure those friends, still.

If you want to write, write.  Give up an hour of television a day or an hour of sleep and start writing.  Find a writing group in your community or online.  Two heads (and more!) are better than one.  Continue to write.  The more you do it, the better you will be writing.  Read and study about writing and the market, whether online articles and blogs or books, then go back and use what you've learned as you write.

Seriously?  I'm still learning.

This is the last Friday of this year.  In four days, we'll be saying goodbye to 2013 and ringing in the new 2014.  Use these days to think about how you can be more productive with your writing.  Make this upcoming new year the one in which you'll write that book you've always dreamed of writing.  If you have a finished book, why is it languishing in a drawer?  Dust it off, polish it, and send it out to agents and/or publishers or check out indie/self-publishing.  Or do both!

Writers must write.  If not, they are only dreamers.  While there's nothing wrong with dreaming, doing is what makes those dreams come true.

All our dreams can come true, if we have the courage to pursue them.  ~ Walt Disney

Fan Time

I'm picky about my sports, but then I'm female, and I can be.  I'm talking the three major sports played by high schools, colleges, and pros.  Even the non-pros, but probably because I became designated team scorekeeper in my 20s for what's called a "town team."  Those are teams made up of local players, past the age of high school and no longer in college, who can't give up the sport.

In high school, I was a member of the Pep Club.  Those went the way of granny dresses, when pep clubs and the male equivalents were deemed...  I don't know why.  By the way, the guys at our HS were called the Rowdy Rooters and had their own section in the bleachers.  Aptly named, because they did get rowdy.

But high school wasn't my first introduction to basketball.  My "big brother," the guy who I grew up next door to, taught me at a young age how to shoot a basketball.  Believe, I wasn't all that good.  I'm not much of sport participant, and more of a fan.

My dad didn't play sports.  For one thing, he was 5'2, and, when his dad died when my dad was ten, he worked at whatever job he could find that would add to the family's finances.  But he did love to watch sports.  Everything from football to bowling.  I, in turn, spent many Sunday afternoons watching with him.  My mom preferred baseball.  I remember her sitting in a precursor of a recliner, keeping score and stats on a pad of paper during the playoffs and World Series.  Yes, I had my own favorite baseball players.  Roger Maris (my fave of all), Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, Hank Aaron...  The list goes on.  Later, I became a Dodgers fan.  I bled blue.

We went to basketball games when I was young.  Wichita had a National Industrial Basketball League team,  the Wichita Vickers.  I vaguely remember going to the games.  My mom liked telling the story of the game where, when she'd jumped up from her seat after an astounding play, she'd forgotten I was on her lap and dumped me on the floor.  Apparently it didn't dim my enthusiasm for the sport.

Football.  'Nuff said?  I'm a Dallas Cowboys fan and have been since high school.  I think it may have been because I loved watching Tom Landry coach. A real gentleman and a great coach.  Then came the Dream Team  --  Emmitt Smith, Troy Aikman, Michael Irvin, Daryl Johnston, and more.

But Saturday we basked in basketball.  Not only did my hometown college team (WSU) win, but
so did the team (KSU) we went to see play--the team that was expected to lose that particular game.  Five of our family attended that K-State game, front row floor seats behind the dance team and stat tables, with a huge screen overhead, just in case our view was blocked at any time, and we watched them beat the 10-1 team by ten points.  Excellent game!  And so much fun to be a part of the drenched-in-purple arena crowd.  I'm known to get a bit rowdy, while watching games--shades of the Rowdy Rooters, perhaps?--but I behaved myself.  Not a single "Booooo" crossed my lips after a questionable call.

WuShock  (and if you don't know what a wheat shock is, it's time to learn)

Willie Wildcat

What a great Christmas gift my oldest daughter gave us, in spite of the sleet and snow we dealt with going and coming.  It will be a Christmas time we'll always remember.

Best wishes for a wonderfully memorable Christmas this year!  May your heart be open to the love of beauty of the season.

Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childhood days, recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth, and transport the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home! ~ Charles Dickens

On the First Day of Christmas Vacation...

'Tis the Season to Be Grinchy

♪ ♫ ♪ On the first day of Christmas vacation, my family gave to me--♫ ♫ ♪
  ♪ 1 four-year-old who never stops talking or screaming
  ♫ 1 six-year-old who down't know how to speak without shouting
   ♪ 1 nine-year-old who can't understand that "no bouncing the soccer ball in the house" means NO BOUNCING THE SOCCER BALL IN THE HOUSE
   ♫ 1 eleven-year-old who has taken the art of arguing to a whole new level.


My youngest daughter put up our Christmas tree a little over a week ago.  She took it down last night.  That four-year-old thinks the decorations are toys to stick in the sofa, under the TV, or even out the front door.  The boys (6 & 9) think the trashcan is a basketball goal.  Correction: A soccer-ball goal, because they destroyed the basketball long ago.  I'm waiting for the sound of breaking glass.  I've already mopped up the overflow in the bathroom.  And the day isn't over yet, but at least it's half over.

I was born without an abundance of patience.  Or maybe I was, but it's all been used over the past 8+ years, since I offered my daughter of two children, at the time, childcare.  Then came another and another.  I raised four of my own, so I understand how caring for children can run the gamut from terrifying to terrific.  I didn't expect an apocalypse of disasters.  We had our own, many that could have been avoided, but yielded a lesson.  My two oldest daughters learned, after playing with and breaking something that didn't belong to them "for the last time," that mom had a breaking point.  Years later, one Pound Puppy is still missing an ear, and a Cabbage Patch doll an arm.  I can take a lot of abuse, but there's a limit.  They reached it that day, and it's something they've never forgotten.  What we have forgotten is what it was they broke to cause me to lose my cool.

Let's face it, mothers are human.  So are kids.  We all make mistakes, we all lose our temper, although as infrequently as possible.  I'm trying to hold on to mine today.  That, and my mind.

But tomorrow is Saturday, and the little darlings will be gone for the weekend in only a few hours.  I get a reprieve...until Monday, when we'll start all over again.  This year school is out for the holidays for seventeen days.  Yes, that's right, 17.  When I was in school--during the Dark Ages--we were lucky to get ten, and that happened when Christmas fell on Wednesday, as it does this year.

Wait!  There's no sound of a bouncing soccer ball, only the sounds of Family Guy, coming from the living room.  Oh, and a shout from the 6-year-old, but that's not uncommon.  They must be gathering strength for the next wave.  I, on the other hand, am dreaming of tomorrow, when I'll be attending the first college basketball game I've been to in thirty years.  Floor seats.  Under the basket.  On ESPN2.  MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!   I'll get to be the one screaming and shouting, jumping up and down, and maybe catching a basketball, although it might very well be in the face.

Such is life.  It's never a smooth road, but at least it's paved with good intentions and sprinkled with wonder.

'Tis the Season of Madness

It really doesn't change, this holiday madness time of year.  Some years it isn't too bad, but others make us want to crawl in bed and not climb out again until spring.

With Christmas only a week away, gasp...choke...faint and back to back deadlines looming into late February, the idea of crawling into a cave--hopefully a warm one--and staying there until sanity returns is whispering in the back of my mind.

Yes, life can be stressful, and holidays even more so.  There's never enough time.  There's never enough money.  There's never enough parking spots.  At the same time there's an abundance...of lists, chores, deadlines, wants and needs.  And yet we manage to do it, year after year, and actually survive.

If holiday stress is taking its toll on you this year, below are some quick, online tips to help lend a calming holiday for you and yours.  Simply taking time out to read them might help a little.  Giving thought to them might help even more.

So here they are, those tips to get you through the most stressful time of the year.  Click on the links to read more about each tip.

From Psychology Today...
10 Tools for Dealing with Holiday Stress and Depression

1. Keep your expectations balanced.
2. Don't try to do too much.
3. Don't isolate.
4. Don't overspend.
5. Mourning is appropriate at times.
6. Treat depression wisely
7. Watch your diet and get some exercise.
8. Be aware of the Post Holiday Syndrome.
9. Plan Ahead.
10. Learn forgiveness and acceptance.

Read more here.

5 Practical Tips To Deal With Holiday Stress: The RELAX Paradigm

1. Remember what the holidays are truly about.
2. Exercise.
3. Listen to music that you love.
4. Ask for help.
5. eXtricate yourself from unnecessary socializing.

Read more here.

from Psych Central...

Coping with the Holidays: Eight Ideas for De-Stressing the Holidays

1. Remember the spirits of the season.
2. Be a friend.
3. Remember the family members who are no longer present.
4. Discuss the issue of presents with your family.
5. Practice moderation in preparing holiday meals and consuming holiday goodies.
6. Plan enough time for shopping.
7. Understand that others may be stressed out.
8. Be grateful.

Read more here.

There are more tips, lists and articles at Psych Central's Coping with the Holidays.

Check the Mayo Clinic suggestions.

Stress, depression and the holidays: Tips for coping from the Mayo Clinic

1. Acknowledge your feelings.
2. Reach out.
3. Be realistic.
4. Set aside differences.
5. Stick to a budget.
6. Plan ahead.
7. Learn to say no.
8. Don't abandon healthy habits.
9. Take a breather.
10. Seek professional help if you need it. 

Read more here.

Wishing you and yours Seasons Greetings, a very Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays!

Christmas... is not an external event at all, but a piece of one's home that one carries in one's heart. ~ Freya Stark 

Sound Blast from the Past

High school band, 1968

Last night, I attended my oldest granddaughter's instrumental concert.  I missed the first one, so going to this one, themed for the holidays, was one I didn't want to miss.  Because these were middle school band and orchestra students, many of them are just beginning their musical journey.  But I must say I was impressed with their playing--especially the 6th graders, who played after only a few months of instruction.  The teacher/conductor also impressed me.  Sure, there were some missed notes and, as I and my fellow former high school band members can remember, the tempo of each piece being played tends to speed up as the end approaches.  Last night, they handled that very well.

My granddaughter plays the viola.  She wanted to play the cello, but she's on the tiny side, and the girl across the street from me won out on that one.  By the way, the girl across the street is a sweetie and friend with both of my granddaughters.  I remember wanting to play the cello.  For a year or so when I was ten, I took private French lessons with a group of older girls, one a neighbor.  They were in what's now middle school at the time.  I'd learned French in fourth grade, so I at least had a clue.  That and the fact that a family friend had taught me several French phrases and to count from one to ten before I ever started school.  The daughter of the woman who taught those of us in the private group played the cello.  I fell in love with it.  So how did I end up playing flute?  I have no idea, but I did.  (I also missed seeing JFK before he was elected President, all because I had to go to French lessons.  Who knew?)

Watching the middle school students last night and listening to them play brought back memories of being a member of my high school band.  I went to a small school (56 in our graduating class), where the only instrumental was band.  A good thing I didn't take up the cello!  Because our junior high shared the building with the high school, we 7th and 8th graders were integrated into the high school band.  We were pretty good.  But we got better.

Senior year, the second year without our beloved band teacher.

My freshman year in high school, we were introduced to a new music (band and vocal) teacher.  He was young, had a wife that was just as young and fun, and two small children.  We adored them, and especially him, whether band members or vocal music members.  He worked us hard, especially the marching band.  We went from a disordered bunch of kids on the football field at halftime, scrambling to find our places to create a cherry tree (George Washington) and a stovepipe hat (Abraham Lincoln) to a precision, synchronized marching band.  You've probably seen college bands perform during football games

Goofing off after a parade (no, not me)

that do the same on a much bigger scale.  We had no idea how our movements appeared to onlookers as we zigged and zagged across the field, eight steps to each five yards, while playing.  Or marched in a parade, all in same step, while dodging piles of horse...well, you know.  Bill. Rotter knew not only how to teach music, he knew how to make playing it a joy.  He could also play a mean sax and piano.  One of my best memories is of him playing the piano and singing the song, Little Egypt for us.  (Only 'us oldies' remember it. ☺)  He was fun, he was talented, and he was the best.  His second year, we competed in a state marching contest and won a I rating, the highest.  The nearly 6 hour round trip was worth it.  He

Napping-or trying to-on the bus

left us a year later, moving on to direct at a community college in Pratt, KS.  Some of us visited him and his family there one weekend.  One very memorable weekend with good friends, not simply a former teacher.  He's now in Oklahoma, directing a band of his making and bringing enjoyment to many.

Those are the things that went through my mind last night, as I watched the 6th, 7th, and 8th grade bands and orchestras perform.  When Carol of the Bells played, I remembered singing it in vocal music.  It's one of my favorite songs of the Christmas season.  But our favorite in band, not played last night, was Sleigh Ride.  Each time we played it i concert, the audience was on its feet, applauding and cheering when it ended.  I can't hear the song without thinking of Mr. Rotter, standing before us, waving his wand, while we made magic the way he taught us.  We were blessed, and they continue in our memories.

Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent. ~ Victor Hugo

Life's Little Potholes

Yes, that's a pothole.  Anyone who has traveled on a road, whether paved, dirt or sanded, has dealt with them.  They tear up our tires and vehicle and can slam our jaws together tighter than an old lady's corset.  My particular pothole is sitting in the middle of the Road of Life---MY life.  And I've hit it.  Why?  I don't know.  It is what it is.

When this happens, when we hit that pothole, we're stunned.  Then we're shaken.  How much damage has been done?  Other than to my jaw, teeth, and nerves, that is.  I drive a little down the road, only to notice that my steering wheel is insisting I veer to the right.  Flat tire?  I stop, get out and check it, and see that the tire is fine.  Back in the car, I fight the direction the car wants to take me.  The pothole has messed up the alignment.  Just what I don't need right now.

As the French say, "C'est la vie."  Such is life.  We get slammed when we least expect it and least need it.  The first reaction is anger.  I don't like to feel angry.  I don't like that dark, ugly feeling inside.  I want light and pretty.  I do what I can to keep that period of anger as short as possible.  The anger turns to frustration, and the tears begin.  I don't want to cry.  I want to be able to smile, but my emotions have been shaken and bottomed out.  Just how much damage was done to the underneath of my car?  Panic sets in.  Can this be repaired?  If not, what's next?

We've all heard about the stages of grief. There are five of them.  Here's a quick summary.

1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

When something traumatic hits us, we go through these 5 stages.  It may take minutes, it may take years.  The length of time of each the stages varies with each person.  They don't always happen in that order.  Some are even skipped.  For me, the Denial stage was, "You've got to be kidding.  Really??"  Yes, there's a tad bit of Anger in that one. :)

Eventually, we come to Acceptance.  The car is out of alignment, there's a dent in the undercarriage, but it's all fixable.  It's only going to take some time.  Oh, and some money, too.  But at least the car will not have to be replaced.  So we do what is necessary to get us back on the road again.

What we don't do is give up.  We don't curl up in a ball and tell the world to go away.  We do what is necessary to make things right for ourselves, then we move on.  Yeah, probably to hit another pothole down the road, but if we've learned to keep a watch on the road and we've learned that we can avoid those potholes--not always, but often--a bad thing eventually becomes a not bad thing.  Maybe even a good one.

Life is full of lessons, just like roads are full of potholes.  They get us when we least expect it.  Go ahead and get angry.  Get it all out.  Just don't let it rule your life.  Make your life better because of it.

All the adversity I've had in my life, all my troubles and obstacles, have strengthened me... You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you. ~ Walt Disney

Blessings

For most people, Thanksgiving and Christmas are the two biggest holidays of the year.  For some of us in our family, they are quiet.  With daughters who have families of their own, those two holidays aren't usually celebrated by the date on the calendar.

We've always been a close family.  One would think we'd make a big deal of giving thanks--and the opportunity to stuff ourselves tighter than the roasted turkey on the table.  After all, Thanksgiving is a major holiday.  It's a time of family and food and counting our blessings.  It should also be a time of peace and harmony.  Why make things difficult?

I made a decision when my children were small that, when they were grown and had families of their own, I would never expect them to spend their holidays with me and the others.  I remember at least one holiday as a child, when cousins argued about which family they'd be sharing with on the next holiday.  Apparently, the memory grew over the years, and when it came time for my own family to make a decision about who to visit on the holiday, I stepped in and said, "Spend it with the others.  We'll make our own special day."

Our family will celebrate Thanksgiving tomorrow.  One daughter is working today, two others are spending the day with their husbands' families.  My youngest is here with me, and she and I have four of the five grandchildren here.  Believe me, it isn't peace and quiet!

Each year brings its own trials and bad times, along with joy and good times.  This is the one day set aside each year to give thanks for all we have.  Our day will be tomorrow.  But why stop at being thankful for the usual things?  Why not be thankful for the small blessings in each day?  Sometimes we forget, especially when it feels as if nothing is going right.  But there's goodness and something to be grateful for in all the small things we take for granted.  Kristen Lamb's blog yesterday did just that.  Take a few minutes to read what she had to say.  It will be well worth your time.

Life’s Unseen Blessings—Are We Really Thankful?

Blessing to you and yours on this special day.  Enjoy it to the fullest!  And don't forget, Christmas is less than a month away. ;)

Be thankful for what you have; you'll end up having more. If you concentrate on what you don't have, you will never, ever have enough. ~ Oprah Winfrey

Family Gatherings

MEMORY MONDAYS

Great-Grandparents and their children & grandchildren.  Mid-1920s

It's that time of year when I start thinking of the Good Ol' Days.  Holidays do that, and with Thanksgiving only a few days away, those memories of my family's holiday get-togethers come tumbling back through my mind.

I'm not technically a member of the genealogy of my family.  I'm adopted.  But my adopted family is all I've ever known, and I'm proud to be a part of them, even though I won't ever be listed in the official genealogy records.  I don't mind.  It's still my family.

My grandmother was the oldest girl of seven children.  Her grandparents immigrated to the U.S. from Germany in 1886 and settled on the farmland of Kansas.  She passed away when I was six months old, so I don't remember her.  But I have known most of her brothers and sisters, my great-uncles and great-aunts.  And their kids and their kids' kids.  I have a LOT of cousins.

The family enjoyed getting together and did so often.  The photo on the right was taken in the late 1930s.  The bib-overalls are proof that this was a farming family, although the photo was taken in the city at my grandparents' house.  I love this picture, because it's the house where I grew up, after my grandparents passed away.  The boy in the overalls standing with his hands in his pockets is my uncle.  My mother's younger brother.  As it is with many families now, the men would gather in one spot, while the women gathered in another--usually the kitchen!

Thanksgiving and Christmas were always big family affairs when I was growing up.  As many as possible would gather for a big dinner out in the country on one of the farms.  Quite often it would be at the home  of one of my Great-aunts, Aunt Dorothy or Aunt Lucy.  Lucy had a twin, Louis, but I didn't see much of him.  It was those two Great-aunts and their families who celebrated the holidays together.  There was never a lack of good food.  Everyone brought something.  My mom was often the one who cooked and brought the turkey, so I'd always wake up to the smell of roasting turkey on holiday mornings.

They were a noisy bunch.  Talking, joking and laughing went on throughout the day.  When everyone had stuffed themselves, but still sneaked an olive, celery stick or carrot, or another slice of homemade pie, they cleared the table, washed the dishes.  Once the chores were done, the grownups sat at the table for an afternoon and evening of playing cards.  Pitch was always the card game played, and I've never learned how to play it.  The level of sound would go up, and we kids could often hear the friendly arguments and shouts, while we climbed trees and scouted out the livestock outside.  I remember bottle feeding lambs and gathering eggs, which I detested, convinced that if a hen pecked me, I'd get chicken pox.  That proved to be untrue, of course, even though I did have chicken pox when I was 10.

As they evening grew later, talk of going home would begin, but it would take some time before everyone could tear themselves away from the good company and that last piece of Aunt Dorothy's chocolate pie.  When we kids were older, we'd have Aunt Dorothy bring out the wood folding table.  Four of us would sit at it and ask the table (spirit) questions.  The table would tilt on two legs, then drop down to "knock" once or twice for yes or no.  I've discovered mine wasn't the only family that did this, so we weren't the only "crazy" ones.

The drive down to the farm had seemed hours long, but it was barely 25 miles.  On the way home, as we drove in the dark through the small town that would one day be where I finished growing up, we followed a diagonal road shortcut that appeared to lead straight into the big grain elevator.  Of course it didn't end up at the elevator, instead leading to the north-south road that would take us home.  It wouldn't be long before I fell asleep in the quiet of the night, only to be roused, sleepy and grumpy when we arrived home.  Then off to bed, thinking of how fun and happy the day with family had been, eager for the next holiday.

I hope your memories of long-ago are as happy as mine!

Family is not an important thing. It's everything. ~ Michael J. Fox

Remembering the End of Camelot

A writing blog post didn't seem right for today.  Instead, I thought it would be more appropriate to take a look back in time.


Today is the 50th anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.  Those of us who witnessed this shocking and sad moment in time should pause and remember it.  Whether we listened on the radio or watched on TV, it's something we will never forget.



In the fall of 1963, I was in junior high, new to the small town where we'd moved a month before and the small school I attended.  The school building was only a few years old and had been built large enough for both junior high (7th & 8th grades) and high school (9th-12th grades) students and faculty.  We were doing our regular work in Mrs. Slater's 7th grade English class, when the loudspeaker suddenly came on.  There was no announcement, only the voice of a radio news reporter saying that the President had been shot.  I've never sat in a class that was so quiet.  If a pin had been dropped in that room, it would have been as loud as a large boulder.  I think that for a moment, none of us breathed.  Throughout the rest of the period, we listened in shock to the new reports.


Memories drifted through my mind.  JFK in his rocking chair.  Caroline and John-John playing in the Oval Office.  Jackie's beautiful smile and her stunningly perfect wardrobe.  It was hard not to like JFK.  His strong charisma made him one of the favorite Presidents of that time. Well, except for some in Dallas and other places.

After English class, the bell cut in, and we filed silently out of the room, then went to Mrs. Willis's World History class across the hall.  We found Mrs. Willis at her desk, crying.  Somehow, seeing her tears, we accepted the reality and let loose our own tears.  JFK was gone.

While most schools were closed on November 25, 1963, the day of JFK's funeral, we attended school.  The administration believed too many of us would use a day off from school to have fun, ignoring what was going on in the nation and world around us.  I have no doubt they were right.  We attended school that day, with TVs in the gym and most of the classrooms.  I remember sitting at one of the tables in Mrs. Adams' Home Ec room, watching the news.

The images of that day, along with the ones from three days earlier, were burned into my memory.  It was a quiet day.  A day of reflection.  A day of sadness.  Not only for us, but for people across the country.  We came together, most of us, as one, to say goodbye to a great man, our President.  Who can ever forget John-John's salute as his father's horse-drawn coffin passed by?  Or watching Jackie Kennedy kiss her husband's casket in the rotunda?  The lines of people who came to pay their respects on that cold, November day and more will forever be remembered.


The death of a President, the leader of our country, is a sad time, no matter what political stand a person had.  Because JFK was the second youngest President, Theodore Roosevelt the youngest, and his death was at the hands of an assassin, we will always remember November 22, 1963.



Fast forward nearly 44 years.  In the summer of 2007, I attended an RWA conference in Dallas.  One of the first things a person does after entering a hotel room is to take a look out the window, especially when on the 20th floor.  The view was great!  And then I saw some things I recognized.  Dealey Plaza.  The Texas School Book Depository.  Several days later, I made my way down to the plaza.  I wanted to visit the 6th Floor Museum, but time was too short.  I stood across the street from the building where Oswald fired the gun that (reportedly) killed JFK.  White Xs had been painted into the middle of Elm Street, where the motorcade had traveled that day.  With cars whizzing by on the busy street, I dashed out into it and took photos of the Xs.  I'm still wondering where I saved those pictures.

The year 1963 might seem long ago.  For some of us who experienced the 1960s, it was different.  We may be older, but our memories continue of a time when we believed our country was, for a short time, Camelot.

In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
In Camelot. 
~ King Arthur (Richard Burton) in Camelot
(lyrics & music ALAN JAY LERNER/FRDERICK LOEWE)

RIP John Fitzgerald Kennedy 

Crash & Burn

The past week as been...  Well, exhausting would be a good description.  A week ago today, I did a final polish on To Love a Cowboy (working title) and sent it off to my editor and agent.  One major thing crossed off a very long To Do list.

The funeral of my friend Mickie (see blog post below) was held on Thursday.  A sad day, brightened only by getting to see (and hug!) old high school friends, then a chance to spend some time with one of my BFFs.  Plans went awry, and I hurried back to the city to pick up the youngest  granddaughter and, later, the daily chore of picking up the other four g-kids from two schools.  After getting out of bed and hour earlier than usual to take oldest granddaughter to school, Friday was spent catching up on little details, then running through the usual pick-up-the-g-kids and the normal catch-up with other things, such as websites, email, Facebook...

By the weekend, I was ready to do as little as possible, but a request from my youngest daughter late in the day to run a shopping errand for Christmas things too precedence.  Then supper at oldest daughter's and off to bed.  Sunday turned out to be a sleep-in day, then hurrying to catch up on the time spent sleeping.

Somewhere, exhaustion set in, which dribbled into Monday and lasted through the day and a too-late night.  Then yesterday, momentum picked up.  Catching up with laundry and cleaning a bedroom took up the day and early evening.  At least the clean bedroom provided a catalyst to get up and move.

Now I'm back to Wednesday again, with all but one thing left to get done of the dozen on the To Do list.  The plan had been to take the week to do much-needed cleaning.  While the bedroom isn't completely finished, my office disaster, thanks to deadlines since July, needs immediate attention.  I'm still trying to find out how the belongings of others find their way into a room that should be exclusively mine.  Okay, mine, the cats' and the dog's.  Oh, and Johnny Depth, the Beta fish.

At least the center of my desk is relatively clear.  That's a good thing, because tomorrow I'll be working on AFS (Art Fact Sheets) for the book coming out next August.  What's an AFS?  It's information about and photos of the main characters of the book, with three scene descriptions and a short and sassy thirty-word teaser about the book.  All for the cover.  But that's for tomorrow and the weekend, if necessary.

If the old saying, "No rest for the wicked" is true, I rank right up there with the Wicked Witch of the West.  But even she crashed and burned.  Okay, she melted.  And that's how I'd been feeling for the past week, until, as in the Broadway play and book, Wicked, by Gregory Maguire, Elphaba rose again.  (For those who haven't seen or read Wicked, that's all I'm going to say. ::wink:: )

November is coming to a close in only a week and a half.  And then the crazy month of December descends on us.  We shall overcome!  Or at least I will.  Determination at its best.

Friday's blog topic?  Writing tips...but which one?

 Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward. ~ Kurt Vonnegut  

Sad Time

L-R: Sandy, moi, Mickie, Betty

In the midst of working to beat a deadline, I and my former high school classmates received sad news that our friend, Mickie, who's been dealing for many years with fibromyalgia, early onset Alzheimer's and Parkinson's, wasn't expected to live more than a couple of weeks.  Yesterday, we learned she passed away Saturday evening.

After the initial shock, in spite of knowing in advance, I decided to focus on the good memories we all shared, "throughout our imprisonment in CHS," as one friend wrote in my senior yearbook.

Mickie was always a beauty and just as lovely inside.  She would arrive at school looking like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine.  She left looking exactly the same.  Her clothes were classic, and she always looked put-together, whether in cutoffs and a shirt, her cheerleader uniform, or pajamas at one one our many slumber parties.  Me?  I went to school looking okay.  Hair combed, a little makeup and appropriate clothing.  By the time I left, I looked like I'd spent the day wrestling a pack of dogs.  I truly envied her.

I arrived at CHS just into my seventh grade year, knowing only a few people.  By junior year, Mickie and I had become close friends.  She studied hard and made good grades and was in the top 10% of the class for two years.  She was involved in many school activities, including Annual (Yearbook) Staff, a cheerleader and member of the pep club, Basketball Homecoming attendant, Girls Glee Club, Mixed Chorus, and Kayettes, a service organization.  She became a lifeguard at the local swimming pool the summer before our senior year.

I can still hear her throaty laugh and remember one Saturday evening, during a big snow in the winter of our senior year, when she and Sandy stopped by to see if I could go with them "on an errand" to a larger town about 12 miles away.  The roads were slick and my mom refused to let me go with them.  What my mom didn't know, nor did their moms, they were going on a beer run.  Sandy, you see, had turned 18, and at that time 18-year-olds could legally buy it.  I've never cared much for beer.  The only way I could drink it was by adding tomato juice (Red Beer), and even then, it wasn't all that great.  An hour later, Mickie and Sandy returned to smuggle in a sack, which we promptly put in my opened bedroom window and closed the door.  I don't remember drinking any of that beer,with or without tomato juice, but I probably had a little of the Pink Catawba wine that we'd had at Halloween.  (But that's another story.)  A couple of hours went by, listening to the radio and sipping our drinks.  When Mr. Lonely, by Bobby Vinton, came on, Mickie began singing in a drunken voice, although she wasn't at all inebriated.  We taped it on small reel-to-reel tape recorder, and I wish I knew what happened to it.  We laughed and giggled the rest of the night.

Then there was the night when we hid two six-packs of beer in the bushes in front of Sandy's house. At about 2 a.m., we decided to take it down to the park, and we slipped out of the house, while Sandy's mother was sleeping.  Keep in mind, this was a small town of less than 2,000.  We walked to the park, undetected.  Under the shelter house, we each popped open a can, but the beer was warm and tasted (as usual for me) terrible.  We sat there a while, then decided to go back to Sandy's, leaving the beer--all of the beer--behind for anyone who found it.

There are more stories, none involving alcohol we didn't drink or even buy or have bought for us.  We dragged main for endless hours in Sandy's mom's Opel Kadette.  We laughed, cheered and sang on the pep club bus on our way to and from football and basketball games.  There were dances and slumber parties and after-school days, summer and more.

And then we went away to college, Mickie and I attending the same school.  I only stayed for a month.  College wasn't for me.  But Mickie stayed, and we saw each other less and less.  She married her high school sweetheart, another member of our class, and they had two children, a daughter and son.  They lived in our home town for many, many years, where she worked at the local mortuary.  She had a special way with those in mourning, a calm that eased the sorrow of others.  She was there when my dad died, and I was grateful to have her with me.  Later, her husband took a job in Oklahoma, but by then, her health had begun to deteriorate.

Mickie isn't the first classmate we've lost.  There have been seven others before her, in a class of 54 students, in addition to our beloved principal.  It was his son who told us the news of Mickie's passing.

I'll miss Mickie, as many who know her will, but I'm proud to have been her friend, and I'll always have the memories we shared.

Rest now, my friend, and know that we all love you.  Still.

“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.” ~ Old Irish Saying 

The Music of Our Lives

Procrastination isn't all that bad.  It can bring on a bit of nostalgia.

While listening to one of my playlists as I work on edits, a sudden urge to check out Burton Cummings of  the band The Guess Who hit me.  That led to learning that he and Randy Bachman (Bachman Turner Overdrive aka BTO), who was a member of the band for a while, co-wrote many of The Guess Who's hit songs.  And to think I saw them in concert in 1970.

For Christmas in 1967 I received my first stereo record player.  It looked similar to this one ↑, and I was wildly ecstatic.  Stereo, for goodness sake!  And an album to play on it, too!  Simon and Garfunkel's Sounds of Silence.

I grew up in a home that where music was listened to often and appreciated.  Sure, that meant watching The Lawrence Welk Show, a favorite of my parents for many years, but I can now recognize many of the songs from the 1940s---yes, before I was born--and the bands and vocalists from the era.

When I was four-years-old, my parents bought a small, neighborhood grocery store.  The memory of those two or so years are still strong.  In the far back corner of the store, near the meat counter, where a real butcher worked, a radio sat high on a shelf.  Music played all day long, much of it Country-Western music.  To this day, listening to Tennessee Ernie Ford singing Sixteen Tons is like being in that store again.

Growing up, my next door neighbors were more like family to me, an only child.  They were the ones who took me trick-or-treating every Halloween, taught me how to play jacks, hopscotch, to shoot a basketball and ride a bike.  The oldest was a teenager in high school, about the time I was eight, and Kay plastered her walls with Elvis Presley.  To this day, I've never swooned over him.  I usually cringe. :)  Between Kay and her younger sister Margaret, they had a record collection of 45s that were to die for.  Pat Boone, Ricky Nelson, Eddie Fisher, Connie Francis, Bill Hayley and the Comets, and more.  I was allowed to borrow them.  At my first slumber party (today's sleepover) in third grade, we managed to crash & break my bunkbed by swinging on the end of it, while we listened to Perry Como singing Hot Diggity.

A quick jump forward to the early 60s.  Neil Sedaka,, the Four Seasons, the Everly Brothers, Brenda Lee, Chubby Checker, Johnny Mathis, Little Richard were only a few of the hit-makers.  We learned to do the Twist, the Mashed Potato, and the Locomotive.  Then came cruisin' music and surfer music--The Beach Boys, Jan and Dean, The Hondells, the Safaris.

And then came the British Invasion.  The Rolling Stones getting satisfied, the Dave Clark 5, The Byrds, The Monkees and the never-to-be-forgotten Beatles topped the charts.  I still listen to Marvin Gaye, The Mamas and Papas, the Temptations and the Lovin' Spoonful and so many I can't list them all.  Those were the groups of my generation, the generation that protested The "War" That Shouldn't Have Been.

I still listen to all of those groups and their music.  My playlists are endless, and I've learned that William Congreve's "Music has Charms to soothe the savage Breast" is still as accurate today as it was in the 17th century.  Music can comfort and uplift, energize and calm.  Listen to your favorite music and refill the well of your soul.

Music is the universal language of mankind. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Seasons of our Minds

I started to write this about my favorite season, Autumn, but when I sat down at my keyboard this morning and read the 110 words I'd written, I decided to start over.  We do a lot of that, don't we?  Starting over.

There's nothing wrong with starting over.  It doesn't necessarily mean we give up on something else.  What it really means is that we want to do something better than we did before.

Seasons of nature are always a special time, especially for new beginnings.  Starting over is a part of that.

Last week, I worked on my current WIP, a full proposal for the last book in my Desperation, Oklahoma series for Harlequin American Romance.  It's rough draft stage, so I try not to go back and make big changes.  Well into the second chapter, I had to leave my desk several times to do my daily chauffeuring.  Autumn means school days, as will winter and spring, and I spend a third of my daytime sitting in my car and driving to and fro.  That time sitting is often spent writing or editing.  So with the extra time that day, I started writing a scene in longhand.  After I got home and had some quiet time, I keyed it into a Word document and continued, thinking I'd done a good job.  By the next day, I realized the scene didn't work.  I'd gone off course from my basic idea.  I ended up scrapping it and starting over with the original idea.  Time wasted?  Not at all.

Sometimes our minds instinctively know what's right and what's wrong.  At other times, our minds may take off on a new road or go back and choose a different one.  It may be a smooth road, and it may be a rough one.  The only way to know is to take it.  I drove down what I thought was a smooth road, but it started getting bumpy.  Nearly to the end, I realized I had to start over.  When I did that, everything fell into place on a much smoother road.  There's nothing wrong with starting over.  Tell yourself that and you'll find new freedom.

Autumn is my favorite season.  I think that's because I remember the excitement of school starting after a long summer of too much freedom.  It meant seeing all my friends (and not-so-much-friends) on a regular basis.  I love the colors of autumn.  They invigorate me and make me want to make changes and start new beginnings.  Whether it's the colors of the leaves changing and the grass hibernating, or the new, crisp, colder air that inspires me to make changes, I'm smiling.  This is nature at its best.

This year is especially special.  I'm re-discovering the beauty of autumn.  For the past few years, we've experienced a drought, and the changing of the leaves had been a bit disappointing.  But this year, we've had rain.  The drought is over and nature is in full bloom.  As I drive along the riverbank to drop off or take the kidlets at their grade school or drive through neighborhoods with Maple and Oak trees among the usual Elms, I'm blown away by the vibrant shades of red, orange, yellow leaves that were green, not so long ago.  I need to remember to take my camera, but even taking pictures can't catch the breathtaking beauty of nature this autumn.

Life, too, has cycles, just as our days and seasons do.  At times we're forced into change, but even when it feels uncomfortable or is caused by something we believe isn't good, we eventually adjust and make things better.  We start over, we find a new beginning, and we enter a new season of life.  Make this new season the very best.

Every corny thing that's said about living with nature - being in harmony with the earth, feeling the cycle of the seasons - happens to be true. ~ Susan Orlean

It's Heeeeeere

THE WRITING PROCESS
NaNoWriMo began today.  Once again, I'm smack in the middle of a deadline, and although one would think that's the perfect time to write, write, write, for me and the next couple of weeks, it's edit, edit, polish.  And a little synopsis writing.

I've never had the opportunity to participate in what I consider a wonderful opportunity for adventure in the writing world.  This is not to say that I've never used the process.  In fact, I did it earlier this year.  While waiting for a thumbs up or down on a proposal for two books for Harlequin American Romance, I pulled out an old partial that had been rejected years ago by Silhouette Romance and decided to finish it.  I did, in 23 days, with a total of 45,791 words.  205 pages.  Finished with the rough draft of that, and still waiting for word on that proposal, I turned around and did it again, with another old partial, rewriting the beginning and finishing it in a month and a half.  After two days of rest and making sure the plot for the first of two contracted books (the ones I'd been waiting to hear about), I jumped back in and hit the keyboard.  The month of July netted me 50,046 words/244 pages.  Yes, 50,000 can be written in one month!  I did it, and even I was impressed that I could.

What's so great about NaNo?  

• If you know anything about it, if even only aware that it happens each year from November 1st through November 30, you can prepare for it.  If you're not a part of it this year, you can begin planning for next year.  Start getting your head in the game for 2014.  A year goes fast.
• Having a goal.  Nothing works better than that.  Yes, I've coaxed and cajoled, enticed and almost threatened that setting goals is the key to being a writer--even for someone like me who isn't at all goal oriented.  The Queen of Procrastination never is.
• It's been said that a habit can be made or broken in 21 days.  Sit down and make yourself write for 30 days, and it becomes a part of you.  You've made it a habit.  That's how books get written.
•  There's a community of writers among the NaNo'ers each year.  People who will guide you, encourage you, and help you when needed to make that goal.  People who may become good friends.
• If you make that 50,000 word goal, you'll be patting yourself on the back for a job well-done.  Okay, you might even start jumping and hollering, too.  If you don't make it, a pat on the back is also in order for trying.  Because if we don't try, we never move forward.  And isn't that what it's all about?
• You might have a finished book on your hands when it's over.  And just how great can that feel?
• The friendships of other writers.  And that's the biggie.

I've been incredibly lucky since I first decided to write.  After playing around with the idea for many months--not counting all those years I tinkered with it, now and then--I found a chatroom community of romance writers and made some of the best friends I have, both inside and outside of writing.  We're not only writing friends, we're real friends.  Lasting friends.  Always there for each other in every way possible.  As crazy as it may sound, all four of us became published in only a few years of that first day I sucked it up and introduced myself in that chatroom.  Would we have done it without knowing each other?  Maybe.  Maybe not.

What are you waiting for?  If you're too late to be a part of NaNoWriMo this year, pledge to yourself--and writing friends--to participate next year.  Even better, do it on your own before next year.  Up the stakes and do it with a writer friend or two.  Encouragement is a noun that can help you and others reach your dream.

The victory of success is half won when one gains the habit of setting goals and achieving them. Even the most tedious chore will become endurable as you parade through each day convinced that every task, no matter how menial or boring, brings you closer to fulfilling your dreams.  ~ Og Mandino

'Twas the Night Before Halloween

'Tis the Eve of the Eve.  All Hallows Eve, that is.  Yes, tomorrow is Halloween, the time of ghosts and ghouls, princesses and ballerinas, ninja warriors and transformers.

Halloween has become my favorite holiday.  Usually it's spent watching television and answering the door once or twice.  There aren't many trick-or-treaters in our neighborhood, so a big bag of candy would last for years...if not eaten by my own g-kids.  But a tradition of watching favorite Halloween movies is as good as it gets.

This year I've chosen two movies.  Hocus Pocus and Practical Magic.  After all, it is the season of the witch.

I remember walking through my neighborhood as a child, accompanied by the older next-door-neighbors, collecting a large paper bag of goodies that seemed to last forever.  My mother nearly always made my costumes.  Homemade were always the best.  I was a monkey, a bride, a clown, and more than I can remember.  There are home movies I can watch, if I really wanted to a list.  Maybe next year.  The most

memorable Halloween was the year I was a Pilgrim/Dutch Girl.  Yeah, a bit weird, but the costume resembled that of a Pilgrim, complete with a yellow pig-tail wig, and those older-than-me neighbor's let me borrow their grandmother's wooden shoes for the evening.  They weren't all that comfortable, either.  We stayed within our own block, both across the street and the street behind us.  Two blocks of goodies, and everyone had something to pass out.  As we approached one house, a witch appeared from the side of it, scaring me.  I truly believed it was an old, scary witch, and I took off running for home and screaming.  In the process of trying to run in a pair of too-small wooden shoes, I lost my hat and my wig, arriving home frantic, crying, and shouting that a witch had tried to get us.  My dad looked at me and said, "Looks like you lost your hair and hat, too."  Devastated that I'd lost part of my costume, I begged him to go back for it, but to watch out for the witch.  I waited, afraid the witch would catch him, but he returned some fifteen minutes later, with Pilgrim hat and wig in hand.

I hit the age of twelve, grew up, and had just moved to a small town.  Life changed and so did Halloween.  But life in that particular town was exciting.  Pumpkin patches were raided, and the main street was littered with smashed pumpkins.  An outhouse or two was stolen and placed in the center of town.  Small fires and bales of hay littered the street.  Costumes?  Who needed them?  They'd have only been covered with eggs.  By the Halloween of my senior year in high school, the Sheriff's Department sent officers on horseback to corral the destruction.  But we were smarter and managed to make Halloween memorable.

I married, had children, and found myself creating costumes for my own girls, just as my mother had for me.  We often used items we already had or old fabric left from my childhood.  My youngest's first Halloween was spent as a Gypsy, created from odds and end of clothing we had.

Over time, as more daughters were born and became old enough to knock on doors, we went along with one of their cousins, in the tiny country town near where we lived.  By then they'd become fairly good at minding their manners with "Trick or Treat" and "Thank You," as we visited the homes of friends, family and neighbors.  During all that time, we went through a wide range of costumes.  Devils and angels, a tough kid with a black eye, a cheerleader, a ballerina, and an Indian Princess.  (That's the boy cousin during one of his robot phases).  The last costumes I made were four genies, all in different colors.

My girls grew up and had their own little Trick-or-Treaters, and at times, I was coerced into making a few costumes for them.  There are five to created for, and it can take some time an imagination.  Although we'd planned a Peter Pan theme this year, time got away from us--thanks to that family wedding less than two weeks ago--so we're sticking to face painting only, this year.

2009 with all 5 g-kids and oldest daughter

2011 in full costume and looking great!

2012 and, oh, how they've grown!

Not too bad for a group with different tastes and desires, not to mention from help from Goodwill and anything we found around the house, some years.  Yes, that's my crew, who are here to drive me to cackling.  An almost 12-year-old, an almost 11-year-old, a 9-year-old, 6-year-old, and the youngest is 4. 

I haven't dressed up for Halloween for a long, long time.  I've been too busy with costumes for the others to have time to think about me.  But this year, I was invited and attended a party at the home of a local author friend.  Just dressing up at the last minute, grabbing this and that from my closet and painting my face was fun.  The party proved even more fun!  Maybe next year I'll give more thought to it.  The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe, Maybe?  It's a thought...

Enjoy your 2013 Halloween, whether you're partying, escorting off-spring or off-spring of your off-spring around the neighborhood, or simply sitting at home, thinking of the times gone by.  Because it's believed by some to be the night the veil is lifted between our world and the world beyond, think of the loved ones you've shared with on some of those past Halloween nights.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

But I love Halloween, and I love that feeling: the cold air, the spooky dangers lurking around the corner. ~ Evan Peters