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.
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
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)
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
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
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 ofThe 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
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
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
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