Holding on and letting go...

Punxsutawney Phil

2012-01-26T19:31:00.000-08:00

Groundhog Day is just around the corner, and I’ve yet to write a New Year’s post. December was all about DEADlines. The last time I blogged was on eldest son Erik’s 21^st birthday on December 21. That was right before he flew home from studying abroad in South Korea. In less than a week he leaves on the first leg of his sojourn back to Seoul for the second term.

Erik spent the better part of this afternoon putting together a schedule and registering for classes. When I couldn’t give him a definitive explanation for why a class that meets for four hours a day is worth three credit hours, he was puzzled. After all I spent years teaching and advising at the university level.

I told him to ask his father.

Tonight his 16-year-old brother, Andrew, was looking at the general studies requirements for the major he’s interested in at the local university father teaches at.

This one knows better than to ask me questions on matters of academics, although in a previous ‘life’ I did have a few answers.

I don’t miss teaching and I really REALLY don’t miss advising, although I do still miss many of my students.

More than a few are parents themselves now, which kind of makes me feel like an honorary – aunt. Surely you didn’t think I was going to use the ‘G’ word?

I know all the rhetoric about age being a state of mind, you’re only as young as you feel, etc. but I ain’t buying it. When I was pregnant with Andrew, I was classified as being of ‘advanced maternal age.’ I was pushing 36.

Never, ever do I get baby fever…not even puppy fever. This morning Erik laid out the classifieds from the Omaha newspaper and circled the ad for the $500 Labradoodles (I have allergies). This same Erik is leaving the country for five more months then will finish up college and then venture out for parts known or unknown. No puppy passports right now. I told him if his father, who periodically lobbies for a dog, gives up his motorcycle I’d be happy to get us all a puppy.

No takers.

Last weekend, though, a strange thing happened. Nostalgia for the baby years sideswiped me. Even though I had babies, I’m not a baby person. My husband is wonderful with babies, I’m skittish. I went to a couples baby shower for a delightful woman in my book group. The event was for two couples; the other mom-to-be was Erik’s children’s literature teacher last year and his minor advisor. She’s sweet and smart, and watching the joy on her husband’s face as he took his turn opening presents was worth the price of admission.

I, however, spent the rest of the weekend morbidly depressed. Former students having babies are one thing, former professors of my own son having first babies?

Intellectually I know my husband got his first assistant professor position at the tender age of 27, but were we ever really that young?

Over the years I’ve been to and hosted a multitude of baby showers – and never felt the urge to return to those rewarding exhausting times.

But for a fleeting moment on a mild January afternoon, I was transported back to those days of diapers (and diaper rash), onesies, and fleece.

The trip didn’t last very long. And for my children the adventure is just beginning.

But just to be on the safe side, I recycled the classifieds.

Happy 21st Birthday to my firstborn

2011-12-20T17:51:00.000-08:00

Last night I laid awake pondering everything I need to do to meet work deadlines. Fortunately a marathon baking session on the weekend took care of the last of the big holiday prep. But I wanted to make time to write a birthday blog post about older son, Erik. He’s studying abroad in Seoul, South Korea and turned 21 today in his time zone.

Lying in bed I imagined the low tones of Garrison Keillor intoning, “It was a quiet week in Lake Wobegone” resonating in my swirling thoughts.

Except it hasn’t been a quiet anything here on the prairie with time for reflection and musings. I went back and read what I penned two years ago, which struck me as a lovely paen to a son’s birthday along with being a thoughtful essay on children growing up.

This year he’s just getting cash.

But I still feel I would be remiss if I didn’t at least note this milestone birthday. A little more than two years ago, I started blogging for a variety of reasons, including writing about holding on and letting go of children, facing a new decade, and switching to writing fulltime.

Ironically the busier I get as a writer, the less time I have to write. That’s a good thing. But I do miss mulling and musing.

On the other hand, I’ve come a long way in the holding on and letting go department. The death this week of North Korean leader Kim Jong Il didn’t send me into paroxysms of inner turmoil because I have a child in South Korea. Erik and his father talk U.S. and world politics; I prefer to handle the more mundane topics.

At six a.m., Seoul time, late afternoon prairie time, Erik called just to chat. I wished him a happy birthday and before we hung up, asked him if he needed anything. He said maybe thirty dollars for food money when he hits the San Francisco and Denver legs on the long trip home. I told him I’d have his father deposit fifty. I also like to handle another ‘m’ word: money.

This is the child who left home at 16 to be a foreign exchange student in Germany. Now that his younger brother, Andrew, is driving, I marvel we let Erik drive cross-country at age 17 in an aging Honda Civic with 200,000 miles on it and no air conditioner. Andrew could do it, but I don’t think I could stand the worry the second time around.

But of course I could and would. When it’s time for the chicks to fly the nest, and the timing is different for each son or daughter, I know to step back and enjoy the beauty of the flight. This doesn’t mean it’s not difficult, but it does mean we did our job as parents right.

Later this week, Erik will be winging his way home for a short duration. I want to wish this son, born in record cold in Arizona 21 years ago, a happy birthday.

Sometimes I marvel how I can remember each detail of that day snow dusted the cacti and can’t remember yesterday. But I think that’s why parents can let go and yet hold on.

Memories don’t leave us, even when our children do.

Thankful for….

2011-11-21T14:11:00.000-08:00

It’s easy this time of year to get caught up in the mania of the season and forget to slow down and count our blessings. Recently I saw leftover Halloween candy corn sandwiched next to a display of candy canes, a visual reminder of how quickly the seasons seque. Personally, I am still trying to figure out what happened to summer, having spent most of it recovering from foot surgery.

Which brings me to what I’m thankful for this year and every year:

This year specifically I’m thankful I only gained five (okay some days seven) pounds while ‘booted’ and in recovery from foot surgery. Still not one-hundred percent but in the big scheme of things – a walk, not even a hobble, in the park.
My family: husband, children, mother, siblings, nieces, nephews,cousins, et al. We’re traveling this week, not specifically for Thanksgiving, but because my husband’s aunt is celebrating her 95^th birthday on Friday. Years ago we instituted a ‘no travel’ at the holidays rule. Suffice it to say it came about because of too many miles, a stay in a Red Cross shelter, and other assorted John Hughes-esque moments. But I’m forever grateful for family, near and far – maddening and marvelous.
Friends. This is what I said last year and wouldn’t edit a word: “Through all the years and all the places I’ve lived, I’ve truly been blessed, and continue to be blessed, with the best friends in the world. Seriously.”
Facebook. Without that social networking media site I would not be able to keep in touch with so many far-flung friends. And that would be a great shame and sorrow. From friends I’ve known since grade school and reconnected with to former students to newfound gems, thank you Mark Zuckerberg.
The fact I’ve never cooked a Thanksgiving dinner. I loathe cooking (although I do like to bake) and am forever thankful for a husband who cooks. As an aside, I loathe even more the disease – diabetes – that prodded said husband to take over the cooking a decade ago when he got the diagnosis. I am thankful of the people who work so hard to find a cure to eradicate this and other autoimmune diseases.
A job I truly love: being a full-time writer. The pay is erratic, the benefits non-quantifiable, and the wardrobe shabby. I love it and am thankful my childhood dream has come true.

Every Sunday in church, a time is set aside for sharing joys and concerns. The congregational response to joys is ‘Thank you, God,’ and to concerns is ‘Give us faith, Lord.’

I am truly thankful for my joys and blessings, and as the seasons blur I’m going to remember I truly have a wonderful life.

Happy Thanksgiving, all.

The Ghosts of Halloweens Past….

2011-10-31T08:29:00.000-07:00

It comes up every year at this time: the accusations, the recriminations, the denials. My younger son and I will start reminiscing about Halloweens past, and my husband will invariably start pouting about the year we ditched him. Said son and I always turn the tables and blame dad for being left behind, but it’s time to come clean.

We ditched him.

On Halloween younger son and his twin pals would take turns trick-or-treating in our oh-so-hilly neighborhood or their flat but spread out one.

The incident in question happened a year the boys headed out armed with pillowcases in our neighborhood, aptly named North HILLS. Husband and I followed at a discreet distance, saving our lungs for the long hauls up and down the streets.

The ‘gold at the end of the rainbow’ was a huge Victorian manse tucked away at the very bottom of the biggest hill. It was the ultimate Halloween destination, lit up with strings of lights, illuminated bats, cats, and assorted monsters. The owners were also legendary for handing out GIANT Hershey bars, the kind you buy only if you’re making S’mores for Bigfoot and his crowd.

The boys made quick work of the streets surrounding our house then were ready to head down the hills to the mother lode. It should be noted, our sprawling university town had set hours for trick or treating…after that the little munchkins (and Buzz Light Years and princesses and Spider Men) had to be off the streets. The college students would be heading out a few hours later for their version of trick or treating, but that’s another scary tale.

At a house just before the big descent to the big candy bars, we got held up. Dad started talking motorcycles with the homeowner and talking and talking and… Three eager boys and antsy mom me stood at the end of the long driveway waiting and waiting and… bolted.

Dad was on his own… curfew was a comin’.

Over hill and dale (and fence) we tromped until we reached our destination. It was a long trudge back up the hills to reach home. The big candy bars were forgotten as the boys participated in the annual ritual of candy swapping and scattering.

Yep, we ditched him. And if we had to do it over again, we’d do the same thing. No time for idle chatter when the treat is giant candy bars and the trick is growing up.

Writing your own life

2011-10-04T14:33:00.000-07:00

Seems like forever since I’ve written a blog post. It’s not for lack of things to say, says me whose mother nicknamed her ‘satchel mouth’ as a child. Just the business of life keeps me preoccupied. And since ‘fiction writer’ is my occupation, some days I’d rather make things up than ponder truths.

Disclaimer: In another life, I was a journalist and taught reporting for many years and didn’t make anything up.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could write our own endings? Edit our shortcomings, failures, and yes successes?

Tweak yesterday, today, or tomorrow to get it just so….

The unpredictability of life is what makes it so…unpredictable. And worth living.

Sometimes the curve balls life lobs my way really tick me off, making me long for a do-over, a makeover, or just for whole seasons to be over.

Like this summer, which I spent ‘booted’ and cranky, recovering from ankle and foot surgery. I couldn’t wait for fall. Autumn arrived, at least calendar wise. As I sit avoiding work by pecking out this post, the slight breeze outside is wafting the 88-degree temps inside. I’m long out of the boot, but recovery continues, as does the crankiness.

On the positive side my gorgeous friend Franny (ten years my senior and beyond stunning inside and out), persuaded me (and it took a lot of persuading) to join her in water workouts at the Y. I love the instructor, the other women in the class, the workouts, and even the water.

So to continue in a cliché-ridden vein, every cloud does have a silver lining.

Got an e-mail from older son today, who’s studying in Seoul this semester. This is his third sojourn abroad, a journey that started when he was in high school – as I’ve chronicled before. Actually it probably started when fate and the financial woes of the Michigan public school systems led my administrator father to a job in Iowa more than 30 years ago. I transferred to Iowa State University and met my husband, he of the Viking blood, when we both worked at our college newspaper. His wanderlust runs strong in our firstborn.

We haven’t heard from Erik much because he’s so busy with classes and tutoring English. That and the time difference make finding a time to Skype difficult.

And, as he says in the last line of his note, with him no news is good news. This is a running joke in our family because often when he has news it has to do with wanting to go to:

Europe (twice)
Asia
The moon (okay that one hasn’t come up yet, but I’m still waiting)

He’s writing his own life, as is his younger brother, and having the time of his life doing it.

As a mom, that truth makes me very happy indeed.

Worrywart

2011-09-14T10:09:00.000-07:00

My mother, blessedly, is not one to give advice often. Her favorite piece is, “Only worry about things you can do something about,” which is something neither of us really succeed at. Occasionally, she will also quote the pastor of the church we attended when I was in elementary school. His adage, "Act, don’t react,” is excellent advice and fodder for another blog post.

On this glorious pre-autumnal day I find myself fraught with worry, consumed by it, almost devoured by it.

In between doing laundry and working, of course.

But the worry seems to be winning.

Fast forward to this not so glorious pre-autumnal day about a week later. Today I’m still worried about a myriad of things, including whether I’ll ever get another (decent) blog post written again. I just finished my walk (cut short because I was worrying about A. getting rained on B. everything that has to be done today) and it occurred to me I used to be so busy before we moved to the prairie I didn’t have time to worry. Oh, there was plenty of time to be stressed, overworked, and anxious but not a lot of time to fret.

Then we made a drastic lifestyle change, leaving jobs at a large university in the Mid-Atlantic region for life at a much smaller university in the Middle West, much closer to family.

One thing I never worry about is that we made the wrong decision to move.

And that alone guarantees peace of mind even when I’m stewing and stressing about… stuff.

Back to school

2011-08-24T13:39:00.000-07:00

On Sunday night I started writing a ‘back to school’ blog post – which I’ve yet to post let alone finish.

With my younger son entering his next-to-last year of high school and the older one heading to South Korea soon to study before his final semester of college, writing about ‘holding on and letting go’ seems apropos.

After all, Erik was only 16 – the age Andrew is now – when he sojourned to Germany on a foreign exchange student program.

It’s hard to believe it was only four years ago we dropped Erik off at an elegant Washington, DC hotel after touring the Lincoln Memorial, the then-new World War II memorial, and ‘the Wall.’

I probably fled that hotel as fast as earthquake evacuees did from various buildings yesterday, wanting to be back in the car before the flood of tears began.

Today my niece Kasey, Erik’s birthday twin, started kindergarten. On Erik’s first day of kindergarten, I put him on the bus without shedding a tear. Ditto Andrew, who this year drives to school. Sometimes I miss Crazy Louie, the bus driver who scrawled my phone number next to his seat so he could call me if he couldn’t get up our hill in snowy, icy West Virginia winters. When that happened I led the children at the bus stop down the street to be picked up.

Early Monday morning when we drop Erik at the airport for the first leg of his journey, I don’t think I’ll cry. When he graduates from college, I probably will. And when commencement rolls around for Andrew, no doubt I’ll bawl like a baby.

But I won’t be crying because we failed in our job as parents: to hold on as tight as we can then let them go.

Going Indie

2011-07-31T18:10:00.000-07:00

Recently my mother/writing partner, Barbara Andrews, and I launched our first venture into ‘indie’ publishing. Faith, Fireworks and Fir written as Pam Andrews Hanson is an original inspirational romance available for Kindle at Amazon and for
Nook on Barnes and Noble.

My husband, who was instrumental in the process, strongly suggested I blog about the whole thing. “Write something clever, funny, and witty,” he said.

No pressure there!

Naturally all week I’ve felt more witless than witty. Cleverness also continues to elude, so here I sit on a Sunday night willing to settle for mediocre – but even that seems elusive.

I’m just going to plunge in and make do with what I’ve got.

Several factors influenced this leap into independent publishing. First, after 30-plus books with conventional publishers (with more on the way) for Mom and me (and 50 plus for Mom including those written under her own name), the time just seemed right to explore ‘long-tail publishing.’

It used to be if you wanted to write a book, record an album, or produce a movie, and you wanted it to go out to a national, or even global, audience, you had to work with a major publisher, recording company, or movie studio.

But today, with online technology, anyone can distribute his or her work to a vast audience independently. You can sell your book, album or movie using online stores like Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or iTunes. And since it is all done electronically, you don’t have to underwrite the costs of printing a book or burning a physical CD/DVD.

I have to confess I am slow to change when it comes to technology. Case in point: I just recently gave up my ‘chewing gum’ iPod, and I’m sure the Smithsonian will soon come to claim it. However, I’m also a voracious reader and being able to load half a dozen or more books onto an e-book reader when traveling is very appealing. I’ve come to believe electronic delivery systems of books don’t have to replace the traditional form but rather are complementary.

So why make the leap now? While my mom and I continue to write inspirational women’s fiction for Guideposts, we also love co-authoring inspirational romances. It is complicated to plan projects around multiple publishers. The interest in a measure of editorial and scheduling freedom meshed perfectly with the concept of indie publishing.

We view this foray into independent publishing as akin to launching a small business. Not only did we have to write a good book, we also needed to find someone to design the cover and figure out ways to promote it. I owe a great deal of thanks to many people, especially romance author Holly Jacobs who referred me to the fabulous Kim Van Meter, a Harlequin author who is a freelance designer. Holly was also instrumental in suggesting ways to use social media to promote the book, and she titled the book. She is an amazing cheerleader and friend.

And I owe a lot to my friends for not only liking me in person but ‘virtually’ on my official author Facebook page. Even people I don’t know have clicked like for which I’m also grateful.

This is not the first entrepreneurial venture my mom and I have tried. The summer after my junior year of high school, she and I went into the ‘junk’ business. My Aunt Marge (who gave my mom a paper bag of Harlequin romances which in turn spurred her novel writing career) owned a flea market in a small southwestern Michigan town not far from the city where we lived. She offered us a booth to set up and sell our wares. We haunted garage sales for antiques and collectibles and books to resell. I started collecting cookbooks that summer. After expenses, I earned enough to buy myself contact lenses. It was the best summer job I ever had, and my mom and I had a lot of fun.

Just like we are now.

Heat wave

2011-07-20T19:16:00.000-07:00

I was reading an article this morning in our local newspaper that quoted a National Weather Service forecaster as calling the heat wave gripping the central part of the country “unrelenting.” Temperatures on the prairie soared to 98 today.

A good friend of mine lives in Oklahoma, which is particularly bearing the brunt of the heat. In the same article it reported in Oklahoma City another day of 100-degree heat was expected last Sunday, making it the 27^th day the city reached 100 or above. (I’m behind on my newspaper reading). And the triple-digit temps could last through September. My friend, Sandra Dark, is the co-author of a book coming out that month on weatherproofing your landscape.

Sometimes I wish there was a way to weatherproof my internal landscape, to better manage my inner mercury. Oh, I’ve mellowed considerably as I’ve aged. It’s been nearly 30 years since I lobbed a blob of Thanksgiving pie dough at the ceiling of the apartment my husband and I lived in our first year of marriage. I’m fairly certain something was preying on my mind in addition to my leaden crust.

Over the years, I’ve tried and failed to adapt my mother’s adage of “only worry about things you can do something about.” I’m a worrier, and worrying can make me cranky. Aside: I imagine my husband, mother, sons, and friends reading that last sentence and laughing hysterically. Perhaps cranky is too mild a word. Conversely, I have mellowed somewhat in my old age. I still worry excessively, but I think I do a better job of handling it.

Then a week comes along where an egg would fry on the sidewalk, two fairly new appliances fail, family challenges arise, work is ‘interesting,’ and the post-surgery boot feels welded to my foot. But I see an amazing physical therapist, work always works itself out, ditto on the family stuff, it wasn’t the AC that broke down, and the heat, well…

The weather is the one thing I never worry about because it is totally out of my control. When shivery 50 mph winds whip across this piece of prairie in late winter, I’m going to remind myself to be grateful it’s not nearly 100 degrees outside. And when life lobs lemons at me, I’m not going to make lemonade; I’m just going to lob them back.

Just not at the ceiling.

The Writing Life

2011-07-14T09:04:00.000-07:00

In lieu of writing a blog post this week, I would like to direct you to Janet Smart's blog (link below) to read the lovely interview she posted about my mother/writing partner (Barbara Andrews) and me. Thank you, Janet!!

http://janetsmart.blogspot.com/2011/07/writing-wednesday-author-interview.html

Reading the fine print

2011-07-06T19:03:00.000-07:00

Today our older son’s lovely landlady called to tell us she was showing the apartment he’s vacating (he’s spending fall semester studying in Seoul, South Korea) to some prospective tenants, and they were interested in buying his furniture.

Specifically: his platform bed and new box spring and mattress, futon and wire cube storage unit, kitchen table and two mismatched chairs, and even his dishes.

While Erik and his father texted back and forth, negotiating what he wanted to keep (bed et al and dishes) and what he didn’t (futon and storage unit), my inner hoarder kicked in with a vengeance.

The thought of parting with that little JC Penney table, a wedding gift from my in-laws (one I am ashamed to admit I was always indifferent about), horrified me, the matching chairs long since discarded in some dumpster in some state we called home in the course of our nearly 29-year-marriage.

So I planned to write some sentimental twaddle about possessions and the meaningfulness and meaninglessness of their existence—and then I logged onto Facebook.

In matter-of-fact language an old college friend posted he had cancer. Treatment is pending, but he was happy he can still take a planned trip with one of his children. His spirit is indomitable.

Waxing woefully about an old table now seems stupid and pointless. Besides, Erik wants to keep the table. It really is a sturdy thing that will fit nicely into his first apartment somewhere, whether it be Baltimore or Berlin or points in between.

And railing about the unfairness of life seems pointless, also. We all know life isn’t fair. If we don’t, it means we neglected to read the fine print. The unfairness of existence can be debilitating. If we dwell on it, how can we truly live?

Instead I’m just going to say ‘thank you’ to Mark Zuckerberg for the means to stay in touch with a vast array of old and new friends, nieces and nephews, brothers and sisters-in-law. And a bigger ‘thank you’ to God for these people who make life worth living, fine print and all.

So many books, so little time

2011-06-29T18:29:00.000-07:00

Back before I was even pregnant with my first son I harbored this little fantasy of what life enceinte would be like. I imagined something akin to an extended beach vacation (a smooth, sandy Great Lakes beach) where my only responsibilities were to plump out and devour all the books I ever wanted to read.

I got the plump part right at least.

Instead, right up to my delivery date, I taught two classes at Northern Arizona University—much of the time in pain from sciatica. Between grading and clearing out the spare bedroom as a nursery, reading took a back seat. My husband, Ralph, was teaching fulltime at NAU and commuting up and down the mountain to Arizona State University in Tempe for his final PhD class. Our son Erik’s December birth coincided with Ralph finishing his coursework.

I went back to teaching parttime a semester after Erik was born. Sleep deprivation and school work trumped reading. It horrifies me to think of it now, but I only read one book that entire year: a Barbara Michaels romantic suspense novel that obviously did not keep me in too much suspense.

Fast forward to late summer 1995: I’m recovering from the C-section birth of my second son (my mother, God bless her, ‘edited’ my legs out from many of the pictures of me in bed holding my new baby. A career as an old-timey circus sideshow attraction was surely an option for me then…and I ain’t talking about the Bearded Lady.).

Why I chose as post-pregnancy reading material the Kazuo Ishiguro book from the library I did, the title of which escapes me and even a trip to Amazon doesn’t enlighten me, I’ll never know. I still have nightmares about that book. The ceaseless repetitive surreal scenes did not mix well with the pain pill Percoset. I soon abandoned both the narcotics and the novel.

Books are my vocation and avocation. Ever since my mother introduced me to the Honey Bunch series when I was five, I was hooked. They sure beat Dick, Sally, Jane and their insipidly named pets, Spot and Puff. A voracious reader from that age on, I soon ‘graduated’ to Nancy Drew and never looked back. The year I was ten I read “The Catcher in the Rye” and “True Grit,” both probably too gritty for a ten-year-old, but there was no turning back.

The only time my mom ever censored my choice of reading materials was when I was in 7^th grade. The Detroit Free Press was serializing excerpts from “Sybil,” the story of a woman diagnosed with multiple personalities. One morning the newspaper was missing. My mom explained she threw it away. That day’s installment contained graphic descriptions of abuse Sybil suffered as a child at the hands of her own mother. Naturally I dug the paper out of the trash and read it.

And I’ve regretted doing so to this day.

Over the years, I’ve belonged to four book clubs in three states and read countless tomes crisscrossing genres. About a week ago someone posted a question on the West Virginia Writers, Inc. Facebook wall asking people their favorite authors. Nearly a week later the thread is still going strong. I responded with just a smattering of my favorite books and authors.

And I’m constantly discovering new favorites.

But also over the years something alarming has happened. Some of the joy went out of reading—and writing. Granted, I write to earn money but also because it’s akin to a calling with me. That’s a part of writing I never talk about except to say I knew from elementary school on I wanted to be a writer and have never really veered from that path.

In the dead of winter of this year, my mom and I had a heart-to-heart talk. We both wanted to make writing fun again. And so we have.

That decision opened the floodgates of reading joy. I’m no longer approaching every book I pick up as a ‘textbook,’ wondering if I should try something new, stretch my skills, stick to tried and true, the list is endless. I’m not saying I won’t do any of those things, but for now I’m at peace writing in the voice my mom and I do best together. And ideas for exploring future projects ‘out of my comfort zone’ are already scribbled in a notebook.

This summer, ‘thanks’ to foot surgery, I find myself with lots of reading time and no maternity clothes in sight. So I’m devouring books the way I used to race through the adventures of Nancy and her pals Bess and George.

There are so many books I still want to read (and write) and I need to embrace my enforced stillness rather than railing against it.

Who knows? I may even spend a few hours revisiting “The Secret of the Old Clock,” or “Harriet the Spy” or Harry Potter or pick up Anne Tyler or Jonathan Franzen or Lynn Austin or—the list is endless.

And I, for one, feel like a kid whose just been let back into the candy store.

Life in the Slow Lane

2011-06-23T16:31:00.000-07:00

First some housekeeping: Recently I returned from my 9^th WVWriters, Inc. conference. The event is held annually at Cedar Lakes in Ripley, West Virginia. Every year I come home saying “That was the best conference ever.”

This year was no exception. It really was the best conference ever.

Being around like-minded people is energizing, refilling the creative well. And believe me, I never use phrases like that. I’m a journeyman (woman) writer, not a weaver of sumptuous words.

Seeing dear old friends and making new ones is priceless. I totally want to adopt the amazing couple, Doug and Telisha Williams, who entertained Saturday night with their own brand of Americana music. Everyone in the universe should check them out.

And instead of breaking down weeping when it came time to leave, I either avoided good-byes or did my best Mount Rushmore impression when faced with the partings.

It worked.

I remained dry-eyed all the way home to the prairie, 1,100 miles away.

Inside I was a soggy, blubbering mess, but all things are made sweeter by being laced with bittersweet.

One day after returning, I had foot surgery -- a tendon sheath sliced (or something like that) and toes pinned (my surgeon, the anesthesiologist, the nurses, the staff, the amazing PT who sent me to the surgeon… all rock), and here I sit. I’m ‘non-weight bearing’ for two weeks, hobbling horribly around on crutches. Granted, the end result will be less pain and much better mobility. My advanced years goal is to still be able to hike in Rocky Mountain National Park in my 80s, so more mobility is all good.

In the meantime… here I sit.

I always blame my husband’s Viking lineage for our older son’s wanderlust, but I too bear responsibility for Erik’s boundless energy. (As a holding on and letting go aside, said son is heading to S. Korea this fall for another study abroad program marking his third trip overseas.) I’ve written this before: When all the toddlers in our Arizona playgroup were happily rolling trucks in the sandbox and swinging on a tire swing, Erik was heading for the Mexican border.

When I was four my parents took my little sister and me to the Detroit Zoo to see a Tasmanian Devil all the way from Australia. I wouldn’t say I’ve exactly been a whirling dervish my whole life, but I don’t like to be still. If I didn’t like to eat so much and have peasant forebears, I’d probably be thin.

Being fairly immobile has been… challenging. That no one in my family has knocked me over the head and buried me in the backyard is a testament to their fortitude. My family deserves kudos.

During several scary tornado warnings the other evening my mother put a chair in the hall (which she had determined was the safest spot upstairs) for me and refused to go down to the lower level to our ‘storm shelter.’ I haven’t been this touched since she allowed me (the daughter of a public school administrator) to attend a Catholic high school when I was miserable at the public high school in the town we moved to right before my junior year.

In addition, my younger son is being nice enough to help me overcome my tendency to resort to not-so-nice language when I get frustrated. (There’s a financial incentive in it for him). And my husband is not bonking me over the head with my crutches when I get uber frustrated that the simplest tasks elude me.

My friends have also rallied. I have been touched by the gestures of those both near and far. Calls, visits, e-mails, texts, Facebook messages have inundated my heart. An arrangement of lilies worthy of a royal wedding grace my living room, thanks to my friend Ann Snider, the mother of four… who is holding on and letting go herself as her oldest son is on his LDS mission trip for two years. She is courageous indeed.

Another beautiful arrangement sits on my buffet, a gift from my longtime friend Susan Case. Susan coaxed me though Erik’s first trip abroad to Germany when he was only in high school. Her daughter had been a foreign exchange student several years previous.

Too numerous to mention are my many other supportive friends. It takes a lot to spend time, in person or virtually, with a cranky woman on crutches!

This morning I escaped for coffee with my exercise pals (that was my exercise!) and learned the sister-in-law of one of the women just fell off a horse when the saddle loosened. Broken ribs and a punctured lung resulted. Once again, I’m reminded to quit whining and remember how fortunate I am. I’m slated to be off crutches (I hope!) in another week and plan to have more mobility when I can stomp around in my Herman Munster boot.

In the meantime, maybe it’s time to enjoy life in the slow lane?

Procrastination Nation

2011-06-14T21:04:00.000-07:00

I’m sitting here at my computer, surely having exhausted every possible procrastinating tool. If I were my own ‘friend’ on Facebook, I’d hide me in my newsfeed.

Today it took me longer to unpack from my trip to my ninth West Virginia Writers, Inc. Conference than it did to drive from Cedar Lakes to Champaign-Urbana, Illinois, the first leg of the trip home.

In between I did umpteen loads of laundry, went to the dentist, waited around for the surgery center to call with a time for my toe pinning / ankle tendon slicing / Frankenstein’s Monster foot apparel fashion statement ‘procedure’ tomorrow morning.

I even took time to dig out an old photo of my father in his Kalamazoo College marching band days in honor of my friend-since-6^th-grade, Sandy Plenge Taube’s, posting her dad’s photo on Facebook for Father’s Day week.

Since I really have to go to bed, I’ll cut to the chase. Friends…whether those since elementary school who take time to check on you, or newer ones, like my gorgeous friend Franny, whom I met in exercise classes at the Y (and who called to see if I needed company after surgery tomorrow), or like-minded writer friends who are more like family you never want to part from…are invaluable.

They are worth embracing -- physically and spiritually -- and revering. Tonight my heart literally aches for those I just left behind and those I haven’t seen in years but who still remain close in my heart.

The pain of missing those is far more brutal than a few swipes by a superbly skilled surgeon.

Summer Camp for Writers

2011-06-01T20:22:00.000-07:00

I am not a camper. My idea of ‘roughing it’ is staying at a Holiday Inn. My few experiences sleeping under the stars have done nothing to disabuse me of this notion.

In 7^th grade my science teacher, Mr. Herring, decided to take half a dozen of his students camping in the woods. In October. In northern Michigan. I’ve never been so cold in my entire life. Later, he told my parents (not unkindly) I was the worst camper he ever had.

I took it as a compliment.

Many years later while living in Arizona, my husband and I wanted to climb the nine-mile Potato Patch hike overlooking Jerome and the Verde Valley. The Grand Canyon is visible at a distance. He assured me this involved pitching a tent at a very nice campground. Sleeping on the ground, even in my 20s, was not my cup of tea, the clincher was the bathroom ‘facilities’….or lack thereof.

That was our first and last camping trip.

Over the years he’s looked longingly at little pop-up trailers and talked wistfully about the fun we could have in our retirement traveling around the country. He also used to hold out hope I’d actually get on the back of his motorcycle again (as I did for a brief period in college when we first met).

Ain’t gonna happen. He’s come to terms with it the same way I’ve come to terms with he’s never going to care (nee obsess) about clutter the way I do.

Then I discovered (thanks to my late great writer friend Mary Rodd Furbee) ‘writers camp” for adults. For more than 30 summers, West Virginia Writers, Inc. has held a conference where like-minded people can be revitalized creatively as well as make new friends and reconnect with old. As long as I’ve been going the locale has been Cedar Lakes Conference Center in southwestern West Virginia. Cedar Lakes offers charming rustic cabins and a better-than-many-hotels lodge. Geese, a covered bridge, and a lovely little chapel also dot the landscape. Gentle rolling hills envelope the area.

Cat Pleska, the president of West Virginia Writers, Inc., took the photo below at last summer’s conference.

Attending year after year to see old friends, make new, and get those creative juices flowing is akin, I think, to the fond memories many people have about traditional summer camp.

My dad tried to send my four siblings and me to summer camp one year, but we all came down with chicken pox. Darn. However, I revere and embrace the few days I spend each summer at Cedar Lakes at the best little writers’ conference in the country.

Past presenters have included Gretchen Moran Laskas, author of ‘The Midwife’s Tale,’ an Oprah book club selection; the indomitable Lee Maynard; Cheryl Ware, from whose pen the delightful children’s series featuring Venola Mae books took flight; Brad Barkley, an award-winning novelist; Jim Minick, whose memoir on starting a pick-your-own-blueberry farm with his wife garnered a multitude of rave reviews plus a whole host of talented others. This year, Cheryl and Jim will be back to present workshops, and Lee will be reading from his latest book. Pitch sessions to an agent and editor are also available. And it’s not too late to register.

Camaraderie, creativity, and best of all…no camping on the ground.

Can’t be beat.

Happy Mother's Day

2011-05-08T13:31:00.000-07:00

Happy Mother’s Day, Part 1

Once again, Happy Mother’s Day to all who mother.

I attribute my happiness in life to having a wonderful, supportive mother. She never berated, belittled, or criticized. Rather, she nurtured the very best in all her children and was unfailingly on our side. This doesn’t mean she condoned bad or inappropriate behavior -- not at all. Her standards were high; her love was unconditional. She made being a mother look so effortless that when I had my first child I accused her of making parenting seem too easy.

It wasn’t.

Married to a workaholic school administrator, she was a stay-at-home mom who forged a decades-long writing career that has resulted in more than 50 published novels.

She is my mother, my writing partner for the last 20+ years, and my best friend.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

Happy Mother’s Day, Part 2

In addition to being a daughter, I am also a mother. An old mother by my reckoning, married at the tender age of 22 and a first-time mom five days shy of my 31st birthday. Had my second son when I was pushing 36.

They turn 16 and 21 this year, so you can do the math.

Unlike my mother, I sadly run a loose(r) ship. Like my mom, I endeavor always to be supportive and value the importance of children stretching their wings.

The other night my older son, Erik, was packing for a train trip East. After a layover in Chicago, he’ll arrive in Pittsburgh, take a Greyhound to Morgantown, WV, liberate his girlfriend’s car and drive to Baltimore to pick her up from college.

I must have asked him half a dozen times if he had packed his tickets.

Like his father, Erik is a transportation junkie. Trains are his preferred mode of travel and his interest in locomotives started at an early age. From “The Little Engine That Could” to Virginia Lee Burton’s better-than-Mike-Mulligan’s-steamshovel “Choo-Choo” to all things “Thomas the Tank Engine,” Erik was a train aficionado.

Of course he had packed his tickets.

I explained to him I feel like I need to catch up on some ‘hover mothering.’ He had come home from his ‘final’ final that same day and announced he’s now a senior in college.

Huh? Seems like only yesterday we were winging to Germany to visit him during his high school exchange year. His little brother, Andrew, is nearly done with his sophomore year of high school.

Erik will be back in a couple weeks, then he’s off again (this time to NYC for a university writing workshop) – via train.

In the fall, he’s hoping to do another study abroad (he studied in Germany again in college). Eventually he’s going to go for good.

Then it will be Andrew’s turn. But it won’t be a totally empty nest since we’ll still have Grandma, thank goodness.

Somehow I recall knowing when I held my tiny (at six pounds we called Erik a ‘little monkey baby’) firstborn son in my arms that long-ago December in northern Arizona, when it was so cold there was snow on the southern cacti, I wouldn’t get to keep him forever.

I just didn’t know the time would come so soon.

Work in Progress

2011-05-04T13:55:00.000-07:00

Note: I wrote the following a couple weeks ago, and nothing has changed. Kind of scary but kind of symmetrical?

I don’t know if I’d qualify this as a wonderful day, but I sure as shootin’ got nothin’ to say.

Zippity do dah, zippity ay.

Or zip, zero, zilch.

Now those who know and love, or at least tolerate me, are now rolling on the floor barely able to contain their peals of laughter…I’m sure.

Me, at a loss for words, is a rare thing indeed…the spoken or written kind.

My mother called me, affectionately and accurately, ‘satchel mouth’ when I was a child.

You know, suitcase, open and shut, open and shut…well, you get the idea.

Contrary to this mom-labeled moniker, I can keep a secret. However, I also have never been very good at keeping my mouth shut.

It’s not that I’ve run out of things to say, I’m just takin’ a breather.

My deadlines are met, new exciting projects loom on the horizon, and as for holding on and letting go… here’s an update.

School is winding (or as my eldest says, crashing) down. My college professor husband is busy with end-of-the-year stuff. Older son Erik is finishing up his junior year of college and planning a study abroad in Korea next fall. At the tender age of 15, he first broached us with the idea of going to school overseas. Since then a lot has transpired. Now a German major and English minor, he’s blossomed into an excellent writer and is planning his future.

I said to him the other night, “I’ll miss you when you grow up and go away.”

His insightful response? “I don’t have to grow up to go away.”

His younger brother, Andrew, now 15 himself and finishing his sophomore year of high school, told me recently we’re entering into “uncharted territory.” I’ve never had an 11^th grader before. Erik spent his junior year of high school in Germany. Then, as detailed previously in this space, he applied to college, dropped out of high school, got his GED, and went off to college a full year early.

Having a conventional child is indeed going to be a new experience, and I wouldn’t have it any other way with both of my sons.

In early June my husband and I head to West Virginia. I’ll be seeing old and dear friends at the West Virginia Writers’ Conference. Spouse will head south with a good friend to motorcycle. Also this summer, we’ll see much of our extended families, my mom and I will continue to write together, and thanks to Facebook I’ll continue to reconnect with friends from decades ago.

I guess for a girl who doesn’t have anything to say, I’ve managed to say a lot.

Zippity do dah.

Groundhog Day

2011-04-18T11:12:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago I wrote the following…and then didn’t follow up. I got busy with the business of writing, and the moment that spurred the words below passed. Momentarily.

You know those platitudes your parents spouted to comfort you in tough times? Phrases like ‘when the going gets tough, the tough get going’?

C’mon you know what I’m talking about. You use them on your own children. I do.

I’ve discovered an ugly truth, though. Those ‘words of wisdom’ are just as annoying when you’re on the delivering end as when you’re on the receiving end.

Being a parent is sometimes like being stuck in that Bill Murray movie ‘Groundhog Day.’ Murray’s hapless weatherman character is forced to relive the same strange day repeatedly, until he gets in right. The more we tell our children whatever woe they’re experiencing is a ‘character-building experience,’ the more we get it wrong.

Oh, the advice is accurate and the words spot-on…but, honestly, how much good are we really doing?

Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not advocating being anything but the supportive, nurturing parent. However, when spouting all the ‘blah blah blah,’ remember to throw in a line or two about how you know this won’t make things better. Because it won’t.

But it will remind your kid you care. Try to listen more than talk. Listen to what they don’t say as much as what they do say. And don’t remind them you’ve been there and survived. It’s not about you, it’s about whatever your son or daughter is working through.

And they will get through it. And move on to the next thing, just as we did at that age.

Nobody ever said it was gonna be easy.

Slow and Steady Wins the Race…Sort Of

2011-03-31T11:34:00.000-07:00

Monday night was the final meeting of the local Y’s ‘Resolution Solution’ program. Faithful readers (and long-suffering family members) know I tend to wax ad nauseam on the topic of fat…much more so than family and faith.

Before the final weigh-in and a few rousing games of dodge ball and tug-of-war (it was truly exhilarating channeling my inner 12-year-old), a special guest speaker offered tidbits on longevity and living a good healthy, faith-based life.

The 91-year-old guest’s advice reminded me of my 80-plus father-in-law’s ascetic approach to life, minus the barbell stuff. A good gene pool and prudent living can take one far.

My motto, on the other hand, is everything in moderation, including moderation. I’ve always been an all or nothing kind of gal. It’s only in the last couple years I’ve decided to stop dieting and to start making lifestyle changes.

So when I stepped on the scale after lobbing a small rubber ball at the Y’s pregnant aquatic manager and then apologizing profusely (being in school pre-Title IX was rough!) and didn’t lose as much weight in the 12-week program as I planned to, I took the philosophical path…as thorny as it was.

Since last year at this time (I keep records), I’m down 17 pounds. It was a couple more, but winter is rough. And I’m weak.

Losing just over 10 more will put me at my adult low, last reached on what I call the ‘grief diet,’ a plan never to be repeated. Back then, a good friend died way too young; and my husband fell ill and I thought he was going to die (he wasn’t), etc. I’m a stress eater, but when the stress reaches the nth degree even I can’t eat. Not the way to go.

Needless to say, I gained most of that weight back and am now slowly and steadily getting it off. Ten more pounds, and I’ll call it done. Honest.

Years ago cartoonist Berke Breathed, creator of the strip Bloom County, put his character Opus, a penguin, on a diet. Poor Opus was searching for the magic cure for weight loss.

Imagine his surprise, and mine, when we both discovered the secret is ‘eat less, exercise more.’

It’s not glamorous or quick, but it does work.

Who'da thunk?

Swimsuit Season and 60 Minutes

2011-03-22T07:29:00.000-07:00

Monday night I had every intention of going to my Y ‘Resolution Solution’ class. In addition to a demo of healthy recipes, an aqua zumba workout was scheduled. I even retrieved my olive green tankini from a bin in the storage room.

But life intervened, and I stuffed the swimsuit into a drawer.

Few tasks strike fear in the hearts of women more than swimsuit shopping. Men may shudder at this chore, also. But the only swimsuits purchased by males in this household have been snatched off the rack or ordered from Lands’ End without an ounce of angst involved.

Actually my current suit and the two-piece navy and turquoise number (no exposed midriff, rest assured!) were purchased via Lands’ End.

I have an aversion to swimsuit shopping, and shopping in general. I once went swimsuit shopping with my husband’s younger sister. She needed a suit, not me. She was, and is, five foot eleven and slender. I am five foot two and ¾ on a good day and even at my thinnest, no one would call me slender, slim, or svelte.

Ironically, the time I felt most comfortable in a swimsuit was the summer I was pregnant with my second son. There’s liberation in just not caring about resembling a beached whale. I’m not exaggerating. While waiting at the doctor’s office that summer, someone asked me if I was having triplets.

The time I should have felt most uncomfortable – interviewing Don Hewitt, then-60 Minutes producer, poolside in Vegas, both of us clad in swimsuits, ironically did not faze me that much. Ah, the confidence of 20.

College classmates and I were attending a broadcasting honorary society convention during spring break. I had a story due for my print journalism class while I was gone, and somehow Don Hewitt became my story. I’m sure we both wore cover-ups. The only details that really matter, though, are the ‘A’ I got on the story and in the class (taught by the amazing Jim Wojcik) and the fact an article on Hewitt in TV Guide later that year used all the same quotes I did. It was the legendary producer’s standard spiel, but at least I knew enough to pick up on it.

We both could have been wearing Hefty garbage bags and one truth still would have resonated: I wanted to be a writer.

I returned from spring break to find out my father, a school administrator, had accepted a new job in Iowa. In the downriver Detroit suburb we lived in, school personnel were routinely ‘pink slipped’ due to the poor economy. They may or may not be rehired. With my sister and me in college and two brothers coming up, my dad wasn’t going to wait around to see.

It seemed easier to change my major from broadcast journalism to print journalism by following my family to Iowa and transferring to a different university. Yes, my idea of easy can be skewed.

I got hired at the Iowa State Daily, took a class from another amazing professor, Tom Emmerson, and met my husband.

I’m still afraid to face the 360 degree dressing room mirrors to try on swimsuits, but pulling out that tankini yesterday reminded me of the things I’ve done in my life that should have daunted me…but didn’t.

Not bad for a piece of spandex.

Happy Birthday, Mom

2011-03-14T20:28:00.000-07:00

On the Ides of March, my mother was born in Kalamazoo, Michigan to Reinhart Rock, a pharmacist, and Violet Stubbe Rock, the daughter of a grocer. The previous year my grandmother had gone off to college with a car, a fur coat, and a high IQ, intending to study journalism. She met and married my grandfather and gave birth to my mother, Barbara. Later my Uncle Jimmy and then my Aunt Judy came along.

This is intended to be my mother’s story, but aren’t we all the product of our own mother’s stories?

My grandmother was a so-so parent… good with her children and grandchildren when they were young but lacking overall in the maternal instincts department. She wasn’t a bad mother by all accounts; she just wasn’t the superlative mother my siblings and I were fortunate to have (still). On my late uncle’s birthday he was always ‘king for a day.’ My mom and Aunt Judy were never ‘queens for a day’ on their birthdays.

Not that my siblings and I were feted like royalty on our birthdays, although we did get out of dishes. It’s just my mom was and is scrupulously fair, treating all her offspring alike.

She’s also generous to a fault, a trait inherited from her father. My mom turned her childhood pastime of collecting picture postcards into a lifelong adult avocation; for 25 years she sponsored a mail postcard sale with all proceeds going to world hunger relief.

One thing my grandmother excelled at was taking her three children (sans my grandfather who never took vacations), her sister, her nephew, and her father on cross-country trips. My grandma loved to drive, a trait neither my mother nor I inherited. Ironically, the only driving that ever did her in was hilly pre-Interstate West Virginia (birthplace of my second son).

Though a voracious reader herself, my grandmother always prodded my mother to ‘put down her’ book and go outside to play. My mom has never been an outside person.

From a very early age, as I’ve recounted before, my late Aunt Judy would make breakfast for my mom and their brother. Grandma

Rock preferred to sleep in. To this day, I tease my mom about her lumpy oatmeal; but I’m also grateful to have a mother who got my three siblings and me up every morning for school and made us breakfast.

My mom used to say all she ever wanted to be was a mother, although her original career plan was to be a lawyer. She was accepted at law school but ended up teaching school while my father finished college.

She didn’t like teaching; she liked being a mother. Decades ago my pregnant mother thought she had indigestion from Christmas dinner, but it was just me… coming a little early.

This is one of our shared stories, a part of the family mythos. In a December eons later, I gave birth to my first son on one of the coldest days on record in Arizona. ‘It was so cold there was snow on the cactuses’ has become part of the thread of our life stories.

In addition to being my mother, she’s also my writing partner. She’s the author of more than 50 novels, and the co-author with me of more than 30 of those.

In addition to being my parent and partner, she’s something else.

My mother is and always has been my best friend. She never hovered but was there when needed. She never belittled and always encouraged and always had my back. She’s continually been there for me and my siblings and now our families, always knowing the right thing to say and do. For more than a dozen years, she’s lived with my husband, sons and me. Sure we have our differences, but we never stay mad for long.

I’m fond of another family story, one where my five-year-old self stood at the top of the stairs and threw a tiny brass vase down at her. She gave it back to me when I was 18. I try to stay on her good side.

Twenty-nine years ago this month, my Grandma Rock died. I was a senior in college, struggling through a physics class to meet a science requirement (because I’d flunked a science class the previous spring). Another class was also giving me fits. I was taking way too many hours, working at the university newspaper and applying for jobs, making sure I’d graduate so I could get a job and get married.

I loved my grandma. She spoiled me rotten (but I knew it so that made it less odious, I think), letting me stay up til all hours of the night watching Twilight Zone, Outer Limits, and old Clark Gable movies. She used to fill paper cups with M&Ms, mini-marshmallows, and cashews for my ‘midnight snack.’ No mystery why when my son and his girlfriend were stranded in Denmark in a huge snowstorm a couple years ago, I buried my face in a bag of candy-coated comfort. She was a good grandma when we were young.

Because I loved my grandma and because I was afraid I was going to flunk yet another science class, my mom gave me a wonderful gift. She told me to stay home from the out-of-state funeral and study, absolving me of all guilt for not going.

That’s the kind of mom my mom is.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you.

Free to be…like everyone else?

2011-03-08T11:09:00.000-08:00

When my older son was young he had a best friend named Petey. Petey loved the movie Free Willy. He also loved hot dogs.

Erik liked neither to the point of what I feared was rudeness during play dates.

“I don’t like Free Willy, I’m never gonna like Free Willy, and no one can make me like Free Willy,” he pronounced on the way home from Petey’s one day.

My son’s adamant stance against this movie (and hot dogs) didn’t seem to affect his friendship with Petey. But I still apologized to Petey’s mom just in case Erik’s independence bordered on impoliteness. She actually said to me she wished as an African American mother her son was more independent. What the teen years would bring concerned her.

I was on the verge of teendom when Free to Be…You and Me, was released, a record album and book featuring stories and songs performed by celebrities. The original message was both boys and girls could achieve anything.

When this phrase pops into my head, I think of it as meaning more. We should respect each other’s individuality, not disparage it. We can’t all like Free Willy (or hot dogs) and why should we?

Previously I’ve written about what a huge fan I am of our local YMCA and the great classes and instructors. A new type of workout is being offered at multiple times, and it’s extremely popular.

I don’t like it so I’m not doing it. It’s not the exertion that doesn’t appeal to me, it’s the preparation. Putting weights on bars is not my thing. Same with photography, make-up, accessorizing, and crafts.

During those pre-teen years my Grandma Rock, a prolific knitter, tried to teach me the art of twisting yarn on needles. She was far more successful with instructing me on playing Gin Rummy for nickels.

Those who like this new workout are usually quite polite when they ask me what I don’t like about it. Recently, though, someone I don’t know well asked me rather impolitely.

I nearly channeled Erik’s age-old Free Willy litany…but refrained.

But it got me thinking about being free to be…me. I have no problem being a non-conformist. And in some areas I conform to the norm, though what that is I often wonder.

Parents spend so much time worrying about their children “following the crowd.” I actually had a friend once who confessed when she was a teenager she did jump off a bridge when everyone else did!

How can we, as parents, exhort our sons and daughters not to succumb to peer pressure when we send mixed messages our adult selves all have to like the same thing?

And I’m not just talking about a new exercise workout.

We can’t all like Free Willy. Or hot dogs.

To Do List Redux

2011-03-02T13:01:00.000-08:00

So this morning I was rarin’ to tackle my ‘To Do’ list…but I couldn’t find it.

Not a good sign.

Sure it was on my computer, but I’d already printed it out and added handwritten additions.

And I wanted to be able to cross off items I’d already done. My friend, freelance writer Sandy Smith, asked me if I ever put completed tasks on my list just so I could cross them off.

You better believe it.

Last night I e-mailed the manuscript due today to our editors and was looking forward to ‘checking’ that off. The lost list included work and domestic tasks.

Rather than shuffle all the piles of papers that have sprung to life during the deadline period, I just printed out a new copy…and tossed on one of the piles.

To avoid un-shuffling said piles, I decided a blog on to do lists was in order and went back to find the one I knew I did over a year ago…yep, I’m in repeats.

The first item was the same.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

To Do List

E-mail editor manuscript due this week: check
Sort out books to donate to library: check
Hang more girly artwork in home office: check
Get caught up on laundry: never
Dip whole body into river of full-time freelance writing: in progress

Has it really been more than a year since I took the item five plunge?

All these months later, I’m definitely entrenched in the full-time freelance writing lifestyle. With my old frenetic life of teaching, advising, writing, and volunteering I needed lists of my lists to keep track of things.

Now, even though things are very different (tho I’m still an aging mom volunteer) I still periodically need a list…or two.

It was nearly three years ago my husband and I decided to make a drastic lifestyle change, giving up lucrative stressful positions at a large university in the mid-Atlantic region of the country to move back close to family, to my husband’s ‘dream town.’ We now live in a middling-size city in Nebraska. He loves his job in this town on the cusp of his beloved West.

And I’ve come to love following my life’s dream of writing fulltime, even though some people still think I sit around eating bon bons all day and watching soap operas….there is James Franco…sigh…but I haven’t watched a soap opera since the early 90’s.

I still miss my students and working at home is definitely work…just work I can do in my pajamas if I want.

Having to do ‘to do’ lists is a good sign…it’s an indication of a balance between my old life and my new.

Truly, I’ll never stop missing teaching college students. I loved ‘em like they were my own children, well, most of them. I do offer up a prayer of thanks every single day I no longer have to grade. I loathed grading, absolutely loathed.

Conversely, I’m fulfilling a childhood dream: being a writer. Of course I envisioned doing it living in Connecticut, surrounded by my ten loving children…sort of a cross between Jean Kerr and Shirley Jackson.

But the prairie suits me just fine.

Not much to say….

2011-02-23T12:47:00.000-08:00

Lately blogging has taken a backseat to writing deadlines for paying work and possible paying work. And, those who know and poke fun of my volubility will chortle uncontrollably, also lately I haven’t had much to say.

That alone should be worth writing about…but it’s not.

I was going back through old blog posts the other day to find a recipe I know by heart but still wanted the ‘written down’ version. Unlike some writers, I loathe reading anything I’ve penned once it’s done. So many words, so little time…why re-read mine? But I was struck by my sincere prolific-ness in earlier posts.

Why did I have so much to say previously and so little recently? The aforementioned work is one reason.

What drew me to writing and journalism initially is the love of other people’s stories. Even though I have the joy of making up all the stories my mom and I write now, once upon a time I was a reporter and taught reporting for umpteen years.

This week I’m playing ‘girl reporter’ and interviewing a friend of mine for the West Virginia Writers, Inc. spring newsletter about workshops he’ll be giving at the group’s annual conference this summer.

People are always sharing their tales with me. My older son, Erik, says it’s the invisible neon sign flashing on my forehead that certain folks can see. He’s got it too. So does my friend Karin Fuller, newspaper columnist extraordinaire.

But some stories are not mine to write.

Today a thousand miles away a memorial service was held for the father of one of Erik’s best friends. Paul Becker, father of Benny, Abby, and Nina, died at his home last week.

I knew Paul as an extraordinary father to an extraordinary son. My own son is moving through this week in a trance, wishing he could be with his friend. Another friend, Alex, just had to return to college. He wishes he could be with Benny too. Ironically, childhood friends Alex and Benny attend separate out-of-state colleges across the street from each other.

I got started thinking about all of this looking for a recipe for Alex, who’d planned to bake for his friend what the boys all used to call my ‘magical squares.’

I think today, as in the wonderful book “Like Water for Chocolate,” chocolate chips aren’t the only ingredient in those cookie bars, which I plan also to bake and send off to Rhode Island.

Today this is a tale about loss and love and wishing all stories only had happy endings.

On Aging

2011-02-08T20:17:00.000-08:00

"The great secret that all old people share is that you really haven't changed in 70 or 80 years. Your body changes, but you don't change at all. And that, of course, causes great confusion." -- Doris Lessing

Earlier this week I paid five bucks for a small cup of black coffee at a local bakery café. No I don’t live in Seattle or New York City. The caffeine actually only cost me a dollar, but I left the change in the tip jar.

Somehow the adorable 20-something barista and her sweet-as-pie 30-something co-worker and I got on the subject of age. Twenty thought I was her mother’s age and thirty concurred, which would put me roughly a decade younger than I am. No, I didn’t ask them if they needed new glasses, but I did leave a 400 percent tip. Made my day, even though I am still skeptical about their eyesight.

Part of it is the gene pool. My maternal grandmother smoked, drank, and sunned and didn’t look ravaged by age. My mother doesn’t smoke or drink. She has an aversion to garlic and eschews the sun. A waiter once asked her, quite seriously, if she was a vampire. She’s not. But she does look younger than her chronological age.

My chubby face helps I guess, but lately I’ve spent a lot of time peering closely in the mirror. Fine lines are etched around my eyes, freckles (age spots?) have appeared where none were before (I spend a lot of time in the summer walking in the sun), and then there’s the gray hair.

I stopped dyeing years ago, preferring gray to the black or brownish-orange hues that always resulted. When I started the process of un-processing, one of my friends was horrified since silver telegraphs a person’s age much more loudly than dyed tresses do.

When it comes to ‘maintenance,’ I’m low or no, a trait my husband appreciates (and which helps make up for some of my less…charming…characteristics!).

When I was approaching 50, the one person who could console me was my 90-year-old great aunt. You really can’t complain to someone her age that 50 is old.

My late Grandpa Rock would have been a century plus one on Thursday. He died when he was just sixty and I was ten, setting off what seems like a long pattern in my life of people I love and adore going way before their time.

So I’ve decided to spend less time on narcissistic nose-pressing against the mirror, and more on aging, if not gracefully, gratefully.

Chores

2011-01-27T14:01:00.000-08:00

If it’s Thursday, it must be Dyson day. Actually I don’t have a Dyson and only a vague idea of its merits, but I have a good friend who does…and I just like the ring of it.

The other day another friend and I were talking about division of labor, as in which spouse does what when it comes to domestic chores. This is a touchy subject in many households, and I remember buying a copy of The Second Shift at a garage sale eons ago.

This is from the product description on Amazon:

“Fifteen years after its first publication, The Second Shift remains just as important and relevant today as it did then. As the majority of women entered the workforce, sociologist and Berkeley professor Arlie Hochschild was one of the first to talk about what really happens in dual-career households. Many people were amazed to find that women still did the majority of childcare and housework even though they also worked outside the home. Now, in this updated edition with a new introduction from the author, we discover how much things have, or have not, changed for women today.”

I’m a lucky woman. My husband took over all the cooking when he was diagnosed with diabetes more than a decade ago. But his culinary roots go deeper. He learned to cook over a campfire in Boy Scouts, worked in food service in high school, and ran a vegetarian on-campus restaurant during his senior year of college. He likes to cook; I don’t. Washing a pile of pots and pans stacked to the ceiling is far more appealing to me than dicing, slicing, and trying to get dishes to come out at the same time.

What’s more, I enjoy cleaning. Scrubbing toilets or dusting woodwork is my idea of relaxing. I know I’m an aberration, and I didn’t always feel this way.

Growing up, Saturdays meant chore day. My sister, Joan, and I took turns cleaning bathrooms or dusting and vacuuming. When they got older, my brothers joined the ‘fun.’ Joan and I also alternated doing dishes after dinner each night. She got odd nights; I was in charge on even nights. I can still hear her complaining there were more ‘odd’ days in the calendar than ‘even’ ones. We did get our birthdays off.

My siblings and I had it much better than my mom and her brother and sister did. My grandmother made each one of them dust the same pieces of furniture. Grandma Rock never got up and made breakfast for them either on school days, preferring to sleep in. My mom made breakfast for us every morning. Now it wasn’t until I was married that I knew oatmeal could be creamy and not lumpy (love you, mom!), but while growing up my mom’s younger sister got up before school and cooked breakfast.

My husband’s mom had a cleaning woman when she went back to teaching in her mid-40s, but my spouse and his older brother (big sister in college already; surprise baby sister too little) had to keep their rooms clean, do their own laundry during the week, and cook one meal a week. On my father-in-law’s night to cook, he took the family out to eat.

When my mom started writing romances full-time, my school administrator father started vacuuming and doing other domestic duties. He was always neat to a fault, sometimes tossing mail before my mom could even see it. And my mother is an organizer extraordinaire.

I grapple with organization, having married a man who leaves a ‘snail trail’ of paper. On the other hand, I can safely say I’ve never cooked a Thanksgiving turkey, which means I’ve never poisoned anyone.

I’m embarrassed to admit my own children never had the chore list my siblings and I did. Conversely, my sons did and do keep their rooms clean, their schoolwork organized, and their activities scheduled.

When people ask how I write with my mother, I always say it’s a symbiotic relationship. The same holds true for housework. I scrub toilets and sinks, my husband cleans the showers and tub, my mom folds laundry (a chore I find particularly odious).

We don’t keep a chart where we write down who does what. There’s just an ebb and flow of domesticity that usually works. My mom loathes dusting; I adore banishing those particles. If I were single, I’d eat cereal for dinner every single night. Seriously. My husband is color blind; I do the laundry.

Sometimes the system breaks down but not for long. And sometimes turning a blind eye to a floor that needs mopping just means it will look that much better when it finally does get cleaned.

All the time I’m glad Cheerios aren’t my usual dinner fare.

Pity Party…table for one…

2011-01-20T14:06:00.000-08:00

So this month I’ve hardly been able to stand my own company. After being felled by severe stomach pains on Halloween and undergoing an endoscopy (that landed me in the ER with a bad reaction to the anesthesia) and an ultrasound on my gallbladder, I’ve been wallowing in self-pity. Like big-time major wallowing.

My gallbladder is at the ‘upper range of normal,’ which means…nothing. In addition, to step up my exercise routine I recently worked out on weight machines and ended up at the eye doctor with more aging eye ‘issues.’ Can you say fireworks ‘exploding’ in my eye? Then there’s my late grandmother’s foot…reincarnated on me….spooky.

For the past year, I’ve endeavored to make a lifestyle change by ramping up the exercise and eschewing dieting in favor of the aforementioned change.

But hadn’t quite counted on the aging process ‘processing.’ Silly me. And even as I whine incessantly, I know I have nothing to complain about. Seriously. Don’t even want to travel down that road of friends who’ve gone way too soon. That would necessitate finding a new box of tissues for my office.

Just this morning I heard an upbeat story about an old friend’s health scare and a sad, sad story about another old friend. Makes my ‘problems’ seem like a hangnail.

With me, it’s always about the subtext. Why did I think getting older would elude me? I vividly recall my mom telling me at a Christmas Eve service when she was about 50 that she still felt 25 on the inside. Some days I feel 15…the age of my youngest son. Other days I feel…old.

And very happy to be alive to feel old.

Cancel the table for one.

Baby Steps

2011-01-05T20:19:00.000-08:00

At noon today I headed to the YMCA for a ‘last chance’ workout with two young trainers who I was sure would kick my aging posterior. Instead I left exhilarated after an hour on the treadmill, elliptical, and weight machines followed by a great bout of stretching to cool down. This special session is part of a a three-month program called ‘Resolution Solution.’

Last January the Y offered another program where participants were challenged to do things such as attending different exercise classes for one week. When it comes to group exertion I’ve always been a lone wolf (or a cowering coyote!). The only exceptions were an aerobics class I took 20 years ago after the birth of my first son and a faculty wives hiking group in Flagstaff that introduced me to the splendors of the Southwest and the strain of switchbacks on my then-young knees!

But with my neighbor encouraging me, off we went to 5:45 a.m. classes.

Did I mention I also have NEVER been a morning person?

One year later I can say that nearly every weekday morning (except for Thursdays in the summer when that day’s instructor ran a Boot Camp, which I will never do!) for the past year I’ve gone to a combination of zumba, toning, body sculpting, and step classes.

What hooked me?

The variety, the awesome instructors, the camaraderie of a great group of women, the decision to approach getting in shape at fifty as a lifestyle change rather than a diet...all were factors.

Yes, I’ve lost weight. And over the holidays I gained some weight. But for the first time I’ve kept off more than I gained, and also for the first time I’ve decided not to beat myself up about weighty matters. I have some good friends I can talk about this with (thank you Susan and Angie!), and we all agree it’s a process.

And I’ve been processing for a long time.

I have this little ‘obsession’ that drives my mother and husband bonkers…and rightly so. Beginning when I was 9, I can recite from memory what I weighed most ages of my life. (3^rd grade 89 lbs.; 4^th grade, 120 lbs., 5 foot two and 3/4^th’s…oh to weigh that now! And the list goes on.)

On two occasions (and I’m now slowly aiming for three) I have lost (and eventually regained) a significant amount of weight. The first time was the summer between 8^th and 9^th grade. At the end of 8^th grade we went on a picnic to a park on the shores of Lake Superior and were joined by high schoolers as chaperones. It was a different era. One boy was so beautiful he took my breath away, and I still remember thinking if that’s what awaited me in high school, maybe I wanted to lose weight. So I did.

My starting weight in May 1974 was 175 pounds. I lost 20 pounds that summer (through a combination of staying at my grandmother’s and eating following her diabetic diet and by counting calories when I got home). By January 1975 I was down to 130 pounds. Okay it’s a big obsession with me. For the record, there were gorgeous guys in that high school.

Over the years, the pounds crept back on. By the time I hit 40 I was at an all-time high, precipitated by hitting George Foreman-worthy numbers during my second pregnancy a few years previous. Then my foot-taller husband was diagnosed with diabetes and lost 65 pounds. I didn’t want to be the fat wife of the thin man so I promptly…gained nine pounds that year, going from 180 to 189. Did I mention I’m five foot two? (I lost the ¾’s somewhere along the way.)

Then I lost more than forty pounds again on the what I call the ‘stress and grief diet.’ Please don’t try this at home. I’m a stress eater but this time the stress level was so great, it took my appetite away. My spouse’s diabetes was followed by a cancer scare, and that was followed by a horrifying period. A dear friend died at the age of 49 at the same time my husband fell ill with a mysterious ailment. While sick, he continued to work long hours at his job. Unable to eat much more than cottage cheese and apple slices, he got dangerously thin. And for the first time in my life, I was too distraught to to eat. The diagnosis was his liver having a horrid reaction to a cholesterol drug change, and he recovered fine. But there was a point where I worried he was going to die. He wasn’t, but….

The weight I dropped didn’t come back for a while, but then my Viking-blooded older son took off for a year at the tender age of 16 to be a foreign exchange student in Germany. That combined with the usual stresses of being a working mom, packed the pounds back on. Food (and my friend Susan whose daughter, Emma, had also been on an exchange program) provided comfort.

Then came a cross-country move. I made a difficult transition from working outside the home fulltime to fulfilling my life-long dream of writing fulltime. Finally last December found me with my head in a bag of holiday M&M’s, stress noshing. The same son was in Europe again on a college study abroad program, and he and his girlfriend were stranded in Denmark during a wicked snowstorm.

I had an epiphany a year ago right then and there among the red and green M&Ms. Candy (cake, cookies, brownies, fudge, chips, dip, name-your-poison) isn’t the answer to anything. This is a continuous struggle for me. People gave me fudge for Christmas, which I ate. However, I did leave the holiday M&Ms I bought unopened.

The point of all this is baby steps.

At the first meeting of Resolution Solution at the Y on Monday night, one of the trainers advised us to set realistic goals for the 12-week program. We weighed in that night and will weigh in at week six and week 12. Until last year I would have set as my goal, 24 pounds in 12 weeks or 30 or…you get the idea.

Now I’d like to lose six pounds in six weeks. That would include the five fudge pounds I put on between the first of December and now. And if I lose three pounds in six weeks, well, it’ll be three pounds less.

I will never stop obsessing over the numbers on the scale. After all, I was the only layperson in the crowded room who knew how many calories are in a pound (3,500).

But I will continue to try to pay attention to how good exercise makes me feel and how bad candy is for me. If once in a while I want a piece of chocolate (or, more likely, a donut), I will indulge. And I won’t berate myself afterwards.

What do I weigh now? Less than George Foreman and more than I did in high school.

I’ll let you know in 12 weeks.

You say you want a resolution….

2010-12-29T06:47:00.000-08:00

Last fall I started blogging to jumpstart my creativity and to work through issues of aging, etc. Fifty loomed like the Sword of Damocles, and I was on the verge of fulfilling my lifelong dream of writing fulltime.

Terrifying. Absolutely terrifying.

What a journey. That I would actually use the term ‘journey’ shows what a long, strange trip it’s been. This excursion soon derailed. The first month of the new year brought highs (birth of my newest niece, Reese) and lows (unexpected death of my beloved Aunt Judy, my mom’s kid sister).

Suddenly I was one of those writers who found excuses not to write. Years ago my mom/writing partner and I penned one of our favorite romances ever in the midst of the breakup of her 40-year marriage. If we were under deadline in a tsunami, the book would get done. That’s just how we roll.

But I wasn’t rolling at the beginning of the year, I was thudding. The deadline work got done, but nothing new or creative blossomed.

The rocky road of 2010 continued. Memories of the good still comfort, the bad doesn’t bear repeating. This December brought a mini meltdown from me over my college-age son moving into an apartment five minutes away. This is the son who’s been overseas twice…the first time at age 16 as a foreign exchange student.

Holding on and breaking down?

And then I turned 51 the day after Christmas. The promise of a new year and new beginnings creaked to life.

My dear friend and prolific romance writer Holly Jacobs doesn’t make resolutions, she says, instead she picks a word to define the upcoming year.

Last year at this time I didn’t make formal resolutions, but I met some goals and fell sadly short on others. This time I took a lesson from Holly and picked a phrase to navigate me into the new year.

Tabula rasa. Blank slate.

No matter what happened this year, 2011 heralds new beginnings. My newest niece is walking, my late aunt’s granddaughter is beautiful and loved, my older son continues to heed the call of his Viking blood, and my younger son gives me unmitigated joy.

And I get to wear my pajamas to work every day.

Happy New Year.

Happy Birthday, Leigh

2010-12-07T19:43:00.000-08:00

I’m a whiner. I admit it. Not about the big stuff but the middlin’ stuff like shoes that pinch and birthdays that end in zero.

So I spent most of 2009 whinin’ and complainin’ about turning 50, which I did last December 26^th. I shoulda just kept my trap shut since I had the best birthday ever thanks to my wonderful friend, Leigh Limerick Rosenecker, formerly of North Carolina, currently residing in Morgantown, West Virginia.

As I wrote last year in this space Leigh, “mom extraordinaire, ace cake decorator and one-day Jeopardy champ, set up a Facebook group to secretly gather 50th birthday greetings for me. She printed the messages out, cut them into strips, punched holes and stuck multicolored birthday candles into them before mailing them off to my husband.”

Once I stopped crying, I had simply the best birthday ever. New friends gathered to help me celebrate as my cake with 50 candles blazed, the greetings from family and old friends more warming than the flames.

Tonight when the clock strikes midnight Leigh hits one of those ‘ends in zero’ birthdays. And I want to wish this extraordinary friend an extraordinarily happy birthday.

We met one summer nearly a decade ago in room three of Martin Hall, home to the school of journalism at West Virginia University, in a reporting class I was teaching. She was an ‘adult student,’ along with our still-friend Steven. Her presence left one classmate ‘star struck’ because he’d grown up listening to her father, Doug Limerick, a longtime radio newsman /sometime replacement host for Paul Harvey.

Her presence immediately enriched my life. Some people tell stories; Leigh is the story. When she started talking in her rich voice ripe with traces of her North Carolina-ness, I never wanted her to stop. Whether it was about making biscuits on an old cast-iron stove or covering a story for her then employer about antique firearms, I wanted to hear more.

Leigh’s heart is as big as her talents, which include writing, baking, being smart (‘Nice girl but about as sharp as a sack of wet mice,’ is the self-effacing Foghorn Leghorn quote she embraces & uh, Jeopardy big bucks winner!) and mothering. She has two adorable towheads, Colin and Charlie.

Because it’s your birthday, Leigh, I won’t make any comments about Alton Brown-like hairstyles! Leigh is not a fan of Mr. Brown and should probably be the next Food Network star, though she shuns the spotlight.

This woman is stunning and funny and warm and sincere and ribald and clever and the best friend, the kind you can just pick up with after months of only conversing via a social media site.

If you were the 21^st century equivalent of the little match girl, Leigh would take you in, warm you up, introduce you to her goldfish, and feed you cookies.

And if you were a whiney, cranky woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown over a date on your birth certificate, she would gather up words, your most cherished thing (besides your own children) and shower you with them.

Thank you again, my dear friend. And Happy Happy Birthday!

P.S. Your real present will be in the mail…

Change is gonna do you good…not!

2010-12-06T20:00:00.000-08:00

According to recent news reports, the social media network Facebook is trying to replace LinkedIn as a professional connection service.

Okay, did you or did you not find that paragraph borrrring?

That first graph exemplifies what is happening to Facebook, a wonderful amalgamation of a ‘globalvillagecoffeeklatch- sixdegreesofkevinbacon’ experience.

As a former journalist I have nothing against the sacred five w’s and an h, but I don’t want the first thing I see on my friends’ ‘profile’ pages to be where they went to school, who they’re married to, and what their occupation is.

Borrrring.

Instead, give me a ‘personal’ barometer about how they’re feeling, the ‘h’ being the most neglected of the journalistic canon.

Yes, it’s just trading one kind of egomaniacal labeling for another.

But it’s that connectedness of the non-professional kind that makes social networking ‘social.’

I am not an advocate against change, having gone to three high schools and two colleges and having lived in five, count ‘em, five states.

Normally I embrace big changes, though I must admit smaller ones like a new pair of shoes or spectacles throw me.

Being a child of change is the very reason I adore Facebook. Or did. On any given day Facebook ‘newsfeed’ tells me how one of my very best friends from elementary school days in a frigid Great Lakes state is faring during a cold spell in her adult home in the south or how special former students of mind are doing in the ‘real world’ of marriage, parenthood, and work. Mark Zuckerberg’s brainchild (his movie pretend girlfriend was right; he is a jerk) allows a connectedness and interaction that transcends geographic and historical boundaries.

Now Facebook wants the first thing I see about my friends on their homepage to be where they went to school. I need my media scholar husband to explain the particulars to me, and I’m sure the ‘newsfeed’ will still feed me pertinent news, but in the end, I don’t want resumes.

I want the first thing I know about the boy with the curly hair and wool sweater whom I never kissed but probably should have 30 years ago, is that he’s having a good day with his son.

Professionally that knowledge is useless, but personally…it’s priceless.

Counting one’s blessings

2010-11-24T09:46:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is not my favorite holiday mainly because I have a love-hate relationship with turkey and stuffing. I love to eat it, and I hate to get on the scale the next day! Why I weigh myself the day after is a different story…. After last year’s eating season I decided to stop dieting and make a lifestyle change instead.

The good thing about a lifestyle change vs. a temporary diet is I can keep climbing back on the wagon after I’ve fallen off. I may be battered and bruised, but I’ve stopped beating myself up for being a diet ‘failure.’

It’s an ongoing process, and that’s how I want to view being thankful. A special day set aside to be grateful for our blessings is wondrous and gives us time with family and friends. But saying thanks for the people and things enriching our lives should be something we do on a continuing basis.

So, in the spirit of gratefulness, here’s my list of what I’m thankful for this holiday and year-round:

The fact I’ve never cooked a Thanksgiving dinner. I hate to cook (RIP Peg Bracken). Now I’ve baked many a pie over the years, including our first year of marriage when, in frustration, I lobbed a lumpy batch of homemade crust at the ceiling. I’ll do dishes til the cows come home, but I’m always thankful on the last Thursday of November and year-round for a husband who cooks.
My children. I like and love them. What more can mother ask for?
My mother. She’s my best friend and writing partner. She never hovered, allowed all four of her kids enormous independence, yet was always there if any pieces needed to be picked up. She still is.
My siblings and their families. Admittedly I did try to lose my youngest brother at Disneyland when he was just a preschooler and once my sister and I did tie him to a tree (there’s home movie proof), but we still love him. Happy Birthday, Mark!
Friends. Through all the years and all the places I’ve lived, I’ve truly been blessed, and continue to be blessed, with the best friends in the world. Seriously.
All the ‘boys’ I’ve ever crushed on, from teenybopper icons to the real deals. They were all precursors to the man who cooks, and how can I not be grateful this season and year-round to those who made my heart go pitter-patter?
Thanksgiving dinner with family and friends. Yes, I’ll eat too much and want to toss the scale just like that long-ago pie dough. Then I’ll climb back onto that ‘wagon’ the following day, grateful for hearth and home…and the people I love.

Now it’s time to think about pies…I’m also thankful this year for Pet-Ritz!

P is for Procrastination

2010-11-17T07:08:00.000-08:00

Note: Planned to post this Tuesday…but take note of the title.

November is officially halfway over, and I’m just now packing away my summer clothes. “Packing” may be pushing the definition. So far I’ve taken about half a dozen shirts off hangers, folded, and tossed in a clear plastic bin. At the rate I’m going, it’ll be spring by the time I finish the job.

I wrote those words yesterday but am tackling the job anew today. The container is filling up, and soon I’ll be ready for a second one. Putting sweaters into drawers is a job that can wait for another day. Soon I’m heading out to meet my neighborhood walking pal.

Folding haphazardly…I never worked retail and that’s probably a good thing…I’m blinking back tears. Summer, like the rest of this year, was filled with soaring highs and dipping lows.

As the sun begins to set on another year, I’m filled with infinite joys and sorrows for reasons I can’t even articulate.

Never did I think a pink polo shirt would have the power to render me mute. Years ago almost-twenty-year-old Erik and I had a spirited discussion about whether a pair of athletic shorts that he and his dad had just purchased fit properly. I’ve long since forgotten what was really bugging me, but it wasn’t the sizing of a pair of nylon athletic wear.

Since then the phrase “It’s like the shorts” has become a permanent part of the lexicon around here. When someone gets upset about a seemingly silly thing, and it’s really about something much deeper, we dredge out that phrase and somehow we all know to back off and let the subtext subside.

So later when I place the rest of my summer clothes in the sterile containers and the tears start to flow, I’ll remind myself "It’s like the shorts" and snap the lid on the subtext.

Happy Anniversary, Dear Blog (two weeks late)

2010-10-24T20:28:00.000-07:00

One year my husband and I were so busy with work and children, etc. that we forgot our wedding anniversary. Please note sometimes the ‘etceras’ push you over the edge. The date just kind of slipped our harried minds.

Since we moved to the prairie, my life has moved at a slower pace…one I enjoy. This fall things are speeding up, which is good, but my multitasking skills are a little rusty. I used to juggle a full-time job at a large university, writing deadlines, and all things children-related in addition to trying to be a decent wife and a good daughter. Not worth delving into how successful I was at any of these.

Fortunately multitasking is like riding a bike...the ability comes back to you after you crash.

But it hit me tonight I missed another anniversary. It was a year ago this month that I started blogging about my sons and my fear of turning fifty, etc. Please note other times the ‘etceras’ are just fine.

The boys are good, fifty is more fabulous than frightening, and I’m still plugging away at holding on and letting go.

Happy Anniversary to me.

Momz in the Hood

2010-10-12T20:00:00.000-07:00

I wore the following to book group last night: faded black capri pants; awesome lime green t-shirt with an orange ‘Catstronaut’ imprinted on it, (made by Alex, one of son Erik's best friends, a sophomore at Rhode Island School of Design); sandals; and a sweater ‘purloined’ this summer from my friend Karin, columnist extraordinaire for the Charleston, WV Sunday Gazette.

Note to Karin: I will return it and the adorable peasant blouse but will keep the ‘hoochie mama’ dress you gave me, which I am too chicken to wear.

Because I couldn’t find my black zip-up hooded sweatshirt (bought specifically to wear with hideous black wide-legged sweat pants on the plane for our flight to Germany three springs ago), I grabbed (gently, Karin, I promise!) the sweater.

A combination shrug/capelet garment with ¾ length sleeves, it’s adorable, and chi-chi and, sadly, not me. My book group pals agreed with me, in the kindest possible way. A friend, nearly 20 years my junior (clad in an adorable short colorful trench coat) said it was definitely the kind of thing she’d wear. Columnist Karin, several inches taller with patrician cheekbones, would look stunning in it too. If I ever get it mailed back to her.

Karin is an expert bargain hunter and a trip several years ago to a Coldwater Creek Outlet store yielded some amazing finds for me, thanks to her. And she’s similarly gifted in her surroundings. Like my dear friend Gwen (who single-handedly transformed her backyard into something out of House Beautiful, pond included), Karin has the interior design ‘touch.’ Both women are frugal, uber creative, and talented.

Me, I once had a friend tell me my design style was ‘house mediocre’ and years ago had a colleague earnestly offer to nominate me for TLC’s What Not to Wear due to my summer teaching ‘uniform’ of capris (I think the same pair I wore last night), Tevas, and polo shirts.

Yeah, yeah, yeah…I know I have other ‘talents’…well, at least one. But just once I’d like to be able to accessorize a room or an outfit, heck, even decorate a Christmas cookie with panache!

But I can’t so I’ll just bask in the glow of having wonderful friends who can…and try to remember to return articles of clothing I filch from them.

Dear Pen Pal

2010-09-28T19:56:00.000-07:00

Long before Hello Kitty and stretchy bracelets, having a ‘pen pal’ was all the rage. A magazine, the name long forgotten, matched up pen pals..sort of an eHarmony for the elementary school set.

When I was ten…the age I decided I wanted to be a writer (or the First Lady, or Mrs. Donny Osmond, or save the seals and the environment) a girl named Diane and I started corresponding.

She was a couple years older and lived in Pennsylvania, a fact that just now comes back to me all these decades later. We hit it off and even spoke on the phone several times over the years. We never met but the written word cemented our friendship.

One summer night after my sophomore year in high school (the grade my youngest son is in now), I came home from my job at the ice cream/sandwich shop run by a local pain-in-the-keister businessman. The pay was low, the work was mundane, and at the end of the night we had to make the restrooms hospital-clean.

My mom, my Rock of Gibraltar, told me Diane’s mother had called. Diane and her boyfriend had been killed in a van accident that evening. If my pen pal had lived, she would have been a vegetable.

I sobbed into my mother’s arms, my sophisticated 16-year-old bravado dissolved.

Since then I’ve lost friends to the ravages of disease, but never one whose only connection to me was words.

Cherish the power of words. They have the ability to bind, to wound, to wrap us in a cocoon of love and warmth or shatter our illusions and make us no longer whole.

Guest Post - On Balance

2010-09-22T10:08:00.000-07:00

Four years ago my good friend poet Kirk Judd and I journeyed to Tennessee to attend the SAWC (Southern Appalachian Writers Cooperative) fall gathering. It was a glorious October weekend filled with opportunities for renewing creativity and making new friends. One of these is guest blogger, Jim Minick. Jim is an essayist, a poet, a teacher, and the author of The Blueberry Years, a memoir on blueberry farming and family. He and his wife, Sarah, currently live in Virginia. The topic here is near and dear to my heart, and Jim is an extraordinary friend. - PAH

On Balance

By Jim Minick, author of The Blueberry Years

When I was working intensely on The Blueberry Years in the first six months of 2009, I developed a pattern for what became my ideal day. I wrote at the computer from roughly 9:00 to 3:00, with a break for lunch, and then I headed out on our farm to do something physical. In the winter, I took a mattock and chopped bushes of invasive, multiflora rose. In the summer, I took a hoe and chopped thistle, again, an invasive, non-native plant that, untended, can cover a pasture in a few years, leaving nothing for the cows to eat.

This balance of work, of mental with physical, of creating with “destroying,” all of it seemed to fine tune my whole being. Our bodies and minds were both created for action, both meant to be used, and only in our recent history have we become a nation of couch-veggies. Yet writing, while great for keeping the mind sharp, seldom physically exercises more than the quick, soft pushups of fingers on keypads.

So getting out every afternoon released that morning’s pent up physical energy. And nothing like the pleasure of killing a thorny rose to also work out a thorny problem in the prose. Usually, though, I found a certain inner blankness in the afternoon where I could focus just on finding the next thistle or stepping into the center of a massive rose bush to uproot it with a few swings of the mattock. Always I sweated, even in winter, and often I swore as the thorns tore skin or cloth. But also, always I stopped to rest, listen, watch, and listen some more—the physical world once more becoming more alive than the one in my head.

The blueberry, the “hero” of The Blueberry Years, also echoes this theme of balance. It was first domesticated 100 years ago by a man and woman working together. Frederick Coville brought his scientific understanding of the blueberry, while Elizabeth White brought her family’s land and her community. She recruited her neighbors, the “Pineys” around Whitesbog, New Jersey, to find wild, exceptional bushes and bring her samples. Then, in the dormant season, they ventured into the swamps to dig up these plants and bring them back to the growing nursery. Soon Coville and White had a huge project, and in six years time, they were able to sell the first domesticated crop of blueberries.

In our own blueberry field, we can see in a plant’s leaves if the soil is ‘out of balance’ and needs some amendment, like sulfur to lower the pH.

Or when we prune, we try to balance the number of new canes with the old. And here, when I forget about the day’s troubles, when I just focus on the plant and lose myself, I begin to find some inner balance as I imagine what each bush needs to become, begin to see what to cut and what to keep. What is and what could be. I work to bring some openness to the berry bush’s interior, and I try to imagine a space in its heart large enough for a sparrow to fly through. Balance on my haunches to snip a few canes and create that space, and then move to the next.

A Week from the First Day of Autumn….

2010-09-16T11:47:00.000-07:00

The first day of fall is a week from today and will technically mark my third prairie autumn. I’m always a tad confused by this bit of calendar counting. We moved to Nebraska from West Virginia right around the 4^th of July, 2008. So, while we’ve lived here just over two years, it’s the third autumn I’ll experience in the flatlands.

Is that right? Ah, math and semantics…the former my nemesis, the latter my solace.

A few more weeks forward marks the one-year anniversary of this blog. Erik, my older son, would have just left for his second sojourn to German. I would have still been carrying around the last ‘Erik goes to Germany’ pounds and facing the prospect of turning the big 5-0.

Hence, I decided to do what writers do: procrastinate by blogging.

Even so, productivity this year has not been at an all-time low…a couple books got written, and currently my mom and I are thrilled to be working on a Christmas novella for our current publisher.

My three-times-a-week blog has become weekly if not sporadic.

And I’ve dropped, if not all the pounds I wanted to, quite a few. Even more importantly, I haul my behind out of bed every morning to get to the local YMCA and take great classes taught by awesome instructors… I come home, eat breakfast, gulp coffee, and walk.

A far different lifestyle then the work practically 24/7 one I lived previously.

And thanks to the wonders of a social media site, I can be in contact with old friends and much-loved students, many of whom are getting married, having babies, becoming the wonderful adults they were destined to be.

So this morning as I’m walking, glad for the long-sleeved tee I pulled out since there’s a real chill in the air, sadness overwhelms me.

In just shy of three months, I will turn 51. I think about the friends I’ve lost, some who didn’t see 40, others who didn’t see 50. I so embrace my life and am so reminded again of the finite-ness of it.

Again, I am reminded of the wonder and sorrow of holding on and letting go.

Puppy Love Redux

2010-09-07T13:28:00.000-07:00

My first crush was on a little red-haired boy named Tommy, an ‘older man’ of four.

I’ve confessed before to bopping his sister on the head with a toy truck when she got in the way of my ‘pursuit’ of him. Over the years, I carried a torch, no matter how briefly, for other boys until I met the one who made me hope the flame would never be extinguished.

Many factors shape who we become as adults, including previous loves, likes, and the more than occasional passing fancy.

What prompted this introspection was a good friend’s musing about her child’s upcoming first date. She wasn’t sure whether to be proud or cry, knowing the first heartbreak is the natural next step.

As parents we want desperately to shield our children from heartbreak, while at the same time being keenly aware that love and loss is an integral part of the growing up process.

My favorite scene in the movie Jaws, which in 1975 was my first official date, takes place at night aboard Robert Shaw’s boat. Roy Scheider listens as an inebriated Shaw and Richard Dreyfuss swap fish stories and compare shark bites.

One upmanship takes over and Dreyfuss shrugs out of his shirt, indicating his chest and the greatest wound of all:

As Hooper, he says: “There. Right there. Mary Ellen Moffit broke my heart.

Not long after, the Great White chomps Robert Shaw’s Quint in half. Somehow I think a broken heart is more easily mended.

Sure, sometimes whether you’re a teenager or an octogenarian not even diving into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s can cure what ails you.

But we can take something valuable away from each time we’ve loved and lost. Even though I didn’t marry one, I gained a life-long affinity for redheads from my pre-schooler crush on Tommy F. in that Detroit suburb back in the 60s.

If you don’t open your heart to the possibility of loss, how can you know love?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

So long, summer

2010-08-31T12:56:00.001-07:00

All week I’ve looked high and low (well, the Google search engine equivalent) for just the right poem, quote, or even song lyric about the end of summer and the advent of autumn.

Yes, I know fall doesn’t ‘officially’ start until September 23^rd this year. But c’mon, don’t we all mentally shift seasonal gears when Labor Day rolls around?

It seems like only yesterday, or last week at least, that my younger son and I were sitting around the dinner table talking about the end of school. Actually, it was mid-May, and summer loomed full of promise and possibilities.

After a brutal winter and blustery spring here on the prairie, we were all ready for summer. And our weather was nothing compared to the conditions that socked the mid-Atlantic and Eastern seaboard regions. Those were Mike Tyson-esque punches that kept on pummeling. Like all years, 2010 so far has been rife with highs and lows.

I won’t go into the lows because I’m trying to veer from my usual more maudlin ‘fare’ and write a humorous funny blog about saying ‘so long, summer.’

But one thing I learned all the years my mother and I wrote romantic comedy for Harlequin, is that true humor requires pathos to balance it out...just like life.

Crying over the bad and laughing at the good sometimes morphs into tears of laughter and smiles of sadness.

In bidding adieu to August, I’m reflecting on the highs and lows of the season about to pass…even if not officially.

Saying at least nobody died does a bit of a disservice to June and her sisters, July and August. But after a sad winter, I tend to categorize things that way.

This summer did have Herculean highs, along with several tail-dragging lows. But isn’t every season like that? Isn’t that what life is all about?

We cherish the good times and mourn the bad, and life moves forward.

Just like the calendar.

Trees

2010-08-24T18:56:00.000-07:00

“The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree” is a common expression around here.

Whenever I mimic my mom’s behavior or one of my sons reaffirms his parentage, I utter that expression. I’m curious about the origins of that saying and should put my friend Holly Jacobs on it. She recently enlightened me on the meaning of ‘getting down to brass tacks.’ Romance writer Holly, an Erie, PA resident, and I ‘talk’ via e-mail every day and have for years. Without her boundless optimism, I’d be lost.

Originally I’d planned to blog about a story I read in this morning’s Omaha World Herald about a storm that felled the ailing chestnut tree Anne Frank gazed upon while hiding in the jam warehouse in Amsterdam.

Three springs ago on a trip across the pond, I gazed at that sickly tree and tried to imagine my sons unable to go outside for two years. When they were little, I couldn’t imagine them going more than two minutes without going outside. Last fall, I wrote about Anne and her father.

My intent was to write about my appreciation of trees, my love for my children, the irony of moving to a state (Nebraska) that is the home of Arbor Day yet lacks trees, my 7^th grade science project in Sault Ste. Marie on Dutch Elm disease, and the universality of a parent’s love for a child and the horrors inflicted on all of humanity by evil.

Kind of an overwhelming agenda.

Instead, I will just murmur a quiet thanks my babies are growing into fine young men. And I’ll remind myself the most important part of holding on is letting go.

School Daze

2010-08-15T18:15:00.000-07:00

It seems like only yesterday husband, younger son and his grandma and I were sitting around the dinner table talking about how many days til the end of the school year.

But it wasn’t yesterday, it was mid-May. Suddenly mid-August has rolled into town, offering a reprieve from the blistering 90-degree heat just in time for the start of school tomorrow.

My younger son, Andrew, was conveniently born 15 years ago today, his birth allowing his father to miss an all-day faculty retreat. I was glad at the time baby and I could accommodate him.

Tomorrow said son starts his sophomore year of high school. Thirty-five years ago I was a sophomore in high school. Today in the frozen yogurt shop I experienced a moment of sheer horror. It dawned on me I was closer in age to the elderly gray-haired couple at the counter than I was to the two sweet girls who looked like they could be Andrew’s classmates.

As I scrutinize my neck (a la Nora Ephron) for loss of elasticity and peer under my eyes at the fine lines staring to web out (apparently visible only to me, according to my husband, but there nevertheless!), it has occurred to me I’m missing the point.

Especially lately.

Time marches on. We wouldn’t want it not to. I’m think I’ve forgotten my central theme here, that of holding on and letting go.

Not only do we have to let go of our children, we need to let go of our youthful image of ourselves.

That doesn’t mean we have to become stodgy. Some of the most youthful people I’ve ever known have numbered many in years. Conversely, I’ve know those younger than me whose attitudes were ancient.

We have to treasure each moment and turn a myopic eye to the mirror.

Cha-cha-cha-cha-changes

2010-08-09T13:16:00.001-07:00

I hate change. Not pennies, nickels and dimes or sweeping move across the country change... just the new shoes/new glasses/ getting used to lovely new computer blues....

Trying to cut down on words of late so won’t belabor the point, but suffice it to say we moved a lot when I growing up. Not excessively but enough. I went to three high schools and two universities. Over the course of my life, I’ve lived in five states.

When my husband and I moved to Flagstaff, Arizona from Iowa more than 20 years ago, the move literally made me sick.

Or so I thought.

True, I was getting used to high altitude living. But what I mistook for abject unhappiness turned out to be stomach flu.

I threw up, felt fine, and loved our five-plus years there.

Later, two-year-old in tow, we moved to a university town in West Virginia. It rained every single day that autumn, a fact I’ve blogged about before. I’d take toddler Erik to the park in the drizzle and wonder how on earth I’d ever meet other moms and make friends.

I just had to have faith.

Big changes I seem to sail through after the initial nausea and need for an umbrella. Moving to Nebraska was a little choppier for me but only in the job department. The prairie grasses of this state differ enormously from the Great Lakes of Michigan, my beloved birthplace. Still I lump these places into the category of ‘Midwest’ and feel like I’ve come home.

It doesn’t hurt that we’re close to western mountain ranges, another love.

But getting used to a new computer or even a new pair of shoes throws me. Is it my discomfort with the unfamiliar or am I that set in my ways?

Isn’t moving across country ‘unfamiliar’? Or changing elementary schools or high schools or jobs or states?

I don’t know the answers. Usually when I commit words to paper--rather screen--for this blog, I have some idea of the outcome, the destination, the denouement.

Maybe big moves are an exciting chance to start anew, and small changes are just annoying.

Or it could be having the soul of a makeover artist and the personality of she of the Princess and the Pea notoriety?

I do know we are who we are. We adapt, we morph, but we never fundamentally change.

Especially when it comes to change.

New Year’s Resolutions in July

2010-07-28T20:06:00.000-07:00

Better safe than sorry, I always say…herewith my New Year’s Resolutions in July.

Originally I’d planned to blog about last week’s family trip to Colorado. To celebrate their 60^th wedding anniversary, my in-laws gathered their ‘clan’ for an extended stay at a lodge located a few miles from Rocky Mountain National Park.

My husband, our younger son (Andrew), and I joined the throng of siblings, spouses, grandchildren, assorted other relatives, and one brand-new fiancée (congrats Martha and Niels!)

The pictures illustrating this post are from some glorious hikes my husband and I took. I don’t have the heart to trot out a snowman graphic in July.

So far 2010 has been mixed bag, like most years I suppose. The good, the bad, and the sad all commingling. Perhaps I’m doing this year an injustice by listing resolutions with four months to go.

Perhaps not.

Next year I resolve to:

1. Keep the ‘lifestyle change’ momentum going. I welcomed this year with extra pounds, a foray into full-time freelancing, and total bewilderment at being 50. I can close my eyes and be instantly transported back to 15, the age Andrew turns in a couple weeks. Of course I can’t remember two days ago…. However, thanks to the local YMCA programs complete with wonderful instructors and my decision to let go of the word ‘diet’ and embrace the over-used (in our household) term ‘lifestyle change,’ I’ve dropped a little more than 20 pounds.

I fall off the wagon. A lot. There are probably skid marks on my derriere from so much ‘bouncing.’ But I climb back on because I want to be able to hike well into other decades.

2. Find the focus. For years, I had an index card push-pinned to the bulletin board in my home office with the word ‘FOCUS’ printed on it. I always told my reporting students to find the focus in their stories. The card was to help me remember to find the focus in the stories I was writing at the time with my partner/mother. When we moved two years ago, the card became a casualty of the packing. But I’m seriously thinking of making a new one. I need to find the focus.

3. Remember to do things I like, and remember what it is I like to do. That smacks of the self-absorption I vowed not to fall into when I started blogging. But this is about my not-quite-New Year’s- resolutions. Until last week, it had been close to 20 years since I’d hiked in Western mountains. For the few days we were in Colorado, we took full advantage of being able to hike in Rocky Mountain National Park. On that first day of hiking, one whiff of those pines instantly transported me back to the days when I was a ‘new’ faculty wife in Flagstaff, Arizona and joined a hiking group. Our members ranged in age from late 20’s (me) to mid-70’s (amazing former PE teachers who could hike switchbacks around me).

During those years Baby #1 came along and spent a lot of hiking trail time in a backpack, but then we moved cross-country, along came baby #2….demanding jobs, blah blah blah. I’ve always liked to walk but had forgotten just how much I enjoy hiking, truly enjoy it.

So my final ‘resolution’ for the rest of this year, next year, and all the years to come is to remember to enjoy life, embrace the ups and weather the downs, and not stagnate in the dull middle.

To paraphrase the Capra-esque angel Clarence: I really do have a wonderful life.

“Not Quite a List Poem” or “The Dog Days of Blog Posts"

2010-07-15T09:56:00.000-07:00

One of the best aspects of having poets for friends is being exposed to many different forms of the genre. List poems especially intrigue me. The poet itemizes something in a cohesive fashion, and the ending is significant.The structure of the words fairly sings. Originally what was going to follow was a list of random thoughts on July, but it wasn’t gonna be in tune.

As an aside, I went to one of those Facebook sites called “I Write Like” that checks what famous writer a person writes like by analyzing word choice and writing style and comparing them to those of famous writers. You paste in a sample of your writing so I ‘pasted’ in the first few paragraphs of my last blog post.

My analysis?

Bram Stoker. Yep, Dracula’s ‘daddy.’ Nuff said. Course my dh points out it’s my old-fashioned style. Tried another piece and got the bard…yes, that BARD…jolly olde England with the emphasis on OLDE.

Pretty much sums up July.

And I did have a pithy (okay, really pathetic) attempt at a list poem that started like this:

July

Fireworks flying forth, parachutes a dud

Friends gathered, food fine….

But I got sidetracked, which is just as well.

Think I’ll stick to prose and leave the poetry to the experts: the poets.

p.s. I just pasted in the first two graphs of this piece for analysis: H.P. Lovecraft.

The End

Summertime and the livin’ is easy

2010-06-29T19:46:00.000-07:00

So June is wound down.

Here on the prairie we get a lot more daylight than we did for the decade and a half we lived in the east. Our little city is close to the Mountain Time Zone line so it stays light pretty darn late. After returning from a weekend trip to Des Moines for my new niece’s baptism, hubbie and I could walk and see where we were going, even though it was close to 10 p.m.

When I was a teenager in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, I could ride my bike downtown to the locks and hang out with my friends. Curfew was ten p.m. because it didn’t get dark until then in that northernmost corner of my world.

On our drive back this weekend, younger son Andrew asked if he had a curfew. His father told him he’d have one when he started driving.

Somewhere down the line, I’ve morphed from needing a curfew to not being able to stay up past curfew. Six months into fifty (and more than 20 pounds lighter, thank you Kearney YMCA!), I’ve adjusted well to this new decade but still have trouble processing I’m closer to a grandmother’s age than a new mother’s age.

As I awkwardly held my beautiful niece, Reese, at the outdoor church service on Sunday, I flashed back to the baptism of my two children. Erik was baptized on a snowy February Flagstaff day. Fittingly, Andrew was baptized barefoot at barely a month old in Morgantown, West Virginia. The wonderful late Hank Brown baptized that second baby, and I can still tell you (even though Andrew turns 15 in August) what I weighed that day…let’s just say I coulda gone12 rounds with George Foreman!

Confession time: I don’t feel fifty. I vividly recall my mother turning to me in church on Christmas Eve the year she was fifty and telling me she still felt the same inside as she did when she was younger…just time was marching on.

My father, now deceased, threw himself a pig roast at fifty. Before I hit that ‘magic’ number this past December, I went back and looked at pictures of him at that party. He looked older than I think I do. Or maybe we just always think our parents are older than they are…until we reach their age. I did inherit my gray from my dad and his side of the family. My brother Steve, five years younger than me, reminds me of my father…his good qualities, not his bad or sad ones.

Growing up , I always thought fall was my favorite season. No more do I think that.

Summertime…and the livin’ is easy…and I cherish the summers I have left.

And sometimes…

2010-06-22T17:17:00.000-07:00

Just like that, life goes on.

To quote prolific romance writer, Holly Jacobs:

Life is good

Holding Pattern

2010-06-22T13:10:00.000-07:00

Sometimes there’s no holding on or letting go, just holding.

A holding pattern is just that…a stasis that won’t let you move forward or backward. The flow of life stops until it doesn’t.

When that moment comes, good or bad, evil or well-intentioned, life goes on.

As young marrieds we called it ‘wait and see.’

We loathed ‘wait and see.’

Later, we’d repeat the phrase to our children as the answer to any number of questions: “Can I go to so and so’s house?” “Can we get X, Y or Z?” “Will there be a happy ending?” And the list goes on.

My husband’s favorite expression is “Proceed as the way opens.”

His, and my, least favorite?

Wait and see.

Home is where the heart is

2010-06-16T18:04:00.000-07:00

Home is where the heart is…and the heart is a travelin’ thing.

Earlier this week, my husband and I returned from our sojourn from the prairie to the Appalachians. I went back to the best little writers’ conference around, the West Virginia Writers, Inc. annual conference held in the southeastern portion of that state at Cedar Lakes.

My husband met his friend Matt, a Lutheran minister, when we arrived and they motorcycled on the Blue Ridge Parkway to Cherokee, North Carolina. They met up with other friends in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

In just over three weeks my husband has gone nearly 5500 miles, via car and motorcycle. From Salt Lake City to Dolly Parton’s domain, my spouse has already covered enough miles to have criss-crossed the country, from San Diego to Jacksonville, Florida.

My journey was shorter in distance but longer emotionally. This was my 8^th summer at Cedar Lakes Conference Center, near Ripley, WV. I’ve written before how my friend, the late Mary Rodd Furbee, persuaded me to go with her that first time. When my husband and I crossed the Ohio River just last week, I was transported back to the return trip Mary and I made that first summer. We were chatting so much about exciting writing projects that we took a wrong turn somewhere and came upon that very same bridge. She and I made it home, but her time there was so short it makes me ache all over again for her and her loved ones.

The final night of the conference was bittersweet. Another friend who died too young this spring was honored for her writing. I wept and sniffled into my napkin.

Earlier that evening my eldest son, Erik, was awarded an honorable mention for a short story in the annual contest the organization sponsors every year. This is the child who professed for years not to like to write... until this year when the ‘bug’ hit him, and he has amazed me with his output and his burgeoning talent.

The time spent with old and new friends slipped by too quickly, especially since my night owl habits have flown the coop. Is that mixing my bird metaphors? Saying goodbye was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

On the way home, we briefly saw Erik, his adorable girlfriend, Morgan, and his friend Alex, an amazing artist who just finished his freshman year at Rhode Island School of Design. Erik is in Morgantown this summer spending time with Morgan and his friends, doing an internship at the WVU Press, and taking an on-line summer school class. It was strange to say goodbye to him in a Bob Evans in Parkersburg, WV. But he’ll be home in August, and West Virginia is not northern Germany.

And it was time to get home to Andrew and my mom, who got along swimmingly until the day we were due home. “I think we’re getting on each other’s nerves,” he told me.

Dorothy Gale intones my favorite movie line of all time when she lands smack dab back in Kansas: “There’s no place like home,” she tells the confused loved ones gathered around her now sepia-toned bedroom.

But here’s the thing about home. You can carry a little piece of your loved ones around in your heart, no matter where you lay your head.

Things I have learned being home alone for the first time in forever:

2010-05-31T21:10:00.000-07:00

Do not watch a zillion episodes of Criminal Minds, with an emphasis on home invasions by serial killers like Tim Curry’s creepy stalker, the week before everyone leaves.
Do make a list of everything you want to accomplish when everyone (spouse, mother, both sons) scatters east and west.
Do not expect to get anything done on your list. Mmmm…clean the kitchen cupboards, come up with a brilliant new writing project, bag up clothes for Goodwill, and recycle old magazines or watch dozens of episodes of Bulging Brides and Last Ten Pounds Boot camp dvr’d from the Fine Living Network in anticipation of said alone time? Guess what I chose?
Do not think just because everyone is gone that you can lose the last ten pounds in five days, even eating your own (wretched) cooking. It’s just not possible.
Do know you can lose a couple of pounds by counting the calories of every morsel you put in your mouth and by walking excessively in your lovely flat neighborhood.
Do sit on the couch in the middle of the afternoon and read…and don’t feel guilty.
And these things I knew already: it’s truly a blessing my mother has lived with us for more than a decade; in addition to loving them, I really like my husband and children; friends are invaluable, in-town and out; and I am ready for my vacation!

Writer’s Block

2010-05-19T18:57:00.000-07:00

It’s not that I haven’t had anything to say…it’s just…I haven’t had anything to say.

Sigh.

I’ve had lots of ‘thoughts’ about things to write about, topics near and dear to my heart and my original intent when I started blogging, but nothing really resonated with me that I hadn’t already touched on before.

Kearney High School’s graduation ceremony was last weekend, and friends launched their children into the world. Having been there and done that without the benefit of pomp and circumstance, I see no reason to rehash the unconventional story of my firstborn, Erik.

He starts his junior year of college in the fall. Andrew, his younger brother, is finishing up his first year of high school even as I type.

Whoa. But covered that ground too.

Thirty-five years ago I was finishing up my first year of high school in Sault Ste. Marie, located along the Michigan/Canada border. My summer job at Dairy Queen was all lined up, for the princely sum of $1.40 an hour. I can still make a mean swirl cone, as I demonstrated at a soft serve ice cream bar graduation party we went to last weekend. It was a lovely reception, as was another one we attended.

The custom here is to display a graduating senior’s memorabilia. I started to panic, being the uptight planner that I am, because I tossed a LOT of stuff when we moved here two years ago. True, I have file folders filled with some mementoes. However, instead of making it into the filing cabinet, most items ended up scattered around my home office. Balancing working fulltime, writing, parenting, volunteering, wife-ing (not very well at times) and daughter-ing (not very well at times) simply did not leave much time for careful organization of all the important keepsakes.

As last weekend waned, I said to Andrew that I wish I’d saved the laminated ‘good job’ monthly certificates his kindergarten teacher passed out if there were no ‘yellow’ or ‘red’ lights. I wistfully reminisced about one heralding an ‘Awesome April’ at North Elementary School in Morgantown, West Virginia.

So we went down to one of my filing cabinets and rummaged through all the folders dealing with writing-related things. In a faded yellow folder marked ‘Andrew’ I found one laminated certificated presented all those years ago to my now six-foot-tall soon-to-be-15-year-old: “Awesome April.”

Sometimes when you have to let go, you hold onto the most important things of all.

Happy Mother’s Day

2010-05-09T13:15:00.000-07:00

Happy Mother’s Day to all who mother. No job is more exhausting or more rewarding.

Today I give thanks for my wonderful sons and my own mother, who continues to be my role model, my champion, and my best friend.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

Passages

2010-05-03T11:04:00.000-07:00

My younger son, Andrew, posed an interesting question at brunch yesterday. He wanted to know what seemed stranger, that his older brother, Erik, was going to be a junior in college next year or that he himself was going to be a sophomore in high school in the fall.

After mulling for a minute, I told him what freaks me out most is his going off to college in three years. I vividly remember sending him off to the first day of kindergarten on Bus 209 piloted by Crazy Louie. I still miss Louie.

Yesterday afternoon I went to an honors recital at the university with my neighborhood walking buddy. On the way home she was lamenting the end of the elementary school years. Her son heads to middle school in August and her daughter enters high school.

In 2013, Andrew will graduate from high school… 35 years after I did. Erik, as I may have mentioned before, took the unconventional route: foreign exchange student, ‘dropping out’ senior year, getting accepted to college a year early, earning a GED, going to college a year early…whew.

Andrew is following the conventional route. My two sons are very different from each other, but they do share a common trait. Years ago their Aunt Mette, my husband’s younger-by-seven-years sister, was visiting.

“They certainly are relentless!” she said, exhausted after spending a couple days with her nephews.

They are indeed relentless, and goal-oriented…and the loves of my life.

Me, who is so good at letting go, is having a hard time envisioning the day when they both leave the nest…for good.

This week Erik heads out to spend the summer working and doing an internship in Morgantown, WV…where he ‘grew up.’ He’ll get to spend time with his wonderful girlfriend, Morgan, home from college. And he’ll be back to being on his own, something he excels at. It has been kind of nice to have him home for awhile.

In August, Erik will be home for that junior year of college. Andrew will start his sophomore year of high school the day after he turns 15.

As for me, I’m going to spend the summer writing, sitting on my deck sipping sugar-free lemonade, and wondering if I own a copy of Gail Sheehy’s book.

Happy Birthday, Nancy Drew

2010-04-27T13:52:00.000-07:00

Intrepid girl detective Nancy Drew is 80 today, a fact I learned from the Facebook status update of one of my former journalism students when she linked to this USA Today article. (Thanks, Melissa Hostutler!)

Immediately I followed suit, linking to the article and wishing ‘Nancy’ a happy birthday too. Soon other friends of mine were sharing their reminisces of the books that gave all of us countless hours of joy when we were young.

Several prominent women, including Justice Sandra Day O’Connor, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, and former First Lady Laura Bush have listed Nancy Drew as an influence.

Nancy Drew was a huge influence on my decision to become a journalist (I’m too cowardly to snoop around scary attics!) and a writer in general. Ironically, as big a mystery fan as I am…I don’t have a mystery writer’s ‘voice.’ And my mother/writing partner (my other big influence!) and I don’t have a collective mystery voice together.

But we share a love for stories with mystery and mayhem.

Nancy and her pals Bess and George were always on the trail of bad guys (or gals…?), zipping around in her speedy roadster. Good-natured Ned was secondary, and we readers know poor Mrs. Gruen could never rein Nancy in.

Years later, as a mother, I think Nancy would never have been allowed to get into all the ‘scrapes’ she did if her mother was alive. No figuring out “The Clue of the Velvet Mask” or “The Secret in the Old Attic” or “The Mystery at Lilac Inn.”

As a child, nothing made me happier than to get to stay home sick from school, tucked into my top bunk in the room I shared with my sister, a pile of Nancy Drew mysteries by my side.

When I was a child organized sports didn’t exist for girls (I woulda been a halfway decent soccer player…at ten), and it wasn’t until mid-year of sixth grade that the fairer sex was allowed to wear pants to school in the small Michigan town I lived in.

Happy Birthday, Nancy Drew. You’ve come a long way, and so have we.

April and me

2010-04-18T19:36:00.000-07:00

As I sit writing this on a lovely Sunday afternoon on the prairie (which two springs in a row has tried to suffocate me with allergies that trigger asthma), my husband is winging his way home from a conference in Reno, Nevada via Denver.

He’s been attending this particular conference of social scientists, mass communicators, et al for nigh onto 20 years.

It wasn’t until we moved east, however, that the conference ‘curse’ hit.

This year the curse has lain fairly dormant, though the hot water heater is acting funky and my husband nearly got bumped from his flight with a possibility of not flying in until tomorrow morning.

Nine years ago my husband came home from the April conference, also in Reno that year, sicker than a dog. Soon after he was diagnosed with adult-onset diabetes.

Subsequent springs brought a bout of raw sewage on the back patio of our old house, the death of my dear friend Mary Rodd Furbee (sister of my darling friend Susan Case), and more health scares for my spouse.

I called my husband in tears that horrible April of 2004 when 49-year-old Mary, our work colleague and friend, died. He’d rented a motorcycle and was out riding in the snow in Utah, where the meetings were held that year. He flew home early, sick again. Very sick.

He had hepatitis, and the doctor ordered tests for Hepatitis A because of concerns about his traveling. All of us in the family were tested: my mom, my sons, and me.

All negative.

Eventually, hepatitis A to Z (if such a thing exists) were ruled out. We made numerous trips to the amazing infectious disease specialist. I exaggerate, but he was tested for hepatitis you only get from crocodiles in the Nile.

Meanwhile, he kept getting sicker and sicker, dropping weight, his diabetes getting worse. Throughout it all he never let up from his demanding job.

I thought he was going to die.

He wasn’t. It turns out he had pharmacological-induced hepatitis, caused by the change in cholesterol medicine that our insurance dictated.

His pancreas did fail around the same time… and he ‘morphed’ from a Type 2 diabetic to a hybrid Type 1. The hepatitis may or may not have contributed to this.

I know there’s no curse… just the everyday realities of living. The good, the bad, and the annoying.

But I’m gonna be awfully happy to see him walk through that door… like he has so many times before.

The Write Stuff

2010-04-11T17:32:00.000-07:00

This morning my husband, mom and I went to 8:15 church, heard a wonderful sermon on prayer by Pastor Rebecca, and came home. Pretty typical Sunday morning, though sometimes dh and I hit Walmart after church because it’s less crowded then.

We deviated from the norm a bit and took a walk before our usual waffle brunch (husband cooks). When we got back, my mom was paging through the annual ‘What People Earn’ issue of Parade Magazine.

“Stephenie Meyer earned $50 million last year,” my mom informed me, adding didn’t I have any bestseller young adult ideas in my arsenal….

According to past interviews with Meyer, she dreamed the idea for her uber successful “Twilight” novel.

After re-watching the movie “Speed” last night, I dreamed I was locked in a room with a group of people. The room was slowly filling with poisonous gas, and we all had to breathe through nose plugs.

I think it’s been done. And if not, I don’t wanna write it.

At about age ten, I realized a career as a musical comedy star on Broadway required talents I lacked. So I decided to follow in the footsteps of Jean Kerr, Shirley Jackson and my mother.

Though my freelance income is closer to that of the switchboard operator from Erie, Pennsylvania (whose salary is also listed in the magazine) than to Meyer’s, it was a good decision.

My mom has had more than 50 books published, and our 29^th together comes out this summer.

I sing in the shower, stumble my way through zumba class, and sit down every day at the computer…grateful, grateful, grateful.

Almost Heaven

2010-04-06T10:56:00.000-07:00

Even though we lived in West Virginia for fifteen years, we aren’t from West Virginia. And, even though we moved to that mountain state from Arizona, we weren’t from the southwest either. My husband and I are Midwesterners, born and bred. Geographically, I’m not sure how the upper Great Lakes state of Michigan qualifies as the middle west, but it’s an attitude not a latitude.

After all those hilly years, the flatlands of the prairie still seem strange. Nebraska and her people feel, if not like home, at least familiar.

Our older son, who at age two-and-a-half was climbing 200 steps up to see Anasazi ruins just outside Flagstaff, couldn’t wait to see the world when he set off as a foreign exchange student to Germany at age sixteen.

Later, though the conversation details are fuzzy, I’m sure he told me he’d learned the lesson that you don’t really appreciate what home is until you leave it.

To me much of life can be summed up by lessons Dorothy learned in The Wizard of Oz. My sons never shared my devotion to that movie, watching it year after year as I did. I think it’s a girl thing, but I wouldn’t trade my boys for all the pink in the world.

These sons of mine grew up ‘back east.’ Someday I will ask them where they consider themselves ‘from.’

This week a tragic mine explosion rocked the state of West Virginia. The death toll is horrifying. In the last year, the company was fined a huge amount for safety violations.

Please pray for the miners and their families. We all have a little piece of West Virginia in our hearts this week, whether we’re ‘from’ there or not.

Holding on and having trouble letting go…

2010-03-31T20:55:00.000-07:00

For three plus months I’ve been rising at 5:10 a.m. to head to the YMCA for either Zumba (MW), Fit and Tone or Cardio/Tone (TTh) or step (Friday). This is in addition to walking on our home treadmill and, now that’s it’s nicer, outside.

The scale goes up and down more than an elevator in a high-rise building in Manhattan, but my t-shirts fit looser and this morning a svelte ectomorph seven years my senior asked me how much weight I’d lost and told me I looked good. (Bless you, Connie!) I also had a conversation with an absolutely stunning breast-cancer survivor ten years my senior who has spiky blond hair not-to-die-for and radiant skin. She voiced something I woke up thinking about: Was it our lot in life to be sore forever in exchange for slightly less flabby abdominal muscles?

Later today I was cataloging all the reasons I’m being so zealous about this fitness regimen, and one that came up was so I can be around to play with future grandchildren.

I’m an ‘old’ mother, having given birth to Erik just days shy of my 31^st birthday. Andrew was born four months before I was 36. The docs categorized me as an 'above-average-age' mother so it stands to reason I’ll be an above-average-age grandmother. That’s my goal anyway!

But, you know, the minute I thought about that as a reason to get in shape, I actually thought ‘pooey.’

Not only am I not ready to be a grandmother, it’s finally hitting me hard that my children are growing up. Me, who blithely sent aforementioned Erik off to church camp for a week when he was just nine. Okay his grandmother and I did kind of freak at the primitive conditions, but since both of us think ‘roughing it’ is staying at a Holiday Inn, he was just fine.

I’m also the mother who, along with his father, dropped him off at a swanky Washington D.C. hotel three years ago this summer for his year-long scholarship trip to Germany as a high school exchange student. He was only sixteen.

He’s driven cross-country in his little red Honda Civic, which we’ve since sold. And he comes by this wanderlust honestly…perhaps I’ve mentioned his father once took a motorcycle trip to Ohio from West Virginia…via Buffalo, New York?

Younger brother Andrew is finishing up his freshman year in high school. Was it really that long ago that my friend Laure and I were waiting for bus driver Crazy Louie (I loved Louie…he had my phone number scratched on the interior next to his seat and would call me if he couldn’t get up our hill on snowy days so I could shepherd the kids down to the end of the street) to pick up Andrew and her youngest (her 4^th) on the first day of kindergarten. Laure cheered, and I was pretty happy too. We’d exhausted the pre-school route, and it was time for all-day kindergarten.

In three years Andrew will head off to college. Three years. Thank heaven for my mother, who lives with us. No empty nest for us!

Am I a hypocrite because I have spent every waking moment of motherhood knowing it’s my job to help them leave the nest, and now that the time is fast approaching, I want to cling like every hover mother I’ve ever known?

No, I just think I’m a regular old mom, who’s rising with the roosters so she can someday keep up with her grandchildren.

And that’s okay by me.

Coffee Klatsch

2010-03-26T21:18:00.000-07:00

On Friday mornings around 8ish, my friend Ahna and I get together for coffee and conver- sation. Decaf or herb tea for her, seriously black coffee for me, and topics ranging from Lego to life as a freelancer.

This morning she arrived with her two small notebooks, her pack of sumptuous fine-point pens, and a copy of a now-defunct magazine. I came in with my current read and two children’s books to return to her. We both have the same definition of ‘8ish’ so we come comfortably prepared to wait for each other as though we’ve been ‘klatsching’ for a long time.

Ahna, a South Dakota girl several years my junior, came to the prairie via Los Angeles where she worked as a television and movie set designer. Her husband works at the university here, and she teaches parttime as an adjunct at the University of Nebraska at Lincoln, two hours away.

In the same breath as “Hello,” she said , “Blog about this. Does it mean I don’t exist if I don’t blog? And if I don’t want to blog, does it mean I don’t want to exist?”

I can quote her verbatim because I jotted her words down on a napkin after borrowing one of her cool pens. Why former reporter/ novelist me travels without pen and paper and always relies on napkins and the kindness of others, I’ll never know.

(Aside to all my former journalism students, I had to ask her to repeat what she said.)

It’s been decades since high school and a sweet deal of an independent study on Camus since I’ve given much thought to existentialism.

My response was to tell her she doesn’t have to blog if she doesn’t want to, and I only started to try out a brand new (for me) form of writing. To be brutally frank, I think being obsessed with writing about oneself is well, obsessive. On the other hand, many bloggers write about numerous topics of interest to others. That sense of shared community is uplifting and enriching.

That’s as far as we got. The line at the counter dwindled, she went to get her drink, and we moved on to other topics.

Now, however, I’m curious about what precipitated her comments. Ahna, a voracious reader like me, is an incredible visual artist. I love when we talk about the creative process and what it entails for each our crafts. She’s got me thinking visually.

But I failed reporting 101 today by not asking her any follow-up questions.

Next week…. Maybe I’ll even dig up a pen of my own.

Same Number, New Phone, Same Husband…

2010-03-20T10:21:00.000-07:00

“It’s a lifestyle change, not a husband change,” mine said to me in the pasta sauce aisle in Walmart a few months ago.

That statement leaped to mind this morning when I tried to figure out what was ringing (my new phone) and how to check the message (I don’t know how yet).

Now to be fair, my husband hasn’t set up voicemail on his new Blackberry yet, either. But at least he knows how. My technologically advanced friends (and they are legion) would argue I could figure it out, but in the marital ‘division of labor’ category, setting up new electronics falls under dh’s purview.

In the bigger scheme of things, we approach tasks very differently. He employs the ‘triage’ method while I'm a ‘big picture worrywart multitasker.’ Somehow we complement each other, cancel each other out or get cantankerous with one another. Or all three.

In the end, things work out. It’s the getting there that can be… challenging.

I don’t remember what precipitated the Walmart argument, but I’m trying to remember to take my husband’s words to heart.

When we made the decision to relocate to a much smaller university closer to family and my husband’s beloved wide open spaces, we dubbed the decision the now much overused phrase ‘It’s a lifestyle change.’

The statute of limitations on using that term is up, but it still gets dusted off and hauled out (usually by me).

But until my husband reminded me he wasn’t going to change his overall personality, I’d kind of expected a marriage miracle when it came to minute things like sorting through mail, etc. And to be fair, many of his irksome habits have improved, whereas I’m sure mine have only gotten worse (whining about the incessant prairie winds!).

In the end, though the process may differ, we get the desired results.

Usually.

You can’t ask for anything more.

There is a balm in Gilead

2010-03-16T18:34:00.001-07:00

Please check out the eloquent words of Karin Fuller.

Keeping the Faith…

2010-03-11T20:18:00.000-08:00

Do you ever lose faith in yourself, in your abilities, in the very things you know you do best?

Do doubts plague you, keeping you awake at night and fueling crazy dreams?

If not, quit reading right now because you’re a stronger person than I am.

A couple factors, including a serious lack of sleep (I hate going to bed, and for more than two months I’ve been getting up at five a.m. to go to the local Y to exercise) made me a doubting Thomas the last week or so. My faith in God wasn’t wavering, but my faith in myself seemed pretty shaky.

With the help of some writer friends who answered a multitude of questions for me this week on a project and my mother’s unwavering confidence in me, the tide seems to have turned.

The incomparable Joyce Maynard had a book of columns called Domestic Affairs published years ago. I devoured it time and time again when I was pregnant with Erik. She wrote about life with her three children and then-husband, about making pies and raising babies. She’s a superlative writer, and one of my favorite columns related a bad spell in her household compounded by a stopped-up kitchen drain. That clogged sink became a metaphor for everything rotten going on. She wrote that it seemed like one day the drain problem was solved, and life righted itself. That particular piece resonates with me still.

To stay with the water clichés, there’s an ebb and flow to life. Lately I’ve felt like a beached whale (despite all the zumba, toning classes, and tread milling), unable to do what I do: produce decent words, plot out stories, write a coherent e-mail.

But this week the dam broke, and I feel like myself again. Today my mom reminded me about the old pump in her grandparents’ backyard in Saginaw, Michigan. It had to be primed to produce, she told me.

Thanks Mom for the reminder, thanks Char and Anne Marie for the answers and thanks to my husband and children, who think having a crazy writer in the house is a perfectly normal thing.

Blog Interrupted

2010-03-08T12:27:00.000-08:00

What a difference a day (or three) makes.

I wrote the following last Thursday morning but never posted, which is just as well (see previous blog post on lame posts!).

Now after a long weekend with my youngest brother, sister-in-law, four-year-old niece, Kasey, and new niece, Reese, I have plenty of new material, poignant and hilarious (Okay, maybe only in my eyes… my sister-in-law and I had a grand time making up new lyrics for “Pants on the Ground,”…but she’s an exhausted mom. What’s my excuse?).

My mom and I also have been offered a second contract in the new Guideposts series so we’re thrilled about that. I’m excited to have Erik’s girlfriend, Morgan, come for spring break the following week (tho not as excited as he is, I’m sure!) Plus my mom has a birthday, my husband will finally be as old as me come St. Patrick’s Day, and my in-laws will be here on their way back to Iowa from vacationing in Texas.

Spring may not have sprung yet, but I can feel the early vibrations.

Blog Interrupted

We interrupt today’s regularly scheduled blog due to the following reasons:

1. Writer of said blog (me) had less than five hours of sleep the previous night.

2. Aunt (again me) of Kasey, 4, and Reese, 1 month, needs to childproof/clean the house for their arrival late this afternoon, along with their mommy and daddy.

3. Writer (blah blah) of said blog doesn’t have a clue what to write about.

That’s all she wrote.

Holding on and fretting so…

2010-03-01T20:02:00.000-08:00

In early January when my oldest son and his girlfriend trudged through Storm Daisy in Denmark to take refuge in a hotel when their ferry back to Germany was ‘grounded,’ I took a nosedive into a bag of leftover holiday M&Ms.

And that was a mere snowstorm.

The earthquake that rocked Chile this week sent reverberations through the household of one of Erik’s best friends, Benny, from West Virginia. Our hearts and those of so many people we know went out to Benny’s dad, Paul. Benny is doing a ‘gap year’ in a town in Chile right in the epicenter of the quake. His mom was visiting him, and fortunately they were traveling nearly 500 miles south of the quake.

Until there was news, I can only imagine what Benny’s dad was going through waiting for communication from his wife and son. Facebook newsfeed notices constantly came up with Benny’s friends wanting to hear word if he was okay.

When we dropped then 16-year-old Erik off at a swanky hotel in Washington D.C. the summer of 2007 to head off for his year as a foreign exchange student in Germany, I sobbed uncontrollably once we got in the car.

One minute they’re infants bundled up in fleecy sacks and the next they’re taking off for parts known and unknown, whether kindergarten, college or a foreign country that quakes.

And yet, as I’ve maintained since I started this blog, if we do our job well as parents our whole goal is for them to be independent and have their own wonderful lives.

Still, I’m awfully glad Erik is home right now. And at this moment I really wish I could have Erik, Benny, Alex, Max and Cody in my old house on Cottonwood St. eating pizza, chocolate chip bars, and even playing kitchen cricket….

Where do ideas come from?

2010-02-25T14:23:00.000-08:00

The last blog post I wrote was lame. I knew it was lame, my dh said it was sweet but lame and my mom said it was lame.

It was. She said it was an okay idea but not only are people sick of winter, they’re no doubt sick of even talking about winter.

I told her I wanted to write about writing next, and she said “Where ideas come from?” And I said, exactly!

That’s the reason I write books with my mom. We have an almost symbiotic relationship, not to mention she dazzles at what I’m not good at and I’m an idea person, which has never been her forte she will say.

This works domestically too. She’s lived with us for going on eleven years, and she doesn’t mind loading and unloading the dishwasher, and I have no problem washing the pots and pans. My husband cooks, and mom and I both know how fortunate we are in this department.

But I digress.

Where do ideas come from, for everything from blog posts to books?

For more than ten years, I told my reporting students to avoid question leads if at all possible because that kind of opening is weak and leads the reader to say ‘who cares?

Apparently I’m not quite over the lameness yet.

I’m in a slump.

So stay tuned for ‘Where do ideas come from, part two.’

By then maybe I’ll have some idea besides the ether.

Spring is in the air…or not?

2010-02-23T19:13:00.000-08:00

March is less than a week away, but it seems an eternity right now.

The mid-Atlantic region of the country got hit a lot harder than we did on the prairie this winter. But it started snowing in October here, completely bypassing fall.

At least my high schooler, Andrew, has only had a handful of snow days. In some areas of West Virginia, where we resided for 15 years, the kids have missed three weeks of school.

Facebook status updates announce gleefully that garbage pickup has finally resumed. I remember those days…watching the cans sit out pitifully at the side of the road, frozen solid into the snow.

It’s not even the lack of sunshine here. We get a lot more wintry blue sky than we ever did in the east, though not as much as in Flagstaff. The sun shone every day there, it seemed like. Except maybe the March when I was a new mom with a three-month-old baby, and it snowed 80 inches that month. Yes, eighty. Eight zero.

That’s a lot of snow.

I wasn’t deterred, however. I’d load Erik into his car seat and maneuver baby and seat into our tiny Chevy Sprint to go to a moms and tots group. Okay he was a little young, but the camaraderie was priceless. When Erik was two-and-a-half, we moved to Morgantown, West Virginia. It rained every single day that fall. Seriously. I used to take my little boy to the park in a drizzly mist, letting him shuffle through the sodden wood chips and hope we’d meet some other moms and tots.

The only other person I ever saw that autumn was a stay-at-home dad with two little boys in tow. When I suggested a play date, he looked like he’d been attacked by a giant anaconda. Apparently, co-ed play dates were verboten.

It was a miserable fall. Somehow Erik and I survived.

He has wonderful friends scattered to colleges near and far and overseas on gap-year adventures. I miss his friends and mine.

After a year and a half in Nebraska, I like the new friends I’ve made too.

One thing we all have in common, is we’re all sick of winter. No matter where we reside in the country, female or male, we’re all weary of winter.

And that, my dear friends, is comforting.

Two left feet

2010-02-19T18:52:00.000-08:00

This morning at step class, without really thinking, I put risers under my step. I wondered why it felt like an even more intense workout than usual. Of course when I actually stumbled off the side of it, I didn’t question the height because I know I have two left feet.

Yes, I can chew gum and walk at the same time, stay on a treadmill without falling off and actually cross-country ski. But that’s the extent of it.

In 7^th grade, I used to go out night after night in the frosty northern Michigan winter to skate on the makeshift ‘pond’ between our house and the neighbors. Maybe skate isn’t quite the right word for the non-stop, not-graceful back and forth shuffling I’d do in my pristine white figure skates.

My younger sister and brothers became pros on the ice. Both Steve and Mark played hockey, even though they came to the sport ‘late’ (they weren’t toddlers when they started).

It’s winter Olympics time, and for years I watched the figure skating and ice dancing competitions. A huge treat as a kid was doing to an ice show. My favorite haircut to this day is the Dorothy Hamill wedge…I think I’m growing it out again right now….

However, finesse on figure skates has always eluded me. Even now when I bring up wanting to learn my husband recoils in horror. My aging body hitting the ice is too much for the poor man. I haven’t even told him about the step class this morning.

I have similar affection for dancing. My only foray into lessons came at age four when we lived in a Detroit suburb and resulted in an affinity for the little bus that picked me up to take me to the studio. Since I now also avoid public transportation at all costs, unlike dh and older son who revel in it, I guess riding the bus didn’t ‘take’ either.

After a month and a half of zumba at 5:45 a.m. at the local Y, I may have found my outlet. This week I was usually mamboing left when everyone was mamboing right, but it doesn't seem to matter. As long as you keep moving, according to the instructors and the poor women standing next to me, that’s all that counts.

I may have even mastered the salsa step. I’m still better at eating it than dancing it, but it’s a start.

On Writing

2010-02-17T19:43:00.000-08:00

It’s Wednesday already? Time for a new blog post, but I got zip, zilch, zippo. Sigh.

One of the reasons I started blogging, in addition to writing about things that have been on my mind for years… or weeks… was to jumpstart my creativity, get the juices flowing, try out something new besides journalistic writing or fiction… yada yada yada.

More sigh.

I think it’s going around. A brilliant writer friend of mine… truly brilliant… feels like writing is becoming ‘old hat.’ Since this person also makes gentle fun of my ‘old lady’ clichés (my husband chides me for my ‘air quotes’…I can’t win!), let’s substitute ‘clichéd.’

I’m rather fond of air quotes. So there.

Since I was about ten there’s nothing I wanted to be more than a writer (well, okay the mother of ten children and a musical comedy star came in a close second and third).

My ‘dream job’ in my early 20s would have been to be a writer on SNL… you go, Tina Fey!

Words are my vocation and my avocation. I love words, books, newspapers, cereal box copy… you name it. And I love wonderful words written by others. It’s like one great big word love fest.

Except of course when the words won’t come, when the ideas stalemate, when the punctuation snarls and growls.

Scary.

Still we writers persevere. We have to. We sure don’t have any other marketable skills.

So for everyone out there who shares a passion for the written word… whether as reader or writer or often both… don’t let the passion burn out.

Holding on and letting go…in more ways than one….

2010-02-15T20:01:00.000-08:00

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon. My friend Susan’s husband was taking their daughter to the airport to fly back to Boston, where she’s a third-year law student. She’d been home to see a cousin’s new baby. My husband was at the office for a couple hours shuffling and tossing papers.

Like me, Susan was just chillin’ and doing laundry so she said to give her a call if I felt like chatting. Chatting with Susan, whether via e-mail or on the phone, is always high on my list of favorite things to do.

Somewhere between talking about the Boston Cream Pie she’d made for Bill, her husband, for Valentine’s Day and fighting fat after fifty (a perennial topic for both of us), the conversation turned to holding on and letting go.

Susan said some things so wise about the importance of letting go of the worry along with the kids that I started taking notes on a napkin. Napkin notes have led to many a published novel in the past so I trust those scribbles.

Except of course I can’t read what I wrote and can’t exactly capture, written-word wise, what my dear friend said. But I can recreate the gist.

It’s not enough just to let your kids go, Susan said, you have to also work on letting go of the worry that lives inside you. After a week at home, Erik took off for Baltimore to see his girlfriend, Morgan. The East Coast has been socked in by snow for what must seem like months now. He flew Omaha to Memphis but missed his connecting flight to Baltimore due to weather delays. The airlines wanted to re-route him to Minneapolis the next day then fly him to Baltimore. Instead he got plane to D.C. and took the train, delayed by electrical difficulties, to Baltimore. But he finally made it.

I worry; it’s what I do. Susan wasn’t telling me to stop doing what is as natural to me as breathing; she was just suggesting that the next step in the letting go process is to step back from some of the worry and anxiety.

Years ago, my husband wrote an excellent column about risk for a Charleston, WV newspaper. He rides a motorcycle and had one when we met in college. He got rid of it but never lost the desire for another one. When he turned forty, he got one again. He wrote the column in reaction to an NFL player’s motorcycle accident. My husband wrote that the most dangerous thing he probably ever did was being a teen detasseling corn under the hot Iowa sun. Fortunately my husband’s melanoma was caught before it was too late.

In 2007, my husband was struck on his motorcycle in a hit-and-run accident. He broke his shoulder, and his beautiful brand-new bike was demolished. When he called me from the ER to tell me, I said the only thing I could. I told him that I had no problem with him getting another one.

Of course I have a problem with it. I also want him happy. Our eldest is an inveterate traveler; travel makes me jittery. But I want him happy, too.

So I need to let go of not only my child but some of the worry too.

Last week, there was a hostage situation at a bank here in town. A man who’d been fired from the local television station held employees at the bank at gunpoint for hours, wanting media attention. The day before Erik had gone to that bank to try to exchange some euros.

Whether it’s a summer job in the sun or a routine trip to the bank, risk exists all around us.

I’ll never stop worrying. But thanks to Susan, maybe I can work on worrying lite.

Love is in the air…

2010-02-12T18:47:00.000-08:00

To celebrate Valentine’s Day week some Facebook users are posting profile pics of themselves and their significant others and updating statuses to reflect how long they’ve been together.

This February 14^th marks 27.5 years of marriage for my husband and me. The picture I put up is from our wedding; he has a lot more hair, I actually have less...and it’s a lot darker.

I can’t pinpoint the year I gave up coloring my hair, but I do know a disastrous ‘pixie’ haircut was the impetus. Even though my gray screams ancient apparently (according to a sixth grader at church youth group the other night, who then hastened to tell me later ‘old school’ is still good…), I’m fine with it and so is my spouse.

And isn’t that what marriage is ultimately about? Loving your mate, follicle foibles and all?

Here’s the thing about marriage: sometimes, even though you love your spouse, you don’t always like ‘em. The thing to remember is rules of umpiring apply to marriage. You can tell your husband or wife you don’t like their behavior (their call stinks), but you really don’t want to tell them they stink.

It also helps if you marry your best friend because the starry-eyed stuff gives way to climbing the career ladder, children, occasionally catastrophic illness...all things good and bad that test a relationship over time.

Years ago I was interviewed by a reporter at a college newspaper for a Valentine’s Day feature. My mom/writing partner and I write women’s inspirational fiction, but we are also the authors of 22 romances together (and she authored 19 previous to our partnership).

Who better to do a story on than a romance writer?

Except of course I said the most romantic thing I appreciated about my husband was that he unloaded the dishwasher for me. He took umbrage with that. Despite my writing pedigree, he has a much more romantic nature than I do. Sure I love flowers and candlelit dinners, but the fact he did the late-night feedings with our second son was far more endearing to me.

He’s a wonderful husband and an amazing father. I don’t like that he rides a motorcycle and operates on a triage system whereas I’m a maniacal big- picture multitasker. However, we’ve been together for nearly 30 years and haven’t struck out yet.

Happy Valentine’s Day to my husband, my best friend.

Talkin’ ‘bout my generation

2010-02-07T19:38:00.000-08:00

On Super Bowl Sunday those eternal bad boys of rock n’ roll played the Super Bowl halftime show. Roger Daltry looked like he was a commercial for Hair Club for Men, and Pete Townshend couldn’t keep his shirt buttoned across his navel.

They didn’t sing their classic line ‘Talkin’ ‘bout my generation’ allegedly so they wouldn’t remind the audience how old we all are.

I know how old I am, I know how old Roger is and I know how old I’m gonna feel at 5:15 tomorrow morning when I get up for Zumba after falling off the dieting ‘wagon’ and indulging in homemade pizza!

All night I’ve been trying to persuade Erik, home from Germany finally, to go to bed early.

He pointed out that for the past few months when I’ve been telling him via Skype to go to bed it’s been three or so in the morning. I don’t make a very compelling ‘mom argument’ at 8:30 at night here.

It’s good to have both sons under the same roof again. When Erik left for Germany the first time when he was 16, none of us quite envisioned the path he would take: early admission to college, another trip to Germany, joining us on the ‘prairie’ to go to school….

Talkin’ ‘bout the next generation.

Sleep Deprived

2010-02-03T19:00:00.000-08:00

Yesterday afternoon I Skyped for the last time with Erik before he comes home from his study abroad in Rostock, Germany. We talked about cars, classes and chairs (I’ve traded his desk chair for my new one which doesn’t have enough lumbar support) among other things.

“My days and nights aren’t mixed up anymore, mom,” he told me, which was a relief to hear.

Usually when we’re chatting via Skype it’s a perfectly civilized hour in the afternoon here and the wee hours of the morning there. Ever since he was a newborn, getting that boy to go to sleep has been a Herculean task.

The previous night I noticed he’d commented at about three a.m. German time on one of his stateside friend’s Facebook updates. I added my own comment: “Go to bed, Erik, and I’m taking your chair.”

My sister-in-law who just gave birth on the weekend told a friend of hers on FB that my new niece has her days and nights mixed up.

May the force be with her.

My teeny-tiny firstborn ate every two hours. I’d sit up in bed feeding him and squinting at reruns of Star Trek: The Next Generation because I was too tired to put my glasses on. For years after I harbored a strong attraction to Patrick Stewart, who played Captain Picard. He (Erik, not Jean Luc) got his first ear infection at seven weeks and that led to many a sleepless night.

One of my favorite pictures of my husband and me was taken on our tenth anniversary, with the towering San Francisco Peaks looming in the background. We were headed out to a late dinner and show to celebrate. We knew we were in trouble when we got home about midnight, and our wonderful babysitter, Andrea, was pushing Erik in the stroller.

For the next several months, we averaged about three hours of sleep a night while ear infections raged. Finally he got tubes put in, and the ears cleared up.

Over the years, Erik’s sleep habits alternately improved and worsened.

By contrast his younger brother, Andrew, was a much better sleeper as a baby. There was the week he was one and his daddy was off researching forest fire reporting in Colorado. Andrew stood and screamed every night in his crib. The only one having night terrors was me!

I come from a long line of night owls. My Grandma Rock would stay up til the wee hours of the morning knitting and watching television. My mom likes to stay up late, and so do I.

So I guess Erik comes by this honestly.

For the last three weeks, my neighbor and I have been getting up to go to daily 5:45 a.m. exercise classes at the local Y. This, in addition to my regular walking routine and foregoing French Fries, donuts, and other fattening goodies, makes me hopeful I can lose the “Erik goes to Germany again” pounds and make my fifties fit.

The only problem is I just can’t get to bed early enough to avoid being a zombie at Zumba….

Last night was particularly bad. I couldn’t get to sleep. When I did I tossed and turned, suffered an excruciating foot cramp and looked constantly at the cell phone to check the time.

Today I got a FB message from Erik’s girlfriend, Morgan. I’d asked how school was. She told me and said she was talking to Erik at that moment. Apparently he was in Berlin (his trip home takes him from Rostock to Berlin to London to Chicago to Omaha to Kearney…whew!) but he’d had a rough time getting out of Rostock, whether snow or transportation issues I don’t know. He was going to be in touch with us only if anything changed schedule-wise on his trip.

His father assures me I’ll start sleeping through the night again when Erik is home.

If not, I’m gonna go back to watching reruns of Star Trek: TNG.

Post Script

2010-01-31T16:43:00.001-08:00

My new niece Reese Nicole Andrews was born January 30.

The Circle of Life

2010-01-30T12:34:00.001-08:00

I write this having just returned last night from my Aunt Judy’s funeral. My mother, husband and I traveled to Wichita for this sad occasion, and we plowed back through snow-covered roads for more than three hours until the weather broke as we headed into Nebraska.

As often happens at this most mournful of occasions, families reconnect. I hadn’t see my cousin Chris in years since we had lived on opposite sides of the country until recently. It was really good to see him, meet his vivacious lovely bride of just over six months and his charming sons. Thanks to Facebook, we’re going to keep in touch.

As we were headed home, my mom got a call from my youngest brother. His wife was in the hospital getting ready to give birth. So as hokey and Disney-esque as it sounds, there really is a circle of life.

My aunt’s sudden death after her stroke and heart attack two weeks previous felt like a blow to the solar plexus. My heart went out to my cousin and his family and to my mom, who lost her ‘baby’ sister.

After the service, I heard two stories about my aunt’s ‘baby mojo’ quilts. One woman had been trying to conceive for 15 years when she became the recipient of one of Judy’s special quilts. She has a three-year-old now. Another friend of my aunt’s was there with her daughter, four months pregnant with her third child. She too had been gifted with one of Judy’s quilts.

My aunt had nearly been finished with a beautiful white quilt for her new daughter-in-law, Paula, when she died. Paula’s grandmother will finish that piece.

As we continue to mourn the loss of Judy, we listen for the cell phone ring from my youngest brother announcing the birth of his new child.

In a week from today, Erik, my mom’s first grandchild and my first ‘baby,’ will be home from his second sojourn in Germany. It can’t come soon enough.