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Cyber-navigating anyone? 5/10/2008 For those of you who check my blog on a semi-regular schedule, I need to apologize. . .I was derelict in my duty this week. The fact was, I was gone for part of the week and then I was playing "catch-up" the rest of it. You know that game, unpacking, laundry, sorting through mail, paying bills, reading through e-mails and answering them. . .getting back-to-speed so I can get back to my normal routine. And, through it all, in the back of my mind, all week I was trying to wrap my brain around the fact that I woke up Monday morning in Raleigh, North Carolina, and had lunch in Bismarck, North Dakota. How is that possible? As often as I travel I am constantly amazed at the miracle of flight. But, this week, I've been pondering another mystery. . .how in the world did we ever get around before Mapquest? Or Google Maps? Or Garmin navigational systems? Call me techno-challenged. I'll be the first to admit it. Any yet, I have to say, I hardly feel at ease traveling most anywhere (outside of North Dakota, that is) without the backup of Mapquest directions on my lap and/or a Garmin navigation device hanging from the windshield. This past weekend, we were in North Carolina for the wedding of my nephew. A beautiful, lovely affair that had me blinking back tears. . .when I wasn't worried about getting-to-where-we-were-going, that is. We'd tried programming the ($13.00-a-day) navigating-doo-dad we'd rented along with our rental car, to get to the Shady Wagons Farm wedding site. However, there seemed to be a glitch in the system and "Linda" (as we named the slightly-British-sounding female in the black plastic box) wasn't recognizing the address my husband had punched in (more than five times). Thank goodness good-old-me had thought ahead and Mapquest-ed the directions to the wedding site. Between 'Linda's' visual-display map and my on-my-lap directions we made it to the wedding in plenty of time. And for the return-trip to our hotel Linda had no trouble at all guiding us "home." But really, all this techno-navigating made me wonder, when we had nothing but a folded up road map, and some directions told over the phone by Aunt Gladys, how did we ever get to where we were going? I mean, really?? Rock On. . . 4/27/2008 I'm here to report the "Generation Gap" is alive and well. The other Friday night my husband and I decided to "run out" for pizza...which in a little town like ours doesn't leave much for options. We sat at a high table right next to a pool match that was being played at our elbows. One of the players left his cell phone/MP3 player laying on 'our' table. . .and I couldn't take my eyes off of it. I have a cell phone. And an iPod. And I was a bit intrigued by the new-fangled device that was laying right before my eyes. After staring at it through half-of-a-pizza, I asked the young pool player how it worked. He promptly showed me how the whole device slid right up upon itself to reveal touch pads in order to dial a phone number. He proceeded to pull out the actual micro-chip that held the "guts" of the phone, including pictures and music, and tried to explain to techno-phobic-me how it worked. "It has pictures," he explained. "And music." "Oh!" I said, trying to act like I understood modern technology. "Music! What do you like to listen to?" (I love music and I'm always curious what other people like to listen to.) "Oldies," he said as he dashed off to take his turn at pool. Great! I'm thinking. I love the oldies, too. Buddy Holly. Elvis. Herman and the Hermits. Davy Jones and the Monkees. I'd go so far as to include Rod Stewart and. . .John Denver. 'Wow,' I thought, 'I'm not nearly as far out-of-it as I imagined. And then the "kid" came back to the table and BIG MOUTH ME had to ask, "When you say 'oldies'. . .like, just who do you mean?" "Oh," he said, leaning back his head and thinking a bit. "Like '80's bands. AC/DC--" And right there he lost me. '80's bands? Like that's OLD??? I was in my prime in the '80's~! If he thought the '80's was oldie-time. . .that would make me. . .like. . .ancient. As old as Moses. Or, like. . .Dick Clark. Excuse me while I go have a Root Beer Float. Or a Green River. How about a Cherry Coke? I definitely need something to drown my sorrows. Sold!! 4/20/2008 Over the years I've learned that what makes a Silent Auction fun is to keep my eye on a few items over the course of an evening. Oh, I've sat through of few of these functions without bidding. (Sometimes I'm just too practical and admit there's not a single thing I "need.") But, maaaannnnn, the night can get pretty long when everyone else is running back-and-forth and I'm sitting alone, holding-down-the-fort so-to-speak, by myself. So, now I'm here to tell you that I've discovered something else about Silent Auctions. . .it's about just as much not-fun to pin your hopes on one, two, or four items and end up with nothing~! The last two Silent Auction fund-raisers I've attended have had a variety of items that I convinced myself I needed. (Or at least could find a way to put to good use.) I upped-the-bid on a couple of table lamps that would've looked mightly nice in our lake cabin. There was a set of cookware that I really, truly, honestly could've used. There were tickets to a musical I would have loved to attend. And a piece of jewelry that, okay, I didn't one-bit need but, ohhhhh, it was seriously cute. Sometimes there are competing bidders who could put vultures to shame. They hover over an item, giving the evil-eye to anyone who dares to step near the bidding sheet. Now I'm not into knock-down-drag-out bidding, so if I spot a hover-er (that's a word I made up), I politely focus my attention elsewhere. But I am into going home with at least something for my efforts. Alas, twas-not-to-be at the last two events I attended. I tried my darndest (another word I made up) to donate some of my money to a good cause but was beat out at every turn. . .even when I was absolutely, positively, sure I had the last bid. Shucks~! Empty-handed again. Ah, well. . .it's not as if I don't have enough stuff around my house to dust. I'm reminded of the Bible verse that goes something like: Do not put your treasure in earthly things. Maybe I'll tell that to a few people at the next Silent Auction I attend~! Have a great week! Weather Chicken. . . 4/14/2008 There is a reason I don’t book speaking engagements from the beginning of November through the end of March. It’s mostly because I’m a weather-chicken and I don’t “do” blizzards~! So, when I heard the weather report for this past (April) weekend. . .the weekend when I had close to two-hundred-and-fifty miles to drive to get to my speaking event in Grand Forks, I gulped. Well, more accurately, I freaked-out. “Blizzard,” they said. Up to a FOOT of snow. And WIND. Gusting up to thirty-miles-an-hour. All I wanted to do was curl up in my favorite reading chair and stay home. But, alas, I’d promised to be in Grand Forks on Friday morning. Plan B: Recruit my husband to drive. He’s a good guy (and he had a business meeting along the way) so he started up our four-wheel drive pick-up and we took off Thursday afternoon, in weather that was down right perfect for a road-chicken like me. All along the way I kept chiding myself for borrowing worry. There was no storm. There weren’t even clouds in the sky. The sun was shining. I could have gone by myself. But, hubby was along and I determined to make it a fun trip. . .it’s nice to have company over the many looonnnng miles it takes to get around North Dakota. My speaking event was first thing Friday morning. I got up bright-and-early and looked out the window. Everything the weatherman had predicted (snow, slush, cold, wind) appeared to be happening right outside my hotel window~! The good news was that I was already in Grand Forks, only a couple blocks away from where I would be speaking. The bad news? We planned to drive to our lake cabin when I was done, which would be about a three-hour drive in the blizzard I’d feared all along. Well, once again, my worries were for naught. By the time we headed east the snow had stopped and the roads were (miraculously) dry. There were a couple wet patches along the way, but nothing to get worked up about. . .even for a road-chicken like me. Arriving at our lake cabin was another story. They’d had a foot of snow the weekend before AND almost another foot had fallen while I’d been in Grand Forks. We had to hike down to our cabin in over-our-knees-snow in places and, poor Gunner (our dog), was literally swimming through the snow banks in white-stuff up to his neck. Need-less-to-say, it was a very cozy weekend at the lake, surrounded by deep snow. Fast forward past the weekend to today (Monday). “They” are predicting temps to hit (get this) seventy-five by this afternoon. How is it possible to have a blizzard on Friday and HOT weather three days later???!!! The answer in five words? That’s North Dakota for you! Ahhhh. . . . . . . 4/7/2008 It’s off into cyberspace. This morning I put some finishing touches on my newest manuscript and sent it off into the ether-world. Hopefully, it will land on my editor’s desk within minutes. . .a process that continues to amaze me. How can 428 pages zip through seeming-nothingness and morph into the book I’ve worked on the past eight months? I needed to send my manuscript today. . .oh, it’s not that I was pushed up against a deadline. I’m the obnoxious kid who always had her term papers done waaaayyy ahead of schedule, and my book contracts are no different. I’m a good couple months ahead of my official deadline, but the reason I needed to get it off my desk and onto my editor’s is that if my pages are in front of me I will keep working on them—adding sentences and paragraphs—until my 428 pages turn into five-hundred, six-hundred, seven-hundred pages. Yikes~! You see a manuscript is something that is never “done.” At least not until it’s in print and between book covers, but even then, most every author I know, thinks there is something “more” that could be added. The book in my mind is never quite what ends up on the page. I’ve learned I need to do my best. Hand my pages off to my editor and let him see where I need to fill-in-the-blanks. . .or, often as not, “cut” twenty pages, or fifty. Which brings me back to getting my manuscript off my desk. If I sent my editor seven-hundred pages, my first assignment (without him even reading it) would be to trim it down to manageable size. So now the waiting begins. Waiting for my editor to read my manuscript. Waiting for his impressions and suggestions. And then, ultimately, waiting for YOU to read the finished book. But today I get to relish a BIG project completed! Ahhhhh. . . . . . . . . . . Ta-Da. . .sort of 3/30/2008 It's DONE. D. O. N. E. My novel is done. . .sort of. Before I get to the "sort of" part, I have to tell you, there isn't much in life that feels better to a writer than to be at "The End" of a long writing project. Wednesday, sometime mid-afternoon, I typed the last word of my manuscript. . .all four hundred and twenty nine double-spaced pages of it. A combination of elation and exhaustion accompanied me as I pushed myself away from my keyboard. I'd done it!! After writing eight books now, the feeling was familiar, but what made reaching "The End" of this particular book so marvelous was that there was a time, early this fall, when I honestly thought I would not be able to write this book. A bad bout of clinical depression left me nearly paralyzed in front of my computer. I spent hours, days, and weeks, staring at the meager amount of words I'd written, wondering if I should call my publisher and offer to buy-back my contract. I literally did not think I would finish this book. I prayed. I cried. I wrote. Repeat the above three lines for something like six months and you will get an inkling as to how I felt. While my depression lifted (for the most part) sometime in December, I was still filled with doubt. The words came just a little bit easier, but not by much. (No matter how good I'm feeling my "words" never jump out of my fingers onto the page.) By the time I reached the home-stretch of this novel (the last few weeks) I finally felt like I could "do this" again. The story was coming together after all. (I hope~!) Wednesday, I typed the last words, reread them about fifteen times, reworked them a tad and then finally called it "done." I saddled-up my dog and went for a long walk around town, well make that more of a happy-dance-walk. I praised God for sticking by me, for helping me to not give up (even when I thought that was the only way). I'd done what I'd thought was impossible. . .and that is an amazing feeling!! And now for the "sort of" part. . .yes, I typed "The End," and gave myself the rest of the week off. Monday will find me at my computer, back at page one, re-reading, rewriting, making sure the story I wrote over a period of seven months rings true. But the MAJOR work is done. And I feel amazing! Thank you, Lord!! Dog-gone-it~! 3/24/2008 Let me just cut to the chase and tell you: There was blood. The meeting-of-the-dogs at Easter did not go well. We did our best to let my daughter and son-in-law’s dog, Chopper, and our dog, Gunner, make friends in the back yard when they first set their noses on each other, but they each had their own notion about who-was-in-whose space. A fight ensued. A real, honest-to-goodness dog fight. (No betting allowed. . .and even if their would have been betting, there wouldn’t have been time.) It was over in the time it took two owners to YELL at their dogs. Gunner ended up with a gash over his right eye. Chopper had a small chunk of fur missing from his snout. After that we made sure the dogs kept their distance. Chopper would give Gunner the evil-eye anytime he was in eye-shot. Gunner slunk around Chopper like an escaped convict trying to lay-low. Honestly, if you could overlook the fact that someone (or some dog) could have been seriously hurt, it was actually kind of comical. I mean, each of these dogs are pure sweethearts when around people they love. Add to that the visions we had of the two dogs romping together playfully all weekend in the backyard and, yes, the reality was about as opposite a scenario as we could imagine. Which is what made it just a little bit funny. Luckily, the adults in our four-some got along just fine. We had some good conversation, several great meals together, and attended a lovely (inspiring) Easter service at our church. When it came time to say, “Good-bye,” I felt sad. Although I’m quite positive Chopper and Gunner were a bit relieved to reclaim their respective spaces. If dogs can grin (and I pretty-sure they can) we had two happy pooches last night! I can see the Finish Line from here! 3/16/2008 Certainly you’ve heard of a “runner’s high.” That supposedly adrenaline-fueled sense of well-being a runner gets after an intense workout. (Something I never will experience since I believe the only good reason to run is if someone is chasing me~!) But, that said, I do think this week I experienced a “writer’s high.” A sense of euphoria that comes with having finished the ‘main part’ of the manuscript I’ve been working on since late August. Now, if my editor is reading this I have to warn him (and you) not to jump to conclusions. I still have an epilogue to write and then I need to go back to page one and sift through my manuscript with a fine-toothed comb to smooth out the rough spots. But, that said, I spent a couple hours at my computer on Saturday (a day I don’t usually use for writing) and I worked hard and. . .Ta-Da!. . .I got to almost-the-end of my book! I felt wonderful! As if I could actually step outside and RUN somewhere just for the heck of it. I still do. I think I’ll go lie down and take a nap until the feeling passes. ; ) * * * Have a wonderful Easter! Our oldest daughter and her hubby will be here with us. Yay!! And their dog, Chopper, who has never been “home” before, nor has he met our dog, Gunner. Gulp~! We’re hoping we don’t have dueling-doggies. I’ll report in next week. Time to Spare. . . 3/10/2008 Once upon a time, when my husband and I were flying home from our lake cabin and got ‘stranded’ halfway between the cabin and home because of bad weather, we were sitting in an unfamiliar airport, wondering just how long we’d be in the middle-of-nowhere, when an old, veteran small plane pilot told us, “Yup, if you’ve got time-to-spare go by air.” Meaning. . . small plane travel is never a sure-fire deal. Well, after this weekend we have another story to add to the log book. After flying to our cabin and then hiking through knee-deep snow to get to it, we spent a very relaxing weekend in front of a roaring fire. Any time I can read two books in one weekend I consider it time well spent. On Sunday we decided we’d get an early start back home. It would be nice to have the second half of the day to unpack, straighten up, and get ready for the week ahead. We drove to the airport, pulled the plane out of the hangar, and loaded it up with our weekend gear. (Remember, I’m the Queen of Over-packing, so there is always a LOT to load.) My husband (the pilot) did his pre-flight of the plane. We kenneled the dog in the cargo compartment, and climbed into the plane, stuffing ourselves insides with our bulky winter coats, scarves, caps, and gloves. We sealed the door, hubby yelled, “Clear!” and turned the ignition. Nothing. Well, nothing unless you count the pathetic little whine of the engine that seemed to say, “I’m not going to start.” My husband cranked it again. Did a little maneuvering of the controls and tried again. Andagainandagainandagainandagain. And. . .well. . .you get the idea. After a few words that weren’t exactly Sunday-like, we climbed out of the plane, got the dog out of his kennel and then stood there trying to figure out what to do. We went back to the cabin so Lorren could make some phone calls, trying to find a mechanic who might be able to give us a quick fix. No one was home. We stopped at the hardware store and bought a new hairdryer. . .Lorren thought there was a stuck pin not engaging with the flywheel (okay, so I’m sort of making that part up) but if he could heat it up, maybe it would. . .un-stick. Nope. Two more times we kenneled the dog, climbed in, belted up, and tried to get the plane started. It wasn’t going anywhere. So. . .after four HOURS of trying to get into the air, we decided to make the loooonnnngggg drive back to North Dakota. What should have been an under-two-hour plane ride, turned into NINE hours of “trying” to leave and then driving. Needless-to-say, I’m starting the week already feeling behind. Like they always say, “If you’ve got time to spare go by air!” Movie Marathon 3/2/2008 The past two months (thanks to a gift subscription to Netflix for Christmas) I have been on a movie-watching-marathon. (Which has cut in a bit to my reading time. . .but I justify it by telling myself movies are all about "story.") I've watched some delightfully cute movies ("Little Manhattan" being my favorite) and also some "dogs." Real dogs. . .in the figurative sense, I mean. I won't share the name of the movie I watched a couple weekends ago since I don't believe in advertising something that awful, but I will tell you that in the course of the movie a young boy (about age 10) was acting out in such squirm-inducing ways that I began to wonder how-in-the-world his parents (his real life parents) came to the decision to say, "We want our son to act in this movie." (There ought to be a law against things like that~!) There are some stories that just don't need viewing. . .and that was one of them. Frankly, if I had purchased that movie I would have taken it out of my DVD player and thrown it in the garbage (something I have done in the past). As it was, I put it in its Netflix envelope and (gladly) sent it back. Good thing, I guess, since the movie that followed restored my faith in the movie business. The movie I watched next, in all its black-and-white glory, won the BEST PICTURE Oscar some years ago. Well, make that a LOT of years ago. "The Best Years of Our Lives" was filmed in (get this) 1946. Now, I've watched my share of old movies and, I'll admit, some of them are kind of. . .well. . .cheesy by today's standards. But this movie, all three hours of it, was a joy to watch. Oh sure, there were troubled characters. Every good story needs a few of those. But the problems were resolved in a way that left me uplifted when the final credits rolled. I've been thinking about that movie for two weeks now. . .and I love it all the more. And that's why I continue to watch movies. To find "gems" like that one. To feed my love of story. We only stopped for gas. . . 2/24/2008 Come winter there’s a phrase that gets bandied-about in North Dakota. “Thirty below keeps the riff-raff out,” we say as we bundle up against the chill. I never gave that sentence more than a chuckle until this past week. My husband and I spent a week in Arizona. (A few days of business meetings for my hubby and we tacked on a few extra days to celebrate our 34th wedding anniversary.) But, alas, it came time to head back to the Dakota’s and as we headed toward the airport we remembered we needed to fill our rental vehicle with gas before we turned it in. We exited off the highway onto an airport road that was under heavy construction. There were no gas stations that we could see up ahead, so we turned off the main road into a neighborhood that had seen better days a long time ago. A long, long time ago. I checked to make sure the car doors were locked. . .and then felt guilty. Just because a neighborhood is run down doesn’t mean the people there aren’t friendly. We drove past wire-fenced yards and broken down cars. Desolate only begins to describe the view from our vehicle windows. Finally, I spotted a gas station a couple blocks to the right. We turned and pulled up to the pumps. After my husband swiped his credit card and began pumping gas, I noticed a down-on-his-luck man approaching our rented Durango. . .then circling around and holding out his hand toward my husband. “Do you have seventy-five cents?” he asked. My husband waved him away. (Coming from North Dakota we had no idea if it was best to hand out some money, or get out of there as fast as we could.) Within seconds another man approached my husband asking for money. He, too, left empty-handed. I was nervous and at the same time heart-sick. How could I claim to be a Christian and yet feel mostly-fear in the presence of people who were begging for help? Before I could begin to sort out my feelings a bedraggled-looking woman came out of seemingly nowhere. She was wearing nothing but a pair of panties, a skimpy camisole top, and a pair of tennis shoes, at twelve-thirty in the afternoon, in February. (Hey, I’m a fiction writer and even I couldn’t make that up.) She sidled up to my husband and asked for money, claiming her “clothes had been stolen.” Okay, here’s where my compassion took a nose-dive. If someone had stolen my clothes (although I can’t begin to concoct a scenario how that might happen), I would be looking for help from the cops, not some middle-aged-guy filling gas at a gas station at lunch time. My husband shook his head and she wandered off to share her tale-of-woe with another guy pumping gas. And then a woman at another pump. Finally, the gas gauge indicated “full” and we were out of there. Well, put it this way, we physically put the station behind us. But, I haven’t been able to put the experience out of mind. . .or heart. Honestly, I’ve been trying to pray for these three people, but finding it hard to know what to say to God. I can’t begin to imagine their day-to-day lives. Or what led them to spend their days begging for seventy-five cents. . .or clothes at a gas station. I’m sad for them. And sad that I don’t know how to help. I back at home, safe-and-sound in North Dakota. And glad to be here. It would be easy to rest on the warm memories of our Arizona trip. . .the fancy-schmancy hotel where we stayed. . .the fabulous food we were served. . .the friends we spent time with. Instead I find myself remembering the tired faces of three people outside my rental car at a gas station in Phoenix. And maybe, that’s why we ended up stopping there. So God could put faces on compassion. So that I would feel compelled to pray. Life's a trip. . . 2/16/2008 Just for the record. . .I Love (with a capital "L") taking trips. I Hate (with a capital "H"). . .packing. Oh, my. . .the 'getting-ready' party literally gives me a stomach ache. Oh, I know, even the Bible tells me not to worry about the clothes I wear. . .but, I just can't help it. I simply "obsess" when it comes to packing. Do I have enough clothes? (An incredibly-silly worry considering the fact that I inherited the over-packing gene from my mother!). What if it gets 'cold?' Or 'hot?' Or, heaven-forbid. . .rains!!!! I have to take clothes to cover ALL the options! Will my toes get cold on the plane if I wear sandals? Will it take too long to take my shoes off in the security line if I wear my orange, tie, sneakers? What about the jewelry I like to wear? Or the cosmetics I like to pack in my carry-on? Will they let me on the plane with it all? Oh. . .what to do? Will I need a coat? Or an umbrella? What about a sweater? Or high heels? Better pack 'em all. . .just in case. See what I mean?? Before a trip I took last summer, I was sitting outside on our deck, at our picnic table, making notes. My husband came outside, surveyed my pen-and-paper and asked, "What are you doing?" "Writing down what I'm going to wear for each day. . .and evening," I said, utterly-serious. He laughed. "You've got to be kidding!" My "look" stopped him mid-chuckle. "You can't be serious," he said cautiously. "I'm not the only person who does this," I replied a bit defensively, knowing full-well my conference roommate does the exact-same-thing. (It's no wonder we love rooming together.) Oh, I wish I could be like the "birds-of-the-air," who neither wonder or worry about what they will wear tomorrow, or the next day. . .or for the publisher's event on Saturday night. But, I'm not. As I throw another sweater in my suitcase just-in-case, I hope God understands my frailties. My tendency to pack-too-much. And somehow blesses my trip, and the people I meet along the way, in spite of my anxieties. Along with all my "stuff," I hope I remember that my trip is not about the destination. . .it's all about the journey. (And 'packing' is only part of that.) I pray I have all the right clothes. . .as well as an adventurous and welcoming spirit for all the events (and people) that cross my path. . .wherever I might land. “Weather” a-comin’ 2/10/2008 We had a blizzard warning hanging over our heads here in North Dakota over the weekend. The kind of storm (up to 50 mph winds) that makes me glad I’m not planning on going anywhere. I’m a bit of a weather-junkie, so part of me was looking forward to hunkering down in the house and watching it blow over the weekend. Blizzards have been few-and-far between around here the past few years, and it’s been a long time since we’ve had the three-day kind that virtually s-t-o-p-s everything. Every time I hear of a blizzard in the forecast, I’m reminded of way-back-when. . .back when I was in high school in the late sixties/early seventies. We had a History teacher who had his students take turns putting up a weekly bulletin board in his class. The topic had to be something “historical” and, as I recall, our creativity usually resulted in pages torn out of old Life magazines, with some construction paper letters and typed captions explaining what the photos were about. To tell you the truth, I can’t remember one fact from any of those bulletin boards. . .except for one. As plain as day I recall walking into history class and glancing at the weekly offering hanging on the wall. Then I glanced again. Stopped in my tracks and started laughing. The bulletin board was completely covered with white typing paper. Nothing but white except for fifteen construction paper letters stapled to the paper. They read: The Blizzard of ‘66. It was a historic blizzard. One I remembered. Snow banks so high we could climb onto the roof on our high school gym and sled down the shingle-high drifts. I remember making taffy (I’m sure my mom was trying to keep us kids entertained during the three-day school shut-down) and cutting my thumb with a butcher knife as I tried to pry a piece of sticky taffy off a plate. I should have had stitches. . .but it was blizzarding outside~! I’ve still got a faint scar, evidence of how bad the weather was—we didn’t dare leave the house. Now. . .back to the bulletin board. While I remember the blizzard, I doubt I would remember the year it happened (I’m terrible about that sort of thing) if it weren’t for my classmate’s creativity. As I recall, “Schlenker” got an “A”. . .apparently our History teacher had a sense of humor, too. And I’ve had thirty-plus years of chuckles over that history project. The Blizzard of ‘66, I’ll never forget it! It's the little things. . . 2/3/2008 “The difference between what we do and what we are capable of doing would suffice to solve most of the world’s problems.” Mohandas Gandhi This quote caught my eye as I paged through our church newsletter this afternoon. Something about it got me thinking. . . Many years ago, during high school and college, I was filled with an idealistic notion that somehow I would change the world. I had no clue exactly how I would do that. . .just that I would. Enter “real life.” Husband. Kids. No college degree. Or, when it came right down to it, not much talent for anything but reading. And being a “housewife and mom.” I spent many frustrated years thinking my life was supposed to be so much more meaningful than it seemed. Where had I gone wrong? Fast forward a couple decades. . . I never did find the answer to that question. . .I just came to have a different view on what constituted a ‘meaningful life.’ I’ve come to realize that while I can’t change the world, I can make a difference in the ‘world’ of the people around me. I can encourage my daughters (and son-in-laws) to pursue their dreams. Because my dad died when I was fairly young, I’ve learned to support those who are grieving. My personal walk through clinical depression left me with a compassion for others taking that deep, dark path. I can offer an empathetic ear when my husband is frustrated with the demands of work. My listening-ear is always available when my sisters (or friends) need to vent. Using the skills I’ve developed as a writer, I can mentor others. . .or speak to readers through my books. It turns out that I may never do one BIG thing to change the world. . .but I can do a lot of little things. And, I suspect, so can you. Together we can create change for the better in the lives of those around us. Here’s wishing you a week filled with days that make a difference! What's Cookin'? 1/27/2008 Okay, don’t get me wrong, I really do love technology. . .up to a point. Where would I be without my beloved e-mail? I can stay in touch with my writer-friends who live all over the country. My mom, who winters in Arizona, my sisters in North Carolina and Minnesota, my friend in Iowa, and even get e-notes from readers as far away as the Ukraine! Yes, I love my e-mail. I also love my iPod. It’s taught me how to download music (legally) from the internet and allows me to listen to new favorites as I go on my almost-daily walks around town. Then there is cable TV and the Food Network (my favorite). I experience all sorts of tastes and ideas from the comfort of my couch. So. . .what do I have to complain about? It’s my oven. My rather new-fangled digital oven. I think I'm starting to understand why the "old days" seem so appealing once you start getting...uh..."older." What was so terrible about having an oven that allowed the temperature to be set with the simple turn of my wrist and the twist of a dial? The other night I was heating up a Pheasant and Sausage Gumbo (a new recipe my husband found—and, yes! it was delicious). It wasn’t heating through as quickly as I’d planned and so I went to turn up the heat. On my old stove all I had to do was twist my wrist, turn the dial up fifty degrees, and my old oven would crank up the heat. With this new-fangled-thing, resetting the temperature almost requires the instruction manual. First of all I have to turn OFF the oven. Then I need to push "bake"...next I'm required to log in the NEW temperature (which requires tapping at three different numbers), and then, finally push "start." If I forget any one of these four steps whatever’s in my oven isn't cookin' at all. Sheesh~! There were some things that were just better before technology got to ‘em. But don’t you dare try to take away my iPod. Or my cell phone. Or my cable TV. Or my e-mail! After all, if it weren’t for “technology” I wouldn’t be able to share this little “vent” with you! Thanks for reading. . .and commiserating~! Have a great (glitch-free) week! I'm supposed to WHAT?? 1/21/2008 There’s nothing like forgetting you’re supposed to do something to send a middle-aged-housewife into an instant hot flash! Let me back up a bit. It was a lazy weekend around our house. So lazy, that on Sunday I didn’t even turn on my computer. (Which is a mini-miracle considering I am addicted to e-mail~!) I sat down at my computer Monday morning, ready to update my blog and add a few new pages to my current manuscript. But FIRST I had to check my e-mail. There were two from my mom, and one from a close friend. Just the usual “what’s going on today” posts. I logged into my “other” account. The one that is more ‘business/writing’ related. I belong to a couple writing e-mail loops and my intention was to do a quick scan and then get writing. There was an e-mail from someone I haven’t actually met, but she’s a cyber-friend and runs a respected website dedicated to creating better fiction. “Hmmm? Wonder what she wants,” I thought, clicking on her post. Last time I heard from her we were wishing each other Happy Birthday. What she had to say was short and not-so-sweet: I need your teaching post by (tomorrow) morning. WHAT???!!! My TEACHING POST??? I had a vague recollection of being asked (many months ago) to write a guest-blog for her site. Yeah, “January” stuck in my head. But it’s nearing the end of the month and, frankly, I thought she forgot. Which was perfectly fine with me! Yow-Zers!! My heart went into over-drive and I had an instant hot-flash. (Is it warm in here, or what?!) Within seconds all my writing plans for the day evaporated and I focused on writing a piece about characterization for the Novel Journey website. (You can check it out on Wednesday: http://noveljourney.blogspot.com/) Nothing like a deadline and panic to motivate a person. Honestly? I wish I could write that fast every day. Had a Bad Day. . . 1/13/2008 It started out like any other day. I got up, dressed, prayed-up, had my cereal and my coffee and then headed to my computer. I spent the morning writing and never gave the way my day was going a single thought. And then. . .around noon, something happened (nothing BIG mind you, just a “little thing” that I actually had to wrack my brain to remember as I was writing this) that sent me on a down-hill spiral. After that it seemed like absolutely NOTHING went right the rest of the day. By evening I was ready to zone-out in front of the TV and pretend the day was over. Which got me thinking. . .why is it that ONE little thing can change the tone of a whole day? Which made me think some more. . .not about the things that went wrong. . .but about the things in my day that go right. Honestly, when I started ‘noodling’ about the things I have to be grateful for, I should consider every single day the BEST ever. Fess up. . .don’t you think the person who invented the HOT shower should be given some sort of award?!! Then there is that first cup of coffee in the morning. Not to mention the SMELL of the coffee. And there’s my daily breakfast: homemade granola with skim milk. Yum. And even though I know I spend waaaayyy tooooo much time on my computer, I LOVE the friends and family that e-mail me nearly every single day. . .or more! And the almost daily phone calls I get from my daughter/s. (Some times more!) And then, since we live in a little town, I get to have lunch with my husband most every, single day. (And, since I work at home and REALLY, really need to get away from my computer. . .we eat ‘out’ much of the time, where we often sit with other folks from town and catch-up on what’s new.) When I have errands to run I can hardly go two blocks without waving to someone I know. And when I stop to get the mail, or at the bank, or the drug store, or the grocery store, or even filling gas. . .well, it’s a regular chat-fest because I know not-quite- everyone in my little town. And then at night, when I slip my feet between the cool covers and lay my head down on my feather pillow, once again I’m reminded of how lucky I am to live where I do, do what I do, and that I have a home to live in, and a soft bed where I can sleep. I’m also thankful for my very-wise God, who made a sun that sets on the days that don’t-seem-so-great, and a sun that rises on a brand NEW day every morning. And, one more thing. . .I’m grateful for my middle-aged-brain that can’t even remember what it was that made last Wednesday not-so-great. Here’s wishing you a wonderful week! Thoughts on a New Year. . . 1/6/2008 Let me start by telling you that I enjoy the comfort of a schedule. My schedule. My husband, on the other hand, is the kind of guy who can say, “Let’s do. . .this! Or. . .that!” and pick up and go. At least he could if he weren’t saddled with someone like me. A person who likes to plaaaaaannnnn things down to the last detail. Which brings me around to New Year’s Resolutions. I like ‘em because they give me a goal to shoot for. A “plan” so-to-speak. One year, in an effort to please my husband, I made the resolution to “Be More Spontaneous.” Okay, quit laughing. It only took me a week, or so, to realize that it’s pretty darn difficult to “plan” to be off-the-cuff. Ever since then I’ve tried to be a bit more realistic about what I resolve. This year I’m promising to finish the book I’m working on and to be more intentional about my friendships. Oh, and to watch more movies (thanks to a gift subscription to Netflix). Which brings me to Mary. We go way back. Actually, back to the month we were both born, December the same year. We were friends from day one. The pinky-swear kind of friends in Junior High. We ran in a tiny bit different circle in high school, which is hard to do in a class sized: Fifty. We drifted into Christmas card friends. I’ve stayed in our same little town. She moved to the Eastern seaboard. But we’ve never completely lost touch. So this December, when I got a string of e-mails from her, I opened them with a smile. She’s always got something interesting going on. . .and this year it was a search for Swedish Potato Sausage. Apparently there is a big difference between Polish and Swedish sausage. . .which left me shaking my head. “How did we EVER start talking about ethnic sausage?” Especially odd since I am neither Swedish nor Polish. And I don’t think Mary is, either! But, leave it to Mary to turn a discussion about food into food for thought. Here’s what she wrote: For your birthday I wish you "Lagom är bäst" The Swedish proverb "Lagom är bäst," is translated as "Enough is as good as a feast." “Enough is as good as a feast.” That got me thinking. Mulling, actually. “Enough” seems to say it all. When we have enough we are satisfied. . .we don’t need more. And so I’ve decided, “enough” is going to be my theme this year. I’m going to say, “Thank You,” for what I have. . .because what I have is certainly enough. Enough to call life a feast. I will close these thoughts the way my friend, Mary, did: " I wish you enough." Happy New Year! Just a Number. . . 12/31/2007 As if there wasn’t enough to do from December 24th to January 1st, I had to go and be born on December 29th. Trying to squeeze in a birthday celebration between two national holidays isn’t easy and, frankly, there have been a few years when the idea of eating one MORE big meal and something sweet was almost more than I could take. And yet, what’s a birthday without a little celebration? On the surface my birthday this year was just a number. Fifty-four isn’t much of a milestone. A little over fifty and well under sixty. (At least that’s what I’m telling myself.) It’s the sum of thirty and twenty-four. It’s the number of the police car on the old sitcom “Car Fifty-four Where Are You.” (You have to be around my age to remember that program.) Fifty-four was just-a-number until it became the age my dad was when he died. Ever after that “number” has loomed over me like some grand expiration date. Oh, I never assumed I would gasp my last breath on that day, but approaching fifty-four did leave me assessing my life and, maybe more importantly, my dad’s. I was seventeen when my dad died, just old enough to understand that even then my dad wasn’t “old.” By the age of fifty-four my dad had lived a very full life. He’d owned dairy cows and a grain elevator. He’d taken cruises and traveled abroad. He’d built and run a movie theatre in our little town. He became a banker the year I was born. And he’d fought cancer for seven years. It was that last bit that did him in. And so I find myself assessing my life on this just-a-number birthday. I’ve been a cheerleader and a bank teller. A daughter, a sister, a friend. A “good wife” (so my husband says). I’ve raised two daughters (and a dog). I’ve been half of a comedy duo, written a newspaper column, and seven books. If life ended now I’d have no regrets. . .except for all the things that lay ahead that I’d miss. I woke up on my fifty-fourth birthday with a tiny bit of a headache, but even so, I felt surprisingly good! I realized I’d been given the gift of “more.” My birthday was filled with so many phone calls I started answering the phone, “Grand Central Station.” I went to breakfast with one friend, for a walk with another. I had some time to put my feet up and read. Then my husband cooked a fabulous dinner for us and four more friends. It was a good day. . .and more than enough. More days to live. More days to love. Merry Christmas. . .Peace 12/19/2007 Suddenly an angel appeared among them. . ."Don't be afraid!" he said. "I bring you the most joyful news ever announced, and it is for everyone! The Savior--yes, the Messiah, the Lord--has been born tonight in Bethlehem!" . . .Suddenly, the angel was joined by a vast host of others--the armies of heaven--praising God: "Glory to God in the highest heaven," they sang, "and peace on earth. . ." Luke 2: 8-14 (TLB) Wishing you a Christmas filled with Good News, Peace, and Praise! Wishing you great joy! Roxy "F" is for Fun!! 12/15/2007 To say that I've been attending my husband's business' Christmas party my whole, entire life is not an exaggeration. Let me explain: You see about twenty-eight years ago my husband and I moved back "home" to join in the business my dad and mom had spent much of their lives building. Since the day I was born I've been part of the annual Christmas celebration. I remember the years when Santa (most often my dad) burst through the cafe door and thrilled the kids with his loud, "Ho! Ho! Ho's!" I recall the year we had the annual Christmas party at a hotel around an indoor, heated swimming pool. . .a BIG deal when you live in blizzardy North Dakota. (And the first time I ever tasted lobster!) There were years when we stood around an off-key piano and sang Christmas carols, and far too many years when all we did was eat a nice meal, wish each other a "Merry Christmas!" and head home. About five years ago we decided our Christmas parties needed some fun along with the food, so we decided to play a simple game. We would ask each person (staff member and their spouse) to bring a gift (ten dollars or less) to the party. The gals would brings a 'gals-gift.' The guys would bring. . .well, you can figure this out. The "trick" to the whole arrangement was that all the gifts had to start with the same letter. We used the letters of our business name and went-to-town. Well, actually we went downtown and out-of-town in search of a suitable present. You can't believe some of the laugh-out-loud gifts that have been exchanged. This year our "letter-of-choice" was "R." The gals exchanged a Red star, some Romantic comedy DVD's, a wonderfully-made Christmas Runner, a Rug, a VERY popular cookie jar with Recipies inside, and even an assortment of Ranch dressing dip mixes. The guys were just as creative. There was Root beer, and a Rook card game. Several Reversible Ratchet wrenches. (Say that three times fast~!) And the most popular gift of all: a Rubber chicken. . .that made the goofiest crowing sound you've ever heard. We were laughing until our jaws ached! And isn't that what Christmas is all about? Joy! In the BIG things (like the birth of a Saviour) and the little things (like silly rubber chickens and laughing with friends). Feel free to "steal" this little game from us. (We also allow people to "steal" a gift from another person instead of opening something new. . .which is half the fun.) For right now I'm going to pick the letter "F" to wish you a Christmas season filled with tons of FUN. Friends. Family. And Faith! Merry Christmas! Who needs it more? 12/9/2007 I’ve made my list. And checked it twice. And then a third and fourth time. The gifts are bought, wrapped, and ready for giving. Oh, no, I’m not some hyper-active Christmas Elf, the ONLY reason I’m so on top of things this year is that I need to mail just about every single gift on my list. (Ah, yes, the postal service loves me and my family members who live far—too far—away~!) But even with all my shopping and mailing I’m feeling as if I didn’t spend quite enough this season. “WHAT?” I can hear you saying. “She didn’t spend enough on Christmas gifts? Is she nuts?” No, it’s not that I wanted to spend even a penny more than I did at the mall, the reason I wanted to dig in my pockets a little deeper was to give a dollar (or five) to those people who collect money for charity every Christmas. But, this year, when I went to the mall, I had my dollars ready. . .but there was no one to give them to. Many years ago, when my husband and I were just starting out, I often walked by those bell ringers and clung to my money in my pockets. My husband and I had a little baby, I wasn’t working, and we needed every dollar for ourselves. . .or so it seemed at the time. I’d walk by the bell ringers and their red buckets and feel guilty and stingy. And I hoped that someday I’d be able to be generous. Fast-forward thirty years and someday is here. I’ve learned there are people who need my spare change a lot more than I do. My new mantra is, “Who needs a dollar more?” The answer is usually “the other person.” At some point in time I started noticing that most of the people who are in the service industry are young enough to be my kids (or younger). They are working hard, trying to get through school, or support a family, or do whatever it takes to earn some money to pay their bills. I realized I could help. . .just a little. So, now, when I’m in a café and find myself debating, “Should I leave a three dollar tip? Or four? Three doesn’t seem like quite enough, but four seems like too much. What should I—” It’s then I realize: Here’s my chance to make up for all those times I felt stingy. I add the extra dollar on to the tip. It’s a little thing, but it makes me feel good. And I hope it makes the people I’m tipping feel a bit better about their fine work. And that’s the way it goes with giving. . .the more you give, the more you get in return. Not necessarily ‘money,’ but something more valuable. . .a generous spirit. I’ve got a couple extra dollars tucked into my coat pocket. . .don’t worry, I’ll find someone to give them to before the season is over. Good to go. . . 12/2/2007 You’ll understand my little adventure better if I preface it by telling you that I’ve had five eye surgeries (including a cornea transplant and a cataract removal and lens implant). So when I mention that I’m always a little nervous when it comes time to renew my driver’s license, you’ll understand why. So, let me start by saying, “I’m always a little nervous when it comes time to renew my driver’s license.” (Oh, yeah, I told you that already. But it bears repeating. I really am! My vision is a complicated thing.) My eyesight is best first thing in the morning so I made it a point to be out of bed, showered and breakfasted, and over to the driver’s license renewal office first thing on Wednesday. (The only day—twice-a-month—that they come to our little town.) I was first in line and the vision-testing lady told me to have a seat and put my head into the testing machine. I put my head in place and squinted a little bit, making sure I could see. Ta-da, I could. Everything looked fairly crisp and clear. “Read line four for me,” she said. So I did. I raced through the letters on the left side of the machine, skipped over the big blank area in the middle, and then spouted off the letters on the right side. The testing lady paused, then said, “Could you read line three for me?” The letters were a little smaller, but with a little squinting I could read them just fine. Left-to-right, skip that blank area in the middle. Same as before. Done. “Uh…” The lady hummed curiously for a bit. “You’re not reading the letters in the middle,” she announced. “There are no letters in the middle,” I said as confident as could be. “Yes,” she said. “There are.” “No, there’s not.” “Yes, there is.” She should know. She was the testing lady. Gulp!! Double gulp. If there were letters in the middle, they were invisible to me. How was it possible that I could read everything on the left and right, but the middle was a complete blank? Maybe my eyes were much worse than I imagined. “Let’s see,” she said. “Can you see this?” She flicked lights on either side of my head, testing my peripheral vision. No problems there. A light sweat was ready to pop up on my upper lip any second. “Try it again,” she said, motioning that I should put my head back into the tricky machine. She made some adjustments and then laughed. “Oh goodness,” she said, “I had the machine set wrong! No wonder you didn’t see anything in the middle. There was nothing there!” I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so overcome with relief. I started blurting out my eye-saga, the tale of my surgeries and my nervousness about the eye test. The testing lady just kept saying, “It was my fault. You did great. It was my fault. You did just fine.” I smiled while she took my photo. I thanked her when she handed me my new driver’s license. I would have hugged her if there hadn’t been a table between us. “You’re good to go for another four years,” she said. Sweet words, indeed. I practically skipped out to my car, got inside, started it up and breathed a HUGE sigh of relief. Whew~! And double-whew! I was good-to-go. . .so I did. And so it begins. . . 11/25/2007 I was perfectly fine with the idea of hubby and I being alone on Thanksgiving. After all, last year we had all the kids home (and got the hush-hush announcement that our daughter, Rachael, and her boyfriend, Cory, were planning to elope in a month!) So the idea of a quiet Thanksgiving this year was okay. . .until Thanksgiving Day, when I woke up kind of glum knowing there was nothing for me to do in the kitchen but stick a small chicken in the oven and count down the hours until it was time to cut into the frozen pumpkin pie I’d bought. Yawn~! Sure, there have been many Thanksgivings when I’ve done my share of kitchen grumbling. “There’s too much to do and not enough hours in the day to do it.” But, this year, I learned my lesson. . .I actually prefer the too-much-to-do holidays. (Remind me of that next time I’m complaining.) Anyway, I’ve found the best antidote for most any of my moods is to get busy. . .so I did. First off I called every single person who I was wishing would be around our table later in the day to wish them a Happy Thanksgiving. Even though I had to fight off tears during some of my phone calls, I felt better having talked to them. Next, I had hubby pull our artificial Christmas tree up from the basement. We got it set up and I decorated while he went out hunting. Later, we had a lovely (and quiet) dinner-for-two by candlelight and called it an early night. I woke up Friday and Saturday with one of those “let’s-get-things-done” urges that don’t come nearly often enough. By the time late Saturday afternoon rolled around I had my house decorated for Christmas inside and out. (Okay, I did draft Lorren to climb the ladder to put up our outside lights, while I stood safely on the ground and ‘supervised.’) I’d set up my favorite decoration: my collection of mini-and-not-so-mini trees), and I’d baked my annual fruitcake (no jokes please!) and two batches of our favorite Christmas cookie: Pizzelles. And then I collapsed! I was more-or-less exhausted but, man, did I feel good! Here’s wishing you a season of hustle-and-bustle and the energy to get it all done. . .and enough time to relax and enjoy it all. Blessings this season. Give T-H-A-N-K-S 11/18/2007 It’s that time of year again when my thoughts turn to giving T-H-A-N-K-S. I’ve been mulling this over the past few days and find myself grateful for things BIG and small. Here are a few that came to mind: T-“Time.” I spent much of this past week in Duluth, MN with my cousin and her husband. It’s been a long time since my cousin and I have had some extended time together and I’m grateful for every minute we had! H-“Home.” As nice as it is to get away sometimes, it’s always good to get back home. Pet the dog. Hug the hubby. And climb into my own bed. Ahhh. . . A-“Amazon.com” No, this isn’t a paid-commercial announcement for the on-line bookseller. But the fact of the matter is I live ONE HUNDRED MILES from a bookstore. A painful distance for someone with a voracious appetite for reading. I’m such a good customer Amazon sends me Christmas cards! N-“Nuts.” Okay, so this is one of the “little things” I’m thankful for. Dry roasted. Salted peanuts. Some people like soft foods for comfort. I love the c-r-u-n-c-h of salty peanuts. K-“Kids.” My own. There was a time when I wasn’t so sure I wanted kids, or if I would make a very good mother. It turned out I was (thankfully, gratefully, humbly) wrong!! S-“Soup.” There is something so comforting and cozy about a bowl of hot soup (along with a thick slice of buttered bread) on a chilly, gray, fall night. My husband spent most of the afternoon making his specialty: Wild Rice Pheasant Soup. And guess what? It’s supper time!! And I’m thankful! Okay, your turn. . .what are you thankful for this season? Bits-and-pieces 11/12/2007 I have a LOT of things hanging on the wall-to-wall bulletin board in front of my computer desk. There’s a calendar. Photos of my cousins. My (really old) cheerleading letter. Phone numbers I need to call on a regular basis. Cartoons that tickled my funny bone. . .and still do. Pictures of me with my new sons-in-law. A pencil sketch of me done by a young teenager as a gift. A dozen-or-so name badges I’ve worn at various conferences I’ve attended and/or spoken at. Scenery pictures that I’ve clipped out of magazines. Theatre tickets. A fifty-year-old black-and-white photo of my husband on his first day of school. A note from the doctor saying my what’s-causing-all-these-headaches brain scan was “normal.” (Yay!) And a whole bunch of little sayings and poems I’ve collected over the years because they, somehow, resonated with me. One of my favorites was taken off of an old cross-stitch sampler I spotted hanging above a Christmas mantle in a magazine. I had to squint to read what it said, but I loved it so much I typed it out and have had it hanging near my computer for years. Heading into this season of Thanksgiving, the sentiment seems like a good reminder of how we should live. Here it is: Mend a quarrel. Find a forgotten friend. Share a treasure. Keep a promise. Find the time. Forgo a grudge. Forgive an enemy. Apologize if you were wrong. Think first of someone else. Laugh a little. Laugh a little more. Deserve confidence. Decry complacency. Say a prayer. Welcome a stranger. Gladden the heart of a child. Take pleasure in the beauty of the earth. Speak your love. Speak it again. Speak it still once more. As a writer, I know how important it is to give credit where credit is due. Unfortunately, there was no “author” listed along with this saying, only “unknown.” One thing I do know, whoever wrote it was very wise. Have a great week! A quiet weekend. . . 11/4/2007 I had a very quiet weekend. My husband took the dog and spent a weekend away pheasant hunting with old friends. Which left me all alone at home with absolutely nothing to do. Ohhhh...sure, there's always "something" to do . . .I could have cleaned out closets, I could have sorted through paper work, or un-junked junk drawers. But since I'd had a minor surgery done on my leg mid-afternoon on Friday, I used my eleven stitches as an excuse to sit-and-read. Ahhhh...in spite of the does-it-hurt-or-itch? debate I had with myself everytime I stood and/or switched reading postions, I had a wonderfully relaxing weekend. I read an exciting thriller. I made myself a meal of brown-rice, fresh tomatoes and parmesan cheese (the type of food my husband doesn't classify as a "meal.") And generally just kicked-back. Good preparation for the week ahead. A week I have VOWED to spend WRITING as much as I can on my 'next' book. This has been a crazy fall. . .too much time on-the-road speaking. . .too little time at my computer writing. I plan to change all that starting NOW. I'll keep you posted. A heavy, heavy heart. . . 10/26/2007 I was supposed to be in North Carolina today. I was supposed to be out shopping with my sister. We were going to meet her future daughter-in-law for lunch. We were talking about treating ourselves to pedicures sometime during the four days I planned to stay before returning home to North Dakota. How quickly plans change. How suddenly life turns upside-down in the span of a breath. Or a phone call. Or a news report. Instead of time with my sister in North Carolina, I am preparing to attend a funeral. Those of you who live in Minnesota or North Dakota have more-than-likely heard of the UND training plane that crashed killing an instructor and a student pilot. That student was my favorite cousin’s son. I first heard of the missing plane on a nightly news report. An announcement that pushed the air right out of my lungs. “No!” I cried to the TV. I raced to the phone to call my cousin and then began a constant stream of prayer asking for a miracle. The kind of miracle we hoped for was not what happened. It’s hard to find solace in times like these, but this poem, by Robert E. Selle, says it best: Think. . . of stepping on the shore, and finding it heaven, of taking hold of a hand, and finding it God’s hand of breathing a new air, and finding celestial air, of feeling invigorated, and finding immortality, of passing from storm and tempest, to an unbroken calm, of waking up and finding yourself home! Please, breathe a prayer for my cousin, her husband, their remaining son. . .and our broken-hearted family. Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink~! 10/21/2007 Ever since fifth grade, when my teacher, Mrs. Schlat, told our class that we mustn’t waste water when we brushed our teeth, or washed our hands, or even when we needed a sip of water from the sink in the back of the classroom, because, if we weren’t careful, someday there would be a shortage of water. . .I have been paranoid about wasting water. Seriously. Ever since I’ve been ten, running (wasting) water has driven me berserk~! Ask my friends. Or my sisters. Or my husband. Or my kids. Or even the ladies in my serving group at church. If a faucet is running needlessly anywhere I’m near, I get as agitated as a cat who accidentally wanders into a dog convention. “Why is that water running?” I might ask (not so politely). “Turn that off,” I say, with a bit of an edge to my voice. Or, most times, I don’t say anything. I simply reach over and turn the water OFF. And, now, according to the news, I see that my fifth grade teacher’s caution seems to be coming true. Many parts of the nation are experiencing an epic drought. Atlanta has a 90-day supply of drinking water. . .and that’s it. This weekend someone from the Carolina’s told me there is a huge c-r-a-c-k right down the middle of her backyard because the ground is so dry. All I want to say is that, “It’s not MY fault!!” For the past forty-plus years I’ve been saving all the water I can. And now, I urge you to save what you can, too. Turn off the water when you’re brushing your teeth. Take a shorter shower. Use the water from your dehumidifier to water your flowers. If it’s not an ‘emergency,’ flush every-other time. (I’m not kidding!) Let’s take care of our resources, for ourselves, for our neighbors, for future generations. Mrs. Schlat would give you an A+!! Odds-n-ends 10/12/2007 This time of year I often get the urge to wrap-up things. Sort of battening-down-the-hatches before winter sets in, I guess. And so before I tackle the summer clothes still in my closet, I thought I’d respond to a couple reader inquiries first. (Anything to avoid closet-cleaning~!) Last week I blogged about our dog, Gunner, being sick and needing to switch to prescription dog food. Expensive? Yes. Our vet commented, “Be glad he’s a little dog.” Well, my editor read that and wrote, “Gunner is NOT little. A Pekingese is little. A toy poodle is little. Gunner is not little.” Okay, so maybe on the dog-measuring-scale, a thirty-two pound dog like Gunner could be considered a ‘medium-sized’ dog. BUT. . .you have to keep in mind that our vet is a country vet, his animals-of-choice tend to have hooves. Cattle and horses. Animals that get sold by the hundred-weight. HUGE animals compared to my little guy. So, right now (considering the whole prescription-dog-food deal), I’m thanking my lucky stars Gunner is “little” and not a St. Bernard! - - - - - Then, I had a reader call me to-task. She saw on a website (somewhere on the world-wide-web) that I have a new book coming out. She went on to tell me that she was surprised she found that information out on another website and NOT mine. “What’s up with that?” she asked in not quite those words. Well. . .she’s right, I do have a new book coming out the END of January. You see, the thing about publishing is that publishers set their production schedules years ahead of time. I’ve had this particular book contracted for close to three years prior to now. If I started talking about it when it was a mere idea, you’d all be sick of it (and me) by now. I purposely wait until close to the time a book will be available in stores to mention the title to my readers. That way, if you get excited to read it, you’ll be able to get your nose inside those pages ASAP. Don’t worry, when the new title is close to publication, you WILL hear about this book! But here’s a sneak-peek for those who are insatiably curious: The title is: Learning to Fly. And it’s about raising kids, loving, and letting go. - - - - - There. I feel better. Two loose ends cleared up. Now, it’s off to my closet~! Have a wonderful week! Doggone-it~! 10/7/2007 My dog’s been sick, again. Although to look at him you’d be hard-pressed to tell there’s anything wrong. Now, under normal circumstances, I’d feel completely compassionate for the poor-little-guy. That is, I would if he was acting sick. Instead his nose is wet and cool. He gobbles up his food and practically grabs his leash and begs to go for his daily walk. His only “symptom” is his middle-of-the-night ‘accidents’ on the carpet. Accidents that have made me an expert with a scrub brush, disinfectant, and a carpet shampooer. Accidents that have brought my plan to get new living room carpeting to a complete standstill. Finally, after three days (and nights) of wondering just what we’d wake up to the next morning. . .and not liking what we saw. . .my husband took Gunner to the vet. It just happened that we needed to be gone for the weekend, so the vet was willing to board our precious-puppy and observe him over the weekend. The diagnosis? IBS. Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Yes. Really. The solution? Prescription dog food. Uh. . .yeah. (I can see you rolling your eyes. I did, too.) The vet’s consoling advice, “Be glad he’s a little dog.” It looks like my new-carpet fund, has turned into a special-dog-food account. It would be funny if it wasn’t my dog. . .or my carpeting. I’ll keep you posted. . . A quiet weekend. . . 10/4/2007 I had a very quiet weekend. My husband took the dog and spent a weekend away pheasant hunting with old friends. Which left me all alone at home with absolutely nothing to do. Ohhhh...sure, there's always "something" to do . . .I could have cleaned out closets, I could have sorted through paper work, or un-junked junk drawers. But since I'd had a minor surgery done on my leg mid-afternoon on Friday, I used my eleven stitches as an excuse to sit-and-read. Ahhhh...in spite of the does-it-hurt-or-itch? debate I had with myself everytime I stood and/or switched reading postions, I had a wonderfully relaxing weekend. I read an exciting thriller. I made myself a meal of brown-rice, fresh tomatoes and parmesan cheese (the type of food my husband doesn't classify as a "meal.") And generally just kicked-back. Good preparation for the week ahead. A week I have VOWED to spend WRITING as much as I can on my 'next' book. This has been a crazy fall. . .too much time on-the-road speaking. . .too little time at my computer writing. I plan to change all that starting NOW. I'll keep you posted. A quiet weekend. . . 10/4/2007 I had a very quiet weekend. My husband took the dog and spent a weekend away pheasant hunting with old friends. Which left me all alone at home with absolutely nothing to do. Ohhhh...sure, there's always "something" to do . . .I could have cleaned out closets, I could have sorted through paper work, or un-junked junk drawers. But since I'd had a minor surgery done on my leg mid-afternoon on Friday, I used my eleven stitches as an excuse to sit-and-read. Ahhhh...in spite of the does-it-hurt-or-itch? debate I had with myself everytime I stood and/or switched reading postions, I had a wonderfully relaxing weekend. I read an exciting thriller. I made myself a meal of brown-rice, fresh tomatoes and parmesan cheese (the type of food my husband doesn't classify as a "meal.") And generally just kicked-back. Good preparation for the week ahead. A week I have VOWED to spend WRITING as much as I can on my 'next' book. This has been a crazy fall. . .too much time on-the-road speaking. . .too little time at my computer writing. I plan to change all that starting NOW. I'll keep you posted. A quiet weekend. . . 10/4/2007 I had a very quiet weekend. My husband took the dog and spent a weekend away pheasant hunting with old friends. Which left me all alone at home with absolutely nothing to do. Ohhhh...sure, there's always "something" to do . . .I could have cleaned out closets, I could have sorted through paper work, or un-junked junk drawers. But since I'd had a minor surgery done on my leg mid-afternoon on Friday, I used my eleven stitches as an excuse to sit-and-read. Ahhhh...in spite of the does-it-hurt-or-itch? debate I had with myself every time I stood and/or switched reading positions, I had a wonderfully relaxing weekend. I read an exciting thriller. I made myself a meal of brown-rice, fresh tomatoes and parmesan cheese (the type of food my husband doesn't classify as a "meal.") And generally just kicked-back. Good preparation for the week ahead. A week I have VOWED to spend WRITING as much as I can on my 'next' book. This has been a crazy fall. . .too much time on-the-road speaking. . .too little time at my computer writing. I plan to change all that starting NOW. I'll keep you posted. Mom knew best. . .after all 9/30/2007 There was a time in my life when I enjoyed nothing more than going out after supper to attend a meeting. Back in the "good-old-days" a night away from home meant no diaper changes, bath times, homework help, or bedtime. Going to a meeting meant sitting around with "adults" discussing 'business,' not to mention dessert and coffee!! Riding my bike around town the other night, I rode past the house where my mother still lives...the house where I grew up. It was a beautiful evening, much like the summer night my folks "grounded" me as a teenager. Determined to 'prove' something to my parents, I took a lawn chair and set it at the slope of our driveway, right where the cement met the pavement. There I sat, my back to the house, my eyes looking out to where I wanted to be, until long after dark. At the time I was sure I was proving-something to my parents. A. BIG. HUGE. Dramatic. Point!! Now, many years later, I know my parents must have been inside the house, looking at where I sat (arms crossed over my chest), laughing at my teenaged angst. . .knowing someday, I'd understand. I do. Oh, do I ever. These days I do most anything I can to avoid leaving the house after dark. Even dessert and coffee are no longer a temptation. And discussing "business?" Oh my. If it can't be talked about during daytime hours, well then, it just can't be all that important, can it? I've learned my parents really did know best. . .there's no place like home! Tis the Season. . . 9/24/2007 Tis the Season. . . Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to start lamenting about the holidays quickly approaching (even though they kind of are). I’m talking about the time of the year when we have to close down our lake cabin for the winter. Sigh. . . This past weekend was spent admiring the gorgeous fall foliage in northern Minnesota, in-between trying to chipmunk-proof our cabin for the long, cold days ahead. (Okay, I’ll admit it here, we probably get “mice” in there, too. . .but I feel a whole lot better thinking the varmints are related to Alvin-and-the-Chipmunks.) This year we’re trying something new (besides trying to close up absolutely the minutest of entry possibilities with a liquid foam and/or steel wool.) Last year, after dealing with a horrific infestation and spending HOURS and a LOT of quarters at the Laundromat, this year I bought plastic sheeting and hermetically-sealed ALL of our beds in plastic wrap. Covers, pillows, and all. Thick-plastic wrap. Our beds currently look as if they are displays in the Smithsonian. Don’t laugh. Well, if it doesn’t work you can chuckle, but if it does, I’m taking credit for a brilliant idea! And here’s the second trick up my sleeve (which I’m told a LOT of cabin owners do): I “Bouncified” the house. I bought boxes and boxes of Bounce Fabric Softener Sheets and I tucked them just about everywhere. After depositing a couple hundred dryer sheets around the inside of our cabin I figure we’ll either have no mice. . .er, I mean, chipmunks. . .or I will have a lifetime supply of softener sheets on hand. As we were driving away from our cabin, I turned around and said the same thing I say every year when we leave, “Bye Cabin.” Then I said a little prayer for a safe winter. . .for the cabin NOT the mice. . .er, chipmunks. Always an Adventure 9/16/2007 I'm only on my second speaking engagement of the 'season,' and, as usual, I can add two "adventures" to my playlist. As someone famous used to say, "It's always something..." My first weekend out I was at a quaint (and quite lovely) campground facility. As I mentioned last week, I was lucky enough to get to stay in the new dorm. . .the only thing that wasn't "new" was the parking lot...which would have been fine had the weather been nothing-but-sun. As it was, overnight we'd gotten a good bit of rain. Okay, maybe even a bit more than a good-bit. When I went to load up my suitcase I found myself sloshing through a rather substantial amount of, well. . .mud. Now if I'd been five (instead of fifty-three) I might have found the thick stuff FUN. It really was perfect mud-pie consistency. It was also the perfect consistency to turn me into somewhat of a Cinderella. Oh, yes, my kind-of-nice-dress-shoe got sucked right off my foot and got left behind me in the muck. Which caused me to step right into a water-puddle with my sock~! Oh, yeah, you guessed it. I sloshed around the rest of the morning in one wet sock and two extra-muddy high heels. Like I said. . .it's always something. Which brings me to this week's adventure. I was five, Interstate-driving-hours away from home and wanted to make sure I had a full tank of gas for my return journey the next day. I stopped at a gas station and got the gas nozzle pumping gas into my car while I went around and washed the insect-muck off my windows. All of a sudden I heard a kind-of "splashing" noise. (Not a good kind of noise at a gas station.) I looked around and discovered the automatic-shut-off-thingy-bob didn't shut off and GASOLINE was pumping and flowing down the OUTSIDE of my car and onto the pavement underneath. Somehow, I managed to disengage the pump (without getting so much as a DROP on myself!! A minor-miracle, I'd say, considering my lack of expertise in all-things-car-related.) I stood there surveying the scene, not knowing quite what I should do. I'd used my credit card at the pump and could just drive off, but it seemed the prudent thing to do would to be to go inside and tell the clerk what had happened. (I thought they might want to hose down the spilled gas.) I related my dramatic tale and the teenaged clerk gave me a bored look and said, "Oh." Dazed and confused I wandered back outside and met a trucker-kind-of-guy out in the parking area. I stopped him, explained what had happened, and asked, "Do I dare start my car?" He looked over the situation and said, "I think it will be okay." (After all, what other choice did I have? I wasn't about to sleep there overnight~!) I thanked him for his advice and then I turned around and requested one more thing. "If my car explodes, call my husband." Obviously. . .I'm fine. (Thank the Lord!) But. . .like I said. . .it's always something! Everything old is new again 9/9/2007 I could have been a great Girl Scout. I really could have. If we’d had a troop back-in-the-day I would have earned my “Always Prepared” badge lickety-split. The reason this came to mind is that I had my first-of-the-season speaking engagement this past weekend. An over-nighter at a quaint campground, near a lovely little lake. Now, I’d never been to this campground before, but when I was growing up a LOT of my friends went to summer camp there. I’d heard all kinds of stories about ‘camp’ over the years, but what had stuck in my mind was that the facilities were . . .ummm. . .rustic. . .which is GREAT when you’re. . .oh, say. . .ten. Not-so-wonderful when you’re fifty-plus and have a demanding bladder to show for it. (If you know what I mean~!) So, there I was, packing my car Thursday night, trying to imagine everything I might need. They’d told me to bring-my-own-bedding, so I threw my husband’s hunting sleeping bag and my favorite pillow into the car. I’d already packed a towel, washcloth, and soap. What else might I need? I closed my eyes and walked myself through a night-at-camp. The part that made me the most nervous was the idea of “where” the bathrooms were. Were they down-a-hall in a bunk-house type of deal. Or. . .and this is where my palms got sweaty. . .were they OUTSIDE, across a DARK and BUMPY hill? What if I woke up at three a.m. and had-to, you know. . .go? I had a small flashlight in my purse. But, even so, the idea of stumbling around OUTSIDE, in my nightgown and robe, and in the DARK, did NOT appeal to me. So, ever-practical woman that I am, I added an empty ice-cream-bucket, the lid, and some t.p. to my camping gear. Hey, don’t laugh. At three in the morning an ice-cream bucket might come in awfully handy! Well, it turned out the joke was on me. The ‘rustic’ part of the campground had been improved over the years. In fact, I got assigned to the “new” dorm. . .and a private room with it’s own bathroom, no less. I felt a little foolish knowing my back-up-bathroom was lying in the backseat of my car. And then I found myself, tucked warm-and-safe in my sleeping bag, in my private room, right next to my very-own-bathroom, chuckling hysterically about the whole incident. I shared my little story with the women’s group the next morning. They got as big a laugh out of it as I did. And then, a “veteran” of the camp called out, “We used to bring syrup pails!!” So, see? My idea wasn’t so silly after all. They’ve been doing it for years!! Something's missing. . . 9/3/2007 I’m not quite ready to define what my worst nightmare is (I’m hedging my bets on that one, considering that it may vary with the people and situations involved). . .but my second-worst mini-nightmare has to do with being without my reading glasses. My prescription reading glasses. (None of those off-the-shelf-jobbies will work on my not-quite-normal eyes.) So, of course, this is exactly what happened to me at the start of our last, long-weekend-of-the-season at the lake this past Thursday night. Let me set the scene. . .it started out routine enough. Hubby worked until the last possible minute, then we loaded up our little plane, ready to head east to the cabin. Some clothes for the weekend—check. A cooler with food—check. The new chair covers for the porch furniture—check. Several books for me to read—check. The dog—yup. And so we took off. We left a bit later than we normally do, the sun beginning a slow descent as we headed in the opposite direction. As dusk arrived there was an impressive cloud bank off to our left, reflecting the colors of the sunset along with a mini-lightning storm just to show-off a bit. It was far away enough not to have to worry about, but close enough to enjoy the show. The sun set as a HUGE, red, harvest moon rose right in front of our plane. Down below lights from small towns and surrounding farms dotted the countryside as far as we could see. If someone was thinking about filming a movie, we were flying in the picture-perfect set. Little did we know the trouble that was brewing right inside our little plane. Of course it was too dark to think about reading, so I reached behind my seat and slipped my reading glasses into my purse. We got to our destination airport and unloaded the plane by the light of the moon, which didn’t seem nearly as bright now that we actually needed some light to see what we were doing. (Due to some airport construction we are flying into an ‘alternate’ airport. . .many miles from our lake cabin.) Everything was in the pickup. . .food, clothes, books, dog. Yeah, almost at the cabin. Here we are~! We did everything in reverse, unloading it all and settling in for the weekend. Ah, my favorite part of the night. . .time to read. I reached into my purse. It’s a big purse. Too big, really. I fumbled around. . .wallet, checkbook, phone charger, my daughters’ wedding pictures, my sunglasses case. Lipstick. Cell phone. Keys. Mints. WHERE ARE MY GLASSES? Pause. Take-a-deep-breath. They have to be here. No. They’re not. Take another deep breath. Put this into perspective. Right. If I had my GLASSES I could see the perspective. Without them I am nearly blind! By now I was drawing on the breathing techniques I’d used during the labor-and-delivery of my children. My glasses were NOT there~! Now, to some people, having their glasses disappear might not seem all that traumatic, but considering the fact that I got my first pair in fourth grade and have been nearly sightless without them ever since. . .considering that I’ve had five (count ‘em, five) eye surgeries and NEED my glasses to read. . .and considering the fact that I really am rather ‘addicted-to-reading,’. . .having my glasses turn up missing was NOT going to make this a great weekend at the lake. One more deep breath. Look at the facts. I knew for-positive I had my glasses in the plane. At the very-worst they were laying in the backseat of the plane (right beside where my purse had been resting). Or outside on the tarmac where any possum could wander off with them—but I wasn’t about to start thinking about that possibility. It was midnight, not the time of night to go on a glasses-reconnaissance mission. And, so, I crawled into bed, squinted at the pages of my book until I was cross-eyed, and then tried not to dream about my missing glasses. Fast-forward to the end of this story. The sun rose in the east. My husband started our pickup and headed west. My glasses were right where I imagined them. . .in the backseat of the plane. I was a happy camper. Happier than I might have been if it hadn’t been for the mini-meltdown I’d had the evening before. You know, every thing looks a little better when you have some perspective. . .and your glasses! Men are from Mars... 8/27/2007 So...my husband and I are flying home from the lake a couple weekends ago. (And for those of you who don't remember, my husband pilots our little plane back-and-forth from the lake each weekend.) Anyway, it is a HOT early-summer Sunday, the temps (on land) hovering somewhere close to ninety...which makes the temp. inside our little plane (when we're not high-in-the-sky) feel like it's close to 100...in the shade. In weather like that air currents tumble about kind of like laundry in a dryer. Up-down-and-around. Our usual-uneventful-ride home was starting to feel like a roller-coaster-ride gone awry. "Whoa," both my husband and I called out as the plane dropped out from under us during one particularly bad air pocket. I closed my eyes and started praying. (Something I do quite often in the air.) We approached our "home" airport. In addition to the tumultuous air, there was a stiff crosswind blowing across the runway, which makes any landing a bit tricky. I've flown with my husband long enough to know when a landing is "routine," and when it's an event that might make things a bit more...well, let's put it this way...interesting. I don't do "interesting" all that well. I closed my eyes and prayed some more...taking "peak-breaks" every now and then to make sure my prayers were being heard. A cross-wind landing involves a bit more than prayer. The pilot (meaning "hubby") needs to account for the stiff breeze (make that 'gale') and "crab" the airplane into the wind. For anyone watching (which would be ME) it means that it looks as if the airplane is arriving at the runway sideways...or a bit worse. I held my breath and prayed some more. Ei-yiii-yi! I squinted and sneaked a quick peek through my eyelashes. The plane was kitty-wampus to the airstrip in addition to bouncing up-and-down. I gasped for another breath of air, breathed some more words to God, and geared myself for a hard bounce...or two as we touched (finally!) down! I breathed a silent prayer. Thank you, Lord! In spite of all my worry and fear we'd made it! "Oh, goodness!" I said into the heavy headset I was wearing. "We made it." Maybe now that we were on land I could wipe the semi-terrified expression from my face. My husband looked over at me, a big grin plastered all over his face. "That was FUN!" Fun??? Fun!!! And that's when I knew...men are from Mars! Really! Too Much Fun! 8/23/2007 There’s a country song I’ve found myself humming these past few days. I’m terrible at lyrics but it goes something like. . .“Too much fun, there’s no such thing. . .” I’m not so sure I agree. We spent this past week/weekend in Minneapolis attending all the festivities that go along with a wedding. . .the wedding of our daughter, Rachael. The daughter who eloped last December. This reception-weekend has been a long time in the planning and it was worth every minute (and penny—make that dollars!) We started out with a moms-and-sisters (and the bride, of course) spa morning, followed by a super-fun, get-to-know-each-other lunch. That evening Rachael and Cory hosted a family dinner at a fabulous Asian restaurant, followed by a dessert reception at their condo for extended family and friends. Even Chopper, their dog, got in on the fun. Saturday dawned rainy and cool. . .which meant no ‘outside’ photos. But the drizzle did not dampen our spirits one bit! We entered the reception site to find an old-fashioned photo booth waiting for guests to take their pictures (and leave one—along with ‘Congrats’—in a scrapbook for the bride and groom). There were LOTS of laughs, especially when my cousin and I piled into the booth and made almost the same faces we used to when we did the same thing forty years ago. Too much fun! The ‘theatre’ where the reception was held was jaw-dropping-ly gorgeous. Really. Oriental carpets lined the floors. Little lamps glowed on the many small tables around the room. And ornate, antique couches and chairs filled the stage-area. Fabulous food filled all of us. Since none of us were actually at the wedding, Rachael and Cory did a funny reenactment of their ceremony. One of Rachael’s friends gave a listen-up reading of 1 Corinthians 13. There were ‘best wishes’ toasts and a dessert buffet. I just may have to consider writing a new country song, “Too much fun. . .there IS such a thing.” I know, because we had it this weekend. Rachael and Cory may God bless your marriage. Cock-a-doodle-doo! 8/12/2007 It was our second-to-last-day-of-vacation at our lake cabin and my husband got out of bed before the crack-of-dawn to head to a golf outing. Now, normally (at home) I’m up at the crack-of-seven-ish, but we were on vacation, so what would be wrong with turning right over and going back to sleep? “Absolutely nothing,” my sleepy brain told me. So, that’s what I did. “Have fun,” I mumbled as my husband left. I pouffed my pillow and fell back to sleep. Until, into my dreamy-state, I heard someone. . .something. . .drive down the long, sloping driveway that leads to our cabin. In the same instant that my dream turned into reality, my dog started barking his head off. (Well, he really didn’t bark it off. . .it just sounded as if he was trying to~!) With one eye I glanced at the clock. . .eight-twenty!!!!! My other eye looked out the bedroom window. . .sure enough, there were two, strange-to-me, MEN getting out of the pickup. And I was in my nightgown!!!! All-of-a-sudden I had a vague-memory of my husband making some work-arrangements for Friday morning. Sure enough, it was Friday and the workers had arrived right on time. The only problem was. . .this was not MY project. . .and my husband was off golfing. AND, the workers were standing around right under my bedroom window trying to figure out what to do~! Have you ever tried jumping straight out of a nightgown and smack-dab-into the clothes you wore the day before (even if they were hung up and put away)??? Not to mention, while your dog is adding sound effects, trying to bark his head off as strange men are standing outside a mere foot-or-so away? It ain’t easy, I’ll tell you. . .but it is possible. Within a matter of milliseconds I was standing outside (fully-clothed) trying to pretend two strangers hadn’t dragged me out of a dead sleep. “Good morning!” I almost-shouted. I waved my hand toward the foundation of the cabin in a vague way, hoping they knew exactly what it was they were supposed to do. “I’ll get the coffee going,” I announced. “When you’re ready for a break, let me know.” Fast forward a few hours: I’m in a completely different outfit from the one I “jumped” into. The guys are no longer strangers, since we’ve had coffee-and-cookies out on the deck together. And the work project is done. . .just as my husband gets back from golfing. Figures. Too Close to Home 8/3/2007 I was at our lake cabin early Wednesday evening, enjoying a chat on the deck with a friend (who was up for a couple days of a gab-fest). We were laughing and catching up as I got dinner ready. I'd just put some meat on the grill when the phone rang. It was my daughter from Minneapolis on the other end of the line saying, "We're safe." "What?" I asked, completely clueless as to what she was talking about. "I just thought I'd call and tell you we're safe," she said. "I know how you worry sometimes." "About what?" I was looking out at the gentle waves on the lake, taking in the last of a lovely (if slightly windy) day. There was nothing to worry about that I could think of. "Mom!" Rachael said. "The 35-W bridge collapsed!" "It what?" "It COLLAPSED!" she said just a little breathless-like. "Oh," I said, not at all comprehending what she was saying. "Turn on the TV," she insisted. "But I'm grilling pork chops," I said rather dumbly. "We're safe," she said again, telling me I really should turn on the television. I hung up, went inside the cabin and turned on the TV. . .the first time in over a week that I'd flipped it on. There, right before my eyes, was the collapsed bridge Rachael had been trying to tell me about. The bridge she has traveled across countless times since she's lived in the Twin Cities. The bridge where dozens of cars lay tossed about as if. . .as if. . .well, as if the bridge had collapsed. "We're safe." The words echoed in my mind. Thank you, Lord! My friend and I sat glued to the news coverage. Death. Destruction. A catastrophe. I tried calling Rachael back once I understood what had happened. All circuits are busy. Over and over. I clung to her words, "We're safe." I imagined other families who were waiting. . .hoping. . .praying for a similar phone call. I realized that a person doesn't have to live in Iraq to have the world drop out from under you. It can happen right near home. And then I breathed a silent prayer, "Thank You that my family is safe." My prayer is the same for you. . .and your family. Have a wonderful week. The Heat is On! 7/27/2007 Whoosh~! We’ve been experiencing a week’s-worth of record-breaking temps in North Dakota. One hundred. One hundred and four. Even one-twelve in a certain small town. (Not mine, thankfully. . .but it certainly felt as if our temps were right up there in the fry-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk territory.) Combine all that with a good dose of humidity and the weather has been down right unbearable. As one guy I talked to said, “If this is anything close to what Hell will be like. . .I think I’ll start going to church more!” Not a bad idea. . .hot weather, or not. This likely isn’t the first time “weather” has been a conversion-tool. Think of Noah and the flood. Or the plagues of the Old Testament. Now, I’m not convinced our recent bout of heat is a message of some sort. . .but it does make a person grateful for many things. . .air conditioning. . .ceiling fans. . .ice!. . . swimming pools. . .the lake. . .a cold drink. . .sunscreen. . .shade trees—I could go on-and-on. Instead of complaining, I’m doing my best to be thankful. And. . .knowing North Dakota, in just a few short months I’ll be singing the praises of my furnace!! Enjoy summer! Stay cool! Tag. . .I'm "it!" 7/20/2007 There's a game going around cyberspace and my friend, Angie Hunt, has tagged me to play. It's called: meme (as in "me-me"). Here are the rules: Each blogger should list 7 random facts/habits about themselves. People who are tagged need to report on their own blog 7 random facts about themselves as well as these rules. They then need to tag 7 others and list their names on their blog. They are also asked to leave a comment for each of the tagged, letting them know they have been tagged and to read the blog. So. . .it's my turn to play. . .here goes: Seven Random Things about Roxy: 1. I played the Alto Sax in band. (I wasn't very good, though~!) 2. I do a ‘mean’ Ostrich Walk. . .don’t ask. 3. I can read a book and walk several miles at the same time. Really. 4. I love to ride my bike to do errands, even grocery shop. 5. I prefer cold weather over H-O-T. 6. I have never gotten a speeding ticket. (Don’t throw tomatoes at me~!) 7. My middle name is Elizabeth. . . after “The Queen”. . .ha! Just joking about the last part. I'm tagging Sue Meissner, Mindy Starns Clark, Deb Raney, Judy Miller, Creston Mapes, Judy Baer, and Carol Cox. You don't have to get tagged to play. Go ahead, think of seven random facts about you. Tell someone. It's fun! Playing Catch-up. . .again 7/11/2007 Oh, man, am I tired~! I just returned from six days away at a writer’s workshop and the International Christian Retail Show in Atlanta, Georgia. (Or, as we liked to call it: HOT-lanta. Although, to tell you the truth, I was kept so busy inside air-conditioned buildings that I got but a glimpse of “outside” Atlanta.) My days were filled with excellent workshops, meetings with my editor and key marketing people at my publisher’s convention suite, much-too-much wonderful food, and much-too-late nights gabbing with my hotel roommate (and favorite author), Deb Raney. I talked with my agent, visited with other writers, signed many copies of my novel, and walked the convention floor looking at the many, many new books being released in the coming months. (They say if you walk every aisle of the convention center you will have walked ten miles! I knew enough not to do that in my semi-sensible heels.) Years ago my schedule the past few days wouldn’t have fazed me much. I thrived on late-nights and go-go-go days. Youth is made for that. Unfortunately, I don’t have that kind of stamina anymore. Yawn. Which is why I attempted to sleep-in this morning (Oh, boy, fifteen extra minutes didn’t do it~!) and have been arguing with myself about laying down for a nap all day long. The nice thing about getting “middle-aged” is that I no longer feel compelled to ‘hoot with the owls’ or ‘rise with the eagles.’ I (more-or-less) know what it takes to keep me in fine (fifty-something) form. Which is why I know enough to pace myself. All my ‘catching-up’ isn’t going to happen in one (long) day. Or even two. Getting this exhausted was a six-day process, rejuvenating might take even longer. Excuse me while I go put my feet up. . . Time to Spare. . . 7/3/2007 When a person totally “misses” a day, well, somehow the whole week seems off-kilter. My husband and I, and our daughter and son-in-law had a great time celebrating an early 4th of July at our lake cabin this weekend. They headed home on Sunday, we waited to fly out later in the day. . .until a weather system totally changed our plans. Tornado warnings in our flight path kept us grounded that night, and by Monday morning the same weather system had moved right over the top of us. So. . .there we were, “grounded” until the weather cleared. As I impatiently tapped-my-toes-most-of-the-day on Monday, waiting for the sky to clear, I was reminded of a time, back in the days when the ink was still drying on my husband’s private pilot’s license. It was another summer weekend and we were headed back home from our lake cabin (by air). Midway through the flight the clouds started getting thicker, and lower-and-lower to the ground. The fog was too heavy to fly through and too wide-spread to fly around. Which meant we needed to get down, too. On the ground! Pronto-like. There we were, at a small airport, halfway-to-home and several miles outside of the adjacent town. With no place to go and no way to get there even if we did. From a sign posted on the door of the locked terminal building, we learned that the town taxi cab (yes, you read that right ‘THE’ taxi cab) didn’t operate on Sunday’s. (This was before we had a cell phone.) The night, being Sunday-and-all, suddenly looked to be very long. And cold. And dark. What-to-do? The first thing I did was make use of a shrub (for a bathroom) and then hubby and I hunkered down on the curb of a sidewalk and weighed our options. We didn’t have any. So. . .we just sat there. Then, out on the horizon, on the long stretch of empty road leading to the airstrip, we spotted a pickup-truck coming our way. We stood, hoping he planned to stop, and if he did stop that he’d have some wise advice to give us. Turned out, he did. First off, after hearing our dilemma (and being an experienced pilot himself), he offered us his (practically new) truck to drive ourselves home (100 miles!) for the night. We really didn’t want to abandon the plane—we were hoping the clouds would lift by morning—was there another option? Well, yes. He offered to drive us into town and drop us off at a motel. Perfect! On the trip into town, the veteran pilot passed on a piece of advice that I’ve learned is the “key” to private-piloting. “Yup,” he said in his slow, experienced way, “as I always say, ‘if you have time to spare. . .go by air.’” Over the years, as we’ve waited-out the weather systems in our flight path, I’ve repeated that advice to myself (and my husband) more times than I can count. “If you have time to spare. . .go by air.” And bring a good book! And some snacks. And, most importantly for safe flying. . .patience. Wishing you “severe clear” skies this week! Happy 4th of July, too! Ouch~! 6/25/2007 I have a very important question that is stumping me completely. . .how in the heck do you transplant a cactus?? Seriously! I don’t have a greenest-of-thumbs and over the years I’ve gone through my share of scraggly ivy plants and a couple semi-green-things I was never quite sure “what” they were. Sad-to-say, I’ve managed to kill them all. Along about 2002 I attended a business conference with my husband in Arizona. As part of a women’s-welcome-gift I inherited a little cactus. Well, to be perfectly accurate, there were two tiny cacti (I think that’s plural for “cactus-es~!”) Even with a lot of neglect those two little succulents have somehow thrived inside my North Dakota house. And, now, I’m faced with a dilemma. Those two, little prickly buggers aren’t so little anymore. It’s taken me a good year to figure out that they probably should be moved to a bigger container. Then it took another couple months for me to find something I liked well-enough to put them in. I was all set to uproot my hardy not-so-tiny-anymore plants when I reached for them and thought, “Wait-a-minute~! This could hurt!” And that’s where I’m at. I have a container. I have some dirt. I've got a notion to transplant. . .and I have NO IDEA how to go about it. Do you??? Care to share?? - - - - - In a follow-up to the “case of the missing keys”. . .the lost have been found! In a last-ditch effort my husband and I turned our Explorer upside-down (well. . .not really, but you get the idea), and there they were, tucked in-between the console and the floor, under the driver’s-side seat. It’s still a mystery how they got there. . .both of us claim, “I didn’t do it!” It’s events like this that keep our lives so interesting. (Yawn.) The Case of the Missing Keys 6/17/2007 I tell you, Nancy Drew could have a full-time job at our house~! Where, oh where, did they go? So. . .my husband and I were going to swing by the grocery store on the way home from the lake, but we needed to drop off one of our lake vehicles for an oil change at the same time. Which meant we each needed to drive a vehicle to town from our cabin. No problem, except it was hotter-than-Hades outside and one of us needed to sit outside with the dog (it was much too hot to leave him inside a closed Explorer), and the other one (me) needed to dash inside the grocery store and pick up the 25 lbs of dog food Gunner needed (along with a bunch of cilantro—an herb I can’t get at home). Hubby and I met in the store parking lot. I got out of the Explorer, and even though I am usually obsessive about locking the car doors EVERY time I get out of it, this time I didn’t. I put the keys in my left hand and gave them to my husband, saying, “The dog’s in the backseat.” I made a mad dash into the store, hooked a shopping basket over my arm, swept up a bunch of cilantro, and (another thing I can’t get at home) some Feta cheese. Just as I walked up to the express lane to pick up the dog food they keep near the store entrance, I noticed my husband shouldering the heavy dog food bag and carrying it over to me. “Where’s the dog?” I asked. “In the Explorer,” hubby answered. “Do you have the keys?” ”Me?” A little stab of panic ran down my arms. “I gave them to you.” “I don’t have them.” He put down the dog food and patted over his pockets. “I gave them to you,” I said at the same time I reached into my own pockets to make sure. Empty, except for the two twenty dollar bills I’d taken to cover the groceries. “You did? Are you sure?” My husband was practically turning his pockets inside out. “Yes,” I said, already questioning whether I had, or not. But, if I hadn’t. . .where could they be? The GOOD news in this story is that we’d left the Explorer doors unlocked through this whole fiasco. Luckily, (or more-likely blessedly) we didn’t have to break a window to get our precious (and sometimes pesky) dog into fresh air. The other good news is that we had a spare set of keys back at our cabin. . .and another vehicle to drive back and get them. But first. . . We combed the parking lot. Looked under BOTH of our vehicles. We took out the blanket we keep on the backseat for the dog and shook it out. We looked under the seats, and in the crevasses. Then we looked again. And again. And again. My husband retraced his steps into the store. No luck. The keys had vanished into thin air. Really! It’s the only explanation we can think of. It’s events like this that keep middle-age soooo interesting. Neither one of us can “blame” the other. We’re both baffled at how a single key can go Poof! in the course of a single second and neither one of us have a clue as to what actually happened. The key is still missing. We are still baffled. As soon as I find Nancy Drew I plan to put her on the case. After all, life is a mystery! (At least in our house it is!) Change of Heart 6/9/2007 So. . .the other night my husband was out on the deck manning the supper-grill, while I was in the kitchen mixing up a salad. All-of-a-sudden I heard my husband (who rarely raises his voice) yelling, “Get out of here! Go on! GET!!!!” What. . .in. . .the. . .world? I ran to the patio door and looked out, only to see my husband shooing the neighbor’s big gray cat out of our yard. Unusual in the fact that this cat spends much of each day lounging on our deck in the sunshine. (Our dog and the cat have developed a healthy respect for each other.) “What’s going on?” I asked stepping outside, feeling more-than-a-tad irritated at my husband’s commotion. After all, what if the neighbors were watching his antics? What would our friendly neighbors think of him chasing their cat out of our yard? I stood on the deck, hands on my hips. I might have to tell my husband a thing-or-two about neighborliness. “What?!” I asked again, that old irritated-feeling scratching at my throat to get out. With the BBQ tongs in his hand my husband pointed to a corner of our yard. “The cat was going after that little bird. I think it fell out of the nest and it can’t quite fly yet.” Now that he mentioned it I noticed a whole flock of birds (no doubt mama and papa, a few aunt-and-uncle birds, too) swooping and cackling at that fat cat as it pranced back to its own yard. Funny, how a little-bit-of-information can change a heart just-like-that. The husband I felt like telling-a-thing-or-two to just moments ago, morphed into BBQ-little-bird-protector-hunk! After thirty-three years of marriage, you’d think I’d have things like this figured out by now. . .but I don’t. Which makes these little-surprises all the better. An Ordinary Day 6/3/2007 There was a time (awhile back) when "life" seemed to spin out from under me. My best-friend-in-the-world had cancer and most every day brought some new calamity. The chemo made her sick. Hair started falling out. The doctor's prognosis was not good. Make that. . .really bad. You'd think, since none of this was happening to me, that I would have been able to 'distance' myself a bit. But, I wasn't. If I wasn't by my friend's side, I was at my own house, trying to go about my daily routine, all the while in constant prayer (and panic) over what was happening to my best friend. During that time of continual-angst I often found myself fanticizing about an ordinary day. Just a plain-old, nothing-special, ordinary day. A day when all I had to do was wake up, get out of bed, wash up, get dressed, and not really even have to "think" about what came next. Oh, I'd had lots of those kind of days in the previous years. The days, weeks, months, and years I'd spent as a growing-up-young-girl, going to school, doing homework, hours with my nose in a Nancy Drew book. The hectic college days when "I have to study" was my mantra. The young-wife-mother days (which I was still in), when each day held a boring load of laundry to wash, dry, iron, fold and put away. Not to mention a house that needed dusting and vacuuming, kids who needed watching, and meals that needed cooking. There were many, many days when I longed for something "more." What was the point of boring, everyday days? I plodded through them, frustration my close companion. Life was supposed to be more challenging than this. And then my best friend got cancer and everything changed. There were no more boring days. Doctor reports and opinions peppered most every day. My friend shared her hopes (and fears) with me. I kept mine inside where they scratched and clawed away at me through days and nights. My friend was in the hospital (more than once). She needed chemo. Or a blood transfusion. Or. . .well, the doctors didn't really know what to do anymore. And that was when I understood the glorious-gift of "everydays." I vowed (back then) that I would never. . .ever. . .complain about the routine of life. I would do my best to remember what not-ordinary could be like, and thank-my-lucky-stars (and mostly God) for every single plain-old day. I've just had a long stretch of 'everydays.' There were a few moments when I was tempted to think I was bored, and then I remembered, and I whispered, "Thank You," for an ordinary day. Here's wishing you a plain-old, simply wonderful, ordinary day! It’s about hope. . . 5/25/2007 It is absolutely FREEZING in North Dakota today. Oh, okay, the temperature is a “tad” above thirty-two, but not by much. . .honest! Just to give you an idea. . .as part of my morning errands I had to stop by our new hardware store, the first thing I asked was, “Are you having a Christmas sale?” The clerk there didn’t miss a beat, he laughed. He knew exactly what I meant. Like I said, it’s COLD. So. . .wouldn’t you know it. . .today was the day I just HAD to plant my outdoor flowers. I’d purchased them a couple days ago but my flower pots were in storage. (My husband got them out for me last night.) Since we have plans for the long, Memorial Day weekend (starting tonight), if my marigolds, geraniums, coleus, impatients, and basil plants were going to survive they needed to get in dirt today. So, there I was in a camisole, tee-shirt, fleece shirt and a windbreaker (Did I mention it was cold AND the wind was howling?). I topped off my fashionable ensemble with a fleece hat, garden gloves, and my rubber Crocs. (I’m sure ‘What Not To Wear’ would have a field day with me~!). I rearranged pots and plants. Went from the backyard to the front, and back, again, to the garden. I squatted and stood, bent and sat. I dug with my trusty trowel. Funny how the thought of gorgeous blooms-to-come can make even a marginal-day seem halfway pleasant. I’m done. Already I can look outside and see what’s-to-come. My marigolds line the edge of the garden. . .little golden soldiers marching in place. Red and white geraniums are only a third the size they’ll be in August. In my mind my white impatients and coleus plants wave a cheery “Hello” to folks who pass by our house. And my basil will turn into yummy pesto before the season is over. Wow. God knew what He was doing when He ‘invented’ all these things. Even on a cold, cold day, just the thought of summer flowers reminds me of the warmth (and beauty) to come. But then, that’s what planting is all about. . .hope for things-to-come. Here’s hoping you have flowers that over-flow their pots, and sunny skies in the days ahead! It's always something. . . 5/21/2007 Let's see...how can I say this delicately? Hmmm... I'm just going to have to tell it like it was: Our dog was sick this week. Twice. Two nights in a row. It was NOT a pretty sight. "An intestinal infection," is what the vet said. "Something that has to run its course." I might as well paint the whole picture. . .the part that "ran the course" was not from the end of our dog that does the barking (if you get my drift). Just to back-track a bit. My main floor carpeting is OLD. I've been contemplating new carpeting for ages, but every time I start to get serious about replacing it, I look over the project. . .the two couches that would have to be moved, the six over-stuffed | ||||||||||||||||
