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Teachers: Perpetual Sowers of an Unseen Harvest

6 Sep

Every September I get this colossal sense of wonder and gratitude regarding the men and women to whom we’ve entrusted the minds and dreams of our children. Where would we be without these wonderful people who can explain concepts to our children that, let’s face it, we don’t understand ourselves? Some of the concepts that elude me include the binary code, why Pluto isn’t a planet, and, if atoms are made up of 99.9% empty space, how can we touch things? And the greatest mystery of all: math.

Teachers Rock.

Have you stopped to think about this lately? They have the power to inspire, crush, see, ignore, challenge, nurture, and motivate our children, and they are the ones who actually teach our children what they need to know to make it to the next milestone and beyond. That’s a power we shouldn’t take lightly, but pray about and praise when we find the ones with that extra something. I’m excited to think that someone my son has just met may be the person he looks back on with gratitude, the one who first recognized his gift and planted those first seeds of encouragement that turned into a career.

Yes, that teacher will always be special, the way I still remember Mr. DeRobbio handing my essay back to me in the 9th grade and saying, “You might want to consider becoming a writer.” But he alone didn’t bring me to this place. It took years of passionate, patient, sorely overworked and underpaid teachers, each adding seeds of wisdom and encouragement to the pot to make a whole me. And behind the scenes were hundreds of administrators and support staff collecting data, answering phones, shelving books, fixing lunches, and mopping floors to ensure we had a healthy, safe, and nourishing environment for learning. (I’m married to a man we all call The Lunchroom Lady, so he gets props too!)

Consider the blog page you’re reading right now. The very fact that I can string 900 words together for you to and you can actually read a 900-word blog (I know, I know, you just look at the pictures, but you could if you wanted to) says we had some pretty good teachers. Mr. DeRobbio not only encouraged even my weirdest writing in high school (I’ve read some recently and wondered what he could possibly have been thinking), but he also introduced me to that beautiful creature: the short story, and he led me to write for the school paper. The rest is history.

But it doesn’t stop there. I’m able to set the words on the page thanks to ten months in Mrs. Mahoney’s Typing 101 class, where we sat in rows before our enormous gray Smith-Corona Super Sterlings chanting “A S D F Semi L K J!” (Sure, kids today can two-thumb the Gettysburg Address in the time it took me to slide the carriage return, but at least I know what the MR key does. . . did. . . whatever.)

And speaking of the Gettysburg Address, I wouldn’t have been able to slide that snarkism in there were it not for Mr. Delgado, my history teacher (whose funky wrap-around comb-over and snow-drift dandruff shoulders are hauntingly unforgettable). Mr. D managed to make the American Revolution and Civil War come alive for me, and give me an appreciation for back story, and his sense of humor taught me that writing needn’t be boring.

Even my math and science teachers contributed. (Strange, but I cannot remember the names of any of my math or science teachers. Is that a writer’s subliminal rebellion?) These people whose ways are alien to me taught other people enough about math and coding to hold this webpage together without duct tape, and enough about circuits, components, electricity, batteries, and that mysterious binary code to make computers, thereby eliminating the need for an MR key. They inspired the kinds of imaginations that made search engines work so you can find me, and some mystical network of tubing under the oceans that keeps the lines of communication humming, and don’t even get me started on touch-screen technology, because I’m already way over my head here. All of this so I can entertain you for ten minutes once a week and hopefully inspire you to read my books.

Seagul in the mist

They teach us to fly, but know not where we land…

Fascinating, don’t you think? But I’d like you to consider something else all those wonderful people have in common: Most teachers share your hopes and dreams for your children, yet never find out whether those dreams were realized. They’ve sown thousands of seeds over the years, and they may have set hundreds of young men and women on right paths, but how many of their former students ever report back?

I contacted Mr. DeRobbio back in 1993 when the Marine Corps named me Print Journalist of the Year, and I thanked him for making it possible. He was thrilled to learn that I not only wrote for a living but had achieved a measure of success, and he struck up a regular correspondence, even coming to Virginia to visit me once. When he passed away a few years ago, I could grieve without regretting that he never knew what his passion had produced in at least one of his students.

Is there a teacher in your past who deserves a thank-you note? I challenge you to get in touch if you still can, and congratulate that person on a job well done, because you turned out GREAT!

Even if it’s a math teacher.

————-

Let my teaching fall like rain and my words descend like dew, like showers on new grass, like abundant rain on tender plants. –Deuteronomy 32:2

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New England in 15 Days: A Dish Best Served Warm

26 Aug
bridge

Beautiful Newport — Is that redundant?

I’m walking mournfully from room to room, sighing heavily because the trip I’ve been waiting for and planning for nearly three years is now but a memory, and I long to go back. I yearn to feel that cool ocean breeze blowing into my bedroom window and to fall asleep listening to the waves crash rhythmically along the New England shores.

I unwrap the tourist magnets and find homes for them on the already over-full refrigerator: Prospect Harbor, Maine; Stowe, Vermont; Portsmouth, New Hampshire; Plymouth, Massachusetts; Hartford, Connecticut; Newport, RI.

It was a whirlwind tour, designed to show my friend Michele as much of my beloved New England as possible in only 15 days. When she first told me she’d never been there, my mind nearly exploded with compassion and amazement. That meant she’d never stood on Concord’s North Bridge, where our nation was born. She’d never driven over Rhode Island’s Newport bridge into Jamestown and looked in wonder at the single house on the rock. She’d never stood in the center of Bristol Commons while the noon church bells chimed. Why, the poor thing had never tasted Maine lobster straight off the pier! Well, that certainly explains the thumbs up I’ve seen her bestow on our northern Virginia area “seafood” establishments.

It took some doing, but we finally set off on a 2,878-mile journey that zipped up the Massachusetts coast to Gouldsboro, Maine in time for the Winter Harbor lobster festival, then snaked back and forth through New England, ending in Hartford, Connecticut.

We saw all the touristy places, of course. The tip of Cape Cod, Plymouth Rock, Salem (big disappointment), the Gloucester seaport, Strawberry Banke, Acadia National Park, Ben & Jerry’s ice cream graveyard, the Vermont Country Store, the Newport mansions, and Mark Twain’s home. And although we did stop to see Lenny, a real chocolate moose, our memories of this trip are made of sweeter stuff than highway attractions

What made this a true adventure was the people we met along the way.

Jim Owens

Jim Owens: Mill Keeper

We found 88-year-old Jim Owens in Eastman, Cape Cod, sitting in a windmill, apparently waiting for us to happen along. He spoke briefly about the windmill and its history, but then went into storyteller mode—obviously his preferred canvass. He shared his story of being left at a Newport orphanage at age 7 after his mother died. His father, in this age where dads didn’t raise children, wanted him to finish out his school year at the orphanage before going to live with relatives in Middletown, RI. He told us about his uncle, who served as a Marine in WWI, and his own military service and ensuing travels, which only served to deepen his love for New England. Today Jim is a renowned historian throughout Cape Cod and Rhode Island.

His joy for life is so contagious I could have sat at his side for hours.

Breakfast soup

Breakfast soup on hand-made plates with Dolly’s edible garnish

We met Dolly at breakfast in the Acadia Oceanside Meadows Inn on Prospect Harbor. She served us breakfast each morning, delightfully naming for us each sprig and flower on our beautifully prepared plates. “All edible, and I picked them myself this morning!”

I could probably write an entire story about Dolly, but I’d have to first pin her down long enough to learn it. She flitted from table to table like a hummingbird, truly enjoying each guest, a perfect emissary for Maine hospitality.

corea

Corea Harbor

Maine also introduced us to Joe at the Warf Gallery & Grill in Corea, where we had the best lobster rolls I’ve ever tasted. Near the end of our visit, though, we learned that the Warf is actually famous for its crab. Upon hearing that a customer had driven miles for his crab, which had just run out, Joe removed his shucking apron, jumped into a small dingy and sped out to a trap on the water to bring in some more.

Maine is also a place to find beautiful, hand-made artwork. I learned why from Cindy Fisher, at the U.S. Bells shop we ducked into to avoid a brief summer storm. The gorgeous bronze bells sold there are hand-cast by her husband Richard in the Forge nearby. Expecting to find only bells in the shop, we were surprised and delighted to see walls lined with lovely pottery, quilts, jewelry, and other artwork. “It’s what we do in the winter,” she explained. “The snow kinda’ forces you to stay put.” She happily talked about each of the artists whose work was displayed there, making me wish I could meet them all.

bench

For Annette: Can you miss a woman you’ve never met?

In Stowe, Vermont, we spent an evening watching the Olympics with the bed & breakfast owner Randy and his giant Bernese, Mickey. Randy and his wife Annette purchased the inn with dreams of forever in their hearts, but the world had different plans. Near the inn, a lone bench under a currant tree waits for Annette, the garden behind it clearly untouched in the year or so since her passing. Randy, wearing a sad-sweet smile, continues pushing forward with Mickey, his new greeter and partner. The inn was homey and welcoming, and Randy must be a classically trained chef, because the food that he sent to our table made me want to stay on another week.

Although we found breathtaking scenery at every turn, Rhode Island’s shoreline offered the best, in my humble, Rhode Island-native opinion. I sat on a breakwater on Little Compton’s Sakonnet Point for perhaps 30 minutes, listening to the waves lap the rocks and just wishing I could stay forever. We travelled nearly every inch of shoreline from Tiverton to Charleston, stopping at each breathtaking vista to photograph lighthouses and meet the locals.

quahogs

Quahogs–they make great chowda!

In Galilee, we stopped at George’s Restaurant for one last taste of fresh lobster, and there met Julia, a delightful waitress who was eager for us to enjoy what the local seaport had to offer. When I explained that Michele still hadn’t seen a real quahog shell, she went back to the kitchen and found us two shiny, purple-streaked beauties that I’m sure Michele will treasure more than any store-bought souvenir.

towers

Before…

In Narragansett, where I just HAD to show Michele the famous stone towers, we met Christina in the Chamber of Commerce office at the towers’ base. Her enthusiastic love for Narragansett nearly had me searching for realtors on the spot, as did the familiar ocean view. I honestly reached the point where I thought I’d do anything to be able to stay in New England. Then I spotted a picture that stopped my longing immediately. Regrettably, it wasn’t for sale, but Christina sent me to Sharon Mazze, a delightful shop owner who might know where I could obtain one. After a brief chat (where I learned she knows Jim the Miller), she sent me down the pier to John McNamara, the photographer.

I bought the picture as soon as I saw it. John’s image not only reminds me of all I love about New England, it also reminds me why I live in Virginia. I will hang it over my desk to help me recall what was quite possibly my best summer vacation ever, but also to help me keep my perspective. I should have realized when Cindy explained the origins of Maine’s lovely artwork:

Winter.

It comes every year.

blizzardI’ll be back, New England, many times, I hope. And I will always love you…

From afar.

————-

No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it. — 1 Corinthians 10:13

 

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Happy Birthday to Joe; Lessons Learned from a Sparrow’s Journey

5 Jul
Sparrow in prison book cover

Still a Good Summer Read!

This week we celebrate a birthday, of sorts, as my baby, “Caged Sparrow” is officially one year old. I suspect that’s about 20 in book years, judging by how much of my energy went into raising it.

Although completing one book hardly qualifies me as an expert in anything, I would like to share a few lessons I’ve learned over the past few years, because I know my dream was just one in a sea of dreams still to be fulfilled in the world.

It’s been two and a half years since I walked away from my “day job,” a job that paid quite well, where I loved my co-workers and needed to invest only three more years to qualify for retirement benefits.

But I couldn’t shake the pull to write full time.

I tried to ignore it, working 8-hour days during the week and spending my nights and weekends juggling responsibilities as wife and mother. Stories and characters filled my head until I thought I might burst. Every once in a while I’d have to steal away to a quiet corner and dash off a few pages of one project or another. Rarely did I finish anything. I did create a collection of short stories, but had no idea how to market them.

My one annual indulgence was to escape every May to attend the Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writers’ Conference near Asheville, NC. Although I felt like a phony there, a pretend writer surrounded by real writers, I couldn’t stay away. Something about the creativity flowing through everyone I met wrapped around me like a lasso of possibility and just kept tugging.

This IS where I belong.

I drank in the writing seminars and workshops, basked in the warm writing talk at every meal, and left the conference on fire to keep writing, even though nobody wanted to read my short stories.

“Short stories just don’t sell,” said the experts.

Then “Caged Sparrow” fell into my lap in a most unconventional manner, during small talk in a lounge area at the writers’ conference with two women I’d never met. When I mentioned I liked to write people’s stories, the first, Linda Rondeau, became quite animated.

“I know someone with a story!” She then described this former undercover cop who had been framed and sent to prison among the very people he’d been putting in jail for nearly 20 years. As she finished telling me about Joe Tuttolomondo, the second woman, Diana Flegal, leaned over and said, “If you write it, I’ll take a look at it.”

She’s an agent! Who knew?

The rest is history. I started planning my departure from the typical work force almost immediately. Most of my co-workers expressed incredulous encouragement. I couldn’t blame them for the incredulous part, as I felt the same.

Am I really going to do this?
Why yes, I really am.

Today I’m barely making a living, editing documents and writing short stories to cover the cost of gas and groceries so I can write my own stories on the side. Both family cars will need to be replaced soon, the front porch is falling down, and there’s this barely perceptible drip, drip, drip coming from the pipes above the kitchen ceiling. But I’m not worried. As with everything else over the past two years, somehow, the Lord will ensure those issues are taken care of.

joe

Who could say no to someone filled with this much joy for the Lord?

I may go back to work at some point, but I haven’t regretted leaving for a minute, because Caged Sparrow is an actual book, available in book stores. And because Joe is so gosh darned tickled pink to have his story in print, it makes me giggle inside. And because I am a “real” writer and have been since I was 14. (To anyone who feels the same as I did during my early writers’ conference years, know that you’re a writer because you write, not because you sell.)

 

I will wrap up by telling you some of the advice I heard along my journey:

 

It’s irresponsible to quit your day job for a dream. To that I say, humbug. If it’s really your passion, you’ll find a way to make it work. I’d trade 12 “safe” years for two years of living on the edge while doing what I love. Oh, wait, that’s what I did.

Nobody reads memoirs. Humbug again. These are real stories about real people. Memoirs can inspire, uplift, encourage, and enable others to dream. Perhaps if we could get our young generations to read more memoirs, we’d need fewer animated cartoon heroes. Oh, and did I mention, at this year’s writing conference, it took first place in the 2016 Selah awards for best memoir, and overall director’s choice for best non-fiction book of the year! Not bad for something nobody wants to read.

Self-publishing is risky business. So is crossing the street. Sometimes, however, self-publishing is the only way to go. Although Ms Flegal did take on my book, she met up against a brick wall of “nobody reads memoirs” publishers, so I took it back. I’m glad I did, because Joe’s story needed to be told. Of course, if you’re planning to go this route, ensure your book is professionally edited, make sure you’re linking up with a reputable company, and get yourself a kick-butt cover designer, but then, by all means, go for it.

Without a publisher, you can probably hope to sell about 300 copies. To that I say, 1,300 copies later, wait, what?

If you’re going to autograph your books with a reference, make sure you memorize it. Okay, this I have to agree with. I chose the encouraging, hope-filled verse from Proverbs 16:9, which states, “In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps,” because it’s the story of my life. However, somewhere around the 30th copy I noticed I was referring people to Proverbs 19:6, which is NOT my life verse at all. In fact, it states, “Many curry favor with a ruler, and everyone is the friend of one who gives gifts.” No doubt, the recipients of those autographs are still confused. (NOTE: If you’re one of those lucky few, consider yours a special “error copy,” which will no doubt be worth something one day.)

So here I am, about to release my second book, “From the Remnants,” and still clutching my collection of short stories that some expert has told me won’t sell. Considering all the advice I’ve received recently, what do you think I’m going to do with these?

You are correct…which is why I’m now resuming work on “The Perfect Parent, Parables for the New Believer.”  Details coming soon.

——-

A person can do nothing better than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in their own toil. This too, I see, is from the hand of God – Ecclesiastes 2:24

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Memorial Day: What’s to Celebrate?

28 May

Every year I think I should write something new for Memorial Day, but this still says everything I want to say. Sorry to those who have already read it, but some things just shouldn’t change…

Portrait Writer's avatarThe Portrait Writer

How do You Celebrate Memorial Day?

That was a trick question.

Across the country, folks are firing up those backyard barbecue grills, stocking the beer coolers, brewing sweet tea, and hunting through the garage for the horseshoes and lawn chairs. Company’s a-comin’ and it’s sure to be a day of fellowship and relaxation.

Partiers and politicians alike will make mention in their toasts and speeches of “those who died in defense of this nation” as if it’s a public service announcement. Something to check off  on their “to-do” lists for the day.

But there are also people across the land who are hurting today, for whom this day intensifies the memories of loved ones who didn’t come home. A folded flag presentation. A stone marker in Arlington or any one of the nation’s 131 veteran’s cemeteries. An empty seat at the picnic table.

It’s a little different for me. The…

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Coming Soon to a Bookstore Near You

20 May

In order to tell you about this book, I’d like to introduce you to two very important people.

flag_bear_thmbThe first is Cathy Schrader, who makes teddy bears. Not just any teddy bears, but bears that bring comfort to hurting people. Sick children, orphans, victims of abuse, recovering addicts, people who have lost loved ones . . . essentially, her bears are for anyone who needs a hug and a reminder that none of us is expected to make it in this world alone, and that, regardless of how shattered we feel by an event or a series of events, every remnant can be gathered and put back together and can become something lovely.

How does she know this? Because her own life has been shattered. Again and again and again. There are no words to describe the heart-wrenching sorrow of closing the lid on a tiny white coffin, or the anger one can feel toward God when it happens a second time, or the fear of standing before a figurative tidal wave that’s bearing down on your family and you realize the only optional direction is forward.  Just how does a woman move forward when the God in whom she’s supposed to place her trust and faith keeps disappointing? And yet, when this happened to Cathy, she did move forward. And from the shattered remnants came something lovely. It’s been a long journey and, yes, she still feels sadness when she looks back, but her life is filled with joy.

If you asked her how, after all she’s been through, she’s not curled up in a ball afraid to raise her head for fear of intercepting another missile of darkness, she’ll tell you two things.

First, that she didn’t get through it on her own, but instead had to relinquish any thought that she controlled ANY part of her life. If there’s another missile headed her way, she will get through it, with help. Second, in order to learn this lesson, she had to do some mighty odd tasks for the one who did save her from the darkness.

Offer the town drunk a ride on a rainy day.

Use her last dollar to buy something for someone else.

Make teddy bears. From remnants.

That’s right, it wasn’t her idea. In fact, it never would have occurred to her, because she had never sewn a stitch in her life when the topic came up. But those bears became the catalyst for an unusual story of light and hope.

If you want to know more about Cathy’s story, I’m pleased to tell you it’s all contained in a book called “From the Remnants,” which should be hitting the shelves just in time for your summer vacation.

Now, before I forget, let me introduce you to someone else: Brad Harding, a man about whom I know very little. Yet.

I suspect he has a great sense of humor. He must have, because we’ve now worked together for a few months and he hasn’t fled. We haven’t even met face-to-face, so I can’t give you a proper introduction at all. But I can say one thing about him:

Brad is a fantastic artist with an eye for detail and an uncanny ability to read my mind through email. Because of that, I can announce with pride and excitement, the cover for “From the Remnants” is complete and ready for its official unveiling.

Ain’t she a beauty?

front_cover

 

“And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten, the cankerworm, and the caterpiller, and the palmerworm, my great army which I sent among you.” — Joel 2:25

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Great News for Caged Sparrow

4 May
Sparrow in prison book cover

Get your copy now!

Okay, so it’s not a Pullitzer, and it’s not even a super big deal, but it’s a ray of hope, so I’m going with it.

Caged Sparrow has been named a finalist in the 2016 Selah Awards for the Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writers Conference. Not too shabby!

We’ll have to wait until May 25 to learn how the book fares overall, and while I haven’t read the competing books, this is a group of writers I admire and respect very much for their professionalism and dedication to Christian writing. As such, Joe and I are far from expecting to win. However, just being a finalist gives the book a greater chance of getting picked up by book stores, so I’m more than thrilled.

Those of you who have read Caged Sparrow have surely noticed its potential to lift the spirits of those imprisoned, whether by real iron bars or bars of their own making. If you’re the praying type, please pray with me that, win or lose, this event will catapault Joe’s story onto a new level of readership, and into the hands of those whose hearts would be filled with hope if they read it.

To those of you who have yet to read it, what are you waiting for?

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Me, Myself, and Sigh: A Grammarian’s Plea

4 Mar

Happy Grammar Day, everyone! That’s right, once again it’s the Word Nerds’ favorite observance, March 4th, the only date on the calendar that’s also an imperative. This is the one day of the year, aside from National Punctuation Day, when I can risk letting loose the annoying grammar critic I keep bound and gagged in the recesses of my brain.

You see, on most days, it takes all I’ve got to NOT correct people’s grammar. I like my friends, and I hate it when they look at me in that mathy way that says, “Keep away from me with that preposition stuff or I’ll cite an algebraic equation!”

So, for the sake of friendship and social protocol, throughout the rest of the year I seethe in silence when I see ads for “grass-fed steak,” and cringe quietly at news reporters when they rant about the “scarce” shelves at the grocery store. And, although, when I read on the side of the restaurant hot sauce bottle, “All sauces made on premise,” I might show it to those at my table, I don’t bring it to the manager or post a picture of it online accompanied by a snarky sneering comment.

Okay, those examples are not about grammar, but word choice. I’m not sure I should pick on poor word choice, even if there were such an event as National Word Choice Day (I checked. There isn’t. Yet.), because my own vocabulary is diminishing at a fear-inducing rate. Every day, words that have been trusted friends in my brain for decades leap overboard into the River of Old Age and float away like dead leaves along its fast-moving current. One day soon I’ll forget the word for, er… what’s that thing that makes the thingy noise?

Word choice aside, true grammar errors would be more like the Buffalo Bills’ announcement in January that they’d hired their “first full-time female coach.” To me, that’s personal information irrelevant to the story. The aspect of this press release that hurt my heart most deeply was that so many media venues repeated it verbatim; NOT ONE thought to change it to “first female full-time coach,” or better (word choice issue again), the team’s “first woman full-time coach.”

However, I’m not going to waste this year’s soap-box time on the usual rant about misplaced modifiers; the “they’re, their, and there” battle; “it’s” vs. “its”; or even “that” vs. “which,” an oft-made error that grates on my nerves like knuckle skin across asphalt.

Instead, this year’s fulmination (snatched that word out of the river because it got hung up on a mid-stream boulder, heh-heh) is about three simple pronouns we learned before Kindergarten that for some reason we have no idea when to employ: Me, myself, and I.

We seem to have developed a phobia around using the words “me” and “I,” and we’ve started boldly inserting “myself” into statements the way one might push forward a socially awkward niece in hopes of hooking her up with a blind date:

“See Martha or myself after the meeting and we’ll take your information.”

“Give your surveys to myself before you leave.”

“You’ll get an e-mail from Bob or I about that.”

Well, to all of you who have fallen into these habits, I say…

Stop it.

Stop Myself-ing

Give myself a rest, wouldja?

I blame your mom and grandma, bless their hearts. They screwed you up back when you were a wee one running into the kitchen yelling, “Can Danny and me go out to play?”

“Danny and I,” they chastised, sliding the chicken in the pot.

Did they stop to explain that it had nothing to do with referring to yourself as me, but that, as the subject of the sentence you use the pronoun “I”?

They did not. Nor did they explain that you use “me” as the object of the preposition. They were too worried about that stupid chicken to consider the long-term effects of their incomplete correction.

Over the years, their failure to explain left you not only fearful of the word “me,” and unsure when to use it, but oblivious and untrusting of “mysterious” grammar terms (fess up, seeing the words “object,” “subject,” and “preposition” there made your brain shudder).

Frankly, your friend, Danny, didn’t help either. If he hadn’t been there, you would have had no problem asking, “Can I go out to play?” And Grandma wouldn’t have corrected you.

So, here’s the secret: You don’t need to know the grammar terms. When you want to know whether to use “me” or “I,” get your friend out of the picture. Hence, the e-mail example above would be “You’ll get an e-mail from me,” which is correct. Once you’ve determined the correct pronoun, bring the friend back into the sentence and relax; it’s still correct.

But what about “myself”? For the most part, you can toss it. In fact, the only time one would use that word would be in a sentence that also has the word “I” in it, such as, “I gave myself a raise.” Simple, right?

There ends today’s grammar lesson. I hope I’ve made a positive difference in your grammar, and not worsened your brain-shudder effects. I’ll get off my soap box now until Punctuation Day, and then, boy, is your serial going to get it!

Now, I’m going to celebrate by erasing all the erroneous apostrophes in the grocery store. Could take all day.

Piece!

——

Instruct the wise and they will be wiser still; teach the righteous and they will add to their learning. –Proverbs 9:9

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Tiny Tea Cups and a Girl Long Gone

26 Feb

What is truly of great worth?

NOTE: Today’s blog is made possible by a book of writing prompts given to me by my husband on our anniversary, and also by a cold, lazy day that turned out to be good for nothing but sitting by the fire and avoiding work. I will have to write tonight to make up for the lost time, but my brain has decreed this a day for musings.

So, the prompt?
Write about an item you own that is not worth much money but is of great value to you.

My mind immediately brings forth The Tea Set. It represents, not only a bygone era, but a mystery, and, as I think of it, a challenge.

Child's porcelain tea set

Toys? My how things have changed. (By the way, they’re a lot smaller than they look.)

It’s a child’s tea set, made of china, from a pre-plastic era—1885 or so, judging from what I know of the girl I believe was its earliest owner. I cannot determine its manufacturer, as it has no markings, but its design is eclectic at best. The delicate blue and white tea pot is merely four inches tall, wrapped in a rural Asia-like scene of pagoda-topped buildings nestled in the hills and a multi-domed city scape in the distance. My thumb and forefinger look monstrously large as I gingerly grasp the fragile handles on the tiny cups, noting what appears to be a fading fairy sprite hiding in its lush flowery field.

I’m almost afraid to hold the accompanying saucers, which have worn thin and are warped with age, but I can’t resist. They are the same blue and white colors, yet their design seems to be of sparrows darting through a garden.

I try to picture this beautiful, dainty tea service being casually tossed about by some 5-year-old girl; she sitting at a child’s table, pouring imaginary refreshment for the blue-eyed china doll across from her. Why aren’t these dishes cracked and broken? Perhaps children played more calmly back then. Perhaps it was her only toy and she handled it with great care. Or, perhaps, in reverence, she kept them on a shelf, knowing that a woman with a girl’s heart would one day take great joy in their elegance. I’ll always wonder. . .

I know who she was, though, that little girl. But I know so little about her it’s almost shameful. She was my great grandmother, Grace Leahy Craig, who grew up in Wausau, Wisconsin and married Angus Craig, my great grandfather, in June of 1904. When we were children, we were told she linked us to Admiral William Leahy, the Navy’s first five-star admiral, who served during World War II as Roosevelt’s Chief of Staff even before the title had been created, and before that as Chief of Naval Operations, and as governor of Puerto Rico. Sadly, today he is typically only mentioned in jest, for his famous quote about the atomic bomb: “That is the biggest fool thing we have ever done. The atomic bomb will never go off, and I speak as an expert in explosives.”

grace and arthur 54

Grace and Angus in a Newspaper Clipping from 1954.

But as I dig, I’m more and more convinced Grace’s ancestry did not spring from that shoot of the tree. She was raised by Civil War Capt. John E. Leahy and his wife, Mary. However, their death notices do not name her as a daughter. William Leahy’s father was Michael, possibly John’s brother, who does bear that name, which would make her a cousin by adoption at best. Family lore speaks of a terrible ship explosion in Halifax, Nova Scotia that left her an orphan, but I cannot connect those dots yet. Perhaps one day when I’m a famous author I’ll hire an agency to solve this mystery.

 

Grace lived until her 90s, and I do remember visiting her with my grandfather when I was quite young, in the early 60s. We didn’t call her Grace or Grandma, but Dearie. Not sure why. I remember her in the 70s as a frail old woman suffering from Alzheimer’s. Never would I have believed she once played with toys.

I first saw this tea set when my mom inherited it from her mother, sometime around 1995, and I scoffed at its primitiveness. Even then, the plates were warped and the design had faded. However, each time I saw these little pretties I became more intrigued about child who played with them. And when the set came into my possession upon Mom’s death, I fell in love, and today I’d never part with it. I yearn for the simpler time it represents, a time when children played using their imaginations, when it was socially acceptable for girls to play tea party, when one or two toys was considered sufficient.

So what is of great worth? It’s certainly not our possessions, or I’d know more about this set; it’s not in beauty, or I’d feel sad at the faded design; and it’s not our heritage, although that’s interesting — not knowing our past doesn’t make us less amazing people. Great worth is found in the heart. It’s that which makes us care about each other, feel for each other, remember each other. The value is in the loving.

And the challenge? It occurred to me as I started writing this, my mother’s twin brothers still live in Rhode Island. I don’t know why I haven’t thought to contact them about their grandmother. Surely they have a few pieces of the puzzle that I don’t. Of course, this is going to require a trip “up east,” to the land of sandy shores and stone walls, but I’m willing to endure the heartache. Rhode Island-ho!

Thank you, book of prompts, for this trip down memory lane, and for the potential trip ahead.

So tell me, dear readers, what do you have that holds great worth, if only to you?

———–

One gives freely, yet grows all the richer; another withholds what he should give, and only suffers want. Whoever brings blessing will be enriched, and one who waters will himself be watered. –Prov. 11:24-25

 

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It’s Just a Little Snow, but it’s a Good Reason to Mix Myself a Milktoast Mai Tai

22 Jan

Happy Snow Day, East Coast!

I had such a good response from my last Totally Made Up Interview that I decided today would be the perfect day to conduct another one, primarily because I wanted to blog about the weather but I lack sufficient knowledge of such matters (except that my RI family is laughing at us and our headless-chicken antics right now).

So today we’re talking with Mr. I.C. Flakes, renowned—in my mind anyway—expert on winter storms and winter storm preparedness. We were supposed to talk last night so he could tell everyone that there’s no need to panic, but he got caught in that 3-hour traffic jam when that lil’ ol flurry blew through.

However, he’s here now, so we’ll start by talking about storm preparations…

Q: Mr. Flakes, here in these pre-storm moments, do you have any advice for our readers?

A: Of course. Settle in, it’s going to be a long one. Find your flashlights. Look under the beds, for Pete’s sake, they’re in that house somewhere. And stay off the roads.

Q: Good advice, for sure, thank you. I can’t find my flashlight, so I’ll buy one as soon as we’re done here, when I pop out for some bread and milk, you know, because Topper said. It IS a ten-loaf storm, don’t you know?

Storm Food

Okay, Topper, I’m ready! (Callin’ this my milktoast Mai Tai)

A: Out of the question. Stay off the roads, I say. Anything you might have to do is something you should have done yesterday. The shelves are bare now and there’s nothing left to buy. Besides, you don’t even drink milk, and the last time I saw you eat bread was at a Christmas party in 2014 when the host offered it to you, beaming because she’d made it herself. If I recall, you only nibbled until she turned her back and then tucked it under the other slices on the plate.

Q: I didn’t know you were watching. Either way, Topper said, so I kinda have to. It’s not even snowing yet; I think I’ll at least try.

A: You’re nuts, all of you. Nobody should be on the roads today except first responders, snow plows, grocery store employees, and wine distributers.

Q: Grocery store employees?

A: Someone has to restock the wine. When this thing blows over, there’s going to be a mad rush.

Q: Well, I have to go out anyway. I need boots, and a shovel, and perhaps a wood stove.

A: Did you not know winter was coming?

Q: Wait, is that an answer or a question?

A: …

Q: At any rate, how about during the storm. Do you have any advice for what to do during that time?

A: Well, I suggest you front-load your electronically necessary tasks. When the power goes out, most of your efforts will be directed toward eating everything in the fridge before it goes bad.

Q: When the power goes out? Is it that likely?

A: Are you from these parts? The power goes out when an overweight bird perches on the wire; of course it’s going out. That’s why you need to find your flashlights now, before dark.

Q: Okay, I hear you. Heading downstairs now to search. Pulling out blankets, getting firewood in. Charging the phone. Making a place for the dog to sleep. …I think I understand now. Don’t panic, but prepare as best I can now while all is calm.

A: I think you’ve got it. My work here is done.

Q: Um, actually, there’s one more incredibly pressing issue, considering the possibility of no power this weekend. Do you have any thoughts on how we can see the Broncos play New England Sunday if the outage continues?

A: I’m one step ahead of you there. There’s no way I’m missing that. As soon as I hang up I’m taking off for the airport. I’ll be in a little hotel outside of Phoenix by sunset to wait out the storm in front of the television.

Q: Wait, are you driving?

A: I said it’s important for YOU to stay off the roads. Improves my chances of making my flight. So…guess I gotta run.

And there you have it. Mr. Flakes is long-gone now, so I cannot get him back, even if you have questions. I’m watching the first snowflakes  drifting down outside my window with both an eagerness and child-like wonder. And yet, I do have one two last requests, even for those of you watching us from around the internet world. Whether there’s snow or not where you are this weekend, check on your neighbors. and please say a prayer tonight for the large homeless population out here this winter, that they might find shelter this weekend in a safe, warm place.

Stay cozy, stay safe, and I’ll see you after we dig out!

——————–

“Oh, that I had the wings of a dove!  I would fly away and be at rest. I would flee far away and stay in the desert; I would hurry to my place of shelter, far from the tempest and storm.” —Psalm 55:6-8

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Chaining the Free Spirit: New Year’s Writing Resolutions

10 Jan

This, my first blog of the new year, breaks all the resolutions it contains. I’m going to run it anyway, because I find that particularly funny.

I’m not keen on making resolutions, but it became quite apparent toward the end of last year that my “take-work-as-it-comes-and-hope-for-the-best” time-management style might not be the most effective.  At one point, I was juggling eight projects simultaneously. Not only did the quality of my work suffer, but I noticed I was writing and editing in my sleep, or at least, when I should have been sleeping and not worrying about deadlines.

So, let’s jump right in, shall we?

One: This year there will be no procrastinating. I know, I know, most people establish their resolutions around the first of the year and not the 10th, but I had some residual 2015 issues to resolve first. And then I had this sleepless week, and then the eye thing, and…Anyway, I mean it. A few of my blogs might contain some pretty odd ramblings and a shopping list or two, but I’m serious about writing regularly, particularly when it comes to blogging, which brings me to resolution number…

Two: I will blog weekly in 2016. Blogging gives me joy, and has become relegated to an “expendable” corner of my life. I’ve noticed that, in much the same way a busy mom puts her own needs last, I tend to put personal goals aside to satisfy business commitments. This is emotionally unacceptable. If I’m going to grow as a writer, I gotta wax poetic on a regular basis or all those internal giggles that seem to multiply in my brain when I observe life are going to combust and I’ll wind up as cynical as Maxine, the greeting card lady. While that could make for some more interesting blog entries, I prefer something a little less erratic.

Three: Despite my serious distaste for administrative tasks, in 2016, I will keep to a schedule. This one is going to hurt, as I’m not only a free-spirited, ADD, fly-by-the-mood-of-the-muse writer, I also tend to see planning as the process of using valuable work time to write about what I’m going to do instead of actually doing it. However, I think the only way the blog will have a fighting chance of not getting pushed off the schedule is if I have a schedule to begin with. This will also prevent me from taking on too much work (I hope) and

Four: So, I will GENERALLY schedule blog writing for Saturday mornings (and yes, I know it’s Sunday evening. I never blog on Sunday—all the more reason to put this on the blogosphere today—see first sentence). However, I cannot totally commit to a particular day of the week, as not only do I occasionally enjoy a weekend off with my family, but the calendar often dictates my blog topics. For example, two specific non-Saturdays I’m looking forward to writing about this year are Lost Sock Memorial Day (May 9), and Lazy Day (August 10). The first sounds like fun to write about. The second, well, we’ll see how I feel…

…Besides, the second week in October is National Pet Peeve Week. Just imagine where that can take us! No, I cannot box myself into one day. Life should still contain a modicum of spontaneity. Speaking of spontaneity brings me to…

Five: This will be a year of sitting still, and getting up. First, I must train myself that even when I’m not in the mood, I should write. Writing begets writing. Day-dreaming begets sleeping. I sometimes put off writing because all the stars aren’t correctly aligned, or the caffeine hasn’t taken effect, or I’m not sure the words will come. It usually ends with a nap on the couch. This is silly, because I’ve never been unable to write when I actually sit down and start.

However, for the sake of my health, I also have to move. I’ve noticed that sometimes when I am in the mood to write, I work straight through meals and dentist appointments without ever looking up. So, I will schedule (yes, you read that right) time to get up and send the blood flowing back into my limbs. Also, with a little help from the dog next door, I’m scheduling regular walks around the block.

So that’s it for resolutions, essentially. The rest of my plans for the year are more like goals than resolutions:

In 2016, Joe and I would like to get “Caged Sparrow” into the prisons, where it is sure to make a positive impact (word chosen specifically for Christina) on inmates staring at potentially life-changing crossroads. The book is selling quite well for a self-published endeavor, and it’s getting great reviews on Amazon, but we’re waiting expectantly for it to become more than just a good story. It’s meant to encourage and inspire.

I’m also working on completing two books this year. The first is for a client, whom you’ll meet soon. It’s a fantastic story about faith, trust, and hope. If all goes according to plan, it will be completed in February (look for a blog announcement the first Saturday of the month). The second is a personal project that I plan to bring to the May writers’ conference in Asheville, NC to see if it has any market potential. If it’s successful, you’ll be able to hear me shout my joy from the rooftops. If not, I’ll just try somewhere else and blog about persistence.

Calendar

Empty Pages of Possibility

There’s something sweet about the clean slate of a new year. The past is behind us and the future stretches before us like unused typewriter ribbon. (There now, I just lost half of you.) I’m excited and curious about the words that will fly across my keyboard this year, quite possibly even faster than I just jumped through 200 years of writing media. But one thing I know is that, with friends like you, I’ll be blessed for the experience because we’ll be making the journey together. Because without you I’d just be talking to myself.

Praying you and your families will be blessed this year as well.

Happy New Year, happy writing, and happy reading!

——————

“Let us examine our ways and test them, and let us return to the Lord.” (Lamentations 3:40).

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