Memorial Day: What’s to Celebrate?

26 May

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 day brings back myriad interviews I’ve been honored to have conducted with men who fought and survived. Some were such great storytellers I can still envision what they saw in battle.

I once had a conversation with Haddys B. Hixon, a true Teufelshunde (Marine Corps Devil Dog) whose memories of the fighting in Belleau Woods, France during World War I were so vivid he didn’t speak of the war until he was in his 80s. At 84 he travelled with his son back to France, where he was able to stand in the same fox hole he’d fought in all those years ago. He could still picture the Marines who had died beside him. He could recite all of their names.

Ira Hayes' grave in Arlington

It’s about people, like Ira Hayes, who, even if they didn’t die, were never the same again.

The surviving members of Edson’s Raiders used to meet annually at Quantico, until there were too few left for a reunion. I met with them many times and listened to their stories. They always made sure to tell me about Smitty. He had been wounded on Guadalcanal during heavy fighting, and they’d been forced to leave him propped against a tree so they could continue the advance, but they promised to get him on their way back. They never saw him again, and they never learned what had happened to him.

In Yuma, Arizona, I met Delbert “Sparky” Sparks, a submariner who had been captured on Mindanao in The Philippines and was forced to make the 80-mile Bataan Death march, during which more than 15,000 civilians and military personnel died from the brutal treatment by their Japanese captors. Sparky was one of only 510 prisoners in his camp who survived until they were liberated by Army Rangers. He waited more than 40 years to tell his story, and to receive his Bronze Star and POW medal. There were some parts of his story he refused to share.

History books and visits to our national battlefields and monuments have also put pictures into my head. I’ve stood at the Alamo and wondered what it must have been like for the fewer than 200 men, after holding off the first two waves of Santa Anna’s nearly 2,000 men, to watch that north wall come crashing down and know they were in their last minutes of life on this earth.

I’ve looked over the sunken road wall in Fredericksburg, Virginia, where Confederate Army Sergeant Richard Rowland Kirkland spent a long, cold December night listening as hundreds of wounded Union soldiers on the other side lay dying, crying out for help. I wondered what he thought as he leapt across that wall, armed with canteens, and tried to dole out that last measure of kindness to his Union brothers.

And I’ve read with awe, the accounts of heroes like Marine Lt John Bobo, who, while fighting in Quang Tri Province, Vietnam, had his right leg severed below the knee. Knowing he could not survive, he used his belt for a tourniquet and jammed the stump into the dirt to stem the bleeding. Then, ordering his men to safety, he laid fire at the enemy until he was overrun, but not before his men were able to safely reposition to a place from which they launched a successful attack and repelled the enemy.

LCpl Thomas Julian, USMC

High school friend, LCpl Thomas Julian, who went to Beirut Lebanon in 1983 and never returned

People, with names and faces. Selfless acts of gallantry. Pride in this nation and her ideals. Our country lives on and its people are free because of its legacy of heroes. This is not Thank a Veteran Day, although it is always appropriate to do so. This is Remember the Cost Day. When you hear the Rolling Thunder bikers parade past, consider the Prisoners of War for whom they ride. When you lift your toast to those who served, say a prayer for those who will never be the same because of what they saw, or because of their injuries. Reflect a moment about the freedoms we still enjoy, and honor the sacrifice that made them possible. Learn their stories; teach them to your children; don’t let their names fade away.

How do you celebrate Memorial Day? You don’t.

 

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Faith, Hope, and Love: Will it Land Me an Agent?

14 May

In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps. –Proverbs 16:9

 

It’s been a year since I attended the 2013 Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writers’ Conference in Asheville, NC.

Back then, I was just a government employee who loved to write. I arrived at the conference with a fist full of short stories and an idea for a book, hoping to find someone who would, well, recognize my incredible untapped potential and launch me to stardom with a multi-book deal and million-dollar advance!

…Or at least look at my book proposal.

But there was none of that.

They liked my writing well enough, but weren’t looking for what I was peddalin’ if you know what I mean.

On the final afternoon of the conference, I sat down in a common area to take stock of the good things that had happened, and to thank the Lord for the people I’d met and the terrific classes I’d attended. I remembered, somewhat remorsefully, that I’d told God I’d let Him set my agenda and arrange my appointments. He hadn’t done a very good job, in my opinion, but I choked out a “thank you,” and contemplated skipping the closing banquet in favor of a good night’s sleep.

That’s when fellow writer Linda Rondeau sat herself down beside me and asked, “So, what do you write?”

“Personality features,” I replied.

I’m still not sure why I said that. I’d been touting myself as a writer of contemporary parables throughout the conference, although I really do enjoy writing about people. [Lesson one: Be true to yourself.]

She nearly danced with excitement, and said, “I know someone with a great story you might be interested in!”

And that’s how I first heard about Joe Tutt.

Long story short, I went to the banquet, learned all I could about his story: Good cop, framed and found guilty of a crime he didn’t commit, sentenced to prison with nefarious characters, some of whom he’d arrested during his nearly 20 years on the force.

What’s not to love?

Four weeks later I was on a plane to Naples, FL to hear his story first-hand.

Joe turned out to be quite charming, and his story was even better than the banquet-table version. I took the task and started writing immediately. Over the next few frustrating months, I tried to balance a full-time job and family PLUS writing in my “free time,” which didn’t work at all. [Lesson Two: Ya gotta sleep.]

So I quit my job and spent the rest of the year on this book, and today, as I peruse the nearly completed project, I think it’s got a shot—if I do say so myself.

Now here we are, one year later, and I’m heading back to the conference Sunday, this time as a full-time writer. I carry with me a completed proposal, business cards, “one sheets,” an elevator speech to practice, and a giant sack of hopes and dreams…and I’m frightened out of my wits.

But do you know what propels me forward?

You do.

The Portrait Writer logo

A gift from my former co-workers. Aren’t they the greatest?

Over the year, as I’ve chronicled this journey and shared my doubts and short-comings, I’ve received so much encouragement and support on FB, on my blog, and in personal emails, that I can’t imagine NOT going. From my writers’ group friends who spurred me on nearly ten years ago to get going, to the gang at the office who practically kicked me out the door (not because they wanted me gone, but because they want to see me succeed) and even designed a logo for my new business, I’ve been blessed with the best friends anyone could hope for.

I may not come back with an agent or a publisher, but regardless of my success there, I’ve learned more in this year about writing and publishing than I could ever have hoped. Writing is my calling, and I’m sticking with it. Thank you all, for helping me to take the leap.

Watch this space next week as I learn where my next steps will be heading…

 

Take THAT, Cancer! A letter of hope.

30 Apr
Cicada swarm of 2013

Remembering the cicada swarm of 2013

Call me Jim, for want of any other name.

My world came crashing down about a year ago when the cicadas swarmed, with their beady little eyes and gnashing teeth, making a noise that was so horribly loud I thought it would never stop. But it did, and they disappeared, leaving destruction in their wake. I could see it on the oak tree across the street all summer long, a constant reminder of my own condition: dead, cancerous brown tufts where there was supposed to be verdant new life.

I tried to live a normal summer, but the after-effects of my treatment was devastating. My limbs are still scarred from the abuse I suffered, and I ached in the core of my being. Some days it sapped all my energy just to keep breathing. 

By autumn, I began to shut down. I took no pleasure in the foliage across the street because I just couldn’t bring myself to feel joy. One by one, I began to drop those things that gave me my own color.

I slept through most of the winter, and through the long Spring that Refused to Come. I just couldn’t seem to get going again. As we were pounded by one snowfall after another, each bringing the cold back with it like an unwanted relative, I became certain I would never be warm again. It was almost too much to bear. I wanted God to take me. I even begged Him. I stood outside one morning with my bare, frail arms stretching upward and I made a fist as best I could in the buffeting wind and screamed,“ENOUGH!”

But He didn’t take me.

Spring blossoms, at last

Across the street, spring blossoms, at last

Instead, He gave me another spring. Today I look around at all the color across the street, and I’m amazed. The oak is green again, having sloughed off those dead branches. The cherry tree on the corner is alive with pink blossoms. Front lawns are decorated with yellow daffodils, purple hyacinths, and tulips of all colors. Bees are darting about the fragrant blooms, transporting life from one end of their world to another.

Cynically, I say to myself, it’s only temporary. The colorful blossoms will fall away, and all around will be ordinary green. It will be as if spring never happened.

Or will it? I consider the oak across the way. I remember only a few years ago when it was a frail sapling, struggling to survive. Yet each year after the spring, it is a little bit taller, stronger, and heartier. What a nice word, hearty. I let it linger on my tongue, tasting it gently, longingly.

Finally, each day is warmer than the last. I stand still in the front yard, staring up at the sun as His life-giving sap runs through my veins. I can tell that I, too, have been touched; my own color is returning. It was a long, arduous year, but I made it. And like the oak, I know I will never be the same as I was. God may, indeed, still take me before I’m ready to go, but right now I’m alive, and He is with me, so I will lift my face to the heavens and sing praises for the days I have.

I peer into the window where I can see my friend Bill resting in his chair after another round of chemo. I beckon wildly but he does not notice. I wish, as I have so often since the cicadas came, that I could speak to him, but I don’t know how.

If I could though, do you know what I would say?

I’d say, “Bill, take heart and look to the heavens. If He would bring me through all this…me, an ordinary dogwood tree, what do you suppose He’s doing in you?”

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Real Freelancers Don’t Wear Flannel: ADD and Other Time-sucking Distractions

24 Apr

I’m learning some valuable lessons about working from home.

First and foremost, it’s nothing like the pictures in the brochures.

You know what I mean, all those things we imagined back when we were thinking about quitting that Day Job to start our own business—hanging out in pjs and slippers, tossing down the bon-bons and sipping from a glass of Chateau Morrisette’s Sweet Mountain Laurel while somehow creating reams upon reams of productivity every day.

Well I’m here today to tell you, that’s all rather bunk-ish.

Thinking of taking the leap? It’s not for the faint-hearted, my friends. And by faint-hearted I mean people who like to eat…anything other than Ramen noodles. Right off the bat I can tell you that bon-bons and Sweet Mountain Laurel are NOT in the budget. Nor are they conducive to prolific prose (although I do believe that some of my greatest work was—no, never mind…I just re-read it).

Sadly, I realized almost from Day One that the pajamas would have to go. It’s difficult to take work seriously when dressed in flannel strawberries. Also, there seems to be some strange subliminal connection between pajamas and sleeping that makes it impossible to stay awake for any great length of time. In fact, the first reams of production that this writer produced consisted of 24 forehead-induced pages of the letter “h,” in seemingly endless rows. When I awoke and tried to read it, my first thought was, “How cool, church pews!”

And, of course, to keep you from breaking away to type a bunch of “h” rows on your computer, I shall provide:

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

And then, of course, I had to type 25 other letter rows to be sure the “h” has the coolest character. I decided the “m” is rather intriguing as well, because it looked like something I could fall asleep on…

mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

…which brings me to the second giant oak tree of a barrier that has fallen across the road ahead of me: Attention Deficit Disorder.

I’m learning that I will break for anything.

  • I break to watch the cat bathe. It’s mesmerizing how he can move his leg like that. I can verify that it’s not a feat humans should attempt to replicate because I gave it a shot (ADD at its finest moment) and nearly had to call 911. Fortunately, I was in my pajamas so I just slept it off until my limbs unfolded.
  • I break to check my blog traffic…every fifteen minutes. (By the way, whoever you are in Brazil, boa tarde and thanks for noticing me. Your visits make me feel like an international star!) Watching blog stats can be addicting if you aren’t careful. Every time someone views my pages, I know it. Sadly, that’s all I know: someone was there. I just wish the data could tell me if you read it all, if you liked it, if you hated it, if I made you giggle at least once, and if right now you ‘re lifting my words for some motivational poster that’s going to come to me on the next social media mass-mailing, or worse, to be used in a class on how NOT to write. For the most part, checking stats makes me smile. Plus, I’m still so new at this blog thing that every time someone “shares” a post rather than just “like” it, I do a grateful little happy dance, which, for someone with ADD, could also lead to a 911 call.
  • Even the food mocks me

    You Rack Diciprine!

    I break for food. Sometimes when I’m not at all hungry. The fridge has a telepathic ability to serenade me from the kitchen, and, as with any other earworm, I cannot get its song out of my head. The avocado will go bad in three minutes if you don’t eat it! …Chicken, I got some chicken heah! And the worst: Ahh, sweet, velvety chocolate; Easter is over, you can’t leave this stuff lying around!

  • I break for email. Even e-mail from stranded Sudanese princes who need to put millions in my bank account to protect it from Somali pirates.

OK, that last isn’t true. Everyone knows even the Somali pirates have my account numbers.

My point is, I still haven’t mastered the art of what I’ve heard writer (and probably quip-lifter) Alton Gansky call “butt-in-seat” focus. I’m averaging about five hours of real writing each day.

On the helpful side, I’m fortunate in that my current project, Joe’s story, still fascinates me, and that some days he’s my greatest distraction—I really want to see how this book is going to end. I keep the pages open on my computer so whenever I DO untangle myself and sit down, I’m immediately drawn into them and start typing.

So,

  • Get dressed: check.
  • Turn off the computer sound, so the email ding doesn’t: check.
  • Keep sitting back down: check.

I’m sure there are many other words of wisdom my fellow ADD freelancers can share that will help us all up our game. Care to share? We’re all ears…what are your tricks for keeping at it?

(Ha! I just realized how mean that question is. I’ll understand if you don’t answer…but you can’t not, can you?)

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There’s a Cure for That, but Can You Handle it?

10 Apr

The kitchen looks like a war zone—plates and pot lids strewn about, towels on the floor, a blade from the overhead fan dangling precariously. Blood is seeping out from my husband’s sleeve, dripping onto the kitchen island. Our foreheads are drenched in sweat and we’re panting with exhaustion. The cat’s ears are flattened back, and his eyes seem to be spinning wildly.

I look at my husband for support. We nod in agreement—break time is over. We’re going back in, this time with even more determination.

We’ll get this medicine into him if it’s the last thing we do…

 

OK, it wasn’t that bad, but it felt that way. Aslan, our sweet kitty from the Twilight zone, fought like a wild tiger for about ten minutes before we gave up, and we had to give up, to keep him from hurting himself.

The most disheartening part was that we were fighting over pain medicine. He was in great pain from a bladder infection. We were struggling so hard because we love him and don’t want him to be in pain. But he was afraid.

Cat in a box

You can’t hide in a box. There’s pain in there too.

You cat owners out there would agree, the veterinarian’s instructions were almost laughable (and by laughable I’m talking about that hideous, fear-based, strait-jacket laugh):

“Just measure out 3 milliliters with this plunger and squirt it under his tongue twice a day,” she said. “Do not squirt it down his throat.”

Under his tongue. Riiight.

So we all know how that train derailed, don’t we?

When Aslan wouldn’t open his mouth voluntarily (I hear you snickering), hubby tried the grip & pry method, which instantly brought out the claws.

Then we tried wrapping him, cajoling him, and bribing him with treats, all to no avail.

Then we tried brute persistence (“the heck with under the tongue; this is going down the throat!”) Naturally, more medicine went into my own mouth than his. Tastes as nasty as you’d expect, but my neck doesn’t ache anymore, thank you very much.

We even tried putting it in his food, but apparently the odor is easily detectable, and thereby initiated a hunger strike.

And after all this struggling, we still hadn’t even touched the antibiotic—a rather large purple pill that he needed to ingest in order to cure the infection.

So finally, we gave in. Setting aside the pain medicine, we managed to get him to take the antibiotic by disguising it in a bit of tuna. After about a week of only antibiotic medicine, he is back to his old self. The pain medicine is still in the vial. It makes me sad to think he was in pain much longer than he had to be…if he had only let us help him.

When I think of how hard Aslan fought us and the stress he put himself through, I wonder if that’s what it’s like from God’s perspective as He directs our paths. Does He feel frustrated, or does He watch in amusement when we fight Him? Does He try to force us, or does He give in and let us stay hurt just a bit longer than we might have been?

We’re such goofy kids. We turn away, hide, make deals—anything to avoid THAT, because it’s painful, or different, or scary. How sad to think that all along we’re not only making things worse, but we’re missing out on wonderful gifts He wants to bestow upon us. Because we think we know better. Because we’re afraid. Because we’re mad at Him.

I struggle with the irony that I only want to curl up on His lap and purr when all is well. However, it’s when all is NOT well that He wants most to hold me. For more than ten years I was particularly angry at Him because I lost many loved ones before what I thought was their time, despite knowing that as long as I’m on Earth I never will understand why. By not trusting that God knew what He was doing, I spent years wallowing in anger and hurt before I came back to Him, exhausted from the struggle. He wanted to hold me but I wouldn’t let Him.

I can assure you that whatever pain you’re going though, God is certainly aware of it, and He knows the reason for it, and He knows what will come of it. Trust that He doesn’t want you to be in pain. Why would He, who loves you more than anyone could possibly love a cat, want anything but good for you?

Don’t fight the arms that hold you. His touch can heal. Sit still, already! The best is yet to come.

 

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Survey Says: What the heck was I thinking?

27 Mar

It took me a long time to decide to write this because I thought displaying my lack of faith would discredit the amazing things God has done for me thus far. After all, I’ve been saying all along that the one constant on my journey to become a full-time writer has been my conviction that it’s exactly what God wants me to do.

So, of course He’s going to take care of me, right?

Compass

To find your direction…

Well, he did for a while. It’s been two months since I left my paying job, and we’ve been successfully balancing atop a financially precarious fence by relying on predictability. I mean, absolutely NO surprises.

Then yesterday I noticed the cat behaving as if he has another infection (something he usually conveys by “marking” the floor). Setting that issue on the back burner, I took my youngest to his dentist appointment, where I learned his wisdom teeth need to be pulled, like, now. Also, the dentist says, his lower teeth are turning—he needs to go back to the orthodontist. Finally, as I drove home I noticed with dismay that the “check engine” light on my dashboard is flashing.

I can’t afford all of these crises, and certainly not all at once.

Despair washed over me in an avalanche of self-doubt:

What the heck was I thinking, leaving a perfectly good job? If I were “working,” these issues could have been easily resolved!

My knee-jerk reaction should have jerked me to my knees. But I sped right past that and settled for just being a jerk.

I have to make some income, I thought, turning to the internet in a panic. Somehow all my wild clicking landed me on some “pay-for-survey” sites, where companies “pay you handsomely for ten minutes of your time.”

Perfect! I have opinions…they want to pay me for them? How cool is that?

So I spent hours clicking boxes, typing in preferences, and disclosing the darkest secrets about the potions and lotions lurking in my medicine cabinet. My clicking finger became sore, my shoulders ached, my eyes started burning from staring so intently, but I kept on. Finally, when I could no longer focus, I quit for the night. I made $6.50, which, apparently, I now have to report to the IRS.

After a fretful night’s sleep, I started this morning stumbling blindly in a cloud of defeat, but this time I did turn to God, praying my oft-recited, “I believe Lord; help me in my unbelief.”

Instead of finding an answer, I found my mind wandering through an uncharted outline of an intriguing story idea, one with many layers, and action, and joy, and discovery, and—wait! I already have a writing project; I don’t need another!

Frustrated, I left my time of prayer (and I jotted down a few notes about the story idea, because it really is cool…)

compass and cross

…you first have to know where you’re going.

Then, on my way back from my son’s bus stop, I heard a one-minute radio spot that brought me back to solid ground. I was reminded that, much like a pilot navigating through a fog, I know where I’m going and I can trust the navigation tools I’m relying on to get me there.

I had to admonish myself for perhaps the millionth time: You’re exactly where God wants you to be. He never said it would be easy, but He did say, “Trust me.”

So I went into the house and got to work, beginning my day as usual by reading a psalm. Today it was Psalm 142. I got no further than verse 3: “When my spirit grows faint within me, it is you who knows my way.”

With a bit of a jolt I thought back to the cool story outline. Criminy! That was His promise! He’s telling me there’s something next. And there will be something after that, and after that. The bills will get paid, and we will be fine. He knows the way; I don’t have to.

So I write about my momentary lack of faith because it shows I’m human, but it also demonstrates how our faith can actually grow through moments like this. I’m more certain about what I’m doing than ever. Besides, as my friend Liz reminded me this morning, with some whiskey and a good pair of pliers, I can handle that ol’ wisdom teeth issue…

By the way, my inbox was flooded this morning with survey opportunities screaming at me: Tell us about your car! What’s the best soft drink? Do you have insurance? Click here, Click HERE, CLICK HERE!

I not only deleted the emails, but took the extra two minutes to hit the “unsubscribe,” which is the “morning-after” click for irrational internet panic.

Now I shall return to Joe’s story, my friend and current project, knowing I’m right where I’m supposed to be, and that He knows the way to where we’re going.

I hope He has pliers.

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Gasping at the deep end

19 Mar

In my defense, I was nearly finished with my swim. By the time he showed up I had completed either 17 or 28 laps (I sometimes lose count because I’m an English major).

So I was tired. Let’s get that straight.

I like to swim in the center lane because most folks take the outsides so they can climb out more easily. I’d rather duck under three floating lane dividers and dodge Butterfly-stroke Man on my way to the side than swim next to someone. Nothing against other swimmers, but I’m a tad competitive and I have an attention deficit, which means I can’t ignore people.

Of course, he chose the lane next to mine.

At first I felt no threat. He was easily in his 90s, sitting at the pool’s edge, dangling his feet in the water while he donned his goggles. I sized him up as I approached: scrawny arms, boney knees. I could take him.

He still hadn’t entered the water when I reached the end of my lane. I didn’t stop, but made a quick U-turn and sped away. (No, not like the Olympic athletes who gracefully sink at exactly the right point, flip around, and magically jettison across the pool like a bullet; I tend to meet the wall, take a gasping breath, yank my too-small cap back down over my ears, empty the water from my goggles, and then splash out about a whole foot before I level off).

I was surprised, therefore, when I turned around at the opposite end of the pool and there he was right beside me. He kicked off the wall and was already gliding effortlessly away, leaving me panting at the wall, collecting chlorine in my gaping mouth.

Oh, heck no. This wasn’t going to happen. I may not be a spring chicken. Ok, I’m not even a summer chicken anymore, but I could take him.

I vaulted off the wall and stretched out fully. (For you non-swimmers, it’s like when you run past someone you know and somehow get taller and start breathing the way you should have been all along. The difference is that at the pool, the only one to notice is the lifeguard, and let’s just say ours wasn’t a Baywatch lifeguard candidate and leave it at that.)

Determined to catch my nonagenarian, I put every ounce of energy I could muster into that lap. I spread open my fingers for maximum water displacement, grabbed at the water the way a hole-digging dog tosses back dirt, and started kicking my feet as fast as I could. In my mind I looked like an electric mixer on high speed, but I could tell when I passed the lifeguard that I probably looked somewhat less efficient.

Goggles full of water

Are the goggles half full or half empty?

To show him I was ok, I made my concentration face—drawing my eyebrows close together in a serious frown. Unfortunately, doing anything eye-related while wearing swimming goggles breaks the seal. Water poured in, half-filling the left lens. I closed my left eye and with the other I looked at the lifeguard, giving a small smile to show that he needn’t worry but swallowing some serious pool water in the process. He stood up, staring at me intently. Ol’ Motorboat Legs was reaching the far side again, a full three lengths ahead of me. He was hardly trying at all and yet I couldn’t keep up! I was amazed and ashamed.

I hit the wall and paused, pretending to adjust my cap so he could take off solo. If I let him get far enough ahead, perhaps my competitive spirit would lay off. But it didn’t. I exhausted myself trying to catch him again.

He swam only three or ten more laps or so, which was fortunate for me because I was spent, and the lifeguard was still in alarm mode. Gramps then bobbed under the lane lines, dodged Butterfly-stroke Man, and climbed the ladder.

That’s when I saw his feet for the first time. Flippers. The man was wearing flippers. Big. Long. Superpower flippers.

I drove home feeling foolish, and perhaps a bit wiser. I know I shouldn’t compare myself to others. I’m exactly who I’m supposed to be, and my only goal should be to improve upon my own abilities.

I notice that in my writing life too. I catch myself whining because I’m not making money yet, like those writers who have been at it for longer than two months. There are no writing flippers, although I wish there were. It’s just going to take time.

Still, I’m not done with Mr. Frog Feet. Same time tomorrow morning, buddy, but this time I’ll catch you. I’ll carb up tonight and enter the water with my goggles cinched so tight my ears will flatten. Best of all, I’ve got a fancy high-power backstroke that will blow you out of the water…if the lifeguard doesn’t pull me out first.

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For Gary, who turned around…

11 Mar

This week I’m dedicating my blog to Gary, an ordinary man who lived a life of extraordinary kindness. Most people who read this page didn’t know him, but that’s ok. I didn’t know him as well as I would have liked, but I’m touched by his spirit and I think you can be as well.

Gary was a quiet, unassuming man who was quick to help and slow to anger. His face displayed a curious mix of inner peace and ancient pain. He knew how to listen. Anyone who stopped to talk with him walked away thinking, “Gee, that was a lot more than I meant to tell him about myself, but it’s ok because he likes me anyway.”

People were drawn to him, particularly people who were sinking in despair.

That’s because Gary knew what it was like to be on the bottom. At one point in his life, he sank so far down into a murky pit that the walls started caving in over him, and that could have been the end of his story. Instead, one day he looked up and saw an outstretched hand against a small piece of light. He grabbed hold and began what would be a long, arduous climb to freedom. It wasn’t an easy journey. The walls of the pit were slippery; what few foot-holds he could find were so sharp they left scars; and there were people still at the bottom who pulled at his legs, trying to drag him back down. He never would have made it out if that hand hadn’t remained tightly clasped around his. It gave him hope and encouragement, and he knew whoever was behind it would never give up on him.

Eventually, he was pulled into the light, where he lay for a while gasping, joyfully tasting the clean air, and grateful for a second chance.

Many of us, when we’re pulled out of our darkness, dust ourselves off and say, “Whew! That was close!” Sometimes we even remember to thank our rescuer before we go on our way. We rarely look back.

Gary, however, once he caught his breath, turned back to the pit, planted his feet firmly, and reached out his hand. He set up camp there, on the edge of darkness, where he spent the rest of his days pulling people to safety and encouraging them, fighting with all he had to keep them from falling back in. He never forgot that outstretched hand.

The church was packed yesterday for Gary’s funeral service. I was amazed to see how many people were there, people whom Gary had touched in just a few short years. But there’s more to the story, because Gary taught them more than just how to climb out of the darkness. By his example, he taught them to turn around and reach back down. Today there are many, many people camped at the edge, feet planted, hands extended.

As I see it, Gary’s legacy is a ripple of kindness extending light outward across a pond of darkness. And in the end, the light will win.

 

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Gerunds, Appositives, and Participles, Oh My!

4 Mar

I knew it would happen today. I’m experiencing my first day of epic post-resignation homesickness. Or is that worksickness?

Sure, I’ve looked back wistfully on occasion over the past month, like the day I overdosed on Oreo cookies and realized that this would never have happened at my old job because they would have helped me eat them, or the night my reading lamp became possessed and provided me with an awesome story to tell to…nobody. Snif. (Possible blog topic for Supernatural Day, whenever that is).

Today, however, I miss my editing friends in the basement of Hochmuth Hall more than ever, because I know what I’d be doing right now if I were there: poking fun at people who correct me and say, “no, no, you mean if I was there.”

Well, to be honest, we poked fun every day. In fact, for an editor, the only thing that can evoke a more hearty guffaw than coming across a sentence like “Venezuela is a major consumer of Cuban, health, intelligence, and security professionals” is reading it aloud to other editors.

We’re wired like that.

Egg's and Chicken's

Thanks Albert, for risking life and limb to capture this exquisite specimen.

We risk causing vehicle accidents to take pictures of awful road signs.

We are puppets to our pesky little internal budinskis who cannot let a conversation continue unchecked after someone says, “This is for Sue and I” or, “If you have any questions, bring them to Pete or myself.”

We’ve lost friends over this compulsion—both Pete and Himself. Still, we auto-correct.

Today, however, we have license to parade our predicate prowess, and to shout boldly from the hill tops:

That and which are not the same!

Or,

Pardon me, but your modifiers are squinting.

Or my favorite:

Semi-colons are more than just winky-face emoticons!

So, what’s the big occasion? Only the most important day in the evolution of syntax…it’s Grammar Day of course! The only national observance identified by an imperative: March Fourth!

National Grammar Day was established in 2008 by Martha Brockenbrough, founder of the Society for the Promotion of Good Grammar (SPOGG) and author of Things That Make Us [Sic].

Over the years the observation has grown in popularity, particularly among the editing crowd.

This is a day for editors to sit back, nosh on grammar crackers and cereal commas, and reminisce about the ones that didn’t get away…like, “the damn formed when the mountain collapsed during the earthquake,” or, “the ship-to-shore landing vessels were being acquired to compliment the rest of the fleet.” (Grammar, word choice, whatever you call it, it’s funny).

This is a day to go out to the hallway and stare appreciatively at the colorful and seductive Comma Chameleon, which was posted to lure passersby into accidently learning about comma use and abuse.  (I guess you could consider it the cheesy-broccoli of grammardom; some folks get through six or seven rules before they catch on that they’re reading about proper punctuation.)

It is also a day of recognition. Writers, I’m guessing you all have someone to thank for ensuring your last missive didn’t go out proclaiming, “Ships are used when floods and tsunamis produce disaster situations that require their ability to arrive by sea instead of by destroyed or water-submerged roads.” (Actual submission, you’re welcome very much).

If you haven’t been saved yet, it’s only because you still aren’t published.

So spread the word. Kiss an editor. Rescue a dangling modifier. Try it, it’s fun.

And correct your children. They’ll thank you for it one day. My reward came Saturday night, when I caught my son trying to rub the apostrophe off a white board announcing “CD’s for sale.”

I was so proud.

I miss you, editors. March fourth!

  😉

For more information about Grammar Day, visit the following website: http://www.quickanddirtytips.com/national-grammar-day?utm_source=GG20140304&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=grammargirl#sthash.g5Q70k7y.dpuf

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Waiting for the Thaw

19 Feb

The sun is out today, for what seems like the first time in months, but winter’s calling cards are everywhere. It could easily depress me if I let it.

Snow-lined street

If it isn’t blocking a car, it’s called ambiance.

Our small suburban side streets are still a mess. After the last storm, most folks dug out only enough to free their vehicles, leaving a patchwork of tar and snow. Sand is strewn over the narrow driving lane, making everything dirty. A stream that formed on our sidewalk is rushing the rapidly melting snow into the gutters at the bottom of the hill.

Snow blob

I won’t name him, lest I become attached. If I DID, he would be called Blobbert.

I stare out my window; a child’s snowman stares back from across the street. He’s actually only a blob with a hat, surrounded by footprints. However, his creator is about five years old, so he’s perfect, of course. He’s the ideal shape for a melting reference so I’ll say it…the sun beating down on him makes his hat look most unnecessary. I’m sure he won’t survive the day. I can’t tell whether his lemon eyes and little O-shaped mouth are expressing surprise or if he’s pleading with me to save him. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I won’t mind it when he’s gone because for once, I’m tired of the snow. We didn’t even get that much this year, really. My sister in Denver, she’s still getting regular blizzards, as are my brothers in northern New England, and my friends in Washington and Maine. I grew up in Rhode Island. I know what a lot of snow looks like, and this is nothing. It just feels like a lot this year.I heard a weather forecaster say it’s not over yet, and that there may be one or two more snowstorms before spring arrives. It just makes me sigh. All those dirty white mounds piled high around the lamp poles in the grocery store parking lots—where will they put more? Let’s hope today’s sun melts them down a few feet.

Still, as I look over the tired, dirty landscape, I can’t help but feel hope. I know that just five feet from the snowman, crocuses are sleeping under that blanket of whiteness. I can almost hear the roots of the brown grass and of the giant Norway Maple in the middle of my front lawn drinking deeply from the crisp, fresh water that seeps into the ground all around them. The tree sports tiny buds like tightly clenched fists, just waiting for the sign to let go.

Even now, there are robins on their way here, and the Canada geese are making flight plans for the long trip south. Mama cardinals are holed up in the trees all around us, keeping their eggs warm. Butterflies are nearly transformed, still snugly curled in their cocoons. Everything is about to change.

Tree blossoms, tightly clenched

The trees of the field are ready to dance.

This is a time of hope and anticipation, especially for those of us who might be feeling weary. We can take heart because we know what’s coming, despite the apparent bleakness. We’ve been here before. We can hang in there. Just a few more weeks. Regardless of the shadows, and no matter how cold it gets, whatever you’re going through right now—know that it’s temporary and something joyful is on its way. Take heart, spring is coming.

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