Caged Sparrow Launches in Naples!

17 Oct

Who would have thought it possible? Here I am, two hours away from a moment I’ve been dreaming about since I was about 14 – my first official book signing!

And to make life even better, I’m in Naples, Florida, sitting with the no-longer Caged Sparrow himself, Joseph Tuttolomondo, without whom I’d still be sitting in a government cubicle and without whom this day would still only be a dream.

Caged Sparrow and his ghost writer

Caged Sparrow and his ghost writer

So, of course, for today’s blog, I will interview Joe, the former Buffalo undercover narcotics chief who had the decency to get himself framed and tossed into prison so I could write his story nearly 35 years later. We’re in the First Baptist Church Naples, so if you’re in the neighborhood, feel free to drop in. It’s the only way you’re going to get not one, but two signatures on your copy of “Caged Sparrow,” Tonight until 8 p.m. and tomorrow 9 a.m. until 1 p.m.

Me: Joe, let’s talk about your story, since that’s why where here. How long have you been thinking about making it into a book?

Joe: Since I was released from prison in 1979. Considering the circumstances and all the surprising things that did and didn’t happen, I just thought there were things that should be told.

Me: Why did it take you so long to write it?

Joe: I couldn’t find a Christian writer who would take it on. I tried a bit right after I got out of prison, but didn’t know how to go about it. One publisher who was referred to me listened to my story and said, “There’s already a lot of that Serpico kind of stuff.” I was discouraged, and over time, although I always wanted and prayed that it be written down, I figured if God wanted it, it would happen.

 

Me: With hindsight, is there anything you would change if you could re-live the whole trial and prison scene?

Joe: None what-so-ever. The results were the best thing that ever happened to me and I’m grateful to all involved.Even those who kicked it off.

Me: What went through your mind when your friend Linda told you someone you never met wanted to write your book?

Joe: I was overwhelmed with joy. It affirmed the fact that the Lord answers prayer. He may take His time, but He answers.

Me: What’s the best part of seeing your book in print?

Joe: First and foremost, I’m thrilled because it glorifies the Lord for who he is and what he did in my life and my children’s lives and for so many I met in prison. Secondly, I’m excited for what this book can accomplish, particularly for those who don’t know Jesus. You can’t stuff Jesus down someone’s throat. He’s a gift you have to offer and the recipient has to accept it voluntarily. This book is a gift to those who are wondering.

Me: What’s your favorite recipe from your Mom’s cookbook?

Joe: That’s easy. Pasta Fazola (macaroni and white kidney beans). You make a roux of caramelized onions and garlic (use chicken stock instead of water), then you marry the roux with some kidney beans and let it simmer. Then you par cook ditalini – a short stubby Italian macaroni. Add the pasta to the beans and cover it with grated parmesan cheese. The first time I fed it to the guys in prison, they turned their noses up at it, but once they tried it, I had them hooked. Even the guards liked it, and you know if the guards don’t like something it doesn’t get served. Pasta Fazola became a regular favorite.

Me: Do you still keep a live turkey tied up in your bathroom as Thanksgiving nears?

Joe: No, only because we no longer have a radiator to tie one to.

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So do not be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. – Matthew 10:31

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Left-brain, Right-brain Activity: Woes of an ADD writer

9 Oct

My husband can work on one task at a time. When he’s finished, he can sleep.

If I’ve ever coveted anything, it’s mastery of those two skills. Okay, forget mastery. I’ll take novice level. Apprentice, even.

I don’t think I’ve had a good, non-Nyquil-induced sleep in years. My brain simply cannot SHUT UP. At the end of every day, after we settle into the big comfy bed and turn out the lights, my husband sighs and whispers a sleepy, “Good ni—” and he’s down for the count.

At which time, my brain goes into hyper drive.

Hey, we gotta check on the kids.

We checked on them last night. They’re fine.

(NOTE: as far as you know, this wasn’t my attitude toward my real kids. As far as you know, they’re both well-adjusted, perfectly functional young men.)

On cue, we embark on the nightly tour. You might ask who “we” are, but to explain that, I’d have to take you with me, into the writer’s brain. Sure, it can be scary, but fun—like riding a roller coaster through a dark cave. I can promise you there’s a way out, but I cannot promise you’ll be able to un-see anything in there. This is your chance to click that red X in the top right corner…

And in we go…

So, like normal people, I have right and left brain hemispheres, analytics on the left and creativity on the right. Unlike normal people, the split here is not 50/50, but more like 90/10.

Do Not Enter

Not safe for man nor beast

That’s why, if you were to walk into my brain, the first area you’d encounter would be the hall closet of analytics. Open that door only if you enjoy being bored to tears, because it is stuffed to overflowing with everything not creative—shopping lists, driving tips, logical eating patterns, awareness of gravity, friends, siblings, birthdays, toothpaste, time, and laundry. At the bottom of the pile, beneath boxes and bags of forgotten skills like dusting and parent/teacher communication, lies a crumpled page of moldy pulp that used to be math, which will never be retrieved, and even if it were, could never be restored.

I highly recommend you close that door immediately. I don’t go in there if I can avoid it.

Instead, I invite you to turn around and look at the Great Hall. The giant table in the center is cluttered with delicious looking snips and chunks of my current project, a true story with the working title, “From the Remnants.” (More on that in a later blog.) At every place setting is a minion typing madly, transcribing hours of interview recording. Around the room, professors sit at easels examining order, chapter length, dialogue, setting, and pace. Very exciting stuff here.

Open the first door off the hall carefully, so you don’t send the imps scampering. This is the novel idea room, where characters are being created at a rapid pace. Fourteen, last I checked. Just from the doorway you can see Wilhelm, the depressed store manager; Earl, the blissfully ignorant cart-return dude; Shelly, who has a Master’s in Bioengineering yet works the customer service desk; Angus the Semi driver, and a cast of store customers with…shall we say…issues? I can’t tell you the working title of this book because it’s kinda neat and I’d hate to see it pop up before I finish the story.

The next door opens to the study, where serious work is unfolding. Lots of reading, cataloging, interviewing, and heavy sighing. Here’s my mom’s story, currently called “Withered Rose.” Please keep your voice to a whisper here.

The main bedroom upstairs has been cleared out. Perhaps that’s why I don’t sleep. I’m making room here for an incoming project I want very much to do. I may put a guest up here for a while, because the rest of the house is so crowded.

The two spare rooms are piled high with anticipation. Here’s where I keep the job bids I’ve submitted, which are in the “We’ll get back to you” phase. I’m starting to think they won’t pan out, but I’m ready, just in case. Off to the side is a small powder room, where I’m stashing my commitment to write a memoir in the Feb/March time frame.

At the back of the house are two small, lonely rooms I rarely enter. In one, my teenage runaway sits on the edge of her bed, waiting for me to visit so she can pour out her story. I know her story better than anyone’s, and I know how desperately she needs my company. I feel her slipping through my hands and during my night rounds I press my head lovingly to her door, willing her to stay with me just a bit longer.

The other is my parable parlor, which resembles a dentist waiting area. Magazines and patients strewn everywhere. I know the patients well. They’ve taken me to the edge of a completed manuscript and now they sit, waiting for me to sift, edit, and compile them into a short-story bundle called “Perfect Parent.”

Finally, there’s the sun porch, my favorite place to hang out after I complete my rounds. It’s quiet, dark…serene. I open the French doors and settle on the chaise lounge with a glass of wine to watch the parade. Field mice ideas, raccoon visions, a young doe or two of possibility. I watch them play and wonder what they’ll be when they grow up, or if they’ll grow up. I try to catch every snippet of character and delight in them while I can.

Smiling, relaxed, I finally drift off to sleep.

…Just as my husband wakes and starts getting ready for work. Field mice and minions scamper for the hills. It’s going to take a lot of cheese and hyper focus to coax them back into the house.

coffee

Sure, it’s a planter, but wouldn’t that be helpful?

No sense telling him about my night. He can see it under my eyes. Besides, he has a 90% left-brain walk-in closet filled with neatly stacked mathematical formulas and teaspoon-to-gallon conversion charts. He wouldn’t understand.

I begin another day, tired, but happy, trekking to the Great Room with an oversized mug of steaming coffee. Time to get typing.

Can I get an ADD amen?

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In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also. — John 14:2-3

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Christmas Year-round

October’s “Keep Christmas Alive” tip is to go shopping, but for someone else. Someone you don’t know. Sadly, if you envision a person of any age and any size and outfit that person with hat, coat, boots and gloves, when the time comes around to buy for the Angel Tree near you, there will be a person in need who fits that size. Or play it safe and purchase a few toys. The selections are better now than they will be in December, and you won’t have to add that to your “to do” list when the crowds are out in full force.

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Storms May be Brewing, but the Sun Ain’t Goin’ Anywhere

1 Oct

Today is a dismal, bleak, rainy day here in Virginia.

From my window I can watch dirt and mulch, wrenched away from once-splendid summer gardens, tumble in clumps down the street and become caught up in a swift-flowing rainwater river. The debris bumps along on an aimless journey, careening into a pile of leaves at the end of the road, where it rests briefly before slipping through a gaping sewer opening that leads to who-knows-where?

Wet bird in the rain

Hunker down, or deny it’s raining. You decide.

A nor’easter is heading in from the sea, threatening to raise floodwaters, close roads, fill basements, and sweep cars from under people who refuse to believe they’re vulnerable, despite warnings to hunker down.

South of us, Hurricane Joaquin is gathering steam for a pass up the east coast. Hundreds of tree limbs will break off in its gale-force winds, nearly ripened fruit will never make it to harvest, and puzzling objects from the depths of the ocean will stir, and rise, and wash ashore. People will be hurt, and some may die.

It could be days before we see the sun again.

But still, the sun will remain in the sky, peacefully, gloriously, shining, just above the gray clouds and the calamitous vortex of wind and rain. It shines just as brightly throughout this storm as it does on any other day, whether we can see it or not. Regardless of how cold, how wet, how dark we feel over the next few days, it will continue to blaze with its usual fiery heat, sending down to us the exact amount of energy we need to sustain our planet, sufficient vitamin D to keep each of us healthy, and light enough to see where we ought to step (or paddle) next.

I have faith in the sun’s existence, because I’ve seen it and I paid enough attention during science class to know roughly what’s going on up there. I made the requisite Styrofoam solar system and know the sun is securely stationed at the center, even without the help of a wire coat hanger or a tube of Elmer’s glue. I don’t understand why or how it works, but I don’t need to know. I can trust it’s there. I’ll see it again.

Of course, I can chose to deny the sun’s presence, pointing to the eerie gathering darkness as proof of its ineptitude. And when the clouds clear and the rains subside I can still refuse to see the sun by closing my eyes. But that won’t make it not there.

Still, I will prepare for the dark days ahead by stocking the shelves with canned goods, ensuring we have propane for the grill and the fire starter handy for the candles, digging the flashlights out from under last year’s winter coats, bringing family treasures out of the basement, and probably finishing off the coffee ice cream in the freezer, you know in case the power goes out—wouldn’t want that to go to waste. Then, as the winds howl outside my door, I can remind myself: we’re okay, and this will pass.

light peeking through clouds

We can lose sight for a while, but it’s always there.

That’s how it is with God. We can lose sight of Him sometimes, but He’s always there, despite our fiercest storms. We know this because we’ve done our homework and answered that one question we must all answer for ourselves: Is the Bible true? We’ve made the requisite Styrofoam Gospel scene and know that God burns securely in the center of our hearts, even without our duct tape and glitter. We don’t completely understand how He can do this, but we don’t need to know. We can trust He’s still there.

So we’ve prepared for the storm by studying God’s promises, trusting His Word, and telling Him our concerns. Then, as the wolf howls outside the door, we can remind ourselves: we’re okay, and this will pass.

Yet, for some reason, some of us will huddle there in the dark for days, weeks, even years afterward, denying ourselves the warmth and peace He offers. Why do we do this?

We may be angry at Him for not preventing a limb from breaking during the storm, and deny that he’s filling the fields all around us with new life. But we cannot anger him away or close our eyes to the evidence. Just not looking won’t make him not there.

We may be hiding from Him, cowering in the shadows in shame or worry because we’re sure we’ve somehow let Him down, but His light sees into those darkest places, knows everything we’ve done and failed to do, and loves us anyway. He’s there with you under the basement steps, extending a hand. He wants to bring you out of there.

The storms will end soon enough. I challenge you, even while they still rage, to leave your hiding place, venture out, and look up, into the light. Offer Him your hand, your hurt, your sorrow, your regrets, and He will shine on you, just as brightly as He has been doing all along.

The difference between God and the sun, though, is He can make YOU shine as well, because His light is brighter than the sun, and His presence many times more trustworthy. Trust Him. He’s there.

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For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. — 2 Corinthians 4:17-18

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Improve the World: Treat Each Other Like Dogs

23 Sep

Today’s blog is brought to you by a reader who will remain unidentified because I didn’t get her permission to splay her name across cyberspace, and I’ve learned that I can burn through friends quickly by shining the spotlight on them when they think they’re hidden.

Anyway, she suggested I write about dogs because their unconditional love is a vital comfort in these troubled times.  I couldn’t agree more, and although I don’t own a dog at this time because our cat simply would not permit it, I’ve been on the receiving end of that unconditional devotion many times, and so, dogs it is…

My friend might chuckle to know that I’m writing this DESPITE my incredibly Pomeranian morning, during which I had to wrestle my neighbor’s pint-sized ball of teeth into the tub, not once, but twice, because her delicate constitution became, well…matted.

Neighbor Pom aside, I do love most dogs.  I cannot remember a time growing up when our family did not have at least one, and usually two canines on duty. My favorite pairing was Barnacle the Saint Bernard (so named because he would help us scrape said critters off the boat hull), and Dickens the mutt (so named because she ran like it. She’d race alongside the car on Sunday mornings when we went to church, which was more than a mile away, and be waiting when we arrived. Dad would unload us all and then whistle for her to get in for the ride home). Dickens, who was about the size of a toaster, had the heart of a Viking warrior. Barnacle was as big as a house and had the heart of a koala. He was a clinger—a loveable, drooling, clearly mis-categorized lap dog.

We particularly enjoyed watching the show whenever the water dude came to our back door to read the meter. He’d eyeball Barnacle like a prison escapee sneaking past a sleeping guard. Barnacle, always an eager greeter, would bound forward as far as his rope would allow (that thing didn’t hold him back, mind you, it just gave visitors a false sense of safety) and just howl. In Barnacle-ese, he was likely saying (through a spray of slobber), “Oh boy, oh boy! Welcome! Come on over and let’s cuddle!” Then, as the unsuspecting victim edged cautiously toward the meter, Dickens would leap out from seemingly nowhere and nip his ankles.

Most of our utility bills were estimates.

Brandy

Brandy, the seafaring Malamute

We even kept a dog when the family moved onto a boat for a while. Brandy, our seafaring Malamute, had to learn how to leap from the ladder to the boat deck, and back to the pier. Occasionally she missed, but she enjoyed any chance to share the joys of life on the water with her humans, and so considered the sporatic sea bath part of the job.

Our family pets were usually large dogs. Good dogs. Well, there was one mean-spirited dachshund named Gidget who only lasted two days because she didn’t care for my dad, but she didn’t understand that his was the hand that fed…and she bit it. Repeatedly. Dad loved his dogs. They were all his before any of us could lay claim. Even my sister’s dog, Boots, a golden retriever mix of some sort, took to my Dad like a surrogate. I think it was Boots my parents found in the kitchen (after they’d been away one evening) standing over a pool of blood, grinning as much as a dog can grin. By the looks of the room, significant activity had taken place there, but they’ll never know what happened except that Boots had done his job.

Boy and dog watching the rain

Jenny, a loyal dog who would never leave you, even when the rain clouds gathered.

We could learn a lot from dogs, particularly with regard to how we treat each other. Dogs are fiercely loyal, quick to forgive, and grateful for our every kindness toward them, and they’re happy to see us come home, whether we’ve been deployed six months in a foreign land or we just stepped out to get the mail. A dog will sit quietly by your side when you’re sad and will dance with you when you’re glad. Dogs will not share your secrets with others or tell you what to do when you tell them your worries. When a dog looks into your eyes, you can see full love and devotion—no deceit, no distraction; you are the center of the universe.

Oh, that we would treat each other the way dogs do. I believe that it would make the world a better place…although perhaps a bit more slobbery.

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Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.   –1 Corinthians 13:4-8

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If you can read this, thank a teacher

2 Sep

I picked up my youngest Monday after his first day of the 11th grade, and, after much grilling about his day, managed to penetrate the layer of, “It was okay,” down to a second layer, which was, “We didn’t do much,” to uncover that hidden bit of substance. He turned to me and said—

(Hold on. I need a moment. Still reeling over the phrase, “First day of the 11th grade.” How the heck did that happen? Deep breath…Okay, I think I can continue.)

—So he turned to me and said, “I like all my teachers.”

And just like that, I knew what I have to write this week. Imagine, all over the country teachers are welcoming a fresh batch of potential rocket scientists and brain surgeons and truck drivers and dot-com entrepreneurs and, yes, teachers. (Regrettably, with those students come attitudes of belligerence and self-righteousness—pointing the blame at teachers for shortcomings that are their own faults. Yes, I’m talking about parents, but I digress.)

So I’m thinking this is the perfect week to applaud the teachers. Teachers are amazing. Theirs is the only profession I know where the employees spend their own money to buy office supplies and posters and story books and anything else that might reach that one child who hasn’t completely taken in a particular lesson. They take work home because their in-school hours are never enough. They offer to stay late to work one-on-one, particularly in the case of high school students, because some topics are difficult to grasp. They take lunch room duty, playground duty, hall monitor duty, and the occasional janitorial duty. They attend school plays, sporting events, and band concerts (that last deserves more than a mere mention—have you ever had to sit through a 5th grade performance? I’ll just say this…clarinets.)

Mr. DeRobbio was my English teacher in the 9th, 11th, and 12th grades. He was also my creative writing teacher, and one of the first people in my life to suggest I should consider writing as a vocation. I could never thank him enough for his patience, his encouragement, and the genuine interest he took in my work. Mr. D. was ancient when I attended school in the 70s, so I’m not even sure he’s still with us, but I’ll hunt him down in Heaven, for sure.

My two boys are 14 years apart, so I’ve been sending someone to school for 25 years now. That’s a lot of parent-teacher meetings, don’t you know. My oldest, my precious Attention Deficit child, was labeled “unteachable” in his early years. I’m going to tell you a special story about the teacher who saved him.

Mrs. Neff taught 3rd grade at a school in Yuma, Arizona, where my oldest had been placed in a “special” classroom for incorrigible students. He hated that class because he loved learning and most of the kids placed there did not. (Sadly, the room earned the nickname “animal house” for the behaviors displayed there). Few people had heard of ADD at that time, and they just thought he was a bad kid. In fact, he was so smart, the teachers just couldn’t keep him busy, and so he self-entertained, often to the point of disruption. Mrs. Neff noticed he had a knack for math and challenged him one day, saying that if he could sit still in her class he could visit her for math class each day.

Well, that young man did such a good job that Mrs. Neff opened the door wider, inviting him to visit during reading time as well, and then for science. She also took on the challenge of learning all about ADD, taking night classes and incorporated many of the tips she learned into her teaching, specifically to keep him engaged. By the end of the school year, my son was fully “mainstreamed” and behaving (for the most part) like the rest of the children. My heart nearly broke to think he would have to start over in the 4th grade with someone new.

But he didn’t. She moved with him. Just to keep his world consistent. And he thrived.

Journal entry for crater in Arizona

Chronicling a cross-country adventure.

When he neared the end of the 4th grade, we received orders to Virginia and had to leave. My son made a scrap book of the trip across country that he mailed to his class when he arrived on the east coast. Mrs. Neff shared the book with the class and had them all write notes of encouragement and well wishes on the pages. Then she sent it back to him.

What a teacher. I swear to this day that she is the reason he didn’t fall through the cracks. Well…there was also his 6th grade biology teacher who pretended she didn’t know he was listening when she said to us, “Frankly, I don’t think he’s got what it takes to make it in my class,” which sparked an “I’ll show her!” attitude that carried through the year. And Mr. Brown, his high school band teacher, who made band a family, and fostered a strict but caring environment that my son loved. For the privilege of staying in the band, he not only made sure to stay out of trouble in his other classes, but he became an accomplished saxophonist and still plays today. And many others.

Today my oldest is a bright, funny, hard-working, compassionate man, and it wasn’t my doing, I assure you. Without just the right people in just the right places, using just the right mix of love and psychology, I honestly don’t know if he would have graduated.

So, today I send kudos to all the teachers out there. Know that you are making a difference. And when you get the “unique” students, don’t wonder why they’re in your life. Ask why you’re in theirs. You matter. A lot.

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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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NOTE: Thank you to everyone who sent me blog ideas. My list runneth over. I will certainly be drawing from it as the month unfolds. Stay tuned!

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Inertia, a Writer’s Dangerously Pleasant Anchor

26 Aug

I just don’t feel like writing today. This makes no sense because I love to write. However, today I just want to lie here, wrapped in this cozy blanket of summer memories, and watch the world pass me by.

Corn and bean field: Succotash

Have you ever wondered where succotash grows? Well, here’s a crop just outside Lancaster PA. 🙂

It has been a wonderful summer, filled with travel and family, good food, and idleness out the wazoo. I played in the salt, hung out with Marine buddies I haven’t seen in nearly ten years, and stumbled upon a succotash field—all adventures that would not have been possible if I hadn’t left my writing chair. All the while, my trusty laptop has sat idle by my side. Sure, I checked email and played a few crossword puzzles with the thing, but I wrote only two blog posts in six weeks. I thought about writing. I pondered various blog topics. I felt inspired to write on many occasions by my surroundings. But somehow, no words actually made it to the page.

Regrettably, I’ll bet that if I were to add up all the moments between actual adventures, I’d probably realize that I spent much of my summer doing absolutely nothing…staring at the miles upon miles of Iowa cornfields as we drove past, sitting in hotel rooms gazing at mindless television just because the thing was on, watching other people go about their lives. Prime, inspiration-filled writing days down the drain.

Boats on the Trent River

Watching the boats at sunrise. What would I name my boat? That could be an entire blog…

On my most recent trip to a U.S. Marine Combat Correspondents conference in New Bern, NC, I spent much of our non-meeting time looking out the hotel window at the lovely Trent River Harbor, a relaxed and peaceful boat-packed city where time practically stands still. By my third day there I’d given names to the two SCUBA divers who leave every morning on what are surely the most amazing quests I’ll never know about; to the dog walker and her Westie, who stopped to greet everyone on the path; and to the man with the bucket and hose, who moved methodically from one pier to the next, scrubbing yachts in preparation for weekend voyages. But instead of writing about them, I just stared and thought.

I wasted nearly an hour one morning trying to catch a train bridge in motion. Every time I looked out the window, it would be either opened to boat traffic or closed to let a train chug across the river…yet I could never catch it in the act of rotating.  I’d leave my post for only a second and, bam, it would change.

I wasted more time wondering how many copies of Caged Sparrow I’d have to sell to afford a yacht of my own, what I’d name my yacht if I had one (so far, I’m leaning toward Page Turner), and wondering what I’d actually do on it because I wouldn’t want to sail it myself. I think that if I couldn’t convince my hubby to skipper the thing, I’d just keep it moored and spend every waking minute on the shaded deck enjoying the rhythmic rocking and smell of salt water while I write…or think about writing.

I told myself it’s okay.

You’re on vacation. You can write when you get home.

But I didn’t. I kept watching the world. It feels terrible to not write, as if there’s an anchor pulling my creativity to the bottom of the river, and potential beauty is just sinking away…but I’m lying here, letting it happen.

This morning, after being back four days and finding myself still in idle mode, it struck me. I’ve inertia-ed myself into a state of mind atrophy. I liked doing nothing. I liked it too much. I think our minds react to laziness the same way our bodies do, and the only way to get back on the writing track is to actually write. So here I am, with nothing special to say but the urge to say it anyway. We’ll call this blog my stretching exercise, and hopefully I’ll be back running next week.

Hey, would you like to help? Let’s try a writing experiment. Give me a topic, any topic…preferably something that’s not math-related. Either add it to the comment box below or send me an email at RoseFitz.portraitwriter@gmail.com. I’ll blog about the top three suggestions throughout September (right after I tell you why I think retired Marines are the greatest people on earth.)

Who knows, perhaps you’re the one who will wake me up, for which I thank you in advance, or I will after my nap.

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How long will you lie there, you sluggard? When will you get up from your sleep? A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest—and poverty will come on you like a thief and scarcity like an armed man. — Proverbs 6:9-11

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Salt, Bugs, and Doughnuts: Love this Country!

14 Aug

As promised, this is part two of our cross-country saga: The Great Doughnuts across America Tour. I could have just as logically called it “Lumpy Hotel Mattresses across America,” or “Restrooms of Questionable Upkeep across America,” or even the “Wasn’t that our Exit?” Tour, but since my travelling companion actually planned the doughnut adventure, we’ll stick with that.

Yes, months before we even left Nothingbutfranchiseville, Virginia, my research-driven husband scoured every reference to doughnut shops in every major city along our anticipated driving route from San Francisco to Pittsburgh. He read reviews (particularly those that mentioned his favorites: maple bars and cinnamon rolls), whittled down lists to the highest-rated establishments, and checked their locations for ease of access, even using Goggle Earth to look at store fronts. Then he devised some mathematical sugar-to-distance formula to assess how many miles we could justifiably drive out of our way to explore establishments of particularly high grade. I know what you’re thinking. Perhaps I should call this the “Calories across America” Tour. Yes…yes it was.

You can't buy happiness but you can buy donuts and that's kind of the same thing.

A mighty fine philosophy, don’tcha think?

Our standard for comparison was Richard’s Donuts in Carmichael, Calif., the regional favorite of the Sacramento Oswalt clan mentioned in my last post. Over the past few years, Jerry has raved so extensively about Richard’s maple bars that I resigned to put them on my bucket list…right under “Dip a toe in the Great Salt Lake,” and before “Watch the Bay of Fundy tides change at sunset.” Aside from Richard’s nearly unforgivable spelling impairment, he seems to know what he’s doing in that little bakery of his. His maple bars are, indeed, delicious, but his crullers are melt-in-your-mouth-worth every calorie.

Of course, by the time I tasted a Richard’s, I’d already experienced what we’ve since proclaimed the worst doughnut stop on our trip—a small bakery in downtown San Francisco. We should never have stopped there, 1: during rush hour, 2: straight from the airport, 3: in the afternoon, or 4: in a car. We learned some valuable lessons there that set our parameters for the remainder of our trip. To pull off the buy, Jerry had to drive around the block while I ran inside, as parking did not exist. In the store I found only a few longish things that looked like maple bars in the case, so I bought two and high-tailed it outside before our rental car made it back. Then, I held the bag on my lap until we could get out of the city, as getting out of there took some serious navigation and concentration. At last, as we drove up onto the Oakland Bay Bridge, we sighed deeply and then each took a bite of—something greasy and nearly gag-able. Neither of us wanted another bite. To make matters worse, holding that bag five minutes on my lap left a San Francisco Memorial Grease Stain on my blue capris.

After our visit in Sacramento, we hit the road east with high expectations. Our first doughnut stop was in Elko, Nevada. We’d set out from our hotel late in the morning, stopping at Donuts N Mor. The name made me wonder if anyone has ever conducted a study on the possible effects that excessive exposure to yeast might have on the brain’s spelling lobe. Anyway, by the time we arrived, the place had been seriously scavenged. After selecting from what we thought were our only options (some fair, but nothing-to-write-posts-about cinnamon rolls), an apparent regular came in and ordered maple bars—and the clerk got her some from the back! Sigh. After Elko, we determined to get to shops early in the morning….even if I had to push Jerry out of bed to bring breakfast doughnuts back to the hotel. (That only worked once, by the way. Another sigh.)

Salt Lake City’s doughnuts were forgettable, but we gave the city points for being Salt Lake because of two memorable experiences nearby. First, we stopped at the Bonneville Salt Flats, something I’d have PUT on my bucket list if I’d known how amazing that place is. Miles and miles of salt in every direction, white as snow, mesmerizing, and, well, salty. (But of course I tasted it, wouldn’t you?) Second, we stopped at the Great Salt Lake, which was a beautiful and memorable disappointment. No, I didn’t dip my toe, although I could have. However, that would have required me to walk across a two-foot-wide band of brine shrimp carcasses and their brine fly border guard. No, thank you. But we did get a video of the flies. Trust me, it’s way cool. (Don’t watch me, watch the sand in front of me!)

Then the doughnut tide changed for us at the Milk Run Donut Cafe in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. Once again, we arrived after the stampede, but I found a mocha-filled ball o’ goodness and Jerry hit doughnut nirvana with a maple frosted cinnamon roll. We savored every bite, ignoring the staff as they swept and cleaned around us, hinting as best they could that the place closes when inventory runs out.

We stayed in Colorado a few days, also sampling Daylight Donuts in Longmont, and the Donut House in Denver. Good, but not Richard’s good. But Lincoln, Nebraska, oh my, who’d have thought? If for ANY reason you go to Lincoln, please stop at Lamar’s. Great selection, great doughnuts, melty soft goodness. I enjoyed it so much I’m wondering if I should encourage my high school junior to consider becoming a Cornhusker. I’d visit, I really would.

Doughnut display in Fort Bend, Indiana

Marci’s — So many treats, so little appetite!

Even better than Lamar’s, only because it’s barely a two-day drive if I ever wish to go back, is Marci’s Italian Bakery, in South Bend, Indiana. Regrettably, by the time we reached Indiana, I was DONE with doughnuts. I walked the length of display cases just wishing I wanted a doughnut, but it wasn’t going to happen. I settled for some small cheese Danish sticks, just to experience the place, but Jerry had a doughnut and said it’s a winner. However, he was still on a high from checking off his bucket list item, a visit to Notre Dame (complete with a Touchdown Jesus sighting) and chanting “Rudy, Rudy” as if it were a theme song, so even a sardine pretzel probably would have made him smile. At any rate, I will be back, Marci.

We finally made it to Pittsburgh, and on the recommendation of our oldest, visited Pastries A La Carte. It did not disappoint. Again a residual doughnut overload sent me to the cheese Danish tray. I cannot say enough good things about the cheese Danish there. The messiest, cheesiest, pastries I’ve ever tasted. I have a new standard by which to compare all cheese Danish in the future… hmmm, wondering if perhaps this calls for a drive back, this time on a Cheese Danish across America Tour?

But that will have to wait, because our family is not through with doughnuts. How are the pastries in your home town? Let us know your favorite bakery and we’ll add it to our list. We’ve found two so far that give Richard’s a run for its money, but we’re willing to do way more sampling before we proclaim a winner. Someone’s gotta do it…you know, for pastry’s sake.

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Okay, I usually tie my Bible verses to the post, but there are simply no doughnut verses to be found, so I selected something that addresses the joy we can find in everything, even doughnuts:

Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. – John 1:3

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Family and the Open Road: Down Home America

28 Jul

Home.

Jerry and I recently journeyed 3,200 miles over ten days, through 12 states and numerous cities from San Francisco to Pittsburgh, following the path of family. We crossed deserts and mountain ranges, skirted farmlands and big cities, and stopped at every roadside curiosity that caught our fancy.

…on our way home.

Funny word, home. For the past 20 years, home to us has been a cozy place in Virginia where we live and love, and where coffee is served in ceramic mugs—not those annoying, plastic lidded paper cups that emit all substance and steam as a single, scalding jet stream through a tiny, razor-sharp puncture hole…but I digress. Sorry, it’s been a long trip.

However, as we drove eastward, the idea of home took on an entirely new meeting.

We sure felt right at home for three nights in Sacramento, staying with Troy and Jodi and their beautiful girls. Jodi put out the Call to Family, and people I haven’t seen in years swooped in like excited chickadees to say hello.

I’m truly honored to have married in to this Anderson/Perkins/Fitzsimmons tribe, (part of the Mary Oswalt’s Daughters clan). The Oswalts know many secrets about life, inherently or otherwise. They put family first, they love fiercely, and they speak the universal love language: good food. If I wrote about all the wondrous foods I consumed in Sacramento I’d quickly max on word count and make us all hungry again, but I will say that Liz’s carrot cake and Melissa’s banana pudding are worth the price of a plane ticket, should you be so inclined.

…which led to an invite to see the garden—a tamed jungle of nearly all the richness our earth has to offer to anyone like Cousin Liz who can coax it out. Liz is also an artist, although I’m not sure she knows that yet. I cried when she gave me a piece of Sacramento Home that I’ll treasure always: A Liz-made quilt that belonged to Aunt Lois, one of The Sisters.

I could stay here for a while and just love these people, I thought.

Strawberry Reservoir

The Strawberry Reservoir in Utah–looks like home.

All too quickly we hit the road, headed East on Highway 80 through Nevada and Utah, a beautiful route lined with forests and mountain lakes. Such beauty! For days we flew past, (and stopped occasionally to gawk at) glorious evidence of God’s infinite imagination.

We could live here, we said to each other.

NOTE: In another blog post I’ll tell you about the salt and the bugs, Steamboat Springs, doughnuts, and Touchdown Jesus, but this post is about home, so let’s get back on the road.

We paused again in Loveland, Colorado, an amazingly beautiful town just east of the Rocky Mountains, to see my sister Sue and her husband Dan. We stayed long enough to enjoy some brontosaurus steaks and home-made potato salad,(a recipe I aim to acquire soon). Sue and Dan are storytellers, and, after the boys toured Dan’s amazing automotive wonderland, we sat in their back yard well into the night listening appreciatively to their NASCAR-sales tales in the soft glow of garden luminaries, wishing we had more time.

But the next day we were back on the road, driving toward Denver. There we stopped to see Jerry’s dad and Cathy, who, because of a tragedy, are now parents to 9-year-old Precious in what should be their retirement years. There’s a light in Grandpa’s eyes that makes me think that sweet little girl is not a burden at all.

Still meandering eastward, we lingered for a while in Indianola, Nebraska, where Uncle John and Aunt Peggy filled our bellies with home-cooked stew, complete with vegetables freshly harvested from the plot of goodness outside the kitchen door. We lamented together over the butterflies in the peach trees (who knew they could destroy a peach crop?) and the varmints in the garden, and, after pulling up a few new potatoes and admiring the pair of ‘68 Fords John is loving on in his shop, we again had to wrench ourselves away from home to continue the journey.

Life is so simple here. We could get to like this.

We drove through miles and miles of waving cornfields in Iowa, Illinois, and Indiana, loving the abundance of it all. And the peacefulness. Nearing the end of our journey we traversed Ohio and holed up for the night in Pittsburgh, where we met our oldest son for dinner at a nice, home-style restaurant. Sorry, I experienced no inclination to settle down in Pittsburgh; however, I so enjoyed being with my son that I treasured every minute, even the part where he and Dad just sprawled out on the hotel bed afterward, watching the Nats play ball while I finished some editing work.

I could be happy doing this for a long time.

One blog post isn’t nearly enough for me to record my pining. How much I wanted the time to…get to know Jodi like a sister, particularly in a busy season I recognize oh, so well, and assure her that, despite not getting more than a glimpse of her man over the heads of those two bouncy girls, she and Troy will get time to themselves again…to read Paddington stories to Blake and hang out with Margaret—who I suspect shares my sense of humor…to learn about Sue’s childhood, especially the years before I was  born…to play that perfect practical joke on Doug…just because, well, he’s Doug…to have a real talk with John about more than just the weather…to be there with Uncle John when he turns the key on one of those cars…to—well, again with the word count issue…

In essence, Jerry and I gathered snippets of family across America, and came back to Virginia with a new definition of home. Our home is a bountiful and beautiful nation filled with natural wonders, some harnessed by man and others too magnificent to tame, and we want to see it all. Our home is a 3,000-mile stretch of people gathered around tables in kitchens and backyards across the country, bound by a love that endures across time and distance. Our home is family.

And we love you all. Thank you for your generosity and your love. We miss you already.

—–

People will come from east and west and north and south, and will take their places at the feast in the kingdom of God. — Luke 13:29

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Let Fly the Caged Sparrow! I’m Officially Booked…

2 Jul

“Writing a book is an adventure. To begin with it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster and fling him to the public.” –Winston S. Churchill

Sparrow in prison book cover

Or, you can click on the book!

Praise the Lord, and Hallelujah!

Caged Sparrow is now a published book!

It is now among the more than 1,748,230 titles vying for your attention on Amazon’s virtual bookshelves.

That’s right, Caged Sparrow is now available through this link here (back up nine words), through a soon-to-be created link on the side of my page, and, of course, via the Amazon website. We’re still crawling through the induction procedures, so, although the Kindle version (note link) is up and running, it may be a day or so before the hard copy is visible there. You can buy a hard copy right now, though, at https://www.createspace.com/5461684.

I’ve been pondering how to make this announcement, and this day, memorable. I hear crickets, for the most part. Hubby and I went out to celebrate with money we haven’t yet made, and we came home to a special book-launch gift from the cat that required immediate attention, but other than that, it’s been pretty much an ordinary day.

Then I remembered this neat blog idea I saw on other blogs and have always wanted to take a stab at, so…welcome to Rose’s…

TOTALLY  MADE  UP  AUTHOR  INTERVIEW!

Yep. Since Oprah’s book club isn’t clamoring for a guest spot, and I didn’t think of hosting an author chat room until, like twenty seconds ago, I shall open the virtual floor to …well, ME! Let’s see what’s in our in-box, shall we?

Q: How wonderful! I’ve been waiting for this book to be available for more than a year. I’m going to purchase 500 copies right now to deliver to ALL my friends!

A: Um…that’s a great idea, but is there a question here?

Q: Oh, sorry, yes. Let’s see…What was your inspiration for Caged Sparrow?

A: Glad you asked. It’s actually a true story about a man named Joe Tuttolomondo, who, while working as a Buffalo police officer in the ‘70s was arrested, tried, and put in jail for a crime he did not commit. I liked the story before I met the man, but once I met the man, there was no going back.

Q: What’s it like to launch a book?

A: It’s a little like kicking your 19-year-old out on the curb. Sure you’ll miss him, but you need the space for something else.

Follow-up Q: Oooh, what will you do with the space?  Are you taking in boarders? I could use a room…

A: What? No, it’s not actual space…it’s cerebral. My brain can only hold so much, and now I’m free to explore some of the more curious characters and story lines that have been wedged into corners and pressed against the walls by this giant box of “Can’t now, I’m working on Caged Sparrow.”

Q: Is this going to make you rich?

A: Not hardly. Unless you count the kind of rich that can only be measured in giggles because I’M A PUBLISHED AUTHOR! No, this book exists for one reason, and that’s to tell Joe’s story. I’m hoping to make enough to cover that dinner tab and cat-proof the carpet on the stairs, but anything above that is gravy.

Q: What’s next for Caged Sparrow?

A: We now enter into the marketing and good-bye trunk space phase of writing—writing letters to people who might want to endorse, sell, or maybe even read the book. Also, I understand I’m required by writers-group law to keep 100 copies on my person at all times…You know, so I can sign them.

Q: Why would you sign them when technically Joe Tutt is the author?

A: Excellent question, and one I bring up constantly. Well, the answer I get most often is “Because I want one that you’ve signed.” Can’t argue with logic like that, so I’ll make sure to keep pens in the trunk as well.

Q: How much is it selling for?

A: For you, Preposition Abuser, $489.75. For everyone else, $9.95.

Q: Can I get a discount, seeing as how I’m your hubby and all…?

A: Sigh. Don’t you see, I only have so many friends and family members. If I make an exception for you, where does it stop? Sweetheart? Come back…okay, how about if I loan you a tenner?

Q: Is Caged Sparrow available as an e-book?

A: Well, I think I covered that in the intro, but absolutely! For the next 6 months, it’s strictly a Kindle option (sorry Nookers), but after that, who knows?

Q: Can I help pass the word?

A: I LOVE YOU! That one question is worth sitting through this entire excruciating interview. Yes, that would be the most magnificent gift you could possibly bestow upon me, and could quite possibly catapult my sales numbers well beyond the anticipated 28. Thank you, thank you in advance. …But order from my page if you can, please, because I’ll be staring at the sales counter-clicker-thingy until I see that magic “28” appear (sometime in August, I imagine), and clapping with joy every time someone new gives Caged Sparrow a try. If you like it, I would ask two favors. First, tell your friends – put it on your FB page, send out my blog link, slip referrals in with your water payment…for the next week or so, we’re going to see a Sparrow-palooza!

And then I promise to settle back down so I don’t make a nuisance of myself. I kinda like you and all.

Second, and only if you like what you read, consider writing a review on the Amazon site. Tell Goodreads, however that works. And if you’re really feeling reckless, post a reference on your own website. Who knows? These simple steps could even push sales over 30!

Q: And if we hate it?

A: If you don’t have something nice to say…

Q: Didn’t I see you in the package store on base buying a whole case of Blue Moon? What’s up with that?

A: Hey, writing is a stressful—Oh, my, look at the time! Well I can see we’re out of questions, so I’ll close with a hearty thank you to all who made this book possible, eSPECIALly Joe Tutt and his willingness to trust me with such an inspiring story. I can’t wait to hear what everyone thinks.

Happy Reading!

——-

Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. Luke 12:6-7

Deadlines & Rocket Surgery: Lessons Learned from a Lil’ Ball O’ Hate

16 Jun

“I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.” — Douglas Adams

So, the big Caged Sparrow debut date came and went, and I’m still staring at a not-quite finished project. I tried so hard to make the promised deadline, but life had other plans. Good plans, mind you…purposeful and fruitful disruptions, but disruptions nonetheless.

I am reminded of something Carrie, my former boss and now great friend, used to say whenever someone would complain that we’d missed an arbitrary deadline because of changing priorities. Usually some self-appointed informant would storm into her office all purple and blustery and announce, “That document! It’s LATE!”

As if we didn’t know.

Carrie would calmly look him in the eyes and ask, “Late for what?”

Best boss ever.

Lil' Ball O' Hate

Tony-the-illustrator’s rendition of Ms Carrie in Mother Hen mode

Carrie has more common sense than anyone I know. She’s a tiny thing, who can tie a belt around an NFL jersey and still look ready for a Vogue cover shoot (not an exaggeration—I’ve seen her do it), yet she packs a lot of spitfire in that little frame, particularly if someone tries to strong-arm one of her Quality and Dissemination chicks. You’ve never seen a more effective mother hen. (Heheh,that’s why we lovingly nicknamed her Lil’ Ball O’ Hate.)

I loved working for Carrie for many reasons; she’s not only wise, but also funny, brilliant, calm in the face of (our) perceived calamity, and she can do some amazing things with chicken and a can of Cheez Whiz. Working with Carrie taught me to focus on the larger picture—what’s really important here? That may be why so many of her words of wisdom are echoing around my brain this week.

Carrie is full of…wisdom. (Missed opportunity, Q&D Gang, I know.) My favorite Carrie-ism, although least relevant to this post is, “It’s not rocket surgery, you know.” Logically, I should have omitted that for the sake of flow here, but I couldn’t NOT share. So there you go.

Carrie also taught me that one of the most important steps in a project is the final “quality control” check. I was so tempted to skip this step in Joe’s book, because I was THAT close to making the deadline, and I’d told so many people it would be ready. I didn’t want the book to be late.

Then I heard, “Late for what?”

…and I realized I’m only shooting for June 15th because I set a June 15th deadline.

Yes, I could actually hit the “go live” button right now if I really wanted to. All the parts are there. Joe has given his final thumbs up; Tony, the illustrator, has patiently tweaked the cover so often the words, “just one more time, I swear” no longer carry meaning (but it’s exactly the right cover now!); and I’ve received excellent feedback from my beta readers, Mary, Becky, and Michele, who noticed a few missing words, some awkward phrasing, and one extremely improbable juxtaposition in the space-time continuum.

Which brings me to another Carrie-ism. Having people find mistakes in my writing doesn’t bother me as much as it used to, particularly mistakes found before final print. I think of the beta readers as angels who, knowing what a klutz I am, walk ahead of me clearing tree branches and stones from path so I don’t fall on my face. At the office, on the rare occasion when a typo did slip through the cracks and make it to print, we could count on some arrogant know-it-all to toss a copy of the manuscript on her desk, offending typo circled thirty times in thick black marker.

“Sure, I see it,” she’d say, and then grin. “But did ya happen to notice the seven thousand words here that we got right?”

So, yes, I could have rushed through the last few steps and uploaded the final version, but as my hand hovered over that button, I thought of Carrie again.

I remembered her more than once staring down a petulant customer, usually someone who thought an editor can zip through a 75-page passive-voice nightmare between the two-hour staff meeting and the mandatory pot luck luncheon and have enough time left over to design a cover for it. After all, editing is just reading, right?

“Look, Bud,” Carrie would say, “you can have it right or you can have it right now, but not both.”

Page One edits

One day when I’m famous, I’ll tell the story of how I rewrote the first page of Caged Sparrow a gazillion times and it will be funny, somehow.

So I’m not going to rush this. I’m going to finish these last changes unhurried, and then get one more proof copy so I can see for myself that the cover looks exactly the same in hand as it does on the screen, and THEN, I’ll hit the button.

New arbitrary deadline: 27 June.

Carrie would be proud of me, I think. If she’s still talking to me, that is…

You see, Carrie is such a great boss, she once left a card on my desk that posed the question, “What would you do if you knew you could not fail?”

…at which time I decided to quit my editing job.

So, essentially, this book is pretty much her fault

Best boss ever.

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The eyes of all look to you, and you give them their food in due season. – Psalm 145:15

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