A Tart Read

I picked up the book because of the title The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender. Of course, lemon cake is tart and that could be a bit sad, but no, that is not what the book was about. The cover told me that 9-year-old Rose can taste the sadness in the cake when her mother bakes it.
The book sounded similar to Like Water For Chocolate, which is one of my favorite books, so I brought it home, uncertain if I would hate it because it tried to imitate Like Water for Chocolate or love it for its similarities.
The similarities did not continue.
Like a present from a fairy godmother gone awry, the little girl can taste the emotions of everyone involved in the food-making process. She isn't attuned only to her mother, but to the farmer who drove the lemons to market, and the cows that gave the milk. She tries to confide in adults but you can imagine how that goes over. She takes to eating mechanically prepared foods -- twinkies and honeybuns.
The story really though is more about the emotions she discovers in her family. She can taste the guilt when her mother begins an affair. She watches as her brother begins to disappear -- literally.
Near the end of the book while talking with her father, she discovers that her grandfather could smell emotions. Where was the father all this time that the little girl claimed she could taste emotions?
In spite of, or because of, the mystical qualities of the book, it's a good read filled with the emotions of coping in a family.
Photo from Amazon, where you can look inside the book.

Loss of a Good Man

I received the most poignant email forwarded from my mom this morning. It came from some friends in New Zealand.

I am very sorry to tell you that Rex was knocked off his bike and has died.
Of course we are all devastated and find it hard to believe.
We are coping,somehow.
I'll be in contact again later.
Just wanted you to know.
Love,Joy.

Joy and Rex are in their 70s like my parents.
I met them a couple of times when they travelled here to the United States and my parents went to New Zealand to visit them once. If I had to describe Rex, I would say alive is the best word. He was always moving, always had a plan. He played every sport every invented, and if he hadn't yet, he would try it. He was very "fit," I think is the word the New Zealanders would use to describe him.
It seems appropriate that he didn't grow old sitting in a chair and losing his memory, yet no one was ready for him to go so unexpectedly.
My parents' friendship with Rex and Joy came about through me.
I met their son Mike when he was bicyling through the United States. He was staying with a couple in Middletown, Ohio and I was a reporter there. When the editor told me to interview this guy from New Zealand, I didn't know anything about the country.
"Do they speak English?" I asked.
I immediately fell under Mike's spell -- tall, blonde and athletic with the dulcet New Zealand accent. He tried to explain to me the difference between the Australian and the New Zealand accent, moving his tone up into his nose to talk like an Australian. We talked for hours: he was an accountant, he wanted to own race horses, he'd worked in Australia and they always wanted to fight. I returned to the newsroom to write my story and when I went home that night, I told my younger brother Kevin that I had met the man I was going to marry.

I misspelled his last name in the news article.
Still, when I called and asked if he wanted to go out to eat, he did. We shared some meals and time. He planned to continue biking and I asked if he wanted to go to my grandmother's house in Kentucky.
He did. We went boating with my cousin Mike, and Mike from New Zealand worried that we might run into alligators as we swam in the lake. I laughed at him because, obviously to me, no alligators live in Kentucky, and he kissed me that day for the first time.
I took Mike to a truck stop/bus station so he could hitch a ride or continue his bicycle journey. A few weeks later, he called and returned to Ohio on a plane. I met him at the airport. When he flew out again, we looked at the travel posters on the wall and talked about how we would love to visit Greece. I thought, "Who knows." But I was starting grad school that fall and he was off to New Zealand.
We stayed in touch for a long time, writing letters that probably sound overblown now.
A few months before Earl and I got married, I sent him a letter to let him know. Our letters must have crossed in the mail, because I received one from him about his new wife, Leigh. Leigh and Mike visited once with their girls and Leigh was here again a few years ago to stay with us.
Today, I sorted through photo albums to find a picture of Mike. I called Grace down to the basement to look at some old college pictures.
When I finally found the picture of Mike that the newspaper used, I pulled it from the sticky page.
"Who's this?" Grace asked.
"It's Mike. From New Zealand," I said.
"And you didn't follw him?" she asked.
She turned as Earl came down the stairs. "Can you believe she didn't follow him?"
"I don't think he's the one you want to ask that," I told Grace. "Besides, you wouldn't be here if I did."
Plus, life isn't like a romantic comedy movie, well, maybe the comedy part.
Funny, because I was never sure how much I meant to Mike, until his wife visited a few years ago and told me he thought very highly of me and felt strongly. Maybe if I'd known then...
But the reason I wrote about this lovely family today was to mourn a great man and to send sympathy to his family, who will always be looking out the window to see if he's returning from his latest run, his latest bike ride, his latest cricket match. The road will seem so empty without him there.

Blueberry Syrup and Coffee Kind of Day

Saturday was one of those Mom days. I got up early to make blueberry syrup -- tripled the recipe and poured it into the Crock Pot so it would stay warm for the basketball players' breakfast. We went to the school cafeteria at 9 to set up the waffle makers. We had six waffle makers and my friend Jane mixed up the batter with Bisquick. I know, I've never used a waffle mix. I just use flour, milk, eggs. She wanted to buy the mix so I acquiesced.
About 9:40, we started plugging in waffle makers to do test waffles before the boys got there at 10. I plugged three waffle makers into one outlet, three in another. Then I noticed the light on the power strip had gone out. We tried some other outlets but saw that the breaker had knocked them out too. We moved to another corner of the room, moving tables again. This time, we blew the circuit and the pop machines there gave a gurgle before they stopped working, the lights flickering out.
A shelf held two microwaves. We lugged those away and plugged the waffle makers into the dedicated circuit, after blowing one more outlet.
Finally, we were able to operate three waffle makers and fed the 25 boys who were very polite and claimed we had the best breakfast spread yet.
After cleaning up, I returned home long enough to eat a waffle before driving an hour away to a swim meet. The swim meet lasted six hours.
I drove the hour back, dropped Grace off at home, picked Tucker up from the bus, dropped him at home and went to a basketball game to watch Spencer.
See, a totally Mom day. Nothing was about me.
While I was at the swim meet for six hours, I started reading a new book -- one of those I keep in the car for just such occasions. The book is called The Various Flavors of Coffee by Anthony Capella.
The title was appropriate because Grace had purchased white mochas for both of us on the way to the swim meet. The mochas tasted sweet and thick with a hint of bitter espresso.
I started the book, wedged into a corner of the pool area, my eyes burning from the chlorine and my straight hair beginning to frizz in the humidity.
"Oh, I don't like this kind of narration," I commented to Grace as I read the first page. It begins with an Dickens-esque narration as "we" watch the character traipsing down the street.
The narration changed to first person in the next chapter and I began to find things that made me chuckle, so I read them to Grace.
Then I came to a section that made me fold down the page so I could find it again.
The main character, a foppish man who lives in London after flunking out of Oxford in the late 1800s, considers himself a poet. He meets a coffee merchant who wants the poet to help determine the language for describing coffee so he can standardize it.
In the coffee merchant's office, they have a discussion because the merchant has been unable to find any of the poet's work in the bookstores. The coffee trader explains:

"...A merchant is someone who trades. Ergo, if I do not trade, I am not a merchant."
"But a writer, by the same token, must therefore be someone who writes," I pointed out. "It is not strictly necessary to be read as well. Only desirable."

"What?" I squawked.
I read it to Grace and we cracked up.
That means I'm a writer. I don't have to be read to be a writer, but it is "only desirable."
So, the next time I question whether I'm a writer, remind me, all it takes to be a writer is writing.

Affirmations

I worked yesterday with another teacher who is also a writer. Jeff is more of a literary writer than I am. He's in his mid-30s, no kids, wife finishing her post graduate degree. He grew up in New York City and went to graduate school in England. He wears a tweed blazer and sometimes speaks with a slightly pretentious accent. We have some interesting conversations.
He finished his first novel after a year and a half of writing, and has been shopping it around, including to some agent friends. So far he has had no takers.
"Do you have some sort of daily affirmation to keep going?" he asked.
I recognized the look on his face. I had it once myself when sitting at a table at a writing conference with an older woman who told me she had written six novels. She hadn't sold any of them. I wondered why she kept writing, how she kept writing when she obviously wasn't going to sell a book. I felt like she was desperate. I felt superior.
Now, that woman is me. I've written three novels and haven't sold them. Am I that hopeful, oblivious woman now?
I don't have a daily affirmation that makes me send letters to agents trying to sell my novels.
I have had some positive feedback from professionals, including an agent who said "We're sure you'll sell this work."
Jeff's comments got me thinking about the positive support I get from my family.

Just the other morning, my mom called and said she was sending a check for some expensive sewer work at our house. I protested that Earl and I were grown ups and we would take care of it.
"You can pay us back when you sell your first novel," she said.
That comment didn't even register until I was talking to Jeff.
My mom didn't say "if you sell your novel." She said "when you sell." She has no doubt that I will succeed.
I wonder how many affirmations I receive from my family that slide past me. I'm going to try to be more aware of the support I receive and try to make them proud with my work, and eventually the sale of a book.
I can't wait to hold that book in my hand and give a copy to the people who believed in me.

Worry Bubbles

Do you ever lie in bed when you should be sleeping and worry instead?
I was doing that yesterday morning. It was early, a time when I should still be sleeping when my eyes popped open. If I could manage to avoid letting thoughts take root, I could probably fall back to sleep. But my current worry was there waiting for me and, like a firework, it soared to the front of my brain ready to explode and drip slowly from the sky. As soon as I started to toss and turn, the younger cat moved from his place at my feet to nudge me with his head, to pounce on my hand if it moved beneath the blanket. I pushed him away and tried to return to sleep.

After a little while longer, I turned on my side and determined that I couldn't fix my current worry.
In my half sleepy state, I decided to let it go. A giant bluish white bubble floated away from me and the pestering cat. That was my worry floating away. I fell back to sleep.
Throughout the day though, I felt it coming back, and I reminded myself that I had let it go. Things would work out. That's hard though, for a control freak like me. I want to manipulate things until they fall into neat rows.
I pushed it away all day, but it was still there. I hadn't let it go, even as I tried to picture that bluish white bubble floating away each time.
A phone call from my mom early this morning as I stood in the coffee shop swept the worry away. I knew I shouldn't have held onto it.
How do you let go of worries when you don't have control?

Growing Up

My intention was to write more stories about my adventures in France, but the weekend got away from me and today I have three doctor's appointments that I have to ferry people to, along with teaching.

I was at the doctor with Spencer this morning and he lopes along in front of me with a hoodie that proudly proclaims Basketball, but I doubt that anyone who sees him would think he isn't a basketball player.
His black Nike high tops are untied and his navy sweat pants sit low on his hips. He's tall and gangly. When he sits down in the doctor's office, his knees jut out taking up the space of the two adjacent chairs. I tap his big shoe with my foot, telling him to pull in those long legs.
Other parents are at the pediatrician with their little children. The kids play with the little beads that travel along metal tracks up and down and around in circles. They hum songs to themselves. Spencer texts his classmates and checks his Smurf village on his iPod.
Not that long ago, that was me at the doctor with my little kids, afraid they would pick up more illnesses from playing with the toys in the doctor's office.
Watching a little boy turn into a man is astounding. It feels so different from watching Grace grow into a woman. Maybe because it's so foreign to me.
That little boy who nursed at my breast, that little boy so curious about everything that he needed to touch it and smell it, that little boy is now a lumbering man, still not sure where his body ends and the world begins.

Seasons

My Uncle Don died this week and my mother, having just returned home to Florida, returned north for his funeral. She didn't get to see him on the last trip because he was in intensive care after a botched surgery.
My mom is the youngest of nine children. Her oldest sister Lula died when Grace was young, and her sister, Lorena, the eighth child, died about four years ago. Now her brother Don, who is the seventh child has died.
Unlike the rest of his brothers and sisters, Uncle Don did not leave his home state of Kentucky, so he always sounded more southern than the others. His voice was a high tenor. He also went bald early. I don't remember him not being bald, while the rest of his brothers still have thick heads of hair as they journey through their 80s.
When I think of Uncle Don, I remember visiting there as a child and the time he had the three-legged dog named Rainbow.
My mom and Uncle Don fought when they were children. They grew up on a farm in the hills of southern Kentucky and Uncle Don was the brother who tortured her, mostly because the others were grown and moved away. Uncle Don knew my mom was afraid of pigs, so he would hide and make pig noises to scare her. He knew it would always get a rise out of her.
The other story I remember is about Uncle Don's military service. He was in the Navy during the Korean War. I sat down with all of my uncles a few years ago and videotaped their reminisces about their military experience. Uncle Don pulled out a card the size of a drivers license. It was a mini certificate for crossing over the Prime Meridian while in the Navy. My Uncle Clarence, who fought during World War II, hurried over to his car and came back with a full-sized, wall certificate that he got for crossing the Prime Meridian. His certificate dwarfed Uncle Don's. They laughed at the way the certificates had shrunk as crossing the Prime Meridian became less of a feat.
The question I asked Uncle Don about his military service was whether the rumor was true.
"Did someone else take your swimming test for you?" I asked.
That was the story I had heard. To be in the Navy, Uncle Don was required to take a swimming test, but he wasn't able to swim, so he had someone else swim for him.
Now, just a few years later, I can't recall what his answer was. I'll have to search for the videotape to see what he said. But that's how I'll remember him, a man willing to get on an aircraft carrier and cross the Pacific Ocean while unable to swim a lick.
Uncle Don always wore a hat, not a baseball cap, but more of a tractor or trucking cap with a bill. He always spoke to me at the crowded family reunions and asked how my family was. He raised two sons who now have wives from the Phillipines, one of whom helped care for him while he was ill.
Today as she mourns his passing, my mom doesn't think about the ways he teased her as a child, but the relationship they built as adults.

"Bereavement in their death to feel
Whom We have never seen --
A Vital Kinsmanship import
Our Soul and theirs -- between" -- Emily Dickinson

Go Bucks

This is a melancholy day because it is the end of college football season for the Ohio State team, but it's a happy day because they won their game last night against Arkansas.
I love college football, but it is messed up!
The colleges make millions of dollars off their football programs. The players, if they are lucky, will go on to play in the National Football League and could make millions. At the very least, they are supposed to get a "free" education for playing football. I think the school gets much more out of the players than the players get out of the school.
Watching Grace attempt a college sport, practicing 22 hours a week, I saw how difficult it must be for hard core athletes who are gone for games and miss classes, along with more hours of practice. How can they possibly keep up with classes? They don't very well. That's why football players are notorious for majoring in things like athletic training.
Earl claims it's a symbiotic relationship, but the power is very lopsided.
Some of the OSU players got in trouble with the National Collegiate Athletic Association for selling some of their football trophies. They aren't allowed to earn any money off their "celebrity." I'm sure these boys are coddled and treated like kings because of their athletic prowess. They also are allowed to let slide through the system rather than pushed to work hard and earn a degree. The boys who sold their trophies -- a charm and a ring for winning, made $1500 to $2500 and also got some free tattoos.
They have apologized and promised to come back to school next year to finish their college rather than going to the professional football league, where they could make big money.
Last night though, they played like men. The guys who were in trouble all made great plays to help lead the Buckeyes to victory over Arkansas. I hate to listen to the sports announcers who say that Ohio State can't keep up with the southern teams, but I love watching those same announcers eat their words.
I don't know how to fix the college system. I love being able to support Ohio State along with hundreds of thousands of other fans and alumni in Ohio and around the world.

Material Girl

Today, I meant to write the story of an Argentine sailor and an Ohio girl who met at the Louvre in Paris. But, I didn't feel that I could tell you that story unless I could find a picture of myself from that trip to France so you could imagine the whole scene.
I found some pictures but they led me in a totally different direction. They reminded me why I fell in love with France. This first picture should sum it up for you.

This was the view from the balcony of the house where I stayed in Corsica. But before I got to Corsica, I was a 22-year-old working at The Middletown Journal, covering exciting things like school boards and city council. I was dating a photographer named Greg and his sister was married to a Frenchman.
Duh, duh, duh, duh.
That's the set up. They lived near Yale or Harvard or someplace, and they had two little girls, Brigid and Claire. The mother was pregnant with her third child when she started to have difficulties with her pregnancy. The family already had tickets to travel to France in early July. What could they do? They asked me to go along with the girls and the father to Paris. Then the father would return home and I would stay in France with the girls at their grandparents' home until their baby brother was born.
I didn't hesitate. I told my boss I was going whether I had a job when I returned home or not. He talked to me about health insurance and I vaguely hummed "La Vie en Rose" as his words whizzed past. Who cared about jobs and health insurance? I was going to France with an open-ended ticket.
The grandparents had an apartment at the Viroflay RER stop, headed from Paris out toward Versailles. But they weren't there when we arrived. They had gone to their vacation home in Corsica.
Before I get too carried away telling the story of a young Ohioan in Paris with two French-American toddlers, I'd better return to the point of this story. My clothes. This was the mid-1980s and I dressed in skirts, dresses, ankle socks and low heeled shoes.
Look. Here's an example.

See those cute little socks that may be red or pink. Hard to tell but they match my top and the plaid in my skirt.
Okay, the girls are cute too. That's Brigid, 4, on the left and Claire, 3, all the way to the right. On my lap was Isabelle and next to me Agnes. They are the children of the French/Polish couple we visited in April. Now back to the 22-year-old me.
I couldn't find a photo of myself in my favorite dress. It was flowered pinks, blues and purples, and had a wide, round, white collar. That's what I was wearing the day I met the Argentine sailor in the Louvre. I also wore a pair of pink ankle socks that had lace around them. The sailor said, in his smidgen of English, that I couldn't possibly be American because I wasn't wearing tennis shoes and chewing gum.
But, I'm getting pulled into the Argentine sailor story, when I meant to talk about why I loved France and how I dressed like Madonna.
Here's another photo on the balcony where we ate dinner every night in Corsica. I look a little fuzzy in this picture, but you can see my white fishnet ankle socks. You can't see my shoes, which are the same color blue as my top.

If they'd had the phrase then, I would have thought I was "all that."
My suitcase was so full of outfits that I probably didn't even get around to wearing them all in the three months that I was there.
Who was that girl, I wonder. That very confident, very flamboyant girl who would only wear shoes that matched the outfit. Now, I shuffle through the snow in my Crocs.
When I first arrived in France, although I had minored in French in college, I couldn't understand very much of what was said. The French family spoke freely in front of me -- about me.
I remember one night at dinner, one of the guests said that it was obvious I loved French food.
They thought I was chunky.
"Oh, no. She came that way," the family assured the guest, letting the guest know that I hadn't been fattened on French food but American food.
I don't remember being insulted, just shrugging it off.
I felt satisfied with myself. Maybe that's why the country spoke to me so much, because I liked who I was at that very moment.
When I visit France now, I think I'm much more aware of trying to do "the proper thing." On that trip though, I was the authentic me -- a Material Girl.

Anything's Possible

Listening to a radio program tonight as I fixed dinner, the author of the book The Genius in All of Us inspired me. David Shenk talked about things like: there isn't a math gene that makes some people good at it; child prodigies are excellent at their talent compared to other children, but not usually compared to other adults. And all of these skills are things that people learn through practice.
They try; they hit a wall because they don't have the skill; they learn the skill; they go back and succeed.
Truly, isn't that, plus a drive to succeed, all that any of us need.
The ideas this author talked about encouraged me as a mother, teacher and a writer.
I've seen that drive and skill seesaw in Spencer. He loves basketball. The more he plays, the better he gets. He needed a different body type so he spent the summer lifting weights to give him more bulk under the basket. Of course, he's lucky that he's tall. No amount of working out could have added the height to him. Spencer doesn't believe that he can play basketball in college, but if he continues to work at it, who knows? This book says talent is developed, not innate. The example the author used was Michael Jordan, who was not supposed to be as good at basketball as his older brother. What was his name again?
As a teacher, sometimes I feel that students are so disadvantaged they can never catch up. Just last quarter though, I had a student, Paul, in his 40s. He'd been in the military and he was taking my English 101 class. His first paper was bad. He couldn't write in complete sentences. I handed back essays and I gave a speech to him and other struggling students. "The resources are available to help you pass this class if it's what you want." and "It's always easier to move forward now and to pass rather than to take the class again." Paul spent the quarter getting one on one help for each of his essays. By the time we wrote the in-class final, he was writing in complete sentences and his essays were unified. He decided to focus on English and he learned the skills that he never had when he was a teenager in school.
As a writer, well, people have always told me I was a good writer, and that might have been my downfall. Because I already believed that I was good at it, I haven't worked on it the way I should. Now I find myself looking at sections of my novel and I envision slashing through them, rewriting them. I picture the scenes and wonder how I can help the reader see the same thing in my head. I have submitted my manuscripts and had them rejected. That means my choices are to stop writing or to learn more skill sets that will help me succeed.
This book puts to bed the argument of nature versus nurture. Everyone can do anything if they are willing to put in the time and have the opportunity to learn the skills.
Photo from Amazon.com

Budget Tricks & Trip Ups

I'm not a big one for New Year's Resolutions. I make resolutions constantly. New College Semester Resolutions. New Exercise Routine Resolutions. New socks resolution. It doesn't really take much. And, I rarely stick to them.
This year, on New Year's Eve, I visited the library and got some books on budgeting. I hoped one of them would hold the secret that I am searching for. It's not the secret of how to plan a budget. That, I get. It's how to stick to the budget.
I've asked this question probably three times in the past week and my husband answers me the same way, as if I haven't heard or comprehended what he is explaining to me.
"You look at what you spent the past year and you include those expenses into your budget."
Yeah, I can plan a budget like nobody's business. Give me the state budget and let me slash it. Give me the federal budget. I'll balance it on paper in half a day. It's the actual implementation that trips me up.
Lest you think I'm in this alone, I should point out that although I plan the budget and pay the bills each month, my husband balances the checkbook. Again, on paper, we should both know about all the money coming in and going out.
We keep our expenses on Quicken, so when I click on "Plan Budget" then name it Budget 2011: Wham. The suggested budget plan appears. It suggests things like $200 per month on eating out and $154 a month on travel. Well, obviously, we can cut those down.
It also includes clever things like "Business Expense $48" and "Business Expenses $54." Apparently, I have two categories that I need to add together.
Going through and weeding out expenses like "Gifts" versus "Gifts Given" is no problem. As a matter of fact, once whittling down the categories and some of the miscellaneous expenses, I end up with more money than I had planned to save.
That's on paper though.
Here's the tricky part. I pay car insurance every six months. So my budget suggests I save $89 per month for car insurance. How do I save that though? Do I have a separate savings account for each bi-yearly bill? At the end of each month I should be saving for life and car insurance, along with the water bill and recreation expenses, like swim team and basketball shoes. Quicken averaged out my monthly utilities, but right now I'm in the expensive season for gas and electrics. You can see how it all starts to get muddled together.
I did figure out a few things about budgeting though.
Budgeting is easier right after a gift-giving event, like Christmas or a birthday, because I am restocked on all of my expensive creams and lotions. My budget should definitely stick until I need to buy more.
A budget should also be easier to stick to if I underestimate my income, so every month or twice a month when those pay checks come in, I have a little bonus (to spend on those Aveda creams and lotions when they run out).

Words, Words

One thing I promised I would work on this year is the craft of writing. At the library yesterday, I picked up a few books on editing. One of them is The First Five Pages by Noah Lukeman. I heard Lukeman speak several years ago at a Columbus writers' conference. I credit him with the success I've had sending query letters and receiving requests from agents. So I figured his tips could help me improve my novel as well.
Lukeman's book focuses on how to make the first five pages the best they can be so that agents will want to read more. Of course, if I need to make changes to the first five pages then I probably need to improve the other 295 pages.
Whomp.
That falls on me and seems an impossibly difficult task. Could it really be more difficult than writing the entire novel in the first place?
I decided to do a little work at a time. If I imagined refining every word today, on the first day of the year, I would probably give up.
Lukeman's book starts with explaining how to format a manuscript. I think I have mastered that so I moved on to the next section. That focuses on cutting down or choosing more precise adjectives and adverbs. Sometimes, more accurate nouns and verbs make the adjectives and adverbs unnecessary. The exercise at the end of the first chapter required me to take the first page of my novel and remove all of the adjectives and adverbs.
I had 26 adjectives and adverbs on the 407-word section that I edited. After working on if for awhile, the words seemed to swirl around my brain. I saved both versions and decided to put it away. I think I can make changes that will improve my writing.
My original sentence read: “Uncle Martin. What a surprise. How’s life in France?” I asked in a quiet voice meant to encourage him to lower his volume.
When I revised, I changed it, I removed the adjective "quiet" and tried replacing "asked in a quiet voice" with "murmured." Then I looked at it. I'm not sure that murmur describes the same thing as speaking in a quiet voice. If someone murmurs, is it too much like mumbling? So, even as I make changes, I'm questioning those revisions.
I'll give myself credit for my attempts and put the whole thing to bed -- for now.

Book Rave

Well, I didn't want to like this book. I hate to like books that everyone raves about. The Help is one of those books that keeps drifting into random conversations, so when I saw it on the shelf at the library, I picked it up.
Since I've been on Christmas break, I haven't read many books. Maybe one or two. I've fallen into some kind of book lethargy. After I checked out at the library, I realized the book had a 7-day tag on it. 444 pages in 7 days? My book lethargy made it unlikely.

Then I settled on the corner of the couch, my head filled with congestion, my sneezes coming so hard I was in danger of knocking myself out if I hit something, and I opened the cover of The Help. The first chapters are written first person in the voice of an African American maid, Aibileen, in Mississippi during the early 1960s. I was put off by the colloquialism and flipped to the picture of the author, Kathryn Stockett, a young white woman.
"Oh, this is not good," I told Grace, showing her the picture of the author and reading a few lines from the book.

Taking care a white babies, that's what I do, along with all the cooking and the cleaning. I done raised seventeen kids in my lifetime. I know how to get them babies to sleep, stop crying, and go in the toilet bowl before they mamas even get out a bed in the morning.

I was embarrassed for her trying to cover this topic and thought the author was in grave danger, trying to capture the voice of black maids in the South before the Civil Rights Movement. The writing kept me intrigued though, so I continued to the next narrator, Minny, another African American maid. Then the third and final narrator began to speak, a young white woman, Skeeter, who had just returned from college. The Help parallels the experience of Skeeter, who tried to convince the maids to tell her their stories of what life was like for women who had to constantly serve white families, giving up their own children and needs. The maids, reluctant to trust a young, privileged, white woman, eventually embrace the idea of anonymously sharing their stories even as they fear the retribution they may face.
My synopsis doesn't do the book justice. The story unfolds revealing all the drama, like the reader is peeking through the curtains into another, very foreign universe. Yet the emotions, the racism, the actions all seem familiar, as if a trace of them remain in all of us today.
If you get a chance to read the book, do. I bet you can even beat the 7-day deadline if you get if from the library. I finished it in three days, even with a day spent entertaining family. Okay, I had to pay Tucker $10 to wash dishes so I could sit and read today, but it was well worth it.

Family Sports Outing

One of my laments in the past has been "not enough family at holidays." This year, they made up for it. Mom and Dad came up from Florida and my brother Craig came from Texas with his 21-year-old son and 16-year-old daughter. They stayed with my other brother, Kevin, in Dayton, but last night everyone came to Columbus to watch one of Spencer's basketball games.
My family is very competitive. They always have been. Both my brothers play tennis so that is their main competition, but they don't limit it. They'll compete with my 74-year-old dad in ping pong, cards, and even who can eat spicier food. Neither of my brothers' sons got into high school sports. I wasn't sure how it would go when they came to watch Spencer play. I was also a little nervous that Spencer might not do well on the one night they were there.

We sat, all 10 of us, in the bleachers watching Spencer give chest bumps to the starters. Spencer didn't start and didn't play for most of the first quarter. I was getting nervous. He usually gets into the game pretty quickly. The coach moves all the Varsity players in and out.
Finally Spencer got a chance to play.
I sat next to my brothers and they talked about offenses and zone defenses that were over my head. When Spencer blocked a shot, sending the ball back to the court, they whooped with glee. Craig kept track of Spencer's stats and typed them into his phone. He yelled loudly to disrupt the other team when they were shooting free throws. My brothers were proud of their nephew, and so was I.
I liked sharing that experience with my family, and realize now that the nerves before hand all have to do with living up to expectations. When it comes to sports, it's pretty much all enjoyable to my brothers and Dad. But it sure would have been worse if Spencer hadn't played well.
He scored 8, blocked 4 and rebounded 6.
I keep picturing my brothers' delight at the game. It's a picture that I replay in my head -- one that will pop to mind when I think about my brothers.

Long, Cold Writing Winter

Have you noticed my silence on the subject of writing? I'm kind of frozen in indecision.
I have sent query letters for my latest novel, Ransoming Raphael, to 13 agents. I've had one request for more material and several rejections. Some I haven't heard back from.
Hundreds of literary agents sell novels to publishers, so why have I stopped after a baker's dozen? I worry that I need to fix something in my novel before sending it out again. Or, I worry that the query letter doesn't sell my novel well enough. I don't want to send letters to all the good agents, get rejected, then make changes to my novel or query letter and not have more good agents to send it to. So I'm doing nothing.
This break between classes has stretched out before me without early morning writing sessions at the computer. I haven't taken my laptop and tromped down to the coffee shop where the smell alone is inspiring. Instead, I've avoided the computer, the fiction, the agent search. I wrote a Christmas letter and published it myself. I don't think that counts.
A few years ago, when I searched for an agent for Trail Mix, my novel about two women who hike the Appalachian Trail, I received an email from a man who worked for the Appalachian Trail Conservancy. He said the Conservancy was dabbling in publishing some fiction. I had a lot of interest from agents about Trail Mix at that time and decided to continue my search rather than asking him to take a look at my novel. Now, I wonder if that would have made a difference in my career. To have a book published, even by a small publisher, would be an extra achievement to put on my query letter.
Here's the cover I envisioned for my book Trail Mix:

The jump from writing to publishing is huge. That chasm gets wider every time I step toward it. I know that my writing can improve, so I vow to work on it this year, with workshops and writing conferences. Even if I write well, getting published remains out of reach, until I find an agent willing to take a chance on a novice.
Some do. I just need to find the right one.
So there I am, frozen between working on writing and working on selling. Maybe a happy medium, a compromise of 60 percent writing, 40 percent selling, or some other fraction that doesn't make me tired to think about.
The one thing I can't do any more is pretend my writing life doesn't exist and pop in another movie. I haven't watched Coco Before Chanel yet.

Christmas Past

Christmas is over, right? But wait, there's more. (Picture me saying this in a gameshow announcer type voice.)
My brother from Texas drove to Kentucky yesterday with his two kids and is coming to Ohio today, so I'll herd my children into the car once again and go to my brother's house in Dayton to celebrate with them. But, like the procrastinator I am, I didn't get their presents yet so I'll be running out to do that before we leave. I also need to get a birthday present for my 93-year-old grandmother in Kentucky. I'm so over buying presents, but since I enjoy getting them, I suppose I shouldn't complain.
I was inundated with gifts this year, and I always feel a little guilty about that. With Earl's birthday falling two days before Christmas, he always gets short changed. I make the excuse that I have to shop for all the kids and Earl, even though Earl would help buy presents for the kids if I asked him to.
Then on Christmas Eve, as we were getting ready to leave for my brother's house, Tucker came up to me and whispered, "Mom, I didn't get anything for Dad."
"Yes, you did," I replied. I bought a book for him to give his father.
Then he walked across the room to Earl and whispered something to him.
"What?" Earl asked.
I started laughing because it was obvious he was asking the same question about buying a gift for me -- on Christmas Eve.
Two of my children, though, took care of gifts on their own this year, which was a big relief.

Grace did her own shopping at college. Earl and I got tshirts with her college name on them, mine in a lovely chocolate brown. She got the boys tshirts with outdoor pictures and funny sayings on them. Spencer's shows people hiking and says, "Bring a compass. It's awkward when you have to eat your friends." Tucker's shows a guy jumping off a ledge and says, "Determination: that feeling you get right before you do something incredibly stupid."
The present from Spencer took me by surprise. He made it himself. A blonde wood jewelry box with a lift out tray covered in green velvet. I felt so touched. He made it in "machines" class at high school, kept it a secret and wrapped it himself.

I, of course uncomfortable in a sentimental moment, made a joke about how it could be used as a hamster coffin if we ever had a hamster (oh, come on! It's got that shape to it). Truthfully, though, I love it and can picture myself using it and remembering this Christmas when he was a lanky teenager sprawled on the rug amidst boxes and wrapping paper.
Christmas was an extravaganza as usual, but most of what the kids received were clothes, things they needed any way since they had out grown or worn out jeans and tshirts. I even got the boys winter coats since they wear hoodies as their coats, layering them on top of each other.
When we were finished, the floor was littered with the debris of Christmas and like pushing away from a feast, we felt sated, and just a little bit gluttonous.

Hope your Christmas was good too.

Christmas Newsletters Worth Saving

Who would blog on Christmas Eve? Between baking cookies, preparing to drive to my brother's house in Dayton, and wrapping presents, I decided to sit down and give a little love to those people who take the time to write Christmas newsletters. I blogged a few weeks ago about how I hate to get Christmas cards that are signed -- no pictures, no news.
The newsletters aren't as popular this year as in previous years, but two of them got me laughing.
One came from a Florida friend. We worked with Steven at The Tampa Tribune. While we were all single, working late, partying hard, Steven was married to Joy and had three little boys. Now those little boys are all grown up and he has a daughter who is in 8th grade.

Steven has managed to keep his sense of humor, in spite of losing his job as an editor. Instead, now he manages a St. Vincent de Paul store.
"It looks like the store will be around longer than the newspaper because people still insist on being poor even though those Tea Party people tell them to get a job. We try to let them know, but the homeless people don't have mailboxes so the letters keep coming back," Steven writes in his newsletter. He considers hiring them to work in the store, but then the store would have no customers so he'd have to lay himself off.
His oldest son Matt became a lawyer last year, but couldn't find a job working in law. Instead, he worked as a hotel parking valet. This year, he's working for Florida as a child abuse lawyer.
"Child abuse is popular there so he is very busy," Steven writes. Sad but true. Yet, the family should prosper as they serve the poor and the abused.
I wish I could print Steven's entire letter, but that would be plagiarism, so I'll just tell you that his wife Joy broke a toe this year "because a fat man in a wheelchair ran over her toe at the hospital." Joy is a nurse. Steven tried to appease her by pointing out that is could be worse.
"Yeah, like it would be worse if you were a monkey because you couldn't grip the branches with your foot and you would fall on the ground and get eaten by wild animals." Joy did not appreciate his input.
Another great Christmas newsletter came from Dream Girl. I've written a number of posts about Dream Girl and her breast cancer treatment. Her newsletter begins:
"What I liked Best About Having Breast Cancer..."

True, it's an odd stand to take, but you should know that Dream Girl feels she has learned a ton from having cancer.
Some of the things she appreciated are "smaller boobs...baldness... being popular... playing the cancer card."
One of her gems of wisdom came under the "Baldness" heading. "Before my hair fell out, I was a mess. But once it began falling out, I was cool with it...It turns out that I had a really nice-shaped head under all of that hair, and I looked so good that I decided I would not be putting it under wraps, choosing to go au natural instead."
Maybe she'll write a book some day: Lessons I Learned From Cancer, cause I just can't see people buying "What I Liked Best About Having Breast Cancer."
So, people, once the presents are all wrapped and under the tree, once the Christmas ham or turkey is in the oven, take the time to write a Christmas newsletter. We want to know what is going on with your family, and we only hear from you once a year.
Not everyone can be as funny as Steven or as wise as Dream Girl, but everyone gets an E for effort. Merry Christmas!

And just be glad my cats don't fit in the Christmas box so no one is getting them as presents this year.

Oh Christmas Tree

We decided, kind of by default, not to get a Christmas tree until Grace came home from college. She arrived home last Thursday.
Friday was a basketball game after school. Saturday was a day-long swim meet. We decided to get our tree after mass on Sunday morning. Then Spencer announced a special Sunday basketball practice at noon.
"Can we get the tree without you?" I asked.
He shrugged. It's hard to know if those shrugs mean, I don't care or I'm so sad that I won't be there to choose a Christmas tree.
We went without him. The YMCA lot only had 13 trees left. We chose one within minutes and tied it to the top of the car.

Earl set the tree in its stand while Grace, Tucker and I moved furniture around to make a place for the tree.
And it stood there, forlorn, free of decorations.
Christmas carolers came to the door that night -- four high school boys, friends of Grace. They came in and made no comment about the bare tree.
I scheduled a decorating time for Monday.
Tucker had swim from 8 to 10 a.m. and Spencer had basketball from 11 to 1. Earl had to leave for work at 3. I declared 2 p.m. tree decorating time.
Earl put the lights on the tree ahead of time and I made a batch of manicotti along with a salad to feed us afterward.
Charlie Brown Christmas music played as we hung ornaments.
Spencer was feeling sick so could only be roused to hang a few ornaments, but at least we were all together for a little while.

Buttinski

In the past, I have dealt with saying things that should have stayed in the thought bubble. I'm still working on it and I find myself wanting to hold an intervention for a woman who is an acquaintance. That's right, not even close enough to call her a friend, but an acquaintance who I think is making a grave mistake. Maybe I have a little vested interest because her daughter is Tucker's on-again, off-again girl friend (currently on), and her son has been a friend of Spencer's since 8th grade, although they have found separate interests and don't hang together that much. He is in theater though, so Grace hangs with him sometimes.
This acquaintance has four kids -- the two who are friends with mine, an older son who is married, and a 9-year-old son. We got to know her and her husband a few years ago. Earl rode the bus with her when she started back to work. She told him as her marital woes increased. She and her husband separated then divorced about a year and half ago.
Last year, she had a boyfriend who accompanied her to the choir concerts and musical performances and soccer games. She seemed happy. The father also remains involved with the kids, attending events and serving on boards. They always call here to see if a parent is home before they drop off their daughter to hang out with Tucker. See, normal, responsible parents.
Now, the mother is engaged to a different man who she started dating three months ago. They plan to marry in July and she will move to a Columbus suburb about 20 minutes away from here. Her kids will live with their father so they can continue to go to school here.
"We just won't be hanging out here as much," the 14-year-old daughter explained yesterday as I drove her and Tucker to the library to get some movies.
"What about Titus?" I asked, assuming the 9-year-old would go to live with his mother.
"No, he's going to stay with Dad too."
I was astounded.
First, I know I'm prejudiced because I see how life with a stepfather has turned out for the children of my best friend in Michigan. It stinks. They can't enjoy being at home; they walk on eggshells constantly; they're miserable with him.
So even before I knew she would be moving away, I thought it was a bad idea.
Tucker confides that the daughter does not want her mom to marry the guy. Grace says the son is not fond of the boyfriend either. Grace has met the boyfriend and says he gives off a creepy vibe.
This woman is a good mother and she is giving up her children for a man she has known three months.
I also feel that because my mother made the choice to sacrifice for us, I owe it to speak out for other kids in similar situations. My parents were divorced from the time I was 3 until I was 10. Then they remarried each other and are together today. My mom had a string of boyfriends. A lot of them were fun, but the best one was Johnny who owned horses. What would be better than a stepdad with horses?
Each time mom dated these guys until they asked her to marry them. Then she would break up with them. As an adult, I asked her why she never married any of the guys.
"I knew they could never love you kids the way Dad and I do," she told me.
That's the bar that she set. I don't know if I think every mother should make that sacrifice, but so often, the stepdad thing goes bad. I can't think of a single situation that I know of where the family is happy together when a stepdad moves in.
I want to say to this acquaintance, if he's the guy then get married a year from July. If he's a nice guy, he will be nice in a year. I don't really have the right to intervene.
I asked my best friend to wait before she remarried, but her new man wanted a baby and she was 40 so she didn't feel like she could wait. Now, on many days, she wishes she had waited to see if he showed his true colors before they married.
So, do I have this woman over for a glass of wine and beg her to reconsider, or do I stay quiet?

Demeaning

Three times in my life I've had to pee in a cup for a job -- the two most recent ones for the same job -- teaching at a local university.
The first time I encountered peeing in a cup was when I went to work at The Tampa Tribune. One of my friends, SK, put up a stink about peeing in a cup, proclaiming it would violate her rights. All the bosses assumed she was doing drugs. I can't remember if she ever peed in the cup.
Then, back in the late 80s, the person administering the test had to come in the bathroom with you while you peed in the cup. As if it isn't hard enough to pee on command alone.
Some things have changed, I got to go into the actual bathroom alone, but others haven't -- the whole place felt slightly grimy and squalid. The place I went on Friday claimed to be an urgent care facility, but everyone who walked in while I was there came for a drug test. I couldn't imagine this was a place I would take one of my kids if they needed stitches. "We can run a drug test after we stitch that up," the "nurses" would offer. "See what he was on while operating that skateboard."
All of the drug testees filled out paperwork then were sent to the next waiting area in the inner sanctum.
The Mexican guy who finished his paperwork before me was waiting, along with a woman sipping a cup of water and reading a magazine. I immediately began to wonder if she had failed to pee in the cup so was forced to remain in this limbo, drinking water until she could produce the necessary urine.
I hadn't gone all morning and was in danger of needing to ask to use the facilities if they didn't speed things up a bit.
The businessman who came in after me joined us in the back room. He had been accompanied by another man who announced that the guy was there for a "random drug screening." The guy asked his escort: "Oh, we're only screening for random drugs?" The escort did not laugh.
So I immediately assumed this businessman must have a drug problem and be forced to return for random drug tests.
It was getting crowded in that back waiting area, but the "nurses" continued to chat around the corner. Finally, one came and took the Mexican man to the testing room where we could all hear the instructions. Gulp!
I'm not sure what kinds of people need drug tests. Maybe bus drivers, pilots, people who have the lives of other people in their hands. Probably not news reporters (unless they're driving the helicopter) and probably not part-time English teachers.
The cup had a little thermometer on it, one of those strips, and I was instructed to pee above the thermometer. I guess that insured that I hadn't snuck in someone else's urine.
Remember that Seinfeld episode where Elaine had eaten poppyseed bagels and her drug test came up positive. She finally got someone else to pee for her and they wouldn't let Elaine go on her work safari because the pee of the woman tested positive for menopause.
That made me smile as I washed my hands then entered the toilet cubicle. I had to keep reminding myself not to flush. Flushing is just a natural step that I will take without thinking. I chanted to myself throughout. "Don't flush, don't flush."
What is with the rule about not flushing? What evidence do they miss if someone flushes?
I gave the woman my cup. She sealed it and I signed my initials on it before I was permitted to exit the sordid walk-in clinic.
The businessman with the escort was still waiting, his leather jacket folded across his lap. The woman with the blonde ponytail was still sipping water and leafing through magazines.
The snow began to filter from the sky and I took it as a cleansing sign and shook off the grubbiness.

Christmas Newsletters

I know, I know, some people hate Christmas newsletters. We usually send one out and try to be self-deprecating or funny. We get lots of comments, especially from older relatives and friends, who say they look forward to our newsletter. This year, I suggested to Earl since so many people have had a rough year, maybe we should skip the newsletter. What were we going to say? We both kept our jobs, Grace started college and we went to Paris for our 20th anniversary? It just sounded too self-satisfied.
But, when Earl bought Christmas cards and sat down to address them, I hated the idea of sending a card that simply had our names signed. I don't like to get cards with people's names -- no picture, no comments. This is the only time of year we catch up with some families.
"Okay, okay," I said as I held downward dog position in the middle of my P90X yoga. "Grace and I will write a Christmas letter."
I wrote one, searched for photos and pasted it all together. Then I made a fatal flaw. I printed it out and left it lying on the table.
"Don't draw attention to the fact that my eyes were swollen," commented Grace about the family photo as she was leaving for school.
"You can't say I gained 30 pounds of muscle and scored 10 points last week," complained Spencer. "It sounds too braggy."
Then Tucker caught a glimpse of it. "Could you find a worse picture of me?" he asked. Truthfully, I had a hard time finding a decent picture of him.
"And look, you wrote twice as much about Spencer and Grace as you did about me," he said.
I sighed.
The Christmas paper I bought to print the newsletter on left a big snowflake in the middle of Spencer's nose. Grace wasn't crazy about the jumping in the snow picture.
Oh, well. Even if the letter never leaves the house, I made the effort and hope all my friends and relatives, even those who will never see the Christmas newsletter, have a Merry Christmas.
And to my blog readers, Merry Christmas. You get to catch up on my family everyday, so you aren't getting a newsletter either.

Snow Dreams

I lay in bed in the dark on Wednesday morning when Earl kissed me goodbye and drove into the frigid morning air. He returned at 3:15 a.m. Thursday morning to find me back in bed. He had driven for nearly 21 hours to Grace's college to fetch her home for Christmas.
Grace hugged me and scooped up the cats. The younger cat just looked confused. He doesn't have a very long memory and can't recall that another person lives in this house.

"That's too long of a drive for one day," I murmured as Earl climbed in bed.
"I know. I can still see snow flying at the windshield," he said.
We had searched the weather forecast, trying to find a day when the snow would be minimal. The entire week was supposed to be full of snow. The road to Grace's college follows the Great Lakes, which is always dumping "lake effect" snow on the highways and cities nearby. In Syracuse, they already had 42 inches of snow last week.
"Almost a white out in Syracuse but at least we're to Syracuse," was the message I received Wednesday evening at 7:05.
My entire day was a series of text message updates from Earl as he traveled there then Grace as they traveled home.
"In Pa." came the message at 9:40 a.m.
"NY" arrived next at 10:21 a.m.
"Roads clear but NY has plows parked and running in the medians," Earl texted at one point. He was impressed with the way they handle snow.
Grace's texts talked about a boy then about the drive.
I suggested they stop and get a hotel.
"Dad says it's not going to happen. We both feel fine. You've got a nighttime newspaper editor and a college student who has spent the last week and a half preparing for finals by staying up late and cramming. We're gonna be fine."
And they were fine, just tired, and, obviously, still in bed this morning as the boys stumble off to school.

More Wine, Less Whine

Okay, I want credit for not whining last week about all of the essays I had to grade. You may recall that last year as the quarter grew to a close, I was hyperventilating about all the work I had to do.
This fall, I taught six classes. I started with five, but one teacher quit in the middle of the quarter and I took over his class, so that landed me with six classes. Each started with 25 students, although some of them dropped out before the end.
I tried to arrange my schedule a little better. I had my in-person classes turn in papers the week before finals. My three online classes turned in their final essays a week ago Sunday. Then all six classes turned in essays for their final exams last week.
I graded and graded and graded. I didn't complain, right? You didn't see me whining on my blog.
So now, I want a little credit. Grades are finished and submitted to the system. I've carefully downloaded everything into an Excel document for the school secretary.
I'm finished!!
I think a round of applause is in order for me.
Six more classes begin on January 3. But, I'll think about that tomorrow.

The Dangers of Surfing the WorldWideWeb

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French Breakfast

The snow, the cold, the gray days, all make me reminisce about those beautiful 10 days Earl and I spent in Paris last April.

The temperature hovered in the 70s. We walked, we ate, we drank. Aaah.
We visited all the popular tourist sites and found some that were off the beaten track.

Sometimes, it just makes me feel warm and happy to look at those pictures. Thanks for letting me share them with you.
Plus, I'm writing this in the morning and I'm hungry, so here's a picture of a French hotel breakfast.

Funny,I'm still hungry.

Snow!

This is what happens if you go to college in north country New York.
Lots of snow!

Just wish she'd have a little fun sometimes. :)

Dreamscape

Today, the dean of the college called to ask if I'd substitute this week. The professor who needed a sub was going to the beach with a friend who has breast cancer. I suppose some people decide to coddle their friends with breast cancer. As for us, we insist Dream Girl meet us in the freezing weather every Saturday morning at 6 a.m. for a seven to 10 mile run. Rain, snow, ice or even a full moon, we're out there slogging along the trail.
This week, Dream Girl finishes her last radiation treatment. Nine months ago, she told us on the trail that she'd found a lump in her breast -- a lump that she unconciously rubbed as she waited between sets of lifting weights. "I'm sure it's nothing," we all said, including her. Instead, we made it into a joke about the mammogram machine being broken and whether the jaws of life would be called to free a woman's breast.
Then we learned that she did have breast cancer. They removed the lump and some lymph nodes. Within weeks, she was back running again with a drainage tube secured. Next she ventured through the world of chemotherapy. In October, she ran the half marathon to celebrate the end of her chemotherapy. For the past few months, she has been going to radiation. She enters a room alone and has a beam of radiation aimed at her breast. She is nearing the end of her treatment.
Cancer has changed her life. Not just in the fact that she had to think about death and how she spends her life. She says she has learned so much, things she never would have learned without the cancer.
She hasn't been sick. Most people get throwing up, lying down sick from the cancer treatment. We worried that she wouldn't be able to run with us. We'd walk instead, we decided. Or, we'd meet for coffee. Now we laugh at our fears. She is in better shape than all of us.
Other than not being able to run, the two things she worried about were -- gaining weight because of the steroids and losing her hair. Dream Girl had long dark hair that she would cut off to donate to Locks of Love. She couldn't imagine that hair being gone. But after it started to fall out and she shaved it, she loved the way she looked bald. She refused to wear a wig or a scarf or a hat. She went au naturel. With her shiny head glaring, she started a job as a tutor at a high school. The students assumed it was her look. Dream Girl had no shame about her bald head.
She had planned to get in great shape over the summer before she learned that she had cancer. Then she worried that she wouldn't be able to exercise and that the steroids would make her puff up. Wrong again. She has lost some weight. She is in her best shape ever. When a nurse said to her, "Thin, small breasted women like you..." she wanted to look over her shoulder. Who was that nurse talking to? But it was Dream Girl who is now thin and small breasted!
Even before Dream Girl's chemotherapy ended, her hair was growing in. She looked like a baby chick, all fuzz around her head. Then, a few weeks later, a salesgirl called her "Sir" because she resembled a balding man. Now though, her hair is coming in thick and fast.
She's on target to meet her "goal" of having hair by her birthday at the end of the year, even though Pam pointed out that it is silly to make a goal for something you have no control over. Maybe a wish, but not a goal.
And, a few weeks ago, her eyebrows and eyelashes suddenly sprung to life too.

She's the old Dream Girl, except she isn't and she never can be again. She has lived through an experience, no, not lived through it, she has embraced this experience. She's learned so much about life by looking death in the face.
They say that cancer patients forget about their new outlook on life after a few years. I can't imagine Dream Girl putting this away and returning to a suburban life. She has plans.
She has backpacks and pop-up tents. A sleeping bag that weighs ounces and hiking boots that won't rub off her toenails. She dreams of hiking the Appalachian Trail and the Pacific Crest Trail. She wants to gather in every mountain and ocean, every bat and raccoon, every moonrise and sunset. The world is truly her oyster, and she has earned some champagne to go with those oysters.
A toast to you Dream Girl for making it all look so easy, for blazing the trail everywhere you go.

Highs and Lows

Saturday was full of ups and downs. It started with a crisp 7.5 mile run with my friends in the 25-degree weather. (I'll have a Dream Girl update tomorrow).
My day was scheduled to be full of sporting events. Not the usual college football that I watch, but a swim meet an hour and a half away, and the first regular season basketball game. Of course, the snow started to fall before I left.
I have no practical shoes for snow. I have clogs and crocs and high-heeled boots. I ended up wearing my hiking boots with jeans, which just makes me feel a little too manly. But I drove through the pelting snow and made it to Wright State University before the first race began. This was Tucker's first high school swim meet invitational.
The swim coach put him in the "B" relays at first. Then, after he swam on Tuesday, she moved him up to the "A" relays.
"She thinks I'm bad," he said.
"You'll just have to prove it to her," I said. And he did.
He came in first in the 50 back stroke and broke the old meet record. Then, as his team and another team seesawed back and forth in first place, they lined up to swim the final event. A 200-free relay.
I was nervous. I shook my leg, I screamed, I smacked my hand against my jeans in place of clapping. "Go! Go!" I yelled as the boys each dived in and swam. They were slightly behind the other team throughout. The final swimmer drew even and out touched the other team, winning the race by two hundredths of a second.
"Whoooo!" I yelled loud so the swimmers would hear. All of the parents had erupted into cheers and celebrations. Our boys' team won the meet against the 12 other teams there.
Then I slogged out into the parking lot. I was going to be late for the basketball game which was taking place an hour away. I turned on the windshield wipers to try to scrape the snow off and I searched futilely for a scraper. I used a CD case -- the Blues Brothers. It worked fairly well.
I had to slow down for a few accidents and one tow truck pulling a car out of a ditch. I made it to the basketball game at the start of the second quarter.
One of the dads explained that Spencer had been in the game but was called for traveling because one of the big guys on the other team was pushing him hard enough to scooch him along the court. Any time Spencer went into the game, the fat guys were put back in by the other team. Spencer's added muscle was no match for these 200 plus pounders. At one point, one of the moms pointed out the fat guy had carried Spencer about six feet.

Things did not go well for Spence or his team. He missed four free throws. His rebounding was done, not with sticky hands, but like a volleyball game as the ball was hit and flew into the air. The coach stopped yelling and sat on the bench. They ended up losing by about 17 points.
I parked Spencer's car at the gym and walked the mile home in the quiet night around 10 p.m. The sidewalk shone with ice and I windmilled my arms a few times to keep my balance.
When Spencer arrived home, he said, "It's just embarrassing to try that hard and be that bad."
"Everybody has a bad night," I told him. "You can't quit trying. Then you'd hate it."
"I did quit trying at the end," he said. I nodded.
That's when the coach finally took him out. The coach could tell.
Someday, maybe both my boys will have great sport days or great academic days or great days in love. For now though, as volatile teenagers, they have up and down days, usually all within 24 hours.
I'm glad I can be there for them, whether to celebrate their wins or mourn their losses.

Things That Go Bump in the Night

"Call from, Tucker," said the metallic voice of my phone waking me at 11:20 p.m. I groped for the phone on the bedside table. Tucker was supposed to be home and in bed by 11:30 to prepare for a swim meet the next day.
"Mom," Tucker breathed heavily as he gasped my name. "I was so scared."
"What happened?" I asked.
He was walking home from Alex's house, about half a mile away in our little, and mostly safe, town. The police just put out a press release that said 11 cars have been stolen this year. All of them had the keys in them.
I had no problem going to bed before the boys were home because they always come in to kiss me goodnight when they get home and I know Earl will be home from work shortly after so he can bust them if they are late.
"I was walking past the bushes by Alex's house and I stepped on something," Tucker said, still out of breath. "It was a possum's tail."
Possums are mostly harmless creatures who waddle along at night looking for dinner. They're most famous for carrying their babies along as they walk and for their hairless tails.
After Tucker stepped on the possum tail, he screamed. He didn't say it sounded like a little girl, but that's how I imagined it. The possum started toward him and he ran.
Then Alex came out of his house to see why Tucker screamed and the possum headed toward him. He screamed (probably like a little girl) and ran in the house.
Apparently, he'd had a previous run in with a possum in his garage and he tried to shoot it with an airsoft gun.
I talked to Tucker for a few more minutes as he made his way through the dark streets. Then we hung up and I heard the back screen door slam shut and his big feet clomping on the floor. He leaned over the bed and kissed me goodnight and we laughed about the possum, even though he insisted it was "sooo scary."
And things that jump out in the dark are scary. We were running a few weeks ago in the dark when a little dog came running up to us snuffling. The dog wasn't threatening, and if we'd seen it, it wouldn't have scared us at all. But we weren't expecting it so we jumped and screamed and the dog's lucky we didn't kick it.
Living in a major metropolitan area, we have a surprising amount of wildlife. In addition to possums, we have numerous squirrels, birds, snakes, chipmunks, raccoons, groundhogs, and even foxes. The deer don't make it into our little burg very often and the coyotes, muskrat and beaver stick near the river.
Walking home at night, the odds increase of running into these creatures, but stepping on them is pretty rare. They usually spot the humans and scoot away.

Words of Wisdom From a Marriage

As a kid, I used to read the column "Can This Marriage Be Saved?" in a women's magazine, maybe Ladies Home Journal. The columnist would outline both sides and then dispense words of wisdom.
Sometimes, I feel like I might be that wise columnist, but I only hear the one side from my best friend in Michigan, and I've learned to laugh at the totally ludicrous words that come from her self-obsessed husband.
He's had some real jewels the past few weeks. When they were discussing her "output control" issues, he said, "I've learned to tolerate you over the years."
With that kind of obvious adoration for her, it's hard to imagine why this marriage is floundering.

When one day they were discussing if they would ever remarry other people if one of them died, the husband said, "Oh, my God. I could not do this again."
In the midst of another argument, he declared, "I'm sure there's somebody out there who would love me more than you do."
I'm not sure why she didn't take him up on it and suggest he go look for that somebody.
Then just this week, her two teenage sons got in a fistfight and had to be pulled apart. My friend was obviously distraught at the idea that her children were willing to beat on each other. She told her husband that she needed some support from him.
"Oh, I gave you support earlier in the week when I let you go to Washington for two days," he said.
She had to go away for work to Washington and he was kind enough to "allow" her to go. He has no problem overspending the money she makes, about twice as much as he does.
In the past, for her birthday he has given her a horse (which she never got) and a trip to Paris (which she had to pay for). He schedules twice monthly massages for himself to relieve all of his stress. She's been sick since October and can't seem to get well because of all the stress she's actually under.
So, back to the original question: "Can This Marriage Be Saved?"
My diagnosis: As long as she's willing to laugh off his narcissism and verbal attacks, the marriage can continue indefinitely. I'm willing to to be her sounding board for as long as she needs me because I love her even if she's married to an asshat.
And, just in case she decides someday to meet him at the courthouse, I'll try to keep track of all the hurtful things he says. She may need them as evidence.
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