Monday, December 31, 2012

On The Cusp

In  just a few hours it will be next year.

How the heck does that happen?

I mean, I'm doing everything like I usually do, minding my own business and POOF it's next year. Nobody asked my opinion, "Hey, lady, do you think it's okay for it to be next year yet?"

By the way, I'd say NO.

It's still 1973.

I remember being in the seventh grade and our teacher, Mrs. Dover, had us add up how old we'd be when the year 2000 rolled around. I looked at that and figured I would be so old it wouldn't matter what year it was.

I  mean, seriously, somebody is doing the math wrong. 1973 can't possibly be 'back in the day'. I can't possibly be staring sixty in the face in the next few years.

Does every generation feel this way? That it may have happened to all the people before them, but won't happen to their generation?

Probably not. No generation before could have possibly been as cool as we were. I mean are. ARE.

 And I'm certain it ain't happened since. Have you seen the youth of today? I'm surprised their parents let them out at all. Sheesh.

And their music - you call that music? Have you seen their  hair? Their clothes? (what there is of them).

What? Yeah, I know I wore mini skirts. But I was careful. Ladylike. Sophisticated. That was different.

And our music rocked, baby.

Let's take a vote. Raise your hand if you think it should still be 1973.

Ha! I thought so.

Let's party like it's 1973....

Saturday, December 29, 2012

Cornbread, Green Beans and Snow Flakes

When you have someone in your home visiting who is a Southerner at heart, they beg - like a dog for a biscuit - for cornbread and green beans.

I know this, because I have witnessed it a lot these past few days. She's short, but I can still tell when she's on her knees.

But she does NOT like snow. Raised in the North where it is a curse instead of a blessing (what do they know?), she hasn't been impressed much with our here a flake, there a flake kind of snow today. But now, as I write, there are lotsa flakes and the ground is suddenly white.

Maybe she'll get snowed in! Maybe we can't get her back to her flight tomorrow!  Maybe she'll have to stay an extra day!

For the first time in her life, snow has put a smile on her face.

I think I'll go and bake another pone of bread. You know - just in case.


Thursday, December 27, 2012

There's a Yankee in da House

Okay, the truth is, she is only part Yankee. Her mama was Southern. Actually, her daddy was Romanian. Hmmmm. Okay, but she was RAISED Yankee. I apologize for this fact, because I love her anyway.

We spent every summer together, because as soon as school was out, her mama ran from Yankeedom and came home and stayed with her parents until school had to start again.

We've only seen each other twice before this visit in twenty-two years. We look the very same as we did when we were young adults, only different.

I cooked Southern for her today: Chicken, creamed corn, fried okra, green beans from our garden this past summer, mashed taters, cornbread, sweet onions, and of course sweet tea.

She barely escaped the blizzard - last flight out of the North - and it had to be de-iced and the take off run way shortened because of a snow drift. But she risked it because she was coming south.  I  mean, who wouldn't?

The visit will be way too short, our voices will give out way too soon, we will have to sleep way too much.


There's never enough time with someone you love, is there?

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Merry Christmas!!

May this Christmas you feel

As much trembling awe as the shepherds,

As much joy as the heavenly host,

As much reverence as the wise men,

As much tenderness of heart as Mary,

And as much love as Our Father above.

May this Christmas be as wonderful as the first.

k.h.h.  2010

Monday, December 24, 2012

It's Christmas Eve!

ANGELS, created by His Hand:

They have been with Him always,

Long before mankind existed,

They attended His birth,

They comforted the Man,

They raged at His death,

They rejoiced at His homecoming.

He has always been,

And will always be.

NOT just a babe, nor just a man.

But God Almighty.

May You worship Him

This Christmas!

k.h.h. 2011

Sunday, December 23, 2012

Of Christmas Plays, Poems and Sheep Tossing

I was going to share a Christmas poem I wrote a few years ago, and I will at the end. But first, I have to say a few words about our Christmas Play at church.

What a hoot!

Little kids always make for a good show (some famous person said never follow an animal or kid act, they were right).

We had angels in total chaos, the smallest angel wanting Nanna to the side (who was a moderator), hollering if her mother (the biggest angel) picked her up. I thought that was appropriate, since the other angels were singing 'Away in a Manager'. I figure Baby Jesus hollered, too.

Others were twirling, laying on their bellies with their white frilly bottoms stuck in the air, and one picked up a cardboard sheep and started tossing it around.

Music had to be started over, one angel kept falling down, Mary had on a foot cast, the drummer boy dropped the drum once, and you should have seen the look on his face. Before that, when he came on the stage, as an adult was singing "Little Drummer Boy" (off stage), he very appropriately pretended to play his bright red drum and kneel at the manger. The bossy little red headed angel behind him kept pointing, and telling him he needed to stand over by the "real" drummer. He got really confused, looking between Red and someone off stage, finally mouthing "I don't know where to go."

A shepherd got bored and leaned up against the wall and yawned. At some point, during one of the songs, all the shepherds started keeping time with their staffs, grinning.

Best Christmas Play.

Ever.

O Star whose light was brighter than
Any ever seen by man,
to lead them all to see the sight,
Of manger meek and miracle's night.

O Shepherd! He chose you to come and see,
Because He Himself was One destined to be,
And take up His Staff and lead us - free!

O Tiny Babe with lamb at side,
Who became the Lamb died, crucified,
For any and all to come to Him,
And in His Holy Truth abide.

O Blessed one who believes the Truth,
That God Almighty grew from this Youth.
To save His world and all who say yes,
So He might save, so He might bless!

2012

Saturday, December 22, 2012

Things That Change Your Life


I've written short stories, poems and essays since I was ten. I always said I'd never write a book, I'm too impatient, I bore easily, blah blah. Of course, I wrote a book (or five).

But the first one, "Falling", helped me when I was still in such pain I was up much of the time during the night, unable to sleep or even lie still. So, I'd get up and type a chapter or a page or a paragraph.

Thank God a good doctor found a medication combo that helped me some, and I can (usually) sleep through the night.

The book still helps me in another way too, and that is people of all ages and both sexes tell me how much the book means to them. I am amazed, because I wrote it for young girls, high school and college age. And it is a simple book. But maybe not as simple as it seems.

I've been honking my horn so loudly about my three recent books, that I haven't mentioned "The Crow and The Wind" in a long time, either. A children's book that came from a dream. God stuff, that.

And my talented husband who can draw anything I can envision.

Pretty cool, huh?

Friday, December 21, 2012

Hello.....

Hello?

Hello, is anyone out there?

Puh...puh - Is this thing on?

Oh. There you are!

Whew!

I guess they were wrong after all.

I didn't think God would go telling them Mayans when He wouldn't even tell me.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

How Come.....

How come when you have a cup of water in a cup, it's a cup of water. If you spill it in the floor it's somewhere between a gallon and an Olympic size pool portion?

How come you can change your baby's diaper and it's no big deal, but if  you change your best friend's baby's diaper it makes you wish you were spending a week at the city dump instead, so you could get some fresh air?

How come when you say something about someone, and you've not seen them, say in a decade, they pop up from behind the sofa so the embarrassing moment of being overheard can be shared?

How come when you have only ONE ornament that is fragile, valuable, and loved by all it is the only one that is dropped?

How come cats are only drawn to company if they really, really hate cats?

How come a man can't hear himself snore, but the next door neighbor's are kept awake by it?

How come little kids never have a bad dream and come screaming into your bedroom unless you are in the middle of having really, really good.....discussions?

How come no one gives people things unless they are movie stars, famous athletes, or the king and queen of some country? Am I missing something here?

How come a man can be looking straight at something and can NEVER find it?

How come, when your house is almost always immaculate, the one day you decide to let your hair down and say the heck with housework, the preacher, his wife, and all the deacons show up at your front door unannounced? And of course, you don't have on a bra.

How come a girl's complexion is flawless until the morning of the prom. And the zit is right there -  tip of the nose, middle of the forehead, end of chin....

How come no one talks to you all day until you are in the middle of 'and the murderer is' part of the book you are reading?

How come when you hit the perfect note, hit the perfect shot, do the perfect split, balance on your head, or beat solitaire on the first round, no one is ever, ever there to see/hear it?

Please don't try to answer any of these, it would only give us both a headache.

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Back Handed Compliments from the Mother

First of all, before you read this blog, you must raise your right hand and promise: I will never, under any circumstances, even under threat of being forced to eat broccoli every day for the rest of my life, breathe a word of any of this to Kathi's mother. NOT ONE WORD. Pinky swear.  If I squeal, I can never have chocolate (or whatever your favorite sweet is) again. Amen.

I'm waiting.

If you can't do it, just log off, okay?

There.

Now, for those of you who are left, this is the truth. My mother can be rather, well, shall we say, um, critical.

Of me.

In the last few months I have been told:
 1. I must be getting shorter, because when you start to get old, like I am doing, you lose height. (I am still five ft. eight in., thankyouverymuch)
2. I am going bald. (she was in the back seat of my car and my hair was wet and my cowlick [yes I have two] was parting in the back.)The next day I asked my Bible Study group to pray for me because I was going bald. They looked at me like I was crazy. That's because I am.
3. Yesterday, I was told I should go to her closet, because she was sure "there were a lot of clothes in there I could wear since I've gained all 'that' weight. (she's 5 ft 4 in. Maybe. I'm sure her polyester elastic pants will fit just fine. I'll call them Capri's). I weigh the same thing I've weighed since 2003 when I lost twelve pounds after retiring, other than right after surgery when I liketa died and lost 44 pounds. But don't worry, I found 'em again.

So, I am short, fat and balding.

And there is, I swear, glee in her eyes when she says all this.

Good thing I am full of self confidence and I don't need to be defensive about any of it. At all. No. Really.

Anybody got one of those skinny mirrors I could borrow?

Monday, December 17, 2012

Of Stinky Brothers, Hunky Boyfriends and Falling Christmas Trees

Long ago, in a house about five miles away, lived a family of which I happened to be a member.

I was fifteen, my stinky twin brothers were five, and my daddy had gone to pick up my mother from work.

My handsome, hunky fifteen year old boyfriend showed up early, and I figured it wouldn't hurt for us to be alone (if you excluded the stinky twins) for a few minutes. He wasn't allowed to be at my house unless some parent or other was present, but for a few minutes, what could go wrong?

May I take a moment to say: HAHHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Five year old boys get stinkier by the minute when a boyfriend is around.

I hope, nay, I pray, they have been repaid for their vile behavior of long ago.

Trying to get just two minutes of kissy and cuddle from my absolutely gorgeous boyfriend, I turned my back on aforementioned stinkos, and what, you may ask, did they do?

I'll tell you what they did. They climbed behind our rickety, starting to dry out Christmas tree and TURNED IT OVER.

No one can be as embarrassed as a fifteen year old girl in front of her movie star looking boyfriend.

If one could kill with tinkling ornaments, I would have returned to the land of being an only child.

And beautiful boyfriend? He was laughing so hard he couldn't get off the couch.

But, finally, when I told him my parents were going to walk through that door ANY MINUTE, he got it together, and being about six feet five inches tall, he picked up the tree, and screwed it back into the stand with no problem. (He had three stinky baby brothers, so it was probably no big deal to him.)

I mopped up the water, gave the tree fresh water, and we hurriedly put the ornaments back on, albeit in a haphazard way.

I doubt my parents even noticed, as I was the one who did all the decorating anyway. But I figured they woulda caught on if the tree had been lying prone in the middle of the living room floor. They weren't THAT disinterested.

My stinky brothers, of course, had turned into angelic cherubs, due to fear of beheading.

So, by the time my parents got home, we were all watching TV as though nothing had ever happened.

And my stunning boyfriend did not dump me because of the incident.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is true love.

Saturday, December 15, 2012

Regular Writers versus Southern Writers

It dawned on me the difference between we who are Southern writers and those who are not.

I am reading a novel, and the main character is a chef of fame. She has cooked a romantic dinner for her possible boyfriend. There are double chocolate brownies in the oven.

The oven dings. She says, "That's the brownies."

Then the doorbell rings, and her landlord gives her a message.

We never hear more about the brownies. Not if they burned to a crisp during the upset, nothing about them being taken out and wrapped for later, or how wonderful they tasted on the way to the airport.

Nada.

You see, some authors use food as a filler. Background music, if you will.

Southern writers, on the other hand, use food as a main character.

I hope you never find a southern character sitting before a well described meal "moving her food around with her fork, her appetite suddenly gone." Or "The meal was forgotten as passion overtook the couple."

Now, I've known passion, folks. But it ain't never got in the way of my T-bone steak and baked potato.

I want to hear how the food tasted. What they talked about while they ate it. How their granny came up with that particular recipe during the Great Depression, making it taste better'n ever.

Beat me with a stick if I ever don't give good food its due in my books, will ya?

Thanks in advance.

Thursday, December 13, 2012

What's That in the Chimney on Christmas Eve?

We had just returned to our new home from a Christmas Eve dinner with my husband's family. It was very late, but we wanted to exchange at least one gift with each other before we went to bed.

As I gathered up our gifts and snuggled on the couch, waiting on my dear husband to come from the kitchen bearing hot chocolate, I heard a noise.

This noise came from the fireplace.

"David," I said, "There is something in the fireplace."

Now, it was almost midnight Christmas Eve.

He came in the living room and responded, "Very funny. I guess it's Santa Claus."

"I'm serious," I said, insulted that he would think I was making this up. " There is something in there, behind the glass doors, I can hear it."

And then he heard it too. He got the big flashlight and flicked it on, right at the glass door.

Up popped this funny little creature with the biggest eyes I've ever seen.

"It's a flying squirrel!" My husband exclaimed. "I guess he fell down the chimney."

He took off his jacket, opened the glass door, threw said jacket over the squirrel and toted him outside.

I don't know if he was a lookout paid by Santa, checking to see if we were being naughty or nice, or a squirrel burglar waiting to jump the old guy, or if he just wanted to see what it would feel like to play Santa.

But he really was cute!


Monday, December 10, 2012

What a Day!

What a day! Trying to decorate for Christmas at my house is akin to running a marathon through hip deep mud.

Here is why:
1. I have pretty severe leg/back injuries, so it's hard to bend. I can, but it ain't a pretty site, and I pay a price. But that's the  least of it.
2. My daughter, who is always very helpful, is, instead, very sick. I'd describe her tonsils, but I don't wanna make you hurl. But she couldn't get in to see the doctor today because (get ready) their computers were down! So, like, if the ER's computers go down and you're bleeding out from a car wreck, I guess you are just outta luck. Keep that in mind.
3. My husband is helpful with decorating usually, but my gun is out of bullets.
4. The dog had the worst seizure she's had right in the middle of all this, on the rug in the living room. She weighs 110 pounds ifyouknowwhatImean,andIthinkyoudo.

So, the whole house is a wreck, decorations and boxes everywhere, a half done tree, a dirty kitchen, sheets off the bed, the bathrooms need cleaning, and I imagine no trash was taken out since it's poured rain all day.

Oh, and did I mention the fraud department of our credit card called and said there was suspicious transactions on our card and wanted to make sure we had made the charge? Of course, we had NOT. Now we are stuck without a card for five to ten days because ours is now inactive.

 In December, no less.

Merry Christmas

Friday, December 7, 2012

Rainbows, Lollipops and Okay, Just Rainbows

When you think about the first rainbow, it's pretty amazing. It had never rained until the flood (no wonder they thought Noah was nuts), so naturally, there'd never been a rainbow until after the flood.

Now, God said this very first rainbow was a sign of His Covenant that He would never destroy the entire Earth again with water. God never breaks His Word, like we do, so now all we have to worry about is fire. Ha!

Anyway, I bet Noah was pretty darn impressed with that rainbow. I mean, I am still awed by the rainbow every single time I see one.

I've seen a double rainbow three times. Once in the field close to where I live, once coming into the state of Louisiana, where the double rainbow double arched like a multi-colored McDonald's sign, right over the "Welcome to the Great State of Louisiana". The other time I was on my way to the funeral of one of the best men I've known.

I was standing in the parking lot of our church last year. My husband was talking with a buddy (you know how men are), and I was standing, looking around, bored. I happened to look up at the clear blue sky and this teeny little white cloud was sporting a swath of rainbow on it's edge. I interrupted the fellows who were so eagerly conversing about some fascinating topic (like car engines - s.n.o.r.e.) to look at what was in the sky! They finally saw it, just before it faded away. Sheesh. I almost didn't have witnesses.

For my grand finale paragraph: I actually, not kidding, saw the END OF THE RAINBOW.  No monkey! It was in the same field where I saw the double. There were  no other cars on the road, so I slowed to a stop to really stare. No pot of gold. Not that I expected one. I knew one of those little whipper snapper leprechauns had probably already snuck in and run like the wind with the gold stuff. But what I did see was pretty neat. Yessir. The rainbow looked like it was shooting straight up  out of the ground!

Huh. Maybe I didn't really see the end after all. Maybe I saw the beginning!

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Birds of a Feather

Yesterday my daughter and I visited a friend's house, specifically to see the new baby chicks that had just arrived.

They were a tiny, fluffy, peeping mass. Several different breeds of chickens were in the mix: Barred Rock, Easter Chicken, Eagle, Leghorn to name a few. We were allowed to hold them in our hand, and they were light as a feather!

We then proceeded to the chicken house, carefully watching our step for obvious reason! When we got in, we had to watch our heads, too, because several ladies were perched above, and birds of all kinds do, do.

One of the roosters strutted toward us, pecking hens out of his way, then began to crow so loudly we couldn't hear ourselves talk over him. I guess he considered himself the cock of the walk.

My daughter got to gather eggs from the nests, and discovered five in all. A blue one, three beige ones and a regulation white.

Boy, did that bring back memories. When I was seven, my grandparents sold their grocery store and  moved to the country. They had chickens, and I remember going to the barn to gather eggs. When my granddaddy got baby chicks in, I always picked out my favorite.

I had a pet hen for a while, and somewhere there is a photo of me in their living room, holding this big, fat chicken. She was white. I named her Henrietta.

It's a shame my daughter had to reach the ripe old age of twenty-two to gather eggs.

What's the world coming to?

Monday, December 3, 2012

Our Molly



  
We own a bulldog who likes to chew.
If you’re not real careful, she’ll chew on you, too.
She’s a big young bitch with smiling face,
And she can use you to mop up the place.

Her face is half shadow and half pink and white.
Her pigeon toed stance makes grown men faint with fright.
She’ll eat anything that doesn’t eat her first.
If you’ve not seen her eat, then you’ve not seen the worst.

Just when you think you can’t stand her no more,
She’ll look up at you with eyes that implore.
She’ll blink them real slow and stick out her lip,
It’ll make your heart do an odd little flip.

She sits on her rump and lays flat on her back,
With her ears hanging loose and her jowls hanging slack.
It pulls her eyes up and she stares like a ‘gator.
Like she’s been run over sooner than later.

She’s afraid of nothing, except maybe a bear.
She’d give her life for us without turning a hair.
But she snores really loud and can smell real bad too.
If they ain’t put up, you’ll be minus a shoe.

But all in all, when it’s time to measure her love,
You won’t find it lacking, it’s gentle as a dove.
One promising wag from her stump of a tail,
And you know her loyalty will never fail.

She’s won over our family and without a doubt,
Her devotion is as strong as her body is stout.
Her heart is a giant in that great barrel chest,
And we’ll love her forever, then put her to rest.

So if you love faithfulness and genuine trust,
And you don’t mind slobber, shed hair, and dog dust,
A bulldog is something you really must own.
She just needs you – and of course, a big bone! 

Saturday, December 1, 2012

She has Personality!

There is a lot written on how children form their personalities. Only children, oldest child, middle child, the BABY.

My personality is that of an only child. Even though I am not. An only child, that is.

However; for the first decade of my life, an only child is what I was, and in many ways still am.

In the span of ten minutes, forty-eight years ago today, I became a big sister. Twice. Both boys.

There was an incredible amount of excitement at our house! First off, my mother did not think she could get pregnant again (hahahahahahaha). Secondly, twins were in no way expected from this expecting. (hahahahahaha).

But these fellows were more like my live baby dolls, then my own babies, as my mother worked full time after they turned a year old. And guess who helped raised them? Yes, that would be yours truly.

So, in many ways, I am their second mother as much as I am their sister.

And that's okay by me.

Happy birthday, brothers of mine.

Friday, November 30, 2012

Winging Toward Destiny


In our house there is a window, wherein a large, leaded glass pane rests on the window sill. Today, I noticed a tiny winged creature had died, its dark body lying on its side, stark against the white of the window sill, its tear shaped wings spread graciously, as though it had died in flight. The feathery etched glass lent an ethereal outline to the small corpse and I felt a thrill as I looked on where the line of life and death had met.

I surmised, “Its time had come”, for it looked as though nothing actually caused its death, no swat or poison or err in judgment. Was it flying around and suddenly fell ill, or did it stop to rest a moment and instead rested eternally?

Now, usually, I don’t pay much mind to bugs dying. I sweep ‘em up and throw ‘em out, and admittedly, I am the cause of death many times.

So, why did this particular little fella bring so much attention upon himself, making me take note and even touching my emotions?

Was it the beauty of the scene? For it was beautiful. The light coming in through the leaded glass, the contrast of dark and light, the perfectly shaped wings in full spread, the body in quiet repose.

I don’t know.

But it made me wonder: when I come to that line where my life meets death, where I begin my second chapter and truly begin to live: will my remains give others pause? Will they wonder if I took wing on the other side as they gaze at my countenance?

I hope when that time comes, my life will have spoken for itself, and there will be no doubts that I am indeed flying, trying out my new wings, basking in The Light, never fearing death ever again.

And I will be beautiful. Because all winged creatures are beautiful, even on this earth. Even in death. Even the tiniest and most insignificant.

Even me.


Thursday, November 29, 2012

They Act Like Us, Sometimes

I've seen animals do interesting things...things are are 'human like'.

I watched my cat, Angel do a very sweet thing. She got canned food every  morning, and our Bull Mastiff, Belle, looked longingly at her, from a respectful distance, while she ate. when Angel finished, Belle licked the plate.

One morning, I noticed Angel kept glancing over at  Belle. And when she finished eating, she left a bite. For Belle.

How do I know this wasn't just a coincidence? Because every morning after that, as long as Belle lived, Angel left her a bite. When Belle died, Angel went back to eating the whole plate full.

One morning I was sitting on my back porch, watching a squirrel in the road. He was eating something. Suddenly a big crow came out of the sky and ran him off and began eating whatever it was. The squirrel ran down the hill. But then I saw the squirrel coming back. He was behind the crow, sort of creeping along the edge of the hill. Suddenly, he jumped out, right at the crow and scared the heck out of that bird! The crow jumped and  squawked. The squirrel took another dive down the hill. But he got revenge.

Then there was the time I was cleaning up the kitchen and had some nasty water I didn't want to pour down the kitchen sink. So, I took it out the back door and threw it off the banister (The ground is two stories down). I heard a furious chatter when the water landed on the ground, so I peered over the edge. There was this tiny chipmunk, looking up, drenched. I swear he was shaking a fist at me and cussin' for all  he was worth!

A few months ago, we decided to load up three cats and take them all to the vet for the various upkeep things one must do for the darlings. Molly, our American Bulldog watched us do cat round up and put them in their separate carriers. They commenced choir practice in the foyer while David went out and opened car doors.

Now, Molly considers these cats hers. She hates other dogs, goes into kill mode if one comes near. But kitties? Well, she's smitten. She saw us begin hauling cat out the door, and at the last minute she almost knocked my daughter down getting out the door herself. Molly has NEVER done anything like this before. She ran to the car and got in! She refused to get out, even after David leashed her and pulled.

We weren't taking her cats away. Not without her. So, in a rather crowded P.T. Cruiser, we all went to the vet.

We had a Cockateil  for years. He was deep yellow, except for his two rosy cheeks. When out of the cage, he liked to watch my daughter color. She'd lay out the crayons, which  he like to pick up and carry around. And what color, do you suppose, he picked EVERY TIME? Yellow. Never failed. And yellow candy. Every time.

And of course I have stories about my dogs disliking some people for no obvious reason, but making me feel like I better be on guard around that person. And cats who don't like anyone much suddenly take a stuck like glue shine to someone because they are either: a. allergic to cats or b. hate cats.

My life is richer for sharing it with these critters. Makes me feel sorry for those who chose not to do so.

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

There's a New Cat in Town


2/15/09

My mother showed me a picture in the paper last week of a cat at the local shelter in need of a home. Now, I had no intention of getting a cat until our cat, Angel, passed away. She’s fourteen years old, has a heart murmur, deaf for the last two of those years. She’s had seizures for the past five years, and has been in kidney failure for four years. In fact, after the kidney failure diagnosis, the vet told us she wouldn’t make it past a year, six months, really, if we were lucky. But we don’t believe in luck, we believe in love, and she’s still with us. Obviously, she takes a lot of care, and a new cat might well traumatize her. So it never entered my mind.

Until I saw the picture.

I decided that when I got my turn at the paper (usually a week later, when my mother is done with it), I’d call. If the cat was still available, we’d visit. He was. We did. The rest is history.

Angel was in no way upset over the new arrival. The new cat jumped up on the bed and they wiggled noses at each other. Angel mostly shrugged. He bowed up, eyes widened in terror, and fled. Such a drama king.

Frost is two years old, she’s fourteen. He’s a sturdy eleven pounds, she, a dainty six. He is an agile, jumping, soaring, crouching, hunting cougar. She is a hobbling, arthritic elder who had rather sleep than anything. He is long, slinky and limber. She is short, cobby and stiff. He leaps at every sound. Her world is silent. He has round eyes that begin as dark green and end in pale yellow. Her eyes are almond shaped and golden. His hair is short and sleek, hers, long and silky. Yet, if you catch sight of one of them out of the corner of your eye, you might not know which cat you see. They are both blindingly, solid white. Pink eared, pink nosed, with pink pads on the bottom of their feet.

After two days, they both sleep in our bed, Angel at my shoulder blade, Frost at my thigh. She is curled into a ball, paw over face. He is stretched as far as he is able, feet in the air, belly exposed, head back.

Molly, the dog, is very entertained by the new pet. She is eager to be friends, and though Frost feigns fear, he tears after Molly if she stops paying attention. Molly watches him with cocked head and wagging rear when he is chasing imaginary things or playing with string. Molly has no animosity, only curiosity.

So, it looks like all our worry over adjustment is for naught. It’s taken less than two days for Frost to settle in and make himself at home.

I’m happy for the most part. It’s made me well up with tears to realize how little Angel does anymore. I’d forgotten, in her geriatric state, how she used to be, and Frost reminds me of her past life. Angel is slowly disappearing into herself and soon she’ll be gone. I dread her passing. I love her so much! But fourteen and ill doesn’t bode well for a long future. The vet is amazed she’s still alive, that she can still jump on the bed (although if a person is available she meows and we lift her up). Love has triumphed.

And love will help us say good-bye.

But for now, we’re a family with two cats. And I’ll be satisfied for that state to remain for a while.

Frost: Icy, beautiful, majestic.

Angel: Sent from God when we needed her most.

Family: All of us, for now.

Angel passed away two months after this writing.

Monday, November 26, 2012

Reflections




I believe what we are attracted to in others is the reflection of ourselves we see.

So it is of utmost importance that we see ourselves clearly, who we really are.

For if we see ourselves dimly or deluded, the mate we choose may often surprise and dismay us.

They are what we thought we were (or weren’t) which is painful for us to observe.

We generally dislike some things in ourselves, and if we opt not to change or even recognize those things,

We may see them all too clearly displayed distastefully in our mate, our children, and on a lesser scale, our friends.

Thereby making these behaviors their problems instead of owning them ourselves.

And as you know, we can never fix other people’s problems.

So, how do we see ourselves clearly? How can we know who we really are?

First, we must see ourselves through the eyes of God Almighty, filthy rags that we are.

Then realize that He has made a way to purify our very souls,

Done through the blood of the Lamb, The Son of the Living God, our brother Jesus Christ.

Allowing Him to clear our vision, seeing ourselves as we were and can be.

And at the same time, filtering our vision so we see others as He sees them.

Because it is only then that the reflection we see will be the truth, whether looking inward or outward to others.

Then we will truly be set free to see. 

Saturday, November 24, 2012

From Happiness to Despair

In the middle of cooking dinner today, my daughter had to take the dog out. She came back with a wondrous look upon her face. It seems that while she was standing still waiting for the dog to do  its business, a tiny bird landed on her hand, then hopped over to the other hand when she raised it even with the first. She spoke softly to the miniature creature, and it stayed until the dog made a sudden movement, then it flew away.

After telling me this, we rushed back outside to the same spot and waited, hoping for a recurrence. When that didn't happen, we came back in, frozen.

I fretted that it had to be a pet who had flown out accidentally and was looking for home. It's cold out, and I feared for it's tiny life.

I stepped into the dining room for a moment and heard a terrible WHAM! against the bay window. My daughter was standing there with her hands over her mouth. Something (a bird) tiny and dark  had slammed into the window, falling to the ground.

She rushed outside and started sifting through the leaves, her father joining her. But the search was futile.

Was it the same bird? Probably. Trying to fly  in, where it was used to living, safe and warm.

And just because we didn't find a tiny body doesn't mean it's not there, somewhere among the bushes and leaves. How something so small could survive such a hard, direct hit seems impossible.

Man, I hate unhappy endings.

Friday, November 23, 2012

The Cry of: Revenge! Saith the Turkeys, at Last!

Have you read that wild turkeys are taking over Boston? It seems to be true. They are attacking people left and right.

 Folks are having to cross the street to keep from crossing the turkeys.

A cop is assigned to a street crossing to ward off the testy turkeys and keep them from jumping the children trying to get to school.

Turkeys have been causing traffic jams during rush hour (what else is new?) by congregating in large numbers  in the middle of busy intersections.

Folks are afraid to go out into their backyards, because the turkeys are there, too.

Maybe they're tired of all the stupid turkey jokes.

Maybe they still resent people laughing at Ben Franklin when he wanted the turkey as the bird to represent America. (I mean, really?)

Maybe they're tired of their fellow turkeys being eaten by the millions on a certain holiday that just happened to have occurred yesterday...

And we thought elephants were the only animals with long memories.

Perhaps we should change the saying to "A turkey never forgets."

Food for thought.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Because of Seeds



  
Yay! Buffet!
The little birdies holler,
As they go to feast from squalor
Because of seeds.

The man has fed them well,
They stuff until they swell,
They flit from pile to pile,
And if birds could, they’d smile.
Because of seeds.

Soon the feast is over,
And the squirrels move in from cover.
Busy hands, bulging cheeks,
Climbing trees, they wish for beaks!
Because of seeds.

And then the tiny move in,
Trying hard to find what’s left, then,
They eat, and even they have met their needs.
Because of seeds.

Two days later, Man comes back again!
The woods alive with news becomes a din!
They fly in, twitter, chirp, and tweet,
The meal is just so very sweet!
Because of seeds.

Isn’t that our job on earth, my friend?
To go and plant The Seed until the end?
For we are God’s Seed planters,
And isn’t that all that matters?
That Heaven will be filled,
Because of seeds!

Monday, November 19, 2012

When People Brag on Your Baby

Of all the things I've written, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" has my heart, because it is about my people.

My heart's desire, of course, is for it to be loved and cherished by other people, as I do.

And people are  beginning to say the things about this book I have longed to hear. My favorite new word is 'hilarious'. I've had several people calling me, instant messaging me, e-mailing me.  They might text me, if I texted.

Don't get me wrong. Every time any book sold at the book signings, I was a happy camper. When people have been calling since and asking to meet me to buy  books, or where they can purchase  them if they're in town, no matter which book it is, I'm still happy. VERY happy.

The book signings went well, the one at the library exceptionally well. Lots of people, lots of sales, lots of laughter and stories shared. Good times, indeed.

First time I ever got kicked out of a library.

(Okay, well, they were trying to close, but the above statement sounds so tuff.)

This blog is a thank you note for the people who support me. Through encouragement, through being there for me, for buying my books. Our family has showed up to every single thing, and my  husband does his best to help  me entertain customers. My daughter was my accountant and was a whiz at adding, collections, sales and chatting, all at the same time.

Some friends and I stood out in the parking lot for nearly an hour after closing and wrapped big warm quilts of memory around each other, listening, sharing, laughing and learning history of our childhoods from each other  that left my heart full and over flowing.

I'm telling you, people, there is nothing like having a life-long history with folks. You see a white headed man stand and talk about stealing milk off Miz So and So's porch and the other white headed man agreeing, sadly recalling how he was spanked hard for that. "Oh, me too, me too." the other one agrees, shaking his head just as sadly.

"Why in the world were ya'll stealing milk?" I asked, incredulously.

They both looked at me with disbelief that I didn't already know. "Meg," one of them explained about his sister, "Was giving us a tea party and we had to have milk."

Oh. They were around four or five years of age at the time.

For all fifty or so folks that came, thank you. For the love and joy you gave me, thank you.

Because for a few hours, I was transported back home, the home that was my childhood.

It just doesn't get any better than that.

Thursday, November 15, 2012

The Tree



When I was a small child, a giant oak tree grew in my grandparent’s side yard.  It was an ancient thing, the circumference broad and strong.  The roots were gnarled and raised so high above ground that I used them as steps to come from the sidewalk to the yard.  Its trunk was a sloping mountain that I walked up, rather than climbed, to sit in the low hanging branches to look at books or view the world from a higher place.

In late spring wild day lilies spread themselves around its trunk in a glorious orange skirt that, to me, was an exotic and rare display of nature’s flamboyant side. 

But the most delightful thing about this tree was that sometime in its long history, lightening had struck it at its base and had opened the trunk, causing the bottom of the tree to hollow out and welcome a tiny person right into the heart of the old soul. 

I would crawl into that space, where the cool mossy darkness enveloped me, with only a trickle of summer’s heat and light allowed inside.  I would hold secret tea parties and dream big dreams inside the tree’s girth and thought that only I alone could enter.

But one day as I knelt and scooted in I was instantly attacked by a ferocious mother hen who had sequestered her brood inside.  I came out screaming across the yard, baby chicks being scattered asunder, the upper part of my four year old self completely hidden by, what to me, was an enormous winged monster.  My grandfather came running out of the house, down the porch steps, and knocked her off me.  I survived with no more than scratches from her claws and beak.  But I never looked at a chicken the same way again!

When I was eight I came down with Red Measles. I became critically ill as my temperature shot to over 106.  I hallucinated, I cried for my parents to help me.  The doctor came to my bedside because he feared I’d become chilled if taken outside.  A great-grandmother had died at age nineteen from this same illness and doctors speculated I had inherited a weakness, which made the measles more dangerous to me. 

Recovering from the point of death, I learned I was not the only creature who was suffering. 

My parents came into my darkened bedroom to talk to me.  I knew something was wrong by the way they glanced anxiously at each other. They gently explained that the tree was dying, which they had known for some time.  Its slow death probably began years before when the lightening strike had split the trunk.  But today, the electric company was arriving to cut my tree down, because the night before one of its massive limbs had separated from the body, crashing to the street below taking a power line with it. 

I began to cry and beg my daddy not to let them cut my tree down.  His hands were tied. Legally the power company had the right to take the tree down as it leaned over into the street and was now a danger in its advanced decaying state.  I struggled out of bed, hysterical and sobbing, as I heard power saws crank up.  Daddy picked me up and carried me to a window to watch the beginning of the end of my friend.  I couldn’t bear to see it, but I could not turn away. 

It was awful.  It was heartless.  And in my mind, it was murder.

That night I had a back set and became critically ill again.  The doctor was called in and he said it was caused by my distraught emotional state.  He was angry that the electric company had not waited until I was stronger to cut down the tree.  But what company would bother to consider the feelings of a sick child regarding something like this? 

After all, it was just a tree.

Most of the time when we think about our first experience with grieving, we remember losing a family member or even a pet.  But my first encounter with grief was when my giant friend was downed.  That tree was more than a tree to me, he was a friend.  He opened himself up to me and wrapped me around his very being.  He held me in his branches and let me see the world.  That tree was a place of comfort, a place of privacy, a place that was all mine. Well, mine and a mad mama hen.

When I think of home as a small child, I don’t think of my playroom, or my bed, or the kitchen table where I ate my meals.

I think of the tree.


Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Fear of Being Alone

If you've never had a recital or a speech to give or an award to win or a book signing, you may not know that fear of arriving and no one else arriving just for you.

I know, in reality, some of my friends and family are coming to the book signings. They called or messaged me to tell me so.

I'll never forget my first book signing. when I arrived,the book store owner told me not to feel badly if only four or five people showed up, that was the average for a book signing. I remember thinking, "What? Stay here two hours for four people? And sell one or two books? Why!??"

I wasn't being over confident or smug, I was being naive. Write and they will come...that's what I thought.

But I was also very blessed that day and had seventy something people show up, much to the delight of the bookstore folk.

Every book signing I've had has been wonderful. Whether 25 or 75 show up, it is such a joyful occasion. I get to see people I seldom see, and it's sorta like a party. Laughing, and talking and hugging and stuff. The only downside is my hand hurts very badly in the middle of the night.

The first book signing I had was very close to going to Heaven, I think. In the sense that there were buddies from first grade, work buddies I hadn't seen in fifteen years, people I went to church with way back when and then all the current people in my life. I was constantly saying, "Remember me talking about so and so?" And when they'd nod yes, I'd say, "Well, come meet them, they are right over here!"

What a delightful day!

I believe when we get to Heaven we'll see people from the dim past and recent past and be joyful in our reunions with them.

But back to my point: fear of being alone. If you can find it in your little ole hearts to come to one (or both, come to both!) of my book signings, I'd appreciate it more than you'll ever know. Buy one book, all three, some old ones or not even one if you just don't have the budget for it. Signing my guest book is free.

I'll even supply the pen!

Monday, November 12, 2012

When You Can't Swallow You Become Hard to Swallow

Sunday morning, around four, I woke up feeling...odd. Then I swallowed. Or rather, I attempted to swallow. Apparently, while I slept, a ninja had snuck in and sliced my throat from ear to ear.

Strange how there wasn't any blood.

I trudged on to Sunday School, but before the service could really get started, I had to leave. Feverish and probably contagious, I figured no one would love me if I  made them ill.

Last night was one of the worst nights I've had in years. I would go to sleep, only to awaken ten to twenty minutes later with a sound much like a startled hog snorting. (I apologize to those of you that until now thought of me as a sex symbol).

My throat would literally close up and I would choke. This went on all ding dang night.

My poor husband was up and down, trying to be helpful and listen to me whine. At least I wasn't loud, I could barely speak for the pain. But I know it  must already be growing old, he ain't Martha Stewart, cooking and cleaning...okay, leave off the cleaning.

Needless to say I went to the doctor post haste today and got medication and sympathy. Soft foods only, cold things, no spicy things...I mean, really? You think you had to tell me no hot n spicy when I already feel like I'm a failed fire eater?

I have taken more ibuprofin than is legal, and I am weaving in my seat as I type.

I guess that's my cue to go back to bed.

See you on the other side of pitifulness.

Friday, November 9, 2012

No Pain, No Life

I've had the privilege of reading to the Middle School - all fifth graders, my audience be. I start reading at 8:15 and finish up by 9:30.

I thought the worst thing would be getting up at 6:00 a.m. after usually lounging in bed until eightish. Or maybe the PTSD I suffer every time I go in that building (it is my old high school). I knew I was reading in the rooms where I had Algebra, Geometry and Biology. (Kathi shudders) Those are the subjects that were not English Lit, language arts, Chorus, writing for the Bobcat's Den (newspaper), playing basketball, and other, much more important things I wanted to be doing in my life.

I was wrong. The worst is afterwards, when I have to lie abed, overcome with pain.

I hate my body. I have tried not to, but even the easiest, most simple things outside my routine of being extremely careful of how long I sit, stand, lie and walk, cause me to suffer. I never know how badly I will be punished, and try to assume it won't be too bad 'this time'.

The first day, after holding the book up to read aloud (it weighs a few ounces) for twenty minutes, then twenty minutes again, I was wracked with muscle spasms in my neck and shoulders so badly I was incapacitated the rest of the day. My back, legs, and feet were an inflamed mess.

The next time, I propped the book up, and avoided most the upper body pain.

So, why do I do it?

I'll tell you the same thing I tell my mother when she preaches I mustn't do so much - which, people, for the average you, is about 1/3 of a normal day:

Because I have to have a life. I really enjoyed reading to those kids. I am a social person, at least a lot of the time. I enjoy entertaining....reading, talking, singing to a group.

Okay, I admit it: I am a ham!

If I can't get out and "do a little", I miss out. A lot.

So, no pain, no life. I have pain all the time anyway, so, what the heck.

I read again Monday. And I'm looking forward to it.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Put Them All Together They Spell Mother

I've been thinking about all the names we have throughout our lives.

I was named Kathrine, which was wrong from the start. I was named after my grandmother KathErine, but my Daddy spelled it wrong on the birth certificate. (I figured I wouldn't suffer alone, so I spelled it wrong on my daughter's birth certificate, too.) Right from the get-go, they called me Kathi. Yes, that would be my Mother's fault for spelling it weird.

Since then, I've been called Kah-kee (rhymes with tacky), Kie-Kie, Sis, Tattoo (no, I don't), Harpo, Kat, Boss, Shirley Temple, and most importantly, Mama.

There is also a long list of what you can call that female parent: Mother, Mama, Ma, Mom, Mommy, Mum, Mummy, Mums and all the stuff you called her behind her back growing up.

I am Mama. Except, when my daughter got old enough to write, she told me in no uncertain terms  I was Momma. So whenever I sign a note or card to her, I sign it Momma.

But it's still Mama in my head.

In Middle School, my daughter decide she would start calling me Mom. I told her in no uncertain terms if she wanted me to answer her, I was Mama. (Mom is so, well, so Yankee). It took maybe three times and she saw I meant business, so back to Mama it was.

I call mine Mother. Why so formal you ask? Well, until I was eleven years old, my great-grandmother was still living. She was Mama Hill, usually shortened to Mama. I also had a Mama Harper. The other grand was Granny Kate.

The more observant of you may be saying, "Wait! I thought her married  name was Hill. And her grandmother before marriage was a Hill?  Hmmmmm...." Not to worry. My husband is from another county (there's a whole 'nuther one between us!). His father, JT Hill, (no name, just JT. He said they musta run outta names before he came along) and I had a long talk one evening. We decided that we were, indeed, related, probably about three generations back before he was born in 1915. So, you can stop worrying about our daughter's health.

She's adopted anyway.

I'd be interested in  hearing from some of you, sharing what strange and/or beautiful nick names you've been blessed with during your lifetime.

Signed,

Ma   Momma


Tuesday, November 6, 2012

The Christmas Closet

One morning, January of this year, my husband, David, and I were drinking our early morning cup of coffee. He had to get up and take out the dog, and while he was gone, this short story "fell into my head". It's really that simple - or that complicated - depending on which way you look at it, I guess.

In less than 2 minutes, there it was, and all I had to do was key it into the computer and tweak it a little.

I don't begin to understand how this kind of thing works, but many times I truly feel as though I am being used, the vessel, so to speak. If you are a writer, I'm sure that it happens that way for you, too. At least some of the time.

The Christmas Closet is a favorite of mine. I think it's a good story, and it brings back memories of my 1960's childhood. At least it's holding the attention of all the fifth graders at the middle school (after I tell them who Roy Rogers and Dale Evans were, of course).

THEY DON'T KNOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ahem.

So, that story plus three others and a handful of poems make up, what I hope to be, a great little gift book for this Christmas. "The Christmas Closet and Other Works". You can find it here in Ellijay at Interiors, or The Christmas House, whichever you prefer to call it. And in Canton, at Yawn's Books and More, right on Main  Street.

It's also in my car being toted around.

Your kid got a teacher to give a gift? You drawing names in  your club/church group? Have a friend with whom you exchange 'cheap' gifts? (price, not quality, people!)

BOOK SIGNINGS: Friday, November 16 from 5:30 to 7:30 pm at Yawn's Books & More, Canton
AND Saturday, November 17 from 3:00 to 5:00 pm at Gilmer County Library, Ellijay

Monday, November 5, 2012

Signs from God

I have been desperate for a sign from God more than once in my life. Once, when I was told I was getting exactly what I'd been hoping for, I became afraid and asked God for a sign so I could be sure this was His will.

I suppose He said, "Well, I thought you already knew, but here goes..." And what followed was a week of signs raining down on me until it became ridiculous.

Good old Gideon in the Bible was almost as foolish as I, so I didn't feel too awfully bad about it.

Now, I have a new book coming out entitled, 'Signs from God' because there is a scene that is pivotal where God does indeed show the character a sign.

Oswald Chambers said only immature Christians need signs. That as we mature in our relationship with Christ, we trust more and more and eventually just allow Him to live in us and through us without our conscious effort. And it's true, lots of times I'm able to do that. But all the time? No. Not yet.

The book is a love story, sort of. Their relationship is more of the back story. I guess the real story is how things happen to us, one after another, until we're not sure we know what to do with our life at all.

If (and I hope when!) you read 'Signs from God' you will enjoy it for what it is - a simple book, an easy read, yet with a message that we all need to hear.

BOOK SIGNINGS: Friday, November 16 from 5:30 to 7:30 pm at Yawn's Books and More in Canton, Georgia                    Saturday, November 17 from 3 to 5 pm at Gilmer County Library in  Ellijay, Georgia

Hope to see you there!

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Out on a Limb of the Family Tree

That's the title of a new book I have coming out.

I started writing this book in 1997. I thought it was just another short story (at that time, I'd never written a book). That 'short story' is the prologue to the book.

I love humor, almost all kinds, which maybe makes me a real sicko, I don't know.

But when I started writing this story, it had a humorous tone. Then, a few years ago, I got the bright idea of asking people for 'blonde moment' stories about themselves. You would NOT believe the stuff some people told me! I mean, really! But there were some I could actually, you know, write down without dying of embarrassment, and those I used.

That worked pretty well, so I began to ask people for stories from their families that touch them in some way. Humorous, poignant, haunting, profound. And I got a dozen or so really, really good ones. They gave me permission to 'wrap them up in fiction' and use them. Some are just a line or two, some a complete story. What a blessing!

I've been collecting old fashioned names for over ten years and that has been really fun. It's unbelievable what folks name their children. And I don't mean Dweezle and Apple and all the 'new fangle' foolishness. I mean the Victorian weirdness that was - well - weird.

And, of course, names come and go, too. So I used some out of fashion names that we don't hear much anymore.

I've already had one strange experience with a name that I 'made up' and a person saw it on the back of the book and told me that was his great-great-grandmother's name. And I don't even know this guy!

Fact, is indeed, stranger than fiction.

So, I hope you find it in your heart and pockets to purchase this book. Missouri Pickett is the matriarch of this Appalachian family from Sweeetapple, Georgia. Join her and her crazy family for stories that I hope will make you laugh yourselves silly.
BOOK SIGNINGS: November 16, Yawn's Books and More, Canton, Georgia from 5:30 to 7:30 pm AND November 17, Gilmer County Library, Ellijay, Georgia from 3:00 to 5:00 pm

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

This Year's Christmas Card - part 3 of series


O Star whose light was brighter than
Any ever seen by man,
To lead them all to see the sight,
Of manger meek and miracle's night.

O Shepherds! He chose you! Come, See!
Because He Himself, One destined to be,
Will take up His Staff and lead us - free!

O Tiny Babe with lamb at side,
Who became The Lamb died, crucified,
For any and all who'd come to Him,
And in His Holy Truth abide.









Above you see  my husband's art work and to the right my poem, which is on the back of the card. This is the third in a series of a limited edition of Christmas cards that we are selling! They'll be at the book signings, but are on sale now for $1.00 each (card/envelope). 
The first year is  no longer available, but last year's, which depict the manger with angels surrounding it, is still available in a very small quantity. I'll have them at the book signings also, or you can pick them up now. The price is the same.
Some folks are framing them and using them as part of their Christmas decor. 
There will be two more in this series, a card for Christmas 2013 and 2014.

More soon on the book signings!
















Monday, October 29, 2012

Coming Soon: A Book Signing Near You

I'm getting excited! As many of you know, I have three books being published. The last one has headed to the printers. That means I'll have be having book signings soon.

"Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" is the hardest, most satisfying, and most enjoyable thing I've ever written. It all started in 1997 with a short story. That short story is  now the prologue to the book. I finally finished that book in May of this year. Whew! And by finish, I mean I finished the first draft. I've been an editing fool ever since, and I tell you, I had to stop. I could go right now to the finished product and make twenty changes. This could  have been worded differently. She should have said it this way. And so on. But so far, the folks that have read it said it made them laugh and feel a little melancholy too. Appalachia, our way of life, is fleeing. I miss so much of it already. I hope I captured the flavor of the Appalachian language without it being too overbearing. I intergrated true stories, woven in and out of fiction in several scenes. Sometimes it's a whole story, sometimes a sentence or two that is true inside a purely fictional tale.  But the life of Missouri Pickett and her family is every bit real in the sense that you will recognize them all in your own family, if you have been born and raised Appalachian. The book is over two hundred pages, but I think it's a pretty quick read.

"Signs from God" was finished September of last year. Well, the writing was...not the illustrations (book cover, and 3 inside). This book took me about nine months to write. It's three hundred some odd pages, and it's a "fun" book. It's about life in general, romance, comedy, and a big dog. I hope it makes you smile a lot.

"The Christmas Closet and Other Works" is a combination of short stories and poems about Christmas (of course!). Some have been done for years; the first one, for which the book is named, was done in January. It is one of my most favorite short stories I've ever written. One of the stories in this book won first prize in a short story contest many years ago. I think it's a sweet book, and great for that gift you are looking for to give a friend or someone whose name you drew at a party, or your children's teacher, etc. Although it kind of looks like a children's book on the cover, it isn't.

BEWARE: there is an issue with our favorite fella in the red suit, and if a child under ten or so doesn't have an issue yet, read it first. It all gets resolved by the end of the story, but I don't want to put doubts in your child's head!

Next blog: I'll have photos of the book covers... hope you like them!

Thursday, October 25, 2012

I Love Getting Up in the Middle of the Night


I love getting up in the middle of the night.

Awakening gradually, your body tells you it can’t wait till morning. I roll over and sit up. As I toss the covers, gooseflesh rises on my limbs. The air is cold, crisp and quick on my skin. Throwing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet fumble for the thick slippers lying on the rug so they may escape the hard floor that will feel like an ice rink. I gaze about the room, still fuzzy headed from sleep. The cat, sleeping at my back, looks up at me and blinks in confusion. Then she puts her head back down, and covers her eyes and nose with a paw. The dog, sleeping on her blanket next to my side of the bed, doesn’t even twitch.

The nightlights in the bedroom and bath cast a golden glow, a gentle light that settles around the baseboards. I shuffle to the bathroom as quietly as I can, so my sleeping husband can continue undisturbed. The full moon is glaring at me through the skylight, and I squint at it, trying to make the blurred edges sharper, but without my glasses, I fail.

Climbing back into bed, I scoot way down under the quilts. The flannel sheets are soft and still very warm. I feel my skin begin to heat up immediately. The cat puts it in reverse and nestles underneath my shoulder blade with her back. She seems to always know exactly where the pain is there, and soothes it with her higher body temperature. That’s a God thing, for sure.

As I drift back off to sleep, snuggled safe and content, I think once again: I love getting up in the middle of the night.

As long as I can go right back to my nest, while it’s still warm and inviting.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

My Misspent Youth

I quit school in the third grade. Yep. Didn't go a full day the last six weeks. Now you may be asking  how I got away with that. It's a long story, but that's never stopped me before. Here goes:

Something happened to me at school one day. And I was terrified to go back. My parents threatened to spank me, they prayed with me, they tried to bribe me, they dragged me physically to the school house. I would become so upset I would throw up.

Now, it wasn't that I didn't want to go to school - I did - desperately. I did online preparation every night for the next day. By online, I mean telephone line. I called my best friend and she would carefully tell me every homework assignment there was. I picked out my clothes. I had my notebooks and books and purse by the front door so I could grab them on the way out.

But the next morning, I would be an emotional wreck and  just couldn't do it.

My mother tells me the last day I went, she had forced me to go with her. When she left me I had tried to run out the front door and the principal was holding me by the arms (poor Mr. Martin!) as I screamed and sobbed after her, begging her  not to leave me. She said when she got to work she vowed, crying herself, that if I never went to school another day for the rest of my life, she was done. She'd never make me go again.

I probably didn't stay that whole day. Every time I went, I managed to sneak away at some point and walk home.

They finally took me to a child psychologist. That sounds fine, as many children are sent to pediatric psychologists today. But that was 1962, folks. It just wasn't done. But they were beside themselves, and I guess this was the only thing left.

I remember he was a nice guy, and we chatted. (I think I thought he was cute, too.) He made a few recommendations. The man never figured out what was really wrong, because I had buried it so deeply inside I didn't know, much less know how to tell him. 

Recommendation one; have my I.Q. tested (shut up), and two, maybe I did not want to go to school because, since my Daddy had started working at Lockheed, I couldn't see him except on weekends, unless I was home...nah. I  mean, I loved my Daddy, but that wasn't it. I didn't care where I was, with our without him, as long as I wasn't at school.

Well, (and I stick my tongue out at all my so-called friends) they tested my I.Q. and it was BIG. Ha. So there. The school suggested I skip on to fourth grade and see if that stimulated me. I had a fit! I didn't want to leave my friends. Were they nuts?

The story ends with my staying at my grandparents every day and my grandfather bringing me home when Mother got off work. Easy-peasy. Don't know why they didn't think of that to start with!

As a side note: When Anna Kate, my twenty-two year old daughter was ten months old, my grandmother was in the hospital at Easter. She wasn't sick, they were running tests on her heart. The nurses colluded to allow us, along with my sister-in-law and 13 month old niece, to visit her room, with the babies all dressed up in their Easter finery. My grandmother's roommate just  happened to be my poor old third grade teacher.

She lamented how she had suffered that year, not sleeping well, trying to figure out what in the world was wrong, and had she done something to contribute to my distress. The lady was now up in her nineties, and I felt like a dog. I assured her she had  nothing to do with it, that I had loved her dearly.

So, she asked, what in the world happened to you at school to make it so terrible for you?

Fifty years later? Still stumped.