Friends

Enjoyed a good discussion with one of my children today, regarding friends. Specifically, how to manage competing interests. One friend wants to do one thing, another something else, and another nothing at all; how to balance that to please the majority, while also remembering to prioritize personal well-being. Good question. And one I hardly feel qualified to answer.

Growing up, I had one close friend. One person I hung out with 90% of the time. The other 10% I was either up to my elbows in household chores, or horse, chicken, and rabbit dung. More often than not, my friend helped me get my livestock chores out of the way, because we were in some instances partners--we each owned rabbits and chickens and caged them on my property, bred the bucks and does, hens and roosters, and sold the kits and chicks at auction--and because in exchange for helping, my friend had exclusive access to ride one of my horses. But time changes everything. And everyone.

By the time we were eighteen, we each had serious boyfriends. From different backgrounds and friend groups. My parents had separated, and my mom sold my childhood home; I had to sell most of my animals, taking with me only one horse (boarded out) and my dog. My friend and I hung out less often, wrapped up as we were in our new boyfriends and their family/social groups. Not to mention full-time jobs. Eventually, we each married our respective boyfriends, and our visits were even less frequent. Then I had kids. She didn't. My marriage broke up. Hers didn't. She had kids. I remarried and moved away. Had more kids. My friend and I went from hanging out daily in elementary and high school, to not seeing or speaking to each other for months. Sometimes a year or more. And yet, when we did finally manage to coordinate our personal and family schedules to visit, it was like we'd never been apart. That's friendship.

The same is true with most of those people I consider true friends. 

Me and one of my life-long friends.
Not the one mentioned in the post.

We don't talk or text every day. We don't hang out every weekend. And we're not all in the same group. Or lifestyle circumstances.

My friends are spread out. Only two live within ten minutes of me. The others are anywhere from an hour, to twelve hours away. Some are married or in long-term relationships. Others single. I see some more often than others. And they all mean the world to me.

Friendship isn't about how much time you spend together, or how you spend that time. Friendship is in the heart. It's a feeling, and it can't be charted.

I've made mistakes with regards to friendship. Looking back with age and wisdom, I realize people I thought were close friends, were actually, In The Moment Friends. Meaning, that in that moment in our lives, we needed each other. We each served a purpose for the other, providing emotional or physical support. Shared lifestyle. Children of similar age, or on the same sport's team. And when that moment in our lives passed, or we outgrew the need for the other person's support, developed new interests or hobbies, or entered a different stage in our life where that person no longer easily fit, or filled a necessary role, like a black hole collapsing inward, the relationship imploded. It happens.

What I also learned, is that true friends forgive. They actively strive to resolve differences. As my childhood best friend and I did. Many, many, times. 

We threw rocks at each other. And hurtful names. Hung up on each other. Refused to answer the phone when the other called. And yet somehow, we always found our way back to each other. Our way back to putting our friendship above petty differences.

So, when it comes to managing competing differences among friends, I have no hard, fast answer. I don't know that there is an answer.

I think, however, when you're happy in yourself, in who you are and what you do, you'll attract like-minded friends. People with whom you can safely share and exchange ideas, interests, goals, and dreams; people who support you, or, at the very least, give you the freedom to do what you need to do, to be happy. People unafraid to challenge you if, or when, you veer off path, or attempt to sacrifice important values or goals for less-important or easier diversions; people willing to be honest, and who value your honesty in return. Friends care. Even when you don't do what they want you to. Even when you don't like some of the things they do. Even when you want something they don't. The same is true in reverse.

Friendship is about empowering those you care about to be authentic; to be true to themselves. To their goals. Their dreams. Their values. And perhaps, that's the answer.

Check your values. Do they align with the people you consider friends? Do theirs align with yours?

Our friendships are a reflection of who we are. In the moment. At the time. Where we are in our life. Where we'll end up. Some friendships flow, change, and grow with us our entire lives; others last only until the harvest. The key to recognizing the difference, and appreciating each, is to spend time with and know, nurture, educate, entertain, love and empower, the very best-friend you'll ever have: You.

Deborah

To be capable of steady friendship or lasting glove are the two greatest proofs, not only of goodness of heart, but of strength of mind. ~William Hazlitt

Robins and Jays, Symbols of Hope

It's the last day of February and snow still dominates the landscape. This is not unusual in most parts of Canada, but in our West Coast region...

The snow started in early December and except for a couple of brief periods, it's hung around causing commuter chaos. Having spent the last twenty years in the Kootenays of BC, I'm used to it. As is my family. We have snow tires. And use them. So getting to and from, for us anyway, has not proven a problem. But, being accustomed to snow, ice, and slippery roads does not mean we--I--enjoy the white stuff. Far from it.

I have Lizard blood. I like it hot. The hotter, the better. Give me a patch of sand, sunglasses, a good book, cold drink, and 38C and I'm in Heaven. Shoveling snow and scraping ice from the windshield is the equivalent of Hell to me. Which is why I was so delighted to see my first Robin this morning!

Photo copyright Deborah Small 2017

Robins, to me, are a symbol of hope. Of Winter waning as Spring gathers strength. Add in a Stellar Jay--

Photo copyright Deborah Small 2017

and I am positively giddy.

The last few weeks have been challenging; I've found myself mired in lethargy, a distracted funk in which the weather played only a small part, the major player being illness, and a certain new President whose agenda, policies, and striking lack of empathy and respect for the people he claims to represent, are as foreign to me as the seemingly corrupt world he inhabits.

But this post isn't about him. It's about the weather. About how Robins and Jays herald the season's change, how dark, cold, and gloomy days eventually give way to warmer, sunnier, brighter ones that eventually extend to weeks, and months of brilliance and abundance. It's about the power of regeneration, the ability of the earth and its creatures to survive, and emerge triumphant from even the longest, harshest winters.

Yes, some creatures perish before spring, whether from old age, infirmity, or lack of sustenance. But the majority survive. Those that do, owe their survival to preparation, stamina, and cooperation...

Squirrels, bears, Jays and bees are just some of the critters that prepare for winter by stocking up. They store food--either externally or within layers of fat--in advance of winter's first snowfall, a reserve to sustain them through the lean months.

Elk, Moose, Cougar are some of the creatures that rely on brute strength and stamina to see them through the long winter months. It takes huge reserves of energy to plow and paw through crusted-snow for dormant grasses and twigs, and to stalk and wrestle to the ground beasts three and four-times one's weight.

Wolves, Deer, Seals, Orcas are some that find strength--sustainability--in numbers; many eyes are better than two when on the look out for predators. Multiple sets of legs, lungs, feet, fins and fangs increase the odds of cornering or running down dinner. And as it appears a long brutal winter is descending on the US, it behooves all of us, throughout the world, to look to our furred, feathered, and finned brethren for clues on how to get through alive:

Prepare for the worst. The black storm clouds on the horizon might prove a brief, wintry blast; it might herald a lengthy blizzard. Stock up, emotionally and financially; gather happy moments, activities, extra cash, and people to your breast and protect them the way a hamster stuffs its cheeks with seeds. Draw on them sparingly in times of need, restore yourself on the sustenance love, laughter, and new adventures provide beleaguered hearts.

Stamina. This is not a Quarter-Horse race. More a mouse's round-the-world marathon. It can't be done in a minute. Or even a day. It's going to--potentially--take years to muddle through, and like the mouse, one must be clever, and alert. Find safe places to curl up and rest, when not attempting to stealthily navigate open fields shadowed by Eagles, and swim swirling rivers churned bloody by spike-toothed carnivorous pike.

Cooperation. Gather like-minded individuals close, and have each other's backs. Always. It's easy to give in to fear, run bleating, or roll-over and play dead when the Eagle swoops, or the Wolves howl; it takes courage to rally with the herd, form a protective circle, each member backed into the other facing out at disaster, the weakest and smallest sheltered at the center. But it's how entire herds manage to defend against, and even scare off, wolf packs, and ravenous cougars. Resistance and persistence, equal existence.

I for one, intend to continue to stock up on my favorite form of sustenance: fun memories made with family and friends, good books, and writing. Always writing. And I'm going to rebuild stamina by getting back into a regular exercise routine. Six-point Elk don't earn their tines wallowing in a mud bath. As for cooperation, that circles back to preparation for me.

My family, and friends, are my herd. And I will face out and fight to death to protect them. Because without them, who am I?

  Holding my grandson for the first time.
Photo copyright Deborah Small 2016

Deborah

The greatest achievement of the human spirit is to live up to one's opportunities and make the most of one's resources. ~ Vauvenargues

X is for Xenophobia

So close to the end of the A to Z Challenge...letter X today...

Xenophobia = Chauvinism, intolerance, racism, prejudice; it makes or breaks character, and fiction. 

Martin Luther King Jr., Oprah Winfrey, Norma Ray, the suffragettes, gay men and women...past and present examples of real-life individuals and groups fighting for recognition, respect, and the same rights persons of other colors, genders, or marital status, enjoy. And whether we like it or not, xenophobia is necessary to certain types of fiction, in particular historical.

The men and women of earlier eras did not think and behave, or experience the same privileges we do now. In Canada, women have had the right to vote in federal elections for less than one hundred years. 1918 was the year the Canadian Government passed the Women's Franchise Act. American women had to wait a little a longer--August 26, 1920 to be exact. In Britain, women gained a partial victory when women over thirty-years-of-age who met minimum property qualifications were granted the right to vote; their younger, and less affluent brethren had to wait another ten years to achieve the same entitlement. And though it's unlikely any of the women old enough to cast a vote in those initial election years are still alive, their victory is relatively recent when measured against centuries of recorded human history; and antique privilege when held up against the existing fight for gay marriage and against racism and religious persecution.

So, when writing fiction, whether historical or contemporary, do your homework. And don't always play nice.

Good fiction, especially historical fiction, contains elements of bad behavior and politically incorrect policy; don't be afraid to write it like it was. When reading historical fiction, please, resist the urge to judge character behavior, thought, and language against today's standards. What we value now was not necessarily valued then, just as our accomplishments and failures of today will no doubt be some future writer or reader's head-shaking research of bygone days. And if you want to read excellent fiction where historical fact is seamlessly weaved into great story, check out Diana Gabaldon. She's truly one of the masters of historical fiction.

Deborah

Our ignorance of history makes us libel to our own times. People have always been like this. ~ Gustave Flaubert (1860-1880)

N for New York

It's week 3 of the A to Z Challenge, and for those following along, today's letter is N, and the topic, another place on my must-see list: New York, New York.

I am sure you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone in the developed world that has not heard of New York. It is one of the largest, and most iconic cities, in the world. It is also the setting of two of my favorite TV dramas--Blue Bloods and CSI NY--and my favorite morning talk show, Live with Kelly and Michael. New York also plays a large role in my novel, Everything That Matters, as it is the port of entry to America for my heroine, Dianna, and the gritty urban landscape where she completes her transformation from exiled daughter, to self-sufficient woman.

Dianna disembarks the Carpathia at Pier 54 in New York on the night of April 18, 1912. She left Southampton in the care of a childless couple who offered her sanctuary in exchange for her unborn child; she lands on American soil destitute, and the self-appointed caregiver of her abruptly widowed and penniless benefactress who's a non-responsive after her husband and the entirety of their fortune went down with the Titanic. Below is a little excerpt sharing Dianna's arrival in New York...

Excerpt, Everything That Matters, 2013 copyrighted material...

 

Dianna shivered and brushed dribbles of water from her eyes.
 

            Her cloak and hood were soaked, heavy and clammy through her shirtwaist, and her face and gloved hands numb from the damp cold, but she, like the hundreds of others pressed to the ship's rail, was determined to brave the foul weather and watch the city emerge from the veil of darkness and rain.  

 

The Carpathia had toiled for hours, delicately navigating a treacherous web of icebergs to pluck her and the other half-frozen survivors that had found refuge in lifeboats--the finally tally at just over seven-hundred, and those mostly women and children--from the close to two-thousand on board the Titanic when it started to go down. The rescue ship's crew also brought aboard what few bodies they managed to find floating amidst the icy flotsam, and when there were no more people, living or dead, to be recovered, the rescue ship idled for a brief memorial, and then turned southwest. Two days later they were finally steaming into New York's busy port and Maggie had yet to utter a sensible word. Another tremor rocked Dianna.

She prayed the Carpathia's physician who had examined Maggie was right, and she was suffering temporary shock and would soon snap out of it. The alternative was…too complicated to consider.

Dianna turned her face skyward and let the rain pound her closed eyelids, imagined it washing away her fearful thoughts. She left England in the Stewarts' care, but now the roles were reversed, and she found herself Maggie's nursemaid and entirely unprepared for it.  Squaring her head on her shoulders, she opened her eyes, and surprisingly, her agitation abated. 

Land. Solid land, so close she could almost reach out and touch it. Even more reassuring, someone waited for her and Maggie, more than some survivors could claim. She frowned.

What if he was not there? What if he had already returned to Texas, or never came to New York in the first place? And how did she even know he was a he?

Heaven. She knew nothing of the cousin, not a name, not gender…fool. She was a fool.  So consumed with what lay behind her, she never bothered to request details of what lie ahead, foolishly trusting the Stewarts to manage everything for her. Her anxiety spiking once more, Dianna pushed on tiptoe to study the crowd gathered on shore.

Rain and darkness obscured the mass as a whole, but here and there light from the windows of surrounding buildings and the gas lamps lining the streets illuminated clusters of moving figures, so the entire assemblage seemed to move without changing location, like the heaving sides of a nocturnal beast crouched in the moon dappled shadows of a forest glade. The effect was exacerbated by the agitated hum of voices filtering from the group, indistinct, but clearly gaining momentum as the ship prepared to dock, escalation from a deep-chested warning growl to imminent attack. She inhaled a shaky breath.

Somewhere in that teeming mass of humanity turned out to receive the Carpathia's wounded and widowed was her opportunity to reclaim what belonged to her. But only if she walked through, her head up and eyes forward, to a destination of her choosing; she had to stop leaving it to others to decide her path for her. But first, she must see Maggie safe into the care of…someone.

*End Excerpt*


Author note: As I mentioned in an earlier post, my mother's true-life story was the inspiration for this fictional one; my mother was sent by ferry to Vancouver Island to work as a housekeeper until she was too ungainly to manage the required tasks. She was then returned to the mainland to a Home for Unwed Mothers where she remained until she gave birth. For the purposes of my story, I re-imagined my mother's initial journey on a more epic scale. *cough*

D.

The history of all times, and of today especially, teaches that...women will be forgotten if they forget to think about themselves. ~Louise Otto

M is for Mondays

A to Z Challenge letter: M.

Mondays...

I recall grade eight, the year I entered high school, as the year Monday mornings emerged from an endless blur of days to something sharp, uncomfortable, the first cut in a series of five cuts patched on weekends, the delicate wounds reopened the following Monday.

High school is never easy. It is harder when you are the youngest of five hundred adolescents, unformed, naive, gullible, your clothes too K-Mart, your hair too short, your curves too flat. A few years later, Mondays are less pointed, but by no means soft.

When you're taller, curvier, wiser, Monday mornings become the squat starting block of five routine hurdles, each a gray square to be clambered over best as possible on the way to the psychedelic weekend. After graduation, Mondays coalesced from the mist of adolescence only slightly brighter, tarnished pennies in a handful of change where the value depended on how close each was to Friday. And then I had kids.

With the birth of my first child Mondays sank into a quagmire of feedings, sleepless nights, diapers, stained burp cloths, exhaustion, anxiety, and the occasional moment of quiet and contentment, punctuated by spontaneous toothless grins and excited squeals. But those moments disappeared when I returned to work and Mondays loomed like a craggy mountain in the path of a weekend hang-glider.

I had just found my wind, and was learning how to soar above the insecure havoc motherhood wrought on my otherwise ordered life, and Slam! I was back in high school, another harried neophyte attempting to navigate scheduled blocks of time while juggling the expectations--and criticism--of peers and persons in authority, only now I was also responsible for keeping a child happy, safe and educated, so he could grow into a responsible, centered, and productive adult, and do it all from a distance, like a doctor performing brain and heart surgery from another room using really long chopsticks. I hated Mondays.

Mondays only regained favor with me when I stepped out of the paid workforce to stay home to raise my children. Suddenly Mondays were just another day in an unpredictable week, gaining significance only when the kids started school as it marked the beginning of a predictably hectic schedule.

Newsletters, bake sales, hot lunch money, hockey practice vs. basketball game, doctor, dentist, sleepovers, laundry, grocery shopping, weekend sports' tournaments, visits to the ER...as the kids grew older and their individual activities broader--and more high-risk--I began, for the first time in three decades, to look forward to Monday mornings, to a few hours of silence and stillness. With only two of the four living at home, and both of them old enough to manage their time and belongings effectively, I find Mondays are bittersweet for me now.

The weekly pace is slower even if the activities no less rigorous. I no longer need to stand point, issuing reminders as four young people scramble to down breakfast, find missing homework, stuff backpacks, grab coats and slam out the door. I no longer consult my date book to discover where I need to be, and when, on what days and where. I am once again floating on a warm wind.

My mother once told me that now she is retired, every day is Monday, and every day is Friday; it is either the best day, or the worst day, depending on what she has planned. And that is the essence of Monday.

Mondays are what we make of them depending on where we are in life, and how we are living that life. What about you...are Mondays a peach in a fruitful week, or a first of many stone blocks to grind?

Please share in the comments.

D.

Whether one is twenty, forty, or sixty; whether one has succeeded, failed, or just muddled along; whether yesterday was full of sun or storm, or one of those dull days with no weather at all, life begins each morning!...Each morning is the open door to a new world--new vistas, new aims, new tryings. ~Leigh Mitchell Hodges

D = Debutantes and Daughters

Day 4 of the A to Z Challenge...

The heroine of my novel, Everything That Matters, eagerly anticipates her debut. Daughter of a British earl, it is her birthright, a rite of passage she not only welcomes, but believes is crucial to her success. Unfortunately—or fortunately depending on whether you believe, as I do, that today's tragedy is sometimes tomorrow's blessing—she is exiled to America before she presents at court to curtsey before the King and Queen, the launch site of all well-bred young gels bound for the marriage market.

Forty-six years after my fictional heroine's debut dreams are dashed, and one-hundred and seventy-eight years after the original ballhosted in 1780 by King George III to raise money for a new maternity hospital named after his wife Charlotte that started the annual custom, Britain quietly ceased the very real practice of presenting eligible young women at court. In 1958, the last set of young women draped in virginal white dipped and bobbed their way past Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip on their way to dubious futures. Elitist initiations had no place in a changing world where equality was the battle cry, and women began striking out on their own sans titles and taffeta. And so the Debutante Ball died a quiet death.

Or did it?

My daughter's high school graduation had all the earmarks of a Debutant Ball—expensive, glittering gowns and high-heels, up-styled hair, fresh-faced young men in tuxes and shiny shoes, bushels of flowers, gleaming cutlery and glassware, dinner parties, backyard luncheons…a mini-wedding as my husband called it. And all to celebrate her rite of passage.

Dancing with my debutante

 

On the arm of her escort she emerged from the strobe-lit dry-ice fog on the stage to descend carpeted stairs in an arena full of mothers, fathers, extended relatives, teachers…hundreds of people turned out to witness her and her peers' transformation from student to young adult; graceful, elegant, smiling; beautiful and polite, no longer children, but a young men and women about to catapult into the world and make of it what they would. The only difference, the era; my daughter lives in a time when she is expected to make her own way, fail or succeed on her own merit, while my heroine exists in a time when her success depends on her ability to attract, and snag a good husband. And neither expectation is fair.

Marriage is not the enemy. And a career does not an independent woman make. Independence is a state of mind, not a state of being, something I've strived to ensure my daughter knows.

An unmarried career woman with a six-figure income teetering on the verge of bankruptcy because she lives beyond her means is not more independent than the married woman who manages her husband's five-figure income so well she can afford to stay at home with their children. Somewhere between the demise of the debutante and now, society lost sight of that. Worse, the state of world economies means most women do not have a choice; they work not for the brass-ring of independence, but to keep themselves, and/or their children, housed, clothed and fed. Perhaps that is why romance novels, in particular historical romance novels, are so popular.

Financial worries and relationship issues melt away when you're waltzing with a handsome duke, sailing the seas with a sexy rogue pirate, or, like the distressed debutante in my novel, trying desperately to not fall in love with a rugged cowboy.

Young or old, debutante or divorced, love is both the problem, and the answer.

 

Deborah

This time, like all times, is a very good one if we but know what to do with it. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

 

 

 

 

Dino to Dynamo!

I did it. I caved. I upgraded my old Pantech for--gasp--a Blackberry. I swore I never would. I also swore I'd never remarry again. Or move to a red-neck town like this.

I lied.

Twitter. Facebook. Text. Email. All from my phone. And only $10.00 mo more than I was paying for my dino-pay-as-you-go-phone. I can update my status, tweet, chat with friends all at the same time without getting out of bed. Perfect, as a current arm/shoulder/neck issue makes sitting at the computer (like now) a tad uncomfortable. For that reason, this post is short.

How about you? Are you a dino or dynamo when it comes to staying connected? Please share in the comments. And if you want to connect through BBM let me know in the comments and I'll contact you privately.

Deborah

Words of Widsom I Wish I Had Ignored...

"He's a screamer."

That was my introduction to my firstborn. The nurse laid him in my arms, tsk-tsking because of all the babies in the nursery (where he'd been swept away to so I could rest after sleepless night and long day of labor), he was the only one dissatisfied with sugar water. "He," she advised in a snarky tone, "knows what he wants and won't accept anything else, just screams all around the nipple." Like knowing the difference between rubber and skin, sweetened water and nourishing breast milk--at the ripe old age of six hours post-birth--was some sort of crime. Twenty-three years later, that "screamer" is a hard-working journeyman carpenter and responsible young man who has owned his own home since he was nineteen because he was dissatisfied with living in other peoples' homes under other peoples' rules. Too bad I was too young and too naive to dismiss the nurse's professional insecurity for what it was, and embrace my child's ferocious independence and solid inner self masked by that temperamental focus; I wasted a good many years trying to discipline it out of him. Thank Dog I failed.

Other things people said to me I wish I had not listened to:

"Fat calves"
"Thunder thighs"
"You can finish college later"
"You should apply"
"But you have a good job!"
"So what do you do all day?" (as a stay-at-home mom)
"You're too easy on them" (my kids)
"It's just a virus"

What words of wisdom do you wish you had ignored? Please share in the comments!

Deborah