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

Little Man

I held my firstborn grandchild for the first time this week. It was surreal. Looking into his face, I saw my firstborn son, and I was once more an over-joyed--and terrified--new mother.

Tiny fingers. Tiny toes. Tiny, but strong nose and chin hinting at the strong-willed, and capable man he would become. Silky smooth skin so delicate. Bright, intense stare. Little puckered brow. So serious, little man.

That was what I called him, my firstborn: Little Man. And it is what I overhear my son and daughter-in-law calling their son. Little Man. And he is exactly that. A little Man.

I was always keenly aware of my role. Even when my son was six-weeks old and I found myself sobbing, convinced I could not do another eighteen years of "this", a part of me understood that I was his mother, his caregiver, his guide. Not his owner. And he was then, as he is now, his own man. A little person entrusted to me to teach right from wrong and good from bad. To feed, to shelter, to love, and protect. To educate and discipline. And it overwhelmed. That was what "this" was.

This was the trauma of not knowing. Not knowing if what I was doing was right. Not knowing if he was hungry, or wet, or had gas, was too hot, too cold, or was simply lonely. Was it safe to let him sleep on his back? Front? Disposable or washable? Spatula-shaped soother? Nipple-shaped? None at all? What if I make a mistake and screw him up for life?

My grandson, Daxon.
Photo copyright 2016, Deborah Anderson

The fear was real, and questions racing around in my head as varied and numerous as the opinions proffered by those with experience.

Lay him on his belly. Prop him on his side. Don't pick him up when he cries. Pick him up and pack him around every chance you get. Keep him in your room. Put him in his own room. Night light. No night light. Nurse him in bed. Never take him into your bed...

No wonder I was wreck. But somehow, I muddled through. And learned to listen to my heart.

Over twenty-eight years later, as I watch my son and daughter-in-law manage their two-week-old son  with the calm efficiency I felt I lacked as a new parent, I cannot be more proud.

Yes, they're tired. Yes, they're uncertain about some things. But they are confident in ways with my grandson that I was not with his father, and it buoys my heart.

They are good parents. They will be good parents. And my grandson will one day be a good man, just like his father. And grandfathers.

Deborah

If you would have your son to walk honourably through the world, you must not attempt to clear the stones from his path, but teach him to walk firmly over them -- not insist upon leading him by the hand, but let him learn to go alone. ~ ANNE BRONTË, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

Flour, butter, sugar...

One of the most powerful—and protective—tools humans possess is their ability to smell.

That sickly-sweet odor that warns you not to eat decomposing meat? The musky warm scent that inspires you to nibble your husband's neck resulting in, less than a year later, the delicate milky-baby scent that compels you to nurture your newborn? Wood smoke that alerts to a forest fire, or draws people round a campfire for 'Smores, and social bonding? Pleasure, pain, fear, desire—emotions and actions, incited by certain odors. Memories and instinct conjured through smell.

Baking Powder Biscuits fresh from the oven take me back to the toasty-warm kitchen of first my Grandma Mac, and then Aunt Shirley's, ranch house. I see them bending to pull the scorched pans from the old wood stove, the steam rising from the biscuit as it's pulled apart, butter pooling in the fluffy white centers. I see woolen mitts and socks hung on a line on the wall behind the wood stove to dry, and my uncle at the kitchen table tucked in his favorite corner of the black vinyl-covered bench seat next to the huge picture window, where he could use his binoculars to keep an eye on expectant cows.

Cinnamon and spice, on the other hand, transport me to the kitchen in my childhood home with its yellow appliances, and my mom, apron around her waist, sliding Jumbo Raisin Cookies on to cooling racks, her long black hair tied back in a ponytail with one of the thick fluffy colorful lengths of yarn sold for that purpose. I feel the wooden spoon in my hands and taste the raw batter, hear my brother begging, "Me, too!" And when it's cold outside, or I feel alone or lonely inside, I pull out my Kitchen-Aid mixer, flour, butter, and sugar, and revive those memories in my kitchen, revive that sense of warmth, security, happiness…love. I create the scents, and with them the people, the memories, because without them, where would I be?

Deborah

Nothing reaches the intellect before making its appearance in the senses. ~Latin proverb

   

Mom's Jumbo Raisin Cookies (Thanks, Mom!)

2c. raisins

1c. boiling water

4c. flour

1 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. salt

1 ½ tsp cinnamon

¼ tsp. each of nutmeg and allspice

1 tsp. baking soda

1c. shortening

2c. sugar

3 eggs (one at a time)

1 tsp. vanilla

1 c. nuts (optional)

Boil raisins until soft and fluffy. Cool. Sift all dry ingredients together except sugar. Cream shortening. Add sugar bit by bit. Add eggs one at time stirring between. Add dry ingredients in increments mixing between. Add raisins. Add vanilla.

Drop by spoonful on to baking sheet. Bake 9-10 mins at 350F (175C)

Makes 6-7 doz.

                                                                 My beautiful mother.

                                                                                                                             Photo copyright 2015 Deborah Anderson

  

Ranch House Baking Powder Biscuits

2 c. flour, sifted

3 Tbsp. sugar

5 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. cream of tartar

1 tsp. salt

¼ c. cold shortening

1 c. milk

Combine dry ingredients. Cut in shortening until it forms pea-sized lumps. Add milk. Stir, lightly but quickly until soft dough forms. Do not over stir or biscuits will be more dense than fluffy. Roll to ½ to 1" thickness. Cut to portion size and shape preference.

My aunty often floured the open end of a clean drinking glass to cut circular biscuits. Or a floured bread knife can be used to cut a grid pattern in dough for square or rectangular biscuits. Cookie cutters work too! Be as creative or simple as suits.

Bake 10-12 mins in 450F (230C) oven, or until tops are golden and biscuits risen.

Enjoy with butter, or margarine, honey or PB&J. Or just J. I especially love them dripping with butter alongside homemade stew.

  

                                                  Grandma at her 95^th birthday celebration.

                                                                           Photo copyright Deborah Anderson, 2010

What the...

Where did summer go? One minute I was blogging here, the next it was September and I was--am--in my brother's basement suite. Temporarily.

What a summer. After two years of Limbo--and yes, that's limbo with a capital L--the house sold, we packed all our belongings into three storage units, moved into our camper, and viewed a gazillion houses in an attempt to find a clean, affordable home in a safe community within 30 mins drive of hub's new work location, some 700 kms away from his old one. Three months and three offers--on three different houses--and we finally did it. We bought a house!!

We don't get possession for a couple more weeks, hence my temporary refuge under my brother's roof--and main floor. And it's very nice.

I--and child #3--are the first "tenants" of the newly renovated suite. Brother and sister-in-law decided to take the suite--the entire house, actually--down to the studs and start over. They finished the majority of the total makeover just in time for me and child to move in. And the results are spectacular, upstairs and down. And after a month in the camper, the suite is truly palatial. More, it has cupboards, and sinks, a full-size fridge and stove, a microwave even. And a shower! All the creature comforts one could hope to have, and more...bro hooked me up with TV!

I am particularly giddy about the TV. I had a stove, fridge and sink in the camper. I also had a bed, and storage, limited as it was. But what I did not have was the ability to scroll through the channels at my leisure and watch absolutely nothing. Like now.

I am on my computer, writing this post, and the TV is on. Indiana Jones. And I am barely paying it the attention it deserves. But it's there. White noise in the background. Familiar. Constant. Comforting. Reprieve from the silence that seemed to swallow me up like a moonless night enveloping a lost child.

That's been the hardest the last couple of years; the silence. With hubs on the road and the grown children gone and the almost grown children frequently out and about, I've spent a lot of time alone. And it's rather lonely.

Cliché though it may be, the TV provides a voice, a presence, distraction from the knowledge that time is an express bus without stops and I don't have the pocket change to secure a seat even if it did pause long enough to let me board. Which is why I can't wait to move into our new home.

It's nothing like our last home. It's smaller, older, and is without expensive upgrades like granite, tile and hardwood. In fact I am sure the carpet is original, as is the stripe and floral-print wallpaper, and oak cabinets "refreshed" with white latex paint. And I love it.

It is a home with character, a home where love did, and will, abide.

You can see the love in the custom roll-out drawers in the kitchen, and the custom spice racks built into the home-made pantry doors, all crafted by the now deceased husband for his wife who was recently moved into a care facility by her family. They had owned the home from new, and their love for it, and each other, remains even though they're gone.

The embroidered pillow in the bedroom closet acknowledging 50 years of marriage, twelve years ago. The spotless washing machine, and custom Kitchen Aid Mixer cupboard in the Island fitted with a mechanical shelf that levers the mixer out and fixes it at counter height (another handmade gift from husband to wife). The immaculate and elaborate landscaping, carefully shaped shrubbery, and manicured lawn. The deteriorated fascia and fence. The plywood shelves in the garage. Pink laminate counter tops. Symbols of a long life, and respectful, if not happy marriage; two people content with what they had; a husband that did his best to make things easier for his wife. Some things abandoned due to age, and infirmity. A house.

A home.

I feel honored to be given this chance, for hubs and I to be the second owners of this house, to make it our home, a secure place to live out the next chapter of our lives; to love, and provide a stable base for, our children, and eventually--hopefully--their children. And, with luck and good living, great-grandchildren.

There is much we must do to make this house ours--clean, paint, replace the flooring--and some we want to do (update and upgrade the bathrooms/kitchen), but a few things will remain, like the pantry doors, mixer shelf, and roll out drawers, reminders that life is short, and a home happiest, when in it, love abides.

Deborah

Love begins at home, and it is not how much we do... but how much love we put in that action. ~Mother Teresa

Update and Friday Fiction

 

December was a dud as far as writing went. Vertigo is not conducive to standing in front of a computer screen. But in terms of family and hubby time, December was fantastic.

 

January is proving a tad interesting as the vertigo has changed from constant, to sporadic, and I never know when I'll wake up feeling fine, or like I stepped off a tilt-a-whirl. Fortunately I'm beginning to have more good days than bad, so I am back at my WIP with an eye to finishing it this month. And I'm blogging again. In other good news, my daughter is living with me again (temporarily).

 

She rejoined our family for a short term, because her husband was laid off from his job two weeks before their wedding in August. His attempts to find work in this area were less than successful (our area has few good paying jobs, and those employers that do pay well either laid off workers, or locked them out in the last eight months), so he and my daughter decided to broaden his employment search. Within one day of sending resumes off to various locales in BC and Alberta, he received a call inviting him for an interview. Three days (and a ten-hour drive) later, he interviewed--and was hired on the spot, only a few days before Christmas. He agreed to start January 6th. So...

 

The days between Christmas and New Year's were a frantic scramble as my son-in-law packed up the basement suite he and daughter had been renting (she had to work) and moved all but their personal hygiene and necessary clothing items into storage at his grandma's, while I rearranged a spare room to accommodate he and my daughter, until his departure Jan 4th. He is now working at his new job, while she remained here at her job until she can find work there. Today, she completed her second telephone interview for a new position in the new city. Fingers crossed she is offered the job. Being newly wedded is difficult enough; living eight or nine hours apart (by car), while living in a relative's spare bedroom (he's staying with cousins), makes it that much harder. But for me, it's a bonus, because when daughter goes, a piece of my heart will go with her.

  

As for our moving saga...we plan to re list the house in March, and fingers crossed, it sells. I think we're all ready, the kids still at home included, to end the wait and just get on with whatever comes next. I'm truly looking forward to 2014. It's already started with a bang, and I expect it will only get more exhilarating from here.

 

Oh, and because it's Friday, here's a snippet from my current (very rough) WIP...

 

 

Love On A Wild Sea, 2013 copyrighted material

 

 

Rufus had removed the mask from Captain Hanes's face and was packing it away in the doctor's kit, but a faint indent and some redness remained on the captain's skin marking the mask's placement. She traced the line in one of his cheeks soft with a week's stubble, and ran her thumb lightly over his closed eyelid.

"Will he…is he…"

"He'll be fine," the doctor said quietly. "Sore, tired for a few weeks from loss of blood, but he'll recover with no more than a scar to show for his troubles."

She looked up, met the doctor's gaze, and offered a tremulous smile.

"Thank you," she murmured, barely able to speak for a sudden ache in her throat, or see for a glaze of tears. "Thank you for saving him."

The doctor was silent a moment, his gaze on her, the rag he had been using to dry his hands caught between his palms. He looked down, and resumed wiping the moisture from his wrists and fingers. "He should awaken shortly. The anesthetic is short acting."

Almost as if cued, Captain Hanes stirred, coughed, and then reared up suddenly, his eyes wide, and arms flailing. Felicity gasped and tilted away, but the doctor was not startled by the abrupt awakening. He leaned in, braced one forearm on the captain's chest and grabbed his closest wrist with the other hand.  

"Easy there, Mr. Hanes," he said, his voice calm but authoritative. "You were shot, but I've removed the bullet. Now lay back and relax before you undo my good work."

Captain Hanes stared at him a moment, his eyes wide and unseeing, and then he blinked and seemed to return to himself. He fell back, his decline aided by the doctor who shifted his arm from the captain's chest, to behind his shoulders.

"There now," the doctor said. "If you will roll slightly—no, the other way. To your uninjured side—that's it. I would like you to draw a couple deep breaths and cough. Miss Grabner, if you would kindly hold this to Mr. Hanes's mouth, while he clears his lungs."

Felicity shook off an odd sense of detachment, induced, she presumed, by a combination of fatigue, shock, and observance of the captain's mute obedience of the doctor's orders, like a child obeying a strict father. She had never seen him so…docile, and for some reason it…scared her.

She whisked the clean rag from the doctor's hand, applied it gently to the captain's mouth, but with a quick shake of his head, he took it from her, and cupped it over the lower half of his face. A few deep breaths, each one followed by a brisk coughing fit, and he sagged back to lie flat on the table.

The doctor applied the larger funnel-shaped end of a short cylindrical apparatus made of polished wood to one side of the captain's chest, and bent to rest his ear to the smaller funnel-shaped end. He followed the same procedure on the other side of the captain's chest. Nodding, he straightened and asked, "Do you believe you are ready to sit up?"

In answer, the captain braced his elbows on the table, and started to push up. Felicity slid an arm around his back, and ignoring a flare of useless immodesty at the feel of his sweat-slicked skin under her palm, helped him slide his legs around so they dangled over the edge of the table.

"Actually, that is not an ideal position for me," the doctor said. "Would you mind straddling a chair next to me?"

Felicity attempted to support the captain by one arm as he eased off the table, but again he declined her assistance and leaning on the tabletop, he shuffled around it to sit as required and enable the doctor to listen to his lungs from the back.  

"Now breathe in, and out, deep as you can, Mr. Hanes," the doctor asked, his face turned in Felicity's direction but his gaze distant. He smiled a minute later, and his eyes their regained focus as he straightened in his seat. "Good, good. I hear nothing to indicate fluid in your lungs." He twisted the smaller end of the stethoscope loose and removed it. "You are a very lucky man, Mr. Hanes," he added as he tucked the different parts of the device into velvet-lined declinations in his kit designed to the hold the different shapes. "An inch to the right and the bullet would have perforated your lung. An inch higher and it may very well have severed your subclavian artery. There would have been nothing I could do for you in either case. As it is you have torn muscle and cracked and chipped ribs, but barring sepsis, they will heal, and you should be back to normal in a few weeks."

            "Sepsis," Felicity repeated, stricken.

            "Yes. Penetration wounds are the worst for that I am afraid," the doctor said as he closed the lid of his kit and locked it. "Ah, Rufus," he continued, looking up as a shadow stretched across the room. "What did you determine?"

            "There's a team and a wagon in a pen out back. Can hitch them up to take everyone back to town."

            "Yes," the doctor said and glanced to where Arden and Silas lay. "That would be best. But I would like to examine them first, to ensure they are fit for travel."

            "I'll get the horses hitched." Captain Hanes pushed off the chair to his feet. "You can assist here," he added to Rufus.

            "You can't," Felicity exclaimed and put an arm on his. "You're injured."

            The captain tilted his head to look at her, his green eyes grave. "You know how to hitch a team?"

            "Ah…well…no."

            "Can you lift your maid, or Silas, on the table for the doctor?"

            She looked at each of the people in question. "Well…no, but—"

            "No buts." Captain Hanes lifted her hand free of his arm. "There's three Blackmore brothers down, but according to the doctor, another eight nearby. We can't afford to linger here any longer than necessary. I cannot trust that the others are as poor of marksmen as the one that shot me."

*End Excerpt.*

 

 

 

 

 



Tuesday Wisdom

You've got to do your own growing, no matter how tall your grandfather was. ~Irish Proverb

So true.

Deborah

W is for Wow! Words.

A to Z Challenge nearing the end. It's letter W, or Wow! Words.

Wow. An odd word. A palindrome. What's a palindrome? A word, phrase, or sentence that spells the same backwards and forwards, like tot, bob, peep, pop, damm'it I'm mad, etc. I know. Cool.

And fun.

Words are fun. My favorite games as a child were hangman and word jumbles. I still love jumbles. And hangman if I can find someone willing to play. Sure, I could play online--everyone plays online these days--but I prefer human interaction, the thrill of competing against another person, not a machine. I think that is one reason I prefer to read hard copy.

Computers are excellent for writing--truly; I would be buried under a tonne of paper wads by now if not for my computer--but when it comes to reading, I prefer the 3-D tangibility of printed paper, the solidity of a book; the three-inch heft of blood, sweat, and tears that is visual confirmation of an author's hard work. Swiping pages on a screen is not the same, anymore than driving a virtual race car in an arcade compares to sliding into the leather seat of a rumbling Camaro and gunning it around a paved oval. Touch, taste, smell...so important in fiction, and to me, so important in the fiction experience.

What about you? Are you a word wizard? Do you write, or play word games? And when you read books, do you prefer paper or e-book? Please share in the comments what wows! you about words.

Deborah

I knew I had no lyrical quality, a small vocabulary, a little gift of metaphor. The original and striking simile never occurred to me. Poetic flights...were beyond my powers. On the other hand, I had an acute power of observation, and it seemed to me that I could see a great many things that other people missed. I could put down in clear terms what I saw...I knew that I should never write as well as I could wish, but I thought, with pains, that I could arrive at writing as well as my natural defects allowed. ~W. Somerset Maugham

U is for Unicorns

Wow. I can't believe I'm already at letter U in the A to Z Challenge. And I am so grateful to have made it thus far, especially given the last year (or two) (which I will not recap here, focused as I am on what I can make of the present, and future, rather than rehashing the past, but if you're unaware and are curious, you can learn more here). Now on to something delightful—and yes, easy and predictable given the letter—Unicorns! (Or pictures thereof).

(Has anyone really ever seen, let alone photographed an Unicorn? *wink*).

                                                    

 Deborah

It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we are alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger for them. ~George Eliot.

 

 

 

P is for Pickle Jar

My first day in Crim 105, otherwise known as Psychological Explanations of Crime, the professor asked us to describe our "profile" of a criminal, in particular, a murderer.

The descriptions varied from tattooed gangster, to child molester, assaultive stepfather, car-jackin' junkie, and accident-causing drunk driver. Our professor smiled and nodded with each—predictable—presumption, and then she told us a story.

She told us a story about a quiet, retired working professional, a man known for his placating behavior. A calm man. A nice man. A patient man. A good neighbor; a man well-liked in the community, and how he killed his wife with a pickle jar.  

Seems the wife was…vociferous. And the man seemingly unperturbed by her…persistent form of communication. Yes dear, no dear, here's the salt dear, and twenty-years into the marriage—wham! Here's your @#$% pickles, dear!

What?

Seems the man's placid exterior hid a deep-rooted antipathy.

While on the outside he nodded, and quietly went about his business, on the inside he was seething, a purportedly dormant volcano stirring a pot of molten fury deep beneath the surface. A man tightly capped. Only one day, the lid flew off, and while his wife's blood, co-mingled with pickle juice, seeped into the dining room carpet and her body was rolled and zipped into a coroner's bag, the man was led away in handcuffs. And so began our initiation into the complex, and fascinating world of human behavior.

I loved that class, perhaps because I love people; I love discovering what compels one person to serial murder, and another to obstetrics, especially when both are raised in the same family, with the same parents, in the same house, in the same small town or big city. And I love that motivation is as intricate as it is basic.

Emotions are complex, the impetus for action, simple. Most people act, or react, for one of few reasons: love, money, self-interest, and pride. But when these quantifiers are again broken down, they distill to one common denominator: fear.

Fear of loss, fear of rejection, fear of responsibility, fear of God, the devil, parental disapproval, adult relationships...the list is as large and varied as there are diverse people in the world.

In the case of the Pickle Jar man, I can only surmise he was afraid of one more day of verbal, and mental emasculation, but even more terrified of speaking his truth, of staking his personal ground in the relationship. Instead, he let the emotional wounds fester until he was so toxic with hurt and resentment, he snapped, and committed an act far more heinous, grievous, and permanent than booking an appointment with a counselor, signing up for Toast Masters, or telling his wife to get off her behind and get the pickles herself if she wanted them that badly.

And it is this convoluted, problematical equation of interpersonal relationships Romance authors attempt to navigate as they weave knotty storylines balancing muddled feelings, thwarted wants, and defined needs within a mutable romantic landscape. They're like FBI profilers, but where the FBI agent starts with a result and works backward, deconstructing the actions and people involved to arrive at plausible motivation and, hopefully, a satisfactory ending—in which they identify and catch the perpetrator—the romance novelist starts with an intended result—the satisfactory ending—and from there constructs the characters, motivation, and plausibility toward their ultimate goal—engaging the hearts and minds of readers. And even that desired outcome is fraught with ambivalence; the dismal prospect of failure balanced against the equally terrifying potential of success.

What about you...is there something you want as much as you fear it? Please share in the comments, if you're of a mind.

D.

We live in an epoch in which the solid ground of our preconceived ideas shakes daily under our certain feet.  ~Barbara Ward

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

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

K is for Kismet

K is today's A to Z Challenge letter, and today's theme: Kismet.

From Random House Webster's Unabridged Dictionary:

Kismet (kis´met, -met, kis´-), n, fate; destiny. Also, kismat (kiz´mət, kis´-), [1840-50; Turk, Pers qismat, Ar qismah division, portion, lot, fate, akin to qasama to divide].

Kismet, as a word, has existed since the mid-19^th century; I suspect kismet as a concept has existed much longer than that.

Fate. Destiny. Lot. Portion. A belief that coincidence and random exist only in that they fulfill a fated outcome. My novel is built on this premise, perhaps because I believe in the concept, having experienced a number of events I initially perceived as unfair, or tragic, that later proved to be, as Oprah might describe, "aha moments", or, as I refer to them: the slap-upside-the-head I needed to redirect my focus, and realign my life-trajectory in keeping with my purpose, and core-values.

I won't wax-long on the events that nudged—and in some cases head-butted—me in a different direction than I thought I wanted, or believed was the logical, loved-one-approved course; suffice it to say some of them hurt. A lot. Others were less immediate and injurious, external issues and internal inconsistencies too-long ignored, that eventually rose up to slap me down. And from the ground, you have a great, all-encompassing view of what's important—if you roll on your back, and look up.

That is the theme in my novel, Everything That Matters…love, born out of tragedy…because sometimes what at first blush appears a tragic happenstance, leads to something wonderful; a life reimagined, and better than might have been experienced had the tragedy not occurred.

Here is a moment when the heroine in my novel is offered a different perspective to her belief that she is a victim of circumstance:

Excerpt, Everything That Matters, copyrighted material...

Father Ramirez patted Dianna's hand, beamed up at her. "I'm glad he brought you here," he said.

"Mr. Douglas?"

Father Ramirez glanced skyward. Dianna arched her eyebrows, looked around the compound. Compared to her arrival, it was a portrait in serenity.

Chickens clucked as they clawed and pecked at the hard-packed earth, geese honked softly as they waddled to and fro like long-necked Centurions, their black beady eyes alert for intruders; the sow dozed in a hollow dug from the earth alongside the Hacienda, seemingly unfazed by the squirming pink mass of piglets crowded between her fore and hind legs.

Mr. Douglas emerged from a low-roofed barn leading Sonny, Mateo behind him with the saddled roan; a pair of small dogs, one white and one brindled, trotted behind them. The door of the Hacienda opened, and Luisa came out to stand in the shade of the porch, Lazaro hooked on one round hip. The rest of the children loitered near the gate, presumably waiting to say goodbye. Dianna looked back at the tiny cleric.

"You think God brought me here?" she asked.

He smiled.

She shook her head. "I am here," she said, "because of choices other people made." She looked at Mr. Douglas.

"There is always choice, hija," Father Ramirez said quietly. "Even if alternatives are painful or unsavory, they are within your power to choose."

She frowned, her gaze on Mr. Douglas.

Had she chosen him?

Kismet or coincidence? I know what I believe; what do you?

Please share in the comments.

D.

It is often hard to distinguish between the hard knocks in life and those of opportunity. ~Frederick Phillips

 

 

 

  

 

  

 

H is for Horses

Day 8 of A to Z Challenge, which is, if you're alphabetically aware, the letter H, which means...

HORSES!!

My step dad bought me my first horse, and that first pony began my long, and enduring love affair with the horse. I think one of the reasons I chose to write a turn-of-the-20th-century novel was so I could ride horses--er, so my characters could ride horses. Rangy roans, sturdy bays, gracious greys, Clydes, Quarter Horses...they're all found somewhere in the story.

Sometimes I miss owning a horse so much it's a physical ache, an itch my dear husband kindly scratched on a recent anniversary.

Me. Photo by my husband.

In honor of the noble horse, a small excerpt from my novel, Everything That Matters (remember, copyright!)


Excerpt:

He found her in the horse barn. Her eyes glimmering with unshed tears, she was rubbing Sonny's face and mumbling softly. The breeze must have carried his scent, because Sonny and four other equines turned their heads as far their ropes allowed, and offered a throaty welcome. Miss Marshall immediately stepped away from Sonny, stared at Jake with the wild eyes of a cornered rabbit. By rights, he should have turned around, relieved her fear by removing its source. Instead, he grasped the handles of the wooden barrow by the door and wheeled it forward.

"Don’t run away," he said when she attempted to sidle past him. "I mean no harm. In fact, I brought you something to eat." He lowered his kit to the ground, the contents clinking merrily as the bag settled on the hard-packed dirt floor like a broody hen on a nest of eggs. 

Her hands balled at her sides, she tilted her chin at him, a tiny quivering spear warning him to stay back. "I never said you would."

He hesitated, and finally realizing what she referred to, he said, "Not in so many words."

"Not in any words," she exclaimed.

"There's more than one way to get a message across, Miss Marshall," he said. "Take Sonny here—" He moved to massage the gelding's neck. "He doesn’t speak any English, but we understand each other just fine."

She took two steps back, crossed her arms. "You mean you interpret his behavior."

"And physical cues. Even the most subtle. It's the oldest language not recorded, Miss Marshall. And much more reliable than words. For instance, right now, you're scared, closed off." He copied her posture.

She lowered her arms, and then her lashes, rubbed a section of her black skirt between her fingers.

"You're still scared," he said. "And furious. With me. Only you're afraid to tell me, scared I'll retaliate, do something to hurt you more than I already have."

 She jerked her head up, eyes wide. "I—I never claimed you hurt me."

"Not in any way that leaves physical marks. But I have hurt you, and for that I'm sorry."

Her lips parted.

"You're not used to hearing those words, are you?" he asked gently. "Probably not used to hearing someone admit he's the underside of a mule's tail, either."

** End Excerpt.**

Where there is great love, there are always wishes. ~Willa Cather

F is for Family

Day 6, or letter F of the A to Z Challenge, and a brief post (because I'm caught up in WIP madness) to recognize something near and dear to my heart, my family.

 

You leave home to seek your fortune and, when you get it, you go home and share it with your family. ~Anita Baker

Deborah

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